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petermorwood · 7 months

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YA or not YA, that is the question...

This started out as a response to Diane’s post here about YA literature and its long history prior to what some people think inspired it, but got longer (Oh! What a surprise!) and wandered far enough from the initial subject that I decided to post separately.

So here it is.

*****

Many years ago my town library (in Northern Ireland, so following UK library practice, I suppose) had just two sections, Adult and Children. There was no YA section, and the Children’s section covered everything from large-format picture books through to hardback novels and the usual amount of non-fiction.

(Library books were almost always bought in hardback for better wear, and even the softback picture books were rebound with heavy card inserts.)

There were classics like “Treasure Island”, “Kidnapped”, “King Solomon’s Mines” “Under the Red Robe” and “The Jungle Books”.

There were standalone titles like “The Otterbury Incident”, “The Silver Sword”, “The Sword in the Stone” and “The Stone Cage”.

There were series about characters like William, Biggles, Jennings and his counterpart Molesworth, the Moomins, Narnia and Uncle.

There were authors like Alan Garner, Nicholas Stuart Grey, Rosemary Sutcliffe, Henry Treece, Ronald Welch… And of course there was J.R.R. Tolkien.

The first time I got "The Hobbit", "Farmer Giles of Ham" and "Smith of Wootton Major" they were shelved in the Children's section. This was about 1968-69.

In the early 1970s the library moved to larger premises, which allowed room for Very Young Children (where the picture books now lived) and Children (everything else), still with no YA section, though with more advanced picture books like “Tintin” and “Asterix” * in a sort of no-man’s-land between them.

( * These included editions in the original French, which turned out very useful for making language lessons at school a bit more fun and gaining extra marks in exams through judiciously enhanced vocabulary.)

“The Hobbit” et cetera were still on the Children shelves, but now that the library was larger and more open-plan, volumes of "The Lord of The Rings", normally in the Adult section, occasionally got shelved there as well by well-meaning non-staff people.

I never saw “The Hobbit” mis-shelved alongside “Lord of the Rings” among the Adults, but Farmer Giles” and “Smith” sometimes turned up there, courtesy of those same well-meaning hands.

It’s probably because the first, with its sometimes complex wordplay and mock-heroic plot, reads like a humorous parody of more serious works, while the second, if read in the right frame of mind, can seem quite adult in the style of Sylvia Townsend Warner’s “Kingdoms of Elfin” - which is in fact a good deal more adult than “Smith of Wootton Major”, even if you squint.

*****

This “Hobbit” / “Rings” confusion is a lightweight version of assuming a particular author writes every book for the same age-group. This is very much not the case.

Sometimes the thickness of the book is a giveaway. Compare, for instance, @neil-gaiman’s “American Gods” with “Coraline” or indeed “Fortunately, The Milk”.

Sometimes the cover is a hint, for example the difference between “Live and Let Die” by Ian Fleming...

...and “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang”, also by Ian Fleming...

...although the original James Bond novels are – apart from some extremely dated attitudes – a lot more weaksauce than many YA books nowadays.

(More weaksauce still now that Fleming, like Roald Dahl and Agatha Christie, has been censored to conceal the extent to which - let's call them Certain Attitudes - were a standard feature in British popular fiction. Apparently (I haven't read any Newspeak Bond so can't confirm) the redaction was done in a curiously slapdash way, removing some things while leaving others.

These novels have become, IMO anyway, period pieces as much as Kipling, Doyle, Dickens and Austen, and erasure probably has less to do with sensitivity - maybe with some "brush it under the rug and they'll forget about it" involved - than with keeping them marketable, so Fleming doesn't go the way of other once-bestselling writers like "Sapper" and Sydney Horler.)

It would also be a mistake, despite advisory wizards Tom and Carl, to think that @dduane’s “Young Wizards” books are meant for the same age-group as her “Middle Kingdoms” series – although, once again, the later YW books and all of the MK slot into what a modern YA audience expects from its fiction.

But sometimes there’s absolutely no doubt that This Book by This Author is not meant for the readership of That Book by The Same Author. I’m thinking of one example which caused a certain amount of amusement.

“Bee Hunter” by Robert Nye is a retelling of the Beowulf story for children, though IIRC occasional bloody episodes as Grendel takes Hrothgar’s housecarls apart make it more suited to older children.

I’d brought home a copy from the library when much younger, and borrowed it again years later in company with another Nye novel, “Falstaff”...

...which was poetic, historic, melancholic, often bawdy, frequently funny and at all times most emphatically NOT for children, as indicated by some of these chapter headings - I draw your attention to XX, XXII, XXXII and especially XL... ;->

Yes. Quite... :->

*****

I was familiar with card index systems from quite early in my life, because my grandfather’s grocer’s shop had a fairly simple one for keeping track of customers, suppliers, stock and so forth, and since the library’s index card system cross-referenced in the same way, I was already home and dry.

If I could remember a title, I'd find the author, and once found I could track down other titles by that author (which, as shown above, can be educational...) Even if I could only remember the subject - historical, adventure, comedy - I'd still have narrowed my search window more than somewhat.

(This from-here-to-there mindset later became virtual train travel by way of the electronic timetables which SBB – Swiss Railways – used to issue on CD, and which let me “travel” anywhere in Europe, complete with a map. Those CDs are long discontinued, but I can still do virtual travel courtesy of the SBB website. Complete with a map…)

This is the last one we got, kept for sentimental reasons and occasional outdated train-travel on an equally outdated XP netbook.

As you do.

Or as I do, anyway. :->

*****

I also knew about title request cards and interlibrary loans, and was a frequent user - never more so than when I started reading “The Lord of the Rings” for the first time.

The town library didn’t have all three volumes, just “The Fellowship of the Ring” and “The Two Towers”, so I checked them out on a Friday to read over the weekend.

You can already see where this is going… :->

I finished “Fellowship” late on Saturday afternoon, went straight into “Towers” and by Sunday evening was all of a twitter (no, not that one) or as my mum would have said, up to high Doh, as I fretted about Not Knowing What Happened Next.

Fortunately school was no more than a brisk bike ride from the library, so I devoted my Monday morning break to zooming down and filling in one of the most urgent title requests I’ve ever made, then spent the rest of the week on tenterhooks, looking in every lunchtime and each afternoon on my way home.

Just In Case.

Some kindly librarian must have pulled strings or stamped the request "Expedite Soonest", because when I went back to school after Thursday lunch, I had “The Return of the King” burning a hole in my saddlebag.

I wanted to start reading it at once, but good sense prevailed; imagine getting caught between chapters at the back of a boring Geography lesson and Having The Book Confiscated…

I didn’t pay much attention in class on Friday, due to being half-asleep after starting “Return” in the evening after prep and finishing it in the wee hours of the morning.

But being tired didn’t prevent me from starting with “Fellowship” again on Friday night, and this time being able to read right through to the end without needing to stop.

It Was Great…

#YA books #library age categories #library use #don't judge a book by its cover #don't judge an age group by author #anecdotage

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rottenprincessshura100 · 1 year

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Blue Exorcist Chapter 140: Notes

The Future is Depressing....y'all.

We start off with Rin as the "Demon King." He has a pretty amazing character design upgrade. A really dark, grungy cape and a scary mask that hides his cute little elfin features. But our Rin has changed; he's now a killer of humans. He wears a mask and hides his soul away.

In this chapter we see Rin is attacking an exorcist.

I'm not sure if this woman he battles is human. The best way to describe her is an Angelic Legion Sailor Scout. Her outfit is covered with angel wings and all kinds of tacky bling and details (plus, who chooses to fight in heels? No human, I know.)

Arthur the Paladin has totally designed this outfit.

Plus, the exorcist, or whatever she is, looks like a Lucifer clone. It makes me wonder who controls the Knights of True Cross? I think all the clues are pointing at Lucifer. Anything Angelic looking, things with little pretty wings, cherubs and light, point back to him. In this case, the perfection and heavenly details tend to be the evil ones. Isn't that the way the world works now? Anyway, I digress.

Her name is...or was, Malchidael, which translates into angelic messenger. Just an aside, remember when Shura was so embarrassed to be part of the Angelic Legion? She wouldn't be caught dead in an outfit like this. The legion was too square; this is proof that Angel is in charge..or Lucifer. You don't get more square than those two.

I think I've seen a version of this female character before....it was like an action figure on Mephisto's desk. I'm not quite sure if she's real or not.

Things that bother me about her...she looks like Shiemi but wields a weapon with Armumahel powers like the Myoda. Is she related to Shima? A sister? Ooof.

Getting back to Rin.

Rin has changed...he's still our Rin but tired and dark. We see it in his eyes, the sad resignation. Plus, he looks much older. As he uses his demonic powers, his hair changes from white to black. He seems in complete control of his inner demons.

Unfortunately, Rin is also capable of killing humans. So much has changed, and we don't know the back story. Yet, we know he seems to only be killing exorcists that are threatening him. When Paku calls out his name from her hiding place, he doesn't raise his sword to kill her or threaten her in any way. Rin regards her as an old friend from a past life. But an old friend he no longer has time for.

His personality reminds me more of Yukio now, worn out and saddled with some huge responsibility he can't talk about.

(Just an aside, he looks like my friends and me when we came out of covid...we felt ten years older and unsure how to talk to other humans, Kato is making this parallel to our current world...remember calling the terrible event Maga. Yeah.)

Whatever has happened, Rin has been left alone, and he's trying to survive in any way he can. He is now like Satan, ruling over demons and making them do his bidding. But...he's still got his empathy. He doesn't send the hobgoblins to their deaths but tells them to retreat. He's accomplished his mission, killed his target and left.

One thing we do know...all of his friends are missing.

Did they die? Paku doesn't know, and it's heartbreaking.

She runs away and is so torn. She's happy to see Rin but is beyond sad at what has happened to him. And, as soon as she remembers the past, something happens....she finds a glowing door suddenly in front of her. The door is a rip in space-time, and maybe she caused the rip. This is a very strange situation considering the Paku doesn't seem to have any powers, temptaint or exorcist ability, yet somehow Paku connects between worlds, connects to Mephisto. She gives the demon king a glimpse into something he's never seen before.

Mephisto.

This part, of course, was great. Mephisto still has those fucking crazy eyes. He's on the edge of sanity. When Paku opens the door, he jumps into action and seals the portal closed. Of course, he does it with style and conjures some milk chocolate crazy glue. Which is fittingly weird with the rest of the upside-down we are experiencing.

Mephisto is weak but has enough power to stop the universe from imploding. But for the first time, he's seen past the end of times. He can see the future and knows there is one. Mephisto is so fucking excited because it's new.

A new place for him to play, new chess moves for him to work with.

This future might come to pass but hasn't yet. Mephisto can still change this....this is a possible future.

At the very end, we get this troubling sketch by Kato. Yukio survives as well as Rin, back two years ago, which he does because he's got Satan's temptaint. But the others were not so lucky. All around him are bodies...

Hopefully, Mephisto can fix all of this. This future is no future at all for our favourite characters.

#blue exorcist #mephisto pheles #rin okumura #ane #an no exorcist #blue exorcist manga

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becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys · 1 year

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i know you have Thoughts on welsh being the mysterious elfin language in fantasy media but do you have any different thoughts on using it in arthurian stuff ? lots of people use it as the "magic language" when merlin and other wizards do magic. also do you have any idea why people decided stonehenge is part of the legend ? i can't tell if thats an english or american thing

Wellllll, I've mentioned this before so apologies for the 'broken record' nature of this response to long time followers, but my bigger issue by far with Arthuriana is that it's Ye Olde Culturale Appropriatione and I've yet to find the adaptation that doesn't make it English. Which is. The one thing it should never, ever be.

So using Welsh for magic language is odd, because on the one hand it's acknowledging the actual origins of the whole thing before Geoffrey of Monmouth went "HEY ACTUALLY I KNOW THE REAL VERSION, I GOT IT OUT OF A BOOK OWNED BY MY FRIEND WALTER, YOU KNOW, WALTER OF... OXFORD, THAT'LL DO, HE TOTALLY EXISTS AND HIS BOOK IS SUPER OLD SO THIS IS THE REAL VERSION" and then made a suuuuuuper boring continental-style romance about a cheap affair and some milquetoast knights.

But, on the other, it almost makes it... worse? That you're acknowledging that this was an anti-Saxon hero who represents some of the last vestiges of pre-conquered belief, and then making him English and about England anyway. Kind of like when you read a fantasy book and a character calls out another for not including women/POC/insert underrepresented demographic here, and you're like... so if you, the author, recognised that you were writing nothing but white boys, why did you not add someone else in. If you recognised it but didn't rectify it, that's worse (looking at you, Patrick Rothfuss).

But as ever... is bad rep better than no rep? The old debate. Mileage varies. For the most part, though, I avoid Arthuriana. I think the only one I've been tempted by in recent years is Dev Patel's the Green Knight, because I love Dev Patel, but he still plays it English and he's still called Gawain, so...

#asks #welsh mythology

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gallusrostromegalus · 1 year

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STYLE CHALLENGE, PART 1/?

Part 2 Here

So I've been needing to do some practice with CSP, and branching out how I work, so I decided to do what The Old Masters Did* and practice drawing in the style of other artists**, so I've been Drawing Yugis in the Style of other Yu-Gi-Oh Artists here on Tumblr. In the order I've drawn them so far:

A "Before" Yugi in my style/not thinking about it too hard

A Yugi from Nu0cmamiii's WWE AU, WHICH SHE NEEDS TO FINISH BECAUSE IT SOUNDS AMAZING.

An Elfin Yugi from Weevil'sSexyGNCUncle who has the best Discord handle of all time.

A Soft Pastel Yugi in the style of @frystavirki

A Painterly And Literally Haunted Yugi in the style of @seth-the-giggle-fish

A Gradient Huldra Yugi in the Style of @jesrosewater

A Very Serious Yugi in the style of @dominonary

A "Just A Little Creacher" Yugi in the Style of @millenniummmbop

A Painterly Yugi in the style of @waywardpharaoh

And a Very cute Graphic Yugi in the style of @unamusedyams

*At least according to my Middle School Art Teacher but he taught me how to Draw Hands and other Deep magics, so I trust him.

**With their Permission, I'm not an animal.

I've got at least 21 more of these to go, so if I contacted you, you're probably in the Queue?

#yugi moto #Yugioh #Yugioh fanart #Style Challenge 2022 #Look At All These Protagonists!

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gumballavocadoharry · 5 months

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First lesson; wit:

*This is Yn's POV*

The tall stone building seemed to collapse around me. I was standing in front of the castle like university in front of me, my legs trembling in discomfort, heart pounding out of my chest and stomach turning like I saw a billion maggots sliter under my shoes. My backpack was slung around me, and my suitcase full of my clothes and other things were tightly gripped into my hand. Any minute, I could tumble over and it would be the first embarrassment of my new school as luck would have all my classmates see the clumsy schmuck fall onto the hard pavement of concrete mixed in stone.

This was my first choice. I never had to face the despair of not being accepted into the school of my dreams, considering how much work I would have to put in to be a exceptional author. This was one of the best schools that was a recommendation from high school once I graduated. A chill crept down my spine before I carefully opened the large green tinted doors and walked into something so futuristic, that it shouldn't be exposed to the public now. Like Black Panther type technology. I swallowed my breath and managed to make it into the main office where I was given a number to my dorm room and and passes to the cafeteria, the library, gym, special classes and of course my main class. I was also handed three sheets of paper; one with the list of classes I had, the second was the classes I took and the third was a mini map of the entire school.

"I'm Mrs. Beachem, just let me know if you need anything." The older lady flashed a kind smile, which I courteously reciprocated. "Thank you very much." I gasped before darting off the elevators and taking the bridge to the dorms. 825, My room. A solo room; no roommates or anyone, just me. I laid out some cheap lavender sheets with a plum quilt over the mattress and started adding pictures on my walls. The frames complimented the room decor I was going for and the aesthetic. Lavender, plum purple, blue and gray were all the colors that took my plain white dorm to the next level. Classes didn't start until tomorrow, so that left me plenty of time to scan the different classrooms and shortcuts on how to get to them.

I sat on my bed and looked at the first paper that was stapled to the other two of my classes. My homeroom teacher- main class I took- was directed by Mr. Styles. He was one of the new professors on campus, only starting here three years before I did. I had heard about him from other students who went here and said he was one of the best teachers and that he was very resourceful in his knowledge of writing. The other two classes were taught by Mrs. Campbell and Mrs. Vincent. I grew nervous just thinking about the morning ahead of me tomorrow. The thick river of vile held me at knife-point to spill up from my stomach in complete fussiness.

Maybe it was just my stomach gurgling in hunger. I checked the map again and practically uprooted myself from the soft mattress and walked to the cafeteria.

After filling my belly with banana pudding, a chicken burrito, diet coke and a bag of fritos, I promptly started walking through corridors to find the complex classes I was destined to take. I found Mrs. Vincent's class first. It had this cozy, quell aroma to it. The room was a piece of Mrs. Vincent, making the class as relaxing and educational as possible. Next was Mrs. Campbell's room which looked like any classroom. But with elfin traces of friendliness. Last was Mr. Styles's class. Entering it was like entering a lecture hall from a movie. This was nothing like some little kiddie high school classroom, but something from a movie. The class was the size of an auditorium with seats that has tables attached to them in rows. It wasn't stadium huge, but big enough to feel overwhelmed by it all.

I ventured back to my dorm across the bridge and settled into bed for the night as the sky was turning it's dark navy blue color with faint glint twinkles spotting around in the background. I took one last look around the room, darting my eyes all over the walls of my brand new shelter for the next year or so. I crawled into bed and rubbed my eyes hard enough to fall asleep.

I awoke to the sound of my blaring alarm and the morning birds chirping their usual matinal melodies. My first class, Mrs. Campbell's, started around 9:30. It was 8:30 now, so I didn't hesitate to rush into the shower, change clothes and run across the bridge to the cafeteria for a small bowl of cereal. I scanned my pass, grabbed a tray and plopped a bowl, a carton of milk and a small buffet box of cereal onto my tray and picked a random table by the window. I consumed my breakfast before grabbing a small cup of coffee and leaving straight after for class. Upon entering the first classroom of the day, I was greeted with cheerful smiles and the smell of cake.

My eyebrows pinched themselves together wondering where that smell was coming from until I realized it was a lit candle that was blooming on Mrs. Campbell's desk. I took my seat towards the back and unpacked my yellow notebook with a pattern of daisies and hearts. I assigned this particular one to the English class because it had a springtime theme to it, while my teddy bear one was assigned to Mrs. Vincent and a stone royal blue was to Mr. Styles. "Hello class." She walked in; floral print dress, beige cardigan and black flats with the most cheerful smile and professional demeanor. She took her stance at her chalkboard, writing her name and introducing herself to everyone.

"I'm Mrs. Ann Campbell, but you can all call me Mrs. Campbell." She sat perfectly ladylike at her desk, shining off the top layer of it for any dust particles that may have collected. Her perky tone in describing the basics of English literature made it seem anything but a dull pointless subject. At least, not to the credits who predicted that English was a key point in writing......which was correct. I jotted down as many notes as I possibly could before the bell rung and the class was dismissed. I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed the stream of students pouring out of the door. My next was Mr. Styles.

I entered the classroom-styled lecture hall- and took my seat towards the middle. A slew of students crammed themselves into the large hall, taking their seats just as the young teacher entered the class. He wore this white dress shirt tucked into some black slacks with a thick black watch almost riveting up his entire wrist. "Hello, I'm Mr. Styles," He wrote his name slickly across the chalkboard in a tight pinched manner. "And this is creative writing." His voice almost had this monotone echo that snapped all eyes in his direction. He was nothing like Mrs. Campbell, and her warm cheerful smile and cake scented classroom. No, this was a rigid college class that expected...demanded full attention and the best of your intelligence. And Mr. Styles fit that description perfectly.

The man's chalk sketched across the green board with speed; not stopping to take a breather in for even a slight pause for the sake of his wrist. "Mark Twain was a famous author; famous for writing short humoristic stories about his character's misadven-" Mr. Styles paused to see a boy in his front row giggling from a note he passed. He didn't hesitate to snatch the note, rip it up and slam the pieces of it back on the boy's desk.

"Young man, your first day of kindergarten is over. This is a complex class that details writing, its history of it and knowledge to be a writer," He leaned in closer, eyes squinting only a little, "You can come to this class fully prepared or not at all to this class, this school, this university. But don't think for a minute I'll tolerate anything in between!" He sneered spitefully, before gathering back over to the chalkboard and continuing the lesson.

He cleared his throat and continued his Mark Twain lesson, despite leaving the boy in such engrossed humiliation that tears torrent over. But no one was watching him....they were all focused on Mr. Styles and his very comprehensive speech of how Mark Twain's writing influenced how much nuance writers used to this day. The class was of a quiet echo; only Mr. Styles's voice was heard throughout the class. I looked down at the royal blue notebook on my desk.....Yep. The notebook matched the class's theme perfectly; straight to the point, no nonsense, and solid. If there were any mistakes, there would be a whip across the back....if not a flat out execution.

The bell had rung, stripping everyone's cast iron focus on Mr. Styles to their bags and books. I scampered out with everyone else, only glancing back to see Mr. Styles looking upon his pupils in a now deserted lecture hall.

I took a breath in, trying hard to release the pent up tension from the suffocating walls of Mr. Styles class. I've had strict and unruly teachers before....but this was something singular. With the snap of his fingers, Mr. Styles could make the universe look into his aloof, stolid eyes. A chill quivered through my body like a snake slithering against its tree. It was lunch time, and then next would be Mrs. Vincent's class.

I managed to make it to the cafeteria where it seemed like everyone was on the dot. I grabbed a tray and plopped a couple sandwiches, a bottle of gatorade, doritos and blueberry yogurt onto my tray before snatching a table by the back windows. My neighbor was no other than the boy who had his handed to him by Mr. Styles. We were both diffident, reserving our eyes to our plates that we somehow had a hard time manipulating into moving the food into our mouths untouched.

"That's some class?" I finally broke the ice, showing the boy that I wasn't a snoot who blindly agreed with Mr. Styles harsh correction. "Yeah," He gave a soft chuckle, still in shame from the latter incident, "The guy seems to be fond of Mark Twain right?"

I giggled, "Yeah. He described him so vividly and passionately, that I was beginning to wonder if he was there with him in person and had a personal conversation with him." The boy laughed, "Yeah....." He was still unsure of my interaction, so I had to let my cards fall onto his lap. "Look, what happened in class....I didn't agree with. Mr. Styles seems like one of those teachers and you seem really nice. I'm Yn by the way." The boy finally gave a full beam. "I'm Lucus." I returned the smile and suddenly stuffed my sandwich into my mouth, finally enjoying the savoring flavor of a mitigate stomach. And I think Lucus did too.

I remembered my shortcut across the way to Mrs. Vincent's class. The motherly like class that had the aura of protection, yet didn't slack in education. But I knew this would be the easiest class. It was nice break from the parky dry institution that was to be Mr. Styles class. Speaking of the devil, on my way to Mrs. Vincent's class, Mr. Styles walked past me; skimming a tight lipped smile with quiescent intractable eyes. But even his polite expression was dry. There was no real passion inside of it. But yet, the very presence of this man demanded obedience and austere behaviour. The aura of his presence still haunted me as I took shattered steps into Mrs. Vincent's cozy haven. "Good afternoon class!" She squealed with such warm sugary vocals.

"I'm Mrs. Vincent. And this is American literature," She wrote it on her whiteboard, easing the eardrums of the brash blackboard sounds of the chalk against a chalkboard. "Before we start, does anyone have any questions?" I held back from anything as I just wanted to get this class over with so I could squirm back into my dorm and bury my head in my studies. Mrs. Vincent started the class and from I learned so far- her class was the easiest. Not too much homework, nor too much fast talking and just an overall laxed mien in the environment. I took notes and once I finished my last page, class was over. The bell rang and we were dismissed.

I followed the wave of students out of Mrs. Vincent's classroom before breaking off independently onto the bridge. It was like a glass tunnel where you could see everyone on campus walking around with their schoolbags and their schedules. I made it back to my dorm where solitude surrounded me. There was no chatting or yelling among students, teachers, or staff members....just peace. In exhaustion, I flopped onto my bed after dropping my bag on the floor. I circled face up and stared at the ceiling. Can I do this? Is this worth it? Two classes are amazing and the other....no....I took his class to challenge myself. He's one of the best professors on campus....give it a chance. Besides....you didn't screw up with him...yet.

Those thoughts raced through my head like a hamster on a wheel. But my mind couldn't help but ruminate over Mr. Styles. He's a demanding to please....but what about everyone else? Was he married? Did he have kids? I bet he's a total sweetheart to them; giving them big hugs and using a more soothing reserved tone, never daring to speak one harsh critical word to them. I uprooted myself from the bed and glued myself to the cotton swivel chair at my desk and took out my first book of creative writing. After all, Mr. Styles said either "come to the class prepared or not all" but he will refuse to "tolerate anything in between." Out of sheer fear, I swallowed as much information about Mark Twain that I could cram into my brain.

I almost missed dinner. I sped down to the cafeteria and grabbed leftover lasagna with a glass of lemonade and salad. I figured I needed the brain food. The cafeteria was mostly empty except for the last few people trying to gather in the last traces of their meal. I ate quickly before taking my tray up to the counter and returning to my dorm. "Yn!" I turned to see Lucus heading towards me on the bridge. "Hey," He caught his breath a little, "I just wanted to say thank you again for being so nice to me. It was a rough day but.....I appreciate your kindness," I smiled, "You're welcome Lucas....I know....I took Mr. Styles class for the challenge. I knew he was an excellent teacher and very detailed in teaching creative writing....if you can ignore his style of teaching that is....you'll make it."

Lucas swallowed hard, "You're right. I shouldn't have passed that note in class," "That doesn't excuse Mr. Styles of course, but.....you seem really smart. My point is- don't let that get to you or ruin the class. Give yourself a chance to rise up to the challenge and make it worth your while."

Lucas looked at me like I was some all knowing elder. "Thank you again Yn...you're so wise." I knew it. I smiled and gave Lucas a pat on the shoulder. I watched as he walked away to the left side of the dorm area. I turned right to mine and locked myself in for the night. My studies continued until I fell asleep after barely taking off my clothes.

I arose to the freckled spots of sun hitting my face. I rung into the shower, got dressed, grabbed my backpack and headed to the cafeteria. Everyone seemed to be celebrating Friday. I guess me and Lucas weren't the only ones who had a grueling first day. Tomorrow would be the weekend and that meant I was free to visit friends, family go to the movies or even just study. I know how it sounded. I didn't want to be one of those book dependent people where you only ever just studied and totally shut out life itself. But it was just creative writing. The thought of it made my heart beat faster and my stomach twist itself into my throat. Even if I wasn't the one getting scolded, just the thought of some clown deliberately testing the waters with Mr. Styles made my legs ping.

That man could stare Satan in the eyes and make the devil himself shudder in terror. The hand-me-down feeling of watching someone get punished by him was different than some uptight high school teacher letting one of her students have it. They usually deserved it. But the slightest offense in Mr. Styles class would be a lesson that one would learn very quickly: Your second chance is sitting in that chair and still being able to finish the class. Not taps on the wrist, no timeouts. Nothing. Either you sink or swim.

This chapter is sooooo long that I figured I'd make a part two...

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles and yn #professor harry #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles imagines #harry one shot #harry styles fanfictions #harry styles oneshot #harry styles love #harry and yn #harry x yn #harry x reader

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audreyhepburninblackandwhite · 8 months

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Scanned cover and interior pages of England's WEEKEND magazine's May 14-20, 1969 issue

'Thin Little Me—But I'm All Woman'

Newly married Audrey tells the Hepburn way to attract men

“I’m tired of being thought of as a dear, sweet, not bad-looking, flat-chested girl”

You Don’t Need a Bust to Get a Man

That’s Audrey Hepburn’s opinion. She says she has more sex appeal on the tip of her nose than most women have in their entire bodies.

Story by Walter Rainbird

A glittering Audrey with Mel Ferrer—their "idyllic" marriage lasted 13 years.

A strange sort of humility overcame me as I looked into the big brown, saucer eyes of Miss Audrey Kathleen Hepburn-Ruston as she curled kinkily in her catsuit in a corner of the hotel suite. Then I was startled as Miss AKHR—Audrey Hepburn to you, me, and the world at large—suddenly rapped: “Look here, there’s more to sex appeal than a top heavy bust and a well-rounded bottom, you know.”

Behind the characteristically-large glasses, the Hepburn nose that Audrey says is so sexy

All I could do was mumble in reply that I didn’t doubt it.

And so began one of the oddest interviews of my life with the star they call “The Fairest Lady of Them All.”

At 40, Audrey Hepburn is even slimmer than she was when, skinny and elfin, she played Eliza Doolittle. And, honestly, she doesn’t look much older than when she started out in show business as a chorus girl at the London Hippodrome—now the Talk of the Town—back in 1948.

Billy Wilder, who directed her in Sabrina Fair, once said of her, “When she walks on to the set, people stop using four-letter words, though she is certainly no prude. She has a rare class, something that Garbo had, a personal style, a kind of breeding which radiates from the screen.”

DIVORCE

This, then, was the girl who was talking to me about sex, busts, and bottoms. The girl whose “idyllic” marriage to Mel Ferrer ended in divorce after 13 years, during which her eight-year-old son Sean (“he means more to me than I mean to myself”) was born.

She told me, “I am tired of being thought of as a dear, sweet, not-bad-looking, thin-legged, flat-chested girl.

“I’ll admit I’m not so well-stacked as Sophia Loren or Gina Lollo whatever-her-name-is. But there is more to sex appeal than just measurements. Those curvy screen-stresses don’t even know what it is, never mind how to use it.

“I have heard it said that if I walked on to a studio bedroom set I wouldn’t know what to do—that I would be as lost as Bo-Peep’s sheep. Well I don’t need a bedroom to prove my womanliness.

“I can covey just as much appeal fully-clothed, picking apples off a tree and standing in the rain as some of those stars think they do wearing practically nothing.

“The secret of real appeal is that you must feel it, deep down inside you. It is something that is suggested rather than shown.

“Take a simple thing like a handshake. I can put more oomph into it than most women can in a walk.

“When you hold your hand out to a male, you think to yourself, ‘I’m all woman. I’m all woman.’ And when your hand touches his—POW!”

What about those famous Hepburn eyes?

They flushed like moon signs, as the star who normally regards Miss Hepburn as her least favorite subject, went on . . .

“A woman’s eyes can be her best weapon in the battle to attract the opposite sex. I don’t mean she should ogle a man. No real man likes that. What she should do is, perhaps, make the faintest fluster of her eyelashes as an added come-on.

Hepburn—the girl with the Garbo touch that radiates from the screen in every part she plays. Here, she wears her favorite outfit for the film Two for the Road

“I’m fed up hearing that I’m just ‘plain Audrey.’ The truth is that I know I have more sex appeal on the tip of my nose than most women have to their entire bodies. It doesn’t stand out a mile, but it’s there.”

To illustrate her point, she told me how she once arrived late for a party and had to make her way into the room alone.

“The first thing I noticed was all the gorgeous girls there—ones who had curves in just the right places.

“This little me wandered across the room, got a drink, and stood alone in a corner. Then I decided to try to experiment to prove how much man-appeal I have—and to show that appeal does not always have to be an obvious, physical thing.

IRRESISTIBLE

“I started to think of myself as the sexiest creature on earth and that I was irresistible to men.

“It didn’t take long. First, one pair of eyes, then another, swung in my direction. After only a few moments, about a dozen men were looking at me and before long I had more male company than I could handle.

“I could almost hear all those curvy girls asking, ‘What’s SHE got?’

“Well, I know. And while there is life to be enjoyed, I mean to go on and wing it.”

One discerning male will testify to the subtle powers of Miss Hepburn’s personal magnetism in 32 year-old Italian psychiatrist Dr. Andrea Dotti.

In January, just six weeks after her divorce from Mel Ferrer, he married her in Rome. And, as Miss Hepburn would doubtless point out, the doctor always knowws bests.

#audrey hepburn #vintage #classic #style #photography #fashion #old hollywood #old hollywood glamour #1960s #1969 #magazine covers #magazines #audrey hepburn readings

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elfinaesthetic · 2 months

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beautiful cabinet

#elfin #foxy #elfin aesthetic #aesthetic blog #interior design #elfin style

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ejzah · 3 months

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Collateral Damage, Part 5

***

Less than 20 minutes after Rountree gave them the address, Sam and Deeks were on the road. Sam was already going well over the speed limit, but Deeks had to resist the urge to demand he speed up. Three hours had already passed since Kensi’s abduction, and with every minute, it felt like he was that much closer to losing her.

They’d been driving for about an hour, when Sam pulled off the interstate and onto a side road, which clearly hadn’t been repaired in a couple years.

“Deeks, I need you to promise me that you won’t act impulsively when we get there. No matter what we find,” Sam said, breaking the silence that had reigned the majority of the drive.

“You know I can’t agree to that,” Deeks told him, gaze never shifting windshield in front of him. “I’m not going to do anything purposefully stupid or dangerous, but you know that I will do whatever I need to do get Kensi back.“ Anger replaced his earlier paralyzing fear, more intense than he’d possibly ever felt.

“Don’t get so caught up in a need for revenge that you put her or your children in danger.”

“You know me better than that,” Deeks replied softly.

The grew increasingly rough, winding into dangerous curves that even Sam needed to slow for. With the decrease in road conditions, the surroundings grew more wooded and deserted.

“How did Rountree even find this place?” Deeks wondered out loud as the GPS showed another mile to their destination.

“Eric and Nell must have sent some of their elfin magic in their last care package,” Sam responded.

He didn’t respond to Sam’s comment, suddenly on high alert at the reveal of a long, gravel drive. Sam turned onto the road, decreasing the speed slightly as they approached a small ranch style home with a crooked front porch. Deeks noted a van parked at an angle on the grass to the left side.

“That van matches the one from the security feed,” Deeks said, opening his door the second Sam had but the SUV in park.

Sam hurried around to meet him, holding up a stilling hand.

“Hey, slow down. We don’t want to start anything if we don’t have to.”

A man emerged armed with a semi-automatic emerged from the front door. They both dropped to the ground, Deeks rolling closer to the SUV as a spray of bullets filled the air.

“I’d say he already started it.” He flinched as another bullet bit into the earth, far too close to his leg for comfort. There was a momentary break in the gunfire, and they both scrambled back, using the SUV for shelter.

“Cover me?” Deeks asked, getting to his knees as he checked his gun.

“Deeks—” Sam protested.

“Can you cover me?” Deeks repeated. “You know I’m going in there either way, man.”

“Fine. On three. One, two, three.”

Deeks ran as fast as he could, crouched to the ground while Sam engaged their assailant in gunfire. He reached the side of porch, ducking down again. The man had disappeared inside the safety of the house. Deeks held his breath, waiting. It was only a few seconds he heard the sound of a heavy boot on the wooden slats, and Deeks sprang up, aiming and firing. The man shouted, clutching his right shoulder as he feel against the closest wall.

Scrambling over the porch railing, Deeks was on the man before he could even think of reacting. He yanked his rifle off his shoulder, roughly grabbing both arm, and cuffing him, and flipping him onto his back.

Leaving him there, he stepped through the front door, going to the left while Sam went right. It was a fairly small house, and a quick scan of the cramped kitchen revealed nothing. He met Sam back in the main room, and nodded to the door off of a short hallway.

Sam kicked the door open, Deeks entering first. It was empty except for the man sprawled on the floor next to a knocked over chair. Bending next to him, Deeks turned his head, feeling for a pulse. He was alive, but the lower half of his face was swollen and bloody and his neck bore signs of being choked.

Deeks picked up a severed zip tie; he pictured Kensi getting the unconscious man to lower his defenses. To let her loose, and then she must have taken her chance.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured with a mixture of pride and dizzying relief. At least she was still alive. Or at least he hoped so.

“Looks like she put up a hell of a fight,” Sam commented. He nodded to the discarded ties and the chair, which had a broken leg.

“Yeah. The question is, where is she now?” Deeks asked grimly.

“I’m guessing she ran.”

“Or someone took her to a third location. There’s still a third kidnapper we can’t account for.” Stalking back through the house, Deeks walked out to the porch, and grabbed the first man, who was breathing heavily and unevenly. Deeks ignored the small pool of blood beneath his upper body, dragging him inside the house. He leaned him up against the wall just inside the door.

“Where is Agent Kensi Blye?” he demanded. He heard Sam approaching him from behind, but didn’t move shift focus.

The man groaned, laughing softly. “I’m not going to tell you anything.”

Nostrils flaring, Deeks clasped the man’s shoulder, digging his thumb into his wound. He shouted, then pushing back away from Deeks, but he had nowhere to go.

“Deeks, easy now,” Sam cautioned him, but he didn’t try to stop Deeks.

“Where the hell is she?” Deeks asked again, increasing pressure.

“I don’t know,” the man growled, making a guttural sound when Deeks didn’t let up. Sweat beaded up on his forehead, and he whispered softly.

“You do not want to make me any madder than I already am, man. Just ask my partner over there. So I’m going to ask one more time before this gets a lot more painful. Where is Kensi Blye.”

“I’m telling you the truth! We left her tied up with Bailey and when we got back, he was knocked out and she was gone.”

“Who is we?” Sam asked.

“Ricky Dorton.” He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “He was supposed to meet up after finishing some business.”

Deeks released his hold, stepping back with a grimace. He walked to the other side of the room with Sam.

“You think he’s telling the truth?”

“Unfortunately, yeah,” Deeks replied. “Which means Kensi is somewhere out there, with no way of contacting us.” He eyed Sam, then the bleeding man. “I’m going after her.”

“I’ll call for backup,” Sam said. “Be careful out there.”

***

A/N: And here we have very angry and protective Deeks.

#ncis la fanfiction #marty deeks #Sam #angry Deeks #drama #collateral damage #part 5 #post series finale #ejzah fanfiction

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thesweetnessofspring · 8 months

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A little bit of fun casting for The Blue Castle.

Valancy: Anya Taylor-Joy. There are a few physical things important to me about Valancy's casting: one, that the actress can be styled down so she's believably overlooked romantically, her eyes be the most captivating feature of hers, and that she have Valancy's thin frame. On top of being an incredible actress, Anya Taylor-Joy hits these three physical characteristics. She has a very otherworldly, ethereal look to her which matches Valancy's "elfin" description. Normally a blonde, but a good dye job and she's our Valancy.

Barney: Joseph Quinn. He's currently a tad younger than Barney, but styled right gives off that "gnome" type look that Barney has. He definitely has the charisma and can do a "buck the system" type of character. Only point not in his favor is he's not a redhead in the slightest.

Roaring Abel: Ken Stott. A 68 year-old Scottsman, he's been in a lot of movies (such as The Hobbit and The Dig) and with a beard I think could do Roaring Abel justice, on top of originating from the same country as our favorite carpenter.

Cissy: I think she would be best played by an unknown actress. She has a certain sweetness that is rather old-fashioned, so it's hard for me to picture many of the actresses in the right age group playing her and I think a new face would do well for this role, one not so caught up in Hollywood yet.

Uncle Benjamin: Dean Norris. Best known as Hank in Breaking Bad, he just has such a powerful presence to him, I think he would pull of Uncle Benjamin really well.

#blue castle book club #the blue castle #tbc fancast #domhall gleeson is still my ideal barney but he's a bit too old now :(

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denimbex1986 · 9 months

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'Scientific grunt work doesn’t render very well on the silver screen. But neither do most jobs, or for that matter, most people. When it comes to theoretical physicists and aesthetic appeal, it’s best to channel quantum mechanics and suspend your disbelief.

Enter Oppenheimer, where Brigadier General Matt Damon says things like, “This is the most important thing to ever happen in the history of the world!” And, “We’ve given them an ace. It’s up to them to play the hand.” No doubt these sentiments were actually delivered as 700-page memorandums, Pendaflex-foldered and date-stamped. But this is Hollywood we’re talking about. You’ll find little in the way of stationery here, at least not on screen. And when the occasional differential equation rolls into frame, writer/director Christopher Nolan cuts smartly away before the audience might nod off.

To Nolan’s credit, Oppenheimer is a terrifically researched film. But it’s a film nonetheless, and translating sprawling, decades-long military sagas via camera necessitates shortcuts. I’m not a vetted expert on nuclear history but I’ve dabbled, having acted as research assistant for a 2020 treatise on plutonium production. This is to say that I’m familiar with the players.

I know, for example, that Matt Damon is far too cuddly, good-looking, and agreeable to portray the irascible Leslie Groves, nicknamed “Greasy” by his fellow West Point cadets. I know that Niels Bohr, the Danish physicist with a famously soft, nigh-unintelligible voice, is misrepresented by Shakespearean enunciator Kenneth Branagh. Nolan’s rolodex runs deeper than Wes Anderson’s these days, and if there’s a gripe to be had with Oppenheimer, it’s that everyone involved is just too damned sexy.

But, again, this is Hollywood, and where Nolan leaves the beaten path of record he generally does so to sate our dopamine addiction. Come to think of it, I haven’t been inside an actual physics department in a while. Maybe the professors really are incredibly gorgeous.

Luckily for Nolan, the subject of his cinematic obsession was a high-cheeked academic anomaly. The poet Edith Jenkins, who overlapped with J. Robert Oppenheimer in leftwing circles, describes his “precocity and brilliance… his jerky walk, feet turned out, a Jewish Pan with his blue eyes and his wild Einstein hair.” Manhattan Project scientist Robert Wilson agrees, admitting that he was “caught up by the Oppenheimer charisma,” “his style, the poetic vision of what we were doing.”

No, Oppy’s jawline never approached the artful chisel of Cillian Murphy’s, but there are unmistakable parallels—a bit elfin, a bit skeletal—to be drawn. Certainly Oppenheimer availed himself of more mistresses than your average mid-century physicist. Nolan spends perhaps too much time focusing on one of them (Jean Tatlock, played by Florence Pugh) and mentions a second in passing (Ruth Tolman, a bit part Louise Lombard), while avoiding speculation of yet others, such as when Berkeley cops found grad student Melba Phillips sleeping in Oppy’s car somewhere in the Coastal Range, the professor himself suspiciously absent.

Oppenheimer’s messy personal life makes him an ideal candidate for exposé—look no further than Kai Bird and Martin J. Sherwin’s bestselling American Prometheus, Nolan’s source material. But here I’ll return to Hollywoodization, for it’s one thing to get wind of Oppenheimer’s foibles and quite another to see Florence Pugh writhing hallucinatorily on his lap during the 1954 AEC security hearings.

If Nolan goes too far in this film, if he stretches the Oppenheimer envelope past its roomy Pendaflex accommodations, it’s in the context of Oppy outside the Manhattan Project. Despite magnificent wartime subject matter—not all of which is touched upon—Nolan can’t quit his blockbuster tropes. Monochrome senate hearings, petty political twists (how is RDJ’s aide still employed?), Oppy’s fingers gracing Emily Blunt’s as she asks for a cocktail science primer.

Maybe audiences require such touchstones to contextualize the rest of the film. Nolan seems to think so. But as the string section swelled during a trite turn in the relatively forgettable career of Lewis Strauss, I found myself wishing we could’ve stayed put in New Mexico, on the high mesa that forms this film’s heart.

Nolan’s feat comes in recreating Los Alamos, a critical American moment with more than enough narrative to forgo some of the politico-romantic schlock that drags this thing to a three-hour runtime. Fascinated by character, by gray morality, Nolan found Oppy such an attractive case study that it nearly steered his magnum opus (I do think this film qualifies) off track. Each of the factual and immensely complicated bomb-related obstacles—for example, thunderstorms the morning of the Trinity Test—holds a world-changing thrall entirely separate from the whims of one man, no matter how chiseled his jaw.

Speaking of moralistic study, there’s one character who escapes Oppenheimer scot-free: Matt Damon’s overly fit and preposterously understated Leslie Groves. “I’ve known General Groves since I was 2nd lieutenant,” said the real-world David Nichols (cast as Dane DeHaan) in a 1965 interview. “To start off with, I would say he is the biggest son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever met, bar none.”

“Impatient, brusque, intolerant,” writes Robert S. Norris in his comprehensive Groves biography Racing for the Bomb. “He had few close friends, and others generally kept their distance.”

“When you looked at Captain Groves, a little alarm bell rang ‘Caution’ in your brain,” said a colleague.

Damon bulked up, lumped up—whatever—for his role as Nike executive Sonny Vaccaro in this year’s Air. But it’s a serious leap from office park Vaccaro to Army taskmaster Groves, who even in his 1970 New York Times obituary suffered the redundant label of, “a chunky, heavyset man, with a tendency toward paunchiness.” More unfounded than Damon’s weight, however, is a good guy nature cultivated over decades of Good Will Hunting television marathons, Invictus advertisements, and so on.

Cillian Murphy’s shell-shocked victory speech presents a nice commentary on the ethical morass of atomic weaponry. But Damon/Groves makes for an even juicier moralistic target, and he’s let off the hook with that aforementioned one-liner: “We’ve given them an ace, it’s up to them to play the hand.” If anyone bore responsibility for detonating two atomic bombs over civilian populations, it was General Leslie R. Groves, the only person playing said poker game in the first place.

Racing for the Bomb explains, “Groves, sitting atop his security pyramid, was the only person who knew everything about the bomb project—more than the chief of staff, more than the secretary of war, more than the president.” He was therefore “singularly concerned with the bomb, with getting it finished, tested, and used, and his superiors deferred to him time and again to make the choices that would make this happen.”

Nolan illustrates how the bomb haunted Oppenheimer. Groves, cinematically absent after Trinity, showed no such regret. Critiquing the general’s 1962 autobiography Now It Can Be Told, the Saturday Review wrote, “Groves is motivated by a simple and all-sufficing patriotism that is untroubled by what others see in the atom. He does not probe for any new vision of national interest in the age he helped create.”

Simple and all-sufficing patriotism—sounds familiar. Make of it what you will.

The only Oppenheimer character who comes across as legitimately malevolent is Benny Safdie’s terrific Ed Teller. Maybe I fell for Teller because Safdie, a director by trade, looks more like a physicist than a cologne model. Still, I get the sense that Safdie studied his source material. When he pipes up about the “Super”—the hydrogen bomb—his eyes hold nary a flicker of regret. And he keeps doing so despite repeated disdain from his colleagues.

Look, I get it, I really do, on the attractiveness quotient. This is a movie, and if scientists and bureaucrats don’t suffice for a visual study then we’ll goddamn pretend. It’s only sensible that Ernest Lawrence— who, per physicist Jeremy Bernstein, “looked a bit like a country bumpkin”—becomes Josh Hartnett. That Lewis Strauss, a crooked-toothed self-made paper pusher, turns into silver fox Robert Downey Jr. I guess I even understand why Olivia Thirlby got thrown in out of absolutely nowhere, probably as Lilli Hornig, though I can’t recall her name being said aloud.

Nolan had to beautify this stuff because the big screen is a beautiful place. He gets most of the issues absolutely right, and I’ll be pulling for him come Oscar season. I doubt I’ll wind up remembering Emily Blunt’s Kitty Oppenheimer, Matthew Modine’s Vannevar Bush, or whoever the hell Rami Malek was supposed to be. But I’ll surely remember the Trinity Test, fingers trembling over that big red button, “10-9-8” and the towering explosion and the pressure wave—even if, no shade at Nolan, David Lynch already did it better on television.'

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fernmaddie · 4 months

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introduction

hey folks! i wanted to give a little introduction to myself and my work, as this is my first time presenting myself publicly on tumblr. this is going to make me sound rather professional, but i promise i'm just here to do the regular ol' tumblr things: be silly, gush about things i care about, and not take myself too seriously. i hope you'll join me. :)

i'm fern maddie (she/her), a queer experimental folk artist, multi-instrumentalist, and balladeer based on abenaki land. through folk balladry and original writing, i perform songs and stories exploring themes of grief, trauma, and renewal.

***please note: my approach to folk music is adaptive, interpretive, critical, queer-feminist, and inclusive. white supremacists, "folkish" nationalists, terfs, or anyone who engages with english-language folk literature as a tool of western cultural "purity" will be blocked***

buy my music on bandcamp

listen on spotify

watch some performance on youtube

more about my work below the cut....

past projects

ghost story - my debut album, released in 2022. ghost story was named the #2 best folk album of 2022 by the guardian, and one of the top roots albums of the year from npr music. across 10 tracks, it explores the stories we inherit from the dead -- both our personal dead and cultural dead -- through a queer-feminist lens. includes a critically-acclaimed interpretation of the ballad "hares on the mountain" (roud 329), as well as the ballads "the maid on the shore" (roud 181), "northlands" (roud 21) and a queer re-framing of the scottish shepherding song "ca' the yowes."

north branch river - my debut EP, released in 2020. across 6 sparse tracks and spry banjo-playing, it explores the intimacy and pain of our tenuous relationship with the natural world. includes a re-interpretation of the ballad "the elfin knight" (roud 12), and the original song "two women," inspired by selkie folklore.

of song and bone - of song and bone is a short-lived podcast i produced a few years ago. there are only 3 episodes out, but they illustrate some of my scholarship about folk balladry and my own relationship to balladry as a literary tradition. FYI: i would probably frame a few things differently if i were re-recording the podcast today (ideas and language evolve!). perennially thinking about making more, but we'll see.

currently in development

way to live - way to live is my second studio album, currently in production. as of this writing, way to live includes 8 tracks, and similar to my previous work, combines original songs with folk ballads, though with a greater share of personal storytelling than my earlier records.

said the false nurse - this is a piece of adaptive short fiction i'm currently developing. it's a deeply sinister queer re-telling of the horror ballad long lankin (roud 6), set in the 1620s in the north of England. stay tuned for process updates!

adult children - this is a full-length original novel and associated concept album i'm developing. it's set in contemporary rural vermont, and focuses on a group of adult siblings, their dying father, their failing farm, and the new arrival who threatens their co-dependent bond. the associated rock opera will be written in a folk-rock style with digressions into folktronica and country.

#folk music #traditional folk music #folk balladry #dark folk #folk noir #folk horror #historical fiction #ballads #child ballads #roud index #fern maddie #singer songwriter #folk lore

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