#is there a third brother who’s just a milkman

[stoat-party]

Jakob: *helps his family while they’re actively murdering him*

Aldous: *watching his brother die on the floor in front of him* aw that sucks bro. just remembered i had a thing though. maybe if you kill enough of our descendants it’ll fix it. bye.

[justforbooks]

In the late 1970s, Bo Goldman was researching a script about Melvin Dummar, the unassuming Utah factory worker, gas station owner and former “Milkman of the Month” who was named as a $156m beneficiary in a will supposedly written by Howard Hughes but later successfully contested in court. Slowly, a realisation dawned on the screenwriter: “This man is a failure just like I am.”

It seemed an unusual conclusion to reach. After all, Goldman had written the book and lyrics for a Broadway musical, First Impressions, based on Pride and Prejudice, before he was 30, and won his first best screenplay Oscar (shared with Lawrence Hauben) for adapting One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975), Ken Kesey’s novel set in a psychiatric institution, by the time he was 45.

A second Oscar later came his way for Melvin and Howard (1980), his humane and warmly funny script about Dummar, lovingly directed by Jonathan Demme.

But Goldman, who has died aged 90, was haunted at the time by his inability to sell one of his earliest scripts, Shoot the Moon, or to follow up that 1959 Broadway debut, and by the years he spent in poverty and debt, struggling to provide for his wife and their six children. “I can’t tell you what it does to a man,” he said in 1982. “You feel awful. I respected my wife so much, but felt lousy about myself.”

Hollywood was impressed by Shoot the Moon, the story of a brutal marital break-up that he wrote in the early 1970s, but no one wanted to make it. The writing was strong enough to earn him an $8,000 commission from the director Miloš Forman to re-write Hauben’s script for One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. One of Goldman’s first suggestions – that the iconoclastic patient McMurphy, played by Jack Nicholson, should kiss his admitting officers at the hospital – helped win him the job.

He also scripted the Bette Midler vehicle The Rose (1979), inspired by the life of Janis Joplin, but turned down offers to write Kramer vs Kramer and Ordinary People, both future best picture Oscar winners, because the terrain felt too similar to his unproduced script, which he still hoped would be filmed eventually.

It finally was. The British filmmaker Alan Parker directed Shoot the Moon in 1982, coaxing powerful work from Albert Finney and Diane Keaton as the warring couple, and touchingly natural performances from the four children cast as their daughters.

The critical response was positive. Even Pauline Kael, no fan of Parker’s, said she was “a little afraid to say how good I think [the film] is” and praised the script’s “theatrical richness.” Goldman was disappointed nevertheless by its box-office failure.

After his third Oscar nomination, for Scent of a Woman (1992), he said: “I’m always surprised when anything good happens to me.” That film starred Al Pacino as a blind, cantankerous ex-army officer who cuts loose when he is assigned a prep-school student (Chris O’Donnell) as his companion for Thanksgiving weekend.

Goldman based Pacino’s character on a combination of his father, one of his brothers and a sergeant under whom he had served. Pacino won an Oscar; on that occasion, the writer did not.

He was born Robert Spencer Goldman in New York City. It was at Princeton that he changed his name to “Bo”; the college newspaper, The Daily Princetonian, misprinted his byline, and it stuck.

His mother was Lillian Levy, a millinery model, his father, Julian Goodman, a sometime Broadway producer and the owner of a chain of more than 70 department stores, which went into receivership during the Depression shortly before Bo was born. That dramatic fall informed and even overshadowed the rest of Bo’s life, with its occasionally incongruous juxtapositions. He grew up, for instance, in a spacious, rent-controlled Park Avenue apartment yet the family was usually penniless. His father would leaf through scrapbooks from his glory days, even making annual visits to the stables in Chantilly where he kept his prize-winning race-horses.

Though this precarious economic situation was known to Bo throughout his youth, it was not until much later that he discovered his father had another estranged family, and that his parents had never married.

He was educated at the Dalton school and Phillips Exeter academy prior to Princeton. There he wrote lyrics for the college’s Triangle Show and developed an enthusiasm for writing for the stage. He was in the US army for several years, then made inroads into the television industry, starting in the CBS postroom before progressing to script editing and producing on shows such as Playhouse 90.

Though First Impressions, which starred Farley Granger, was poorly received, he devoted most of the 1960s to writing a civil war musical, Hurrah Boys, Hurrah, which was never staged. He took odds and ends of TV work, but was plagued by thoughts of his father’s ignominies, and bruised by his own. “The only thing which kept me going was my wife and the kids who never cared about my success or lack of it,” he said. “They only cared because it was causing me pain.”

Around the time Shoot the Moon was released, his wife, Mab (nee Ashforth), whom he had met at Princeton and married in 1954, and who supported the family financially through endeavours such as her fish and bread shop, Loaves and Fishes, reflected on the disparity between the bad times and the good: “People were so contemptuous of us … it’s remarkable how success has transformed us into acceptable people.”

Goldman became a sought-after script doctor, working uncredited on Forman’s Ragtime (1981), Demme’s Swing Shift, the coming-of-age comedy The Flamingo Kid (both 1984), Warren Beatty’s Dick Tracy (1990) and the Arthurian adventure First Knight (1995).

Credited screenplays include Little Nikita (1988), an espionage thriller with River Phoenix and Sidney Poitier, and Meet Joe Black (1998), starring Brad Pitt as the pretty personification of death. Goldman also shared a story credit with Beatty on the period comedy-drama Rules Don’t Apply (2016). This was another Howard Hughes-related project, with Beatty playing the reclusive billionaire.

Though Goldman came close several times, his enduring dream of directing was never realised. “I think of myself as a filmmaker,” he said. “I’m a writer only because that is what they pay me to do.”

Mab died in 2017. He is survived by five of his children, Mia, Amy, Diana, Serena and Justin. A sixth child, Jesse, died in 1981.

🔔 Bo (Robert Spencer) Goldman, screenwriter, born 10 September 1932; died 25 July 2023

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[riverdale-retread]

Riverdale S7 E4 Love and Marriage

Jughead and Ethel are in big doodoo. The principal has his own grim looking photo, unduly large, outside his office. The ego on this big ugly white man! Why is it so familiar? Hmmm.

The three hideous old people (well Sheriff Keller is handsome but that doesn’t make him any less hideous) are giving the Ethelhead the third degree, and Ethelhead are defending themselves the best they can:

The picture she drew of making mincemeat of her parents! → That was a joke!

The comic book issue with the murdering milkman! → She really did see one the night of the murder!

Why did Jughead hide all this stuff like a dirty secret? → Not answered because what he was trying to avoid is happening exactly right now!

Jughead sternly tells the agitated Ethel to stop answering questions until they talk to a lawyer. (Why oh Why can’t we have Ethelhead for real? They look really cute together. And his sweater’s red S matches her scarlet turtleneck ‘n’ scarf combo.

The way you know that Dupont (the now child psychiatrist, but my S4 loving self refuses to learn this new name they gave him) is a bad man is because he speaks in hoary cliches with such relish. “A picture is worth a thousand words.” Dude. Do better.

Ethelhead get hauled down to the station. On their way out of the school, Jughead is seen by Veronica, who is wearing her headband of pearls that makes her look like an angel. Jughead grimly tells her he’s being railroaded. Veronica in all universes is the right person to talk to when things are going wrong, so I’m hopeful things will work out for Jughead (though probably not Ethel, because Veronica doesn’t care about her so far this season).

Meanwhile, in the boy’s shower room, Jason confronts Archie. He wants to know how very dare Archie take advantage of Cheryl, going “all the way” with her. The general acceptance that everyone has even in this timeline of the Blossoms being weird people means Archie finds it perfectly normal to talk to Cheryl’s brother about sex while naked boys (well, American TV naked- two boys are showering in the back and one shirtless pantless one walks by in a towel) are all about.

Archie finds Cheryl and takes her to some room (not the music room, because the music room is for sexy times at Riverdale High) to confront her. He’s wearing very excellent white shoes. Cheryl is in the same shade of red all over like Ethel but I don’t suppose that means anything. Archie - for the benefit of the narrative but also because he’s a bit of a dim bulb is making sure that he didn’t just pass out and miss going all the way with Cheryl.

Can I just ask why Cheryl is so much better at faking straightness than Kevin? (This is in direct parallel with Kevin and Betty, of course.). It isn’t just a matter of Betty being smarter than Archie (she is) but also Cheryl knows how to be seductive with boys. The way she places her perfectly manicured hands on Archie’s chest is so perfectly calculated that he gets the heart shaped lighting happening in his irises.

Meanwhile, in fail gaydom with Failgay Kevin who I hate this season~ Betty and Kevin are outside where it is so cold Betty is sitting with gloves on and you can see their breath. Kevin does not want to have sex with Betty until they are married (or ever). Betty dumps him immediately.

Then she goes to go cry about it to the local closeted lesbian, who reacts with “Boys ruin everything.” At first Toni thinks that Betty is crying because Kevin tried to guilt trip her into allowing him to rape her, but Betty forthrightly tells her (through the most adorable scrunched up face of tears) that it was she who wanted to get laid. Toni continues to say the right thing - “More girls should do what you did!” Toni with all the right takes. She even calls Kevin by the right moniker - the ‘Supposed Boyfriend.’ Then she does what all gay girls do when consoling a hot girl upset about her ex boyfriend - ask her to be alone together in a dark room (THE DARK ROOM HAHAHA I see what you did there Riverdale), and maybe touch her leg a ilttle bit (which Toni also does).

Meanwhile - what a jam packed morning - meanwhile while Cheryl is seducing Archie and Toni is trying to seduce Betty after Betty dumped Kevin, Veronica is visiting Jughead in jail. The Stupid Hat Powers prevail so they are allowing him to still keep his crown.

Veronica, because she is wonderful, asks how Ethel is doing, to Jughead. But I don’t know how Jughead would know, since they are unlikely to be kept in the same cell. Jughead sounds very calm as he relays what he’s heard about procedure, but he’s got a double fisted death grip on the bars, poor thing. Jeronica have this two-brainiac-hipsters-vibing-off-each-other chemistry that I find completely enchanting. They literally speak in non stop references at each other which (TMI) is not at all fun to be next to but is DELIGHTFUL form of folie a deux. Anyway, Jughead in this universe is actually capable of advocating for himself instead of offering to die to solve things, and suggests that if he could get exonerated first, THEN he can help Ethel. Veronica is a woman always in search of a project, so she goes off to find the coroner of the town that Jughead naturally doesn’t know, in order to ascertain the time of death for Ethel’s parents.

Archie comes home to find that Mary Andrews, looking wonderful in royal blue with a strand of pearls, is disgusted and upset that her son has fucked Cheryl (allegedly). Archie is so uncomfortable about having to discuss sex with his mom that he crinkles his forehead exactly like Luke Perry used to in that show in the 90s. It’s not at all clear what upsets Mary most - having to receive a call from Penelope Blossom, having to talk about her son’s penis with Penelope Blossom, the thought of Archie having sex, the thought of Archie having sex with Cheryl, or having to talk about all of the above with Archie. I suspect it’s the choice of a BLOSSOM that upsets her the most, but she’s very funny to me. This actress’s slightly spaced-out line readings always bothered me, but she seems perfectly suited to this particular era. As she gloweringly passes Archie, he hunches down all cutely chastized. He has to put on a suit to go have dinner at the Blossoms!

And cut to dinner at the Blossoms! everyone is color coordinated in reds and blacks except for Mary who is wearing cream with a purple collarline. Clifford Blossom is dressed like Gomez Addams but he is nowhere near as fun. He is in fact a McCarthyite. To Archie’s terror (i love 50s Archie - he has such an endearing deer in headlights look), Clifford wants his thoughts on “the Russia problem.” Archie is looking around the room, and pieces together what he thinks the right answer might be like he’s trying to read hidden cue cards tucked into the corners. Russia! it’s a -. A Big! A Massive! Problem. [more pause] CLEARLY.

The way he gets told he’s a smart young man after sounding as dumb as a bag of broken bricks is how white male privilege works. Guys will literally say the most obvious, stupid thing and then older guys will promote them ahead of me and pay them special bonuses. The music director plays a ‘whimsical comedy’ type plinking over it but no, dear, this is how the world actually works. The way Archie goes from scared to smug in a nono second? Too real. Too too real.

The way Mary is just sat there ignored - nobody asks her what SHE thinks about anything - until Clifford summarily tells her they are going to have a talk later (not a question but an order) just is the icing on this shit cake.

Meanwhile, Cheryl and Archie go on a walk. In this universe, Cheryl never met Fred Andrews, which means “You’re looking especially DILFY today, Mr Andrews” or whatever the 50s equivalent is (You’re looking especially gitchy today?) never happened which means if this had been S1 of Riverdale I would never have been hooked! Archie says that his dad was his best friend (ah, but Archie were YOU the best friend to your father? I bet not!). They went to the movies together almost every weekend. Even before he left for the Korean War, apparently Fred’s fantasy was to go out west with Archie (and JUST Archie) and live as cowboys (with JUST Archie). Thinking about running away somewhere makes Cheryl feel romantic (???) towards Archie. It looks genuine, which is very disconcerting.

Toni is all smiles as she leads Betty down the steps to the Dark Room only to see that boys indeed actually do ruin everything - Kevin is there, slowdancing with Clay. I mean, this is exactly what Toni was hoping to do with Betty, I would think, but yes, Kevin does ruin everything. Toni tries to get out of there, but it’s too late and boy Kevin and Clay are physically too big for teeny tiny Toni to hide them effectively from view. Betty is confronted with the terrible evidence that her boyfriend of two years who made her feel so bad about her normal urges is in fact not into girls, and has been lying to her this whole time. She runs out.

Veronica to the rescue! It turns out the extremely incompetent Sheriff Keller, father of the very terrible Kevin Keller, never even checked the coroner’s report to ascertain the time of death. Jughead has an airtight alibi! Sheriff Keller doesn’t want to acknowledge he was wrong, so he still natters on about how this doesn’t account for Ethel. Veronica tells him to hop to it to release Jughead.

Jeronica immediately go to Pop’s, where Jughead gets a chocolate milkshake and a huge burger. In between bites, Jughead drops this bomb: Ethel told him that while her parents were being murdered, Ethel had been doing the “car seat chacha” with Julian Blossom.

Oh but that does make sense, actually. The Blossoms can only fuck redheads!

Ethel was down for some casual necking, but when Julian tried to get “handsy” (which is such a confusing euphemism since it can mean anything from groping a tit to shoving a finger up a butt) she walloped him. Ethel is all my tall strong girl fantasies because the force by which she slaps Julian almost twists his head off its stem. Julian, possibly now nursing a black eye, threatened to make a laughingstock of Ethel by spreading a rumor about her “nymphomania.” This is what Kevin called Betty once already - Kevin is the worst. Julian is terrible, but Kevin is just as bad!

Jughead is still such a wonderful friend to Ethel. The Feminine Mystique was not published until 1963 but Jughead fully understands how gender oppression and politics works, which I think all men do, and is ACTUALLY willing to acknowedge it, which most men still aren’t. He makes it his mission to make Julian do the honorable thing. “God help us.” Yup.

Betty comes sadly home to her mother, who has received a phone call from Kevin’s mother, who we have hardly ever seen. Kevin’s mom has been insisting that her boy is devastated! So upset! Betty tells her that she now knows her ex so called boyfriend was gay THIS WHOLE TIME. Alice Cooper acts like this is totally normal, calmly inviting Betty to take a seat. They play horror music over Alice telling Betty the most insane bullshit - that she owes it to Kevin (Betty owes Kevin??) to see him through a “sexual identity crisis.” Alice Cooper always finds the worst possible way to react, doesn’t she? And she somehow thinks that it’s fine to marry someone who is not only not attracted to your whole sex but also lied about it for two years to your face on a daily basis. Is this saying something about Hal? (Is that why he’s a serial killer?)

Jughead comes home to find that his little trailer is trashed. Again! By Keller! And even his dog is missing!! Poor Jughead.

Back at the Andrews, Mary is dishing the dirt about Clifford. He sold maple syrup to the Army at a premium during the Korean War (I really want them to stop talking about the Korean War on this my escapism show), plus he’s a hypocrite and draft dodger. Then she says a really terrifying thing - that she’s linked together with the Blossoms for “the rest of her ilfe” because (she thinks) Cheryl and Archie fucked once. They have decided the two need to get married - after the compatibility test. Archie makes a sound in his throat like he wants to vomit. “Think of Cheryl’s honor!!’

The thing is, who is threatening Cheryl’s honor? I mean, does anyone even know about this? Who else would spread this around if not Penelope??

Is Cheryl pretending to pregnancy as well??

The next day, Midge and Fangs are pregnant (She’s “never late” and now she is.) Fangs says he loves her, and they are going to figure it out. Fangs is being honorable.

Inside the hallway of the school, however, Jughead and Veronica approach Julian, who is anything but honorable. He refuses to alibi Ethel, because she’s “inappropriate” for a Blossom to schtupp. He calls Ethel “cheap thrills.” For this, Jughead Jones squares up with both fists to punch Julian right in the face, knocking him to the ground.

HOORAY.

Violence plus public shaming - Jughead shouts at him about being entitled and taking advantage of “my friend Ethel!” - actually works on Julian, who gives a statement that finally renders Ethel from ‘active suspect’ status. Sheriff Keller uses police words but I have not forgotten that he didn’t even look up time of death on the coroner’s report. Jeronica SUCCEEDED!

Plus, once again, what a wonderful friend Jughead Jones is.

According to the creepy Dupont/ Wertheim? Werthers? there are only three things that need to be checked for marital compatibility:

1. Similarity of background

2. Close friendship

3. Understanding the concept of marriage

They definitely don’t have 1) and in answer to the close friendship question Cheryl just laughs, because she is friends with nobody and Archie says he gets along with everyone (which kind of is the same thing). Then Dupont says that Archie is going to be burdened with fidelity, “which goes against our nature as men” but then apparently the way to make a cheater not cheat is to use a combination of saying only nice things, listening and making him food. Cheryl is wearing a very funereal black scarf around her neck, which looks like a noose.

Werther calls Penelope to tell her the children are compatible. Mary is there with her, looking like she wants to vomit. Penelope lays it out for her - Archie is the only other redhead child in town, so that makes them perfect.

At the Dark Room, Fangs makes his inability to practice proper birth control Toni’s problem. She says she’s going to do something at the lab, so he’s to bring Midge.

Betty comes to find Kevin in the music room. When she says she saw him and Clay, Kevin’s first act is to be misogynist, snorting with contemptuous dismissal. I hate Kevin so much. This reminds me of American OG feminist tracts about the hideous misogyny and sexism of homosexual men before lesbians turned out in force for AIDS sufferers - they were the worst kinds of men, apparently, and Kevin is one of them! He’s still lying to her, by the way. Because what must’ve happened was Kevin went to the locker room to look at naked boys to soothe his ego being bruised about Betty refusing to be his unacknowledged beard anymore, then ran into Clay there and sucked his dick. WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID KEVIN.

Kevin says that if he had known what he was, he wouldn’t have wasted Betty’s time.

This is scene almost took me out of Riverdale fandom wholesale by the way.

The way they play tender music over this.

The way Betty has to further lower herself to say she “doesn’t understand most of this” when she actually does, perfectly.

The way that KEVIN - FUCKING MISOGYNIST KEVIN, CONDESCENDING LYING PIECE OF SHIT KEVIN - is told by Betty that he DIDN’T WASTE HER TIME “at least not to me.”

I WANT KEVIN TO DIE

I HATE THIS SHOW FOR PRIVILEGING KEVIN THIS WAY.

KEVIN DOES NOT DESERVE IT.

CLAY DESERVES BETTER.

BETTY SHOULD KILL KEVIN.

I am so mad.

Because the net effect of this is to make Kevin’s homosexuality (rather than his being a dishonest, condescending piece of shit MAN) the problem, for which Betty must subsume herself.

The narrative appears to validate Kevin’s sexuality but actually what this does is reinforced homophobia. I hate this. I hate Kevin. I hate Riverdale for doing this.

[Taking a break to calm the fuck down]

Ok I’m back.

So at the diner, Cheryl and Archie are trying to make the best of a bad situation. The way Cheryl is so sad but takes the time to be tender and kind to Archie (who is her beard and being forced to marry her under false pretenses) is - oh no putting me right back into my Hating Kevin feelings! Because Cheryl’s been so nice that Archie is actually kind of excited about the idea of being married to her. See, Kevin, if you’re going to trick some person into being your beard, you could be at minimum NICE TO THEM.

The sad, bruised tenderness of Cheryl in this universe is actually what I think Cheryl is really like underneath her HBIC persona, and she hurts me in the best way to consider.

At the other table, Jeronica are celebrating springing Ethel from jail and injustice. (Hey!! Jughead is being this much of a good friend to Ethel because he’s trying to follow the Bend Towards Justice edict laid down by Tabitha!) This Jeronica friendship is basically functions as in-canon fix-it fanfic. Without the pressure to live up to being ‘good enough’ for Betty Cooper, Jughead feels safe just telling someone what’s happened to his home. And Veronica, without having to struggle against Archie’s pride (which he only exercises against her, and not against he Blossoms) can seek the company she craves in her lonesome huge apartment AND engage in the generosity that is her trademark. In short, Veronica invites Jughead to stay with her.

At the high school, Toni is going to use a very interesting pregnancy test - inject a frog with pee to see if the frog lays eggs. Midge is pregnant! For some reason Toni suggest that Fangs get Midge’s parents for her hand but NOT tell them she’s pregnant. Given how the Blossoms are reacting to Cheryl allegedly having had sex with Archie, this seems ill judged.

Jughead has made a huge breakfast spread for Veronica at the Pembroke! Jughead as Little Orphan Annie and Veronica as Daddy Warbucks! This works for me! Jughead is going to go get Hot Dog from the pound, so Veronica offers to ‘spruce up’ his home. They are both going to skip school. The old married couple vibe of this is just so fun.

At school, Archie has finally told Betty that he and Cheryl have never had sex, but will still get married. Archie, poor lamb, thinks that ‘savig Cheryl’ will give him some purpose in life. Betty finds this very sweet, but tells him he shouldn’t go through with it, because she’s learned from experience that love doesn’t just ‘grow.’ Dupont/Werther’s theory about human love is really weird - you start gaining the capacity for sexual love at 17 (?) and then it peaks at 21 (??) after which there is a precipitous drop off I guess?

Cheryl, because she is feeling a bit better about marrying Archie, wears a black-and-white polka dot scarf instead of black noose one. She says Clifford wants to talk to Archie. She intuitively knows that Betty is about to get in her way, so gives her a chilly greeting.

At the meeting with Clifford, we get a hint of why it is Cheryl was willing to go through with this. She had (wrongly) thought that being married to the one acceptable redhead boy in town meant that she would be a) free from Thornhill b) free from her parents and c) be in a family with someone who is kind and decent. Archie is seeking sex with a beautiful woman and purpose in life. Cheryl is seeking a secure living arrangement with a not-monster and a place to hide from her homosexuality.

This could’ve actually worked until it suddenly wouldn’t have.

But of course, Clifford Blossom makes it clear that none of this can come to be. Neither will be sent to college. They will both live at Thornhill. Archie is to spend his life working for his future father in law, always second best to Julian probably, and never get to go to California like he dreamed about with his dad.

The hard cold reality of marriage - WHERE will you live and HOW will you pay for it- being the major wake up call to the betrothed is so real.

Sigh and now we’re back to Fangs, who tells Toni that it didn’t go well when he tried to ask for Midge’s hand in marriage. Toni, even though this was her idea, reads his inappropriateness as a potential mate for Midge in the cruelest way: “you’re a greaser wannabe-rock star.” She hatches a dingbat plan to make Fangs a rockstar in 4 months (when Midge will show).

Is - Is Riverdale playing coy about abortion with this? What is the fear here, that Midge’s parents will use their rich whiteness to force Midge to get an abortion? But since Midge was scared, not elated, to fall pregnant, and Fangs treated it as an emergency rather than good news, abortion is the answer. Tell her parents, get the abortion, and you can keep ‘loving’ each other.

Is Toni Topaz anti choice????

She mentions Romeo & Juliet which we then cut to the extraordinary “Orient Express” style sprucing up of the train car a la Jughead. Jughead is overwhelmed, but I want them to kiss. KISS HER, Jughead. GIVE ME MORE JERONICA. Jugead looks overwhelmed by his surroundings. They play pretty music, but they need to kiSSSSS.

We cut to Betty being confronted by her mother about the sex book. Betty looks amazing in those wide fabric belts. She had a wide green belt for her insane initial talk about Kevin with Alice, and now she’s in a pink one cinched over a flowery dress. Betty stands up for herself, telling Alice that she’s backwards, that she is going to continue to educate herself about sex and sexuality. Ethel comes down from upstairs to bravely fess up that it’s her book (this is the only extant copy of this book in Riverdale I guess?).

Archie is sadly re-reading the one post card he has received from Fred, about “Finaly making it to California.” The sound track warbles, “Who do you suppose I really love?” as Archie thinks about his dad. The only person Archie really cares about in all universes (sorry Jughead) is Fred Andrews.

Cheryl is looking at a post card of Niagara Falls, looking just as sad. Who is this from?? Some girlfriend of hers who got into her own comphet marriage??

Archie finally tells Cheryl he can’t go through with it. When cheryl says that marrying into the Blossoms is too much to ask, that the Blossom (unspoken Curse) is her burden & cross to bear, Archie doesn’t let her mope. He suggests they elope! He understands exactly what they both want - “You could get away from your family. I could get a job on a ranch. Or be a folk singer.” In short, “be free! out west!”

Cheryl says ok, let’s try! And they hold hands as Toni listens.

Oh no, we are back to motherfucking Kevin and his stupid fucking problems and I am HATING RIVERDALE AGAIN OMG RIVERDALE YOU FOUND A WAY TO BREAK ME AT LAST???

Betty says - BETTY ACTUALLY SAYS - “I think you’re so brave.”

Betty you stupid appeasing bitch no he is not. Oh my fucking god is this a Whyte Womyn delusion what the fuck is happening? NO HE ISN’T. KEVIN IS THE LEAST BRAVE PERSON IN THIS ENTIRE SEASON. “Swell to the last,” is the approval that she gets?

FUCK THAT.

SHOOT THE FUCKER IN THE HEAD BETTY.

ANYWAY.

This is how Betty learns that the pin that she got pinned with is all about Alice wanting to fuck Betty and therefore approving her relationship with a gay boyfriend who is a liar who will never fuck her.

Toni confronts Cheryl in the changing room, atelling her not to run away with Archie, because she’s running away from herself. “Archie is a great person with the best heart, and he’s nothing like my family.” People - especially Jughead - have said the ‘great person’ and ‘best heart’ etc about Archie before in all previous seasons, but this is the first and only season when this has actually been shown to be true. Toni the anti-choice meddler tells Cheryl that running from herself is only a short term solution.

Betty is at home, ready to confront Alice about several things. Ethel has been sent away to the Sisters of Quiet Mercy which Betty knows is not a good solution at all. When confronted by the furious Betty about her incestuous feelings, Alice retaliates by telling her she burned the sex book.

Archie is waiting for Cheryl at the bus depot with tickets to California. Weeping, Cheryl drives up to tell him she can’t go with him after all. (Curse of Thornhill). “Archie some day you’re goingn to make some girl very happy - Unfortunately that girl isn’t me,” is what Cheryl says before redirecting him to try to woo Betty. “Write her one of those sweet poems of yours.”

Unchained Melody (Wooo my love) plays as Cheyl approaches Toni. The music isn’t even a little bit subtle. ‘I hunger for your touch’ as Cheryl tells Toni that she decided not to go with Archie. Toni gives her the Price of Salt (sorry, not salt, Pepper hahaha) as a lesbian manual.

Archie is writing a love poem for Betty. he’s about to rush over to give it to her when the secondd worst possible thing happens:

UNCLE FUCKING FRANK IS HERE.

He came to beat the shit out of Archie for wanting to fuck someone other than his own dad, or something.

I HATE UNCLE FUCKING FRANK.

Omg Riverdale you are really testing my limits here.

At the Pembroke, Jughead sadly tells Veronica that he can’t track Ethel down, because all he’s been told is that she’s “at some home for wayward children.” He’s so sad about it. He’s not OK. Veronica consoles him, telling him that he fought hard for Ethel and saved her.

YAAAAAYYY AND THEN THEY KISS!!!

Jughead continues to have pitch perfect reactions. “Wowiee” is exactly how you should feel after kissing Veronica Lodge. Oh I’m so happy.

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | Real Men (Feldman, 1987)

There’s a joke in this movie I want to tell you about, because many movies of the era and since have had similar jokes, and in many of those movies the jokes played out crudely and cruelly, while here it mostly doesn’t. During a moment respite in the convoluted, action-packed espionage plot, the CIA hotshot Jim Belushi takes our hero John Ritter to meet his parents. Belushi goes into the kitchen with his mother Barbara Barrie go into the kitchen when who but the great Dyanne Thorne appears and tries to make out with Ritter. Belushi and his mom return and Belushi, beaming, introduces Thorne to Ritter as his father. Now, a transgender character being used as a punchline is not ideal, but the joke here ends up being that Belushi and his mother are fully supportive of Thorne’s coming out and they appear to have a healthy, loving family dynamic. Now, the movie’s pronoun game is not that strong (which is not unexpected for a mainstream ‘80s comedy), but the warmth it shows to Thorne’s character has it compare favourably to the bulk of comedies that opt for similar jokes. Now, as a cisgender straight man, I perhaps don’t have the same sensitivies to this material, and perhaps I was a little excited just to see Dyanne Thorne onscreen, but I’m gonna give the movie a few points for this. Now, Thorne does not play a dominatrix type as she’s best known for, but there is a dominatrix in this movie, who is picked up by Belushi in a bar expecting a mousy librarian type, and with whom Belushi falls in love. As you can see, this is a movie of many surprises, not the least of which is that Belushi is pretty funny in it.

When I watched Taking Care of Business, the switcharoo non-classic where escaped convict Belushi takes the place of neurotic white collar lackey Charles Grodin, I reached a few conclusions. One, that Belushi’s own natural presence was not especially appealing. Two, that he lacks the innate forcefulness of his late brother John. And three, that he was best when directly playing off another actor (the few scenes he shares with Grodin, his performances in Thief and Salvador). Real Men wisely addresses all three by having him play an actual character, do a fair amount of deadpanning, and most importantly share every scene with the much softer Ritter. Belushi spends much of the movie trying to build up Ritter’s confidence to ensure the success of a harebrained plan of which Ritter is an integral part, and finds ways to slide in gentle sarcasm and barely masked frustration, while reacting to the increasingly unlikely circumstances in amusingly relaxed ways. The pep talk he gives to Ritter as they prepare to fight a group of rogue agents dressed as clowns is much funnier than the actual confrontation and later pays off in a great moment when Ritter pulls a gun on actual children’s entertainer clown.

If anything, the weakest part of the movie might be Ritter, who is not bad, but plays his comic notes less surely than Belushi does. Ritter is an unassuming, decidely beta family man who gets swept up into the proceedings because of his resemblance of the CIA agent who was supposed to...well, it’ll sound like nonsense if I try to explain it. When we first meet him, we see him given a none-too-reassuring wink by the milkman leaving his house, who apparently has been paying extra visits when his wife’s been home. (Credit to the movie, the payoff to this is pretty unexpected. Again, this is a movie full of surprises.) Even worse, when his kid’s bike is stolen, the guys who took it beat him up. (I suppose Ritter’s character is still more dignified here than the grown men who stole a child’s bike.) I think Ritter is widely considered a likable actor, but I do not have the same history with him, and I think he plays his character a little too softly for the first two thirds of the movie. (I mostly know from the Three’s Company reruns I watched on a cable channel we got free previews of back in high school. He was the guy I was hoping would get off the screen so we could have more Suzanne Somers.) Luckily, like with Belushi, the movie does give him an arc, and after his transformation into cocky tough guy (punching out a clown, staring down rude bar patrons, beating up the jerks who stole his kid’s bike) results in him giving a much more fun performance.

This is another area where the movie is complemented by Taking Care of Business, as it represents a certain fantasy for men cowed by the suburban white collar existences, although this finds ways to poke fun at alpha male stereotypes. (The event depicted in the poster, of Belushi and Ritter being crushed by the title of the movie, does not happen literally in the movie, although one can argue it’s a metaphor for masculine pressures.) In this sense, the flimsiness of the plot (which sounds suspiciously like Belushi is making it up as they go along) works in the movie’s favour, although the straightforward handling of the action scenes (spiced up by the occasional gag, but not as often as I’d hoped) does not. Still, I was expecting this to be a relatively lame, low energy viewing and it surprised me by actually being good in a few ways, including, most shockingly, Belushi’s performance.

[stalpra-and-100-fandoms]

Something I noticed while (re)reading Moriarty the Patriot [Ch. 58 Spoilers]

I guess I'm pretty stupid that I realized this after reading the manga for the third time, but I noticed this in Ch. 58 in regards to the Assam Tea that Mycroft serves and drinks.

We first see this tea when he serves it to the Foreign Minister and said minister remarked that he didn't expect this from him, saying that it didn't fit his image, which makes sense. Then Mycroft replies that an acquaintance recommended it to him and further added/remembered.

(We obviously know that said acquaintance is Miss Hudson.)

Later on, when he sees his presumed-dead little baby brother after three years, rather than holding him or something, he does this: (Mind you, even before Sherlock can finish his sentence.)

He pours some milk into his tea.

And drinks it.

Initially, all I thought was "Wow, Micheal, you really have to be Bri'ish right now of all times?"

I skimmed through till I came to how Sherly and Liam survived.

As I said, I noticed this at the third reading.

Shaking hands.

That's when it dawned on me. If seeing his brother alive has someone like Mycroft get shaky hands, imagine him when he found out that his body wasn't even found in the Thames.

Imagine his denial. His thought process.

"I told you not to die, Sherly."

In all panels other than the one above, Miss Hudson wears bright, refined and colourful clothes. But in that one, she's wearing a plain black dress.

Obviously, this is the day of the funeral or a little afterwards when she's still in mourning.

Surely, you can imagine what state Mycroft was in. Miss Hudson was able to hold herself together because she had been living with Sherlock for a long time and she knew of his unpredictable behaviour. She saw him as an adorable-but-pain-in-the-ass-little-boy. She knew of him staining his room with blood and chemicals and even blowing up the second floor. She was able to take it because, in her eyes, this is not something that's too far fetched for Sherlock. Of course, it still hurt but she knew that if Sherlock intended to do something, he would see it through it till the end.

But not Mycroft. In his eyes, Sherly was simply a misguided little urchin who had too much of a fascination with forensics. He couldn't digest the thought that he could actually die. As someone with siblings myself, I'd be horrified if I learnt that my younger brother died with the Lord of Crime, especially when I had told him not to.

Mycroft would be a mess. By his standards. Outsiders would think that he's particularly stoic considering that his brother was found dead. But Miss Hudson would be able to see through it

In order to help him in any way she can, because how do you help someone who doesn't even talk that much? she gave him this tea to calm his nerves. Maybe she found him with his head hunched over Sherlock's desk in his room, him gripping the old, and slightly in disrepair, violin. (I headcanon that it was originally Mycroft's before he had given it away when he entered the Queen's service. Sherlock had kept it all these years because reasons.)

She might've not been able to understand what he was thinking about, but she knew that he was thinking about it too hard. She gave him this tea to help his nerves and he eventually adopted it as a coping mechanism whenever he was reminded of Sherlock.

Maybe he saw a child enacting Sherlock's lines from one of John's books. Maybe he was passing by a bookstore and the sign said in bold letters READ DETECTIVE HOLMES'S FINAL CASE. Maybe someone mentioned Sherly to him in past tense.

His servants become slightly concerned at the amount of Assam tea leaves he is importing. The milkman was a tad confused when he saw he had to deliver copious amounts of milk to Lord Holmes' residence. (I don't know if milkmen existed back then so just play along, okay?)

He grew to be so dependent on the drink that he had to resort to it when he saw that his brother was indeed alive and in the flesh before him.

It broke me when I realized but I just loved this detail.

[august-bleeds-red]

Be A Good Boy, Brahms - Chapter Two

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four

~

You don’t know how for long you’ve been walking. You don’t even know where you are. The time was 02:47 when your phone died. What time was it when you left the station? You don’t remember. You only had time to grab a handful of things before the crowd started gathering around the body.

 The body you’d left there.

 The rain is starting to come down in earnest now. You’re soaked to the bone and tired to the point of exhaustion, the soles of your shoes feeling ready to peel away at any moment. Part of you wants to simply curl up at the side of the road and sleep, hardly caring if the cold or a passing car takes you once your eyes close. How long would it be until the police found you?

 You’d been as careful as you could on the journey to . . . wherever this was. You’d left your car at home, picked a train almost at random and bought a ticket to the end of the line. The sprawling metropolis of the city faded away to dark countryside, the lights of civilisation becoming more sporadic as you travelled deeper into rural England. You didn’t even recognise the name of the village as it flashed past the window. You pulled the hood of your jacket down further over your face as you left the carriage, but nobody stopped you or even glanced your way. It was nearing midnight – far too late to be paying attention to trainline stragglers. You could have hailed a taxi from the rank outside the station, asked the driver to drop you off as far as the cash in your pocket would allow, but that would be another person to remember your face, so you hitched your rucksack further up your shoulders and headed off into the misty night on foot.

 The distant sound of an approaching engine sets your heart racing and your eyes dart through the drizzly gloom for a place to hide. The road forks not ten metres ahead, a narrower path leading off towards the left. You start to run, rucksack bouncing against your back, shoes slapping against the tarmac. The new path slopes uphill, but you keep running, until the surrounding trees start to thicken, and you feel suitably distanced from anyone who might be passing via the main road. The slim trunks give way to broad pines, casting thick beams of moonlight across the ground ahead of you. Shielded by the overhanging branches, the rain eases from a ceaseless torrent to heavy droplets, splashing down around you. As you were leaving the flat, you had the sense to grab the sleeping-bag you once used to go camping with your dad, but don’t want to stop and set up base just yet. Another mile or so away from the road and you should be good for now. Then, come the light of morning, you can take stock and decide what you’re going to do.

 Maybe you shouldn’t have run. Guilty people always run, right? Maybe if you’d just stayed and explained what happened . . . but no, who would have listened? Who would have believed that an officer so upstanding and respected as your stepfather could be guilty of such a crime as attempted murder? It was what had kept your mother from reporting him for so long. He was clever – never bruising her in places it would easily show – but his rage towards you made him sloppy tonight. But even the bruises you’d seen around your little brother’s neck would not be evidence enough to condemn him, you knew that. The law would never act against one of their own, so you’d had to.

 Which moment had made you a murderer? When you’d crossed the balcony to where he stood, puffing on one of those disgusting cigars like he hadn’t just tried to kill your brother? When your hands had pushed against the broad space of his back, catching him off balance and sending him stumbling over the rail? Or when his flailing body had landed with a sickening crunch on the pavement seventeen stories below?

 Something large begins to loom out of the shadows ahead of you and you slow. It’s a set of huge, wrought-iron gates, supported by two intimidating brick pillars, open wide enough for a car to pass easily through. There’s no name or number, no indication as to what may lie beyond. Curiosity has always been your fatal flaw, so you approach, keeping an ear out for the sound of tires or footsteps. The house that awaits at the end of the long driveway is unlike any you’ve seen in the city or the surrounding boroughs; it’s tall and grand, the liquid light of dawn illuminating what seem to be turrets in the architecture. It’s beautiful, in an American gothic style of build. Certainly not the kind of English manor you’re used to in period dramas. The moment you stop before the front steps, your feet and calves begin screaming in protest, as though sensing the possibility of a place to rest. Even if you could just sit on the porch for a while, at least until the sun rose.

 The moment your butt hits the floor, the weight of the last twenty-four hours’ events settles on you like a heavy blanket. You’re hungry, thirsty, but all you can think of doing right now is getting an hour or two of sleep. You unravel your sleeping bag and crawl inside, resting your shoes atop your folded jacket beside you. Your sodden T-shirt and jeans don’t make for very comfortable sleepwear, but you’re certainly not about to strip to your skivvies on some stranger’s porch, especially if the milkman may be along within the next couple of hours.

 You sleep fitfully, the image of your stepfather’s face floating repeatedly to the surface of your mind like a photograph in water, and you’ll awake scared and sweating, despite the bone-chilling cold. The sun rises milky yellow just beyond the treeline, and you decide it must be late enough for you to risk knocking on the door. With any luck, they might be able to tell you how to reach the nearest village, where you can . . . you don’t know. Gathering your things, you shoulder your pack and approach the heavy wooden door, plucking the dampest patches of your T-shirt from your body.

 You notice the door is open just as you raise your fist to knock. Perhaps they forgot to lock up last night – a huge house like this in the middle of nowhere, probably not much foot traffic to run the risk of burglars. You give a few loud knocks, anyway, but no response comes.

 “Um, hello?” you call, pushing the door open just a little further.

 The inside of the house is as impressive as its exterior, all dark wood and teal blue rugs, and quiet as a graveyard. There is a blanket of stillness everywhere, giving the place an air of abandonment. You walk further into the entrance hall, staring up the grand staircase to where a semi-circular balcony overlooks the lower floor.

 “Hello?”

 Nothing – no movement, no sound; not the grumbling of pipes nor the hum of a heating system. You drop your rucksack on the floor beside a great stone fireplace and take a few tentative steps up the stairs. As you reach the top, you notice a large portrait hanging on the opposite wall of three people – a man, a woman and a small, angelic-looking boy. You wonder if this is the family of the house.

 “Hello?”

 Your third attempt also goes unanswered and, with no cars parked outside and the open door, you’re convinced the place truly is empty, at least for now. Your feet make no sound on the carpet stair-runner as you descend, picking up your pack by one strap and going in search of the kitchen. It’s quite small and surprisingly modern for such a grand mansion and, with only the smallest twinge of guilt, you conceal some packaged foods from the cupboards and fridge in your pack. You pick an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and take a bite, the crunching of your jaw loud in the silent room. You didn’t realise just how hungry you were and tuck a second apple into your coat pocket. Through the window, you can see a rambling garden stretching out across the grounds, the grass and leaves tinted blue in the dawn light.

 Leaving your pack by the front door, you decide to have a look around. A great house like this must have at least twenty rooms, and its unlikely you’ll get another chance to explore anywhere so richly furnished. You briefly wonder how far the behind you the police might be, but try to calm the panic that rises at that particularly thought. You’re no good half-dead on the run, and this might be your last safe space for a while.

 Heading back upstairs, you decide to investigate the nearest bedroom. It looks like it might belong – or at least once belonged – to a child, but there aren’t any toys you’d recognise from a modern child’s nursery. The clockwork figures and wooden mannequins look like objects from the 1950’s, as do the books on the shelves. Some of the toys are scattered over the floor by the bed, in contrast to the almost military neatness of the rest of the room, and one of the frames pictures is hanging askew on the wall. Almost automatically, you reach across and straighten it, and that’s when you see it – on the rug, a small, dark red stain, about the size of a side plate. A ripple of unease passes through you, though you know it could be something as innocuous as cranberry juice or ink.  

 As you’re about to exit the room, you notice something else – one of the doors on the opposite side of the landing has a large hole through it. The edges are rough, as though someone had forced their fist through in an attempt to reach whoever was on the other side. You wonder if there was some kind of a burglary, and you’re ten steps away from discovering the horribly mangled bodies of the man, woman and boy you saw in the portrait. Perhaps the assailant is still here, lurking behind one of these doors. Out of the corner of your eye, you see something a little unusual – on a large wooden trunk at the foot of the child’s bed is a long metal pipe with a curved end, kind of like the head of a harpoon. Picking this up, you venture out into the hall and move, as quietly as you can, towards the broken door. The room beyond is trashed – clothes scattered everywhere, and an old-fashioned telephone lying broken on the floor. The wardrobe door is standing open, and as you move closer, you see a strange panel standing open at the back. Glancing over your shoulder to make sure the room is still deserted, you push open the panel to reveal a passageway, just wide enough for a grown man to move through, built into the inside frame of the house. Part of you knows it would be an incredibly bad idea, but the other part of you that’s holding the makeshift weapon, allows your feet to lead you inside the secret passage.

 The tunnel is dark and dusty, dimly illuminated by the light of the rooms outside and the occasional electric light bracketed to the brick interior. A couple of times, you come across large gaps in the walls, where the wooden slats have been shattered by a great force. By peeping through the slats, you can see exactly whereabouts in the house you are. After ten or so minutes of sneaking, you spy a bright shaft of electric light coming from beneath a door ahead of you. Like Alice venturing further down the rabbit hole, you reach out and push against the wood.

[ogaforogaalskling]

hello love❤️ can i request a oneshot with the swedes being very over protective of a short fragile reader? like they see her first time and decide she's under their protection

Hei, älskling!! Thank you for your request! 🤍 It’s been years since I last wrote, so I hope you enjoy it! 🤍 (PS I’m sorry for the delay, my brain is a total asshat and I didn't want to give you something that wasn't up to standard!)

Lost.

That was the word that echoes through (y/n)'s head as she walked through the unfamiliar streets of Dallas.

Earlier that day, she had arrived and gotten off her bus, filled with nervousness and excitement with the thought of what awaited her here, but as the sun set, so did the increasing feeling of panic and confusion. This is not what she had planned.

She kicked herself for forgetting to write down the directions from the bus stop to the hotel, or for at least checking where it was beforehand. Pressing onwards, (y/n) kept walking until her legs begged for rest.

It had gotten dark quickly, and she hadn’t realised it until she stopped. The dull ache of her legs suddenly became too much, and she gave in to the desire to just set herself down on the curb, suitcase held closely to her side. (Y/n) stretched her legs out in front of her, letting out a soft groan from the slight relief of the tension built up from all the walking.

For the first time, she looked around, properly taking in her surroundings. She had been in such a anxious state, she didn’t manage to take in anything. Her little legs had been carrying her in a hurry with no sense of direction, and she was probably more lost now than what she had been.

(Y/n) felt a sense of hopelessness kick in, her chest dropping. She pulled her legs back to her body and pressed her forehead onto her knees. She felt like a lost child, with no hope of a guardian coming to find her. She choked out a quiet sob, and then finally let the tears fall.

A moment of silence passed, and then there was a clatter. The sound didn’t register properly, but she looked up slowly and lowered her arms to hold onto her suitcase.

A lone figure in white was walking towards her from the same direction she had moments earlier. As he got closer, she took note of his clothes - he was dressed as a milkman, by the looks of it, some red peculiarly splattered over his left collar, and he was carrying a brown paper bag in one arm.

She gazed up at him as he passed, her cheeks still wet from crying. He took notice of her, but didn’t hesitate to continue walking past her. She opened her mouth, but anxiety hitting her like a tidal wave, and instead of saying anything, just broke down into tears again, her throat choking up, only allowing a soft wail to come up.

The boy stopped, almost obviously reluctantly, and turned to look at her. His face kept the same straight expression he wore as he passed, but seemed to soften for a moment. He slowly walked back to (y/n), then knelt down next to her on the pavement, and then he spoke.

‘En förlorad kattunge,’ he whispered. ‘Vad ska vi göra med dig?’

He put down the paper bag and lifted a hand, then carefully reached out and pet the top of (y/n)’s head and softly stroked her hair.

‘Låt mig ta dig hem.’

(Y/n) stifled her tears. She didn’t understand, but she didn’t want to stay on the streets, lost and alone. The boy stood up, picking up his paper bag, then leaned over for her suitcase. As he stood up straight, he cocked his head in the direction he was heading, a signal to follow. (Y/n) forced herself up, willing her legs to stay as stable as they were before.

He reached out and took her hand into his and started walking, half-dragging her behind him, almost no concern for the state she was in. (Y/n) was much smaller than him in comparison to his height, and it made her cheeks briefly warm up. She managed to keep up with his long strides, and it wasn’t long before they reached wherever he was leading her.

It was a plain looking house, and on the road outside, there was a parked milk van. Was he really a milkman? (Y/n) barely had the time to ponder on the thought as she was ushered inside by the boy. Faint meows filled the inside of the house, and there was a wonderful smell wafting through the air. The click of the door closing pulled (y/n) out of her thoughts and back to him. He set her suitcase down next to the door and walked past her.

There was no need for him to motion for her to follow. As she followed, she started to notice the cats, and there were many of them. The boy had already scooped one up into his arms and was petting it. He looked contently at the cat for a bit before setting him back down, and then shifted his attention back to her.

At that moment, another man entered the room. He was tall, much taller than the boy who brought you here. He had silver hair, and was wearing some sort of one piece pajama suit. It took a moment to register, but as (y/n) looked at the boy again, she noticed that he had silver hair too. Were they brothers?

The two exchanged stares, and a look of confusion mixed with a slight annoyance fell onto the taller one’s face, but they said nothing to one another. He glanced at (y/n) and then turned, looking resigned.

(Y/n) stood in front of the two, bewildered, but strangely enough, her anxiousness had left her at the door. They were both looking at her, as if she was something new, as if they had never seen a girl before. They weren’t even too bothered to look away when the third man entered the room, wearing nothing but a plain tee, his underwear, and an apron that looked like it belonged to a grandmother. He fit in just inbetween the height difference of the other two. Silver hair, too.

Brothers. It clicked.

And then, (y/n) suddenly felt self aware of herself, and felt as if she had forgotten her manners.

‘My name is (y/n),’ the words fumbled out of her mouth a bit, but they came out clear enough.

‘Otto,’ the tallest one said.

‘Axel,’ the middle one said.

‘Oscar,’ Otto filled in for the boy, whose gaze still hadn’t left you. ‘En förlorad kattunge?’

(Y/n) wasn’t sure if the last bit was meant for her, but Oscar glanced sideways at Otto, as if some sort of an acknowledgement, a confirmation.

‘Yes,’ Otto confirmed verbally. Their accents were thick, and she couldn’t quite understand or recognize the language they used, but guessed them to be Swedish. ‘Make yourself at home,’ he continued, ‘We will look after you, we will make sure you are safe.’

Axel remained silent, but gave her a small smile before returning to the kitchen. Otto nodded. Oscar’s stare softened and a smile made a way to his lips. Otto followed Axel’s lead and went to busy himself with whatever he was busy with before you two had arrived.

As he left, (Y/n)’s legs finally decided to give way to weariness, but Oscar was swift to catch her. He picked her up, cradling her like he did with the cat earlier. He moved over to the couch and sat down, (y/n) in his lap and arms.

Her body felt heavy, but it was a comfort to be held. She rested her head on his shoulder and his hand crept up and started stroking her soft hair, lulling her into some much needed sleep.

‘Min förlorade kattunge,’ he whispered to her, ‘du är säker här nu. Ingen kommer att skada dig...’

[snippychicke]

Aftermath--Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Rating: Everyone

Warnings: Mentions of violence?

Fandom: Umbrella Academy; The Swedes specifically 

Note: slight word difference than the AO3version because I did some minor editing and I’m too lazy to update both. Nothing major, this may just flow better. 

First | Previous

Otto didn't have anywhere to go anywhere, but even if he did, Otto questioned if he would. Not unless he had his family back.

He missed his brothers and thought of them regularly. Oscar would be giving him such a hard time over everything, from struggling to adapt to having just one eye to how fond he was of his new housemate. There were times first thing when he woke to the subtle smells of breakfast that his hazy mind thought Axel was downstairs cooking. Then Lorelei would chasten one of the cats, and reality would crash down on him.

But for the first time since his childhood, he felt protective of someone outside his family. He wasn't used to it, mostly since she was far more outgoing than his brothers. 

Even before The Commission, he had gone through life not caring much about anyone outside his family. All that mattered was family; the rest of the world was not his problem.

Lorelei seemed to think the exact opposite. People drifted to her house for medical advice or just to gossip. Raymond was far from the only person who dropped by just for a cup of coffee on her days off to simply catch up. Despite his uninterest in the gossip, he found himself lingering nearby out of both habit and paranoia. 

Such as the Friday night when the quiet evening was interrupted by pounding on the front door again. Soon the living room was full with three teenage boys and two girls; the girls were huddled together on the couch, their makeup running lightly from tears while two of the boys were barely containing their pent-up energy as they paced the living room. The third was sitting backward in the straight-back hardwood chair as Lorelei carefully stitched up the knife wound to his back. (Too shallow to do any damage, Otto mentally scoffed at whoever attacked him. The wound still healing on his leg from Oscar was deeper.)

"We need to go find those punks," one of the two boys finally broke the tense silence. "I'm sick and tired of them damn white boys thinking they can do whatever they please. No offense," he tacked on as Otto shifted from his place leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, feeling on guard with this many people in <strike>their</strike> the house. Especially when the younger men seemed itching for a fight.

Otto just stared at the young boy. The teen quickly looked away, scratching his head as he turned away and drifted back towards his friends. No. There was no way the child would have the strength or guts to act out revenge. His threats were as empty as the food dish once Poyo finished. 

"The hell you are," Lorelei apparently agreed as she finished the knot and snipped the string free. "You are all going to go home and stay there. And if you see that gang of punks again, you're going to turn the other way and leave."

"You want us to run away?!" The second boy protested, his eye swelling shut from the black eye since he kept taking the frozen bag of peas away from his face. "They'll really have no respect for us if we do that!"

"If you three get in a fight," she countered as she dabbed away the blood with plenty of hydrogen peroxide, not even bothering to look up, "no matter who started it, and no matter who ended it, you three will be painted as the villains. And it won't help the Movement any either," she continued as the boy opened his mouth to protest, glancing up with a strong look. "Sometimes, you have to lose a battle to win a war."  

The teen ground his teeth but kept silent as Lorelei finished her bandage. "Now, all of you, go home. Ask your parents for some aspirin, and then get some sleep. Got it?"

 Otto thought for a short moment  that things would settle back to normalcy for a short moment after the teens shuffled out the door until Lorelei’s fist slammed on the doorframe as soon as it was closed. "I am going to find those damn brats and give them a piece of my mind!" Lorelei seethed as she glared at the old oak. "Stabbing a boy with his back turned! What kind of yellow belly snake does that?"

The mood whiplash caught Otto by surprise. He tilted his head slightly as he watched her storm back to her workspace and angrily picking up the dirtied rags and instruments. "I'd show those brats. I want to say I'd drag them home by their ears and tell their mothers what they did, but knowing this damned town, they'd probably see nothing wrong with it!"

Otto was rather intrigued by the flare of rage; it was his first time seeing Lorelei angry. It was rather cute seeing the snarl on her lips as she continued to mutter to herself, almost as if she had forgotten he was there. 

After a moment, he crossed the room and took the bundle of bloodied rags from her silently. The faint blush on her face as she quietly thanked him proved he had guessed right. She had forgotten he had been watching. 

"...why do people hate each other like that?" She whispered as they worked together to handwash the rags in the kitchen sink a few minutes later. "I never understood why skin color made any difference. Nana Chestnut and her family were so much better than my real kin growing up. But people just hate on them without ever even trying to figure out what kind of person they are."

Otto was silent, unsure if there was a right answer, or even if Lorelei was looking for one. And to be honest, he didn't understand it either. He had seen it through the years but had ignored it as another part of the civilian life he would never understand. A part he had no interest in understanding. "I could hunt them down?" He offered quietly, though he highly doubted that's what she really wanted. 

Sure enough, the dubious expression on her face confirmed his thoughts. All that anger, but she was far too soft to act against another. Or even have someone else do it for her. 

He tried not to think of when he was willing to do something for someone else when there was no benefit for him. Because if Lorelei had said yes, his target wouldn't see the next sunrise.

The frown smoothed away into a slight smile as she shook her head. With her hands covered in red-stained suds, she rested her head against his arm. "...no. But thank you for listening to me crab." 

He was silent, but enjoyed the warmth that soaked through his shirt from the contact. Enjoyed the warmth that bloomed in his chest as she smiled up at him. 

                                                        --+--

"I have so many concerns," Raymond commented the next time he came over and saw not only the cats happily making themselves at home, but Oscar who was once more practicing his aim on the garage, though this time with small hatchets which she wasn't sure where he had found. 

"Hey, you were always worried about me living by myself," Lorelei replied as she busied herself with pouring some tea, hoping to drag Raymond away from the kitchen window where he watched Otto. (Partially so she wouldn't be caught ogling the man, stripped to just a simple cotton shirt despite the early December afternoon, sweat sticking to his muscles….) 

Raymond opened his mouth, closed it, sighed, and ruffled his short hair as he turned and joined her at the kitchen table. "I was thinking more along the lines of a guard dog, Lei. Or maybe an actual husband. Not a dozen cats and a would-be murderer."

"I think I prefer Otto." She grinned at his dark look. "Look, I get you started on the wrong foot…"

"Attempted murder is hardly the wrong foot!"

"But he's a decent guy, I'm telling you," she continued as if she didn't hear him. "He cleans and does a better job than me. How many men you know are willing to split housework?"

"That's what you're focusing on?" He spluttered while gesturing towards the back yard. "Not him throwing hatchets at your garage? Or the fact he barely speaks English? Are you just going to support him?" 

"Just because he's quiet doesn't mean he can't speak our language," she retorted, her eyes narrowing. "And that garage is one good storm away from being a pile of tinder anyways, and it's working on the hand-eye coordination after losing half his vision!" 

Raymond gritted his teeth, forcing himself to take a breath. Getting in a shouting match was not good for either of them. "Look. I just worry about you. Can you blame me for not trusting him? After what he did to Allie and me?" 

The reminder struck her hard. Otto was someone entirely different for her than who Raymond saw. She couldn't exactly blame him for his feelings of mistrust and suspicion. Yet, at the same time, it was getting harder and harder for her to see Otto as the violent man Raymond saw. Not when she's seen him tugging yarn around for the cats to play with. Or relaxing on the couch with a cat curled on his chest and another on his stomach. Or splitting the clean up after their meal. 

Or seen him through the cracked door of his room, holding that milkman hat and looking so absolutely heartbroken. Hearing him waking up from a dead sleep with a shout of fear and grief. 

"There's more to him than that," she finally said quietly, looking away. 

"But it's still a part of him. Do you even know anything about his past? Why did he and his brother attack us? Where is he even from? Why is he staying with you?" 

She stayed silent, eyes focused on her glass of tea. She didn't. She pointedly didn't ask and tried not to wonder. 

Raymond sighed as he stood, the chair scratching against the hardwood floor. "I'll be the first to admit that there was a lot to Allie I didn't know. A lot of questions I should've asked but didn't. I wanted to be happy, so I turned a blind eye. And it cost me a lot more than I expected. Are you willing to pay that same price?" 

Silence hung in the air once more as she refused to lift her gaze from the table. Raymond sighed again. "Look, I know you're a grown woman, and you want to live your own life, but just… think about it, okay?"

She nodded her head, still unable to look up even as he left, the door sticking as it shut behind him, making the whole house rattle as he forced it close. Only then did she move, standing and wrapping her arms around her. For some reason, her feet lead her to the back door, opening it with a hard pull and stepping out into the chilly air. The steady thunk of a blade against wood was oddly soothing as she settled on the cement step, Raymond's words swirling in her mind. 

Who was Otto? Was that even his actual name? What was he doing in Dallas? What was he doing with her? Had she been so lonely that she had just accepted it? 

Where did he get the cats from? 

She was broken from her thoughts as Otto's well-worn leather boots appeared in her vision. She looked up, meeting his silent but understanding gaze. She rubbed her eyes, knowing it looked like she was on the verge of crying. "Sorry, did I break your concentration?" 

He glanced at the improvised target before back to her and offered a hand. She frowned slightly but accepted it, unsurprised about how easily he pulled her to her feet, and more surprised that he led her to where he had the six hatchets laying on an old stump. Wordlessly, he positioned her in the marks in the dead grass made by his boots and put one of the hatchets in her hand. 

"What? You're kidding me, right?" She gave a slight disbelieving laugh as he stepped back. "I-I'm not; I can't…"

"Try," he said as she trailed off weakly. She looked down at the tool in her hand; the wood handle still warm from his grasp, the blade polished and sharpened to a fine point (just like every knife in the house now). She looked back at him, a little lost, but he just tilted his head toward the garage. 

"This is such a bad idea," she muttered before mimicking a baseball player's stance and giving her best. The hatchet made it maybe halfway before falling onto the grass.

"See, I told you…" she trailed off as he picked up the next one and stepped towards her. He placed it in her hand before silently adjusting her stance. She was pretty sure her face was red as he guided her hips and legs before standing behind her and covering her hands with his. 

"Aim like this," he spoke softly, positioning her arm. "Feel how the weapon balances in your hand. Focus it on finding its mark. Inhale," he commanded as he pulled her arm back, and she couldn't help but obey before he gently mimicked a pitch. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she was sure her face was red. She had never heard him talk so much and hadn't quite realized how deep or smooth his voice was until he was all but murmuring in her ear. "And exhale. Now try." 

She missed his warmth as soon as he stepped away and automatically looked back at him. He simply gestured towards the garage wall. Lorelei turned around, trying to focus and remember his words and less of his warmth and gentleness. 

This time, the blade stuck in the ground less than a foot from the garage's foundation. Seeing the metal buried in the grass sent a thrill of pride as she grinned.

And then Otto gave her another hatchet. “Again.”

                                                         ---+---

The sun had set below the horizon by the time Otto allowed her to quit. Her arms were sore, and her fingers stiff as she fell back on the cement step, rolling her shoulders tenderly as he settled beside her. 

But a single hatchet was buried in the faded white paint wood panel. She hadn't felt that much pride in a long time as when she finally made her mark. Or when Otto gave her a proud smile and clapped her on the shoulder.

"Better?" 

"Sorta," she admitted truthfully, though now her body was at rest, her mind started its questions once more. "Can I...Can I ask you a question?"

She hesitantly met his good eye. No matter what they were doing, she inevitably ended up on his good side. Maybe she did it unconsciously, or maybe he planned it that way. Perhaps he didn't trust her enough to leave her in his blind spot. 

There was doubt in his expression, but he shrugged slightly anyways. "Were you...were you really trying to kill Ray and Allie?"

His look quickly darkened, the warmth in his expression disappearing as he looked away from her. "...Yes." 

Even though she knew the answer, it still felt like a sucker-punch to her gut. "Why?"

"It was our job," he answered simply. 

Job? "...Do you still plan on killing them?" She whispered after. A long moment. "Are you...are you just here to try again?" Was she just a pawn? Was she being played like a fiddle after all? 

"No." He answered, his hand finding hers as it clutched at her knee, carefully encouraging her fingers open so he could thread his fingers with hers. "I...have no one." He admitted, and this time he was the one unable to meet her gaze but kept his eye focused on their joined hands. "My brothers are gone. But if you want me to leave, I will."

There were tears in her eyes when he did finally look up at her, the hurt she had seen shadows of once more open and bared for her to see. 

"Please don't. Don't leave me." She said, echoing the expression written so plainly on his face. "I don't have much. This place is a wreck. And I know we barely know each other, but…"

"I'll stay." 

                                                         ---+---

Icy rain tapped on the window, the aged wood of the house occasional creaking from the chill, lulling him to a semi-sleep. Otherwise, the house was silent, with only the occasional whisper of sound as the cats padded in or out of his room. Not the tiny room on the first floor, but one of the ones upstairs. 

It had taken a good couple of days for both of them to sort through the mess of the two spare bedrooms on the second floor, turning one into a proper bedroom and the other an organized storeroom. (Lorelei kept apologizing because of the mess, but he was more distracted by seeing her hair covered by a colorful kerchief, the stray strands sticking to her flushed face, that he barely heard her.) 

He slept better on the slightly larger bed. It felt less like a temporary room and something more permanent, though habits were hard to kick. He had his bag still packed with necessities and sitting underneath his bed. But he allowed himself to set the few pictures he had usually carefully packed away to sit on the nightstand in frames Lorelei had found for him. 

(No questions were asked when she saw the pictures of him and his brothers, though he could see the curiosity on her face. Someday he wanted to be able to talk to her about them. Share his memories of his family. But the pain was still too fresh, so he was thankful she respected his silence.) 

A sharp crack of thunder broke the silence, and the split-second flash of light had given him enough warning not to jump. 

It hadn't prepared him for the ear-splitting scream of terror. He had grabbed the gun beneath his pillow in one quick motion and was running across the hall, breaking the door down to Lorelei's room, eye searching the darkness for an intruder. 

Instead, it was just her hunched in her bed, hands over her head as she flinched away from him; her hazel eyes widened with fear. 

Of him. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she gasped as she shook. "I didn't--I didn't…"

He lowered his gun quickly, guilt turning his stomach. "Lorelei," he started, "I--"

"Otto?" She interrupted, relaxing somewhat, the wild look leaving her eyes. "I-I thought…" another flash of light and a crack of thunder, and he watched her turn as stiff and panicked as deer in headlights before shaking herself out of it a moment later with a whimper. '"I'm sorry," she whispered as she turned back to him, "I didn't mean to wake you up." 

Otto hesitated before carefully entering, watching her for any signs of fear. Instead, she shifted in her bed to make room for him. The mattress sunk as he settled next to her, giving her room yet close enough to feel her warmth radiating into the cold room.  

She wasn't as timid as usual, scooting close enough to press against his side. He could feel her tremble as thunder cracked once more. "I am a grown-ass adult scared of thunder," she spat abysmally. "How pathetic is that?"

He was at a loss for what to do. Fear was not something familiar to him; not personally, and he couldn't recall the last time he saw his brothers scared.

How did someone go about comforting another? If it was his brothers, he would have gone after whatever had dared to frighten them. 

Without thinking, he offered the automatic rifle he had brought. She stared at the gun before looking up at him with a quizzical expression. "...I don't think shooting anything is going to help."

"Wouldn't hurt," he countered and earned a slight smile and faint chuckle before she sank into his side. He allowed the gun to rest on the bed and wrapped his arm around her back, holding her to him. They were both quiet as the clock ticked on. Gradually a few of the cats strayed in, looking rather inquisitive. Everytime the thunder cracked and she flinched, his hold would tighten, his thumb rubbing circles on her arm.

"Who were you scared of?" He finally asked the question brewing in his mind. Who had she seen standing in the doorway that terrified her? Who had ingrained in her the need to apologize for screaming out in fear? 

Lorelei was silent, though a glance assured him that she understood what he meant. Her expression was drawn as she soothed Nala's thick orange coat as the kitten settled on her lap. "My dad," she finally answered. "He hated it whenever I woke him up. He's been dead for years now, and I still…." 

"Good." He said after she trailed off. 

"Good?"

He shrugged, "You'd get upset."

She stared at him before realization set in. To his astonishment, she snorted and chuckled. "Is it horrid of me if I said I'd choose you over him?" 

Otto felt something twist in his chest at the admission. Family to him was everything. It was nothing more than a hypothetical statement, but… for her to put him before her father meant a lot to him. 

She meant a lot to him. He thought back to the terror on her face, the sharp pain in his gut when he thought she was scared of him. He had thought most of that guilt and dread was behind him. Granted, most of the ones he had killed were often less than innocent, but…. "Don't...ever be afraid of me." He said softly as he brushed a stray strand away from her face, carefully tucking it behind her ear. 

Her freckled cheeks turned pink as she smiled. "I don't think I could. I know you wouldn't hurt me." 

He had lost count of how many people he had killed. There was no way to total the number of bystanders that ended up as casualties because of him. A trail of blood followed him and his brothers wherever they went.

And yet….

His fingers traced the curve of her face, his gaze drawn to her lips as they shifted from a smile to being slightly parted.  His nose brushed hers as he leaned down, his eye closing before…

A cold water droplet fell right on his nose.

Both of them jumped back, the moment broken. Lorelei cursed another drop of water fell on her forehead before jumping to her feet and dashing off for a bucket, curses following her down the stairs. Otto glared up at the ceiling where the roof was leaking. 

If that wasn't Oscar haunting him, he would eat his boot.

                                                        --+--

Back in the hospital, John Doe sneezed.

Next

[papermoonloveslucy]

PHIL ARNOLD

September 15, 1909

Philip Arnold was a prolific character actor born on September 15, 1909 in Hackensack, New Jersey. He appeared in approximately 200 films and television shows between 1938 and 1968 - in bit parts most of the time. 

Perhaps most famously, Arnold was a regular in the “Three Stooges” movies doing six films with them between 1947 and 1963. Lucille Ball also worked with the Stooges in a 1934 film, but later said “the only thing I learned from them is when to duck!”  

His third TV appearance was on “I Love Lucy,” but his first was a November 1951 episode of the crime series “Boston Blackie” followed by an appearance as the milkman on a 1952 episode of “Life With Elizabeth” in 1952. 

LUCY: “It looks like my hunk has shrunk!” 

Phil Arnold was first seen on “Lucy” as fur salon owner Mr. Henderson at the end of “Lucy Changes Her Mind” (ILL S2;E21). At first sight, Lucy thinks that he is her long-lost beau, Tom Henderson, but he turns out to be Tom’s brother, Harry. When Lucy discovers her error, she gives out her famous spider face: “Ewww!” 

MAN: “Oh, girls! I’m down in 914. If Eddie won’t let you in, I will!” 

In “Lucy is a Matchmaker” (ILL S2;E27), Arnold plays a man in a hotel corridor who encounters Lucy and Ethel banging on Eddie Grant’s door. The passing man pauses just long enough to invite them to HIS room, intimating that he thinks Lucy and Ethel might be ‘working girls’ or (at the very least) dangling the idea of a menage au trois!  This was quite a risque gag in a show that already featured marital infidelity as its core plot. 

Both “Lucy” episodes were directed by William Asher, who no doubt also had something to do with Arnold being cast in another series he directed, “Make Room for Daddy” (aka “The Danny Thomas Show”). He made four appearances on the series (all as different characters) from 1953 to 1964 - from the first season to the last. Asher cast Arnold again on a 1965 episode of “Bewitched”. In 1967, Arnold appeared as Smokey Bear on an episode of “The New Danny Thomas Show” which also featured his “Three Stooges” colleague Joe Besser. 

In November 1959, Arnold was once again employed by Desilu for an episode of “The Ann Sothern Show” with Executive Producer Desi Arnaz. A month earlier, Lucille Ball played Lucy Ricardo on the series’ season two premiere.  

In 1962, he did an episode of “Pete and Gladys”, a sequel to Desilu’s popular sitcom “December Bride”.  It was written by “I Love Lucy” alumni Schiller and Weiskopf and directed  by “Lucy’s” James V. Kern. Frequent “Lucy” background player Alberto Morin was also in the cast. 

Also that year, Arnold did the first of his two appearances on “The Dick Van Dyke Show”, also filmed on the Desilu lot. The second episode aired in 1963, the same year that...

...Arnold was seen as a Deputy Sheriff in “The Real McCoys” with Richard Crenna, Charles Lane, and J. Pat O’Malley. The series was filmed at Desilu Studios and moved from ABC to CBS for its final season. 

In 1965, he did a guest appearance on the short-lived series “My Living Doll” starring Julie Newmar and filmed at Desilu Studios. 

The last time Phil Arnold and Lucille Ball appeared on the same program (but not in the same scene) was the 1966 Bob Hope special “15 of My Leading Ladies" or "Richard Burton Eat Your Heart Out".  Arnold plays a newsstand owner in a scene with Swedish film star Signe Hasso. 

Ball turns up later as herself in a subsequent sketch about being cast in Hope’s re-make of Gone With The Wind. 

Gomer Pyle (Jim Nabors) made a cameo appearances on “The Lucy Show” (TLS S5;E9) in which Lucy Carmichael is drafted! A year later, Arnold once again played a news agent, back on the Desilu lot for the first of his three appearances on “Gomer Pyle USMC.”   

Nabors also played Gomer Pyle on the only episode of “The Andy Griffith Show” featuring Phil Arnold in 1963. The show was filmed on the Desilu backlot. 

Phil Arnold died in May 1968 of a heart attack, age 58. His final two films, The Shakiest Gun in the West starring Don Knotts and Skidoo starring Jackie Gleason, were both released posthumously. 

[dnscrvy]

❝ You've fallen down the rabbit hole and have been chained to the other side. ❞ JAKE GYLLENHAAL? No, that’s actually DENNIS CREEVEY. Only FORTY ONE years old, this GRYFFINDOR alumni works as a HISTORY OF MAGIC PROFESSOR and is sided with THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX. HE identifies as CIS MALE and is a MUGGLEBORN who is known to be ECCENTRIC, VOLUBLE, and IMPULSIVE but also WELL READ, WARM, and SINCERE. { ellie, 18, est, she/her }

hey howdy hey there, how’s it going? i’m ellie and while i’m a true slytherin at heart, i’m super duper excited to be playing my favorite gryffindor, dennis creevey. if you click right HERE you will be able to find his statistics and if you read below there’s a sort of brief backstory. if you wanna plot slide into those ims for me, otherwise i’ll be getting into starters here in a little bit.

dennis was born and raised in the typical irish household, his father was a milkman and his mother stayed at home and took up odd jobs whenever it was needed. him and his older brother watched cartoons on the tv and when they were forced to do anything else, they would play wizards and kings and knights. they would come up with extravagant stories and throw themselves into them, sometimes wishing that was their life. when they were old enough they went to school, and they brought their friends into it until the day when their stories became reality. colin was the first to find out he was a wizard, he had gotten a letter of acceptance to hogwarts on his 11th birthday and he was thriled. their family had to adjust and it took a long time to get to diagon alley to get the things on the list. not to say dennis was jealous, but he had hoped to be able to experience what his brother did.

then came dennis’ 11th birthday and just as his older brother had assured him, he would go to this magical school too. he was excited to live what he could only imagine in his dreams. but of course, things shift sort of quickly. the first year he was in hogwarts he had experienced the world at lightning speed. his first experience was falling into the lake, which he’d claim was the coolest thing to ever happen to him. and then the excitement of the triwizard tournament was in full force until it all went into turmoil. the boy who lived was attacked, people died, and voldemort was defeated. he started to realize that there was a lot more to the wizarding world than butterbeer and casting spells and he realized that being a muggleborn was something that was a fault in this world and that he was in more danger than he had been in when it was all just pretend. his second year he had been worried about coming back after the year before and the only reason he had was that he trusted his brother. of course, this year had been difficult with dolores umbridge and everything else, so a group of students called dumbledore’s army came together and dennis joined it. it had helped him feel more comfortable with the school and all around they were able to make their lives better that year. during his third year, nothing much happened. words of attacks on muggleborns and sympathizers circulated around but he didn’t experience much other than a normal school year himself. it wasn’t until the next year when he would realize that the conflicts were gonna hit closer to home when his brother was found dead during the winter holidays trying to get some last minute gifts. dennis received word within a few hours and suddenly everything was different. him and his family buried colin a few days later and at the end of the break he returned to hogwarts devastated and grieving, what else could he do? well, that’s when dennis started writing. it started as a coping mechanism for everything he was feeling and started turning into his experience of the past four years and the future he would experience with his blood status. he didn’t even realize that it’d one day be published.

after completing his education at hogwarts, dennis got a job at the daily prophet. he still doesn’t know how, but it didn’t matter. he’d move to london to start his career and he never went anywhere without a photo of his brother.

about four years into his work, he had met a muggle and the two shared the night. he tried calling her back, but he never got and contact until nine months later when he was left with two children to care for and not enough money to do it with. he had to leave the paper and got an interview with the company his father had been working for in their london branch as a smaller manager. he had lost a lot of contact with the wizarding world and he hated his work, but loved his family so he trucked on. eventually he published his first novel about his years at hogwarts.

somewhat luckily, that novel got him a letter from the then headmaster of hogwarts and somehow landed him a gig as a proffesor about the time his children got their acceptance letters and he had no idea what to do. thankfully, nobody could do worse than the ghost of cuthbert binns and he loved learning about the history of the world he’d been introduced to all those years ago.

seven years into his teaching career, his childhood idol and someone who he now respected was murdered along with two more wizards who he’d come to know. it was devastating and he had no other choice but to tell his children about the dangers they’re going to have to look out for. he started to fear for his family as memories of his experiences started flooding back and suspicions about his coworkers he didn’t quite know started to arise. it wasn’t until he got word that the order of the phoenix had risen again that his suspicions were warranted and he didn’t hesitate to join.

[sibillascribbles08]

For the writer meme thing: 3, 17, 30, 39, 46

3. Computer or pen and paper?

Computer for my typically, I just work a lot faster that way, but at times it helps my writer’s block to jot down the last few lines on paper and take a notebook to a café or something and type it up later on.

17.  Whatwriting habits or rituals do you have?

A surprising lack of them. I typically have to have music playing though, sometimes mood music or other times just... filler. Lately I’ve started doing timed writings or writing sprints and those help a lot. Hopefully one day I can start a habit of doing a 15 min sprint a day and see how much I can get done.

30.  Favouriteidea you haven’t started on yet

hhhghsldf hard to say but I think Selling a Third Wheel is my fav. Sadly it’s a double edged sword. It’s my fav cause of the conflict but the conflict makes it REALLY HECKING TRICKY TO PLOT OUT so it’s kinda sitting on the sides until I can find a way to organize all of it. Like you have three sets of people with different interests that conflict and it makes it so hecking tasty but it’s so tricky to lay out.

Not to mention I just........ love the characters huff

39.  Weirdestcharacter concept you’ve ever had

Fam, the sky is the limit in my case, I will make an oc out of anything slap a prompt in my inbox I”LL DO IT

But honestly? Story time. The short version if you want the long version ask, but once upon a time thanks to my brother we had this in joke of Postmen being this terrifying hivemind of people who like to cook. If you like to cook then you are a postman. All postmen like to cook.

Anyway idk if I’ll ever write the story (which is humorously named POST-APOCALYPSE) but it’s going to hilariously star a mailman (not the same as a postman) and a milkman or something? Or maybe I can make a game out of it

46.  Doyou reread your own stories?

allskdflsd yeah a lot, sometimes it’s to remember shit I wrote but other times I get these ??? weird lulls in my depression where I just read one of my fics or some shit for like two goddamn hours, dunno

Maybe it’s cause no one else is REALLY going to write the content I want to see

[statonelisabet]

The Fool of Saltwater Springs, Part 1.

The third son of a lawyer in the town of Boston, Jack Wilson was a man of whom much was expected, though the only truly spectacular thing about Jack was how creative he could be about disappointing those expectations. Had he been the first born of his brothers, he may have had a chance in life, so it’s a wonder he didn’t choose that position. The only logical solution to that quandary is that inheriting the family fortune and law firm would have been too much responsibility. With that in mind, his choice to be born third makes a great deal of sense. The entirely true and not at all ridiculous or falsified circumstances regarding his place in the family birth order actually had no bearing whatsoever on his ventures in the southwest of the country, where, relying on intelligence from a colleague that the “folks in Texas will believe anything if you can make it rain,” Jack chose to try his luck at making it rain.

            He had been in the dusty ranching town of Saltwater Springs for three days, skulking in shadows and planting his tricks. He slept in a tent on the outskirts of town. Naturally, none of the nosey old biddies or suspicious ranch hands noticed a skulking stranger in their town. He had an unmistakable gift for sneaking and hiding, so the good townspeople had absolutely no idea what was waiting for them when he decided that his time had come. Just after dawn, when the milkman was making his rounds and the ranchers were waking, Jack set off his first round of fireworks.

            The firework soared. Explosives burst through the deep blue of the sky, piercing it with glittering streams of gold and red, pink and yellow. The noise spooked the milkman’s mule and the miserable beast took off as fast as he could, which was not very fast at all. The milk cart tipped over as the mule tried to avoid a cactus, and spilled the large tank from which the milkman filled the townspeople’s personal jugs. The mule, stuck on his side and kicking up a mighty storm, mewled and whined like a bitter ex-wife. A sleeping horse had been tied to a fence in front of the inn, and spent that early morn’ minding his own dreamy business. Until a city-slickin’ firework went off. Having had his dreams of rolling, open hills and spur-less boots rudely broken up by heretofore unjustified and unexplained explodin’, the creature ran off, takin’ his saddle and damn near half the fence with ‘im.

Jack got a decent cloud of dust and dirt in his eyes, chokin’ up his throat and dirtyin’ his pretty clothes something mighty. His eyes watered mercilessly and turned the dust on his face to mud, which caused a blindness he’d tried his very best to wipe away when the inn keeper burst through the inn’s doors. The large man, mightily bearded and thoroughly aproned, marched into the road to see a milk cart toppled over, an aimless horse, a bewildered milk man, and a stranger with mud in his eyes. He carefully approached the horse and pulled it back, tied it to a post once it was calm, and approached Jack.

            “You want to explain what happened here, friend?” His tone was not friendly.

            “Yes, perfectly simple, my good man,” said Jack with a winning smile. “Animals often have this sort of response to magic, I do regret any fear I caused them. I have, however, come for a very good reason which I do believe will incur the forgiveness of whatever mishaps may happen to occur during my time here.”

            “Magickin’, eh?” The innkeeper replied, with one salty eyebrow reaching for the heavens. “What sort o’ magickin’ you got in mind?”

            “Why don’t you wait and see?” Jack said with a wink, before he lit a smoke-ball behind his back and walked away. The desired effect, to seem as though he had disappeared in a cloud of tinted smoke, was unfortunately unsuccessful. The sun had a nasty habit of risin’ of its own accord, and Jack had a nasty habit of guessin’ its own accord quite wrongly. The two men and the cranky animals watched in dumb-founded silence as Jack scurried behind the nearest wall. They shook their heads, wondering at the wild buffoonery before them, and turned their stalwart attention to righting the milk cart and calming the ass.

            Jack returned to the scene of his dusty humiliation early the next morning. So early, in fact, that the sun hadn’t done much risin’ at all, and his smoke-ball was about as invisible as it had been in the mornin’ light. Nonetheless he was eager to greet his awaitin’ public. Much to everyone’s surprise, there was quite a public gathered there that mornin’, ready to see the Great Magic Man with them own two eyes. They all had to see for themselves what kind of an old fool could make a fuss like he had.

            “My good people!” He cried, raisin’ his voice so as to be heard by every man, woman and child misfortunate enough to find themselves in the town square at the dark end o’ dawn. “For too long, you have been plagued by drought; by troubles; and surely by the devil himself in some of your more unfortunate cases! I have heard the cry of your spirits from a faraway land, and have come to you, to deliver you from your misfortunes! I will begin with the matter of rain.”

            The townspeople listened to his speech with patience and good grace. None of the Baptists noticed his sacrilegious phrasing, none of the science men minded his talking of magic and devils, and none of the young ladies noticed his leering. Perhaps that was his true talent – to leer at every young woman in attendance while shouting nonsense at them. Of course it’s possible that none of that was true, and they were all gettin’ fed up with his shoutin’ and thesaurin’ faster ‘an Bessie’s milk’ll go sour. I’ll never tell.

Jack finished his speech with a magnificent bang. He had lit a long fuse to a larger set of fireworks, set up behind the doctor’s office across from the tavern. He had timed his speech to end just as the fireworks erupted and he raised his hands, so that he created the image of controlling the explosion. The fuse was slightly longer than he had anticipated, though, and all was awkward silence behind him. He raised his hands higher n’ higher, like he was tryin’ to pick a fight with the sky. Nothin’ happened, then nothin’ happened, then still, nothin’ happened. His timing was about as sharp as my sense of humor.

Finally…  finally, the fireworks flew. Missiles laden with canteens of precious water soared upward and exploded in mid-air, showering the townspeople with water. The fireworks’ smoke looked like clouds in the sky, and one can hardly deny being splattered with water.

That crowd was mighty perplexed, and gettin’ mighty grumblesome the longer they were kept from breakfast.

And poor Jack’s trick had fallen flat. This is truly the worst fate for any self-respecting con man, though few of them fail their entrance so miserably. Nonetheless, before Jack could take more breath to speak, thunder started a-rumblin’. Heavy, black clouds shrouded the risin’ sun and without the heat wrappin’ ‘round you like your best sweetheart, the desert chill settled into each and every soul as stood and watched the sky. Soon giant rain drops fell and the people marveled, amazed at the magic man’s skills at calling rain.

One fella, of particularly ill repute among the lowlifes, who stood in the back, mentioned the possibility that this magic man might have been a medicine man instead, but another fella of slightly less ill repute slapped him on the chest. The man of most ill repute was being stupid. Of course, the people of Saltwater Springs, a deeply cynical, untrusting group of folks, were utterly convinced.

“Josiah,” said Matthew the sheriff. “Wasn’t it you was sayin’ there’d be rain this week?”

“Yessir,” Josiah said, watching the sky. They were hanging to the back of the crowd, watching the commotion from afar. “I tell ya, Matthew. We sure do get a lot of rain makers ‘round these parts.”

            “Yep,” the sheriff replied as he adjusted the leather holster on his hip. “I don’t know as what to say, Josiah. On account o’ the drought, I s’pose. That’s broke now. Supposin’ he thinks he did it?”

            “Mayhaps he does. Mayhaps he did,” Josiah the innkeeper said with a wink. He stepped through the crowd to have a word with the rain maker.

To be continued! Part Two: https://statonelisabet.tumblr.com/post/615081909712814080/the-fool-of-saltwater-springs-part-two

[dillydedalus]

what i read in february

check to find out if i defeated my nemesis thomas mann by reading the magic mountain or surrendered to his absolute rule over my unread books shelf

milkman, anna burns this is deeply divisive on the bookish internet apparently with fights over a) whether it’s brilliant or garbage, b) whether it’s difficult, c) whether literary difficulty is a moral issue (with both renouncers-of-milkman and defenders-of-milkman variously taking either side). here’s my lukewarm take: a) it’s good, b) it’s not that difficult but can be frustrating to read, c) it’s not a moral issue, like, obvi. anyway, y’all probably know what this is about (girl in belfast during the troubles finds herself stalked by dangerous paramilitary, gossip & violence abound). i found the decision not to use proper names, either for the characters (narrator is middle sister, other characters are ‘maybe-boyfriend’, ‘wee sisters’, ‘third brother-in-law’, etc) or the setting really interesting - it added both to the conversational feel, the paranoia in the community and the universality of themes like civil violence, paranoia, mistrust, sexual harrassment, pressure to conform etc. 4/5

paradise, a.l. kennedy (uni) idk man this is well-written and especially the writing about drunkenness & the depth of hannah’s addiction & misery (and joy, which kennedy does not avoid) is vivid, but i’m still p meh on it, and it was definitely too long for what it was doing. i’ll add more after the class where we’ll discuss it (update: the class was unfortunately a mess so I’m still ehhh about it) 2.5/5

die verängstigten, dima wannous (tr. from arabic) an english translation, the frightened ones, is coming out some time this year i think. this story is told thru two narratives, one by sulaima, a syrian woman with anxiety living in damascus, whose brother has been disappeared by the regime and whose lover nassim has fled the country, and one thru chapters of the unfinished novel nassim leaves behind for sulaima, narrated by a girl called salma, whose life story mirrors sulaima’s own. this is a very interesting set-up, and i think both the narrative structure and the combination of anxiety as a psychological illness and anxiety/paranoia as a social state caused by political repression & violence were really interesting, but sometimes the book felt a bit muddled and confusing to me. 3/5

der schlaf der gerechten, wolfgang hilbig (the sleep of the righteous) this is a collection of connected short stories set in a mining town in east germany - the first 4 stories follow the narrator figure (who’s not necessarily the same, but very similar throughout all stories) as a child and young adult, growing up in a town almost without men after world war 2, whereas the last 3 describe the narrator’s return to this town as an adult after reunification, struggling with his own and east germany’s past. i ADORED the first stories - they are insanely good, dark, atmospheric, beautifully written and so evocative of the materiality of this town, the ash, the coal, moulding fruit, gritty, grimy, ash coating everything (the blurb on the back says that your hands will come away from the pages stained with soot, and i feel that). the second set is good too, but it moves away from that sensual evocation which i loved so much. 4/5

the golden fool (tawny man #2), robin hobb y’all i really tried to read this one slowly, and it worked for four days but then i decided that i might as well read read the entire second half in one day so. anyway this is hard to talk about w/o spoiling a lot but robin hobb truly is the queen of character writing. loved the elliania plot, loved the coterie forming, loved the bingtown delegation, loved fitz and the fool having Feelings Drama (made me Big Sad tho - also fitz is my son & all but good god he can be a dumbass). i feel like this one’s mostly setting everything up for fool’s fate but it’s good. 4/5

the sixth extinction: an unnatural history, elizabeth kolbert engaging & accessible nonfiction book about extinction, including both past extinction events, the history of science about extinction and focusing on the current extinction event (with several example species, from frogs to rhinos) mostly caused by humans fucking everything up. 3/5

the course of the heart, m john harrison tbh i just didn’t get it.... maybe i’m not versed enough in gnosticism & weird esoteric shit. anyway, this is about three friends haunted by some spiritual ritual (lol) they held while at uni with a sinister guy called yaxley. you never find out what they actually did, but they construct a whole mythology about it that i uh. didn’t get. tbh i pretty much checked out halfway thru. 1.5/5

barracoon: the story of the last “black cargo”, zora neale hurston (audio) interesting & sad & really touching account of cudjo lewis, one of the last africans to be shipped to america as slaves, mainly made up of his own narrative, collected & put together by hurston. some interesting background info about how the book came to be as well. 3/5

how to survive a plague, david france in-depth account of the aids epidemic in the us, especially in new york, combining personal stories, insight into aids activism, scientific progress (and for most of the book, lack thereof) and staggering political neglect and failure. well-written, informative and well-explained but (obviously) very emotionally draining.  4/5

fool’s fate (the tawny man #3), robin hobb lmao i love emotionally dying about robin hobb books. anyway A LOT happens in this one & i was very emotional about most of it but most emotional about fitzchivalry farseer (idiot, son boy, changer) and the fool (beloved!) and my man burrich (lol say the words ‘heart of the pack’ & i’m already overwhelmed). anyway this was a very epic & hardcore emotional conclusion to this series & robin hobb may make me cry any time she wishes. 4/5, series rating 4.5/5

what it means when a man falls from the sky, lesley nneka arimah collection of short stories mostly set in nigeria and in the us. some of the stories are magical realist-y, some are more realist, but almost all are concerned with familial bonds and bondage, the complicated relationships between parents and children. the stories are well-executed and precisely told, but while i liked quite a few of the stories (esp. the title story) i just didn’t feel particularly strongly about most of them. 3/5

heimsuchung, jenny erpenbeck (visitation) another interesting take on 20th century german history from erpenbeck - this one is centred around a house by a lake in brandenburg & told thru the various people connected to the house over the years & decades, owners, visitors, neighbours, etc. it’s an interesting concept & well-executed & clever & erpenbeck can write but it kinda paled for me in comparison to her aller tage abend, which does a similar thing in very different way. 3/5

currently reading: look okay i have Not finished the magic mountain but i am still reading it so i still have a chance of defeating mann in single combat. i’m actually kinda liking it but it’s A Lot, so i’m taking it slow. also call me zebra which i am v v...... unsure about??

[motivations-world]

15 Moral Stories for Kids

15 Moral Stories for Kids

In today's era, with busy schedules and ubiquitous technology, we entertain and entertained our children on the Internet. However, there is nothing like spending quality time with your little one with stories and passing on some knowledge along the way.

You want to tell your son a story with moral values. Here are some Fun and funny short moral stories for kids.

1. Needle tree

Once upon a time, two brothers lived on the edge of a forest. The older brother used to say a lot about his younger brother and he used to eat all the food and take away all his good clothes. One day, the older brother went to the forest to look for firewood to sell in the market. When he was going to cut trees from one tree to another, he fell on a magic tree. The tree said, "Oh, sir, please do not cut my branches, if you spell me, then I'll give you my golden apple." The older brother accepted, but he was frustrated by the amount of apple the tree gave him. Greed attacked him and he threatened that if the tree did not give it to him and the apple, it would cut off the whole trunk, whereas the magic tree filled the older brother with hundreds of small needles. The older brother lay on the ground and He cried in pain as soon as he reached the horizon of the sun.

The younger brother worried and went in search of his older brother. They found him with hundreds of needles on his skin. He approached his brother and carefully removed all the needles of love. After finishing, the older brother apologized for having a bad behavior with him and promised to be better. The tree saw a change in the heart of an older brother and gave them all the golden apples they could need.

Moral of the story

It is important to be good and kind because you will always be rewarded.

2. Count wisely

Akbar once asked a question in his court, who surprised everyone. When everyone tried to find the answer, Birbal said and asked what was going on. And then they asked him the question.

"How many crows are there in the city?"

Birbal immediately smiled, went to see Akbar and announced that his answer to the questions was twenty-one thousand five hundred and twenty-three. When asked how he knew the answer, Birbal replied, "Ask your people to count the number of crows, if there are more, then the relatives of the crows will come out to receive them from outside the city. his relatives out of town. "Satisfied with his response, Akbar gave Birbal a chain of ruby and pearl.

Moral of the story

An explanation for your answer is as important as answering.

3. The child that wolf cried.

Once there was a boy whose father told him one day that he was old enough to care for the sheep. Every day he had to take the sheep to the grass fields and he had to inspect them when they grazed to form a strong sheep with thick wool. The boy was sad though. I wanted to run and play, I do not see boring sheep. Then, he decided to have a little fun. She "Wolf! Wolf!" He screamed until the whole city escaped to scare the wolf away from the stones until he could not eat sheep. As soon as they saw that there was no wolf, they whispered in a low voice, how the children were wasting their time and were scaring them when they did the next day, the boy shouted again: "Wolf! Wolf! Running to destroy the Wolves While the boy laughed at that fear, the villagers left, some angrier than others. On the third day, when the boy climbed a small hill, he suddenly saw a wolf attacking his sheep. He cried as hard as he could, "Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!" But the villagers thought he was trying to deceive them again and they did not come to save the sheep ... the boy lost three sheep that day because the wolf had cried many times.

Moral of the story

Do not create stories to attract attention, because nobody will help you when you really need it.

4. Golden touch

It was the story of a very greedy rich man who went to meet a fairy. The fairy hair was trapped in some branches of the trees. Feeling that he had the opportunity to earn even more money, he made a wish in exchange for helping Angel. He said: "Everything you touch must become gold," and your thanks were given by the grateful angel. The greedy man shouted at his house to tell his wife and daughter about his new blessings, while he touched the stones and pebbles and turned them into gold. Once she went home, her daughter hastened to congratulate her. As soon as she reached down to take her in her arms, she became a golden idol. He realized his madness and spent the rest of his days looking for a fairy to overcome his desire.

Moral of the story

There will always be incarnations.

5. The milk and its bucket.

Patti Milk med had finished feeding her cow and she had two buckets full of fresh and creamy milk. They put both cubes on a stick and went to the market to sell their milk cubes. On the way, he began to think about all the milk in his buckets and all the money he got for it. "Once I get the money, I'll buy a chicken," he thought. "The poultry will lay eggs and I will get more chickens, they will all be eggs and I can sell them more money, then I will buy a house on the hill and I will envy everyone in the village, they will ask me to sell a poultry farm, but I shot the head and Denial that way, he said, Patti, the milkman shook his head and dropped his buckets. The milk Patty fell to the ground.

Moral of the story

Do not count chickens before they are born.

6. When misfortune comes

It's a story about how people deal with difficult situations. Asha's father placed an egg, potato and tea leaves in boiling water with three different containers. He asked Asha to see his glasses for ten minutes. After ten minutes, he asked Asha to peel the potatoes, peel the eggs and the tea leaves. Hope was shocked. Her father explains: "Each of these items was in the same position of being in boiling water, to see how they reacted in different ways, the potatoes are now soft, the egg is now rigid and the tea is water We are all like these objects, when you make bad calls, we answer as they do: are you now a potato, an egg or tea leaves?

Moral of the story

We can choose how to react to any difficult situation.

7. Gray Rose

Once upon a time, a rose was very proud of its beautiful appearance. His only disappointment was growing up next to an ugly cactus. Every day, Gulab insulted the cacti in his presence while the cactus remained silent. All the other garden plants tried to understand the rose, but she was very impressed by her beauty. In the summer, the wells were dry in the garden and there was no water for the plants. The rose felt faded He saw a sparrow sticking to its beak in the cactus to drink water. Although embarrassed, she asked Cactus if she could drink water too. The kind of cactus agreed and both spent the summer as friends.

Moral of the story

Never leave anyone in the way they see it.

8. The story of the pencil.

Raj was upset because he had failed his English test. His grandmother sat with him and gave him a pencil. Raj, nervous, looked at her grandmother and told her that after her performance at the trial, she was not worth the pencil. Her grandmother explained, "You can learn a lot with this pencil because it looks like you." You feel pain, just as you have experienced the pain of not doing well on your exam, but it will help you become a better student. As all the good things that come from the pencils come from you, you will also have the strength to overcome this obstacle and, after all, as soon as the pencil leaves its mark on a surface, you will leave your mark on what you choose. Raj consoled himself immediately and promised to do better.

Moral of the story

We all have the strength we want to be.

9. Crystal ball

Nasir found a crystal ball behind a banyan in his garden. When the tree grew, he made a wish, he thought, but could not think of anything he wanted. That's why he kept the crystal ball in his bag and waited for his decision to decide. The days passed without fasting, but his best friend saw them watching the crystal ball. He stole it from Nasser and showed it to everyone in town. They used to say all the palaces and sleep, but they could not ask for more than one wish. In the end, everyone was angry because nobody could do anything. They were very sad and decided to ask Nasir for help. Nasir wanted everything to be normal because before that the villagers try to fulfill their greed. The palaces and the gold are gone and the villagers are happy again.

Moral of the story

Do not get the happiness of wealth and happiness.

10. A lot of sticks

Three neighbors had problems with their crops. In the three areas, there were crops that were fading with parasites. Each day I tried several ideas to help their cultures. First, he tried to use a scarecrow, the other used pesticides and the third placed a fence on his farm, which has no advantage. One day, Gram Pradhan called three farmers and passed them on. He gave them a stick and told them to break the sticks. Farmers could easily break them. Then he gave them a package of three bars and asked them to break it. This time the farmers had problems breaking the sticks. The head of the village said: "When you work alone, you are strong together." The farmers gathered their resources and got rid of the pests in their fields.

Moral of the story

The union is power.

11. Glass of milk

One day, when he left home after school, Hari fell unconscious and realized that his mother was not going to prepare food at home. He despaired and went from house to house to ask for food. Finally, a girl gave him a big glass of milk. When he tried to pay him, he refused and sent it. Years later, the girl, who became an adult woman, became seriously ill and there was no one to fix it. Finally, he went to a large hospital with the largest doctor in the city. The doctor spent months cleaning the woman until she was cured. The woman was happy, but she was also worried about not paying the bill. When the hospital billed him, he opened it and read: "Absolutely, with a glass of milk."

Moral of the story

A good deed is never done without reward.

12. Fox and grapefruit

Once, a fox was very hungry and went looking for food. He searched everywhere, but he could not find anything he could not eat. Finally, with his stomach, he fell on the wall of a farmer. At the top of the wall were the biggest and juicy grapes the fox had ever seen. The rich purple color indicated to the fox that he was ready to eat. The fox jumped up to catch the grapes in his mouth but failed. He tried again and again failed. They tried once more but failed each time. In the end, the fox decided to go home all the time: "I'm sure the grapes were sour anyway."

Moral of the story

It's easy to hate what you can not have.

13. Ant and Grasshopper

There were two best friends, an ant, and a grasshopper. The mower liked to rest all day and play the guitar. However, the ant worked hard all day. He gathered food all over the garden while the grasshopper rested, played the guitar, or slept. The grasshopper asked Ant to take a break every day, but the ant refused and continued her work. Soon the cold has arrived. The day and the night have become cold and very few creatures have come out. The grasshopper could not eat food and was always hungry. However, the ant had enough food to end up all winter without worry.

Moral of the story

Make the grass while the sun is shining.

14. Wet pants

Ajay was a little boy who loved his school and his classmates. One day, while sitting on his desk, he suddenly felt that he had wet his pants. Mohit, Ajay did not know what to do or what to say because he knew everyone in the class would make fun of him for wetting his pants. He sat on his desk praying for help. In the initiation class, water was used to take water from a jar to give water to the plants. When he reached Ajay's office, he suddenly slipped and threw the contents of the pot on his lap. Everyone rushed to help Ajay. The teacher resumed the initiation and gave Ajay extra money. At the end of the day, Ajay meets Diksha on the bus. He asked, "You did it on purpose, did not you?" Diksha replied, "I also wet my pants."

Moral of the story

Help others to need it.

15. Bear and two friends.

Two best friends were walking on a lonely and dangerous road through the jungle. When the sun started to fall, they were scared, but they kissed. Suddenly, he saw a bear on his way. One of the boys climbed to the nearest tree and climbed into the heartbeat. The other boy did not know how to climb the trees alone, so he pretended to be dead and lay on the ground. The bear approached the boy and sniffed around his head. Thinking that the child was dead, the bear went on. The boy on the tree went down and asked his friend what the bear whispered in his ear. He replied, "Do not trust your friends who do not like you."

Moral of the story

A friend in need is a friend indeed Conclusion: With these moral values, this news will tell your children a valuable lesson while helping them spend quality time with them. The next time you want to entertain children, stories about ethics are always a good option.

http://bit.ly/2GW1Dge

[musingsofabookworm1]

Milkman

    My weekend reading wrapped up with last year’s Man Booker winner. Wow. This was something. I don’t even know if I mean that in a good or bad way. It was one of the most challenging reads I’ve devoured in years knowing nothing about the setting, full of dense, lengthy sentences, little dialog, and characters who didn’t have names.

      The setting. Northern Ireland in the 1970s. I have absolutely zero knowledge of this. I didn’t really even know this was the setting until I had to look it up about a third of the way through. If you, too, have no knowledge of this time period, know that it is not good. The time is known as The Troubles and involved guerrilla warfare, police brutality, and state security forces. 

       Enter Milkman. Milkman is a man involved in one of the security forces. He finds the protagonist, 18-year-old middle sister, walking home one evening reading some classic literature: Ivanhoe. He harasses her. However, the small district in which she lives believes that she had an affair with him and lured him away from his wife. This brings violence into her life. We know this from the first sentence of the book, but we don’t truly know why until the end.

         The reader does learn people here don’t have names. They are referred to by the narrator as what you read above as well things like maybe-boyfriend, wee sisters, second brother-in-law, oldest friend, etc. This was something about the book that was interesting.

           The internal monologue that was the narration started off with a bang. But it got old fast. There really wasn’t a lot going on in the plot aside from what is said above, so 350 pages - full pages with no pages breaks and only five chapters - of lengthy sentences about times and places with which I was unfamiliar....it just didn’t do it for me.

           So four books over three days and none of them were even decent. I move from my library pile to my school library pile. Maybe the two YA that I have on deck, by authors whom I like, are going to bring some positive results.  

[gossipgirl2019-blog]

Man Booker winner Anna Burns on lessons from the 'powder keg'

New Post has been published on http://gr8gossip.xyz/man-booker-winner-anna-burns-on-lessons-from-the-powder-keg/

Man Booker winner Anna Burns on lessons from the 'powder keg'

The timing could hardly have been better. In a week when all the talk is of Northern Ireland and borders and the threat of a revival of sectarian violence, the award of this year’s Man Booker Prize to Milkman, a story of the Troubles that evokes, in claustrophobic, unsettling prose, the menace and terror of everyday life in an environment of violence seems highly fitting. Combined with the issues of harassment and restrictive control, and the result is a toxic mix that seems tailor-made to our present age of #MeToo, Brexit and increasing anger and authoritarianism.

Anna Burns recognises that her book, her third novel, is now likely to be celebrated as an account of our times. And yet, as she calmly explains when we meet the morning after her victory — which surprised many, including, she says, herself — in the 15th-floor bar of a central London hotel, the truth is that Milkman was completed in 2014, ahead of those political and social epoch-defining events.

Besides, says the slight, fine-featured Burns, who has had little sleep and is battling a back condition that means she conducts the interview standing up, she is not an “ideas-driven” author or someone who writes history books. She does not set out with a clear goal of addressing a particular subject. Rather, characters come to her and then she follows them on their journey. In the case of Milkman, this takes readers to Belfast, where she was born in 1962 into a Catholic family in the hard-knuckle Ardoyne, a “powder keg” of an isolated community surrounded by predominantly Protestant areas. Raw violence was the preferred form of resolving disputes, domestic or communal.

Burns says she remembers the distress she felt as a child when “you walk out the door and there are two adults fighting in the street — nothing to do with the Troubles — or you walk down a bit and there are a whole lot of children beating up another child”. Talking to adults would have been pointless. Such things were not spoken about. “I couldn’t imagine somebody saying, ‘Let’s sit down and talk about this’. I could never imagine that.”

Milkman tells the story of a teenage woman who is stalked by a sinister paramilitary type, known as Milkman, prompting suspicion and malicious (and false) gossip that the two are having an affair. Through this, readers are dragged into a tight-knit, polarised world where violence and menace are ever-present, where borderlines are not always explicit but always recognised — and often dangerous.

The story plays out in what Burns calls a “skewed version” of Belfast, though she never openly says so, and is, she says, about a “society that has suffered long term from violence”. Yes, she adds, that is the world she grew up in, but Milkman is not her story — though there are some personal details that appear both in her life and that of her main character. These include compulsive reading — particularly 19th-century literature — as a means of withdrawing from the surrounding madness.

She believes the story has a wider relevance. “I’m hoping I’ve written it in a way that would be as recognisable as representative of any society that is closed and insular and existing under similar restrictive circumstances.” Thoughts of parts of the Middle East today and eastern Europe under communism come to mind — something that she readily acknowledges.

British troops and pro-IRA graffiti in a street in the republican Ardoyne area of Belfast in 1976 © Getty

In the world Burns portrays, power and restriction can be expressed in many ways, often unspoken, and reflection can be dangerous — best just to keep your head down and keep moving. She is also particularly interested in the repressive power of the collective, the way communities unite to bring pressure to bear on individuals and whip them into line.

This affects both women and men. “I think in my book it’s sexually dangerous to be female, but I think it’s much more fatally dangerous to be male,” Burns explains. “I think neither females nor males are treated very well. But I think for females you could slip under the radar more than if you were male.”

The sense of oppression and disorientation is enforced by her stylistic approach. Her characters and places have no proper names; paragraphs flow over pages without break. It is a challenging read, one that the chair of the Man Booker judges, philosopher Kwame Anthony Appiah, likened to climbing a mountain — a bracing ascent but worth it for the view.

Asked why she opted for this approach, Burns says it came from the characters, before going on to explain the way she writes. “I wait for a charact­er to appear, and it’s the waiting period that is actually the most important,” she explains in precise tones. “It’s attending, it’s being alert but not gathering, or getting desperate. And yet at some point, something happens, the business begins.”

She is well aware that some may find this insight into the creative process baffling. “I’ve had a few people make comments about my mental health or something, and I’m thinking, ‘Fine, make your comments’, I really don’t give a toss. But this is what happens. All the energy and the vigour and life comes when they come.”

It is also a drawn-out affair, with books taking years to complete, and also a financially stretched one. She says the £50,000 prize money will be transformative, enabling her to clear her debts and get herself on a better financial footing. And that is before any income from extra sales of the book. (Within minutes of the announcement of her winning the prize, her publishers had ordered the printing of 100,000 extra copies of Milkman.)

Recent years have been shaped by health issues, which have taken up her time and concentration. One result is that she has not been following news events that closely, particularly when it comes to Northern Ireland. She left in her twenties, and now lives in East Sussex. Leaving Northern Ireland gave her the necessary distance to write about her homeland, which was also the setting for her first novel No Bones. There are some family links and occasional catch-ups over the phone with her brother, but she does not go back “and I don’t know what the emotional reality of Ireland is today”.

She shows an apparent wariness of being drawn to comment on the current situation. Yet she says she is not really surprised that Northern Ireland has now moved centre stage in the Brexit process. “I could see that Ireland would be left to last,” she says. “It’s like the back door, the back yard.” She says she could imagine a regression to violence, pointing to the increase in hard borders between communities that have appeared since when she was growing up. The barricades of her youth have been replaced by “lots of walls”.

On a less alarming note, Burns is now looking forward to returning to another book that she was working on before Milkman intervened. She does not want to reveal its subject — “because I’ll lose all the energy” — but is visibly excited about the prospect. “The characters went away and said something like, ‘I’ll be back later’,” she says with a sparkle. “They want the limelight of my attention and if I’m going around being a Booker winner, that might annoy them.”

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