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treehousesinfrance · 1 year

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Love Leaves Traces - Chapter 3

Sirius was sitting on the common room floor with a compact mirror in one hand and some eyeliner in the other. He was attempting to put it on but was only successful in jamming himself in the eye.

“Merde! pourquoi cela ne fonctionnera-t-il pas.”

“Need a little help down there?” He turned to see Remus looking down at him with an amused smile.

“You know how to put on eyeliner?”

“I can’t imagine he'd be any worse than you”, heard James snicker from the other side of the room.

“Hey! I’m not doing that badly am I?”

“Just let me do it.” Remus sat cross-legged next to him and took the compact mirror from his hands. “Close your eyes.”

He felt oddly vulnerable sitting there with his eyes closed. He could hear Remus opening the lid of the eyeliner. A warm hand grasped his cheek and Sirius held his breath, urging his heart to stop beating so loudly. The eyeliner grazed his eye.

“Hold still.”

“S’cold”

He stayed there for a few minutes while Remus worked. He was careful and precise and hadn’t poked his eye once, which meant he was correct in assuming he was better than Sirius at this.

“Open up.”

His vision was blurry for a moment as his eyes adjusted to being open.

“Damn Sirius. You look hot .”

“Thank you, Pete. You look hot also.” Peter blushed furiously.

Remus looked very proud of his work. He pulled out the mirror and gave it to Sirius.

“Have a look.”

Peter wasn’t joking. His eyes really stood out against the dark outline, and it had small wings on the sides which he thought looked quite cool.

“Whoa Rem. How’d you do that?” Remus just shrugged, taking one final look at his work before returning to his book.

Sirius went to the bathroom to use the mirror. Remus really had a perfect hand. It was completely symmetrical on both eyes, nothing out of place. He thought the girls might even be jealous of how well it was done.

“James! James! Take a photo of me with the cool eyeliner Remus did.” Sirius plopped his camera on top of James’ magazine, stepping back to pose. He stuck out his tongue and made a rock sign with his hands.

“Go on James. Take the picture.”

James pulled the camera up to his eye and the light flashed, partially blinding Sirius.

“Thanks, mate. Does it look cool?” He passed Sirius the printed photo, shaking it a little so the picture would show up. After a moment he saw himself in movement looking so punk rock. His eyes were practically sparkling.

Sirius refused to take it off the rest of the day. Confidently traipsing around the castle ignoring any interesting looks he got. He even wore it to the quidditch match. It was the first game he would play against his brother at school and he was torn between wanting to beat Regulus and wanting Regulus to win his first-ever game.

He met James in the locker room, getting changed before doing some warmups.

“Alright, team!” They all huddled around Frank.

“You all know your plays. We’ve been training really well this year. Just remember to work together. You’re there for each other out there. If you don’t know what to do, pass the quaffle and try to move into an open space. James. We don’t know how the new Slytherin seeker plays,” Some eyes drifted over to Sirius, “so be ready for anything out there. We’ve got this. Let’s get out there.”

Walking onto the pitch was always surreal. He could hear the cheers from Gryffindor, all blended together making a wall of sound, but he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He smiled at James, and they tapped their elbows together twice before mounting their brooms.

For a minute, it was still and then the adrenaline kicked in.

“The Gryffindor team are up and flying, captain Frank Longbottom in possession of the quaffle, and having quite the issue with Slytherin beater, Justi- oh! And he’s got it in! 10 points to Gryffindor! This is really impressive to see them scoring so early. Really setting Gryffindor up for a good game.”

The Gryffindor side of the stadium was cheering loudly and Sirius felt a warm glow of pride. Frank’s whole life was quidditch. He deserves this.

Before he knew it, Slytherin had the quaffle and were coming toward him. He blocked out the sound of the commentator, focusing purely on the ball. They made to shoot, and Sirius swooped down at the last second, grasping it firmly and passing it off to Mary.

He caught Regulus’ eye, who was above surveying the pitch and curtseyed with his hands. Reg just smiled and looked away, taking a glance at James to make sure he hadn’t seen the snitch.

The game was going well. Gryffindor leading by 70 points, but if Regulus caught the snitch now it would still be game over. Every goal counted at this point and it was his job to make sure Slytherin didn’t get any. He was guarding this hoop, eyes on the quaffle coming towards him. It was as if time slowed. This was an easy save, he thought, swerving so the tail of his broom would knock the ball away into waiting Gryffindor hands.

“Sirius!” It was James who called him. He made the save and looked up to see him, eyes wide and pointing directly at him.

“Holy shit! - Sorry Professor, but Sirius Black has just been hit by a bludger, square in the stomach it looks. He’s still on his broom but he’s not looking good.”

He couldn’t see anything, vision totally black and he clutched onto his broom and hoped to Merlin he didn’t fall off. He sucked in a sharp breath and yep. His ribs were definitely broken.

“Sirius?” Regulus’ concerned voice came to him, “Are you alright?”

“Look at him. Fucking hell mate.” It was James. He sounded frantic. At least both teams were equally disadvantaged, both seekers distracted.

“I’m fine.” It came out in a sort of grunt though and he slipped further forward on his broom.

“Fuck that”, James said, “Madame Hooch!”

“Seriously James, it’s fine. I just need a second.”

“You don’t look fine, mate. Can you even see me?” His vision was returning, but James looked more like a speckly blob, and the sun was giving him a headache.

He was escorted off the pitch, which might have been mortifying if he wasn't in so much pain. He wound up in the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey making a fuss and Remus and Peter following them in, looking worried.

“What hurts the most, dear? That’s always a good place to start.”

“Um -” Sirius coughed and clutched at his chest, his lungs burning with the effort of speaking.

She hummed, reaching down to touch his jersey, but his hand flew out to stop her.

“Mr Black. I am going to have to see the damage so that I can fix it.” His hand remained firmly grasped on hers. No one had ever seen his marks other than him, his mother and Regulus. He couldn’t let Madame Pomfrey see, especially not with Remus and Peter watching.

He looked at her with wide eyes, hoping she might somehow understand.

“Mr Black.” His eyes then went to Remus, who looked confused, looking right at him and nervously playing with his rings.

“Alright! Everyone out!” She was a quiet woman most of the time, so when she got loud like this, people listened. Sirius realised how many of them had followed him in. Madame Hooch, McGonnigal and a couple of Gryffindors from other years filed out.

“You two, too”

“But Poppy-” Remus started.

“Out.”

She drew the curtains around the bed and her hand went again to the hem of Sirius’ jersey, hesitating. Sirius nodded slightly, looking up at the ceiling and closing his eyes tightly. Madame Pomfrey was a smart woman. She might even know what the marks meant. This could be the end of everything for him, but he couldn’t escape this. Not now.

He heard her gasp quietly and the curtains move as she stepped out.

Fuck. This is it. He shouldn’t have let her see them. What was she thinking right now? Maybe she’d gone straight to Dumbledore to tell him exactly what she’d seen. If she didn’t know what it was, Dumbledore certainly did. Was he about to be arrested? He hadn't done anything of course, but there was always that chance.

He pulled his jersey down over him, covering his marks and went to sit up, when a sharp pain hit him in the chest and he folded back down. He had to get out.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

It was all dark again and Sirius could hardly hear over the ringing in his ears.

“You’ve got three broken ribs and some serious bruising. Drink this.” She pressed a cold glass to his hand and he swallowed the contents before he had to smell it.

Poppy Pomfrey was smiling warmly at him, looking concerned, but kind. Sirius relaxed and realised he could breathe deeply again.

“You’re lucky. It could have been much worse. I’d like to keep you here overnight, but you should be good to go for the morning.”

He was grateful she didn’t bring up the marks. He’d had many visits to the hospital wing. He was quite accident prone and so he had gotten to know her a little over the years. Against his better judgement, he trusted her. He nodded his head in understanding.

“I think your friends are getting a little worried out there. Should I let them in?”

He thought for a moment and swallowed. “Yes.” She made to step out of the curtain again.

“Um. Thank you.” The sincerity in his voice shocked him. She turned back to him.

“Of course, dear.”

Not long after, the curtain opened again slowly. James, Peter and Remus walked in..

“How are you feeling?” James looked stricken.

“I feel fine now. It’s ok. Don’t worry.”

“It looked really bad, man. I thought you stopped breathing for a minute.”

“Just a couple broken ribs. No biggie.” Remus startled and moved to sit beside him, grabbing his arm softly, but firmly.

Sirius felt the warmth of his hand and realised how cold he must be. The pain was subsiding which was good. Whatever potion he was given was obviously working.

“This is why I hate quidditch. Flying around whacking each other with sticks and throwing balls around waiting to get hit.”

“That’s not exactly how it works.”

He let go of his arm and took a deep breath. “I’m gonna be really pissed off if you die. Stop getting injured.”

Sirius chuckled a little. Remus wasn’t really mad. He was worried. All three of them were.

“I promise you I’m ok. Pomfrey says I’ll be good to go in the morning.”

They stayed and talked for a while, about the hit, about the rest of the game. They didn’t bring up Sirius kicking them out and he was glad. He didn’t have an excuse planned. Soon, he grew tired. His body was working overtime to heal his broken bones, and his friends took their leave, promising to be back in the morning.

He closed his eyes, laying on his back so his ribs weren’t squished, but someone else came in.

“Sirius?”

“Reg?”

He looked up and his brother was there, still in his quidditch uniform looking so so small. Before he could say anything, Sirius said, “I’m ok, Reg. No need to look so worried.”

Regulus gave him a sad smile.

“I know. I heard them talking about it in the hall. They said you broke your ribs. Is that all?”

“Yeah that’s all”

“It looked really bad, Sirius. I didn’t know if-” Tears started to well up in his eyes and Sirius reached out to pull him in a hug. He was getting snot on the hospital blankets, sniffling quietly. Sometimes Sirius forgot how deeply his brother cared for him. Seeing him this way was heartbreaking.

“There was nothing I could do and you were just sitting there. You looked like you were gonna pass out. I-”

“It’s ok. I’m ok. Madame Pomfrey took good care of me.”

Regulus pulled away suddenly, the serious look on his face looking strange against his puffy eyes and red cheeks.

“She healed your…” He looked down at Sirius’ chest.

Sirius swallowed, “I mean, yeah. But no one else saw. I made sure, and I don’t think she would tell anyone. I don’t even think she knows what it is.”

“No one knows what it is, Sirius. Mother looked into it.” He rubbed his hands over his face.

“As long as you’re sure she won’t tell anyone.”

“She won’t. And either way, it’s too late now.”

Regulus seemed to crumple back into Sirius’ arms.

“I heard you caught the snitch. Won the game for Slytherin.” He was so proud of his brother, who smiled a little back at him.

“Yeah. I just did what you said.”

Sirius felt he was giving him more credit than he deserved. Sure, he taught Regulus a lot, but Sirius wasn’t a seeker. Most of Regulus’ talent he had got through practice and hard work.

“But it was you that said I had to be aware of my surroundings in the sky. You know, so I don’t get hit.”

Sirius poked his brother in the side. “Just because I give good advice, doesn’t mean I take it myself.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Love you too.”

#wolfstar #fanfic #fan fiction #sirius black #remus lupin #remus x sirius #soulmates #soulmate au

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sarcasticdolphin · 2 months

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"Consecration" Todolf Cultverse

Cultverse is basically its own warning at this point. Also Rudolf is unhinged and someone dies. So under the cut.

It’s frustrating, to say the least. Rudolf wants to serve Tod. More than anything, he wants to please him. Consecrating an altar should be a natural thing, something that he does often. And though it is a selfish desire, he wants to be able to offer Tod his seed. It’s rather frustrating to restrain himself, day in and day out. Especially with the teasing little touches of Tod’s more human physical form that set a fire in Rudolf’s blood. How could he not want that?

But either his heretical grandfather had burned any evidence of such rites or they had never been written down to begin with. Rudolf suspects it is some of both. The priests of Tod were very secretive even before the religious reforms that his grandfather had enacted.

He does pray on the subject, beseeching Tod for guidance. For anything. Some hint as to what he must do. For Tod must know well that Rudolf would do anything to please him.

“Master.” Rudolf prays. “Guide me. Please. How might I consecrate an altar? How might I serve you? Please you?” He’s on his bed, Aemilia curled up on his feet even as his head rests on Tod’s thigh and his god’s fingers glide through his hair.

“Tell you? Where would be the fun in that, my sweet little prophet?” Rudolf’s eyes are carefully closed as ever, but he imagines Tod smiling. For all the god he serves is terrible in every sense of the word, he also has a greater sense of humor than Rudolf had expected.

Still, Rudolf’s lips are ready to form another beseechment when Tod speaks again.

“But it would be cruel to leave you with no recourse, wouldn’t it? So perhaps it would be better that I not tell you, sweet prophet. I’ll show you.”

Images bloom in Rudolf’s eyes.

-----

He’s in a different body, and just a passenger. That’s the first thing Rudolf realizes. The second is the firm grasp that two huge black-cloaked men have on his wrists, rendering it impossible for him to go anywhere, to escape, unless they permit it.

The garb is not something he’s familiar with. He’s barefoot, and wearing rather fine linen pants and a knee length tunic of some sort. And his hair is rather a bit longer than Rudolf’s own.

But he doesn’t have much time to ponder his strange garb, because the next thing he knows he’s being dragged down a set of narrow but familiar steps, and the body is fighting even though Rudolf isn’t. Why had Tod put him in this body? In this boy? Because his form is a more masculine one.

They reach the bottom of the steps that Rudolf knows are those of Mayerling rather quickly, and gaze upon a room that is entirely familiar to Rudolf while still being oddly foreign.

Two braziers throw light and heat across the room, while the depression in the ground is filled with a pale, pearly liquid. The altar though, seems unchanged. Imposing on the dais, and seemingly dwarfing the tiny form that is kneeling before it, head bowed and shrouded by a vast looking-cloak.

Aemilia. For it must be Rudolf’s predecessor that consecrated this altar. The temple was too new for it to be anyone else and none but prophets could consecrate altars to Tod. Some gods might allow priests to do so, but Tod wasn’t one of them.

It feels odd to see her like this. So human when Rudolf had given her name to the panther that Tod made into his companion.

She doesn’t move, head still bowed, as the men drag Rudolf to the altar, and the body he inhabits only begins to thrash more. Oh. Oh. Rudolf understands, even as the men bind his uncooperative body in place, even as they bow to Aemilia and depart the way that they had come.

She rises only after what seems half an eternity, flowing to her feet and sitting on the edge of the altar, just beside Rudolf’s waist. Rudolf wants to look at her properly, to see the face of the prophet Tod so obviously thought had served him well. The stained glass rendition of her hadn’t done her justice. But the body he is in flinches in a way Rudolf hates.

Not that Aemilia seems to mind. She removes one of her black gloves - every bit of her garb, from the thick cloak that seems like it will drown her to the fine glove she removes is black. In fact, even her hair, barely visible beneath the hood of the cloak, is likewise black. The only gaps in the black are her pale skin and paler blue eyes, which seem almost luminous in a way that makes Rudolf want to gaze into them forever.

But it is her touch that is more magical than anything else. Her hand is soft against his cheek, making gentle and smooth circles. It’s relaxing, and she feels like Tod in a way that Rudolf can’t quite put his finger on. It’s like Tod rests beneath her skin. Like she’s made her very body into his temple. Even the sacrifice - for that is what the body he’s in is - relaxes at her touch, seemingly spellbound.

To the extent that Rudolf doesn’t even think the sacrifice notices when the bounds are loosened. He barely does himself, and it’s only because he wants to pull Aemilia closer. To have the essence of Tod that seems to rest beneath her skin against his own.

The first cut is almost painless, and it feels quite small against his leg. Had she cut him by accident? Rudolf hadn’t seen a knife in her hand. But no matter. He wants to pull her closer. Even the sacrifice wants to pull her closer now, and she lets him, drawing them closer until Rudolf can gaze into her pale blue eyes. Are Tod’s eyes the same color? Rudolf imagines she must have gazed upon Tod in a way that he can as of yet only dream about.

He’s already lightheaded when the second tiny bit of pain comes, this time at Rudolf’s neck. He can feel the blood flowing, and how rapidly it’s leaving his body. Saturating the altar. Oh. Oh. For all there were stories of how Tod’s Cult killed, the deceptive gentleness of Aemilia’s touch and her hidden little knife seemed just as effective.

His vision starts to swim as Aemilia leans down even more, and grants Rudolf the wish he’d barely begun. Her lips are soft and there is something of Tod in them, in her. Something final. Something that Rudolf covets.

----

His eyes open all too quickly, but Tod is already gone. Aemilia - his panther - is still sitting on his feet. Rudolf gives her an affectionate scratch even as he murmurs a quick prayer of thanks to Tod. He knows what he must do.

#todolf #cultverse #my fic #this one has lots of little pieces of lore #that will be expanded on later #let's just say the method of death #is not something Tod is overly picky about

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randomvarious · 4 years

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The Champs - “Tequila” Fetenhits: Oldies Song released in 1958. Compilation released in 1999. Frat Rock / Rock & Roll / Latin Rock

Though The Champs spawned a handful of hits in their improbable seven-year run, it was their first hit, the instrumental, “Tequila,” which was originally recorded as a throwaway b-side, that would make them an indispensable piece of both popular music and rock and roll history. But before getting into the band’s formation and the song itself, let’s do a little bit of scene setting.

From history-of-rock.com:

The year 1958 saw a dramatic increase in short-lived fad rock and roll instrumental combos. Not that Rock and roll instrumentals hadn't been around before or that they wouldn't be around later. It was just that the floodgates opened wide in 1958. A year earlier, the biggest selling instrumental was "Raunchy" by it's co-composer Bill Justis. By the end of 1959, there was Santo and Johnny, Johnny and the Hurricanes, Dave "Baby" Cortez, Duane Eddy, the Fireballs, the Virtues, the Wailers, Link Wray and His Ray Men, the Royaltones, the Rock-A-Teens, Sandy Nelson, Cozy Cole and Preston Epps. However the group that really created the demand was the Champs.

It’s The Champs, a loose collection of session musicians who officially formed as a band after “Tequila” was released, who are responsible for the most memorable rock and roll instrumental of all time. It’s not groups who dedicated themselves full-time to rock and roll instrumentals; it’s these guys, who, not long after they released their debut album and started to tour, became a revolving-door-band, and added people like Glen Campbell and the duo that would become Seals and Crofts to their ranks. A random session that was originally intended to be just a one-off to fill a b-side for a 45 ended up selling millions of records, rocketing up to #1 on the Billboard charts, and winning a Grammy. Go figure.

Now for the origin story of the band, with more from history-of-rock.com:

The story of the Champs began with Dave Burgess, who was born December 13, 1934, in Beverly Hills, CA. Burgess first recorded for Okeh Records, a subsidiary of Columbia that issued country, blues, and jazz records. Burgess was eighteen when he recorded his first two Okeh singles: "Don't Put A Dent In My Heart" and "Too Late For Tears." In 1955, he recorded two singles for Tampa Records "Don't Turn Your Back On Love" and "Five Foot Two, Eyes Of Blue." All were country and had no success.

In 1956, Burgess was recording for Top Records. Top would take unknown, but talented artists, have them cover the latest hits as closely as possible to the original, then issue them four-to-a-record for forty nine cents. Top's slogan was "twice the music at half the cost" and it was a bargain until the unsuspecting buyer got home and played the record. Burgess appeared on an unknown amount of records, but at least ten came out with his name in the credits.

Ethics aside, Burgess got a first hand education in recording and performing while at Top. In 1957, while working as a deejay in Lancaster, CA. to [pass] time he composed songs and sent them off to various music houses. Two became very successful that year" "I'm Available" in the "pop" field and "I'll Be There" in the country market. [The Champs would later record an instrumental version of “I’ll Be There” as a b-side for “Tequila” in 1958.]

His songwriting brought him to Challenge Records, a Los Angeles company founded in April, 1957 by Gene Autrey (sp.).. There he recorded as Dave Dupree, as well as under his own name. Four of Challenge's first singles were recorded by Burgess, who became a regular session guitarist for Challenge.

A couple days before Christmas in 1957, a session was arranged in Hollywood by Challenge to record Burgess’ next single, “Train to Nowhere,” due to be released in January, along with a b-side. Sitting in on the session with Burgess, who was on rhythm guitar, were, according to Wikipedia, “Cliff Hills on bass, the Flores Trio (Danny Flores on saxophone and keyboards, Gene Alden on drums, and lead guitarist Buddy Bruce), and Huelyn Duvall contributing backing vocals.” The group had recorded two other songs to consider for the b-side, “Night Beat” and “All Night Rock,” the latter of which has never been released. But at the tail-end of the session came an instrumental ditty.

history-of-rock.com has more:

With some studio time remaining, Burgess asked the other musicians to stay to help him come up with a B-side for a record he had previously recorded.One musician offered a Tex-Mex sax line, another a snappy guitar riff, the drummer played a backbeat on the bell of his cymbal and Burgess plucked the muted strings of his electric guitar.The song was called "Tequila" and was spoken after each bridge. In ten minutes they had a take.

And that was that. Sometimes a musician or a producer knows when they’ve got a hit on their hands...but this wasn’t one of those times. “Tequila” was a pure filler track. The seller was gonna be “Train to Nowhere”. Everyone at the session knew that. But then, sometime in January, some radio DJ in Cleveland got a hold of “Train to Nowhere” and decided he would spin the b-side instead. And three weeks later, “Tequila” was all of a sudden the #1 song in America. Wild.

“Tequila” is nothing without Danny Flores, the man who graces the track with his trademark “dirty” sax melodies and the intermittent gravelly murmur of the word “tequila.” At the time of the song’s recording, he was actually signed to another label, so he couldn’t use his actual name on the record. Instead, he went by Chuck Rio. It was because of “Tequila” though, that Flores was crowned as the godfather of Latin rock. And while that’s a really cool title to have bestowed upon yourself, one can’t help but think of all the money he missed out on from selling his American rights to the song for what’s been reported as a paltry amount of money. However, it wasn’t all bad. He still had the global rights to the song, which was said to have netted him about seventy grand a year up until his death in 2006. A lot more than probably any other 50s rocker can say they made in residuals off a single song.

“Tequila” has staying power, I think, because it pulls a bunch of different ideas from a bunch of different music styles. Its composition is simple, its melodies are catchy, and the fact that rock and roll instrumentals were popular at the time was definitely a contributing factor to its success, too. But this song also simultaneously carries that hip, 50s cocktail lounge kind of vibe with its cymbal taps and its mambo beat; it has hand claps and an upbeat rock and roll tempo for dancing and partying; its guitar strums are poppy; the chorus has a definite, escalatory big band jazz/swing feel to it; and Flores’ sax tone is very reminiscent of the jazz-brass-sleaze that had constantly complemented burlesque and striptease dance routines (it’s hard to imagine that strip joints used to have house bands, but they did) for years prior. In fact, something could even be said about how “Tequila” manages to combine an air of lounge-y sophistication with its beat, while supplying over-the-top, trashy amounts of sax melodies with its lead, representing a sort of convergence of two opposite styles of contemporaneous nightlife: artsy hipsterdom vs. raw, transparent transactionalism. It’s all in one track and all at the same time. A song by The Champs, made for both camps.

Without a doubt, “Tequila” is the most popular rock and roll instrumental ever recorded. Its success was totally unforeseen, so much so, that The Champs formed after the thought-to-be-a-one-off, just-before-Christmas recording session in 1957 that birthed the song. They weren’t even an official band; mostly just some session musicians recording a b-side and having a bit of innocent fun in the studio. But that fun was both evident and highly contagious, which ended up lending to the song’s overall immortality, landing it as a staple track for just about any classic party mix, and opening the door for an oncoming era of pre-garage-frat-rock behemoths like “Louie Louie,” “Surfin’ Bird” and “Shout”.

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lorspolairepeluche · 4 years

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Favorite Writing 2019

ringing out this dumpster fire of a year by talking about the nice things i made during it. 2019 was pretty good for writing, having contained two-thirds of my last year of college (including my final portfolio for my creative writing major). under the cut are several handfuls of my favorite lines/passages/whatever i’ve written this year, sorted by what they’re from.

from Laudata Fidelis

“Lafi…”

The whisper is strangled, nearly gone, but it pierces its way into Lafi’s ears, and she turns her head on the ground, tearing her eyes from Killough’s sword, just in time to see Gendra’s hand outstretched for her. Lafi smiles, a small, bitter thing. We died together fourteen years ago too, didn’t we? “Close your eyes, Gendra.” This will be no crack on the head. There will be no surviving this.

Lafi considers for a moment before asking him the same question she asked his wife two weeks before: “Do you think I’m Aegri?”

She sees René look at her again out of the corner of her eye, head cocked like a curious dog’s. Finally, he asks, “Does it matter if I do or don’t? For that matter, does it matter if you are?”

“If you’re not open to change, sometimes change opens you,” René murmurs. When Lafi gives him a raised eyebrow and quirked mouth, he adds, “I mean, in the opens-you-from-neck-to-navel sense. It’s not a pretty metaphor. It’s what change did to me when I wasn’t ready.”

“That pack we were hunting last week has been a thorn in our side for ages. We got most of ‘em, oh, nine or so years back? But Claudia got clawed—ha, clawed—she’d kill me for laughing at that—got clawed up pretty bad. Lost that eye.”

[Nagendra. Thursday 10:28 am] The hunters corner Rene and are about to shoot him when (as he tells it) Justy shows up out of nowhere swinging a baseball bat and hollering HOME RUN as she cracks one across the back of his head.

[Me. Thursday 10:28 am] Holy shit.

[Nagendra. Thursday 10:28 am] Honestly when I heard that I knew exactly why Rene fell in love with her.

Justy’s really just an ordinary human who got caught up in this. She’s taken to it like a duck to water, but how did a woman ignorant enough to hit a hunter in the head with a baseball bat—yelling “home run,” no less—become the serious, motherly Guillory she is? (Does she still have the baseball bat?)

Killough has grabbed the creature’s focus and holds it tight as he says, “Hello. Goodbye.”

Lafi feels the magic move in the air—and settle in her arms. She looks up at Killough, shocked—is he setting the thing on me?—and is looking at the barrel of Killough’s pistol. “Killo—”

He fires.

Lafi’s ears ring with the sound of the shot for a few seconds before she realizes the sudden difference: the weight in her arms is heavier. The cub isn’t just asleep anymore, not with a bullet trail clear through its skull and its blood seeping into Lafi’s shirt.

“Wow, Laffy, are all your friends as rude as you?” Bridget asks snidely.

“Yes,” Lafi deadpans. “Absolutely gauche. Please get out of my seat.”

“I think it’s you who’s being rude.” Nagendra doesn’t raise her voice, but it catches everyone’s attention anyway as she steps just a little closer to Taylor. It’s dark and almost sibilant, and Lafi glances at her in alarm. Please don’t do anything stupid. “After all, there were already lunch trays at these seats.” Her face is neutral, maybe even an inch into pleasant, and somehow unnerving. “With food on them.” She leans down, just a little. “Our food.” It hits Lafi like lightning exactly why Nagendra’s so unsettling: she has let her pupils change to snakelike slits. “So please. May we have our seats back?”

Lafi Ness’s List Of Facts

One, Nagendra is half-dragon.

Two, I am a mage.

Three, I’ve known Nagendra for a week and a half, and only because the people Nagendra lives with kidnapped me.

Four, Nagendra does not have a crush on me.

Five. I do not have a crush on Nagendra.

Lafi’s sure that if she were a cartoon, her eyes would have sparkles in them as she watches Nagendra raise her arms above her head, relaxing before flexing her shoulders. Wings erupt from her shoulder blades, at first stumps, then small, folded things, then flaring out into true, membranous wings. Scales peek out from her skin, starting at her wing joints and adding one by one in an outward wave, over her shoulders and her arms until they cover her fingers and grow claws to replace her fingernails, down her torso to her legs as she kicks off her shoes and her feet become clawed too, up her neck and shooting up the sides of her face. When she blinks her eyes open, her pupils are slits again, and horns grow out from under her hair as she rolls her neck, her shoulders, her ankles, flares her wings until they settle to fold on her back. Nagendra shrugs awkwardly, a stark contrast to the grace of her transformation. “Well — what do you think?”

“I think…that was incredible,” Lafi breathes.

Nagendra flares her wings. “Come on. Let me show you how they work.”

“Oh, are there extra pectoral muscles to make them fla—AAAAAAHHHHHH!” Lafi’s question makes a quick swan-dive into a holler of fright as her feet suddenly leave the ground, Nagendra’s hands firmly holding hers as she takes off. “Ow!” she shouts as soon as her vertigo has passed. “Do you know how much that hurts my shoulders?”

“You big baby! I do this with Will all the time!”

“Will’s like, six! I’m much larger than her, and my shoulders are probably way less…mobile…”

“We’ll say I fought her and won,” Gloria says. “Elliot will believe that.”

“Not if it looks like I won.” Claudia flicks her wand, and Gloria slams back the few inches into the wall. “You two kids escaped during the fight, got that?” She almost has a gleam of amusement in her eye as Gloria groans more in annoyance than pain.

“Oh, so I see we’re going right back to the old days,” Gloria mutters, standing up and dusting herself off. “What are you two waiting for? Go!”

The dragon — it’s hard to think of her as Amy just yet — awkwardly shuffles around to let her head face Lafi. “I can at least get my wings spread this way — wow. Wings. I have wings.”

Despite every other dire thing happening outside this alley, Lafi can’t help but grin at the sight of the dragon’s snout scrunching up like her nose does in human form. Okay, yeah. That’s Amy.

She barely has time to look at Nagendra and smile and say, “Hey,” before Gendra closes the three steps’ distance to the bed, grabs Lafi’s chin — not ungently — and kisses her.

It’s kind of an awkward position for Lafi, so she just grabs Nagendra’s arm with one hand and hangs on for dear life as the kiss extends into way longer than their first one did. Gloria finally has to cough to let them know she’s still there.

Nagendra only pulls away to say, “You and Claudia were nonstop PDA that night in the lobby,” before going right back to kissing Lafi.

Lafi breaks away just a few seconds later to laugh. “Wow. Did you miss me that bad?”

“Look, I’ve gotten all of one chance before now to do that, and it was right after I almost died.” Nagendra presses her lips to Lafi’s forehead this time. “So sue me for being impatient to do it again.”

She still can’t walk loosely, or she pulls on the healing scar, even though the stitches are gone, but it’s worth it to push open the door to the office, bow over-dramatically, and say, “Baroness.”

“Shut up,” Gloria says good-naturedly after she swallows a gulp of her coffee.

“The pack says you’ve been hanging out at their house every weekend.”

“Yeah, uh, they’re my friends.” Lafi shrugs.

“And you would probably like us to not hunt your girlfriend?” Gloria sips from her coffee again, eyebrows raised pointedly over the mug.

Lafi’s face heats up, but she manages a level, “That would…be nice.”

from “The Apple and the Rose”

SNOW (CONT’D.)

I would like a bridge, please.

She steps out — and her foot is met by branches twisting themselves into a bridge. Little flowers bloom along the sides as Snow makes her way over the stream. Briar grins.

BRIAR

You’re a natural.

SNOW

Only following suit. Are you coming?

Briar follows Snow across the bridge, and from her first step, the bridge changes to mahogany where she touches it, rhododendron flowers bloom from the sides, and it becomes polished, as if newly built by hand and not by imagination. Briar changes too. For a longer moment than before, with chin held high, hand elegantly grazing along the handrail, and back straight and proud, she is the hundred-year-old queen she was meant to be.

Then she steps off the bridge, and the moment is gone, but she is smiling now.

BRIAR

It’s the way to break my curse. After one hundred years...true love’s kiss. You’re that true love, Snow. If I kiss you... I wake up. And I leave you here. Alone.

Snow considers, her eyes on Briar’s. Briar is desperate with her dilemma.

Snow steps forward, takes Briar’s face in her hands, and pulls her down to kiss her. Despite what she’s just said, Briar holds her close and kisses her harder.

After a few seconds, Snow breaks the kiss, puts her finger on Briar’s lips, and whispers:

SNOW

Find me.

CUT TO:

INT. BRIAR’S BEDROOM - DAY

CLOSE ON BRIAR’S FACE

Briar’s eyes fly open.

from “Intelligence,” pilot episode of Star Trek: Magellan

K’RALTA

You have your orders, Krya.

Krya shoots K’Ralta a glare.

KRYA

SoH Hu’tegh petaQ.

Her statement startles Sloan, but she doesn’t notice as she storms past him out of the office.

K’RALTA

You’ll have to excuse the Commander. I don’t think she’s aware you understand Klingon.

SLOAN

…Sir?

K’RALTA

A shame, really, that she doesn’t put more effort into learning to curse properly, when that’s mostly what she does when she speaks Klingon.

TASOVA

This isn’t the first ship named Enterprise I’ve ever served on. Yeah. I served under Kirk. Patched him up several times, too. So don’t doubt me, Lieutenant: any fight you tell me about, Kirk was in it first.

MAGELLAN

I was programmed from the first to understand that not everyone would accept me as more than the standard computer, and certainly not as a person.

Arisawa frowns, but turns back to her stage.

ARISAWA

(still yelling)

Well, if you can choose a favorite rock song, you’re a person by my reckoning! Come on!

She runs back out to center stage, slinging the guitar’s strap around her neck and skidding to a halt before—

CLOSE ON GUITAR

—striking a chord.

from the untitled story of Team MCHN and Team WBAT

Helia and Celeste and Nebula follow Taiyang, but Matu doesn’t need his guidance at all; they follow the path their heart remembers, even if every step hurts because they know what they’ll find at the end of it—and what they won’t find.

The door comes into sight, and they’re almost surprised to find that Boreas has kept it painted the same midnight blue.

The door comes into sight, and a shard of the past stabs into their heart—the window next to it isn’t fogged with the steam from the kettle.

The door comes into sight, and Matu’s muscle memory stops them short, expecting a bright-eyed blond girl to come crashing out the door and right into them, yelling for a sparring match.

The door does not open. Ourana isn’t there. The shard in Matu’s heart twists.

from the untitled story of Siobhan Killdeer, Sawbones Alchemist

“I was going to get my State Alchemist certification then too, but…well, I was a medic in Ishval. I didn’t want to be another human weapon.”

“Aren’t you a medical alchemist? They would have kept you on as a medic, right?”

Siobhan looked up at Edward, and her bright, casual tone disappeared. “Yes. I’m a medical alchemist. I know all the best ways to heal the human body. I also know all the worst ways to hurt it. Which do you think the bastards would have had me using in a war of extermination?”

“I’ve never…I don’t know best what to say here, but I want to put that ring on your finger. If you’ll have me.”

“I already said yes.” Siobhan’s arms curl around his chest, making sure he can feel as much of her as possible above his waist. “I’ll have you. Every inch of you, Jean Havoc, if you’ll have me in return.”

“Of course. I hope I always will.”

“Jean, one more thing before I fall asleep.”

“Yeah?”

“Shave your goddamn chin mange. I’m not marrying you with that awful beard.”

He rumbles with laughter against her, and she lets out a laugh of her own on a breath as he says, “Maybe when you get back again. See if you like it then.”

“I won’t, I promise.” And echoed in the words: I’ll come back. I promise.

from various “found” poetry cobbled together for a class winter term

a pale king

the voice says faintly, “Ah...my greatest failure.” no regard for what you could be, Are you sorry? sharp and angry. I thought I had paid the perfect cost Yes. Yes, I am sorry. (you never said that) “Father,”

Volatile Explosives

“So when did you build a cannon?” I was insane. a genius, “Genius he may be, but he’s still off his fucking rocker.” Yes, that’s true. But about the cannon… It’ll break after just one shot. “One shot?” I’ll try not to make any mistakes. “Ah, excellent!” What do you think? “About what?”

All Lit Up (And I Start To Smile)

This is gonna be a train wreck of happiness.

It’s many hundred miles, and it won’t be long.

If you hear sirens, come kiss me goodbye.

So if you need me…start screaming.

I’m out of my head, of my heart, of my mind.

Don’t sacrifice temporal accuracy for enthusiasm.

Don’t let me falter; don’t let me hide; don’t let the earth in me subside.

Do not go far from me.

I have lived o’er my lives without number.

If we’re going to be damned, let us be damned for what we really are.

Get busy growing or stand in place and decay.

Nor are you just another biological organism.

The universe is expanding, and so should you.

Why change the past when you can own this day?

Drive blind on an untethered joyride through hell.

Sound the horn and call the cry;

I can hear your voices bouncing off the moon.

It’s still you looking out.

Life needs things to live.

Life needs love to live.

Long may your innocence reign,

And God bless the grass.

Be bold. Be brave. Be courageous. Black alert.

Tinkerty tonk.

from “Emma,” a retelling of Bluebeard

She reaches to the very back of her closet as soon as she gets to her room and yanks out a wooden hanger with black draped over it. She dons the three-piece suit carefully. This is her wedding attire, not the stupid, flouncy dress she wore to marry him. This is what she would have worn to marry Lizzie.

Lizzie who has absolutely no reason to come after Emma, or to call 911, or to even listen to the messages she left. Lizzie who she left when she cowed to Mom’s insistence. Poor Lizzie. Poor, dearest Lizzie. Emma blows a kiss out the window for her. It feels like too little, too late.

from “Patrick, Donald, and the Great Ride,” a short play written for the family reunion in August

DONALD: He searched us. What, did he think we were smuggling guns in? Tequila? Bubblegum?

from “Drawing From...: On Writing, Life, and the Writing Life,” the introductory essay to my final portfolio

My kindergarten pièce de résistance was written in a fit of pique. Mrs. Steuber had read us a poem about a teddy bear, fluffy and perfect—except it was far from perfect. It was a brown teddy bear, and I knew better than the author that white teddy bears were the way to go, evidenced by my own beloved Snowball. So, armed with colorful markers, I rewrote the poem to be about the proper color bear.

Eighteen years later, a lot of my writing comes from the same well of indignation inside me.

There’s really no other way to come up with the line “I cast ‘healing word’ on Big Thokk, and the word is ‘dumbass’” than when my kleptomaniac traveling partner knocks himself out trying to steal gems and I, the long-suffering healer, have to get him back on his feet.

Echoes and echoes and echoes, from Ancient Greece to mid-20th-century Maryland, to 21st-century Illinois.

And as I write this, I’m in a minivan with my friends, Peter driving us to Chicago as Marion plays “This Year” by the Mountain Goats from her phone, and we sing along with gusto: “I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me!” Well, hopefully it won’t kill me. I’ll take a step back, a breath, make sure I have my words with me, and treat the cliff as a starting block like every one I’ve dove off to begin a race. Even if I don’t know what I’m swimming when I hit the water—or if I’ll hit the water at all—I’ll step up, I’ll take my mark, and I’ll go.

i’ll end there; i think “this year” is an appropriate place to end 2019. happy new year, you series of disasters of a decade. you made me who i am; thanks for that. i’m going on ahead now.

(i am gonna make it through this year if it kills me...)

#formatting the screenplay stuff was a bitch and a half and i HOPE it works right #shhh the bear's writing #happy new year #looking at this w the rainbow blockquotes extension is....really nice lmao

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aceprosecuties · 6 years

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Any reason why you don't like ships like Cykesquill but ship other agencia gap ship like Sheith. I don't see the difference and Keith literally call Shiro a brother. Honestly to me it seems like fujo hypocrisy

So, nonnie, I’m only answering this once but my suggestion is to not come at me again with this anti nonsense because I legit cannot stand it and I will ignore and block it after this. I have made my stances very well known on these sorts of subjects. Besides the fact that you’re also asking me about she//ith on my AA blog, which I find incredibly frustrating.

Also, apologies if this ends up in the cykes//quill tag; I know tumblr’s whole thing with word censoring can get obnoxious.

(I also find it funny that you’re comparing those two ships instead of justi//cykes and she//ith, which have a supposedly more comparable age gap…but I enjoy justi//cykes so I guess that wouldn’t fit your narrative, I suppose.)

(cut for length)

First of all, I personally do not ship cykes//quill but I could care less if other people do. I’m not in the business of policing ships because I find ship policing to be a ridiculous waste of time and energy - once upon a time I allowed myself to get slightly sucked into that rhetoric for fear of having people be angry with me. I hated feeling like that, especially since I felt like I was becoming more accepting of bullying tactics and I spent more time hating on things I disliked rather than enjoying the things I loved. It wasn’t good for me. I wanted to focus more on what I loved (with the occasional salt because I’m only human); isn’t that what fandom is supposed to be about?

The only thing that those two ships have in common is a supposed age gap, so I find it interesting that you chose to compare them (especially because the age gap isn’t really the reason I don’t ship Athena and Simon). I say supposed, because the age discourse is all out of whack in Voltron - there are a ton of official sources saying different things, from the guidebook saying 25/18 to summaries of the show saying “five teenagers.” Then of course there is the question of how long the garrison lasts: is it a college or more like graduate school? Either way, I never saw Shiro as being 25; to me he was always around 21/22 when he finished at the garrison, making him more like Keith’s upperclassman. But that’s besides the point; even at 18 and 25 I would ship them, because an age gap does not automatically equate to terrible elements in the ship. Can it lead to it? Sure, but that’s on a case-by-case basis and based on the people involved.

Keith does not say that Shiro is literally a brother to him - he says he is like a brother to him, and this has never really impeded shipping or canon romance. Take a look at Brooklyn Nine-Nine; in s1ep19 (Tactical Village), Jake tells Charles that Amy is like a sister. By season 3, they are in a romantic relationship. Now, season 5 (spoiler alert) they are engaged. Similarly, in The Office, Pam remarks (I’m not sure what episode it is of the top of my head) at some point that Jim is like a brother to her. They get married.

My point is: saying someone is like a family member does not impede romance blossoming. It could also be said simply because you’re trying to deny romantic feelings for fear of rejection or something else.

I hate the fact that the ‘like a brother’ line, which is so deep for Shiro and Keith since Keith was orphaned and has feelings of abandonment and thus shows how deeply he cares about Shiro and how vital it is for Shiro to be with him, has been co-opted by antis to mean “these two are literal brothers.” That is not what that line is, and using it to push that racist bro//ganes agenda is frustrating. (I will not get into the racist overtones of bro//ganes; other people have explained it far better than I would be able to.)

Shiro and Keith have a much different dynamic than Athena and Simon in my eyes and again, I kind of can’t believe that you would compare them. Not because I like one and dislike the other, but because they are fundamentally two different things, even as romantic ships. Simon and Athena have playful banter that involves basically poking fun of each other underscored with a lot of history - they know how much they care about each other, but he does insult her because that is how he is…but she gives it right back to him also. In my experience, this is how siblings act, so that is how I see them. Shiro and Keith do not have this at all. They do not act in this manner - I can never see Keith nor Shiro really insulting the other even in that playful manner. They are different characters than Athena and Simon; more serious in general compared to our panda and chickadee duo. Keith and Shiro also share just…a ton of really tender and soft looks and moments, and Shiro is kind of like Keith’s trigger - when he is gone, Keith mourns him so intensely that he would have rather had no Voltron than accept that Shiro might not be returning. He goes off the rails a bit, because Shiro is Keith’s “guiding light” according to Lauren Montgomery. He gives up so much for Shiro, and Shiro trusts Keith more than anyone else as well.

To me, Athena and Simon’s relationship isn’t built on their relationship so much as it is originally built on Simon’s devotion to Metis. Not that Simon doesn’t love or care for Athena, but he specifically says that “…some things in this world are more important than your own life.” When asked to clarify, he says “[M]y honor-bound duty to protect with my life…my mentor’s most beloved treasure.” His ultimate reasoning for doing what he did relies on Metis rather than specifically Athena. Again, this is not to say that he loves Athena any less; I just think that his devotion to Metis - his mentor and essentially his lord or master (since he identifies as a samurai) is what set him down that path.

This is a big reason why I don’t really ship them.

(That and, yes, I find it personally squicky that he basically babysat her when she was a kid. I know she grows up and is an adult in the present time stuff but that squick remains for me personally.)

So, yes, I will stop now even though I can easily continue, since I never really know if people will read something this lengthy anyway. Where you interested in my actual reasoning or did you just want to say I had ‘fujo hypocrisy?’ Either way, there you go. I imagine I did not convince you, but hopefully you’ll understand me more now

#allie answers #I really dislike antis so please do not come at me with this again #also sorry @ AA people for the sheith discussion #yeah I like justi//cykes but you've conveniently ignored that #and I don't ship 'age gaps' in the sense that /that/ is the reason for shipping/not shipping #it is about the dynamic first and foremost #allie's salt #Anonymous

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stevepotterwrites · 3 years

Text

A GLORIOUS THOUGHT EXCURSION: On John Olson’s Novel In Advance of the Broken Justy

https://bookshop.org/a/8227/9781935835172

John Olson's thoughtful and often humorous new novel, In Advance of the Broken Justy, opens with a somewhat Kafkaesque quest to find medical attention for the narrator's wife's infected eye late at night in Paris during a doctor's strike and ends on January 8th, 2015 with news of the previous day's terrorist attack on the Charlie Hebdo offices playing on the television in their hotel room as they prepare to leave for home.

In the pages between the personal crisis and the international one, we are introduced to the oddball mix of neighbors in the narrator's thin-walled building who are driving him and his wife, Ronnie, crazy with noise from construction projects, stomping feet, and rather explicitly audible sounds of digestive functions from a neighboring bathroom. Noisy neighbors are enough to drive any introverted, bookish homebody nuts, but our unnamed protagonist tells us, during a seemingly obsessive and often hilariously aggrieved section of narration reminiscent of Thomas Bernhard, that he additionally suffers from hyperacusia — a heightened sensitivity to noise, and tinnitus — ringing in the ears, as well as Generalized Anxiety Disorder for which he has been prescribed a variety of antidepressants through the years.

It's not only their immediate living situation that is cause for aggravation, the couple are also dealing more generally with a growing dissatisfaction with life in rapidly-changing Seattle. Olson writes that his dislike of Seattle, “evolved over a period of time, like an allergy that starts out with a minor rash and then grows into strange secretions and the constant application of topical ointments.” As their disaffection with Seattle grows, so does their love of Paris. “...we each felt an attachment that had become deeply emotional, like a drug. We had become addicted to this city. It inhabited us, as Ronnie put it.”

The love of Paris among certain artistically-inclined Americans has a longstanding literary and cinematic history, of course. Mr. Olson's novel continues a lineage tracing back at least as far as Ernest Hemingway's A Movable Feast and F. Scott Fitzgerald's “Babylon Revisited” through Richard Yates's Revolutionary Road to Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris. Unlike Gil Pender, the protagonist of Mr. Allen's film, who is mostly enthralled with fantasies of Cole Porter, Hemingway, the Fitzgeralds, Gertrude Stein and other American ex-pats in Paris during the Jazz Age, Olson's two protagonists are most interested in actual French poets, writers and artists such as; Rimbaud, Georges Perec, Michel Tournier, Gaston Bachelard, Raymond Queneau and Pierre Michon. And while their yearning for Paris is similar to that of the couple at the center of Revolutionary Road, it is a rather more grown-up and grounded love of the City of Lights. Olson's protagonists are a pair of older, working-class poets not young, upper-middle-class, suburban dilettantes like Yates's Frank and April Wheeler.

In addition to their dissatisfaction with home and city, the couple are also dealing with the loss of their beloved car, the broken Subaru Justy of the novel's title. After attempting to adapt to a car-less life, including several comic misadventures with public transit and Car2Go, the narrator takes some money out of savings to buy another used Subaru but somewhat spontaneously decides he'd rather take a trip to Paris than own a car again. Ronnie agrees. Plans are made, tickets are purchased, and their ongoing study of French is kicked into a higher gear. Away they go.

The narrator alludes to dark and outrageous moments in his past, back when he was still drinking and taking drugs. “At the age of eighteen, I left my father's house and struck out for California, following the scent of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll. I was into Dylan and the Rolling Stones. I liked the Beatles, but they remained a bit too wholesome for my rebel-without-a-cause setup. And after reading Aldous Huxley's seminal essay, The Doors of Perception, I had a raging desire to experiment with psychedelic drugs.”

He tells briefly of getting beaten up at a New Years Eve party in Burien, attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, and three failed marriages. One suspects Olson could write some fine fiction of wild times, drunkenness, heartache and despair in a Kerouacian or Carveresque vein if he felt the urge to mine his past, but part of what I love about this novel is that it doesn't do that. The image of the artist as a young wild man is a popular one and there have certainly been more than enough misbehaving poets, musicians, painters, novelists and so forth to give that cliché some weight, but what makes an artist an artist is serious, longstanding dedication to one's art. It's refreshing to read a novel that dispenses with the youthful misbehavior in a few short sentences and instead depicts the couple at its center as actual grown-up artists.

In Advance of the Broken Justy is not a novel which glorifies the wild kicks of youth or wallows in the despair of drunkenness and divorce, but rather one which celebrates more mature, quiet kicks like the contemplation of works of art in the Musée d'Orsay, the Louvre, and the Georges Pompidou Centre. It is a celebration of bookstores not barrooms. The narrator and Ronnie go on a sort of literary safari, with guidance provided by a list of the best bookstores in Paris received via email from the French poet Claude Royet-Journoud, and enjoy a cafe visit with the poet and translator Michel Deguy.

“One of the main reasons I wanted to go to Paris was so I could stand in a real bookstore once again before I die,” Olson writes. “The bookstores in the United States have deteriorated into something little better than a gift shop, or those book and magazine shops you sometimes see at the airport. Trashy titles. Nothing of any real interest.” He's not grown so jaded that he's lost all perspective, however, and can still see quality on those rare occasions it may be found. He goes on later in that passage to praise Elliott Bay Books and Open Books and elsewhere declares Magus Books in the University District to be one of the best, if not the best, used bookstores he's ever been to.

While at certain points it's clear that the author's imagination is at play, much of In Advance of the Broken Justy reads close to straight autobiography. That, of course, does not necessarily mean that it is, but the pleasures of reading the novel, for me, were often more akin to those of nonfiction. David Shields, among others, would argue that the distinction between fiction and nonfiction is meaningless. Whiile there is some validity to that stance in that in either case the author is working with a blend of memory and imagination, I think it is a bit of an overstatement. Phillip Lopate writes in a section of To Show and To Tell: The Craft of Literary Nonfiction in which he compares and contrasts the tendencies of nonfiction versus those of fiction that, “What makes me want to keep reading a nonfiction text is the encounter with a surprising, well-stocked mind as it takes on the challenge of the next sentence, paragraph, and thematic problem it has set for itself.... None of these examples read like short stories or screenplays; they read like what they are: glorious thought excursions.”

It is Olson's surprising, well-stocked mind which is of the greatest interest here, the consciousness which regards what happens more so than the particulars of what happens, that takes interesting digressions into considerations of the work of Bob Dylan, Marcel Duchamp, Georges Braque, and organic chemist August Kekulé among others. Of the other books I've read recently, it is Patti Smith's second memoir, M Train, I find it most similar to in both tone and content. Smith, the poet-rocker legend, and Olson, the poet's poet who can count luminaries such as Michael McClure, Clayton Eshleman and the late, great Philip Lamantia among his fans, are exact contemporaries, Ms. Smith being the elder by only a matter of months. Their influences overlap to a considerable degree. Both books weave together narratives of domesticity and travel. Both books present the day-to-day lives of practicing artists and consider the lives of their artistic influences. Both books recount journeys to literary sacred ground in search of a sort of spiritual contact high with forebears and idols.

Mr. Lopate's phrase, “glorious thought excursions,” seems like the perfect description of much of Olson's output. Fans of his prose poetry will find moments replete with the reeling riffs of surrealistic, hallucinatory lyricism familiar from his books such as Oxbow Kazoo, Echo Regime, Logo Lagoon and Eggs & Mirrors in the pages of In Advance of the Broken Justy. Preparations for the sale of their 500 square foot condo and a move away from their infuriatingly noisy building (preparations for naught, as it turns out, for neither sale nor move ever transpire within the pages of the novel) instigates a stream of thoughts on the nature of reality leading eventually to the following passage:

“When consciousness meets reality the result is milk. Traffic lights blossom into prayer wheels. Laundry folds itself into armies of tide pool angst and marches around like generalities of floral chambray. Rain falls up instead of down. The acceptance of frogs liberates bubbles of pulp. Time sags with basement ping pong tournaments. Garrets ovulate glass bagatelles. Realism percolates prizefight sweat. Details sparkle like crawling kingsnakes in the mouth of a Mississippi attorney.”

In Advance of the Broken Justy is a thoughtful, grown-up novel for the sort of thoughtful, grown-up readers who seek out real bookstores and is not likely to have much appeal to fans of those trashy, escapist titles found in the sad, little book and magazine shops in airports Olson derides.

Review by Steve Potter. Previously appeared in A Screw in the Shoe from Golden Handcuffs Review Publications.

#book review #john olson #in advance of the broken justy #contemporary fiction #paris #seattle

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