#nice work if you can get it

[gallabitch73]

Galladrabbles: Chore

Thanks to @lupeloto and @galladrabbles for this week's prompt!

They’d been at Whole Foods for roughly forty minutes and had only collected two of the needed ingredients for Ian’s pasta so far.

Mickey, beyond irritated bellows, “Jesus, Red. Can’t we just pick a damn can of sauce and be done with it?  Why is everything always so much work with you?”

“I didn’t realize it was such a chore to be with me, Mick.”

“The fuck you didn’t. You realized. And you fucking love it. You love all of it.”

“What I fucking love is all of you.”

Ian crushed their lips together.

“Fuck.”

They went home, sans ingredients.

[lilithsaintcrow]

"There is no path to saving this profession that does not begin with coming to grips with the fact that no scholar in the US can truly be secure if their colleagues are insecure."

[southwarkfair]

So fortunately (or perhaps very very unfortunately) there has been a breakthrough in the "comprachico" mystery, which I am now apparently committed to investigating. 

I mentioned that the name/general description was brought up in some academic studies on jesters I was reading - one of these (the most recently published) actually does have a pretty exhaustive list of sources, though they're reproduced quite uncritically and with a lot of tortured speculation by the author. The only locatable english-language source the author used for their mention of "comprachicos" is a victorian book, "giants and dwarfs" by Edward Wood, published 1868. Not that impressive on its own, theres a lot of victorian pseudohistory out there. Interestingly though, it appears to have come out one year before l'homme qui rit, and cites a verifiably existant pre-victorian source. "Miscellanea curiosa, medica, psysica", a medical journal from 1670, published in Leipzig, Germany. This is also cited by the first book I mentioned.

This journal (as far as i can tell its the right one? the date is one year off) is available in full on Internet archive, along with Wood's book, both of which i will link at the end. Like many historical medical texts, it is written entirely in Latin. I, alas, due to my mere peasant's education, cannot read a word of it. I did briefly skim for the word 'comprachico', but since there is no mention of this word or of any specific individual or group carrying out the mutilations in Wood's book either, this seemed unlikely and I predictably did not find anything. I also looked out for diagrams that might seem to pertain to the folkloric "dwarfing" practice described by Wood. There were one or two that I thought might possibly be related but i won't share them here as i imagine many would rightfully find them upsetting.

However, I did wonder if the Leipzig journal might be the one referenced by Hugo in the actual in-universe action of l'homme qui rit, when ursus looks up gwynplaine's mutilation in an old Latin medical text. I double checked and the book owned by ursus is actually called "de denasatis" by "Dr John conquest". On the off-chance that this was anything resembling a real book, I searched for it and found a reddit thread linking another article, written in 1910, by John Boynton Kaiser. This article, from the Journal Of Criminal Law and Criminology, was pondering on the exact same question as I was - the origin of Hugo's comprachicos. On the topic of "artificial jesters", it again cites the same Leipzig journal as Wood.

It also goes into detail on Hugo's possible historical inspirations, for the story in general and specifically for the comprachicos. Kaiser claims, I think correctly, that even if the idea is not new, the word itself was made up by hugo. I used this tool, which scans for keywords in archived Google books going back to the year 1500, and there is no mention of comprachicos or any variation thereof until after the publication date of l'homme qui rit. The name is apparently a simple mashup of spanish words for "male child" and "purchase". or as google translate would have it, uh

Kaiser writes that in hugo's journals the author also considered other names for his "child-buying" group based on other languages, and he apparently wasn't sure what their ethnicity should be. This further points to the fact that the specific group itself is made up, though he apparently maintained among colleagues that it was real.

I should note that the English texts I have linked, if you are interested in reading them for yourself, are deeply disturbing in content as well as archaic and prejudiced in tone:

https://archive.org/details/b24887067

https://archive.org/details/s3id11855980/page/12/mode/2up?view=theater

https://scholarlycommons.law.northwestern.edu/jclc/vol4/iss2/8/

None of this, of course, proves definitively that such "artificial jester" practices were ever carried out in real life, by an organized group or otherwise. It moreso just indicates, as I suspected, that they weren't fully invented by Hugo. Kaiser's article claims there is other evidence, but i really dont know at this point. Honestly I'm now very much hoping that all this shit is completely made up, because Jesus fucking christ.

Anyway, aside from that, the 1910 article maintains that hugo documented his research and writing process extensively in his journals and personal papers. I'm quite excited by this prospect, as it might provide answers to some other questions I've been wondering about, such as the origins of the many unique character names. I'll have to see if anyone has translated any of this background material into English. Or perhaps i could learn French. Its getting to the point where I might have to just learn French 

[rumpunch]

actually ykw here’s some more old art from like 2018-19 of jessie mueller

[sl-newsie]

Chapter Twenty Two: A New Beginning (Spot Colon x Female Newsie)

I tell tha kids their bedtime stories early so I can leave and wait outside for Spot. It’s a bit cooler out, and tha moon’s full…

“Enjoy’n tha view?” Comes a voice. Spot approaches oudda tha shadows. “Here’s a bedda view for ya.” He spreads his arms out, indicat’n himself.

“I donno… That wall ova there’s pretty interest’n…” I tease.

I still tense up when Spot puts his arm around me, but then I relax and lean in a little.

“Ya still scared of me?” Spot asks mockin’ly.

“Scared-a luv, I guess. I’ve always had to block it out and rely on myself.”

“Don’t worry- luv can’t hurt ya if ya stay smart about it. I ain’t gonna use you, I promise.” Spot squeezes me tighter and begins to run his hands through my hair, enjoy’n himself.

“Touch my hair again, and I’ll rip your fingers off,” I threaten lightly. But I let him keep comb’n it, feel’n nice to know that someone sees me as ‘pretty.’

Tonight, tha bridge looks even more glorious in tha moonlight, and while be’n held by Spot- it’s a moment that makes me really appreciate my life.

We stop to look down at tha wadda, and our faces mesh togedda. In tha reflection, I see Spot lean over and kiss my neck. It releases a sensation that makes me go numb.

“Will ya dance with me?” He asks outta tha blue.

“What?”

“It’s a good night for it, and I just feel like dance’n,” Spot admits.

“Um, no.”

“C’mon- give a guy a dance!”

“I don’t no noth’n ‘bout no danc’n-”

Spot gapes. “Ya kidd’n? You’s danced before!”

“I mean waltz’n! All tha fancy stuff!”

“Poifect- neither do I.” Spot takes my hand and grips my waist, send’n electricity through me. He begins to sway, and I do tha same. Then our feet start to move, glide’n back and forth, up and down, in a circle…

“I thought you’s said ya didn’t know how to dance.” I look at him smugly.

“Well… I may have exaggerated a bit.”

My mouth hangs open. “How in tha woild does Spot Colon, tha King of Brooklyn, know how to dance?”

“Maybe me modda taught me how.” Spot looks distant.

“She did?”

“Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t.”

I can tell someth’n’s bother’n him, so I lean in and rest my head on his shoulder. “Sean, you can tell me. Whatever it is you’s upset about, anytime at all, just tell me. Maybe I can help.”

Spot sighs, make’n my head rise and fall with him. “You’s done enough for me, Beauty. More than my parents ever could. And I thanks you for that.” He kisses tha top of my head. “My folks… my folks are dead.”

I stop move’n and look up at Spot’s sad eyes. “Oh God, Sean, I’m so sorry. I never thought-”

He puts a finger on my lips. “It ain’t someth’n for you to worry about.”

I nod up and down, then gently ask: “H-How?”

“House fire. I’s was tha only one to make it out. When I woke up tha next day, they was dead.”

I shudder. It’s one thing to hate your family that’s live’n, but to miss ‘em when they’s dead?

I nod again. “When?”

“I was 8. I wander’d around Brooklyn and met Bucky, and we both got jobs as newsies. I never wanna go back, ‘cause I wanna forget. This is my life now.”

I keep nod’n, remember’n my own modda. “They’s still with you. Maybe ya can’t see ‘em, but they’s there.” I bite my lip as tears threaten to form. “I never got to know me modda, but when I miss her I just imagine she’s near me, somewhere.”

Spot lifts my head up and I hastily try to wipe my face clean. “You don’t need to do that.”

I chuckle. “Yeah I do. I look like a mess-”

“Ya look beautiful. Maybe we’s each got problems, but I’s learned to forget ‘em. Maybe they are around us, but I focus on tha live’n here and now.” Spot tickles my sides and I cry out in high-pitched giggles. “And right now, you’s made me tha happiest guy in tha world.”

“Ok, ok! Just- just- Stop it!” I laugh as I try to push away.

“You ain’t get’n away that easy!” Spot tickles me more, and I fall to tha ground laugh’n. Eventually he stops, and I gasp for breath. “There ain’t a dull moment with you, Spot. That’s for sure!”

“You bet!” He helps me up.

“And ya know what it is?”

Spot frowns. “What?”

I smile, and sing:

(’S Wonderful from Nice Work If You Can Get It)

“'S wonderful, 'S marvelous.

You should care for me.

'S awfully nice, 'S paradise.

'S what I love to see!

You've made my life so glamorous!

You can't blame me for feeling amorous!

Oh 'S wonderful, 'S marvelous.

You should care for me!”

Spot has his arms crossed and is lean’n on tha bridge’s railing. “How often do ya sing?”

“How often do ya want me to?”

He smirks. “Sing for me every day and your debt it paid off. That’s my fee, Beauty.”

I grin. “My dear, it's four-leaf clover time.”

Spot joins in: “From now on my heart's working overtime!”

We both sing:

“Oh! 'S wonderful, marvelous,

That you should care for me!”

I walk behind Spot and put my hands on his shoulders.

“Don't mind telling you

In my humble fash,

That you thrill me through

With a tender pash.

When you said you care

'Magine my emosh;

I swore, then and there,

Permanent devosh.

You made all other boys seem blah;

Just you alone filled me with ahh!”

“Oh, 'S wonderful! 'S marvelous --

You should care for me!

'S awful nice! 'S paradise!

'S what I love to see!”

Spot grins.“You've made my life so glamorous!”

I punch him lightly. “You can't blame me for feeling amorous!”

“Oh! 'S wonderful!

'S marvelous!

That you should care for me!”

We walk to tha board’n house in a comfortable silence. When we get there, Lucky and Mink come run’n up. I kneel down and they nearly knock me over in a hug.

“Becs! You came back!”

“‘Course I did- I promised to tell you’s a story, didn’t I?”

“Hey, Spot! Ya brought back tha maid!” Chance yells ova.

“Shut up!” A short but stocky guy with black hair and dark eyes shoves him. He walks over and smiles. “Hi! I’m Danny! We’s haven’t met yet, but when I hoid Spot Colon’s been bring’n a goil over, I had to see for meself!”

I spit and shake his hand. “Name’s Becs.”

“Kelly’s sista?”

“Yup.”

Spot speaks up. “Becs, Danny here’s from Queens. His twin brodda Vinny’s in Harlem. They’s always go’n to-and-from everywhere, so you’s be see’n a lotv ‘em.” 

Danny grins. “We’s neva go to ‘Hattan much ‘cause there ain’t much business for us there, so that’s why you don’t know us.” He looks at Spot. “She your goil?”

Spot’s eyes flick at me, unsure how to respond.

I cross my arms and answer for him. “Yeah, I am.” 

“Gee, Spot! I never thought I’d ever meet someone who’d be able to put up with Spot Colon. Hey Becs, ya ever met Zippy?”

I squint. What kind of a name is Zippy? “No. Who’s them?”

“She’s Danny’s goil, from tha Bronx. You’d like her.” Spot says, then announces: “It’s get’n late! To bed, all-a you’s!” He walks over and starts talk’n to Bucky.

“Well, it was nice to meet ya, Danny. I hope to meet your brodda someday. It’s… nice to feel wanted.”

“‘Course it is! What’s tha madda? You’s never been outside ‘Hattan?”

I look down, embarrassed. “Only when I had to, which was almost never.”

“Too bad. Well,” Danny puts a hand on my shoulder. “Welcome to tha New York family!”

I squint. “What’s tha catch?”

“No catch. We’s don’t accept just anybody, but you’s proven to be trustworthy. And tough! I mean really, one of tha strike leaders? Ha!” He slaps my back. “You’ll fit right in!”

“Oh… thanks.” I say ‘goodnight’ and go to tha kids’ room. Immediately, they all jump oudda their bunks and crowd me.

“Tell us a story!” A boy named Tommy begs.

“Yeah!”

“Someth’n scary!”

“No, someth’n with princesses!” Ness suggests.

“Gross!”

I notice Lucky, Mink, Binx, and Ness all sit togedda, away from tha boys. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“We always sit together,” Binx says.

“Why?”

“‘Cause they make fun of us.”

“They do? And ya just ignore ‘em?”

The four nod.

“That won’t solve anyth’n! You’s godda say someth’n! If they’s don’t treat you right, soak ‘em! But right now, just sit by them. I’ll make sure they’s don’t give you’s any trouble.” I hoid them into tha group.

“The goils are sit’n by me…” A boy called Tim complains.

“If anybody has a problem with them, leave!” I threaten. No one moves. “Good. So, here’s a story about 2 kids lost in tha woods…”

After tha story’s done, all tha kids are nearly all but sleep’n. I see Spot poke his head in.

“They’s sleep’n?”

“Yeah.”

“Ya tired?”

I start to respond, but I’m interrupted by my own yawn.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” Spot takes my hand and leads me up tha stairs, all tha while I’m try’n to keep my eyes open. We get to tha top and I’m comforted by tha familiar room.

“Lemme guess, you’s gonna sleep on tha floor again?” I ask dully.

Spot smirks. “Maybe, if ya want me to.”

I think for a second. “No, you can sleep with me.” My eyes widen when I realize what I said. “No! I mean-! Uh-!”

Spot laughs. “Relax, I get it! Just lie down before ya fall over.” 

He’s right- I’s almost asleep. I lay down on tha soft mattress, and feel Spot join me. “Need help take’n your… what is that thing called anyway?”

I groan and roll my eyes. “Ya really can’t let it go, can ya? Typical- guy sees someth’n weird and it’s godda do with a goil, they just godda know about it!”

Spot lightly shoves me. “Hey! You’s say that there’s goil things a guy won’t understand, and I’s say’n there’s guy things a goil won’t understand!” 

I grunt. “Fair enough. It’s called a half-corset. It helps… keep my chest flat.” My voice fades. I’m so embarrassed… “And no, I don’t need help.” I slip my arms under my shirt and quickly take it off.

“Still looks painful.”

“Shut up.”

I lay down and rub my temples. What a day… We won a strike, I got a guy who likes me...

I feel a strong arm cross my waist and pull me over. Once I’d’ve flinched and soaked any guy who’d’ve tried to touch me, but now… I ain’t nervous. I actually don’t mind it. Without think’n, I lightly trace my fingers up and down Spot’s arm. He chuckles, make’n his chest hum.

“Ya like my arms, don’t ya?”

My hands freeze, and I realize how weird I’m act’n. But Spot’s hand finds mine and keeps it from pull’n away.

 “Sorry,” I mudda.

“Remember what I said I’d do if ya ever did that again?” Spot asks in a mysterious tone.

I frown. “No, I- Wait a minute-”

Before I can piece togedda my woids, Spot’s already kiss’n me. Over and over, in a desperate way, pull’n me closer. 

“Wow- you’d think I was try’n to escape,” I tease softly as I take in the pure bliss.

“I wouldn’t let ya leave without a fight,” Spot teases back. I roll onto his chest, stare’n straight at him. Then, Spot smiles. A real, genuine smile.

“Huh. It’s a miracle. Spot Colon’s smile’n.”

He don’t say anyth’n. Instead he just wraps his arms around me and sighs, make’n himself hum again. It’s as if he’s a peace with tha woild… and that’s just as good a gift I could help give somebody. We lay there, in comfortable silence, until Spot’s gentle breath’n sends me to sleep.

Spot’s POV

It makes me wonder how one person can make me so happy. And now that she’s my goil, I can take a few risks- risks like reach’n my arm across her, or kiss’n her when she don’t expect it… Maybe luv’s for suckers, but it feels right to me! Just feel’n her soft, warm body pressed on top of me, look’n down at her I feel… happy. For once, I feel truly happy to have someone in my life.

When I notice she’s drifted off, I relax a little and fall asleep run’n my fingers through her silky hair.

[lunarkyx]

Nice Work Quick Sketches!!! Yea, I said i’d drew more ReiHana 💖 Now I want more- 

[musical-dreamcasts]

Bonnie and Clyde - Jessie Mueller (she/her) as Bonnie Parker, requested by anon

Birthday: February 20, 1983 (age 39)

Birth Place: Evanston, Illinois

Theatre credits: Jenna Hunterson (Waitress), Carole King (Beautiful: The Carole King Musical), Julie Jordan (Carousel), Marian Paroo (The Music Man), Cinderella (Into the Woods), Billie Bendix (Nice Work If You Can Get It), Mary Flynn (Merrily We Roll Along), Amalia Balash (She Loves Me), Natalie Haller (All Shook Up)

(Pictured on the right is Frances Mayli McCann, who played the role in the West End production)

Credits: Jacqueline Harriet, Richard Davenport

[danceoftheday]

Performed by: Shina Ann Morris

Numbers: “America,” “Anything Goes,” “Fascinating Rhythm,” “NYC,” “Cinderella Waltz,” “Shaking the Blues Away,” “Paris Holds the Key (To Your Heart)”

Choreographers: Andy Blankenbuehler, Peggy Hickey, Denis Jones, Kathleen Marshall, Josh Rhodes, and Jerome Robbins

Style: Broadway and Tap

From: Dancing Through My Resume (2017)

[rantsintechnicolor]

While picking crab apples, I am grumpy

It seems appropriate to be in a funk while picking crab apples, to be crabby while picking crabs. In my younger days, I might have let those negative emotions linger in me, let it ruin my day. But these days I’m constantly tempering and reframing my attitude, trying to balance them or outshine them with the brightness of happy thoughts so the darkness in me withers. Somes days it’s easier than others. Some situations are easier than others. As an example and for your entertainment; the good, the bad, the ridiculously detailed description of picking crab apples.

Crab apples are not always very tasty; the acids are often sharp and the tannin is bitter, and often at higher levels than most apples in a smaller package. That doesn’t mean they are useless. Children might enjoy using them as projectiles in a homemade slingshot, but they are still edible. They can be pickled and then thrown in salads or on cheese plates. They can be part of an amuse bouche, appetizer, or snack. They make a lovely jam if you want to take the time to de-seed them. They can be juiced; the fresh juice of a crab apple is some of the best apple juice I’ve had the pleasure of drinking. It’s more balanced. The acid and tannin are strong enough to cut through the cloying sweetness. And the juice from this particular variety is garnet red, dyed by the skins.

This particular variety of crab apple is so beautiful. It’s probably Dolgo, but the farmer before the current farmer lost the records of what was planted. There is a service that could sequence the genes for us, and maybe someday when we are flush with cash. The fruit is dark red (a favorite color), sometimes round, but mostly oblong like a grape. They are usually the size of cherries, and they don’t get much bigger than a large strawberry-- not a freaky large strawberry, like a regular large strawberry. When slightly under ripe, they are bright crimson and they appear to glow, perhaps because they are small enough that the brightness of the sun shines through them. When they are perfectly ripe, they are burgundy but still glow, and the native yeast on skin gives them a satiny, bluish sheen. When very ripe, they are a dark aubergine. And they smell amazing. Floral and spicy. 

Crab apples are such a pain to pick. They are used to pollinate the rest of the orchard so they are scattered throughout and finding the trees feels like hunting the trees. At least now we know they are every third row, every ten to twenty trees. And it’s fine, when the orchard is mowed. Woe to the pickers when it isn’t. The grass is chest height and it leaves sticky sap on my overalls. If it’s not the grass, it’s the prickly ox tongue (Helminthotheca echioides), teasel (Dipsacus fullonum), and sometimes the native thistle (Circium occidentale), which is so beautiful and makes my heart happy. These plants all evolved with prickly defenses, and the thistle is especially sharp. They have decided to grow taller to get out of the shade of the trees to get their chance at attracting a pollinator and competing for the sun’s light. There are times I get whacked in the face, and when my face itches later, it stings when I touch it because there are microscopic spines in my upper lip (they’ll work themselves out eventually, right?). 

Their small size also makes them a pain to pick. It takes so much longer, so much more time to pick the number needed to get a decent amount of juice, and crab apples usually yield less juice than larger apples. It’s great when the apples grow in clusters, but if I miscalculate and bump the branch, apples loose themselves, and shower me. They bounce off my hat, my chest, my face. This is fine, even comical, if the apples are perfectly ripe and a happy accident when they fall magically into the picking bag. But I have lost all the rest to the high grasses in the unmowed orchard. Oh well, there is another tree fifty feet that way.

Pollinator trees like these are rarely pruned, because the fruit is not the goal, it’s maximum bloom, maximum pollen production; as long as the bees can get in there, it’s all good. The canopy is tight and tangled. The suckers (rootstock) have been allowed to grow straight up and produce fruit. While reaching to get those perfectly ripe apples, my hat gets knocked off my head, branches hook on my clothing and gloves, arms get scratched up as I fight to get into the tree, and then fight again to get out. I’ve even got a little scratch on my face to accompany those microscopic spines. The tree has been allowed to grow so tall that branches must be bent and pulled down to harvest. Invariably, the branch slips out of my hand, and fling the apples off, all over the orchard, miles away as far as I’m concerned, and I’ve lost that precious quarter of a pound. Then there is the soreness of the arms from reaching up to pick. And the crick in the neck from looking up. And woe to me that brings no sunglasses to protect my eyes from the bright sunlight and the tiny debris and dust falling out of the tree, inevitably finding my eyes. 

It is a tragedy when I get to a tree too late, when the tree becomes what I call an apple sauce/vinegar tree (ASV), when Nature has made apple sauce in the tree. The flesh of this apple is white, but it darkens quickly to a pumpkiny orange; the high levels of tannin oxidize quickly when exposed to the air and is responsible for the color change. It’s the same color when it has become apple sauce on the tree. When I grab a cluster of seven off the ASV tree with one hand, it doesn’t feel right. Normally, I would just open my hand into the picking bag and let them fall without looking, but when I feel the unsettling squish I have to sort the mess of eviscerated apple guts clinging to the firm apples, their skin washed in the juice of the squished apple (I’m so glad I didn’t forget my gloves). These apples, that are sauce on the inside, barely cling to the tree, and when they fall into the picking bag, they must be removed immediately or before storage, before they have started to grow mold and spoil the rest of the apples in the bin, crate, or lug. When those apples shower me, I feel a sickly squish of them if they hit my face. I find them later in my clothes with a wet spot around them, because I have inadvertently juiced them between my layers of clothes as I harvested. If I approach a tree that smells like vinegar, I walk on to the next one, because all the applesauce apples will have begun fermenting on the tree and are useless for my purposes. 

Then there are the insects. Ticks. Ticks hiding in the tall grass. Oh, the anxiety they create. A quick internet search to the county health page will tell me tick bites rarely result in lyme disease in this county. I’ve never been bitten, but they do make my skin crawl for hours after seeing one. The flies. When it warms up, they are seeking my moisture and a cool place to rest. They want to get in my eyes, my nose, my ears. They wiggle into my waistband, under my bra strap, and they bite. And those bites itch for a month. Most recently, I was bothered by fleas. The deer that access the orchard bring them. And they bite hard. My neck, my hairline. I have to whip off my glove and scratch them off. “Fuck off!” I yell after the fifth time, then wonder if they even have ears (turns out they don’t). They get stuck in my fingernail but jump away before I’m able to slice them in half with another fingernail. For hours, my skin is crawling and every drip of sweat on my chest, my back, and my legs could also be an insect in my clothes getting ready to bite me.

On top of all these annoyances, I can pile my own personal hell; cramps. The pain is a distraction in itself, making me clumsy and slowing me down when I have to breathe through it (woe to me if it is time to refill my little IBuprofen bottle and I have only one pill left, and yet one pill is better than no pills). The cramps are an affront to my very being on a good day, but on a hot day when picking an ASV tree with biting fleas while losing apples to my clumsy hands, while poked and tripped by sharp plants… “Shut up,” I tell my uterus, knowing it doesn’t have ears.

All the while, I remind myself; how beautiful is this day, how perfect this August weather, how romantic these trees, how gorgeous these apples. How amazing will be these flavors from the juicing of these tiny treasures. How wonderful they will make the cellar smell. This will all be worth it, I tell myself. This will all be worth it. And maybe next year we’ll get out a few weeks earlier, and finally remember to bring a stick and a drop cloth so we can knock the apples out of the tree, instead of fighting and bending the branches. Seriously. After three days of the above, I still forgot to bring the right tools for the job, which is all the tools for the job! 

Stupid cramps.

---

I would now like to read a ridiculously detailed story about being grumpy while fishing for crabs.

[un-monstre]

It's crazy how Vlad the Impaler went down as one of history's cruelest tyrants, while his brother Radu the Fair is largely remembered as Mehmed II's boyfriend

[lilithsaintcrow]

“In the ten years since that hazy night, Glantz has parlayed what began as a Craigslist lark into a fully fledged, six-figure business as the country’s most prolific professional bridesmaid."

[howifeltabouthim]

She had little understanding of his business, because whenever she asked him about it, he said it was too boring to discuss. Whatever it was, he never seemed to be doing it, as he occupied his time entirely with the leisure activities of a gentleman.

Anna Biller, from Bluebeard's Castle

[thebluemage0]

fucking love sign language interpreters they’re like the characters’ spiritual guardians that only the audience and the character they’re signing for can see

[sl-newsie]

Chapter Six: Moonlit Docks (Spot Colon x Female Newsie)

Aaahhh… New York at night. Most goils would say it feels anxious and intimidat’n- but I ain’t most goils. To me, it feels excit’n and full of freedom. Afta dash’n out away from Spot, I can finally be alone with my thoughts. Fer this, I stroll along ta tha Manhattan docks. Not as good as Brookln’s, but it’s wadda all tha same. I lean up against some crates and stare out.

I still can’t get tha thought of him oudda my head- just tha way he makes me feel is strange. Kinda like I wanna roll my eyes and laugh at tha same time...

I sigh.

Forget it, Becca. You’s neva found a guy, and ya neva will.

I turn around and inspect tha area, mak’n sure no one’s here, then begin ta sing:

(Someone to Watch Over Me from Nice Work If You Can Get It)

“There's a saying old, says that love is blind

Still we're often told, "seek and ye shall find"

So I'm going to seek a certain lad I've had in mind.

Looking everywhere, haven't found him yet

He's the big affair I will not forget.

Only man I ever think of with regret.

I'd like to add his initial to my monogram.

Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?

There's a somebody I'm longing to see,

I hope that he, turns out to be

Someone who'll watch over me.

I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood.

I know I could, always be good

To one who'll watch over me.

Although he may not be the man some

Girls think of as handsome,

To my heart he'll carry the key.”

I grasp my hands in prayer and look up at tha sky.

“Won't you tell him please to put on some speed,

Follow my lead, oh, how I need

Someone to watch over me.”

I can’t stop a single tear from roll’n down my cheek. Luv’s fer suckas...

“Someone to watch over me.”

Spot’s POV

When I leave Medda’s, I’s thought I’d neva get that goil’s voice oudda my head. And then there’s Becs- someth’n just feels off…

 I let myself wander towards tha docks. Stroll’n through tha streets, I get ta enjoy tha peace and-

“There's a saying old, says that love is blind-”

-quiet? Who on Earth would be sing’n near tha docks in tha middle of tha night- wait!

I gasp. I know that voice…

I follow it ta tha docks and peer out from behind a wall. It’s-

My jaw drops. Becs?! She’s tha singer?! Why would Jackie boy allow-

I stop, realis’n. Oh. He don’t know.

“Still we're often told, "seek and ye shall find"

So I'm going to seek a certain lad I've had in mind.”

She does have a beautiful voice...

“Looking everywhere, haven't found him yet

He's the big affair I will not forget.

Only man I ever think of with regret.

I'd like to add his initial to my monogram.

Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?

There's a somebody I'm longing to see,

I hope that he, turns out to be

Someone who'll watch over me.

I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood.

I know I could, always be good

To one who'll watch over me.”

Am I crazy, or is she sing’n ta me?

“Although he may not be the man some

Girls think of as handsome,

To my heart he'll carry the key.”

She grasps her hands in prayer and looks up at tha sky.

“Won't you tell him please to put on some speed,

Follow my lead, oh, how I need

Someone to watch over me!

Someone to watch over me.”

Rebecca’s POV

I finish softly, lett’n my prayer reach tha Heavens. Then I give a heavy sigh and rest my head on tha railing.

“So- smart, beautiful, and a singer?”

My heart leaps oudda my chest. I jump. Spot?! Sure enough, tha King of Brooklyn struts up ta me. He- he… He followed me!? He hoid that?! Oh God- does he know-

My face, still in shock, pales. “You- Ya hoid- Did you- see…?” Can’t. Find. Words…!

In tha dark, I can’t clearly make out his face. “Sure did.”

My knees weaken, and I lean on tha railing. “Spot, please- please don’t tell Jack!” I gasp.

I can’t even bring myself ta face him, I’s so ashamed!

“Why?” He asks it so causally, like it’s no big deal.

“‘Cause he’ll kill me!” I moan into my arm.

“Why?” He asks again, now more confused.

I lift my head and face him head-on. “‘Cause I’s already bring’n shame to myself- I don’t need ta bring Jack into this too!”

Spot jumps back in surprise, wield’n his cane. “But there ain’t no reason-”

“Can it, Colon! Do you even know how hard it is ta be a goil newsie?! Folks take one look at me and think I’s crazy ta be dress’n like a boy! And since I can’t sell many as papes, I’s had to take on a job from Medda- as a showgoil! That may not be shameful ta you, but it is ta me! It’s degrad’n to strut onto that stage every week and have guys holla at me! And you know why I keeps it secret? ‘Cause you know what I’d have ta deal with? You saw Benny the odda day!” At this point, I’m yell’n and cry’n at tha same time. “He’ll take one look and, ya know what they’ll be call’n me? Slut! Whore! Harlet! Tramp! Pick yer poison- it’s all tha same! I ain’t none of those things, but I don’t got much of a choice- I gotta sing!”

I drop my hands, breath’n heavily and unsure what ta do next. All this time Spot’s been strangely quiet…

Spot’s POV

Oh, that’s why.

After all that, I’s can’t help but look at Becs with a new-found respect. ‘Course I’ll neva be able to undastand, be’n a guy, but I do honor it. Now she’s just stand’n there- probably freak’n out ‘cause she thinks I’ll tell Jackie Boy…

Rebecca’s POV

“I won’t tell.”

I blink. “What?”

Spot nods. “Ya hoid me. I won’t tell, but you owes me one.”

I groan. “I already know ya for tha last favor.”

Spot squints. “Let’s just call that a… first encounter courtesy,” he says with a smirk.

“Um, ok. What do I owe ya?”

“Donno- haven’t thought of it yet.”

“Alright.” I spit in my hand. He does the same and we both shake. “Now, you’s whisper any word of this, and I’ll soak ya!”

“Don’t worry, beauty. I’s always keep my woid.”

“Right. Well, it’s late and I’s bedda be go’n-”

“I’ll escort ya.”

I stifle a laugh. “Wow. Spot Colon’s be’n a gentleman! Thanks for the offer, but I can handle myself.” I turn ta leave, but Spot stops me with his cane.

“Every lady needs an escort,” he says, this time more seriously.

“And like I said before: I ain’t no lady.” I turn ta leave again.

“Not even a kiss goodnight?” Spot calls out behind me.

I roll my eyes. “G’night, Spot.”