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littlekatleaf · 3 years

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Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain (end)

Holy shitballs. Pretty close to exactly a year ago I got this idea - Junkrat and Roadhog have Christmas with some of the Overwatch crew. It was gonna be short and sweet and fluffy. I started writing in... February? 10 months and 21K words later I ended up with something almost entirely different. Oops? Thanks for joining me on the ride! Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

Meds and tea and whiskey and food and mitten and probably a bit of fever still and the lingering feel of Roadie’s hand on his forehead all swirled together into an edgy excitement that made his blood fizz in his veins. Twitchy, itchy. Been looking forward to setting off the fireworks for months - been working them up that long and planning even longer. Had to get it all just right, then combine it with Lucio’s music, get the timing connected to the right shapes, the explosions to the right second… had to be focused, had to be precise and he loved the challenge. The sparks of thrill tingled along his spine and the fire they ignited burned away the lingering crud of sickness leaving him sharp and clear.

He enlisted Hana and Lucio to round up the others, betting they’d be able to convince anyone who was reluctant much better than he would. Even so, he was urging them down to the lake, torches bobbing through the dark, throwing odd shadows between the trees. Maybe talking a little faster than usual but how else was he going to impress upon them how exciting this was?

“Know it’s cold - hadn’t really thought about that when I was planning. I mean, hadn’t planned to be here at all, just thought we’d be at the Watchpoint. Course, this is better, discounting the cold. Which is hard to do, but Roadie’s getting the bonfire goin’ - he could light a fire in the middle of a monsoon so no worries on that count. An’ Hana brought some whiskey to help so she’ll be right. Ya need to stand here, no closer. Gonna be over the water. Safe as houses, but can’t be too careful - least according to Morrison, ha! Now turn off the torches. Better the darker it is. Lucky ain’t moonrise yet…”

“What are we doing out here in the middle of the night when we could be curled up on the couch?” Mei asked no one in particular.

Junkrat ignored her. She’d see, they’d all see and he knew they’d love it just as much as he did if they gave it a chance. Lucio had been kind enough to not only have his sound system set up, but also brought out the box of fireworks so Junkrat didn’t have to lug it himself.

Didn’t take but a minute to set it all up, music on automatic once he started the program. All he had to do was hit the power and light the first fuse.

Music came up slow, soft, bit of piano, then edge of something electronic, rising bass and the first firework streaked up to the center of the sky and as the beat kicked in it exploded in a rain of silver and gold. At the crackling boom the others fell silent, faces tilted to the sky. The sparkles reflected in their eyes and Lucio’s soft ‘oh!’ and Hana’s squeal of delight made even the cold worthwhile.

Let it start slow. Basic colors, red, blue, green, as well as the gold and silver. Usual shapes, circles, stars, ones that looked like fountains or willows. Then the music shifted, became rhythmic and complex with a minor edge and he sent the first special rockets. The streaks crisscrossed, intersecting like Satya’s hard light shield, like one of her knit shawls and around it burst snowflakes, all in shades of blue and silver.

Music shifted again, bright and quick - and the second set of his own rockets split the air with a whistling crack then exploded in a crackling red heart, then a gold arrow streamed through. Lena bumped Emily’s hip with her own as their names twined through the heart. Another shift, one of Lucio’s songs, written for Hana and the rockets burst into pink bunnies and green frogs that seemed to bounce up the mountains ringing them and into the stars.

As the music shifted a final time, setting a beat with a swing, Lena grabbed Emily’s hand and pulled her into a twirl, hands clenched firm but light, feet moving quick, spinning each other in and out and then they were dancing and so were Hana and Lucio and even Mei tugged Satya into the group.

And then - perfect timing, as the music sang “Seeing’ stars, I’m seeing stars” the final bursts of fireworks - his favorite of the bunch - exploded overhead and Junkrat couldn’t stop his grin at the stars he’d created. Spread above him and Roadie was their night sky. The Saucepan and the Crux. Looking right, looking perfect, not upside down like here.

For a long moment Roadhog said nothing, just stood with his face tipped up, sparks reflecting in his mask as the fireworks cracked and popped and the music thumped and the others laughed and danced.

“Thought ya might like a bit of Straya,” Junkrat said finally, unable to wait for Roadhog to say something. Anything. Maybe he hadn’t recognized it after all. Or maybe it wasn't anything like he’d hoped. Maybe it only looked like home because he was remembering it so clearly. Imagining it. Making it all up again. He shoved his hand in his pocket as a gust of wind swept over them and a sneeze slammed into him, followed quickly by two more. “Huh-r’isssh! Isshh! Ishhew!”

Didn’t even hear Roadhog move, but suddenly he was right there, shoving his hat down over Junkrat’s head and then wrapping his scarf around Junkrat’s neck. “Stay warm, idiot.”

“Trying,” he said, shivering still. He let Roadie lead him over to the fire which had grown to a roaring height, pouring out a welcome heat. Pine logs crackled and spat sparks swirling into the sky to swirl with the real stars and their backwards constellations.

Lucio cranked his own mix and the bass echoed off the mountains and Lena and Emily still danced with him and Hana. Mei and Satya huddled together, passing a mug of something between them and for a moment, just for a minute, everything felt fine. Felt good.

Junkrat glanced at Roadhog, and though the mask obscured his expression, there was a looseness in his shoulders, something in the tilt of his head that seemed to speak of relaxation and calm. Made the cold and exhaustion worth it. “Happy Christmas, Roadie.”

“Happy Christmas, Rat.” The warmth in his tone did more to drive away the chill than the fire and Junkrat leaned against his side, letting himself enjoy the closeness.

After a bit, the others joined them around the fire and Lena passed a joint around, “For everyone except you, Junkrat. Sorry.”

He shrugged, pulled a flask out of his pocket. “Not gonna share my plague. Got this anyway.” The whiskey left a warm curl in the center of his belly, his muscles loose and easy. Satya told a story about a Snow Queen whose frozen heart melted with the love of a peasant girl, and though Junkrat wanted to roll his eyes, he understood the feeling. The desire to have one’s own story told in myth - to be connected to something bigger. Lena told a story about Father Christmas. Mei about a Chinese hunter, Jia Deng, who hunted with a pet wolf and left gifts of his hunt with the poor during the cruel months of winter. Then Roadie exhaled a long puff of smoke and said,

“Bet you never heard of the Holiday Boar.”

Junkrat giggled into his scarf. “Ain’t gonna tell that one to this lot, are ya?”

Lena cocked her head quizzically. “No, can’t say I have.”

“Well. Long before the Omnium exploded, before the Omnics were even an idea someone had, the Outback was still a hardscrabble place. Dusty and hot and many were desperately poor, trying to eke a living out of land that wasn’t easily giving. One day a wild boar appeared in a village, ribs showing through its skin, hair falling out in patches, it was the most pathetic excuse for a creature the villagers had seen. Most tried to chase it away with kicks and shouts and stones thrown.

“At the edge of the village there was a farmer. He lived alone on the land. When the boar came to his homestead, the farmer’s first reaction was the same as the others - he wanted to chase it away. Nothing good could come of bringing another mouth to feed into his life. But as he raised a hand to throw a stone, he caught a glimpse of the creature’s eyes and his long dead daughter’s voice spoke in his heart. ‘Papa, please.’ His hand fell and he sighed and the boar stayed.

“In the beginning he found it annoying, an intrusion on his solitude. Still, he fed the creature, sharing the little he had, and in return it kept him company, following him like a dog and seeming to listen when he spoke. Come winter the boar was healthy and grown to a surprising size. Villagers who saw it walking with the farmer nodded knowingly - at the first cold snap he’d likely kill it, and the meat could feed them all.

“But the cold came and still the boar walked with the farmer. The villagers eyed them more than a little oddly. Finally, on the longest night of the year, the farmer was sitting by a fire with the boar at his side as usual. The farmer was lamenting that the land had been even more reticent than usual, and he was likely to lose his home to the mortgagers.

“The boar’s stomach gave a great rumble, then it leaned forward and puked up a pile of gold coins onto the ground. The farmer never went hungry again and the village prospered.”

Junkrat couldn’t help himself, he burst out laughing.

Hana laughed too, shook her head. “There’s no way that’s a thing.”

“It’s Australia,” Roadhog argued, deadpan voice. “It absolutely is.”

Lucio nodded, took a drag from the joint. “I could see it.”

They told stories and Lucio led them in carols and the warmth of the fire and the whiskey and Roadhog at his side and Lena’s jokes “What do you call a dinosaur fart? A blast from the past! Why does a duck have tail feathers? To cover his butt quack!” and Emily’s laughter lulled Junkrat into a doze.

“He snores louder than a boar,” Satya said, irritably. Lena giggled.

“You gave him your scarf,” Hana said to Roadhog and her tone was equal parts teasing and curious.

Junkrat felt Roadie’s shoulders move in a shrug. “Never takes care of himself, even when he’s sick.” But though he was more than half asleep, he could hear the tight coldness of the comment. The relaxed ease had gone. Junkrat wanted to sit up and interrupt, but he was just so tired.

“Gave him your cold too, huh.” Still that sing-song teasing tone, but it cut at Junkrat.

“Maybe.”

“Come on, Roadhog. What’s up with you two, anyway? He won’t give us a straight answer.”

Felt like everyone’s eyes were on them, staring. Junkrat tensed. Sit up, he told himself. Stop this. But he didn’t. He wanted to know what Roadhog would say, even more than he didn’t want to know.

Roadhog’s shoulder moved in another shrug. “Someone’s gotta keep him from offing himself on accident.”

Mei laughed; least no one else did.

Ice through his body, through his stomach, his mind, his lungs. He coughed against it, but it didn’t move. The fire had burned down to little more than embers and even scarf and hat, mitten and whiskey weren’t enough to keep him warm. He forced himself up then, away from Roadhog. Faked a yawn like he just woke up.

“Knackered. Gonna call it a night. Happy Christmas all.” Forced the words past lips that felt frozen and barely heard the others saying goodnight and thanks for the fireworks.

The moon glowed on the snow, lighting the way back to the cabin enough to keep him from stumbling on tree roots and rocks. His foot crunched softly on pine needles and he heard Roadhog’s louder footfalls behind him. He walked faster. Just wanted to be inside, to be alone, to be warm, to be silent. Even the light of the Christmas tree seemed to mock him with its fake promise of coziness. He’d take a bath, let the water warm his bones, soothe the chills, then sleep.

“When I said ya ain’t gotta babysit me no more, I meant it,” Junkrat said stiffly as Roadhog followed him into the bathroom. “Promise I ain’t gonna drown in the bath. Even I’m not stupid enough to do that.”

“How’re you going to get in and out?” Roadhog asked bluntly.

Junkrat turned to look and of course there were no bars to let him navigate it himself. Once he took off his prosthetics he’d be screwed. Fuck. He pushed past Roadhog and out of the bathroom. Wasn’t worth it.

But the bedroom was just as bad. Wanted to collapse onto the bed and sleep for a century or ten, but Roadhog was standing there in the middle of the room taking up all of the space and all of the air and Junkrat knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep with his… looming. Instead he shoved the pillows to the head of the cot and sat against the wall, wrapping a blanket around himself. Just barely resisted pulling it over his head, too. Knew Roadie would stare and it was making him jittery. Not in a good way. His head ached again, skin tight with the too hot too cold feeling of returning fever. Should have asked Lucio for more meds. He rubbed a hand over his face, wishing for relief. Wishing for Roadie’s hand on his forehead again, cool and firm and steadying.

“Gonna tell me what’s eating you?” Roadhog asked, finally. His arms were crossed over his chest and he looked down at Junkrat from his full height. Not exactly the most inviting posture.

“What are we?” The question spilled from him like he was vomiting. “An’ don’t give me some stupid shit like you don’t know what I mean. Hana asks and Lucio asks and you avoid the question.”

“Why do we need to put words to it? Why do they need to know anything?”

Junkrat shrugged. It wasn’t for them that he needed words. It was him. He needed a foundation, an understanding. Because things were slippery and they could slide away from him before he had a chance to catch hold. “It’s me askin’. Now that ya ain’t my bodyguard. What are we?”

A long pause, a silence full of all the things Roadhog didn’t say.

“Morrison said I could leave,” Junkrat blurted, unable to stand it.

Roadhog waited.

“Said if this do-gooder shit was too bloody difficult he’d have Lena turn me in. Serve my time and then whatever came next was my choice.”

No response.

“Told him I’d have to talk to you about it, but he said just meant me. I been thinkin...’ we should do it. Could probably convince him to let you go too. Then when we were far enough away could hijack the Orca, dump Lena and head back to Straya. Head home. Get the treasure, sell it to the Queen and find a place to just… live.” He blinked and the after-image of fireworks burst across his vision, constellations in all their permutations. Home. Was it? Didn’t really know anymore… But maybe there it wouldn’t be so hard, maybe there it would be like it had been.

Still no response, no movement at all. Like Roadhog’d turned to stone. Mountain. Felt his gaze go cold, measuring, calculating. Had seen Roadhog turn that gaze on others, size them up, find them lacking… but not on himself. He froze. Utterly still. Waited for the judgment to fall. Then Roadhog laughed. Not like something was funny, or maybe like he was funny and the sound was brittle and sharp in his ears.

“What’s so bloody funny, mate?” and his own voice held an edge.

“The idea that I would want to leave this,” he gestured around the room, taking in everything, “give up the good thing I got going here to… what? Live out some tiny shit life in that hellhole with you? Why the fuck do you think I’d want to go back to that? And with you?” He positively roared with laughter. “You are thick as a rock. Batshit crazy. A complete mess. Sure, when there wasn’t anyone else around who wasn’t trying to kill me, you were good for a laugh. A way to get my rocks off. But in the real world? Fuck no.”

“Fuck you too.” The words scraped his throat and he wished he had covered his head because he had that ominous prickling behind his eyes like he was going to fucking cry, or sneeze, and either way he was fucking well not going to give Roadhog the satisfaction.

“You want to know what we are, Junkrat? We ain’t shit. Nothing. Do what you want, stay or go. I couldn’t possibly give less of a shit.”

“Well that’s fuckin’ clear as crystal. Why don’t you fuck off then an’ let me sleep.” He grit his teeth, bit the inside of his cheek hard enough that he tasted iron. Not going to crumble. Watched as Roadhog turned and crossed the room. Watched the door click shut behind him. Watched the blank wall and refused to let himself crack. Silence then, that he’d wanted. But no warmth. Even wrapped in blankets felt like he was sitting in a snowstorm. Everything muffled and frozen. Freezing.

Then that chuckle in his head. You got an answer. Might not have been the one you wanted, but really Jamison, what did you expect? Did you honestly think he would go back to an irradiated waste land and a criminal life to be with you?

He thumped his head back against the wall, squeezed his eyes shut. Clenched his fist so hard his nails bit into his palm. Shut it. Ain’t real.

No? So make me be silent, then. More laughter. Oh Jamison. How do you think someone would want to be with you when your own mother couldn’t stand to be with you?

You don’t know nothing ‘bout my mum, he told her. Nothing. But a couple tears leaked free, and the tingling prickles made him sneeze and he buried his head in the blankets and let himself go until he fell asleep, her laughter and Roadhog’s laughter still ringing in his head.

Sleep was restless, part of him kept jerking awake thinking he heard the door open. He hadn’t. When he finally woke completely he felt like he’d been hit by the ute, then had it back over him again. He stumbled out to the living room where he found Hana and Lucio playing a game with Emily, and Mei and Satya watching.

“Morning, Junkrat,” Lucio said.

“More like afternoon,” Hana corrected.

“Potato potahto,” Lucio shrugged. “Wanna join? You can play winner.”

“Nah,” he cleared his throat, tried to sound nonchalant. “Where’s Roadie?”

“Apparently Morrison sent him on some mission. Something going on in Australia. Lena took him early this morning,” Satya said. “Guess you didn’t go ‘cause you’re sick?” Hana asked.

“Yeah. Something like that.” His head went light. Hadn’t thought Roadhog would actually leave. Take the treasure for himself and go… but there it was. He made his way into the kitchen on a floor that seemed to rock like a boat. Opened the sat comm with numb fingers.

“Morrison.” “It’s Fawkes. I’ll take your offer. I want to turn myself in.”

#oversnez #snezfic #constitutionally incapable of writing shortfic #this fic took me out behind the barn and shot me in the head #what you doing Roadie??#Merry Fuckin' Christmas

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shinglescat · 5 years

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Previous or all stories at once.

Warning, bad writing below ‘cause i wanna sleep. And now that I think about it I wanna eat.

Mark was standing in front of his family house, having problems with making himself knock on the door. He hesitated. He was afraid his mother and father would be outraged, afraid they would renounce him, afraid to lose them. They loved her, she was their blood, and he was just... someone Narandil dragged in ages ago. He was fast asleep when Aspen returned, a week of absence. The man did his best to divert Mark's thoughts about Visenya at first, keeping him in the dark about the incident. Not for a long, no; Mark may be a fool, total idiot, but he has quite a perception. He confronted the man, getting fed up with the excuses and all the evaded questions; the ashen haired man had no other choice but to tell the hard truth, breaking the heart of the elf. His chest has been empty since, as if someone took everything from there and never put it back in place; the storm, the violent wind was howling in there, making him whine in his sleep. He used to leave the bed at night just to go outside, to look at the lake, weeping quietly. It was so tempting just to leave everything behind and jump into the water below, just to never come out again. He tried to tell himself to man up, but... what was the point, now, that's one of the biggest parts of his life is gone forever? So he cried, choking on his tears, until soothing arms embraced him, leading him back home.

During the day he used to put a facade of... normality, while dying on the inside time and time again. His knife problem got worse, making him play dangerously and too carelessly mid conversations, prompting Aspen to take it away, to which the elf would say that he's too much of a coward to cut himself with a knife, for he was afraid of the pain that would come with a sharp edge of a blade. He wanted to tear his own throat apart with his bare hands though, to lie in a pool of blood, die, just to fill the gaping nothingness in his chest. That thought, the image always made him happy, even if just for awhile. Another week flied by, as Aspen proposed to go to Mark’s parents to... at least reduce his misery. The thought of loving mother embrace made it easier for the elf, so he agreed. And to add to that, Meltem would be coming with the girl, either for the funeral or with her recovered from the mortal wounds. Mark raised his hand to knock on the door, as it suddenly opened on its own, letting him inside the parents' house, revealing the couple busy with their daily chores. The black haired woman was tending to the kitchen, serving the table for herself and her husband, the black haired man was sitting behind the table, head deep in accounting book. Mark smiled, but heart still weary. - Hey, - he entered the house, raising his hand in greetings, his companion tailing him behind, - Mom, dad... – he’s forgotten how pleasantly sounded those two words. The woman turned around, a gentle smile spreading on her face. The man turned his head too, a happy surprise on his face, no longer immersed by the numbers in his book.

- Markus! - the woman exclaimed, leaving everything behind, making just a few steps before tugging him into a warm embrace. He hugged her back, burying his face in her shoulder, happy to see her again, happy to be finally back home, - You're just in time for the supper, - she told him, finally letting him go. Mark wouldn't ever tell how much he missed this place, these people, the smell and the light of the house, - Come on, come on in, - the woman guided him towards the kitchen, just noticing his tall companion in the doorway, hidden by the setting sun, - Hey, Railroad, are you waiting for a special invitation? - Mark smiled to that, looking over his shoulder: his mother loved calling people names, - Gods, you might be even taller than that old elven fart, - she couldn't not comment on his height, as the elf returned to the man, dragging him into the house by his hand, giggling to himself. Mark took his usual place, as the father went away to hide the accounting book from any harm that may come from the food. He came back a couple minutes later, hugging his son in greetings before taking the place at the head of the table. The mother's served the supper. - Eh, em, - the elf started, looking at the parents, - Mom, dad, this is... eh.. Aspen, he's a.. friend of ours, - Mark introduced the man, thinking he should've done this earlier, - And this is Kynthara and Pantigion. - Nice to meet you, - Pantigion said, - Now let's leave the courtesies for the latter, we have a meal getting colder, - he smirked, before moving his plate closely to himself, taking the first spoon, - You must be absolutely hungry, - father glanced at Mark, wiggling his eyebrows, hinting at his love to fill the stomach till he can barely stand and talk. The evening went by nicely, spent in talks about abstract themes and getting to know each other. It was something Mark missed greatly, something he craved for deep inside. His parents managed to lighten his mood, to clear his thoughts from anything bad; a simple talk with closest people can sometimes be better than any cure out there. It was already beyond midnight when they finally agreed on going to sleep, tired from laughs and giggles, hugs and gentle poking. - You can sleep in Visenya's room, - Kynthara said to Aspen, as they started to leave the fireplace, her husband already gone to bed, - I don't think she'll appear out of thin air in the middle of the night. Mark frowned. - There was a spare bedroll in my room, wasn't it? - he said, trying not to give himself away. He didn't really want anyone to disturb her room; he'd prefer it to stay as is. - It still is, - the woman smiled, - Alright then, - she moved closely, dragging the elf into a hug, - Sleep well, - and with a kiss on the forehead she moved upstairs. He was actually afraid of staying alone; he wasn't a little boy anymore to climb into his parents' bed after a nightmare, only to meet his sister already clinging to their dad. He's a grown man now that has to deal with his demons himself... And he still didn't tell his parents about Visenya. The night was hard and long. His eyes were weary, he was tired, but the sleep still wasn't there, as if to torture him a little bit more. He quietly got out of the bed, trying not to wake up the man sleeping in another bed, then got out of his room and into the kitchen. He leaned against the crates under the stairs, closing his face with his hands, falling into the pit of somber thoughts again. - Hey, - he heard a sleepy voice near him, - Are you at it again? - Nah, - elf lowered the hands, looking at the table in front of him, as the hole in his chest started to grow again. Aspen placed a hand on elf's shoulder, pulling him closer. - You won't change anything with this, - he kissed him on the temple, knowing full well that Mark was blaming himself for Visenya’s death, - Your tears won't bring her back. - Yeah, right, - he nodded bitterly, sighing heavily, - It's not like... She coulda been alright if it wasn't for me, - elf wanted to say something else, something far worse, but silenced himself, hearing the footsteps above - his parent are awake now, great. - What this fuss is all about? - the sleepy woman went downstairs followed by her husband. - Mom, there's something I need to tell you, - he couldn't hide it any longer, it's better they get the news from him rather than from anyone else, - Visenya is dead, - he said, breathing out, a weight off his shoulders. Now come whatever may, he doesn't care anymore. - I know, - was all that she said, letting the sadness fill her face. Mark looked at her dumbfounded, eyes wide open. - You... know? - We've received a message a couple of days ago, - the father spoke, - Meltem told us everything, - he neared his wife, placing hands on her shoulders.

- It's not your fault, - Kynthara moved closely, cupping her son's cheek, as he rushed into her embrace, - There's no one's fault. Don't torture yourself with this, just... just let her go, - she smiled, tears dancing in her eyes. - We've already let her go, - Pantigion made a couple of steps, hugging his wife and their son. The elf snuggled closer to his parents, no strength in him to weep, tears already dry. They still loved him. How could he believe otherwise? Now, with the burden off his shoulders, it was the calmest night. ... The door to his room was loudly opened, a whisper following that. - Yo, retard!

#SC_Storytime #bad writing in here #'cause i wanna sleep #and 'cause i just wanna finish this already #SC_Mark #SC_Kynthara #fuck how do i tag the dad #he's kind of mine but not mine #he's a friend's character #who's been promising me a picture of Nar for seven years already #SC_Pantigion #SC_Visenya #FV_Aspen

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abzilp · 5 years

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The modern German novel begins with The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus (Der abenteuerliche Simplicissimus Teutsch, 1668) by Hans Grimmelshausen (1622?–76). One of the greatest novels of the 17th century, this 5-part, 400-page book is a boisterous Oktoberfest of genres bumping bellies: bildungsroman, picaresque, allegory, (anti)war novel, hagiography, fantastic voyage, romance, ghost story, sermon, and utopian novel. Referring to the frontispiece depicting a leering satyr/phoenix/bird/fish creature pointing at a book, one German critic admitted “the history of literary forms stands helpless before such a Tragelaph.”64 Initially, it resembles a picaresque novel, especially Alemán’s Guzman of Alfarache, which had been adapted into German by Aegidius Albertinus in 1615. Beginning about halfway through the Thirty Years’ War (1618–48), the narrator explains how he was raised nameless and uneducated among peasants until the marauding Imperial army looted his village when he was 12 or 13; he escapes into the nearby forest and is taken under the wing of a religious hermit who names him Simplicius because of his ignorance—he’s never seen a horse, and assumes soldiers riding them are a centaurlike hybrid of man and wolf—and brainwashes him with Christianity before allowing him to read more books borrowed from the local pastor. After the hermit dies, Simplicius returns to the world at war and yo-yos from one camp to another; treated like a fool, he becomes a professional jester until he can work his way up the ranks. He becomes a marauding prankster known as the Hunter of Soest, and on one occasion discovers an abandoned treasure in a haunted house, which seems to ensure his fortune. Knowing he’s betraying his Christian upbringing but powerless to resist, Simplicius then accompanies a young nobleman to Paris, where he becomes an actor and a gigolo, the beginning of a downward moral spiral that takes him back penniless to Germany, where he scrapes by as a traveling quack until he’s forced back into the army. Determined to settle down, he marries a country lass (who turns into a drunk), reunites with his “father” (who tells Simplicius he is actually the son of the hermit who raised him, a Scottish nobleman who abandoned the world in disgust), travels some more (Russia and Asia) before returning home disillusioned with everything, and becomes a hermit—choosing the life that had been forced upon him as a frightened boy. So it seems the entire novel has been a sermon against unchristian behavior, and a religious call for renunciation of the sinful world.

But Grimmelshausen complicates this picaresque pilgrim’s progress in many intriguing ways. On the one hand, the novel is graphically realistic, much more so than spiritually oriented works are. The attack on young Simplicius’s village is described in sickening detail: the soldiers ransack and torch everything, torture the peasants, and rape the women. Later, peasants capture a soldier, cut off his nose, and force him to lick their assholes before they bury him alive in a barrel; when other soldiers capture the cleansed peasants, “They bound their hands and feet together round a fallen tree in such a way that their backsides (if you will forgive me again) were sticking up nicely in the air. Then they pulled down their trousers, took several yards of fuse, tied knots in it and ran it up and down in their arses to such effect that the blood came pouring out. The peasants screamed pitifully, but the soldiers were enjoying it and did not stop their sawing until they were through the skin and flesh and down to the bone.”65 Young Grimmelshausen was an eyewitness to such atrocities—the first third of the novel is somewhat autobiographical; his handling of a child’s POV is superb—and his willingness to report what he saw so unflinchingly makes Simplicissimus a primary source for historians of the Thirty Years’ War. (You’ll recall the Spanish Estebanillo González is also set during that conflict and captures some of the chaos of war, but Grimmelshausen focuses on the civilian population.)

Such language also makes the novel a primary document in the rise of realism in fiction; not since Thomas Nashe had any novelist dared to describe the aftermath of battle in such gruesome terms as he uses: “there were heads that had lost the bodies they belonged to and bodies lacking heads; some had their entrails hanging out in sickening fashion, others their skull smashed and the brain spattered over the ground; . . . there were shot-off arms with the fingers still moving, as if they wanted to get back into the fighting, . . .” (2.27). The dialogue is equally realistic: “Pox on you, brother, are you still alive?” one soldier greets another. “By the holy fuckrament, the Devil looks after his own!” (1.26). As a licensed fool, Simplicius doesn’t mince words when asked to describe a fashionable visitor: “This lady has hair as yellow as baby shit and the parting is as white and as straight as if she had been hit on the scalp with a curry-comb. And her hair is in such neat rolls it looks like hollow pipes, or as if she had a pound of candles or a dozen sausages hanging down each side. And oh, look at her lovely smooth forehead, is it not more beautifully curved than a fat buttock and whiter than a dead man’s skull which has been hanging out in the wind and rain for years?” (2.9). Simplicius often embarrasses himself by farting noisily; people vomit, shit, swear, scratch at lice and fleas. There’s sex and some nudity: sailing on the Danube for Vienna, Simplicius “had eyes for nothing but the women who answered the calls from the boats with literal rather than verbal bare-arsed cheek” (5.3).66 The point is religious writers don’t write like this—nowhere in Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress does a farmboy tell a dairymaid “that she could kiss his arse and go fuck her mammy in the bargain” (3.23)—which calls into question the ostensibly religious orientation of the novel. Something else is afoot.

Though highly realistic, more so than most pre-20th-century novels, Simplicissimus is, on the other hand, highly unrealistic and brazenly supernatural. Grimmelshausen’s novel often reads like a Grimms’ fairy tale, for Simplicius lives in a demon-haunted world where people still cast spells, foretell the future, and consort with devils. When he leaves the forest for the town, some citizens “thought I was a spectre, a ghost or some such phenomenon” (1.19)—phenomena as real to them as the butcher or the baker. In book 2, Simplicius is foraging at night and sneaks into a farmhouse, where he spies a few people who “had a sulphurous blue lamp on the bench by the light of which they were greasing sticks, brooms, pitchforks, stools and benches. Then, one after the other, they flew out of the window on them.” Puzzled, he sits on one of the benches and instantly shoots out the window and lands about 150 miles northeast to witness a witches’ dance, described with Boschean extravagance. Invited to join the dance, “I cried out loud to God, at which the whole crew vanished” (2.17). Simplicius insists this actually happened, and wasn’t a dream; citing similar stories from reputable scholars, including the story of Faust, he dares the reader to disbelieve him: “if you don’t believe it, you will have to think up some other way in which I went in such short time from Hersfeld or Fulda (I still don’t know where I was, wandering round in the forest) to the vicinity of Magdeburg” (2.18). There he is taken into a regiment that includes a prevost-sergeant who “was a true sorcerer and black magician who knew a spell for finding out thieves and another to make not only himself as bullet-proof as steel, but others too.” To find a thief, “the sorcerer muttered a few words and puppies started to jump out of people’s pockets, sleeves, boots, flies and any other openings in their dress, one, two, three or more at a time” (2.22). A little later, Simplicius invents a pocket-sized instrument that enables him to hear things taking place miles away, and again taunts the reader: “However, I am not surprised if people do not believe what I have just written” (3.1). The treasure he discovers is guarded by a “ghost or wraith” (3.12), which is not a product of his imagination, nor is the demon who speaks to him from inside a man undergoing exorcism (5.2). Near the end is the greatest test of the reader’s incredulity: tossing some stones into the “enchanted” Mummelsee, “a supposedly bottomless lake” (5.10)—a real lake in the Black Forest, but now known to be only 55 feet deep—some sylphs come to the surface, give him a magic jewel that enables him to breathe underwater, then take him to the center of the earth for a 16-page tour of their subterranean world and discuss their place in the Christian scheme of things.67

All this takes place on the “factual” plane of the novel, and doesn’t include numerous instances where people are mistaken for devils, or Simplicius’s allegorical dream of the military establishment as a tree (which allows Grimmelshausen to criticize further the suffering inflicting upon civilians) “with Mars, the God of War, on the top, and covering the whole of Europe with its branches” (1.18). One chapter is entitled “How Simplicius Was Dragged Down into Hell by Four Devils and Treated to Spanish Wine” (2.5), followed by “How Simplicius Went to Heaven and Was Turned into a Calf” (2.6), but these are merely pranks soldiers play on the naïve lad. Later he meets a madman who calls himself Jupiter, whom Simplicius plays along with by referring himself to Ganymede or Mercury, and layered on top of other references to classical mythology and German folklore is an elaborate set of references to Chaldean astrology. It’s tempting to call this magic realism were it not closer to the aesthetics of the medieval morality play, where figures representing devils or the sun shared the same stage as mortals. Christianity is part and parcel of this magical/medieval world: throughout the novel, saints and angels are evoked in the same breath as figures from myth and folklore, supernatural events are defended with citations of similar events in the Bible, and Christian theology is indistinguishable from the world of myth and magic. If you believe in the miracles in the Bible, the novel implies, then you’re no different from those who believe witches ride broomsticks and sorcerers cause puppies to magically crawl out of your pocket. As in Don Quixote, there is a clash between old-world and new-world weltanschauungs, and by the end of the novel, Christianity has been so thoroughly contaminated by its association with outdated mythology that Simplicius’s quixotic decision to renounce the world at age 33 and become a Christian hermit can only be regarded as the act of a simpleton. The novel encourages figurative detachment from the world, not literal.

Grimmelshausen certainly didn’t drop out to play the holy fool: he managed estates, ran several inns, was the mayor of a small town, had 10 kids, and wrote more than 20 books. He converted from Protestantism to Catholicism when younger (to help his careers, it’s been suggested), but he knew the only real magic is the act of artistic creation. There’s a lovely passage near the end of book 1 in which an officer’s secretary praises writing as a way to make a living; Simplicius thinks he’s talking about magic (and is reminded of “Fortunatus’s inexhaustible purse”), but Grimmelshausen is also praising the novelist’s art of creating something from nothing:

I once criticised him for his dirty inkwell but he replied that it was the best thing in his whole room for he could draw up out of it anything he wanted: fine gold ducats, fine clothes, in short all his possessions had been fished out of his inkwell one by one. I refused to believe that such magnificent things could be obtained from such a paltry container. He replied that it was the spiritus paperi, as he called the ink, that did it, and that an inkwell was called a well because you could draw up all sorts of things out of it. (1.27)

Out of Grimmelshausen’s dirty inkwell came this devilishly clever satire on 17th-century society, a world “so full of foolishness that no one takes any notice or laughs at it anymore,” as Simplicius notes (3.17), encouraging him to “castigate all follies and censure all vanities” (2.10). Simplicissimus begins like a picaresque bildungsroman but opens up into a Menippean satire, a blitzkrieg against pretension, hypocrisy, superstition, and especially the alleged nobility of war. There’s no bullshit here about dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, a con kings and politicians have been using to recruit cannon-fodder ever since Horace penned that piece of propaganda. The Thirty Years’ War was essentially a family squabble between the Hapsburgs and the Bourbons for territorial control over Europe (with some Protestant vs. Catholic window-dressing), about as noble as a mob turf war, and though Grimmelshausen sarcastically notes war is good for business (5.5), he rubs his reader’s face in its barbaric nature with a force that wouldn’t be felt again until the antiwar novels of the 20th century. As Simplicius fools his way through war-torn, phantasmagoric Germany, I was remind of Slothrop in Gravity’s Rainbow; Grimmelshausen even indulges in some Pynchonesque personification: on one of his foraging expeditions, Simplicius sees “a sight for sore eyes or, rather, empty bellies: hanging up in the chimney were hams, sausages and sides of bacon. They seemed to be smiling at me, so I gave them a come-hither look, wishing they would come and join my comrades in the woods, but in vain; the hard-hearted things ignored me and stayed hanging there” (2.31). Simplicissimus belongs to the same insubordinate platoon as The Good Soldier Švejk, The Tin Drum, and Catch-22.

Though Grimmelshausen drew upon personal experiences for the early parts of the novel, he drew mostly upon his extensive reading. Scholars have shown that more than 150 books went into the making of this erudite novel, ranging from classical authors and the medieval Parzival to the 6-page passage from Antonio de Guevara’s 16th-century theological tract that concludes book 5. A German translation of Charles Sorel’s iconoclastic antinovel Francion (see pp. 182–86 below) was a major inspiration, but Grimmelshausen also drew upon Italian novellas and German jestbooks (like Till Eulenspiegel), encyclopedias and almanacs, and manuals on witchcraft like Johann Wier’s De Præstigiis dæmonium (2.8). A battle scene that sounds like an eyewitness report actually comes from a German translation of Sidney’s Arcadia (which should give military historians pause). On one occasion, Simplicius visits a pastor and finds him “reading my Chaste Joseph” (3.19)—a biblical novel Grimmelshausen published in 1666, though it’s only 1639 at this point! That’s so obviously an anachronism that it has to be deliberate, another taunting call for the suspension of disbelief like Simplicius’s magical bench ride and his sylph-escorted journey to the center of the earth. It’s all one to “the old inkslinger” (2.4).

Cervantes waited 10 years to publish a sequel to Don Quixote, but Grimmelshausen jumped on the unexpected success of Simplicissimus. When the 5-book novel was reprinted in 1669, he added a 6th book simply entitled Continuation (Continuatio), though scholars are divided on whether this forms an organic whole with the previous part, or is the first of several sequels Grimmelshausen published over the next few years.

Like most hastily written sequels, the Continuation isn’t very good. Picking up where book 5 left off, Simplicius’s solitary life as a hermit seems to be driving him crazy, for first he recounts a long, allegorical dream that starts in hell with Lucifer gnashing his teeth at the declaration of peace that ended the Thirty Years’ War, which morphs into a didactic tale of a rich young Englishman who ruins himself through conspicuous consumption. Our hairy hermit then encounters a statue that comes to life, and—after Simplicius decides to hit the road as a pilgrim—he gets into an argument with some toilet paper, who delivers a long economic history of its many metamorphoses from seed to paper (a remarkable set-piece that again brings Pynchon to mind). Mistaken for the Wandering Jew, spooked by ghosts, Simplicius has further bizarre adventures as he travels to Egypt, then is shipwrecked on a deserted island off the coast of Australia, where he leads a Robinson Crusoe-type existence—this section was based on the popular English novelette by Henry Neville, The Isle of Pines (1668)—and there he writes the entire Simplicissimus novel on palm leaves. Refusing rescue by a Dutch sea captain, Simplicius intends to live out the rest of his pious life on his island hideaway, “an example of change and a mirror of the inconstancy of human life.”68 Although the book offers further displays of the author’s outlandish erudition, it’s too didactic, too medieval.

Grimmelshausen returns to form in The Life of Courage (Die Landstörtzerin Courasche, 1670).69 Near the end of Simplicissimus, our protagonist had boasted of seducing and dumping a beatiful lady, a “man-trap” whose “easy virtue soon disgusted him” (5.6); nine months later, she leaves a baby on his doorstep, who Simplicius reluctantly makes his son and heir. Audaciously blurring the distinction between fiction and reality, Grimmelshausen states in a headnote that this unnamed woman read Simplicissimus and was so insulted at her portrayal therein that she decided to avenge herself by telling the story of her life, revealing that the woman he took for an aristocrat was actually a promiscuous adventuress infected with syphilis—which raises an intriguing possibility: Did Simplicius contract the disease from her? Untreated, it can cause insanity, which would explain the underwater sylphic adventure later in book 5 and the talking toilet paper. Indeed, the entire bizarre Continuation can be read as a neurosyphilitic hallucination. If nothing else, it stinks up the odor of sanctity with which Simplicissimus ends.

Just as the Continuation anticipates Robinson Crusoe, this short novel anticipates Defoe’s Moll Flanders, but with no apology at the end for the life she’s led. (Grimmelshausen, however, tacks on a homiletic warning against following her example.) Inspired by a German translation of Lopez de Úbeda’s Justina, Grimmelshausen backtracks to the very beginning of the Thirty Years’ War. Born in Bohemia, 13-year-old Libuschka disguises herself as a boy to avoid rape from invading soldiers and joins the army: “I made a great effort to get rid of all my woman’s habits and acquire man’s. I took great pains to learn to swear like a trooper and drink like a fish . . . so that no one should suspect there was something I had not been endowed with at birth” (2). When it’s revealed during a fight she lacks that certain something, she defiantly calls her vulva Courage, which becomes her girl-power nom de guerre in her fight against male prejudice as well as opposing armies.70 Over the next dozen years, she is repeatedly married to soldiers, repeatedly raped by other other soldiers, then becomes a prostitute, then a black marketeer, doing whatever it takes to survive the war, and marrying whoever promises shelter from the storm. (Through no fault of her own, her husbands usually perish before their first anniversary.) She’s smart, as courageous as her name implies, and fiercely independent; she doesn’t really descend into criminal behavior until later in life, when she joins a band of Gypsies. And that child she left on Simplicius’s doorstep? Not hers, but her slutty maid’s. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and Courage takes self-incriminating delight in telling Simplex (as she calls him) how wrong he was about everything.

Like Simplicissimus, Courage is graphically realistic but includes a few magical elements. The Spanish Justina tried to dodge sexual encounters, but Courage welcomes them: she’s a novelty in novels of this period, a sexually active woman who doesn’t feel guilty about scratching her itch (as puts it). While we have to remember that a man is writing this, Grimmelshausen was a worldly one and knew that women have sexual desires too, which you wouldn’t guess from most novels published before the 20th century. Like Simplicius, Courage occasionally reads courtly romance novels, but only to pick up “pretty turns of phrase from” for the purposes of seduction (5; cf. Simplicissimus 3.18: “these books taught me how to lure the female sex”). Rebelling against the polite romance tradition, Grimmelshausen opposes his hard-core realism to their unrealistic fantasies; like his model Charles Sorel, he was out to destroy the mainstream novel, and Courage is an earthy and bracing alternative to most 17th-century fiction.

One of Courage’s longer-term relationships was with a lackey/paramour she nicknamed Tearaway, from the time she told him, “Tear yourself away from that cart and go and fetch the dappled grey from the grazing” (16). After she dumped him for drunkenness and domestic violence, this rascal became one of Simplicius’s gang during his Hunter of Soest period. He tells his story in Tearaway (Der seltzame Springinsfeld, 1670), which begins when the young scribe Courage had hired to write down her memoir runs into Simplicius, lately returned from Australia, and his old servant Tearaway at an inn.71 The scribe tells them what Courage dictated to him—Simplicius interrupts to admit he was also banging Courage’s maid, so that baby is his son after all—and also of her life with the Gypsies. (Grimmelshausen may be the first to write about them in fiction.) We learn that Simplicius, as pious as ever, is annoyed that readers are treating his Simplicissimus merely as a jestbook like Till Eulenspiegel instead of the Christian allegory he intended. Incongruously, he is now making a living as a traveling salesman peddling an elixir that improves wine, using a magic book as part of his spiel—another occasion Grimmelshausen uses, like the dirty inkwell, for a tribute to the power of imaginative writing—and after nine chapters of metafictional scene-setting, Tearaway tells how he spent the war. Like much of Simplicissimus, Tearaway is a grim, grunt’s-eye view of war, where greed for booty trumps patriotic duty, and which brings out the worst in everyone. Tearaway admits “Soldiers are there to persecute the peasants and any that leave them in peace aren’t doing their job properly,” but also notes “some peasants were worse than the good soldiers themselves. They not only murder soldiers, innocent and guilty, whenever they managed to get hold of them, when they had the chance, they stole from their neighbours, even from their own friends and relations” (13). This section is sketchy, obviously worked up not from firsthand experience but from the same war chronicle Grimmelshausen used for Courage, Eberhard von Wassenberg’s Erneuerter Teutscher Florus (1647). After the war is over, Tearaway marries a widow and becomes a crooked innkeeper, abandons both, then marries a hurdy-gurdy player and scrapes out a living accompanying her on the fiddle as wandering musicians. This colorful, realistic account of tramping morphs into a fairy tale in which his wife discovers a magical bird’s nest that confers invisibility on its owner; Tearaway’s too cowardly to use it for gain—she isn’t, and winds up being burned as a witch as a result—and the tatterdemalion is still playing for pfennigs when he runs in to his old master. Simplicius tries to recall him to Christian principles, which Tearaway initially dismisses as “a load of monkish tripe” (27), though he repents just before he dies.

“The Miraculous Bird’s Nest” (Das wunderbarliche Vogelnest, 1672 [part 1] and 1675 [part 2]) is the title of the last two sections of what Grimmelshausen eventually called the Simplician Cycle. In part 1, a do-gooder named Michael uses the cloaking device to obstruct various misdeeds while searching for an honorable way to make money; in part 2, an unnamed merchant, less scrupulous than Michael (and more like Tearaway’s wife), takes advantage of invisibility to commit various acts of greed, lust, and sorcery. The miraculous bird’s nest functions as a “lens through which the bearer perceives reality” (Negus, 124), another analog for one of fiction’s purposes. Simplicius’s son appears in one episode in part 1, but otherwise the 2-part novel is only thematically related to the preceding novels, emphasizing once again the inconstancy of fortune, the prevalence of evil, and the consequent necessity of adhering to Christian principles. Books 1 through 8 of the Simplician Cycle depicted a world at war, but in these final two books Grimmelshausen argues that the world at peace is just as dangerous. They sound mildly entertaining, but as they’ve not been translated, I can only direct the interested reader elsewhere for more on the conclusion to Grimmelshausen’s 10-part, 800-page meganovel.72

Unlike part 2 of Don Quixote, the second half of the Simplician Cycle isn’t as impressive as the first half (i.e., Simplicissimus), but that doesn’t prevent Grimmelshausen from occupying the same lofty position in early German literature, and his influence on later German writers is profound. He impressed Ludwig Tieck and other German Romantics, the Grimm brothers and Goethe, and his work played a patriotic part in the unification of Germany in the 19th century. Most major German novelists of the 20th century have paid tribute to him: Thomas Mann borrowed from his work for his Felix Krull and Doctor Faust, and in his introduction to a Swedish translation of Simplicissimus, he wrote: “It is the rarest kind of monument to life and literature, for it has survived almost three centuries and will survive many more. It is a story of the most basic kind of grandeur—gaudy, wild, raw, amusing, rollicking and ragged, boiling with life, on intimate terms with death and the devil—but in the end, contrite and fully tired of a world wasting itself in blood, pillage and lust, but immortal in the miserable splendor of its sins.”73 Hesse greatly admired Grimmelshausen, and from him Bertolt Brecht conceived the idea for his play Mother Courage and Her Children (1949). Grimmelshausen’s earthy, erudite, punning language was an inspirational starting point for Arno Schmidt’s even more outlandish diction. I implied earlier that the young Simplicius has something in common with Oskar Matzerath in Günter Grass’s Tin Drum (1959), and Grimmelshausen steals the show in Grass’s erudite critifiction The Meeting at Telgte (1979), an imaginary conference of several German authors in 1647, in which Grass affectionately roasts the old inkslinger:

In his green doublet and plumed hat he looked like something out of a storybook. . . . [After he] had offered his services in a long-winded speech well larded with tropes, Harsdörffer took Dach aside. True, he said, the fellow prates like an itinerant astrologer—he had introduced himself to the assemblage as Jupiter’s favorite, whom, as they could see, Venus had punished in France—but he had wit, and was better read than his clowning might lead one to suspect. . . . His lies, said Harsdörffer, are as inspired as any romances; his eloquence reduces the very Jesuits to silence; not just the church fathers, but all the gods and their planets are at his fingertips; he is familiar with the seamy side of life, and wherever he goes, in Cologne, in Recklinghausen, in Soest, he knows his way about. . . . Hofmannswaldau stood dumbfounded; hadn’t the fellow just quoted a passage from Opitz’s translation of the Arcadia? . . . His words seemed as trustworthy as the sheen of the double row of buttons on his green doublet. (6–7)

In this novel Grimmelshausen is still in his mid-twenties, but someday, the narrator predicts, “he would let every foul smell out of the bag; a chronicler, he would bring back the long war as a word-butchery, let loose gruesome laughter, and give the [German] language license to be what it is: crude and soft-spoken, whole and stricken, here Frenchified, there melancolicky, but always drawn from the casks of life. Yes, he would write! By Jupiter, Mercury, and Apollo, he would!” (112–13).

#steven moore #the novel: an alternative history 1600-1800 #hans jakob christoffel von grimmelshausen #simplicissimus #tom nashe #miguel de cervantes #bertolt brecht #arno schmidt

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ask-de-writer · 6 years

Text

A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE ROM : Origin of the Rom, part 7 : MLP Fan Fiction : Part 3 of 6

A Brief History of the Rom and Their Customs

Or:

How Luna and Celestia Discovered the Rom of the Equestrian Roads

the Seventh part in the origin of the Rom

ORIGIN OF THE ROM SERIES in reading order. (will be completed as the stories are posted in linked form)

Part One : NORE’S CHOICE, which starts HERE

Part Two : WELCOME TO EQUESTRIA! which starts HERE

Part Three : FAIR AND UN-FAIR, which starts HERE

Part Four : ON THE ROADS OF EQUESTRIA, which starts HERE

Part Five : THE FIRST ROM HEARTHWARMING, which starts HERE

Part Six : SANDO’S LAKE, which starts HERE

Part Seven : A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE ROM, which starts HERE

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

Cover art by Alte Seele

17062 words

Writing begun 04/28/14

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions. All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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Gently, she returned to Carolan and said, “I begin to see what you mean. If these petty nobles in my Guard are so rude and unpleasant to me, in public yet, what must they be like to the ones that they consider inferior? Supposedly they are under military discipline and have orders to serve me, their Princess. Instead, they interrupt and try to dictate to me. It must be far worse for you.

“Now, we are far from what I wanted, which was simply to hear some of your music and to learn about your - - instrument. I can see that it is not a harp. Where may I get one?”

Blind Carolan could sense that under the Princess’ calm something truly monstrous was stirring. Still, he pointed down the Midway a few booths. “This that I play is a lyre. There is the booth of Sa-Inat the luthier. He makes all manner of instruments besides lyres. He trades to both the music of ponies and Rom. His prices are most reasonable for such fine workmanship.

“The tune that you want me to play is called the Two Green Vines.”

Carolan readied his lyre and began with a strumming stroke from high notes to the bass strings. He began to dexterously pluck the the tune. Luna’s forehooves did unconsciously begin to dance, raising little puffs of midway dust. Her face settled into a true smile as she relaxed.

A pair of mares in gorgeous sashes, harness and plumes, approached to the tinkle of bells hung from parts of their harnesses. They awaited the ending of the tune.

They curtsied to Princess Luna and asked, “Our pardon please, Princess. We wish to borrow Carolan for some dance music …”

One of the Guard officiously tried to butt in, snapping, “Go away, you Rom Trash! The Princess is …” was as far as he got.

Midnight magic, so dark as to be near black and shot through with stars that looked more like the corrupt light given by a rotting corpse, slammed him back into the formation! He was driven so hard that his hinder hooves sank into the turf enough to trip him up and make an armor clattering nine-pins strike of the whole formation!

Luna turned to the Guard as they picked themselves up. Her usually blue eyes had gone to the pale glowing light of corruption. The Guard could see the fangs in her mouth as she Canterlot Voiced, for all to hear, “FIVE PACES BACK AND SILENT! How is that too hard for you? Are you Nobles so worthless that you cannot follow the SIMPLEST OF ORDERS?”

Turning back to the shocked dancers, Luna smiled her normal sweet smile and said, “Please, forgive the interruption. Some ponies never grew up to good manners and need the occasional slap on the butt to keep them in line. A few are so utterly stupid and useless that nothing can penetrate the armor of their Place In Society.

“You wanted Carolan to play some dances for you? I do think that I would love to see and hear that!

“Here, Carolan, I almost forgot because I had to discipline these unruly idiots that masquerade as my Guard.” She dropped another two golden bits into his change box.

One of the dancers, wide eyed at the sight of gold in Carolan’s box, helped the blind lyrist to his feet as she whispered into his ear, “Five golden bits she has given you!”

He leaned on the mare for guidance. The other gathered his blanket, change box and Lyre. Luna observed, from the familiarity with which they did it, that this was a common thing for them to do.

Luna approved entirely. The able helping the less able so that those could make themselves an honest living.

She happily trotted along behind the mares and Carolan.

They came to a cleared space, staked and roped off. The mares fussed over helping Carolan to get ready. There was a drummer and a flutist already waiting.

Rom standing about tilted their heads back and emitted loud trills as the mares took the center of the dancing area. The drummer started to lead off with a sensuous beat.

One of Luna’s Guard let out a loud fart sounding raspberry. Luna spun about on her hind legs, eyes aflame, if the phosphorescence of corruption could be likened to a flame. Her horn blazed with a putrid white magic, shot through with streamers of pus like green.

Her striking forehooves crushed in Sargent Hopwell’s brestplate like tinfoil. The slime-like magic siezed his hind hooves and pulled them forward between his forehooves, flipping him flat onto his back.

The magic lifted the hapless Hopwell by his hindhooves and dropped him headfirst into a garbage bin. Her roar was not merely the Royal Canterlot voice. Her voice housed the roars of every predator ever to strike fear into a pony as she demanded, “SILENCE! I SHALL BE VIOLENT WITH THE NEXT TO INTERRUPT!”

Turning back to the Rom, she said, in the gentle tones usually associated with Princess Luna, “Pray forgive the disturbance. My Guard has made me utterly ashamed of the nobility of Equestria. Your Princess begs you to forgive the need to discipline them like the motherless brats that they are behaving as.

“Please honor me with restarting the tune and dance.”

The dancers made a quite good curtsy to Luna and hit their opening poses again. This time the only interruption was Sargent Hopwell’s hooves scrabbling for purchase as he struggled to free himself from the garbage bin.

The dancers swayed and began to spin. From some hidden place they produced long gauzy veils that swirled about as if they had a life of their own. The dancers seemed to almost float above the ground at times. At others, their stamping hooves raised small clouds of midway dust.

When the dance was done, the dancers were in a deep bow toward the Princess. All about them, the horns of the Rom tilted back as they raised their heads and trilled loudly. Watching ponies clapped their hooves.

Luna, catching that the trill was the Rom version of applause, tilted back her head and trilled too. A number of the watching ponies, seeing the Princess trill, stopped clapping and trilled too.

Luna, smiling broadly, Luna gave each of the performers, including the musicians, another golden bit. She got up and walked over to blind Carolan and gave him his bit in person.

For once, following orders, her Guard stayed in tight formation five paces behind her and silent. They were glaring menacingly in all directions.

Smiling happily she asked, “Do you have many dances such as that one?”

The dancers shrugged, “Perhaps as many as a hundred and fifty discrete dances. We also do dance medleys and some simple free form dances, just for fun.”

“That is wonderful. Would your troupe be willing to perform for me up in the palace?”

The dancers and musicians looked at each other uncomfortably. Finally it was blind Carolan who spoke. “There are laws against it, Princess. Neither Canterlot nor any other town will allow us into it, save for passage on a Royal Road.

“It is against Rom traditions too. We do not go closer to Canterlot than the shadow of its walls. It has always been so, for so long as Rom have been on the Roads of Equestria.”

The Major, hearing Carolan, began to grin meanly.

“I regret to say this, Princess, but given that the laws forbid it already, we have to say that we do not wish to break the laws.”

Luna was just starting to say, “I see …” When the Major and the Guard charged past her screaming, “TREASON! Take the Traitors! They have all defied the Princess!”

She heard the splintering crash of Carolan’s lyre being destroyed. There were the screams of injured and horrified horses. She cold hear the thud of hard bucking blows and the breaking of bones. She smelled blood …

She yelled at the Guard in the loudest Royal Canterlot Voice, “Halt! Formation, NOW!”

She saw the grinning Major look up from pummeling the blind Carolan. “Can’t, Princess! Gotta take care of this nest of traitors first!”

The next sound that the Guard heard was a roar, so loud that it dislodged stones from the cliff of Canterlot’s mountain. It left searing frost behind it as the voice of the Embodiment of All Nightmares ordered, “FORMATION, NOW!”

The Major looked up from his assault on the helpless. It was not Luna there. It was not the Alicorn Nighmare Moon that he expected. No.

Reared onto her hind legs was the True Embodiment of All Nightmares. Her eyes flamed with a color that could only be called the phosphorescence of decay. Her forehooves were glowing flame. She was so black that there was no way to distinguish details that were not outlined, like the huge bat-like wings, the fangs, the magic pale, rotting corpse like and shot through with a greenish slime, already gathered about a horn longer than the Major was tall.

Simply to look at her was to know the terror of the worst nightmare that any seeing her had ever experienced.

Most of the Guard were sprinting to make formation. Sargent Hopwell was holding two mares by force and trying to clear his armor. Without looking up, he snapped back at the voice, “Got couple of Whorses! Be there as soon as I gets a little fun!”

For those watching, it was a scene out of nightmare. A living scene in a living nightmare. Hopwell struggled with the mares and strove to get his armor out of the way of his “fun.” The True Embodiment of All Nightmares took a single stride in his direction. As in a nightmare, the stride covered all the ground between them. A hoof of flame rose and slammed down.

There was the sickening crashing crunch of failing metal. The stench of burning flesh. The stench of splattered guts. Sargent Hopwell’s back plate was level with the ground. It was glowing red hot in the shape of a gigantic hoof print. His gore and blood burst out between the plates of the shattered armor.

The True Nightmare grabbed a hind hoof sticking up at an impossible angle. She ripped the corpse from the ground and hurled it at the formation. His mangled body hit, bounced once, and came to rest exactly at his position in the rank.

The Major, whose real battle experience was nil, was frozen to the spot, straddling the blind Carolan. He was staring directly at the Monster of all nightmares and he was terrified to paralysis. He saw the monster turn his way and begin a stride.

He ran, gibbering in horror, to the formation. He got there only fractions of a second ahead of the Nightmare beast. He stood in his exact spot, rooted there, shivering. He could not take his eyes from the still glowing, shattered armor that held Hopwell’s body.

Luna’s normal and gentle voice coming from the monster that was no longer pony like at all, though it still had a horn and bat wings, caused the surviving Guard to quake where they stood. She said softly, “Explain yourselves. You cried treason. What treason was there?”

Fearfully biting a lip because he feared a trap in the simple question, the Major swallowed hard and replied, “They refused your order for a command performance at the palace, Your Highness.”

“They did? I was not aware of it. I made no such order.”

“You asked them if they wanted to perform. Your request is an order. They defied you. We gave them the punishment due to traitors.”

Flatly, Luna’s gentle voice declared, “I asked a preference which they answered honestly. You have said that my request is an order. Defiance of my request is treason subject to violent punishment before an arrest or a trial. These things you have just said.

“Since leaving the palace you have been constantly ORDERED to remain five paces behind me and NOT INTERFERE in my conversations with my subjects. You have defied me. You are traitors. You shall receive the harm that you have given!”

The ghastly form of the True Embodiment of All Nightmares reared before him. A vast flaming hoof swung. The Major flew across the Midway. He hit a tree to the crunch of smashing metal. Ribs breaking and leg bones shattering were clearly heard. The Major fell to the tree’s roots. The glowing hot hoof print on his breastplate started some of the grass there to burning but it was green and went out quickly.

The True Embodiment of All Nightmares surveyed the scene of carnage. There were the shattered instruments of the musicians. Carolan’s beautiful lyre in a shatter of fragments and tangled strings. The Lovely dancers, one with a broken foreleg, the other with two. An uninjured curved horn mare cradling Carolan’s head and weeping.

Luna’s eyes looked out of the Nightmare. Speaking with complete concern, she asked, “What is it? How bad are his injuries?”

As the mare looked up, she realized that, of all that monster, her eyes were safe to see. She wept, “He is dying. I can hear his lungs bubbling.”

Still looking the mare directly in the eyes, Luna replied, “I used to be a very good battlefield surgeon. Do not be afraid of my magic. The color is only a seeming.” Her magic, looking like the pus of a rotting corpse, settled into Carolan. Soon she withdrew it.

“If I am to save him, I will need help. It is far easier to become a Nightmare than it is to awaken from it. I will call for help now.”

Up in the palace, Celestia was in a huddle with both Guards and Regular Equestrian Army. The wide spaces of the throne room smelled of smoke. She was saying, “General, your troops are doing an admirable job. You have the list. Carry on with sealing the city and sending pegatroopers to the estates of any who you have any doubt might escape.

“We all heard my sister’s order to Formation. She cannot use that voice unless the Nightmare has emerged. She promised me, at the end of the last Nightmare War that she would never allow it again unless at the greatest need. I fear something terrible has happen …”

The roar shook the mountain. Hoarfrost formed on all the walls and the hearers were rooted with a plain to see terror.

“Celestia! Come quickly! I need you!” It was a voice freighted with the inescapable grief of a Nightmare with no awakening. It found some purchase out on the plains and it echoed back to the mountain’s side, “Celestia! Come quickly! I need you!” The grief of it reverberating back and forth from Mountain to plains and back.

Of the hearers, Celestia alone raised her head. Magic of the sun and day boosted a return call that was near equally loud. “I am coming, my Sister! I am on my way!”

General Hurricane V shivered but came straight to the point. “That was not the Nightmare Moon, was it, Princess? It was a far worse thing, I would guess.”

“You are correct, General. The Alicorn, Nightmare Moon, could never have stood against us through the ten years of the Nightmare Wars. She was a fiction to help allay the fears of the populace. This is the Embodiment of All Nightmares. She is my sister and I must go! I trust you to finish the work that we have begun.”

She spun about and sprinted for a balcony of the Throne Room, her Guards behind her. She turned to them and said, “These are your orders. Do no thing to interfere with the Nightmare or what it is doing. NO THING AT ALL. You simply find me a safe landing spot as close to the Nightmare as possible and secure it for me.

“Launch!”

The Guards leaped and began the fast stooping dive to the Canterlot Fairground, far below. Celestia was close behind them. A few hundred feet up, the big Alicorn banked off into a circle while her Guard found the safe spot and landed, forcing the few civilians there out of the way, to safety.

Celestia dropped down hard, like a striking hawk to her landing. Bunching, she jumped past her Guard, landed and jumped again. She was beside the Monster that her sister presently was.

All that she said was, “How can I help you, Luna?”

Weeping tears of blood and fire, a flaming hoof pointed to Carolan. “I need to awaken from the Nightmare and awakening will be too slow to save him.”

Not questioning her sister’s reasons, Celestia gathered her magic of many hues and enwrapped her sister in it. As her magic entered, the Embodiment of All Nightmares began to shrink and turn to a familiar dark midnight blue. In seconds, it was Princess Luna who stood there.

Her magic quickly gathered her new kitchen knife set as she sprinted for the fallen Lyrist. She told the mare, “Please keep holding his head. Keep his mouth open and tongue out so that it cannot block his breathing. I will make him sleep deeply so that he will not move. I am going to have to physically cut into his chest to fix this, but I can do it if we are in time!”

Celestia came and knelt to Carolan’s other side as Luna’s razor sharp knives began their cuts. Many hued magic reached into the cuts, alongside her sister’s midnight magic. Bleeding was stanched. The cuts opened wide to make Luna’s work easier.

Seeing the astonishment on the mare’s face, Celestia explained gently, “Luna is far the better surgeon of us two. I doubt that there is a better surgeon in all of Equestria. I do well as an operating nurse for her.” She turned back to the delicate but swift work at hoof.

Luna spoke for the first time since the cutting began. In a neutral voice, she said, “I am about to enter his chest. When I do, he will stop breathing. Do not be alarmed.

“Celestia, be very careful as you spread the wound. He has many broken ribs. Some are already damaging his lung. I need them lifted out carefully so that I can seal the injuries. Then, I have to get the blood out of his chest.

“It would help if I had some absorbent cloths to catch it.”

She continued to cut swiftly and with precision. In moments, a gaping hole opened in Carolan’s chest. Some fragments of bone lifted out with care to cause no further damage.

Luna’s normal midnight Magic reached in and damaged bits of lung came out of the wound. A towel caught them. Luna was concentrating ferociously. Sweat began to run on her forehead. A towel caught that too.

Without looking up, she said, “Cloths at the ready. There is a lot of blood in here.”

Her magic was lifting out globs of partly jelled blood. As fast as it came out, it was caught and taken away.

Luna’s magic began to pull severed membranes together all but a small part. Muscles were next. As many hued magic pulled things close, midnight magic brought them to a perfect fit and they sealed together as if never cut.

Luna leaned forward and sucked air out of the hole that she had left. As she sealed it, Carolan’s damaged chest began to heave. The mare holding his head was openly crying.

TO BE CONTINUED

<== PREVIOUS NEXT ==>

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

#A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE ROM #Origin of the Rom part 7 #MLP Fan Fiction #Written by De Writer #Part 3 of 6

19 notes · View notes

tenaflyviper · 6 years

Text

Horror Documentaries

Please note: Permanent link availability is NOT guaranteed. If I could archive them, I would.

American Grindhouse (2010)

Nightmares in Red, White, and Blue (2009)

Blood on the Reel (2015)

Snuff: A Documentary about Killing on Camera (2008)

The American Nightmare (2000)

The 50 Best Horror Movies You’ve Never Seen (2014)

100 Years of Horror (1996) [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12][13][14][15][16][17][18][19][20][21][22]

Attack of the 50 Foot Monster Mania (1999)

Bloodsucking Cinema (2007)

Clive Barker’s A-Z of Horror (1997)

Going to Pieces: The Rise and Fall of the Slasher Film (2006)

Kingdom of Shadows (1998)

Machete Maidens Unleashed! (2010)

Monsters and Maniacs (1988)

Midnight Movies: From the Margin to the Mainstream (2005)

Not Quite Hollywood (2008)

Sci-Fi Boys (2006)

Scream and Scream Again: A History of the Slasher Film (2000)

Under the Scares (2010)

Zombie Mania (2008)

Still Screaming: The Ultimate Scary Movie Retrospective (2011)

The AckerMonster Chronicles! (2012)

Magic, Murder and Monsters: The Story of British Horror and Fantasy (2007)

Stephen King’s World of Horrors (1987) [1][2][3]

Bits and Pieces: Bringing Death to Life (2003)

Blood and Black Lace: A Short History of the Italian Horror Film (1999)

Special Effects Documentaries:

Fantastic Flesh: The Art of Make-Up EFX (2008)

How NOT to Make a Horror Film (2015)

Scream Greats, Vol 1: Tom Savini, Master of Horror Effects (1986)

Smoke and Mirrors: The Story of Tom Savini (2015)

Jack Pierce: The Maker of Monsters (2015)

Nightmare Factory (2012)

Men in Suits (2012)

Ray Harryhausen: Special Effects Titan (2011)

Special Effects: Anything Can Happen (1996)

Movie-Specific Documentaries

Apocalypse Soon: The Making of Citizen Toxie (2002)

Farts of Darkness (2016)

Poultry in Motion: Truth is Stranger than Chicken (2008)

Fury of the Demon (2015)

Room 237 (2012)

Tod Browning’s Freaks: The Sideshow Cinema (2004)

Texas Chainsaw Massacre: A Family Portrait (1988)

The Shark is Still Working (2007)

Halloween: 25 Years of Terror (2006)

Sleepless Nights: Revisiting the Slumber Party Massacres (2010) [1][2][3]

Leviathan: The Story of Hellraiser and Hellraiser III (2015)

The Making of Hellraiser (1987)

Lost Soul: The Doomed Journey of Richard Stanley’s Island of Dr. Moreau (2014)

The Psycho Legacy (2010)

The Curse of the Omen (2005)

Full-Tilt Boogie (1997)

Hail to the King: 60 Years of Destruction (2014)

Long Live the King (2016)

Creature Feature: 60 Years of the Gill-Man (2014)

Beware the Moon (2009)

Best Worst Movie (2009)

Autopsy of the Dead (2009)

As Timeless as Infinity: The Twilight Zone Legacy (2014)

Ghostheads (2016)

Cleanin’ Up the Town: Remembering Ghostbusters (2017)

Crystal Lake Memories (2013) [1][2]

His Name Was Jason (2009)

More Brains! (2011)

They Won't Stay Dead: A Look at Return of the Living Dead Part II (2011)

Love Beyond the Grave: A Look at Return of the Living Dead III (2011)

Scream: The Inside Story (2011)

Never Sleep Again: The Elm Street Legacy (2010)

Unearthed and Untold: The Path to Pet Sematary (2017)

Just Desserts: The Making of Creepshow (2007)

You’re So Cool, Brewster! The Story of Fright Night (2016)

Document of the Dead (1979)

The World’s End: The Making of Day of the Dead (2013)

Medieval Times: The Making of Army of Darkness (2015)

Tales from the Crypt: From Comic Books to Television (2004)

My Amityville Horror (2012)

Documentaries About Directors:

De Palma (2015)

King Cohen: The Wild World of Filmmaker Larry Cohen (2017)

Birth of the Living Dead (2013)

Dead On: The Life and Cinema of George A. Romero (2008)

The Dead Will Walk (2004)

Doc of the Dead (2014)

Blood, Boobs, and Beast! (2007)

Corman’s World: Exploits of a Hollywood Rebel (2012)

Dario Argento: An Eye for Horror (2000)

Dario Argento: Master of Horror (1991) [1][2][3][4][5][6]

Clive Barker: The Art of Horror (1992)

Divine Trash (1998)

In Bad Taste (2000)

Diary of a Deadbeat: The Story on Jim Vanbebber (2015)

Ed Wood: Look Back in Angora (1994)

Hershell Gordon Lewis: The Godfather of Gore (2010)

Hitchcock/Truffaut (2015)

The Men Who Made the Movies: Alfred Hitchcock (1973)

John Carpenter: The Man and His Movies (2004)

Master of Cinema: John Carpenter (2000)

Long Live the New Flesh: The Films of David Cronenberg (1987)

Shadows in the Dark: The Val Lewton Legacy (2005)

Val Lewton: The Man in the Shadows (2007)

Spine Tingler! The William Castle Story (2007)

They Came from the Swamp: The Films of William Grefé (2016)

Son of the Incredibly Strange Film Show: George A. Romero & Tom Savini Documentary (1989)

Documentaries About Actors:

To Hell and Back: The Kane Hodder Story (2017)

I Am Divine (2011)

I Am Nancy (2011)

I Am Thor (2015)

That Guy...Who Was in That Thing (2012)

That Guy Dick Miller (2014)

Bride of Monster Mania (2000)

Invasion of the Scream Queens (1992)

Scream Queens: Horror Heroines Exposed (2014)

Screaming in High Heels: The Rise and Fall of the Scream Queen Era (2011)

Some Nudity Required (1998)

Something to Scream About (2003)

Welcome to My Dark Side (2009)

Lon Chaney: A Thousand Faces (2000)

Documentaries About Horror Hosts:

American Scary (2006)

Every Other Day Is Halloween (2009)

Uncovering Elvira Mistress of the Dark (????)

Vampira and Me (2012)

Vampira: The Movie (2006)

Watch Horror Films, Keep America Strong! (2008)

Virginia Creepers (2009)

Hi There Horror Movie Fans (2011)

Documentaries About Writers:

Anne Rice: Birth of the Vampire (1994)

Charles Beaumont: The Short Life of Twilight Zone’s Magic Man (2010)

Edgar Allen Poe: The Mystery of Edgar Allen Poe (1994)

Lovecraft: Fear of the Unknown (2008)

A Night at the Movies: The Horrors of Stephen King (2011)

Stephen King: Shining in the Dark (1999)

Documentaries About Studios:

Amicus: House of Horrors (2012)

Amicus Vault of Horrors (2015) [1][2][3][4]

Electric Boogaloo: The Wild, Untold Story of Cannon Films (2014)

The Go-Go Boys: The Inside Story of Cannon Films (2014)

Flesh and Blood: The Hammer Heritage of Horror (1994)

Hammer: The Studio That Dripped Blood! (1987) [1][2][3][4][5]

It Was a Colossal Teenage Movie Machine (2015)

Make Your Own Damn Movie! (2005)

MGM: When the Lion Roars (1992) [1][2][3][4][5]

Hollywood’s Golden Years: The RKO Story (1987) [1][2][3][4][5][6]

Universal Horror (1998)

Clip and Trailer Collections:

Mad Ron’s Prevues From Hell (1987)

Celluloid Bloodbath: More Prevues From Hell (2012)

Terror in the Aisles (1984)

Coming Soon (1982)

Zombiethon (1986)

The Best of Sex and Violence (1981)

The Best of All Time Horror Classics (1985)

42nd Street Forever (2005) [Vol 1][Vol 2][Vol 3][Vol 4][Vol 5]

Grindhouse Trailer Classics (2007) [Vol 1][Vol 2][Vol 3]

Bravo’s 100 Scariest Movie Moments (2004) [1][2][3][4][5]

30 Even Scarier Movie Moments (2006) [1][2]

Linnea Quigley’s Horror Workout (1990)

Full Moon Video Zone (short “making of” segments that were added to the end of many Full Moon Productions VHS releases):

Puppet Master II

Puppet Master III

Puppet Master 4

Puppet Master 5

Curse of the Puppet Master

Retro Puppet Master

Netherworld

Seed People

The Creeps

Talisman

Mandroid

Hideous!

Doctor Mordrid

Shrieker

Castle Freak

The Pit and the Pendulum

Dollman

Demonic Toys

Dollman VS Demonic Toys

Lurking Fear

Witchouse

Blood Dolls

Bad Channels

Shrunken Heads

Subspecies

Subspecies II

Subspecies III

Subspecies 4

Dark Angel: The Ascent

Oblivion 2: Backlash

Other:

Adjust Your Tracking: The Untold Story of the VHS Collector (2013)

Rewind This! (2013)

VHS Forever? Psychotronic People (2014)

VHS Massacre: Cult Films and the Decline of Physical Media (2015)

The American Scream (2012)

Halloween: The Happy Haunting of America (1997)

Legion of Terror (2009)

Horror Café (1990)

Dear Censor (2002)

The Aurora Monsters: The Model Craze that Gripped the World (2010)

Doc of the Dead (2014)

Famous Monster: Forrest J. Ackerman (2007)

Fantasm (2013)

I Heart Monster Movies (2012)

The Night SHE Came Home (2013)

The Rep (2012)

UnConventional (2004)

The Walking Dead Girls (2011)

Why Horror? (2014)

Down with Clowns (2014)

In Search of Dracula (1975)

Vincent Price’s Dracula (1982)

Killer Legends (2014)

Scream Greats 2, Vol. 2: Satanism and Witchcraft (1986)

The Witch’s Dungeon: 40 Years of Chills (2006)

Fangoria’s Weekend of Horrors (1986)

Gorgon Video Magazine, Vol. 1 (1989)

Gorgon Video Magazine, Vol. 2 (1990)

Mr. Mike’s Mondo Video (1979) (just because)

Upcoming Documentaries:

Forgotten Scares: An In-Depth Look at Flemish Horror Cinema (2018)

Something Wicked This Way Comes (TBA)

The History of Metal and Horror (TBA)

Rocky Horror Saved My Life (TBA)

Scream, Queen! My Nightmare on Elm Street (2018)

Celluloid Wizards in the Video Wasteland: The Saga of Empire Pictures (TBA)

Lastly, here is my “Horror Documentaries” playlist, which contains additional documentaries not listed here.

I only wish I could have provided links for every documentary listed here, but I hope there are enough here to satisfy your horror documentary needs.

Happy Halloween!

#list #horror #documentary #links #veehd might still be down right now #but there are plenty right on good old Youtube

472 notes · View notes

famousavenuefest · 3 years

Text

Tourney

"Listen, Devil," Chad shouted, "You're off the team."

What? Why?” I frowned. "I’m trying my best!" I countered as he stood in front of Chad. Chad called out to me so he could talk to me alone, while the others were practicing.

"You don't have it in you, you're the most horrible player we have. That's why I decided to let you go." Chad answered as he crossed his arms. "Why don't you stick back to playing with the dogs?" he rudely commented.

Ouch. I didn't say anything, more like there was nothing else to say. I was off the team because I'm a horrible player. Maybe my mother was right, I'm not good for anything, I would never even amount to anything.. I watched Chad go back to the field.

Kicking the ground and a few pebbles, I started walking away into the woods. I just wanted to be alone. I felt a sting in my heart, an overwhelming feeling that I couldn't control. Tears suddenly started to fall alongside my cheeks. I felt hopeless and helpless all at the same time.

Jay panted as he tackled other players to the ground, how he loves this sport. He looked around, looking for me only to see he wasn't anywhere in the field. Where did he go?

He rushed to Chad, "Hey, have you seen Carlos?"

"He left somewhere over there." Chad answered in an irritated voice, pointing towards the forest. He still didn't like me after a year in Auradon.

Jay sprinted off to find me, wondering why I left. "Carlos?!" He called out as he entered the forest, "Carlos, you here?" Then Jay heard sniffling coming from behind a tree and immediately felt empathy.

He spotted me sitting behind a tree, crying. "Carlos? What's wrong?" He swiftly stood in front of Carlos, kneeling down. "Are you hurt?"

"No... Chad said that I’m off the team," I whispered, wiping away my tears. He didn't want Jay to see me crying. Villains aren't supposed to cry.

"What?" Jay scowled. "Who told you that?" His voice hinted anger as he kept asking questions.

"Chad. He said that I’m the worst player on the team, and that I should stick back to playing with the dogs." I gazed on the ground, lips quivering as I felt a sting in my heart again.

"Carlos, that's not true!" Jay argued, then stood up, "I'm going to have a little chat with Chad." He began to stride away, which caused Carlos to stand up as well. "Wait, Jay! Don't do anything," I shouted, but was ignored as I tried to reach Jay.

Jay shouted out as he arrived at the field, "Chad? Who do you think you are? Kicking Carlos off of the team."

The team stopped playing when they heard yelling. Chad cold heartedly laughed, "I'm the leader of this team and I can do what I want." I looked away with a disappointed expression.

"Then if he's out, I'm out, that's not even a question." I snapped his head up upon hearing Jay. What? With that, Jay took off his jersey and threw it violently to Chad.

"You can't quit! We have an upcoming game next week," Chad hissed. "We need you."

"Well, apparently you don't, maybe I should tell the king what you're doing.“

Chad snaps”You wouldn’t dare, You’re not the one to make those commands.”

Well apparently you think that you are the one who can kick players off the team, and make those commands so like I said, if he’s out, I'm out."

Chad snaps” And who the f*** do you think you are to tell me that?”

Jay shrugs, "Put Carlos back on the team and I won't quit. We stick together whether you like it or not." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Jay was defending me.

Chad huffed. "Fine. He's back on the team for the last game."

I was in complete, total, utter shock for a moment before my lips quirked to into a smile. Jay turned to me, "Told you I have your back little guy." Jay placed his arm around my shoulder and kissed him on the cheek.

Both grinning in victory. As if Chad could read the boy's minds, he shouted at me “Carlos! don't be laughing! because I will find all the reasons to kick you off the team even if it means lying!”

Oh no you won't” Chad suddenly heard the king say.

Beast reached for his radio on his left shoulder and reported ” Chad in view, come out.”

It was then that Chad realizes that the king was going to get him into trouble, so, out of instinct, he begin running, as soon as Beast notices that Chad's running, Beast begins to pursue him.

As the day goes on...

Prince Charming comes in to the office to ask the king a favour, when he realizes that his son is in the office, for the 4th time this week.

Prince Charming asks“ Chad, what did you do this time?”

Chad snarls" What does it matter? All I know is that the mutant, retarded, imbecile, handicapped, invalid, abnormal worthless curse is off the tourney team.”

Prince Charming snarls” Young man, watch your profanity! You are in front of a king!“

Chad snaps” May I remind you that I am a prince as well?”

Prince Charming scolds” Do you understand that number 1, using profanity in front off a king is rude? And 2, when you described those features and a curse, you were talking about Carlos, weren’t you?”

Chad snaps” Yeah, so what, he’s a worthless, invalid son of a cruddy, dangnabbit fart knocker!”

Prince Charming walks over slaps Chad over the head and snarls” When will you ever learn?”

Suddenly, Jay emerges, face covered in blood and exclaims” Where’s fairy Godmother? She needs to come to our dorm right now! Something’s wrong with Carlos!”

Prince Charming looks over at Jay and asks, concern lining his face” Anaphylactic shock? Broken limbs? Jay! what happened?”

Jay pants” I don’t know, I think that Carlos may have levitated and gone to the enchanted lake, but, next thing I know I get a phone call informing me that Carlos fell through the ice!”

Fairy Godmother emerges and asks concerned" What happened? Is everything okay?"

Jay exclaims relieved“ Oh thank goodness you’re here! Carlos is unconscious! His heart stopped earlier! Someone in the school put him under a spell that made him levitate and fall into the icy water of the enchanted lake! He's had no pulse for almost an hour! Hurry! Please! I don't want him to die!”

Fairy Godmother turned around and took off almost instantly after Jay had finished his sentence.

As they arrive...

I am lying still, too still for Jay’s liking, I am always so energetic and bouncy, but today, My stillness made Jay squirm. His stomach was in knots, he’d been with me his entire life and had never felt this much fear.

His heart was pounding hard in his chest, he could practically hear it beating" Thump, thump.”

Everything came flooding back to Jay, from the first time he had the chance to hold baby Carlos, to now, having to see his little Carlos lying in bed... lifeless. He couldn’t bear the thought. It bothered him. Just seeing his little guy lifeless made Jay want to punch whoever had put Carlos under that horrid, stupid spell.

Jay lost his train of thought when he heard Fairy Godmother recite a spell" Taker of life, god of gods, accept my offering. Bone, flesh, breath. Yours eternally.

Bone, flesh, breath. I beg of you, return to me.”

Apparently, what happened wasn’t what Jay, Mal, Evie, Ben, Fairy Godmother or anyone expected. Chad had actually cast a levitation spell on me and had made the enchanted lake's ice so fragile that when he placed me on it, it broke and I fell through, landing in the water that was so cold that I got hypothermia almost instantly. Jay called 9-1-1 and first responders fished me out.

I was transferred to Auradon bay hospital where the paediatric Critical Care Doctor began CPR, trying desperately to revive me, but all efforts were failing.

As the hospital personnel ran multiple tests, I still had no pulse after 55 minutes. The main doctor, Dr. Garett, walks into the waiting room and breaks the news to everyone” I don't think that Carlos will make it, I'm sorry, if you have family and friends that you would like to call, now is the time.”

Evie asks, sadness present ” Are we allowed to go in and say our final goodbyes?”

The doctor smiles empathetically at the teens and emphasizes”I'm so sorry, I know how much you loved him.”

Jay's in the emergency room, trying to figure out how this happened, it had only been a matter of 15 minutes between me being in the dorm, to him drowning. This was horridly devastating. Jay looks up, walks over to the hospital bed, and begs” Carlos..., it’s Jay, If you can hear me, I need you to understand something, You need to come back to me... Please!”

I'm lying still, tubes everywhere.... Worst of all.... not breathing .

This was the most horrific thing that had ever happened to Jay, this could possibly mean that he would lose me... forever,

Next thing that Jay knew....

The doctor was in the quiet room talking to Evie and Mal about my situation.

“I am sorry, but Carlos is probably not gonna make it.”

Mal's eyes burn with tears as she asks Evie“ How can this be? Our little guy is dead after only 14 short years!"

Evie looks up and asks" Where is he? Take me to him immediately!”

Having heard that, the doctors rushed Evie to me. Jay was there tears streaming down his face as he begged me to come back

bed,.. A little while later... The heart monitor begins to beep,. The doctors rush in, unaware of what is about to happen or what they are about to witness.....

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stillrecruitingrp · 6 years

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The D.A. has recruited Elva to the character of Draco Malfoy with a faceclaim of Austin Butler. Isn’t this what you always wanted, Draco? Last year was remarkable; this year can only be better, right?

OOC Details

Name: Elva

Pronouns: She/her or they/them

Activity Level: I will check in and try to reply daily, though there might be the odd day where I can’t be online. I’m usually more productive in the morning GMT, so there’s a chance I won’t be around for events, but I will make sure to catch up asap.

Acknowledgement: I acknowledge that the themes of this game may include triggering elements. I also acknowledge that my character may be harmed or even killed during paras/events or may cause harm to or kill others during paras/events through the violence roulette.

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General IC Details

Name: Draco Lucius Malfoy

Age: 17

Ships: Draco could do with being swept off his feet, though he doesn’t see that happening anytime in the near or distant future, assuming he has one.

Gender/Pronouns: He/him

Face Claim: Austin Butler, Henrik Holm, Lucky Blue Smith, probably in that order.

Desired Changes: N/A

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BIO Questions

This game is Canon Divergent after the beginning of Deathly Hallows. This means, if a character is not at Hogwarts in canon, that can be altered (maybe Fleur goes to collect her husband’s little sister and ends up unable to leave the rest of the children there? Perhaps Harry comes back earlier…but why, and how? All of these things can be addressed and should be in your application!) Feel free to be creative!

Biography:

Born on the 5th of June, 1980, Draco Malfoy was a child taught to use his voice often and loudly. As a consequence, his nannies and house-elves alike despised him; fits of tears were interrupted with the clatter of china followed by bouts of uncontrollable laughter. But they never dared raise their voice or tell him no. No one working as a nanny had the authority to tell the son of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy anything as absurd as no.

That is not to say Draco enjoyed his early childhood unchecked. He was more than a mere child—he was an heir, and was expected to behave like one. He was spoiled of course, never wanting for anything for very long, given the freedom and the funds to pursue whatever hobby he desired (though Quidditch was preferred, one could even say enforced, by his father). But he was schooled in how to be polite, and diplomatic; how to use cunning to successfully pursue his own ambitions; quizzed in the names and reputations of pureblood peers. It was all dreadfully boring, but it taught him one important lesson—no one measured up to a Malfoy.

Lucius talked about the past the way Draco talked about the stories his mother read him at bedtime–they would terrify the average person, but no child of a Malfoy or Black was average. Draco hung on every word from his mother’s lips, and came to aspire to greatness through cunning, to heroics through deception and resourcefulness. He played at outwitting a pack of werewolves to rescue the beautiful prince, or saving the whole of magical Britain from some muggle king who raised up his sword against them. Draco longed for the dramatics, for the worlds so much grander and more exhilarating than his own. Lucius longed for the glory and the sense of purpose that came with being the Dark Lord’s servant, but Lucius’ accounts of the past were as much fiction as the stories in young Draco’s books. It had been a time fraught with terror no matter whose side one fought on, and it had left Lucius a broken man. Of course, Draco didn’t know that. All he heard was that things had been better, and would be again, if the Dark Lord hadn’t been defeated. Lucius never expected the Dark Lord would return, and if he had, he never would have filled Draco’s head with lofty tales of the past.

If there was ever a way to change a young mind shaped by their parents’ beliefs, it is to remove them from their family’s influence. At Hogwarts, even among fellow Slytherins, Draco was challenged by others and their differing views. But instead of learning, Draco took the offensive. He has always been family-minded—most purebloods are, after all. Add the fact he’s an only child and that he idolised his father, he will always protect his family first and foremost, even when he knows them to be in the wrong. Loyalty may be a Hufflepuff trait but Draco has it in spades.

At first, Draco adamantly believed himself to be superior—his blood made him so, while his wealth and influence were further proof. The Malfoys were a responsible family, who no more sullied their blood than squandered their wealth; everything they had, they’d earned. Over time, that sense of superiority was hardened by jealousy. Draco was jealous of Harry Potter in particular—faster flyer, an infuriating knack for evading trouble, not to mention his celebrity. Draco couldn’t stand it; couldn’t stand him.

Hate corrupts. When Harry went against his father in the Department of Mysteries, his father wasn’t merely incarcerated. The Malfoys fell from favour, Draco was branded with the Dark Mark, and assigned his mission. Draco’s sixth year is a blur, and he doesn’t care to remember it, thank you very much. During the stress of trying to carry out his mission and free his father, he turned that hatred on himself. A sense of inferiority took root inside him, like a Dungbomb waiting to go off and reveal his life as the pile of stinking crap that it was, and oh the timing made Draco laugh. Voldemort was back in full force, Dumbledore was soon to be dead by his hand; Draco was sucked into a war which, had anyone asked if he’d wanted to be part of, he would have answered with a resounding NO.

Perhaps it’s wrong for draco to blame his parents for the person he became and the situation that befell him. He’s seventeen years old, fully capable of thinking for himself—has been for a long time. But even Draco can’t deny their influence on him. As independent as he’d like to be, he has been naive, and so have his mother and father. The mere thought of He Who Must Not Be Named makes Draco retch. Now the Dark Lord has taken over the family estate, sleeps under their roof, assuming he sleeps at all.They have been naive indeed and Draco intends never to blind himself to the truth again, no matter how loathsome it might be.

And what is the truth? He doesn’t want the Dark Lord to win this war. Draco Malfoy is rooting for the enemy. He has never known anyone as obnoxious as Harry Potter, except perhaps Hermione Granger. The pair have been the bane of Draco’s existence since they stepped their unworthy feet on the grounds. They are menaces, the both of them, while the Weasel is barely worth mentioning, and yet they might actually have what it takes to save them all. Of course they won’t be doing that so long as they’re cowering in the wild, scrabbling about like scared animals.

School Year So Far:

Draco returned to Hogwarts in September and resumed his studies as normal.

As if he didn’t watch Headmaster Albus Dumbledore die.

As if old Dumbledore wasn’t the first of many.

It wasn’t like Draco had any choice. His father was in prison. It didn’t take the full-body bind curse to get Draco to take the Dark Mark. He would not endure that indignity, so he offered his arm freely (eventhough there was nothing free about it.) And he did what he was asked—gave the Dark Lord’s servants entrance into Hogwarts, raised his wand against Albus Dumbledore. So what if he couldn’t kill him? What difference did it make now? Dumbledore was dead anyway. The Malfoy name had been spat on repeatedly, he and his parents disgraced. Nothing mattered anymore.

There are worse positions to be in. The Malfoy name can’t sink any lower. Except it can, and Draco is reminded often; Voldemort could put them in the ground, and likely will, so Draco might as well give him a good reason. When he left Hogwarts prematurely in June, it felt strange to leave his friends behind. In fact, he hated it, being dragged along with the Dark Lord’s merry band of madmen and murderers. The more he learns about war, the more he despises it. Is it too much to ask that the world go back to the way it was, so he can enjoy a quiet afternoon on the banks of the Black Lake?

First there is work to be done, but it feels gargantuan. Draco does what he can, when he can, but it’s never enough and people keep ending up hurt. He doesn’t know how long he can keep at it—these small acts of resistance are chipping away at him, and one way or another he’s going to get himself killed, either by Carrows’ hands or through sheer exhaustion. Draco swears, if he sees Potter in this school again, he’s going to throw him at the Dark Lord’s feet so Potter can destroy him once and for all.

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OOC Questions

Writing Sample

What were house-elves for if not doing the dirty work so wizards didn’t have to; so purebloods could put their time to better use? Dumbledore kept a whole hoard of house-elves during his employment. They were paid to clean this castle. So why, in Salazar’s good name, was he, Draco Malfoy, mopping the floor of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom?

He wasn’t even allowed magic. Amycus Carrow had confiscated his wand for good measure with the promise to return it when the job was done, if and only if it was done to his standards. The Carrow wizard was enjoying himself, that much was clear–getting a little too comfortable lording over Draco like he was the one with no money, no education, who could sooner conjure a fart than cast a simple wand-lighting charm.

Draco tightened his hands around the mop. He had half a mind to snap it in two, but the thought that the favour could be returned on his wand gave him pause. Draco couldn’t face that humiliation, not like his father. The things he had done not to end up like his father… It was simple logic; if he made himself useful, it would be foolish for the Dark Lord to disarm him. So he had requested the opportunity to prove himself—to practice, which was just another way to say torture and maim. To kill.

He thrust the mop with more vigour. Swirls of water stained crimson formed a pattern on the sandstone, staining where it dried. He could feel it on his hands—he’d felt it since that night atop the Astronomy Tower, blood caked in more blood. But when he went to the bathroom to scrub it off, there wasn’t a drop to be found. He had imagined it—was imagining it now.

A door creaked. Draco’s back stiffened. Panic seeped into his muscles, but he forced himself to turn toward the sound. Merlin, this had to be a joke.

“You call that clean, Malfoy?” Professor Carrow held the door open as a group of students filed into the room, emanating anger and fear in equal measure. One of them looked from the mop to the discoloured floor and broke into a sob.

Draco didn’t think he could hate anyone more than Potter, then along came the Carrows to prove him wrong. He looked at the crying student. The smirk that had once sat so naturally on his lips now felt barbed, impossible to hold. “Quit your whimpering, it was just a nosebleed.” Gullibility was the number one trait in Hufflepuffs, was it not? Let the little badger believe the lie.

“Am I done then?” He turned to Carrow, holding the broom away from him so his sleeve slid up his arm, exposing his Dark Mark. Hatred emanated off Carrow’s gabble of children, swarming around Draco like flies—if only he could swat it away just as easily.

“Don’t you want to stick around for the fun?”

“I’d rather eat. All this work has built up my appetite.” Draco leaned the mop against the wall. The rags at the end of it had turned rusty red. Food was the last thing Draco had on his mind. He approached Carrow, ignoring the audience of scowling faces, and held out his hand. “Make sure you don’t starve them, Professor. Or you’ll have no one left to play with.”

“I’m sure I’d find someone to take their place,” Carrow sneered.

Well he’d walked right into that one. “Wand, please.” Let it not be said that Mother hadn’t taught him his manners. Amycus looked confused, then made a show of remembering, pulling the wand from his pocket.

Oh it felt good to have it back in his hand, especially as it masked the shaking. Draco couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He would skip dinner in the Great Hall; charged down the spiralling staircase, toward the dungeons, as fast as he could without breaking into a run. Upon reaching the entrance to the Common Room, he was too out of breath to utter the password. Pressing his hand to the wall, he closed his eyes, sweat prickling his brow. He wanted out of these clothes, to shower for a full day—out of this castle.

“Draco?”

At the sound of the familiar voice, relief flooded over him. He could breathe, just. He shoved his sleeves down, buttoning the cuffs; checked his hands.

No blood. At least, none that the eye could see.

Exploration

Arrogance and a sense of superiority does not equal self-love. Draco doesn’t come across as someone who doubts himself, but he does, constantly. He doesn’t think very highly of himself either, after his atrocious sixth year at Hogwarts and everything that’s happened sense. I would like to explore Draco learning to love himself.

The Mom Friend, as suggested by the mods. Those close to him know his motives often extend outwards—that he looks out for him than just himself, that he cares what happens to this school. Draco might be a wealthy wizard, but he is not drowning in friends. He brought this war to Hogwarts, now he will ensure his friends make it out alive (assuming he can). As for the rest of Hogwarts… they can hardly fend for themselves. I would love to explore Draco’s caring nature.

The problem with putting others first is that you teach them you come second. Draco has a sharp tongue. In between his “mom” moments, he can be downright cruel. And that’s to those he likes. Add the fact that he doesn’t betray his emotions, or speak of his thoughts and fears, it’s rare that Draco is the one being cared for. With his parents helpless against the Dark Lord, Draco feels alone now more than ever. Where’s his pat on the head, thank you very much??

Draco the torturer. He sees himself as a killer, and he isn’t dealing with it, at all. He hasn’t cast the killing curse, yet, but he has made people suffer and not all those people still breathe. How he’ll deal with it, I’m not sure yet, but I suspect it will be explosive because this is Draco we’re talking about (my Draco is a little on the dramatic side).

#draco malfoy #recruitaccept #hprpg

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simplyadorkable-blog1 · 7 years

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Season 6, Episode 12 - “The Cubicle”

Jess goes to extremes to get the money to pay Robby’s medical bill; Cece get discouraged when her modeling agency’s first client decides to change career paths.

Everyone calm the hell down, Robby is back for this episode! Thank goodness, I missed that crazy kook! Robby and Jess should date until the day until she marries Nick. This episode opens with the gang sitting at the dining room table/Cece’s home office celebrating her first client. Raisin and Robby are weirdly at the head of the table. Schmidt presents Cece with “a cubicle, swinging balls, an outgoing mailbox, and a cartoon that is very derogatory towards Mondays.” In case you were wondering, it is a functional mailbox. Otherwise it would just be a box. Sadly, it’s not a post office. The gifts continue with Winston’s guaranteed crowd pleaser, a bull button to which everyone on screen and at home hysterically laugh at. Nick gives her broken headphones and Jess gives her a filing cabinet where Furguson is hiding to make fluffies, aka smelly cat farts.

Jess and Robby’s relationship begins to hit a roadblock when Jess insists on paying for Robby’s medical bills—we are treated with a graphic flashback of the blood pouring out of Robby’s shattered face. I’m still shook. Robby tries to explain away the need for her to pay saying, “It’s a baby bill, it’s so small and cute, like my nephew, Baby Bill.” No wonder Robby is Schmidt’s second best friend, he’s hilarious! Then Jess and Robby take turns pickpocketing the bill from each other and any explaining I attempt will not do their comedic timing justice.

Back in the dining room/Cece’s home office, Winston and Nick are squabbling over the lack of arm space, fam. Schmidt segues the conversation into a plea for everyone to find Cece’s first client, Donovan, a modeling job like Winston did at the police station. Nick suggests that Donovan portray Gator, Pepperwood’s best friend and clairvoyant brother, on The Pepperwood Chronicles cover, drawing attention to the fact that Raisin hasn’t read it yet. Schmidt offers her his copy with the more sexual parts highlighted, he’s not ashamed. Raisin spends the majority of the episode trying to get out of reading it, she’s clearly not as interested as everyone else is. Boo hiss, Raisin! Jess interrupts the conversation announcing that Robby didn’t give her the full bill because he thinks she doesn’t have the money. “Taking a limo to the bank, what is she, a cartoon cat?” Schmidt closes the scene and brings the cat cartoon references up to two.

Cece’s storyline is touched on again with Donovan at Winston’s precinct photoshoot where Schmidt names her agency “Cece’s Boys: Where the Men Are Boys and the Boys Are Cece’s.” I guess we’re okay with that because we quickly return to Jess entering Robby’s house where he is laying down a stanky B-line on his bass. Jess confronts Robby, Robby mistakenly tells Jess how to get information out of him (spoiler: just repeatedly ask him, he’ll eventually crack), and Robby admits the full bill is $200,000. Then he plays out the awkward situation with the Seinfeld jingle.

Nick and Raisin continue to prove to us they can��t communicate without Jess’ help and we get a tease of Nick’s book. “I don’t!” believe that their relationship will last much longer. Jess ends up recruiting the almost lawyer and sort of doctor to find a way to bring the medical bills down.

At the bar, Schmidt informs Cece and Winston that he rewrote his company’s Estrofuel ad for Donovan to star in. He’ll put the “men back in menopause” because that’s what every middle-aged woman wants. Unfortunately Donovan enters to announce that he’s quitting Cece’s Boys to become a police officer and retrieve Winston for his tour. Good thing Winston is really bad at giving tours.

Meanwhile in the cubicle, Robby explains that his bill is so high because he needed a private room, “I dream about concerts that I really enjoy going to, so it's just a lot of me clapping and singing along.” Nick shows Jess, Robby, and Raisin his weird drawing of Jess kissing Robby, “In my drawing I don’t see any signage, was there are signage?” Nick’s question sparks the idea to sue the gym. Robby tries to calm her down by offering to go for a mall walk, but quickly caves and goes with the flow. He calls his gal for legal advice since Nick legally can’t practice law. While he’s on the phone, Cece and Schmidt enter and explain their situation. Schmidt almost immediately gets a call from his boss Kimberly, “Hello, Kimberly, your voice sounds like your skin looks amazing.” Which is also the way I answer my phone.

Since everyone is otherwise occupied Jess tries to shake off Nick and Raisin, but they can’t face their own problems so they insist on sticking around. Winston enters to admit that he ended up making Donovan even more excited to be a cop by winning COW (Cop of the Week) while they were at the precinct—“Celebrate good times, moo moo!” Schmidt begrudgingly congratulates him then immediately damns him in the same breath.

Robby gets off the phone with his lawyer and explains that they don’t have a case because he signed a waiver, but he should sue Jess. Following the awkward silence, Raisin finally wants to read Nick’s book, Winston claims Schmidt and Cece need him, and Furguson leaps from the filing cabinet and scurries off, leaving a trail of smelly cat farts behind him.

We return to Robby and Jess arguing over the potential lawsuit. Jess insists that Robby sue her and Robby just wants to go to the mall for the big sale at the Japanese cereal store. Then their argument evolves into the fact that Robby thinks Jess is perfect. This is very reminiscent of his relationship with Cece when he called her nice. Oh how the turntables… Robby makes one last ditch effort to hash it over at Hash It Over in the mall food court.

Nick leaves Raisin in his room to read and comes upon their argument only to agree that Jess messes things up all the time (“You know it, baby”) and awkwardly retreats back into his room to find Raisin fast asleep. Nick is dismayed and returns to the cubicle to drink himself numb.

Things are not going well at Associated Strategies where Kimberly is giving Schmidt a hard time for Donovan not being ready. Winston calls out, “I am changing, I am Donovan,” from inside Schmidt’s office. Schmidt plays off that Cece is a professional as if Kimberly doesn’t know that she’s his wife and she’s met her many times. Cece jumps in to explain that her client will be there and the delay is only on her, not Schmidt. Kimberly leaves to scream into a toilet and Cece tells Schmidt that she can manage her clients on her own. Winston exits Schmidt’s office, “Man, that was tense. Also, Schmidt, I printed something, do you know where it went?” What did he print? Where did it go?

Cece leaves an inspiring voicemail for Donovan in the hopes that he’ll show up and then we are shifted back to Jess and Robby in the loft. Jess is still trying to convince Robby to sue her and kicks him out. After he leaves we skip to Jess and Nick sitting in the cubicle drinking. Nick questions his book and Jess defends it explaining that Robby wrote fanfiction for it. That means the world to Nick and also to me, “He loves it so much.” Nick uses this to tell Jess that Robby is too good for her and everyone else. Preach it, Nick. Jess opens a can of worms by asking what’s wrong with her. Nick tells her, “When things are going good, you get scared and you look for reasons to doubt it.” Jess asks if that’s what happened to them and Nick says he can’t even begin to understand what happened with them. Once again, preach it, Nick. Then Jess pops our bubble and reminds us about how Nick is finally letting himself be vulnerable with Raisin. In turn Nick asks if he wasn’t that with Jess. She responds, “We were just kids… You had a box and I wanted you to get a bank account.” “Well it’s kind of the same thing. You wanted to live on a lake and I wanted to live on Mars.” Jess corrects that he wanted to be a truck driver on Mars and we all laughed/sobbed at our screens. The pair toast to getting older and wiser and hopefully a little bit better. They finally decide to face their relationships but not before having intense eye contact and so much sexual tension that I lost all coherent thought.

In a panic Schmidt tries to tell Kimberly that Winston is Donovan back at Associated Strategies. “That’s Winston. I know these people, Schmidt. I’ve met them and their pictures are everywhere.” They are everywhere! Schmidt has a slideshow collage of them on his computer. Most people use a photo of the beach or an open field, but that works too. The trio come to the realization that this isn’t going to work out when suddenly Donovan arrives to save the day, having been convinced by Cece’s leadership.

Jess and Robby’s argument culminates at Robby’s house where he is sadly playing his bass in a new windbreaker—he went to the mall for some retail therapy. Jess apologizes for looking for things to go wrong and Robby apologizes for acting more like a superfan than a boyfriend and admits it was half her fault for hurting him. But he’s going to pay for the medical bills because he’s rich. Finally satisfied, Robby sweeps Jess off her feet in a romantic gesture. Jess asks, “Are you wearing perfume?” “I hugged a limo driver.”

Raisin and Nick simultaneously wrap up their issue when Raisin finally admits she doesn’t like fiction. It’s clear that their only actual problem is communication. Nick understands and they make up and kiss. He offers to read his book out loud in a New Orleans accent, “Julius Pepperwood loved three things in his life: his gumbo, his sex, and more of that sweet gumbo. Her legs were as long as a deep—” Wait, isn’t the girl in his book Jessica Night? Never forget!

The episode ends in Schmidt and Cece’s unfinished house. Schmidt shows Cece the home office he had finished for her including the framed shirtless photo of himself from when he and Coach were trying to prove who was the better male model. Schmidt announces that he’s the “OGCB for life!” Cece laughs and insists on working right away without interruption. Schmidt agrees and exits to call off the rest of the gang and the mariachi band in the living area. Let’s also never forget that Robby wrote a Cece’s Boys theme song for the band. Sadly, we never got to hear it before Schmidt scattered them.

Originally Aired 1/10/2017

#New Girl #Season 6 Episode 12 #The Cubicle #Recap #Breakdown #Spoilers #Zooey Deschanel #Jake Johnson #Megan Fox #Nelson Franklin #Hannah Simone #Max Greenfield #Lamorne Morris #Furguson #Episodes #simplyadorkable

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fictionchronicler-blog · 7 years

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Prince Charming: A Historical Romp Through Masculinity, Marriage, and Bad Haircuts

“And then he realized the doll wasn’t completely inflated.”

NOTE: Illustrations and gifs do not belong to me.

Ah, the perfect man, riding gallantly on a white horse, cape billowing in the wind, armor blinding in the sunlight—and he's on his way to find you, gentle reader! This is supposed to be what we want, and I don't just mean women, but I mean general audiences. The handsome prince saving the day is one of the oldest and arguably most satisfying endings there is.

While the term “Prince Charming” itself wasn't coined until 1889 in an English translation of the French fairy tale The Blue Bird, the idea of a noble man rescuing a damsel (usually a princess) from some unholy terror is as old as time, categorized as “princess and dragon tales” by folklorists. Andromeda in Greek mythology has to be saved by Perseus from the kraken. Sita in The Ramayana has to be saved by Rama. In a Norwegian tale, not one but three princesses have to be saved from a troll, the youngest getting the guy in true fairy tale fashion.

This was...a very broad concept, I'll admit, and I almost decided not to do it, but the idea of the ideal man coming along and giving the heroine her happy ending has adapted over time like anything else, and your reliable ol' folklore researcher is here to guide you through it!

As True a Story as Fargo

“I rang the dinner bell fifteen minutes ago. Are you two still fighting?”

The tale of Saint George and the Dragon has been around since at least the eleventh century telling the story of a town needing to feed the nearby lake dragon two sheep a day to keep it from destroying their village—a scaly, supernatural Mafia situation. When that no longer appeases the dragon, the village assumes this means it wants the taste of human flesh and starts a lottery, the “winner” getting to sacrifice one of their children. Well, one day, the lottery winner is the princess. Dressed as a bride, she is led out into the forest to wait for the dragon.

In the first version I read of this, the princess volunteered to sacrifice herself for the good of her people, but I digress. We'll talk about women's agency here and there. Saint George comes across the princess and subsequently the dragon. Ordering the princess to give him her girdle, she does so and Saint George places it around the beast's neck. From here on out, the dragon follows the princess around like a dog on a leash. Saint George takes his new, unique entourage back to the village and offers to kill the dragon if the townspeople convert to Christianity. Fifteen thousand men convert. Take that, modern evangelism.

While Saint George and the Dragon is largely allegory, it falls in perfectly with the big medieval trend of courtly love. In a nutshell, courtly love is a way to make love both passionate and disciplined. Romantic love hadn't really been covered in literature up until now, Beowulf not really having to deal with having to juggle two prom dates.

It's hard to explain what courtly love is without saying “emo.” Think of love the way a teenager might see it. Not seething with jealously? It's not love. Your feelings aren't ruining your appetite? Not love. This was more or less a series of rules and concepts that dictated how romantic love was supposed to be. A man's good character makes him worthy of love. You should turn pale when your lover is around. Women should grieve for at least two years before allowing themselves to love again. It is not proper to love a woman you would be ashamed to marry, etc. Perhaps the most noteworthy thing about courtly love is that there isn't that big an emphasis on love being returned. When a man falls for a woman, he should do nice things for her and just hope that one day she'll love him, too. Unrequited love was pretty romanticized. You can get a really nice feel for it in The Cantebury Tales' “The Knight's Tale.”

No. That’s something else. “The Knight's Tale” is much more long-winded and has no Queen songs. That, and it's one of the least funny tales. Thank goodness for the Miller and his story that involves farting in people's faces. Anyway, the tale is all about two imprisoned knights who fall in love with Princess Emily at first sight and spend the rest of the time fighting over her and praying to Roman gods to marry her...while she prays to Diana to either stay single or marry someone who truly loves her. It's not as fun as other tales, mainly because the Knight has a tendency to get off-topic, but if you want textbook courtly love, read that.

So what do these stories tell us about people's version of the ideal man in the Middle Ages?

1. Competent. A real man gets things done.

2. Decisive. A real man does not stew on the morality of killing dragons.

3. Protective. Sombody’s gotta look out for these women who are inferior to men in every way, amirite?

4. Upper Class. Peasant men might not have had much time to rescue damsels. And the Peasants Respond!

Just a tad predatory looking. All he needs to do is sit on her chest while a random horse watches...

While fiction in the Middle Ages really enjoyed its daring sword fights and unrequited love, peasants in the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries told tales to children with a far different purpose—don't go into the woods. For the love of God, don't go into the woods, don't make deals with the devil, and don't run afoul of the fairy folk. This might seem funny, but for peasants living in or around the Black Forest of Germany, this was no laughing matter. Think how many fairy tales are more about being suspicious of suspicious-looking people than romantic love. Keep in mind, too, that there is little to no chance of upward mobility in this kind of society. If you're a peasant, your kids are going to be peasants, marry peasants, and produce little peasants of their own. It's even worse if you're a farmer and your family's prosperity depends wholly on how well your crops do. How can you get ahead in life?

1. Go off the grid and become a pirate/bandit/thief

2. Learn alchemy and hope for the best

3. Join the church and live in a cubicle for the rest of your life

4. Marry up.

The stories collected by the Brothers Grimm took royalty and made it the ultimate reward. In most of their stories, if the protagonist (male or female) is clever enough to outsmart the villain and/or kind enough to listen to cleverer people who know how to outsmart the villain, they are usually rewarded with a prince or a princess at the end. There really isn't much disparity in how often the reward is a princes vs. a princess.

I won't go into much detail in what all these stories are about, but if you haven't ever heard of “The Three Spinners,” “Cinderella,” “The Six Swans,” “Snow White,” “Snow White and Rose Red,” or “The Peasant's Wise Daughter,” you might be surprised to learn that the protagonist(s) is a plucky, kind-hearted, usually skilled maiden and her reward is a prince. For all the crap fairy tales get for being chauvinistic, it's jarring that the most memorable characters are all female.

So jarring, Charles Perrault decided to make a few changes.

In the late 1600s, fairy tales started becoming appealing to the rich, and like all good things the poor come up with, the rich people took it over and added a bunch of rules. Many upper class French men and women had heard these peasant tales and saw them as potential for witty conversation in the salons. I like me some stimulating conversation, but I also know when not to mess with the original. With courtly love also coming back into vogue, the stories evolved into elegant, romantic tales with a heavily-hammered-in moral at the end. Less blood and fewer trees. The forest became a more pastoral setting, or even a city. The peasant protagonists became gentry or displaced royalty. And marriage became a big, big deal.

When in the Middle Ages, the prince figure was usually a knight a man of action, these were unquestionably princes, their refinement and sophistication as highly valued as their masculinity. Beauty and the Beast started as sort of a fable for arranged marriages, that the guy you end up with may not fit your definition of handsome, but if you look deep enough, you'll find something lovable.

“Forgot my keys--oh.”

Okay, so you might not find something lovable, but the Beast is no less an extremely romantic (read: emo) character. He asks Beauty every night to marry him, gives her his estate and possessions and invisible servants with no questions asked, and literally cannot live without her as he begins wasting away when she leaves to visit her family. And of course, he's a prince that pissed off the wrong fairy.

It is in this same era that Perrault tweaked the Cinderella story. The Grimms told a story of Cinderella's dead mother supplying her a gown and other ball-related necessities via tree, but Perrault creates a “fairy godmother” who pops in at the last minute to help Cinderella go to the ball—a place where she might be able to catch a husband and escape her bad home life—but never appeared before to use her benevolent magic to stop the girl's stepmother and stepsisters from abusing her. Perrault also cut out the stepsisters cutting off parts of their feet to try to fit into the slipper, preferring to have Cinderella turn the other cheek and find desirable husbands for them instead.

We're going from the clever, talented heroines in the Grimm stories to waifs who are damned if they do, damned if they don't. If you're pure and sheltered like Sleeping Beauty, you'll still fall into a hundred-year coma. And if you're naughty...well, this time a woodcutter has to come cut Red Riding Hood out of the Wolf's stomach...then fill said stomach with stones. This kind of undoes Perrault's moral about not trusting strangers since this woodcutter never appears in the story at any other time, but we can't have a morally susceptible female rescuing herself, can we? Even Bluebeard downplays the heroine's character to uplift the prince's/nobleman's. Bluebeard's a freakin' serial killer and yet Perrault's text blames the wife for the situation, that if she just had refrained from being too curious, her husband wouldn't be trying to kill her for finding out about all his previous wives.

“Princes went from chivalrous to serial killers?”

Not quite, but the heroines were rarely given personalities and the princes were the rescuers, the real movers and shakers in the story. Princes went on adventures and rescued future brides. In 1706, the first English translation of One Thousand and One Nights told the West the story of Prince Ahmed, who a nifty magic tent that could expand to the point where it could hold armies and contract to the point where he could put it in his pocket. He also happens to buy a magic healing apple and saves a princess with it. There are a number of strong, three-dimensional female characters, but the princes all get to be active and go on adventures. There is also a robot. I'm not joking. But a huge double standard is that women are foolish and selfish and cheating on their husbands with a Moor is the worst thing ever, but the men in the story (princes included) sleep around, hit women, and even Sinbad murders a bunch of innocent people for food, but the male characters are rarely punished in these stories. The whole fictional reasons these stories exist also lauds men; the Sultan is worried about being cheated on, so he kills every wife he has. Scheherazade, the newest wife, is creative and clever and tells stories that always leave the Sultan wanting more, so he spares her life, choosing to keep her after a thousand and one nights. The Sultan lives happily ever after, madly in love with an intended murder victim.

So let’s see how things have changed?

1. Competent? Check.

2. Decisive? Check.

3. Upper Class? More check than ever.

4. Protective?

Protection adapted, didn't it? Protection stopped being more about keeping women away from beasts and more about providing for women. The men in these stories are not only filthy rich—which is its own kind of protection—but they are also morally guiding these women and keeping them alive. Bluebeard's wife is rescued by her brothers at the end, but Perrault says the moral of the story is that curiosity can lead to deep regret. He then goes on to talk about how “clearly” this story takes place a long time ago as, “No husband would be so terrible as to demand the impossible of his wife.” How the hell is that the issue when the man's a serial killer??? What does curiosity have to do with the very first wife???

We're going to throw in another value here. Wise.

Think about it. Cinderella's prince immediately seeks her out, seeing her as no one has seen her before, as appealing. The “Marquis” in Puss in Boots is in reality a simple miller's son, but the Cat is so worldly and clever that he more than makes up for it. The woodcutter is a fatherly figure who heard Red Riding Hood's cries for help and knew exactly what to do and took her home to her mother. Even Bluebeard, who sets his wives up for failure and has a room full of tortured corpses is entitled to test his wife and keep this horrendous secret, his only crime being that he “asked the impossible of his wife,” which translates to, “asked his wife not to be too curious about her own home, lest she find the room of tortured corpses.”

Yin and Yang

Hamlet: I said I wanted the grave to be dug under a weeping willow tree on the edge of a cliff perpetually surrounded by mist! How hard is that?

Gravedigger: But this is where the cemetery is, sir.

Hamlet: (to skull) Can you believe this guy?

Hamlet, first performed in 1605 is not anything all that special, but so many tote it as Shakespeare's masterpiece. My theory is that that is all propaganda on the part of actors. Getting to play Hamlet is like being written a blank check—the actor can do with the role whatever he wants because it is sooooo ambiguous! You don't even know how old Hamlet's supposed to be, as he's a student in medieval Denmark, which would put him in his late teens, but the gravedigger says Hamlet's 30. Hamlet seems slightly more upset about his mother remarrying than having learned his father was murdered, but he also goes berserk a few times at people who aren't involved in his father's murder at all, and while Claudius, the villain, murders one person (in back story) and angsts about it for the rest of the play, Hamlet himself gets quite the body count and shows little to no remorse about it.

Does the fact that Hamlet is a prince have to do with this role often being the peak of an actor's career? Why do we think an actor who can play Hamlet well can do anything? Hamlet's not really enough of a jerk that it's Villain Sympathy. In fact, Hamlet is one of the least proactive protagonists in literature. The majority of the play is him wondering what he should do. Should he listen to this ghost that claims to be his father? Should he tell any of his friends what's going on? Should he kill Claudius when he finds out that, yes, the guy did kill his dad? Should he leave his mom out of it, or was she involved? To be or not to be?

But to the mainstream, Hamlet is the guy who holds the skull and waxes poetic while sword fighting in period dress. Somehow, him just sitting on this supernatural order to avenge his father's death has been twisted to where we've decided it's the role of a lifetime. Shakespeare wrote other characters who were princes, but none of them were as prominent or as over-analyzed as Hamlet.

Does Hamlet have any good qualities? Well, of course, or the play would have been a complete flop. He's magnetic. He's smart, snarky, and unsure of himself. But then you have Ophelia, his love interest. Whereas Hamlet is defined by his struggle to be decisive, Ophelia just lets her father and brother make decisions for her. She is dutiful, she has no idea that Hamlet is pretending to be crazy for some of the play (or maybe he is crazy. So much ambiguity), and when her brother leaves, Hamlet seemingly rejects her from out of nowhere, her father is killed and her lover banished, she goes off the deep end.

Therefore, it seemed like what was going on is that women were losing more and more of their credibility while royal men could afford the luxuries of indecision here and there so long as they still fit all the other criteria.

Hammer It Further In, Victorians!

The Victorians might just be my favorite historical group of people. They're a psychological delight. Not that they were as repressed as pop culture makes them out to be, but they were all about restraint when it came to deviant behaviors and ideas, often disguising them. In the Victorian era, the hero stopped being the centerpiece of the story. Most of the care, detail, and time went into the villain. Dracula, Sweeney Todd, Spring Heeled Jack, Frankenstein, Dorian Grey, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and just about the rest of the cast of Penny Dreadful were the ones driving the plot of their respective stories, the ones the authors paid the most attention to. Often, they were pitted against an innocent heroine, like Christine in The Phantom of the Opera and Mina in Dracula, but there was an edge to them. Both Christine and Mina might surprise readers in how deadpan and genre-savvy both these women are, and while they don't physically vanquish their beasts, they play key roles.

So where does this leave the prince?

The role of the home in the Victorian era became more significant than ever before. A man's home was his castle. His job was to make it a safe haven; his family's job was to make it a domestic ideal. Again, the ideal man was a protector, someone who could keep his wife and children safe from beasts (poor people, people who didn't speak English, Irishmen, etc.), but also protect them morally. It's kind of easy to be seduced by the list of villains I put on here, isn't it? They're just as rich as princes, sometimes handsome, often decisive and passionate...and maybe therein lies the problem. The ideal man was not yet passionately in love with the heroine.

“What do you call all that courtly love business?”

Isn't that more in love with the idea of being in love? Honestly, you pick a random woman, say you'll do great things for her whether she loves you or not, but at the end of the day, you're the one getting the credit for doing those brave deeds and she'll be seen as ungrateful because you've never even had a conversation with her to tell her how you feel. Loving a woman in the sense that you physically desire her while still desiring her friendship wasn't happening yet. In a society that didn't encourage women to be open about their own passions, the men also weren't really allowed to do much that wouldn't result in a scandal. He was supposed to treat his wife more like an employee than the object of his affection. He could praise her skills at mothering and running a household, and maybe she could play a mean tune on the pianoforte, but none of her skills were supposed to be superior to his own. The princes and heroes of the Victorian age were as bland as all get-out because everybody wanted to live vicariously through the more passionate villains.

Well, film changed how we view the devil. Did it change how we view Prince Charming?

Who Would Have Thought Melodrama was Boring?

Now, to be fair, not all these guys are princes, but I would be remiss if I was going to talk about princes in film and omit Disney's contribution. For a long time, Disney animators had difficulty animating human men, and it shows. Remember that short, Goddess of Spring? Even though her arms are boneless, she looks like a passable female human. The god of the Underworld, though? It looks like an old-time Mardi Gras mask.

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs premiered in 1937, the same year that the Prince Valiant comic strip did, and both princes are given next to no personalities. Snow White's prince doesn't even get a name! Please stop saying Snow White is objectified when it's her prince that is treated as nothing more than a goal and subsequently a reward.

“But his heroism is just supposed to be accepted because he's a man and he's royal!”

Is it? Disney animators tried to work around the lack of princely influence in the Grimm version by writing a subplot about the Evil Queen capturing the Prince and him escaping...but animating a realistic-looking man was just too hard for them. We don't care about him or look at him like a person. He's Snow White's reward. Nothing more.

Cinderella's prince, officially the “Prince Charming” of Disney canon, is also objectified. He has maybe three lines? He isn't even there when Cinderella puts on the slipper? His dad is given more screen time than him?

Notice that, in keeping with the Victorian melodramas and silent movie traditions, the movies that have the most boring princes have very engaging, very passionate villains. The Evil Queen, the Wicked Stepmother, and Maleficent in Sleeping Beauty are given richer animation, more distinctive voice actors, and a deliciously evil charm, that, so far, the princes just can't top. They remained fairly quiet with their heroism just a given. Around this same time, Laurence Olivier won an Oscar for 1948's Hamlet, the only time an Oscar was given to someone playing a Shakespearean character. So it seemed like the prince was still relatively unexplored. “He's a prince! Must be a great guy.”

Not all princes in early Hollywood were bland, but there was a kind of leading man that got a lot more action, both in the cinematic and romantic sense—the rogue.

In the 30s and 40s, it was more common for the hero of a movie to be anything but a prince. He was a hard-boiled private detective, a thief (usually of the Robin Hood variety), or a pirate, as swashbuckling dramas were big back then. Princes, therefore, started becoming a little buffoonish. The ideal man in the 50s was, oddly, the family man. The prince had changed to the ruler of a suburban home, still retaining all the traits we've mentioned before, only Ward Cleaver (Leave it to Beaver), Steve Douglas (My Three Sons), Ozzie Nelson (The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet), and Andy Taylor (The Andy Griffith Show) all upheld values most of Middle America agreed with and added a truly positive item to our list:

1. Competent

2. Decisive

3. Upper Class-ish (rise of the middle class!)

4. Wise

5. They Want to be Dads

Parody Ensues

The 60s changed a lot of things, how princes are portrayed among them. While the Prince Valiant comic strip was still going strong, people began wondering if this Prince Charming ideal was really a positive thing. Wasn't the upper-to-middle class white guy the enemy of the Civil Rights Movement? Wasn't the patriarchal figurehead oppressing and dismissing women? Were these guys—gasp--just like everyone else in that they're fallible and sometimes do stupid or misguided things? Jeez, these Prince Charmings (Princes Charming?) must all be doofuses when you peel back the veneer. Isn't that how princes are in real life?

When Royalty Smiles...

In 1973, Jay Williams wrote the children's book Petronella, and it fit right in with the Women's Movement. Eager to seek her fortune, Petronella sets out into the world like her brothers and learns about a prince held captive by a wizard named Albion. Albion says she must prove herself by completing certain fairytale-esque tasks, she does so through kindness and wit, and—spoiler alert—she and Albion fall in love. Turns out, the prince is just a house guest that won't leave. I can't find the cover art for the back of the book, but the prince looks like a Monty Python character.

In this same year, there was another book out there with a prince who was deceptively appealing. William Goldman wrote The Princess Bride and later adapted it for the screen in 1987. The only person who starts out as royalty in the book is Prince Humperdinck, and that name alone should tell you this isn't someone to take seriously. Sure, he's competent, noted in the film for being an excellent tracker, and he's quite the mastermind, but he's also the villain! The whole reason he plans to marry Buttercup is so he can kill her on their wedding night and frame another kingdom for it so he can get a war! Buttercup's True Love is actually a former farm boy named Westley who is doing a stint as the Dread Pirate Roberts. Humperdinck doesn't stand a chance.

I do like Chris Sarandon's performance. He brings such dignity to it, which actually makes it more fun.

As if pop culture wasn't dropping the anvil fast enough that Prince Charmings weren't all they were cracked up to be, Stephen's Sondheim's Into the Woods gave us Cinderella's Prince and Rapunzel's Prince, and the line, “I was raised to be charming, not sincere,” says it all. Who would have thought a musical about interconnecting fairy tales would have so much innuendo (it's pretty uncomfortable seeing certain parts of this with children, let me tell you), adultery, psychological abuse, and character deaths? It was finally filmed in 2014 and satirizes these angst-ridden overly-masculine types with the song “Agony:”

We're going to talk about one more before we get an interesting counterpoint to all this parody. Ladies and gentlemen, Prince Charming from the Shrek universe:

Forget the fact he looks like Jaime from Game of Thrones. Rupert Everett's Prince Charming is a spoiled, prissy snob whose mother is none other than the Fairy Godmother, the brains behind the operation. Seriously, the movie where Prince Charming takes the lead as the Big Bad is terrible. There isn't much to say about the role even though it's entertaining except that it just goes to the other extreme. Prince Charming is decisive about not letting an ogre be with the woman that was promised to him, and he does seem competent at horseback riding and doing the tango, but he's whiny, preens a little too much for traditional manly men, and, most importantly, is okay with forcing Fiona to be with her against her will.

“But, but, but, if the Prince Charming archetype is just an illusion, what kind of man can we have faith in?”

Well, I would say the rogue as in most movies, he proves to be a hero underneath the snark and scruff, but that's another meta (see The Unscrupulous Hero meta). This brings up a good point—at least these parodies of princes are characters. They have personalities and arcs. You can call them a lot of things but you can't call them bland. Prince Charming up until now has been a construct, a goal, a reward. Everything but a real person.

Evolution!

Bringing it back to the Disney princes, 1989 responded to all these unworthy princes with Prince Eric in The Little Mermaid. I consider him the prototype prince since he is substantially given more to do and emote than the previous princes ever were, but he's still kind of vanilla. Eric likes being out on a ship, longing for a life at sea while Ariel longs for a life on land. Hmm. He plays the flute, totally doesn't mind doing the messier tasks a crewman on a ship would do, and the film goes out of its way to show that he is brave and not one to be messed with. He saves his dog from a fire and harpoons a giant octopus woman. He hangs out with Ariel, has fun when she’s around, and this was one of the first Disney movies that introduced some chemistry between the human leads.

After Eric came the Beast, Aladdin, and Simba, and while Aladdin is by far the most fleshed-out of these characters, these prince figures were given something Eric didn't have—pain. Disney's Beast isn't proposing to Belle every night like in the original fairy tale. We don't meet him as a romantic lead, but as a broken chimera despairing that his entire life seems to be defined by one bad choice. Simba may not be the most interesting character, but there is a moment in the movie where he starts yelling at the sky (read: his dead father) about Mufasa not being there for him and then just breaks down in tears and cries, “It's my fault.” Good lord, you feel for him there as much as you do when he's a little cub shaking his dead father in hopes of awakening him.

Prince Naveen in The Princess and the Frog is not your grandmother's prince. It's almost a full-out comedic role as Naveen is...kind of a bum. He's a prince, but he's lazy, so his parents have cut him off, leaving him to either get a job and work for a living, or marry a rich woman. Ha ha, Naveen just wants to play the ukelele, enjoy New Orleans' night life, and pick the richest of his many admirers to marry. After he falls for Tiana, he doesn't change all that much. He is willing to work for something and can buckle down, but he's still that funny, enthusiastic guy you want to be friends with. He isn't diminished in his relationship with her. Nor is she. Naveen can get Tiana to loosen up, and while the plot of The Princess and the Frog is needlessly complex here and there, the romance is very strong and their banter is right up there with all the great movie romance banter.

D’awww!

Counterpoint to a Counterpoint

Oh, Prince Hans of the Southern Isles, I'm onto you, what with your romantic-comedy shtick. To this day I am torn as to whether or not the twist to make him the villain was a good one or not. On the one hand, it gives his character a reason for being in the story, and it's a realistic lesson that trusting everyone is just as bad as trusting no one. However, what's the goofy little smile at the end of the clip all about? Does he genuinely like Anna but still plans to somehow take over the throne? Is that just how he smiles when he tweaks his own schemes? His original plan was just to marry Elsa, but now it seems like, “Well, I can marry the cute, funny girl instead and just kill the aloof one. Win-win.”

“Psychopaths don't wear t-shirts saying 'You're with Psychopath' on them.”

Very true, and a commonality many psychopaths share in real life is that they are, you guessed it, charming. They know how to attract people to them. Unfortunately, though, things like empathizing with those people and putting those people before themselves are not really feasible things for a psychopath to do. But then again, we are talking about film here, not real life, so is it a cheat that they made him the villain seemingly out of nowhere? Weren't we supposed to be given some hints about his true nature since this is a story?

If you ask Disney, they did disperse clues here and there that Hans was not what he seemed. He wears gloves, for example. Did you know gloves are a visual shorthand for villain? Never mind that most of Hans' screentime is either at a ball in which gloves would have been fashionably appropriate or when it's, you know, cold outside. Another thing they refer fans to is that in the song “Love is an Open Door,” Hans' lines about “finding his own place” and agreeing that Anna's “sandwiches” response to his “We finish each other's ____” was what he was going to say are indicative that he's stringing her along. Okaaaayyyy.

“But if you were taken in, isn't that the point? Nobody knowingly gets involved with a psychopath.”

Yeah, but this is all so vague. Consider that while Elsa is the queen and Anna is the princess, they are way too busy dealing with their own problems to actually rule Arendelle or do anything to help all the innocent people suddenly plagued by an unexpected winter.

Look at this! Doesn't this just muddle things more? Hans is the one handing out blankets and inviting the subjects to the castle where he makes it a point to say it's warm there and they've got plenty of hot food for everyone. We're making the villain the only character in the entire thing who does any damage relief? I'm sure this is probably a “catch more flies with honey than vinegar thing” as the truly logical person would conclude that Hans is just trying to win over the peasants so they don't revolt when he takes things over, and I know that being homicidal doesn't necessarily preclude anyone from being a great ruler, but come on!

I guess the point the movie is trying to make with Hans is that you can meet a guy who seems great on paper and fits all the items on the checklist we've been keeping track of, but he can still turn out to be a jerk. And I will say that Disney has tried the “surprise villain reveal” thing in a few of its other movies that came out after this, but this one handled that the best.

The New Wave

I can't say 2015's Cinderella is better than the 1950 version, but one thing it did that I admire was that it made Prince Charming a person. Prince Kit (I would have named him something else, but I digress) has his doubts that he can be as good a king as his father. Richard Madden gets to actually act as he not only has to be a little restless in his role, but also gets to express grief. He had said that the challenge of playing the Prince is to make sure that Cinderella is not seen as being lucky to get a prince, but that this prince is lucky to have found her.

We have an earlier example of this with 1998's Ever After. Prince Henry (Dougray Scott) is a very reluctant prince and shirks his duties whenever he can. It is Danielle (Drew Barrymore) who changes his way of thinking in that he can do so much good with the power that he has, and it is his obligation to do so. He listens to her, respects her, it's clear that he also physically wants her, and the two get plenty of time to get to know one another. His reaction when the princess he's betrothed to starts wailing is priceless because it's so in-character and there's even Leonardo DaVinci thrown in the movie for fun...a very charming movie indeed.

Artie Hammer is also a good prince, Prince Alcott in Mirror, Mirror. About the only good thing in that, actually. I didn't feel it was dark enough to be a Snow White story, but Snow White and the Huntsman didn't have enough joy to be a Snow White story (or enough actual dwarves playing the parts). Again, the Prince gets to be funny, gets to be a bit political as his whole reason for going to this kingdom in the first place is to meet with the Queen (Julia Roberts being horribly miscast). I don't appreciate the amount of ogling this otherwise children's movie does to the poor actor, but for the most part, he's a character in his own right. Maybe soon he'll pick some better projects that don't have him upstaged by a guy pretending to be a Native American like in The Lone Ranger.

But my all-time favorite Prince Charming has to go to Josh Dallas' David “Charming” Nolan on Once Upon a Time.

“Attention, everyone! I know magical shenanigans are ruining all your lives, but you have to be in the background while the show focuses on my family's drama! For goodness sake, pull yourselves together and be the comic relief!”

Charming is pretty much everything we've covered so far, and you can see the historical detail they put into developing his character. This prince started life as a shepherd, a commoner who, by some magical deals that don't merit this meta, must pose as a prince. He gets to be one for real after he marries Snow White, but the crafted him to be a farmer-type guy. He drives a pickup truck. He wears a lot of flannel. He's sometimes old-fashioned with his flaws as he can be overly protective and quick to judge, but he's also quick to change his opinion when he's proven wrong.

Charming is deceptively easy to understand, and I don't mean that he's an airhead or a parody of what he represents. I mean that his goals in life are simple. His likes, his morals—they're all simple, even his fears. The man's greatest fear is that he isn't a good dad. That's so relatable since every parent has wondered that about themselves, but it's fresh and unique when it's applied to Prince Charming, a “character” far more defined by offscreen heroics than being a member of a family. In the very first episode, he's taking on three swordsmen while holding his infant daughter. That's the character in a nutshell.

It's a role that's a little underwritten, but like Hamlet, that sometimes means you can do some amazing things with it. OUAT is full of polarizing characters, but Charming is not one of them. He's universally loved, and that has everything to do with how convincingly Josh Dallas plays him, especially that he is able to play a father to an actress technically older than him playing his daughter.

Even when he doesn't have much to say, Josh Dallas brings so many fatherly gestures and facial expressions to the part. That might be why the show has given him more and more to do as it's gone on. It's a new take on the Prince Charming construct, isn't it—that all the sword-fighting, arrow-shooting, horseback riding, face-punching, and villain-confronting this guy does is for his family?

His relationship with Snow on this show is sort of the measuring stick to which all other romantic relationships are compared to, and I wouldn't even say “Snowing” is the main romance. While Snow gives Charming some much-needed direction, he gives her confidence. There are so many moments when Snow is doubting herself that Charming is the one to build her back up. His belief that his wife can do anything is the foundation of True Love, and I don't mean that he sees her through rose-tinted glasses. They are partners. One gets the sense that they rule together, whether it be in the flashbacks in the Enchanted Forest, or how they handle the town's problems in the present.

So I would say our checklist is looking more like this:

1. Is a complex human being with positive (competent, decisive, wise, willing to parent) and some flaws to stay interesting

2. Has respect and admiration for his love and their relationship has a healthy dose of friendship in it

But if I were to just list all of Charming's traits—good and bad—or anything other well-written character in any medium—the list might just go on and on. It's that way with real-life personalities, and opinions will vary on what the ideal man or woman is like. Prince Charming is no longer an archetype or a plot point but a person, a real person who is inspired to do his best for love at the same time he inspires the person he loves to do their best. Life is hard, and it's hard to find someone to share it with, but the fact that fiction is emphasizing these aspects is so positive.

#meta; once upon a time; disney; fairy tale; film; books

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riotatthemovies · 4 years

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CHEESY MOVIES SAVE MY SOUL!

Check out these amazingly silly often tasteless and all backyard made horror and comdies on tubitv. Help you distract your self for now. Also try to watch them before June because thats when Fox takes over tubi so who knows what will change then. Aleta: Vampire Mistress

Blood Scarab

Bonehill road

Bloody Bloody Bible Camp

Zombie Rampage 2

Blood Fart Lake and Return to Blood Fart Lake

The Mummy Reborn

Plaguers

Furry Nights

Axe Giant

Jack Frost 1 and 2

Easter Bunny Bloodbath

Flesh Eating Mothers

Silk Scream

Another Yeti a Love Story

100 Tears

Bad CGI Sharks

Some better made movies are there too of course. For those that love cheesy movies but need them a tiny bit less home made. Neon Maniacs, Shakma, Warlock 2, Dead Ant, Gingerdead man 2, SlumberParty Massacre 2, GhostHouse.. wait these are pretty cheap to. Hell I love em all

BMOVIES ESPECIALLY BAD MOVIES... Are life....

#bmovies

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sidpah · 5 years

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Sutra of the Magick Kingdom Part 4 – Dream Worlds

Knees pulled under chin, toes burrowing into hot sand… I’m being absorbed slowly back into the Earth… People run in every direction around me, not one seemingly aware of my presence. I’m battered by blowing sand and splashes of cool mist. And am again, like always, the lone voyeur surveying alien terrain...

Two old lovers swim into each other’s arms a dozen yards out from shore – voices rough with age but their hearts fragile as shy adolescents. Leaving me to steal a kiss from my distant love… My darling Luna, the Effervescent, who, though it’s still bright blistering afternoon, has been brazen enough to reveal her frail, anemic body; exposing herself to the ridicule of the masses who are themselves, brazen only in the day. When shadows rule, and the Sun has shown her fickle nature and retreated to turn her gaze upon more interesting entertainment – all wild dramas and merriment bare before her - they praise Luna for her protecting light; they are scared orphans, desperate for a new mother…

That is the extent of Luna’s love for me… The romance I never consummated.

I’m perplexed by those sounds. How children laughter sounds so much like sexual ecstasy... How two newlyweds crossing the lake can be so silent… Are they thinking communal thoughts? How I fight the urge to bark at the Moon and swat at the chiggers and gnats...

Respect life, young son. They only want to be happy, no different from anyone else.

How the mother understands every inarticulate gurgle of her daughter, while sons can’t understand the garbled monologue of their own thoughts… Resigned to be a sinner. Hungry and steadfast in that hunger… Shoot a hole in the Moon’s glass eye… Fuck it, I’ll be the one to murder my frigid lover. The droughted lake... I’ll be a user ‘til the day I die and have nothing left to use… Abused ritually and narcissistically. Snap the wrist, vein rolls away in disgust...

“Lightening can be very therapeutic.” I’m hung. Shoving broken glass into empty hole. Bleeding geysers of pus. Tourniquet pinches bicep and the fist ventilates... A horizontal river in the intermediate plane between heaven and earth. Universe implodes; dead husk I so eagerly disposed of implodes in wide-yawning laughter with tiny misshapen hands curled in ecstasy... Parents touching their vacant ghost. Digging for reassurance… bleeding the anemic hole...

All hungry snakes having vomited their night blood meal skulk into tunnels and coil tongue against rattle. Tasting their own restraint. Completing the current, earning their venom its ferocious toxicity.

Bogs of bloody tissues, gauze syringes laced with active viruses swim into empowered bloodstreams…

War drums reverberate in time with explosions of organelles… The beating heart all floating in its own broth, expanding in time to the thunder, contracting the dead-bell-whine, hum, ring of silence. Spilt songs. Spears pointed at tight throats… Adam’s Apples rising to ring the bell and clanging back against hard thorax...

Ferns sprout from cavernous nostrils, rock formations grow like hemorrhoids from seamless asses… They push the seat of his pants out in reverse mockery of hard-on – pole and its respective fissure united... Glass noses sense each whiff of pie and lime, each carrot stalk musty with earth, spicy with botulism.

The gods have been angered – Wrath appropriated, the cat burglar steals a monkey paw with just one wish left… Mother and her milk infused with aftosa – Someone spiked the anthrax tea – The whole beast imploding, driving its frantic herd into fits of Grande Mal retreat. Teats blown out like ragged inner tubes empty and spoilt, emitting loud whistling farts as they shrink away to thin red latex... Calves and cubs and kids, cheeks full with the warm nutrients melt from bones and tendons leaving two spinning eyeballs in white sockets, small shreds of cartilage hang from blistered bone. Mewling and wailing and screeching bestial vestments, the creatures dance around the May Pole of their own demise, singing “The blood drips in the vial,” in warbly decomposing voices. Tripping over furless hooves, blood follows thin pipeline to intricate system of tubes, now stopped up tight with small balls of toilet paper.

The clot sets up its detour.

May Pole splinters when a half-dissolved goat kicks it with shattering hoof... The chef has arrived to eat… May Pole swings a wide, fast arc to the Earth, upending a noxious plume of ferrous nutrients into the air…

The slow animals gnaw their own legs to escape, not realizing they aren’t tethered to anything...

Erect spires cast off kaleidoscopic clouds, transfixing me to my white-stamped beach. Eyes blink off and titanium sheets snap shut amputating the neck clean and cauterized. “Asante Sana.”

Lonesome accents; accents wearing torn gloves and antiquated battle armor, tiled hats and feather headdresses. Rain is confusion, their mouths open beating drops blow throat dust between teeth as eyelids meet. Tiny buds of brown rise from larynx on vines of this lonesomeness. Lonesomeness is not loneliness; the wise are alone and satiated as kings after a banquet. The lonely are beggars craving sustenance, their throats stuffed, choking on the rotting vegetation…

Rain blooms into yellow pods of pulp and noxious juice filling each segment with coagulated congratulations, condolences and introductions beneath burning watts of grow lights hidden away in damp basements and firetrap closets.

These actors pretend to feel reality while the gunshot happens off camera and the arsenic silently plays its role in the cappuccino skin. These things happen, but these things are inconsequential to the Son.

Whole honey-breasted Earth Mother, legs shuddering to open and close, exorcising the profligate offspring....

The accent is a sign of obedience. Obedience to the feigning Baphomet.

Someone scalped the full Moon. Lopped off her crown leaving her off kilter to spin out of control on a collision course with the Sun… A connection between all occurrences is indeed discoverable.

Apatosauruses were long-necked herbivores spending their days lazily grazing on high foliage. Their personality traits are carried by the pensive giraffe who lives same as his ancestors did twenty-million years prior. Giraffes give common spirits a familiar vessel in which to dwell. I am purely a byproduct of my upbringing and influences. Mannerisms are not unique, but are composites of those family and friends we idolized during our formative years. Our way of speaking, gesturing, eating, voting, dressing – our favorite sayings and passions – all sums of our varied influences... Once these influences become plentiful enough that their initial donors are too numerous to pinpoint, we credit said person with having their own persona. This is the Emptiness of Personality.

“I know what you’re doing.” So do I. Getting caught up in label and form. Like always. I’m warm, but I’m still sick. I shall stop being morbid and go collapse. Stab the sky and return to my frigid bed…

Out there remains running with precision, the Real World. I touch it vicariously, constant. They’re frustrated and angry, impatient and hungry. Working a meager wage, smacking their children, telling strangers to shut their fucking mouths, to keep their hands to themselves or they’ll have them arrested for assault, crying in a crowd of hundreds, being stung by bees and rushed by siren and strobe, withering their fortunes and placing final bets. The length we go, the fortunes we spend, the births we waste on this quest for pleasure... Self-fulfillment through forced smiles and opiate warmth. These droves I fall in sway amidst demonstrate in collage that the search is universal. The thirst once whetted, insatiable.

How could we find fulfillment in garish costumes sewn by thirteen-year-old mothers in distant lands whose existence seem like impossible urban legend surrounded by such playful opulence? While smoked mutton legs are torn apart by round young teeth in grotesque imitations of medieval royalty… Tossing bones and cartilage to immaculate ground.

Make a mess and the peasantry will always clear away the corruption. Keep careful tallies, divulge the hidden crush, open the trap door and rain down hail and hell. Rain down sunburnt cheeks, rain down smooth thighs not yet parted, rain down mockery upon the chivalrous!

Resentment taints the flavor of even the most succulent meal. Globe adorned with divot for each day of the year stands high above all pettiness... Completely, exquisitely unperturbed…

Emptiness is the black silhouette of palm fronds against a dust blue island sky – Emptiness is the voice in my ear imparting statistics and folklore I’m bound to forget in lieu of this foreign landscape.

This act of writing is an act of defiance... Some of the romance has returned – a fraction maybe, but it tastes like mango and sweet cream… The bliss state is inexorably separated from the Real World. As long as the two remain individuals, as reflections of each other’s opulence, then one becomes a necessary haven from the other. Striving is a waste of time. We spend both holiday and labor trying desperately to forget ourselves.

The crux is that there isn’t any self to remember or forget...

There’s a futility behind all action.

Sometimes I’m not sure whether I’m Buddhist or just depressed…

From all corners where I’ve exercised my irrepressible voyeurism, I’ve come to the same realization: a face may be plain, but the hidden thoughts, turbulent behind layers of fortified armor, deceptively stable: dead skin sheaths – (kissed, exquisitely caressed, licked by patient meandering strokes – flecks of discarded yesterdays on your tongue – Oh, sainted lover! Oh, cannibalistic ravisher of my flesh!) muscle, sinew, expressive masks and face paint, never were blessed with such luxury as simplicity – as peace.

In rows they form a steady procession of black waves rising up from the water, into their own deep brooding substance. Shoulders rolled round neck pulled taught to project strong pecks to the Rising Eastern Sun… Soon sunken – spotted ribs hunched to rejoin heart with mud – Thumping dulls in throbbing brown murk.

Radiance inseparable from Source of Light… Mud and heart inseparable from deep black waters of All That Is –

Vivid striped leaves stare back at me incredulous – How dare I ignore their cluster for this old mangled sheet in my hand – Their fallen brethren, doomed to this scratching servitude…

Cold concrete bench shakes beneath my ass, damp and rustling – Am I or the wind rocking it? Am I the wind? Shouting like ambulance siren? Echoed from distance to distance fading –

The tall trees enthroned continue their indictments, guilty, I bow my head – God bark of foliage from the wind and siren – Loud and brash is the god of this midday hour. Stifle the eyes, suture the ears… Closed, all doors sealed against the tumult… I could die upon that tree – murdered by fate attacking through obstreperous evil leaves –

I feel sullen and doomed. Testicles ache with indecision. They crowd loudly around – shadows spiked and tall – one million gods all sides... On this day of judgment the Fear dawns. Sentence handed down – (touch thumb to third finger and frown) – An icon guilty or explicit: it was all a dream I murdered – killed the mist. Strangled the tortured soul who’d forgotten my face; dreamt up the final sequence of the Stone Statue Lucifer emitting golden rays of hope from tail and forked tongue, each fang and dagger nail unsheathed sent shivers of glorious light through my dream until they’d all perished sleepily, until the backfire of a moving van – Rapid blasts – (am I hit?) – Check for blood or holes – fragments me and I am again – body and fog – Two gunshots shy of one less morning…

#poetry #poems #Buddhism #Zen #writing #surrealism #vacation #nightmare #dreams #depression #philosophy #literature

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