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slashertalks · 4 years

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I think the most enjoyable thing to me about film review is how fluid it is. Not only is the medium, by nature, ever-changing, but with personal experience comes a shift in opinion that can change perspectives so much it requires a completely new piece. Though this work is not coming out of so drastic a change, it is coming out of a desire to rectify something put forward in my previous SAW review. Similarly, it is a statement of something core to my beliefs with all my reviews: that “bad” films are not always truly bad. Often, they’re quite enjoyable.

Now, I should put forward my frame of reference for this, in the form of two facts. The first: my current hyperfixation is SAW. The second: the only two SAW films I’ve seen are the original, and SAW 3D. Do with this information what you will, but I think it’s important to acknowledge that what I’m writing comes from a place of intense personal passion, and simultaneously intense disinterest. See, when I say SAW, I mean specifically Doctor Lawrence Gordon and Adam Faulkner-Stanheight. To a lesser extent, I am also fixated on the production, but that’s relatively common for me. The technical, visual aspects of a film are often just as important to my enjoyment of it as anything else— I’m more inclined to enjoy a film with physical effects and mechanics, both of which SAW has plenty.

This piece is serving as both an expansion on my original short blurb on SAW, and an acknowledgement that SAW 3D is not, as I put it, the horror equivalent of “a daytime soap opera.” It is, quite simply, a fun movie.

Do I have any background in any of the characters beyond Dr. Gordon himself? Not in the slightest— I’m coming into this movie with no expectations for how Hoffman or Jill Tuck should behave. This is, perhaps, a flaw of my own attention span. I tend to jump about through franchises: for years, I’d only seen the first and third Friday the 13th movies. I still haven’t seen the second or sixth Nightmare on Elm Street. My viewing history is filled with maybe somedays, films I’m certain I’d enjoy, most often part of franchises I know I like, but I just don’t have the motivation to sit down and watch them. Saw 2-6 and Jigsaw are part of this category.

What does that make SAW 3D, then? Lacking background in characters beyond Lawrence, whose appearance is unfortunately limited, what do I get from what was supposed to be the close of the franchise?

Not much, quite honestly.

SAW 3D is not a film rich in much. Beyond a trap made of an entire building which feels a little too poetic for Hoffman to have made (judging, again, by my admittedly-limited knowledge of the character), and an enjoyably gruesome trap made for a group of neo-nazis (I SQUIRMED watching this one!!!! SQUIRMED!!!! I can’t remember the last time I had to look away from a movie!!!!!! Even on a second viewing, I had to close my eyes at this part! Can you tell how exciting that is?), SAW 3D feels rather slapped together. I’ve heard as well that the director had no desire to actually direct the film, which makes things difficult.

What does a film do when saddled with an unwilling director? Its best, of course, and SAW 3D is still a valiant enough effort. Is it a masterpiece? Not by any stretch of the word, but it’s fun. This here is why horror is one of my favorite genres! SAW is a masterpiece of modern horror, a reflection of the magic of A Texas Chain Saw Massacre! A rarity! A gem! I couldn’t be more enthusiastic about this film. SAW even surpasses Texas Chain Saw in one area: the actors, director, and staff had fun making this movie! I will always sing praise for Texas Chain Saw; it is the film I consider the penultimate horror movie, unsurpassable in its legacy. It captured a sort of magic in how gut-wrenchingly horrific it is with such minimal blood: it’s all psychological.

As previously said, I feel that SAW captures that same magic. The film has minimal gore, a byproduct of its limited budget, but is remembered as much more brutal than it actually is— it became the springboard for a franchise absolutely drenched in disgusting moments. SAW 3D’s neo-nazi trap is chief among them, for me (that back glue? good GOD man....). Yet, where the cast of Texas Chain Saw have many painful, sweaty, exhausting moments to remember (the actor who played Nubbins was a veteran and has stated that his time working on Texas Chain Saw was worse than his time as a soldier), the cast of the original SAW had a blast, proven by an audio commentary filled with James Wan, Leigh Whannell, and Cary Elwes all poking fun at each other (and a ridiculously goofy Marlon Brando impersonation from Mr. Elwes — I genuinely can’t recommend the commentary enough).

Even separated completely from my personal passion for the film, it’s an amazing feat for me to sit here and say to you all that a film has, in one instance, surpassed for me my pinnacle of horror. How often does that happen?

Yet, I still haven’t completed my thoughts on SAW 3D. Circling back, I have to laugh. I’ve unintentionally mirrored my own Texas Chain Saw viewing pattern with my SAW viewings: for quite a long time, I’d only seen Texas Chain Saw and TCM: The Next Generation. If you’ve been here long enough, you’ve seen me mention TNG time and time again. To recap, for those of you who may be seeing my writing for the first time: it’s a genuinely HORRIBLE film. It is, however, a favorite of mine— enough so that I own it on DVD, now. TNG is a purposefully bad film, created with the intent of antagonizing the viewer and calling to attention our pattern of complacent viewership. In my original piece on TNG, I state that “my problem with modern horror is that it’s loud, the violence is gratuitous and charmless ... because supposedly that’s what a Modern Viewer [sic] wants. TCM4 takes these things, grinds your nose into them, and says ‘fuck you, you want this? here'” (source). Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation defies the conventions of modern horror in a deeply obnoxious, yet thought-provoking way. SAW 3D... does not.

SAW 3D’s greatest problem is, perhaps, that it’s exactly what audiences demand. Though I must admit the 3D is tasteful, and I’m grateful for that, the fact remains that the movie lacks innovation. While it doesn’t necessarily need to innovate as the close of a franchise, I ultimately think it’s ridiculous to have tried to close the franchise at all. As much as I hate the trend of reboots and remakes in the modern market, particularly modern horror, I must acknowledge that studios will milk a popular franchise for all that it’s worth, and sometimes more (I’m looking at you, SyFy Pumpkinhead sequels).

SAW 3D is the victim of an unfortunate situation. An over-saturation of SAW films in the market meant waning popularity, coupled with a fanbase still dedicated enough to want a finale, and a director lacking interest in the project (we all get tired of things, no matter how passionate we may be in the beginning— I hardly blame anyone for being tired of the franchise after the way they churned those films out). This isn’t to imply any of the films are bad, especially since I haven’t seen them! There is, however, an undeniable pattern to horror films which has persisted since the 70s and 80s: horror franchises tank after 3-5 films. Some are lucky, some less so, but the range of 3-5 films seems to be the golden one for horror. For a movie franchise, seven films is comfortably beyond that, and SAW 3D is misleadingly the seventh film.

For as much as I’ll happily sit down and watch it, SAW 3D puts nothing forward and asks nothing in return. A franchise that started with such a dramatic bang went out with a fizzle (or would have, if not for Jigsaw and the upcoming Spiral). It’s enjoyable to see the reverse bear trap used. It’s enjoyable to see Lawrence again, and to watch Hoffman lay on the ground and get poked (quoth the reviewer: get his ass, Larry). It’s... fun, but it’s cheap fun. It’s fast food horror. I’m happy to have it once in a while, but the late 2000s to 2010s were oversaturated with similar films. I want more from a movie meant to close out something as dramatically influential as SAW, something so enrapturing! Something which I can confidently say exceeds Texas Chain Saw Massacre in one important area! Damn it, the SAW franchise deserved better than this!

Maybe it’ll get it, with the Spiral reboot coming out. Maybe it won’t, who knows? I’m interested to see how Spiral plays out, and I have surprisingly high hopes. Between that and the Candyman remake, there are a lot of “re-” horror films I’m genuinely looking forward to. I haven’t felt this way about a horror re-anything since Evil Dead in 2013, and I’m feeling cautiously optimistic. We’ll see what the future holds — hopefully something that’ll be handled better than the original franchise was, though I don’t think Hollywood will ever learn to distinguish a dead horse from a live one. They’ll just keep beating and beating every horse in the stable. Perhaps I’m really a pessimist about all this, but again: personal experience. I’ll keep my cautious optimism up, and keep an eye out. I’m planning on watching Dying Breed and Cooties soon (two films with Leigh Whannell in them), so expect at least a short blurb on those two, and who knows? Maybe you’ll see something big about Spiral in the future. After all, if even a fizzle like SAW 3D can make me squirm even now, I think there’s a lot of hope to be had.

#saw 3d #saw the final chapter #saw

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justanotherwannabeclassic · 4 years

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prompt 2: quarantine

For those of you who still pay attention to this nonsense blog, I’ve been working with @distant-rose on creating this wildly expansive second-generation Marvel AU. It’s pretty wild, has 20+ AUs of itself, well over 100 characters, and a timeline spanning 40+ years. These are their stories.

Characters: Francis Barton, Kassandra Page, Matthew Natchios, Ian Rogers, Gerry Drew, Bekka LeBeau, Megan Frost

Prompt 2: Quarantine

Dates: November 10-24, 2019

Day 1

“Since we’re stuck together for the foreseeable, I think we need to establish some ground rules.” Francis Barton laid down a pad of white paper and pulled out a pen. “It should, hopefully, make this a seamless experience while the Richards figure out if we’re going to die horrible, painful alien-virus related deaths.”

There were worse things than being quarantined in a SHIELD facility after being exposed to some sort of alien virus. They could all be dead, for one. They could also be undergoing some weird mutations -- NOT THAT THERE WAS ANYTHING WRONG WITH MUTANTS -- and grow six or seven different limbs. That would be worse. Really, considering those two options, Francis Barton was certain that quarantine was the best case scenario. But he also knew however long stuck in one place with little-to-no outside interaction was bound to be hell. As such, rules needed to be established.

“That sounds like a very El thing to say,” Kassandra Page, absolute badass and love of his potentially shorter life, noted from her spot on the table. She didn’t even bother to look up from her book.

“Well, she’s the one who gave me the idea.” So what if he wasn’t the one to come up with the rules thing? El was a smart cookie. El was also safe and moderately happy thousands of miles away in New Orleans. That didn’t stop her from blowing up his phone with several texts. He was sure she was doing it to the three other members of their quarantine cohort.

“Should I contact the Xavier School and have them send over their roommate contracts?” Ian Rogers asked drly.

“That sounds like a great idea!”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“See? That’s not helpful in establishing positive roommate relationships.” Francis argued. “Where’s Matt?”

“In the bedroom trying to convince his pregnant girlfriend from murdering him before the virus does, by the sound of it,” Gerry Drew commented. “For what it’s worth, the ground rules sound like a good idea. I was going to suggest it myself, but grew distracted finishing the mission report. Work never ends, even in quarantine.”

“Has my brother-in-law punched you in the face?” Ian twisted in his chair to look over at Gerry.

“No.”

“Wonders never cease.”

Kass glanced between the two men and back to Francis. “El might be right. Maybe we should establish ground rules.”

Day 4

Gerry Drew wondered if he had died and gone to hell. Perhaps the virus had actually gotten to him, eaten him away from the inside out until he perished, and this was his punishment. He could hear the unmistakable sound of a bed creaking from one of the bedrooms as well as Natchios talking to his mutant girlfriend from a different room.

“You would think they would have left us headphones,” Gerry groaned aloud, hoping the one other person in the room would agree; instead, Ian ignored him and continued to tap away at his laptop. Gerry turned on the television. He settled on ESPN, and looked over his shoulder to Ian. “D’you like sports?” Again, no answer. Gerry sighed deeply. “What the hell are you working on?”

“Lesson plans.”

“Lesson plans?” That was not the answer he expected. Gerry knew the other man was contracted by the Xavier Institute to assist in some training, but requiring lesson plans didn’t seem necessary. “They require you to do that shit?”

“Since I’m stuck here for the foreseeable future, I don’t want the kids to fall behind. I’m creating reports for the various cohorts. UV is capable, but she’s short staffed, meaning she’s doing to bring in someone like Jet to help,” Ian explained. He didn’t bother to look up from his laptop.

“I don’t think a few weeks will make or break them.”

“They’re mutants. Considering the targets on their back, it might.”

“I know it’s our job to be spooks and have contingency plans upon contingency plans, but the school hasn’t been attacked in years. They’re prepared. I’ve been working with them longer than you. The targets aren’t that big. Not on the kids.”

“The X-Men are now down several members, including their former leader. While they’ve been left in capable hands, enemies could view the perceived void as a vulnerability,” Ian explained gruffly. “Beyond that, society as a whole is still anti-mutant. Three states have banned human and mutant marriage. Congress still has very vocal members rallying for mutant registration. There are reports of several hate crimes against mutants this year alone. These kids have targets on their backs, Agent Drew. I am right to be concerned.”

“You sound like your sister.” How many times had he heard Ellie Rogers expound upon the injustices mutants have faced over the years?

“I will take that as a compliment; however, coming from you, I assume you meant it as an insult.”

“I actually didn’t. I meant it as a neutral statement. Ellie is a pretty large advocate for mutant rights.” He wasn’t a fan of Ellie. He thought she was both entirely overrated and unprofessional, but he didn’t hold the mutant advocacy against her. “It makes sense, considering the mutant husband and kids.”

“Or she could be a good person. I know you think she’s blinded by her relationship with LeBeau, but there’s more to it than that. You don’t need to have a direct loved one be a mutant to care.”

“But it helps. It is an influence. She wouldn’t have done half the shit she pulled for the X-Men if she wasn’t involved with their leader.”

“Former leader.”

“Are you getting pedantic with me? He was leader up until three months ago.” Then he and Ellie fucked off to retire to New Orleans and raise their mutant kids. Whatever. Arguing wasn’t going to make his living situation any more tenable, but Gerry never met an argument he didn’t fight. “You mean to tell me your mutant niece and nephew don’t have any influence for why you’re working at the school?”

“They are influences, as are my friends, but they aren’t why I care about mutant rights. Not originally. Contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t always a psychopath.” Ian shut his laptop. “I liked history and politics as a kid. No surprise, considering my parents. Some people are obsessed with studying the Second World War. Others are obsessed with different countries. England. Japan. China. Me? I was fascinated with Genosha. I grew up on my father’s stories of liberating concentration camps, and how we swore never again. Over ten million innocent lives, more than the population of New York City, were lost, slaughtered my Sentinels and the world hardly cared. The world turned their back on an atrocity and wants to put in place structures for it to happen again on a larger scale. I say ‘never again’. Where do you stand?”

He didn’t wait for a response, quickly standing and taking his laptop with him as he disappeared into another room, leaving Gerry alone to his devices.

Day 9

She missed her dogs.

They were currently staying with Barnes and Romanov, so Kass knew they were well taken care of, but still, she missed them. She missed a lot of things. She missed her apartment and her bed. She missed the cafe that was two blocks from her apartment. She usually stopped by for coffee most mornings. They knew her order there and called her ‘Kelly’ because that was the name she gave them. She always paid in cash, so nobody needed to know the fib. It was comfort built on a lie, but a familiar comfort nonetheless.

Nothing about the past nine days was comfortable. Kass chafed at sharing living quarters with four other people. Francis, she could handle. She had more or less been living with him for months. The others, not so much. Matt was like a brother to her, and few others understood her the way Ian did, but neither of those qualities made her want to share a living space with either of them. She didn’t trust Agent Drew as far as she could throw him, which was an added element to misery.

It was only Day 9. Kass wasn’t accustomed to this much stimulus, not without any outlet. She couldn’t go to the shooting range. She was cautioned against excessive training. She couldn’t go to the park for a run. She was trapped in a quarantine pod with several other people on the off chance she was carrying an alien virus. Valeria Richards proposed isolation of two weeks. She had another week of this. Someone was going to die.

Francis was trying to lighten the mood with ice-breakers and other games. It was mostly annoying. They played poker over celery sticks and passive-aggressive barbs. They argued over movie nights Matt and Ian spent most of the time engrossed texting whoever on their phones, which was fine, except for the excessive buzzing each time either one of them received a message. Matt, himself, had several loud phone calls with Bekka, his annoying, pregnant girlfriend. Kass wanted to shake him and scream that Bekka would be fine, her goddamn mother had flown up from New Orleans to spend time with her while Matt was trapped. Gerry had stupidly tried to institute a ‘No Sex’ rule, targeted solely at her and Francis. Kass, in turn, had threatened to break his face.

May the alien virus take us all.

Kass had decided to stay holed up in her room for the rest of the day. It was the only way she could keep from killing everyone, and even then it was a close thing. She could hear Matt having another loud phone conversation in the main area; however, instead of Bekka’s Southern’s drawl, she could hear El’s half-melodic voice over the speaker. From what she could hear, Ian and Francis were also joining in on the chat.

That twisted something else in her, another emotion she had no desire to dwell upon. She hadn’t spoken to El in months, not since that last argument before she’d uprooted her life and ran away to New Orleans. Kass had called the action out for what it was, a stupid mistake. El hadn’t appreciated that, and since El was a stubborn bitch, she dug in her heels and argued back. They’d both said some shitty things, and that was that. The end of almost a decade of friendship.

It was fine. She was fine. El was off to live her life with her husband and babies, and Kass was...Kass was trapped in a quarantine pod with several people she wanted to be exceptionally far away from. Most of whom seemed happily to monopolize the living area chatting away with her about....Thanksgiving plans? Whatever. She was fine. She didn’t care about Thanksgiving. Kass didn’t even want to think about Thanksgiving, not while she was stuck in this space.

She wanted to be alone. She buried her head under the pillow in hopes of drowning out the voices and laughter.

Day 11

Ian was on a beach. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in his quarantine pod, but he was on a beach. He could almost smell the salt of the sea and feel the sand underneath his toes.

“Relax. You’re dreaming,” a familiar voice floated behind him. Ian turned at noise to see Megan Frost standing behind him. She walked slowly toward him, as if she were afraid of startling him. “I hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d stop by for a visit.”

Megan was a telepath, a damn good one. She’d been the one who had psychically reprogrammed his mind after decades of tampering and torturing. For the past few months, she had also been his lover. Now, she was invading his dreams and doing so while she was wearing a rather daring bikini.

“I don’t mind at all.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and brushed her lips against his. It was exhilarating even in dream form. “You’ve never done this before.”

“Kissed you? Darling, we both know that isn’t true.” She began to place open mouthed kisses down the column of his throat. He groaned lowly, and tightened his fingers on her hips. She knew perfectly well what he was talking about. She never invaded his dreams before. As if reading his mind, and she probably was, sighed, “I missed seeing you, and since I can’t do that in person, I thought I would try the next best thing. Is that so wrong?”

“No, it isn’t.” Ian was sure some people would mind the intrusion. He wasn’t some people. He also knew better than to take anything Megan was willing to give. Telling him she missed him was a monumental step in the right direction when it came to emotional displays of her affections. She tended to keep her feelings close to her chest. He supposed it probably had something to do with her fiance.

Part of him wanted to ask what the Tin Man was doing now. Was he lying asleep next to Megan, while she mentally fooled around with him? The thought thrilled him. If Megan was carrying out a telepathic affair with Ian while her fiance was right there, surely she was steps away from finally choosing him.

The scene shifted around them, and they were in his studio apartment. Megan pushed him onto the bed, and he fell with a laugh. “The beach no good?”

“I suddenly thought you might like something familiar. The beach is lovely, but nothing compared to home.” Ian didn’t know what home was anymore. He barely knew who he was anymore, but he enjoyed everything more when she was involved, but he couldn’t tell her that. Not yet.

Instead, he pulled her down on the bed, and delighted in her laughter and the feel of her body next to his. “You should do this more often,” he whispered against his lips. A telepathic interlude paled in comparison to the real thing, but it was exciting enough. It meant she was here with him.

“Maybe I--” A crash shook him from his dream and pulled Megan away from him. He could hear shouting and the sound of glass breaking. What the fuck?

Francis poked his head into the room. “Sorry to wake you, man, but Matt and Gerry are having a fistfight, and I might need your help breaking it up.”

Day 14

“Your face looks terrible.” Bekka grimaced over the phone. Video chats had many benefits, but this was not one of them. “Not that he doesn’t deserve it or anything, but what got you fighting Gerry Drew anyway?

“Gerry’s an ass. That’s all. He said some shit, got hit.” It hurt to talk. His face was several different kinds of bruised. Worth it.

“What’d he say?”

“What didn’t he say? He’s been nothing but a pain in the ass for two weeks.” That much was true. He’d been petulant and whiny over everything. Was it annoying hearing Kass and Francis fuck? Sure. Did Ian take extremely long showers? Yes. Did Matt call Bekka often? Also yes. But they all had their reasons for it and even if they didn’t, Gerry was a waste enough of a human that he didn’t care how he felt.

Gerry might top Matthew Natchios’ List of People He Hated.

It was an extensive list.

“I’m sure he’s been a pain. That’s baseline Gerry Drew, but he had to say something specific to see you off. Ian, I’d get. If Olivier were there, I’d get the punching too, but this isn’t normal you.”

Matt considered lying through his teeth. There was no way Bekka would know why they fought unless someone told her. She wasn’t a telepath. Her mutation was explosions. She didn’t need to know, but he was going to tell her anyway. That’s what relationships were built upon. Trust. “He just said some shitty things about you and us. That’s all.”

“Oh,” was Bekka’s reply. Prior to dating Matt, Bekka had been dating Gerry’s best friend. It had gone as south as a relationship could go before they split. Gerry held a lot of resentment about that, especially since Matt had played a very big role in Bekka and Damon splitting. “How shitty?”

Matt took a deep breath. “He implied Baby Girl wasn’t mine.” Bekka remained quiet. “Becks?”

“Didja break his face?” Bekka asked finally. “I’m gonna be disappointed as hell if you didn’t at least break his nose.”

“I’m pretty sure I did that,” Matt answered with a laugh, relieved that Bekka was responding with anger instead of tears. Rarely did she cry, but Matt didn’t want one of those instances to be when he wasn’t there to hold her.

“Good.” She was quiet for a few moments more before she added, “You know Baby Girl is yours, right? No way possible she belongs to anyone else.”

“I know, it’s why I hit him.” He’d been angry about other things. All the shit Gerry had said about Bekka and she and Damon had split, the way he undercut El out of her job as SHIELD liaison with the X-Men, and how he went out of his way to make her miserable. Matt didn’t know much about family, but he knew who his was, and he didn’t like when others messed with them.

“I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Val swears that y’all aren’ infectious or whatever. She’s been running so many tests. I miss you something awful”.

“I miss you too.”

“Momma and I are baking you something special too. I won’t tell you what, because it’s supposed to be a surprise. I would trade anything to have you home, but it’s been nice having Momma here.” Bekka’s accent was thicker than usual, no doubt thanks to spending the past two weeks with her Mississippi-born mother. Matt didn’t mind at all -- he adored her accent. Truth be told he adored everything about Bekka. He couldn’t wait to be home and in her arms. “You sure you’re okay with her staying until after Thanksgiving?”

“It’s fine. I love you mother.”

She’d been more of a mother to him than his own mother, not that it was a high bar. Elektra Natchios was a terrible mother, the complete opposite of Anna Marie LeBeau. Besides, it was clear how much Bekka enjoyed having her mother around. Much as she tried to pretend otherwise, Bekka was riddled with anxieties over pregnancy and becoming a mother. Having Anna around comforted her in a way no other person could manage. As far as Matt was concerned, she could stay around as long as she liked.

“Je t’aime. Tu es le meilleur.” She yawned deeply. “Your baby needs to go to bed, which means I am. But good news, I’m seein’ you tomorrow. That’s a win.”

Matt smiled against the phone. I can’t wait.”

He let her go, pleased to know that she was taking care of herself and getting some sleep. He needed it himself. One more sleep, and he would be free from quarantine.

#earth 6828 #s writers things #writersmonth2020 #ship: mekka #ship: meian #ship: frass #none of you knows what this means

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rwby-redux · 4 years

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Preface

RWBY is the breakthrough anime web series created by the late Monty Oum of Rooster Teeth. Originally teased on November 5th, 2012, and officially debuted July 18th, 2013, the series follows the journeys of four young women enrolled in an academy that trains monster-slaying warriors known as Huntsmen. Set in the fictional world of Remnant, the story initially focuses on the surface-level plot of fighting against humanity’s ancient adversary, the ever-present Creatures of Grimm; over time, it becomes apparent that things aren’t what they seem, as the cast slowly begins to connect a string of heists committed by a criminal syndicate with the violent acts of a terrorist cell. The series is aired weekly on Rooster Teeth’s website, with its main arcs spanning 12 – 16 episodes per volume. In the years following the show’s initial release, RWBY has spawned numerous merchandise and related media, including two spin-off shows, multiple side-stories published as mangas, two standalone books, three mobile games, a behind-the-scenes artbook, and OSTs for every volume to date.

As of Volume 7 there are 98 episodes in total with a collective runtime of 18:52:00, or approximately 1,132 minutes, with more episodes and side content underway.

At best, they’re visually interesting; at worst, they’re disappointing.

Let me take a second to backtrack before the lynch mob starts to sharpen its pitchforks. The series deserves much of the praise that it’s gotten. RWBY was the first American-produced anime to be released in Japan (and if you’re a fan of anime, you know how insane those words sound). The 3D models and animation from Volume 4 onward are breathtakingly stunning, and even before the show made the leap from Poser to Maya, the fight sequences managed to be equally creative and entertaining. The show was nominated for and received multiple Streamy Awards, and was awarded Best Animated Series by the International Academy of Web Television. The Volume 1 soundtrack reached number one on iTunes, beating out the soundtrack for The Hunger Games: Catching Fire. Such is RWBY’s (and Rooster Teeth’s) reputation that it managed to attract the attention of, and later bring on, industry veterans and vocal legends such as Jen Taylor, Josh Grelle, and Aaron Dismuke.

That’s to say nothing of the fandom this franchise has amassed, of kids, teenagers, and young adults alike. RWBY has generated dozens of forums dedicated to fanfiction, fanart, and roleplaying. Thousands of people the world over have bonded over this show, fans from all walks of life. They’re passionate about this series. The fact that I’m writing this post is a testimony of that. If I didn’t care about RWBY, I wouldn’t be sitting on my couch at 3 AM, hunched over my laptop in my pajamas.

If RWBY is so good (or occasionally threatens to become good), you might be wondering, why, then, does this blog exist?

Well, because…when you stop and look at it critically, it actually kind of sucks.

Despite initially being written by a three-man team, the series is full of inconsistencies and an underdeveloped cast. The characters, especially from Volumes 1 — 3, are full of one-dimensional stereotypes whose contributions to the story amount to a three-word summary: “The School Bully,” “The Wacky Professors,” “The Racist Cop,” “The Cutthroat Bitch,” “The Anime Waifu,” “The Audience Surrogate,” “Discount Elle Woods,” and so on. Fundamental elements of the story, like Aura, Semblance, and Dust, are either poorly-explained or not explained at all, and the limitations of those core concepts can change at a moment’s notice to suit the needs of the plot. The primary antagonist of the first three volumes is universally hated by the fandom for having no discernible motivations beyond being “ambitious and power-hungry,” and having a personality that consists exclusively of irritating smug. The show-writers, despite repeatedly promising queer representation, have failed to make even one of their ten central protagonists queer. This isn’t touching upon the fact that the first openly-gay character on the show was an antagonist, or that the next two were side-characters who were relevant to the plot for all of seven episodes, before vanishing from the story entirely. The two leads that are currently being hyped as our first queer main-cast members have only been repeatedly teased, with said characters never once uttering the words, “I’m bi,” “I date women,” “I’m not straight”—nothing but narrative subtext and playful winks from the VAs whenever a fan asks if they’re queer. Subplots end up having no pay-off or get entirely forgotten mid-volume. The story is so protagonist-biased that the heroes are frequently able to get away with being hypocritical, or committing criminal acts because “it was the right thing to do,” with their POV framed as an infallible “fuck you, got mine” verbal gut-punch to the audience (while other characters in the show, who often make the exact same calls as the heroes, are ridiculed by the show and the fandom). Whenever the story isn’t spray-painting stolen cars and selling them to their original owners, it manages to clumsily handle allegories for real-world issues such as systemic racism, mental illness, abuse dynamics/victim survivorship, and gray morality. The worldbuilding is absent from the main show and has to be supplemented through RWBY’s spin-off series World of Remnant. The story’s setting feels flat and lifeless at times because the “cultures” of this world are never established.

The list goes on and on.

So if this show has so many flaws, why are we still having this conversation?

Because I’m captivated by the untapped potential of this world. When you brush away all of the detritus, you can see the wealth of raw material buried beneath. This is a world where the gods have forsaken their creations, with one having even deliberately created the monsters that hunt humanity. The two characters who are central to the history of this world are tragic figures, one cursed with immortality as a punishment for demanding that the gods revise the first draft, and do away with needless death; and the other, cursed to ceaselessly reincarnate into the minds and bodies of like-minded souls, waging a war of attrition against a person warped beyond recognition by the capricious spite of the gods. This is a world of forgotten magic, of shifting allegiances, of characters embarking on personal journeys and unearthing deadly secrets. It’s a story of people from all walks of life learning to cooperate and work together, forging friendships and alliances in order to face the challenges that lie ahead.

It could easily have the bones of an epic fantasy series as long as it remembers to drink its milk.

RWBY’s issues aren’t insurmountable. Most of them are the byproduct of the series’ blind adherence to “rule of cool,” the motto that practically codified the beginning of the show. From Volume 4 onward, the series took a radical shift in tone that tried to be “more mature,” and only succeeded in making the earlier episodes absurd in hindsight. Why, in Volume 6, are the characters concerned about civilian endangerment, when in Volume 2 they happily pursued a giant mech in a highway car-chase scene that would’ve caused untold collateral damage and civilian death? This change in storytelling created a thematic disparity that reoccurs time and time again, retroactively emphasizing just how inconsistent the worldbuilding and storytelling are.

It tried to be Avatar: The Last Airbender, and what we’re left with instead is Game of Thrones Season 8.

Now, I’m not using this blog as a platform to damn Monty Oum (or claim to be a better creator than him). But it’s important to address the flaws in his story, and to acknowledge that his passing doesn’t make RWBY somehow sacrosanct or immune to constructive criticism. RWBY has flaws, ranging from nitpicky to potentially capable of causing real-world harm (in the case of the aforementioned queerbaiting and racism analogies). I’m a firm believer that art doesn’t exist in a vacuum; art is informed by our beliefs just as much as art informs our beliefs. We can still respect and admire the potential RWBY has to offer, while being mindful of where it needs to improve.

That’s where this blog comes in.

At the end of the day, the RWBY Redux exists as a thought experiment. I’m writing it chiefly to entertain worldbuilding ideas and headcanons I’ve spent years musing on. I’m not asking readers to agree with any of my numerous stances, nor am I going to shy away from other fans’ criticism as I hammer this project out. With a little TLC, perhaps I’ll manage to create something that manages to be more complex than its source material. And if you choose to follow along with my endeavors, hopefully you’ll find this project equal parts engaging and entertaining.

Wish me luck.

#preface #deconstruction #writing

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betterdaysareatoenailaway · 4 years

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An Ode to Payphones

“Mommy, what’s that?” I looked. A child was glaring suspiciously at the payphone I’d been using moments before. He looked to be six or seven-years old, so it shouldn’t have been surprising that he’d never seen or noticed a public telephone before, but still. The question, and the palpable disgust in his voice, made me feel old. “That’s a payphone, honey.” “What’s it for?” The mother cast an apprehensive look my way. We were on the platform at Spadina station and she’d seen me on the phone, plugging my ear against the shattering noise of a subway pulling in, making arrangements to meet my heroin dealer John at our usual spot at Main and Danforth. I would have to call him again when I got there, either from one of the four payphones inside Main Street station or on one of the two phones outside the church at Danforth. The phones inside Main Station must have all been routed through one line, because they either all worked, or none did.

As for the two phones outside the church at Main and Danforth, typically one was broken, but they both worked when I went to check them for this article, a miracle perhaps attributable to the Second Coming of Christ on the roof.

There have been long spells throughout my life as an addict during which I’ve had no mobile phone. Every spare cent went to heroin. The longest such spell was nearly a year. Several spanned three or four months. So it’s safe to say I know the payphones of Toronto as well as anybody else. One of my old heroin dealers lived near Roncesvalles and Howard Park, where a non-Bell phone sat outside the Meridian Bank on the northeast corner, crooked and somehow wounded looking.

There’s no trace of it now, but I know there used to be one just north, on the other side of the street where Dundas splits eastward from Roncesvalles. I used to use it all the time. Luckily, there’s another one not twenty steps east, a Bell, just outside the bus stop east of the Starbucks at Dundas and Roncesvalles. I’ve fed that phone a lot of Loonies, cursing its curious inability to recognize nickels or dimes.

My Roncesvalles dealer was notoriously unreliable, so I often found myself having to take the College car all the way across the city to its eastern terminus at Main Station. While waiting on that corner for John I would commiserate with my fellow drug users, many of whom lacked phones themselves. The most popular complaint I heard was how hard it was getting to find a public phone. Apparently some neighbourhoods in Toronto are payphone deserts. You can walk for twenty minutes in any direction and not find one. So I’m going to see how many phones there are within a five minute radius of my apartment. My guess would be at least eight. Maybe ten. I’m about to get evicted, but I’ve lived in Kensington Market at Nassau and Bellevue since February 2017, which is a veritable payphone oasis. It’s too cold to go out tonight, so I’m going to take a virtual tour of my neighbourhood and take screenshots of every phone I find from Google Street View. Yes, the photos look pretty lo-fi but my whole life is lo-fi, so sue me. Here’s a no-name one just north of Dundas on Bathurst:

Here’s one just south of Oxford on Augusta:

There are two Bell phones just outside Nirvana, across from Sneaky Dee’s:

There’s one outside the church one block east of Bathurst at Lippincot and College:

Here’s another no-name phone one block west of Spadina on the south side of College:

And here’s a bank of payphones outside the internet cafe at Spadina and College:

All three of the above phones never work at the same time, and some days you’re lucky to find one operational. (Incidentally, if someone ever reads this post a century from now, or maybe I mean a decade, or maybe I mean reads this post at all, I wonder how quaint the term “payphones outside the internet cafe” will seem.) Here’s one more non-Bell phone, just to the west of the Scotiabank on the northwest corner of Dundas and Spadina. This phone has great personal significance for me, for a reason I can’t get into. Let’s just say I made a phone call on it during a very memorable moment in my life:

For those of you not counting, that’s ten phones all within a five minute walk of my apartment in Kensington. There are another three are in the lobby of Toronto Western Hospital, for thirteen total. Thirteen is a lot more than I expected. Especially in 2020. And I’m sure I’m missing a few. Maybe payphones aren’t as endangered as they seem. In fact, as I was taking the photograph at the top of this post, a woman came over to me and asked, “are you using the phone?” So they definitely still serve a purpose. They wouldn’t still be there if nobody was using them. A capitalist venture like Bell doesn’t keep phones around because the CEO is nostalgic. I’m kind of relieved at how many there still are, and how vital they still seem to be. Still, I have mixed feelings toward payphones. They annoy me, but I also like them for reasons I can’t explain. I like invisible infrastructure. Nobody notices payphones. Ask yourself where the nearest payphone is. Do you even know? They may be forgotten or disliked, but they’re dependable, standing tall at their lonely outposts through sleet and rain, day and night, as we cuddle up with our smartphones in the warmth of our homes. We’ve left payphones out in the cold and most of us don’t even miss them. I have a mobile phone now, but I still miss payphones. Or maybe I miss the days when they were a normal way to communicate, phone books slung around their waists, swinging on a chain. (Some time in the last decade, phone companies must have got tired of replacing the books nobody ever used and just got rid of them entirely. I guess they figured we could look up the numbers we need on...our mobile phones?) Yes, there’s a definite note of nostalgia among people who still use payphones. We’re all bitter about the great price jump of 2007, when calls went from twenty-five cents to fifty, an increase of one-hundred percent. If you’re of my generation, old enough to remember life before the internet, then you know that payphones are sad remainders of the technology we grew up with, a visible reminder of the 90s. It’s my firm belief that everybody suffers from chronic temporal sickness for the decade they grew up in. I can imagine a day when they only exist in museums and photographs. Maybe I’ll go to watch the last phone get decommissioned. Maybe I’ll only love payphones once I can never use one again, like the Once-ler becoming an environmentalist only after hearing the “thwack” that felled the last Truffula tree in Dr. Suess’ The Lorax. I feel this way even though payphones are often more a hassle than a convenience. I once spent half an hour outside the Eaton Centre on Queen Street waiting for a woman to finish her conversation, only to find the phone broken when she finally hung up. Her wild gesticulations should have tipped me off that she’d been screaming at a phantom, but I was too dopesick to notice. There were and are other cons to payphone usage. It wasn’t always easy to come up with the necessary exact change. Or sometimes you’d have exact change but the phone wouldn’t recognize one of your coins. For whatever reason, payphones have a really hard time reading dimes. Many times I’ve had just enough to make one call but the phone won’t cooperate and I’ve had to throw myself at the mercy of a local convenience store owner or random bystander. Maybe “can I use your phone?” was an innocuous question back in the day, but nowadays people immediately suspect you for asking and they really, really do not want to loan you their phone. I don’t blame them. Our phones contain our entire lives. It’s not the same as handing someone a few quarters. Despite all the long list of cons, there remains among my fellow payphone users a keen sense of loss. We’re all grieving something indefinable, something that went away with the advent of mobile phones. And I’m not leading up to a gripe about “kids these days on their phones.” As an avid reader, I usually bury my nose in a book when I’m on transit, so I don’t beseech people to “live in the moment” when they’re sitting on a bus. Being a passenger on the TTC for the thousandth time isn’t something that requires one’s undivided attention. I only get annoyed when I see some guy – and it’s always a guy – staggering down the sidewalk with his eyes glued to his phone, walking into people. Or walking into traffic. The feelings of wistfulness among payphone users grows more acute as the years roll on and more and more public telephones are yanked from their moorings, never to return. The sense of loss sometimes manifests itself in the passing down of legend. When I first heard the story, it was that there exists somewhere in the city of Toronto a payphone that still makes calls for a quarter. I was convinced it was the one just east of University on Dundas, south side of the street, just east of the Royal Bank. It just looks so fucking furtive. Like it’s hiding from the tourist hordes at Yonge and Dundas square, tucked around that corner:

I went to check that phone for this article but it doesn’t work at all, much less for half price. In an apt game of telephone about telephones, the legend grew. Only a few months after I first heard the Legend of the Half-Price Payphone, the story had morphed into a unicorn payphone that makes calls for free. People were arguing over which one it could be, though admittedly nobody had ever found it. It was like the leprechaun’s pot of gold. “It’s the one outside the mall at Kingston and Midland. The one with the Scotiabank!” “Naw it’s the payphone at Warden Station! Next to the donut shop!” “It’s the one at Yonge and Charles!” “What? They took that one out before 9/11.” “It’s the one in Yorkdale near the GO Station!” “Seriously bro. Pre-9/11. You’re memory is fucked, bro.” “My cousin’s in the Hell’s Angels. He can sell you a burner for $5. Why use a payphone when you can get a…” “No one cares about your cousin, Dwight.” “Pre-9/11 bro. Seriously. Yonge and Charles? Christ!” And on and on and on, into the night. I have a mobile phone now and it’s hard to imagine I’ll ever go back. The final straw came when I had to go up to Muskoka one summer for four days to work on a cottage. I missed my partner so much by the third day that I walked up and down the length of the lake, looking for a payphone. I probably had a better chance of spotting a lion, but there was no way I was going back to that cottage without talking to my wife. I missed her too fucking much. At the end of the lake I spotted a house with the garage door wide open. Inside the garage there was a workbench, a fridge, and all sorts of tools. On a hunch, I quietly made my way up the gravel driveway. There wasn’t a human being in sight. Inside the garage, I spotted a wall-mounted phone, and called my wife. She didn’t answer but I left her a message. As I was leaving it I heard footsteps and before I could make myself scarce an elderly lady came around the corner and stared at me. She obviously lived there. “Um. I was just…leaving,” I said, hanging up the phone and sheepishly skipping back to the main road as fast as I could. The woman frowned after me, watching me go. A little further down the road I saw an electrician working on a house and asked to use his phone. He said yes and I finally got through to my wife. But I couldn’t talk long or say what I wanted to say because the electrician was staring at me, so I determined right there and then to get and keep a fucking phone of my own. And that’s what I did. I sometimes pay my bill late and find myself cast backward into the land of payphones and useless dimes, but for the most part I’ve joined the 21st century. As for that mother and her child, the mother did her best, to her credit. “Some people…can’t afford cell phones,” she informed her son, who looked bored already. “Or else they can’t get coverage on the subway, so they use one of these. Or in emergencies, they work for emergencies.” “What kind of person can’t afford a phone?” the child brayed incredulously. The mother looked embarrassed. I wasn’t. Let her stupid kid hate payphones and poor people. Most people do. I rarely use payphones now but I still get a small shiver of curiosity when I pass one I haven’t seen before, wondering if it’s the legendary free one. The unicorn. The white whale of public telephones. So I check. And I hear “please insert fifty cents” from the robotic lady voice that rules payphone land. Then I move on.

#betterdaysareatoenailaway #odetopayphones

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renegadewangs · 5 years

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In the past few months, I've been rewatching Desperate Housewives. I only ever watched it during its original run on TV. Dutch TV, mind you, so I was a little behind on the American airings, but it ended almost seven years ago. I only remember vague snippets of what happens, but rewatching it now? Good grief does it still hold up.

For those who haven't watched it, you might believe it's something similar to Sex and the City. Let me tell you right now that it is not. It's not just lighthearted comedy about middle-aged women who are 'desperate' to find happiness. The reason I remember Desperate Housewives fondly is because of its intricate murder mysteries and sudden, heartwrenching drama. It's not just a comedy, it's a wild ride of soap opera mixed with detective tales. The storytelling and the way its characters were all uniquely written continues to be superb. ...Well, for now, anyway. I just finished episode 15 of season 3 and I'm sure that at some point, the series will jump the shark. For now, however, I'm baffled and I wanted to ramble a bit about the genius misdirection leading up to this.

Episode 15 is the one where Orson falls of the hospital roof (thanks to Mike) and at last we find out what happened to Monique Polier. Gloria Hodge, Orson's mother, was the one who killed her and she guilt-tripped Orson into helping her dispose of the body. While most of the cast is present at the opening of Scavo Pizzeria, Gloria Hodge attempts to kill Bree and make it look like suicide. Orson barges into the house just in time and, with Andrew as a bit of a witness, fends Gloria off. As a result, Gloria suffers a stroke. Meanwhile, Alma (Orson's first wife) fell off the roof of her own house and died.

Now, let's backtrack right back to season 2. Orson was originally introduced as a likable character: someone who helped Susan several times and who went to the mental hospital to pay visits to a 'friend' who was so far gone that she probably didn't even know he was there. However, at the end of season 2, things take an ominous turn. With absolutely no context given to us, the viewers, Orson purposely hits Mike Delfino with his car and leaves him lying on the road. A few scenes later, we see him bringing flowers to Bree. Now, seeds of doubt have been sown. Season 2 had a heavy focus on Bree dating a dangerous psychopath who was willing to harm- even kill to get his way. Even on my second watch of this series, knowing that Orson would be with Bree for a long time, I began to question whether he's a good man or just another crazy person for Bree to date. That's wonderful storytelling in that it was a bit of trickery.

Season 3 hits it right of the park as soon as the first episode begins. The narrative explains that Alma Hodge felt 'trapped' in her marriage and wanted to run. The narrative also states that Orson doesn't like to be contradicted, so the panic that Alma was showing along with the ominous smirk on Orson's face when he finds out about her plans insinuate something very bad is about to happen. Orson killed his wife, that is the belief thrust onto us. This notion is further enforced by a few other things, such as the old neighbor Carolyn Bigsby who swears that Orson must've done it, and the second murder narrative that's playing out: Monique. Orson pretends not to know the Jane Doe's body and in that very same scene, right at the end, it's revealed that he knows damn well who that dead woman is. Shortly after, the narrative attempts to shift the blame for Monique's death to Mike Delfino, but no viewer would be fooled by that. Mike would never kill anyone, we all firmly believe that. Heck, he had Paul Young at his mercy and didn't pull the trigger. Paul Young, for crying out loud!

Around episode 7, Bang, something begins to change. We learn that Carolyn, the woman who we were supposed to believe when she said that Orson killed Alma, is unhinged. Paranoid, dangerous... She outright shoots a woman in cold blood and shows no remorse, then attempts to shoot another. Why should we still put our faith in her words? The very next episode introduces Gloria, the manipulative and secretive mother who is clearly more than she seems. Two episodes later, it's revealed that Alma faked her death and she waltzes right back into Orson's life like it's nothing. She shows her true obsessive colors soon enough. We learn that Orson never loved Alma, that he'd wanted out of his marriage and that his heart belonged to Monique when his wife was threatening to walk out on him. But at roughly the same time, we learn through Mike's hypnotherapy that Orson was there the night Monique died. That's where we truly begin to ask ourselves just who was responsible for Monique's death. Was it Orson, was it Alma, was it Gloria? Was there an accident? By this point, there's been so much misdirection that we just don't know. It's clear that Orson loves Bree and is willing to open up to her when she demands him to, therefore he must be a good person, right? But at the same time, it's obvious he's still hiding things, so maybe he's not kosher after all? Even in the end, he’s not really a good person. He uses Alma’s dead body as a convenient cover for why his mother had a stroke, then makes sure to rub Gloria’s situation in her (paralyzed) face before walking out the door forever.

And I love the narrative for that. I love that there's a span of 16 episodes, each lasting about 45 minutes, where you just don't know what to make of a character.

On that note, I wanted to draw attention to Alma. For most of the time she's around, she's portrayed as someone who schemes to get her way. Someone who will resort to underhanded trickery with an innocent smile on her face. But by the end of it, the series begins to show just why she's so determined not to give up on Orson. It's Gloria. Gloria is the one who kept telling her to keep trying and that 'she's meant to be with Orson because they made a vow before God'. However, Alma begins to show second thoughts onscreen- perhaps they've been there offscreen as well- and as a result, Gloria locks her away. In the final half hour of her life, she attempts to escape in order to save Bree. She didn't mean for anyone to get hurt or die, she genuinely wants to stop Gloria from carrying out her plan. There was a redemption arc that could've played out. But as Mary Alice might say, “not everyone gets their happy ending”. Alma dies before she could ever prove to anyone that she was more than just a manipulative villain. Isn't that just heartbreaking?

Don't even get me started on the pedophile plotline that was going for a few episodes. A plotline that wasn't resolved- or rather... The resolution was that 'the pedophile is now free to do whatever he wants thanks to Lynette's interference and nobody can stop him'. Harsh.

#desperate housewives #orson hodge #alma hodge

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dstudiouk · 3 years

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Weekly Studio Spotlight - Paul Trevillion

This week, we are sooooo excited to be releasing our interview with Paul Trevillion. A global success in sports art & illustration and an incredible career with some amaaaazing stories to tell. We think you’ll really love this one... ✌🏼

What are your biggest inspirations?

I am inspired by the Masters of the art of drawing such as Rembrandt, Ingres, Degas, Michelangelo – they brought AMAZING LIFE to their work, with their own unique talents and vision, with flowing line, movement and vibrant colour. I am inspired by those artists and sports achievers who commit to their own originality and beliefs, create their own artistic rules and follow their own dreams.

Credit: Paul Trevillion

How did you start your art career?

“Treat every obstacle as a hurdle to be overcome” were the words of HRH Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, when we met in 1952 at the Mansion House Medal Awards, which inspired my unshakable belief that EVERYTHING is possible. Having a somewhat limited attention span, during the awards I sketched Prince Phillip’s portrait on the programme, a sketch which I was praised by His Royal Highness in a letter from Buckingham Palace which I received a few weeks later. The letter appeared in the National Press and launched my sporting career in the ‘Sporting Record’ with drawings of the England and Australian cricketers for the 1953 Coronation Ashes.

Credit: Paul Trevillion

What’s your favourite piece you have created so far?

I was a born in London in 1934, a World War II 'boy from the ‘Blitz’ so my favourite piece of art is my Sir Winston Churchill portrait. I was summoned to meet Churchill in Berkeley Square, London W1 in 1955. It was the year after the huge disappointment of the Graham Sutherland portrait which Churchill absolutely hated and on Churchill’s passing his wife Clementine destroyed. My pen and ink smiling portrait was in celebration of Churchill’s 81st Birthday. At our meeting Sir Winston after giving me much sage advice (including ’Every NO takes you one step nearer a YES!’) and in appreciation of my portrait which he liked very much, especially the ’twinkle’ in his eyes, the great man signed it. My portrait of Sir Winston Churchill remains the only portrait which exists signed by our greatest statesman and at the request of Gordon Taylor, former Chief Executive of the PFA, is loaned and on display in the boardroom of the Professional Footballers Association in Manchester.

Credit: Paul Trevillion

What art tools could you not live without?

Pen & Ink…not to mention my Guillott 290 pen nibs. Materials have changed over the years, but these nibs cannot be bettered. I also still work from the same easel I have used for the past 80 years!

Credit: Paul Trevillion

What is your biggest challenge with your work?

Working in pen and ink does not allow you the luxury of the flexibility of oils and acrylics. Just ONE mistake and you have to start again. Mistakes cannot be rubbed out or brushed over!

Credit: Paul Trevillion

What has been your biggest achievement in life?

Since the early 1950’s I have had my art published in newspapers, magazines, books and periodicals and I have NEVER missed a deadline. I learned from a very early age the importance of time keeping and completing the project to the time allowed!

Credit: Paul Trevillion

If you could choose 5 people to have at a dinner party, who would you invite?

SIR WINSTON CHURCHILL, because of his invaluable words of advice. I am now older than he was when I met him…there is so much I would like to share with him! During the second World War my father was a grocer and I have such wonderful memories of a little girl just 6 years old who sang and danced on my grocer father's shop counter whilst my Disney drawings of the Seven Dwarfs (I was also 6 years old) were displayed behind her. The little girl was SHANI WALLIS who went on to worldwide recognition when she appeared in the musical film ‘OLIVER’ as Nancy and sang with incredible passion, ‘As Long As He Needs Me’. I remember both our fathers at the time wondered if either Shani or Paul would ever be successful in their chosen careers! In the ’70's I worked with GEORGE BEST for 18 months with ‘Play The Best Way’ in the Sunday People. George was never lost for words when talking football, plus his football brain made our conversations all the more memorable. George admired my art so much he asked me to draw his ‘Perfect Portrait. My friend, SUSIE HODGE MA FRSA, author of over 100 art books, lecturer at the Tate Gallery and a highly respected art historian, who said of my art... "Paul adds washes of vibrant colour. Nothing is laboured or overworked.....not a static photographic rendition, but a free fluid image that not only captures movements, form and mannerisms, but spirit and power....Paul Trevillion is the Pele of Sporting Art." Finally … HRH PRINCE PHILIP who would definitely keep the dinner party in order!

Credit: Paul Trevillion

What do you do differently in your career now than when you first started?

There was a demand in the 1940s and 1950’s for pen and ink ‘cartoon’ art in the Press. I enjoyed many of the artists who lent their hands to cartoons and caricatures. I began in publishing in this style. My 'Comic Art Realism’ style focusing on figure art and detailed traditional portraiture ensured my work began to be accepted for it’s artistic merit in the field of fine art and is now exhibited in the FIFA Museum, Zurich and the National Football Museum, Manchester.

Credit: Paul Trevillion

If you could give advice to a young artist, what would it be?

You must remain ORIGINAL. Do not follow in others footsteps…create your own ARTISTIC FOOTPRINT. Above all, you must BELIEVE 100% in yourself above everything else. Never doubt your ability, don’t follow the crowd… follow your instinct.

Credit: Paul Trevillion

Who’s going to win the 2021 euros?

Providing Tottenham Hotspur and England’s Harry Kane stays free from injury, I believe England has a better than even money chance on winning the Euros. COME ON ENGLAND!!!

Credit: Paul Trevillion

What makes you happiest in life?

Seeing one of my paintings displayed on a wall – whether it be in a house, a museum, an office, a store or exhibition centre – it’s just a joy to know it is appreciated.

Credit: Paul Trevillion

Thank you so much to Paul for such an amazing interview this week! Feel like this could have gone on for aaaages, what a career! If you enjoyed this week’s Artist of The Week interview, make sure to let us know on our socials @dstudiouk 😊 also don’t forget you can find more of Paul’s story & work on his website and social platforms (linked below)

Paul Trevillion - Website

Paul Trevillion - Twitter

Paul Trevillion - Facebook

Paul Trevillion - Instagram

#ArtistoftheWeek #dstudio #dstudiouk #artistinterview #interview #artists #SupportingArtists #artcareer #careerinart #artistschat

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sanguinarysanguinity · 7 years

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tagged by @educatedinyellow, thank you. (Why, why do my attempts to tag you never take??)

How many fics have you written?

76 stories on AO3 (Harbor is four separate stories; Sixty for Sixty is 11 separate ficlets), plus another two stories that are still anonymous, plus another seven tumblr ficlets that I haven’t archived yet. (The tumblr ficlets are collected under “three sentences” and “one sentence plus five.”) So... 85 stories, I guess? And there are another twenty-odd stories in my drafts folder, because I have the attention span of a gnat.

I’ve also edited 24 vids and vidlets, and recorded three podfics.

Where do you share your writing?

Most things eventually make their way to AO3, but some works are posted first to tumblr or an exchange-specific website.

What is your pseud?

sanguinarysanguinity here; sanguinity everywhere else.

Where/when do you usually write?

Ideally, first thing in the morning. In actuality, second thing in the morning. The actual time window of “second thing in the morning” depends on how dramatic my tumblr and email got overnight.

I do most of my writing at home on my laptop, inside on the couch if the weather is inclement or out on the porch or in the yard if it’s clement. I also write a fair bit at work if things are slow, which they often are.

What is your favorite fanfic that you’ve read?

I’m not even going to try to choose a favorite.

What is your fave fic that you’ve written?

Desperate Men and Fools. ACD Holmes, Western AU, 11K words.

I spent about a year working on Fools, trying to navigate writing a classic Western while being Lakota; consequently, it is saturated with my feelings about... well, many things, really. It’s also my only proper case-fic, and like all my Holmes and Watson stories, it’s a love story, never you mind that ampersand. Mostly, though, it’s a story about belief and hope and justice and goodness, a story about the world being objectively shit but choosing to make your way in it anyway.

Sadly, Fools hasn’t had much readership, probably because it’s technically a crossover with a fairly obscure TV show? Also, I suspect that the pure-ACD people look askance at Western AUs. (Which is kinda hilarious to me, given how much ACD himself obvs adored them.) But I swear upon my soul that absolutely everything you need to know is in the story, and that you won’t miss at all not knowing the crossover fandom.

What inspired you to start writing fanfic?

Eh, my first half-dozen stories were motivated by SOMEONE BEING WRONG ON THE INTERNET, but we shall not itemize who or how, because that’s just rude.

Nowadays, I mostly write to keep my brain at bay. My brain is not a very nice roommate, but it’s halfway tolerable when it’s working on a thing.

What is your favorite trope to read?

So-called ‘pretend’ relationships. (Which never ever actually are pretend, HAH!!!!!) I also adore amnesia fic, but there’s not much of it out there.

What is your fave trope to write?

Love stories. Most of the gen and ampersands in my catalog are actually terribly earnest love stories: people loving each other well and generously, rising to the occasion for each other even when it’s difficult.

Which I suppose is more of a genre than a trope, but whatever.

What is the best piece of writing advice you’ve ever read/heard/would like to share?

To just stop with the shame and self-flagellation and oughts when it comes to writing: what works for the next person may or may not work for you, and just because they sounded super-confident when they claimed to know The One True Way To Write doesn’t mean they know jack squat about what’s going to work for you. Experiment for yourself, figure out what works for you, and be kind to yourself along the way.

Actually, just be kind to yourself along the way, full-stop. Life is shit enough as it is without being mean to yourself on top of everything else.

What is your favorite feedback you’ve received as an author?

Today I’m particularly valuing the first comments on a fic, the ones that come in when I’m in that nail-biting OH NOES EVERYONE HATES IT THEY HATES IT I HATES IT TOO window of god-I-need-to-do-something-that-takes-me-far-away-from-my-email. You people who comment quickly on a story, you are as blessed as the people who show up to a party unfashionably on-time, thus saving your hosts from their “oh my god no one is coming to our party” meltdown.

(Today’s preference may or may not have to do with my last couple stories being long and weird and otherwise low-readership, la la la. It also may or may not have to do with a story or stories that are currently anonymous, la la la.)

Not tagging anyone by name, but please do join in if you think it’ll be fun!

#my writing #long post

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simplysherlockfanfic · 7 years

Text

The study of a haunted mind

A Spin-off of Connection - inspired by a few requests for a one shot or spin off continuing the Connection Universe and the TAB period sparked by @jiuweihututku

(Connection)Reader x Sherlock

Word Count: 4327

The lofty round chamber was illuminated by well placed lamps around the table situated in the center to create a cavernous setting. The men seated around the rather ornate table unobservable in such dramatic lighting preferred the secluded atmosphere for the discussion of topics that would not pass through the heavy doors. The artificial cavern was perfect for the equally artificial men who occupied the chamber.

Mycroft Holmes brought the meeting to an end and I needed no instruction to stay seated and keep my eyes low. I preferred my place tucked in between the door and heavy drapery that blocked any natural light. Being the only female in the room was not lost on me nor the men who spanned a multitude of positions in various government entities. The group of seven men held different beliefs of where a woman of any standing had a right to be, never the less one whose native country was not the same as their own.

I had no illusions to the temperaments of the men in my company as some would refuse to acknowledge me as company. Mr. Holmes was the only reason I held such a station. He was a man who answered to none and none would speak against his appointments. Even after all my years in his employ, I did not know precisely his position, only that he was of such grave import none would oppose his view save for the very highest and I've only witnessed it once. I was sworn to secrecy and not due to the nature of the discussion but, I believe, because of who came out on top.

The men filed out of the room in silence. I closed my book and placed my items in the crook of my arm as I rose taking hold of my cane.

Mycroft strolled toward me, “what of your findings?”

“Two found your second point a hard pill to swallow.”

He nodded, “mark them in your notations.”

“As always.” I often wondered if he saw the same ticks I observed that betrayed the men who thought so highly of their ability to show the world only what they desired to let them see and he merely used me for confirmation of his own theories. I wouldn’t mind in the least because I often relied on him to confirm my own skills at times.

I wasn't ashamed to admit I had to battle back from a harsh mental climate after an unfortunate incident that forced me to hold a cane at all times outside of my own home. My body wasn't the only thing battered and bruised and I relied on my family and friends to fight back to where I am today.

Mycroft walked by my side to the door, he preferred the slow pace that my injury presented me but also felt it rude to walk ahead of someone he considered his equal. I did not share his opinion of myself for he had accomplished far greater things but I acquiesced to his compliment when he shared it.

“Have I presented my gratitude recently?”

I shook my head, “this position is gratitude enough.”

He smiled as he stopped at the door, “ah, yes when one can stomach the ignorant.”

“We learned that long ago.”

“The best of us had to.”

Mycroft Holmes, man of refined inclinations and unmatched mind, had in recent years softened around the edges in a different way. From the very day my son William came into this world, he began to decrease in size. He was still a tall, large man but different choices had made him, in the words of my good friend Dr. Watson, no longer a man challenging death.

I stepped into the hall and another tall figure moved toward us. Just over six feet, not as excessively lean these days yet still his presence filled the space. His sharp eyes met mine and his purposeful steps slowed to a stop in front of me. I stared up into warm, intelligent eyes that spoke more than I ever thought possible.

Mycroft closed the door, “why, Sherlock, how unexpected.” His smile revealed otherwise.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock inclined his head, “I had some business in the building and heard you were concluding a meeting.” His piercing gaze turned back to me and he tipped his hat belying nothing save for the glitter of his eyes, “Miss Doyle.”

“Holmes.” I nodded with a hint of a grin.

Mycroft folded his hands over his stomach, “yes, well. That will be all for today, y/n. I'd like the meeting’s pages on my desk by nine.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. Don’t forget Mr. Melas will be meeting you at the club at seven.”

He eyed me, no doubt perturbed by my persistent formal use of his name, but decided against commenting upon it. “Thank you.”

“May I accompany you out, Miss Doyle?” Sherlock proffered his arm and the elder Holmes’s eyeroll was hardly hidden.

“I’d be delighted.” I took his arm giving the elder Holmes a final nod before turning with Sherlock.

“Good-bye, Mycroft.” Sherlock tossed over his shoulder in a way that only those brothers could, with challenge and love.

“As to you.”

We walked in silence through the building exchanging minute touches around corners and in empty halls. His elbow cheating back to brush his fingers against my wrist, palm, and in between my fingers. Muscle mastery that could entice a rousing masterpiece on his violin and a soothing or inspiring composition in me. I could always tell how his day was going by the way his fingers alighted my skin. He was mixing his piece, half soothing and half enticing. Today was a good day but he wanted to ease the ache in my hip.

His fingers swept over the plain silver band on my ring finger just before he pulled his arm forward and we stepped out the front door where a cab awaited me. He opened the door, plucked up my cane, and held my hand to help me inside. I sat and he placed the cane neatly at my side. “Where may I ask should I send you?”

“I have a meeting with the Society before I venture home.”

He nodded and gave the address to the driver before closing the door. I leaned forward, “a good afternoon to you, sir.”

He smiled with just a hint of delight in his eyes, “a good afternoon indeed.” He stepped back and the cab bounded off.

I closed my eyes and let his composition accompany me through the muddy streets of London.

Baker Street was still bustling even though the air had turned brisk. I had long since grown accustomed to London’s gray sky but I had no doubt more clouds would roll in within hours. Sherlock would scoff at my prediction but the quirk at the corner of his mouth gave him away every time.

I strolled down the sidewalk with one gloved hand tucked in my pocket trying not to lean too heavily upon my cane. Despite the weather, the people hustling and strolling about were in good spirits. They may complain year round but they loved their city, gray skies and all. I smiled, tucked my head against the wind, and returned to mulling over our most recent research into the human mind.

My study pursuing a way to ease, if not erase, dark memories that haunt or, in other cases not so lucky as mine, debilitate those who survive such terrors had been slowly gaining traction. While my research into a mind that felt compelled to inflict such pain had been flourishing and my fellows were already contemplating offering their opinion on suitable titles. Due to the rise in sensationalist stories of Jack the Ripper, I was disinclined to give any more public notoriety to despicable behavior.

I turned my mind from the distant past and recalled the thoughts that had been trying to lure me from my analysis throughout the afternoon. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the way his nimble fingers caressed my palm amidst the quiet halls. I will forever be amazed by his ability to take my breath with a single touch.

“Mama!” The shout drew me back to Baker Street. William’s dark curls bounced over his bright face as he rushed toward me filling me with a completely different warmth.

I knelt down and opened my arms just before he carefully latched onto me, “hello, my love.” I wrapped him in a tight embrace. “How was your day?” I glanced up and smiled at the little sandy haired girl rushing toward me.

“Auntie y/n!” Rosamund pressed into my side wrapping us in a hug all her own.

“Hello my little dove!” I chuckled and looked up at Mary walking over with a smile lighting her face. My heart jolted and I shut my eyes.

“They’re very excitable today,” Victoria’s voice was bright and when I again looked up, her red hair replaced the blonde I thought I saw. Her face, now whispering concern, was nothing like the ghost of the woman in my mind.

I smiled with a slight shake of my head, “the chill.” I stood as the children released me chattering over each other about their trip to the park. “What great timing. I was going to send a telegraph.”

We turned and guided the children back toward the flat. “Come along William, Rosamund.” I leaned into her side while the children skipped ahead of us. “So, you heard?”

With a curt nod, she glanced my way, “Molly sent a telegraph about an incident in Sussex.”

“Sussex? Mycroft spoke of a different matter.”

Victoria’s eyes lit in excitement, “how delightful.”

The door to two hundred and twenty one B opened and Mrs. Hudson appeared shaking her head but all signs of discontent were dispelled by the children who immediately swarmed her. Victoria and I stepped inside and removed our coats and gloves.

“You read the new story then?” Victoria said with chagrin.

“Who needs silly stories when I am in the presence of the lovely ladies and gentleman of the house?”

“My dear Martha, this will always be your house. You are not a servant.” She smiled. I had to admit I over indulged in our innocent teasing on most days.

Her gaze was pulled by the sprites at her legs vying for her attention and Victoria elbowed me. We parted as a black cloaked woman complete with black veil rushed down the stairs, in between us, and out the front door without a word. Victoria and I glanced at one another before making our way upstairs.

The patter of the children’s feet followed along with Mrs. Hudson who no doubt would herd them into the kitchen.

I stepped into the sitting room where Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson were seated in their chairs by the fireplace in which a small fire crackled. I leaned my cane against the wall by the door not usually needing it for short distances, due in no small part to Mycroft’s swift thinking and action after the incident more than three years ago.

Sherlock’s gaze trailed over me, his ever watchful eye not missing a thing. I saw on his alert face what answers he had gained in his quick yet efficient observation and knew some piece I would miss gave him some knowledge of half my thoughts today. I winked before turning to the other presence.

Lestrade gave a tip of his head in greeting before his gaze was drawn to William rushing over to Sherlock. “Papa!”

Sherlock lifted our son onto his lap and leaned in, “my dear boy, what adventures did you find?”

“I hear John’s sister is doing quite well in the Queen’s service,” Lestrade said.

I grew confused at his words for all present were in good standing of our situation. But then it alerted me to an outside source from which I was still unaware. “I do what I can.”

Victoria chortled, “yes, who dared to think…”

“Victoria that would be quite enough.” John’s curt remark bordered on offensive.

I turned toward him with a look of disapproval, “now, dear brother.”

“Husband.” Victoria’s admonishment was so that one had to know her thoroughly to hear the dangerous undertone.

Sherlock grinned, “I believe Watson was simply trying to steer back to the matter at hand with our guest.”

William had crossed his leg over the other just like his father trying his best to match the posture down to the crook of his arm holding an invisible pipe to his mouth. Sherlock pulled a small pipe from his pocket and held it out for him. He grabbed it, fumbling it slightly in his excitement and shoved the mouthpiece into his mouth and blew. A few bubbles shot out and William turned such a look of contempt on his father but the sheer delight visible in Sherlock counteracted even the most stubborn of our son’s attributes.

I chuckled softly at my boys as I stepped further into the sitting room and Lestrade moved aside. A man, quite unkempt with messy straw-like hair and dirty overcoat, was seated in a chair on the right side of the room placed directly in front of the couch. “My dear sir, how terribly unkind of me and in my own home. Have you not treated the man to a drink?” I saw the signs of anxiety on his taut face, in his stiff shoulders, and uneven breathing that Sherlock had no doubt already deduced.

Sherlock Holmes may not be an expert in Psychology but he trained himself to catch even the slightest twitch of the eye from a lying man. He knew enough about the emotive ticks to judge the state of the man in front of us.

“That would be grand…” His wild eyes darted from Sherlock and William to me, “did you say your home?”

I walked over and offered my hand, “why yes, y/n Doyle. Pleasure to meet you.”

His gaze flicked to Sherlock and then to John. If I hadn't known better I might think he was about to take flight. “I thought your sister’s name was Harriet?”

Well,” John shook his head, a delay as the struggle continued in his mind, the only thing that came to me was trust in the man before us, “Mrs. Doyle is… adopted… and well, she…”

“She is a woman out of her time.” Sherlock spoke matter of factly and caused a blush to stain my cheeks, his gaze on me with pride and so much more.

I watched John, his conclusion finally eased his features. I laid my hand on our guest's shoulder hoping to assuage some of his nerves. “A relationship like the one John and I share is much like family but without blood relation in this society is, shall we say, frowned upon. It is much easier to tell those less minded that we are in fact blood related. It avoids scandal.”

“Anymore scandal,” Sherlock quipped pointing the mouthpiece of his pipe at me.

“By Jove, Holmes! How anyone could see you choosing a bride of such ordinary tendencies is just beyond…” John chuckled with another shake of his head.

“Or choosing a bride at all from those stories in The Strand,” Lestrade said with a grin at John.

“You're married and a child? But she doesn't bear your name!” The man cried, leaning forward as his stress increased.

I patted his shoulder, “a matter of security I can assure you.” I walked over to the decanter and poured him a drink.

John laughed, “poppycock. You'd no less take that name than…”

Victoria glared at him, “husband.”

I walked over to our guest, “the Holmes name has a notoriety that I would prefer to avoid. Sherlock is a man that takes no offense to my position. He delights in it.” I handed him the glass but his gaze was riveted on John and his hand so shaky, the liquid sloshed about.

“But your stories, you say it’s cocaine or ambition.”

“I believe the line you're thinking is the man alternates between his drug of choice and ambition. She would be that drug,” Victoria quipped with an amused smile. “And sometimes ambition.”

“Is it still only a seven percent solution?” John tossed at Sherlock.

Sherlock grinned, they were enjoying this far too much for decency. “Ah, I do believe I’ve far exceeded that dosage for quite some time now. Some days, at least, but then I tend to be quite fanciful these days.” He met my gaze and I smiled before turning away.

“Gentlemen, I do believe we may only be furthering his distress. That cold drink would do your mind and a good amount of deep breathing would help clear some of that anxiety.” I squatted in front of him, “now, if you would permit it, I would like to help you with that anxiety.” He nodded, still watching me warily. “With me, deep breath in.”

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade continued discussing whatever this man had brought them as I directed him into a calmer state. After a few minutes, he opened his clear, soft gray eyes and gazed into mine.

“May I ask what your speciality is?” His voice was smoother and deeper without the stress tightening his vocal cords.

“Psychology. It's the study of the mind.”

His laugh was like a crack of a whip in the room and everyone turned toward him, “but that's simply a fake…”

I smiled as I stood, “I am a member of the Society of Psychical Research and I'll have you know this area of study is exploding especially in America. I just calmed you with techniques I have perfected through my own research, sir. Feel your heart and listen to your breathing, your brain is no longer running in circles. You are now comfortable for the first time since the incident. Are you not?”

His eyes widened and he looked at Sherlock, “is this some kind of sorcery?”

“My wife is of high intellect and sorcery is of no use in this household. You’ll find no parlor tricks here.”

“She is published, both medical journals and novel!” John said tightly, eying the man he had only moments ago allowed a clearance like no other outside our circle.

“Dr. Watson trusts you highly for certain things to be spoken so easily in your presence. I hope you measure up to the worth of that trust.”

He stared at me but the thunder coming from the stairs drew our attention to the door just before it flung open. A large man in an unleashed rage heaved at the doorway, his wild gaze jumping around the room and growing all the more incensed. “Which of you is Holmes?”

I walked toward him and held up my hands. “Good sir, won’t you take a breath and know that no harm will come to you here.”

His bloodshot eyes burned in my direction, “a woman who doesn't know her place!”

I was sure by now my husband would know more about this man than I ever cared to but I could only see the tension in every muscle that spoke of panic and wild rage, a dangerous animal. “And you will lower your voice in my home.” I inwardly flinched at such a careless mistake but dared not show the slightest bit of weakness.

A flash of confusion shadowed his rage but only for a moment before it flared back, “your home!” His gaze darted toward the fire place where John and Sherlock were still seated. “The busy body has a woman with no control!”

His huge hand reached out for me and I snatched his wrist from the air, twisted it swiftly down and around his back as I shoved the mountain of a man off balance and into the door frame. “And you would do well to keep your hands where they belong. Men who foolishly think they can overpower women simply because they are bigger only prove how very uneducated they are.” Malice seeped through my every word and my pulse was pounding in my ears. I had focus on my breathing simply to hold back from injuring him any further.

“The conversation is most entertaining but I believe my wife has just shown you to the door, sir.”

The controlled lilt that hinted of danger in Sherlock’s voice tempered my heated blood. I released the man and backed away. A slight fright at the amount of rage that still pulsed through me. My gaze darted around the room and I was thankful that William was no longer present.

“When I have my say…” He rubbed his wrist and turned but stepped backward into the doorway. He glanced at me with a vicious look before returning his gaze to Sherlock.

Sherlock stood from his chair, his face tight and his nostrils flared but it was Victoria who stepped toward the man, “I believe you have done enough for one day. What would Scotland Yard have to say?”

Lestrade turned toward the man and he huffed, muscles rippling in aggravation as he ignored Lestrade and stabbed a finger toward Sherlock, “do not meddle in the affairs of Dr. Grimesby Roylott!” Then he spun awkwardly and lumbered down the stairs.

I turned to Sherlock and raised my brow in question when John’s old friend seated behind me exclaimed, “good Lord! You…” I turned and met his astonished look with confusion, “you… madam are extraordinary.” There was a lingering fear in his stiffened muscles and I could only conclude that John’s trust wouldn’t be the only thing holding this man to our loyalty.

“A woman can surprise you if only you let them.” Sherlock gave a sharp tug on the bottom of his vest, “if you would excuse me for a moment. I need to speak with my wife.” Sherlock walked toward the kitchen and paused with his hand held out toward me.

Victoria slipped something into my hand as I passed her. I stepped into Sherlock’s side and he took hold of my arm, the soft caress of his fingers on my palm soothing as we walked into the kitchen then around the children and Mrs. Hudson.

I quickly read the telegraph Victoria had handed me as Sherlock guided me into the hall for a touch of privacy, but the words handwritten there didn't make sense, meet me at his boathole in cemetery. I.A.

I squeezed my eyes closed and shook my head at the sudden burst of pain. When I again looked at the paper, it was a simple telegram from Molly. He stopped us and turned to face me as I inquired, “do you know the meaning of the bull at our door?”

“His step daughter made her leave before your entrance.”

“The woman… dressed in black?” A tingle of fear itched the back of my neck. What I had just done could very well be reflected back on her.

He nodded, his fingers brushed over my cheek then he kissed me with a quiet reverence. “You taught him a lesson that I should...”

I pressed my finger to his lips, “it's not that bad. Just the weather. Promise me that woman won’t be alone with that man. If my actions...”

His hand brushed my hip where the ache always flared up in cold weather. “Watson and I must catch the next train to take his step daughter’s case. I believe he’s going to have her killed much like her sister.”

I nodded, “Victoria received a telegram asking for our assistance in a matter in Sussex.”

“Lamberley?”

“Yes.”

“This lady in need of assistance is Peruvian?” He asked with a smile.

I looked upon him in amusement and he kissed me again. “I received a letter of the same matter. I shall send word that an associate of highest caliber will be arriving.”

I turned toward the kitchen, “Mrs. Hudson, could I ask you to watch the children for us until tomorrow?”

“Of course! Oh, how lovely, are you finally going on holiday?”

“Oh no, we have two…” my gaze froze upon the scrap of paper tacked to the wall just behind Mrs. Hudson, “different cases.”

She shook her head with a chortle, “of course.”

The odd stick figures in different positions called to me, something whispering that I should know. “The dancing men,” the words spilled from me but still brought no understanding except for the flash of a woman’s face, dark hair, red lipstick, and clever eyes. You understand.

Sherlock caressed my neck, “still waiting on more data for that. One case at a time.”

I turned back to him, his lopsided grin and a pinch in his brow. “Right.”

“Associates.” His palm pressed against my cheek, “then I shall see you again tomorrow.”

I held his hand on my face with the most peculiar feeling of living this moment before yet the emotions were different, more afraid. “Does your case have an increased element of danger?”

“None higher than others.” He searched my face, my eyes.

I nodded, “until tomorrow then.” He lifted a brow, “just simple instinct, I suppose the bull may have increased my own anxiety for the girl. A cornered animal is a dangerous one.”

He pressed his lips to mine, a slow and sensual kiss that only heightened my sense of being here, saying such a stressed, intense goodbye before. “I will see you no later than tomorrow night. I guarantee this will be wrapped up by morning light.”

John’s story of the events of Reichenbach swarmed my mind and I held onto him tighter. I hugged him tucking my head into his chest, breathing him in. Losing this man was not a possibility.

He bent down just enough to press his lips to my ear, “I’m invincible, you know that.”

I squeezed tighter. “Tomorrow then.”

PART TWO

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a-spell-a-rebel-yell · 5 years

Text

shooting down arrows of impatience, patiently

Oh hello, it’s another Sunday post. What a coincidence, I’ve been posting consistently on Sundays for some unknown reasons—probably it’s going to be a weekly thing I guess. As always, welcome and hope you’re having a great day/weekend! (now I feel like some sort of a YouTuber with the identical parroted greeting, but whatever. Let me know if you have a better suggestion)

As you all know, my previous three posts have been half summary of my week and half musings of things in life. This time, it’ll be more of me reflecting on what happened yesterday, and specifically me delving more into two viewpoints.

For the last few days I’m back at my grandma’s house, with my cousins and nephews filling in the usually quiet place. Every night, everyone will gather at my grandma’s bedroom. The parents will discuss about the recent news of the day, sometimes escalating into a heated politics-related argument. The older ones will either exchange banter with loud laughter or mourning in unison about their job and workload. The smaller kids will talk in hushed voices about their secret crushes back at school, eyeing the rest with suspicious stares and giggling in between. Last but not least, my grandma and the youngest son in the family sitting in the corner, conversing in their own ‘language’ inside their own bubble.

Now, I’m in the ‘older ones’ section, busy with trying to persuade my other cousins to be my patients (hint: no one wants to, even when I said I’d pay for them. I’ll blackmail them later), but I’d always have my watchful eyes over everyone in the room. Especially for the latter.

At late in the night I’d disentangle myself from others and silently relocate myself next to my grandma. Whenever this happens, she’ll launch into a series of reminiscences, each a long story of their own. That was what I did last night, but at that time, my grandma was too occupied with answering questions from my five-year-old cousin to notice my presence. Apparently he was in the middle of retelling a story of him back at his kindergarten, asking those rare but not unheard of questions like how come birds fly and we don’t and my grandma enthusiastically responded to every single thing he said, even the quirkiest small things.

This happened for ten minutes or so, until my little cousin’s interest shifted into his Transformer robot toys. My grandma finally realized I was there, she beamed and within seconds she embarked on this particular story of her raising her seven children—my mum, aunts, and uncles—and having to cater to everyone’s needs meaning she had to listen to all seven kids, and that the current situation of her bedroom full of her children and grandchildren reminded her of just that. At one point she asked me what does baper mean, because she heard the word a lot from the telly. I held back a smile, not that there was a hilarious side of the story, but it was just that I realized she has told me the exact same story and asked the selfsame question for numerous times before. Still, I listened to her with rapt attention and gave her my genuine reactions, just like how she did with my little cousin.

In retrospect, now that I’ve sat down and thought about it through, I feel a sense of déjà vu. It reminds me of the times when my grandma was sick and I had to take care of her—changing her diapers, spoon-feeding her, keeping an eye on her while she was sleeping—and how the tables have finally turned around and I had to take on the ‘parent’ role. And to watch two generations playing its role back-to-back and also simultaneously right in front of my eyes—my grandma with my little cousin, and me with my grandma—I’m simply astonished.

With that being said, comes the first viewpoint I’m aiming to discuss: the cycle of life and maturing up.

Responsibility is always my top priority. I’ll be 22 years old at November, I’m in sound mind and legal, I’m recognized by common or statute law. I feel it, the transposition of how things work in our house, my parents more than not delegate more crucial tasks to me, the ones that they used to do for me. It’s like them passing the baton onto my hands, and now it’s my turn to complete the last lap to the finish line.

Only from these past few years do I really get what is it like to be patient. I remember my days as a kid crying, yelling, asking dumb stuff, and my parents would always endure it. Now I get to be the one to exert more patience, be it from listening to advices my parents gave me or from babysitting my younger cousins and nephews. Less opening up my mouth, more pondering of my actions and words in silence. Keeping things to myself makes it easier to comprehend what’s really in it, which most of the time ends in better results.

Questions of do you have a boyfriend or your older cousins have married, when’s your turn arise multiple times, and contrary to popular opinion, I never really feel bothered by it. To that, I always politely answer with a smile and not yet, insya Allah there will be a right time for the right person, and somehow whoever asked will automatically cease to inquire further. Ha!

Of course for a beginning, there’s an end. Death has never really leave the nooks and crannies of my mind. Since I was eight years old, my mum especially, already gave me the talk. She told me what to do if she and my dad are gone, showed me hers and my dad’s last will and testaments, and left instructions of future plans I have to carry on as the oldest child. It frightened me so much, but as time goes on I learned that it’s better to be safe and ready than sorry. Last year, in the span of ten months, I lost three family members, and this increases the frequency of my mum reminding me of that.

I’ve said this before but to emphasize it: ready or not, life goes on with or without me. So I better adjust and hang on to it. It’s not like there’s another option, even failing isn’t an option, it’s just what happened if we haven’t really tried enough.

Lo and behold, the second viewpoint, which actually stemmed from the first one: patience (and tolerance) is a virtue.

These days I’ve noticed how easy it is for people (and myself included) to came into conclusion and decide who someone really is just from their looks, their opinions, and their choices. Although I’ve been trying to tone it down, sometimes I found myself just unconsciously shot up an assumption about someone in my mind seconds after I glimpsed at them. Often it’s inclined to negative notion with a side of snarky remarks, be it about the way they dressed, the things they’re expressing about what they have in mind on certain topics, or even the way they chose to live their life with.

Now, all of you might’ve wondered what do all of those have to do with patience or tolerance, but let me tell you that they have everything to do with each other. Here’s the formula: with just an ounce of patience, maybe we can spare some time to understand their backstory. We can try to learn the reasons why, and by then we’d finally be able to tolerate their decisions.

I’m not saying tolerating means wholly agreeing to whatever they say or approving whatever they do, but it means to train myself to be more open-minded and to be kind at all times. This applies for everything. For something trivial like whenever I found someone with a bad body odor, I’ll try to not just think of how smelly they are, but also a rational explanation of maybe they’ve just finished working hard that requires lots of physical activities. For something more advanced in a touchy subject like whenever I found someone who is a part of the LGBTQA+ community, I’ll try to not just think of how completely clashing our beliefs are, but also a logical thought that even though we don’t agree on the same thing, it never justifies sending outright hate towards them.

Acting based on hate will always lead to perilous mistakes. Educate yourself enough on things before commenting anything. Not following these two basic rules puts you straight into the irrelevant and ignorant category. Engrave this on your mind: it’s a long road to wisdom, but it’s a short one to be ignored.

Writing these two concepts down is easy, implementing it in real life in every scenario is the challenge. But at the end of the day, what matters most is that we try. I’ve always believed in striving for the better. Making today better than yesterday, tomorrow better than today.

Wow. This one is long, eh? It’s nearly 1.5k words lol. Anyways, after all that’s been said, let’s just start from a good intention, keep it up along the way, and we might made it someday.

:-)

#stuffs i wrote #a day in my life #yes the title came from Imagine Dragons' song Round and Round #it's contemplating time yay #sorry for the rambling #happy holiday everyone i love you all

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mittensmorgul · 7 years

Text

Conversation Hearts

Valentine’s Day fluff masquerading as 12.11 coda fic. Enjoy!

3.8k, ao3

They stop in Salina on their way home from Eureka Springs. It’s still too far from the bunker to bother picking up groceries. Ice cream would be a lost cause by the time they got it into a freezer, but for the sheer sake of variety some of the big box stores in Salina offers both novelty and a conveniently timed pit stop in the seven hour drive home. The traumatic loss of and subsequent regaining of his memories over the last couple of days has left Dean feeling a little too shaky to drive straight through.

Not to mention he really needs to get a new phone. It sucks to keep borrowing Sam’s just to check in with Cas, who insisted on regular updates once Dean had finally told him what had happened. Just in case he suffered a relapse, or any other side effects of being both cursed and cured by witchcraft in the span of twenty-four hours. If he can’t be home already, replacing his phone feels like a good start. He hopes has hasn’t lost all the pictures on his crushed phone, the ones he hasn’t had a chance to back up on his laptop back at the bunker. He should really do that more often, he thinks. Losing his memories has given him an entirely new perspective on things like that.

Hell, the first thing he wants to do when he gets home is to just look at everything. The walls, the books, his weapons-- the light sticks. Touch it all, make sure it’s all still real. Re-absorb the evidence of his own existence. He already sent a text to Mary asking if she’d mind returning his journal. After nearly losing everything, he just wants to hold it in his hands. It’s the most tangible proof he has that he’s real, that his life is accounted for. He knows it’s waiting for him, to page through and recount the proof of his otherwise nearly invisible imprint on the planet.

But Sam spots a sign for a Japanese hibachi restaurant, and hey, that’s the kinda place normal people go to celebrate stuff, right? He talks Dean into stopping with the promise of an onion volcano, so Dean rolls his eyes and teases Sam about catching shrimp tossed by the chef into his big mouth until he comes just shy of preemptively ruining the entire experience for the both of them. Dean knows where the line is, and he congratulates himself on toeing it to perfection.

They fill up on steak and shrimp (yes, even the ones hurled at their heads by the chef), and maybe have a bit too much sake, but everything is good again. Sam had been right. It is a life-affirming meal.

Sam refuses to let Dean behind the wheel until he’s sure Dean can operate a motor vehicle safely. His standards had become a lot stricter in recent days, but Dean tries not to let it get to him. Sam’s probably right again. They leave Baby by the restaurant and wander across the parking lot to Target. They need supplies of the non-perishable sort, and it’s about their last chance to shop in a real store before they hit Lebanon. Win/win, Dean figures.

They make their way through the dollar section, Dean teasing Sam with an assortment of pink fluffy heart things just days before Valentine’s day.

“Still better than the time you tried to give me a human heart,” Sam says when Dean waves a pen topped with a sparkly pink heart in his face before dropping it back into the bin.

“So you’ll be my Valentine?” Dean teases, tossing a couple boxes of conversation heart candies into the cart.

“You shoulda tried that line on Larry,” Sam snaps back, pushing the cart off into the store.

Dean stands there for a second and then shrugs. “Larry probably would’ve appreciated the sentiment, at least.”

“Larry’s a robot, Dean.”

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have feelings.”

Sam wanders into the men’s clothing department and studies the assortment of socks for sale. After a few minutes, he tosses a ten pack of white athletic socks into the cart and rolls it away. Dean had stopped, looking at the array of novelty socks and boxers, many of them with Valentine’s Day themed designs. Hearts, cupids… love stuff. Without thinking he picks up a pair of boxers covered with conversation heart candies. He doesn’t even like the damned things, but for some reason he’d already chucked a couple boxes of them in cart, and now he was gonna fucking wear them? Right up against his junk?

What the hell? Did Rowena miss something critical when she fixed my head?

Dean looks down at the words written on each of the hearts. BE MINE. SWEET HEART. ONLY YOU. HOT STUFF. I LUV HUGS.

Yeah, those candies might taste like sugar-flavored chalk, but damn, it’s not like he was gonna put them back. Right now more than ever he could really use a hug. Sam teased him for it in Heaven once, but it wasn’t a lie that he wuvs hugs. He shakes off the weird feeling of deja vu-- probably a side effect of having all his memories crammed back into his head at once-- and stomps off to stop Sam from buying any douchey ipod accessories for Baby.

An hour or so later, Dean jogs across the parking lot, his new phone in hand, to bring Baby around to the front of the store while Sam pays for all the rest of their new stuff. He’d been inordinately relieved with the guy who set up his new phone had been able to recover all the data-- photos, contacts-- from his dead phone and transfer it all to his new one. He calls Cas the second he’s outside to tell him he’s been reconnected to the grid. Cas sounds relieved, and doubly relieved when Dean tells him they’re only about an hour and a half from home.

He’s positively itching to get there now. Just seeing Baby gleaming under the sodium lights gives him a flippy feeling in his stomach. Dean gasps and Cas asks him what’s wrong, and maybe for the first time in his life, Dean means it when he replies, “Absolutely nothing.” He recognizes her. Because of course he would.

And screw Rowena for calling her stupid. He could forgive her for a lot, but that was crossing a line.

He grins to himself the rest of the way home, knowing the rest of his little family is waiting for him there. Mary. Cas. Castiel. He can remember them now, and he never wants to forget again.

He pulls into the garage just after nine. It had been a really long couple of days, and it’s so good to be home.

Mary and Cas meet them in the garage. Dean walks straight up to his mom and hugs her tight. Not only had he forgotten her, he’d also forgotten how lucky he is to have her back now after almost a lifetime without her. He’d almost lost her twice over.

She lets him go after a moment, patting his cheek. “It’s good to have you home, Dean.”

“Thanks, mom.” He smiles at her, and then sees Cas looming over her shoulder. She steps aside and Dean pulls a surprised Cas into a clenching hug.

It reminds Dean a little of their first hug after Mary had come back, only flipped around. Cas had thought he was dead, and he’d been shocked beyond belief to find Dean alive. Dean had been a little overwhelmed by Cas’s enthusiasm at the time, but now he understands it completely. He’d caught Cas off guard. Cas hadn’t expected to be practically tackled to the floor.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, slowly wrapping his arms around Dean.

“Hey, Cas. Fuck, it’s a relief to see you, buddy.”

He barely whispers the words into Cas’s ear and feels Cas’s arms tighten around him. Cas sighs, and Dean feels the tension wash out of his shoulders. It’s… nice, Dean thinks. He was right, a hug is exactly what he’d needed.

Sam pops Baby’s trunk and the groan of her hinges reminds Dean that he and Cas have probably been hugging longer than propriety dictates. He clears his throat and lets his hand brush down Cas’s sleeve before stepping back.

“Wanna grab a couple bags? We got some of that tea you like.”

Cas smiles and nods, and follows Dean to the trunk. Sam had divided all the shopping bags into three tidy piles, separated by their respective duffel bags. Dean stuff, Sam stuff, and kitchen stuff. Mary dives right in, grabbing up most of the bags in the kitchen pile. Cas collects the rest and then offers to carry something else with his free hand. Dean passes him a bag with a couple new flannels and a pair of jeans and they all make their way inside to get everything put away where it belongs.

“Just drop it on the bed,” Dean says when Cas follows him to his room.

The bed’s already half covered with Dean’s duffel and several other shopping bags, so Cas walks around the other side and sets it down. “I’ll take the rest to the kitchen.”

Dean nods, glancing up from where he’s dumped out his duffel full of dirty laundry, some of it extra dirty from spending the night passed out in the woods. He makes a face at the state of his green jacket and dumps it in the laundry basket. Hell, he can’t believe he actually wore the filthy thing within ten feet of any sort of food.

Cas watches all of this with interest, still hesitant to just walk out of the room like Dean expected he would. Cas isn’t normally one for dilly-dallying, and it catches Dean’s attention.

“I’m relieved to see you as well, Dean,” Cas finally says when Dean looks back at him.

Dean itches to take the three steps between him and Cas and just start hugging him again, but he thinks that would probably be weird. Instead he finds himself standing there with one outstretched hand. He looks down at his own hand as if it had somehow betrayed him. He has no idea what he’d been planning to do with it, so he clenches his fist and lets it drop to his side.

“What is it you’ve told me before?” Cas asks, letting a smile spread across his face before pinching his brows together in mock seriousness. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Dean can’t help it, and he knows it’s morbid as fuck, but he laughs. “Trust me, I’ll try my damndest not to.”

He remembers looking into the mirror as his last memory of Cas slipped out of his head like a wisp of smoke, remembers trying to hold on to it while everything else drifted away. He shudders, and then feels Cas’s arms around him again, warm and solid and pulling him back from that horrifying memory.

“You seemed like you needed this,” Cas says when Dean doesn’t respond right away.

Dean forces himself to breathe normally; he’d forgotten to breathe reliving his worst nightmare. He hugs Cas back and nods against his shoulder.

“Sorry. I guess it’s gonna take a while to get over that.”

“Don’t ever apologize for that.” Cas squeezes him tighter and whispers. “I won’t let you forget again.”

Propriety be damned, Dean lets Cas hold him together for a few minutes until he can reassemble himself, ground himself in the present. He leans back and sees the mix of fear and relief and something he can’t quite put his finger on in Cas’s eyes, and tries to lighten the mood.

“Did I tell you about the bunny?”

“Bunny? What bunny?”

Dean looks down and sees the grocery bags sitting by the door and smiles up at Cas. “Go put those in the kitchen and get us a coupla beers, and I’ll tell you about it.”

Cas comes back and hands Dean a beer a few minutes later. Dean had finished sorting his laundry and moved on to ripping the tags off his new shirts. Cas looks over the blue plaid shirt Dean’s inspecting for weird stickers or plastic things that would melt into the flannel in the dryer, and then tentatively reaches out a hand to touch the soft material.

“That’s a nice shirt,” he says, and Dean looks up at him with a grin and offers it to Cas.

“You want it?”

“I have a shirt,” Cas replies.

Dean rolls his eyes and pushes the shirt into Cas’s hand. “Variety is the spice of life. Just take it. It’ll look better on you anyway. The blue brings out your eyes…”

Dammit he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He’d been thinking too hard about all the embarrassing shit that fell out of his mouth when he hadn’t remembered what a social filter was. He’d told Rowena she had plenty of snuff, for fuck’s sake. He’d called her hair bouncy. After that, commenting on Cas’s eyes seems pretty damn tame, especially considering the surprised pleasure his words bring to those sad blue eyes. He locks down his social filter before he can say anything about sparkling or twinkling or… or worse. But Cas is smiling, and that’s always a good thing in Dean’s book.

“Thank you, Dean.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies gruffly despite the smile he can feel tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you going to tell me about the bunny now?” Cas asks, draping his new shirt over his arm and taking a sip of his beer.

Dean glances over at the bags of stuff he still has to sort through and waves a hand at the far side of the bed. “Sit down, this is probably gonna take a while.”

Cas gets himself situated on the bed, leaning back against the headboard with one foot still firmly planted on the floor and his new shirt draped across his lap, while Dean tells the story of how he woke up in the woods with a fluffy friend. It leads into a slightly muddled tale of the rest of the weird shit that happened on their last hunt, ending with his epic ride on Larry the bull.

“It sounds like I missed out on an exciting week,” Cas says eventually, when Dean’s down to unpacking the last bag.

It’s nothing but Valentine’s candy and the ridiculous boxers he still can’t fully believe he actually bought for himself. The bed’s otherwise clear, finally, so he sits down beside Cas and pulls the bag up into his lap. He rummages around for something to snack on and comes up with one of the tiny boxes of paste-flavored conversation hearts. He tosses it to Cas.

“What’s this?” He turns the box over and squints down at the big heart-shaped label that says Sweethearts and then looks up at Dean for an explanation.

That’s when Dean realizes he doesn’t really have one. “I don’t know. It’s almost Valentine’s day. I think there’s a law you gotta buy a box of those once a year.”

Cas doesn’t look satisfied by that explanation, but he sets his beer down on the nightstand and opens the box to investigate. He picks out a candy and holds it up for inspection.

“Yes,” he reads out, and then looks to Dean again for an explanation. “Yes what?”

Dean can feel his face heating up. Why had he done this again? Some sort of self-flagellation? Shit, he’d been through enough personal torture this week already. Cas gives up on waiting for an answer and puts the candy in his mouth and chews it up with a look of intense concentration, like he’s trying to rearrange all the molecules into the correct configuration to analyze the flavor.

“These don’t taste very good, Dean,” he says, picking another heart out of the box and reading out the message printed on it. “Love me.”

Dean gulps down the immediate impulse to blurt out I already do, and watches Cas pop the candy in his mouth. He stares dumbstruck as Cas makes a face but shakes another tiny heart out into his hand.

“Angel,” Cas reads, and then turns to Dean with a raised eyebrow. “I assume this one won’t taste any better than the other two.

And Dean’s newly reestablished filter cracks under the strain of holding back. “I bet it does.”

Cas’s other eyebrow shoots up level with the first one, and he stares at Dean. Dean just reaches over and plucks the box from Cas’s hands. He digs through the bag for something better.

“Here. Chocolate. You’ll probably like these. They don’t taste like chalk.”

They’re still wrapped in pink foil and covered with hearts, but hey, they were half price. He shakes a few candies out of the bag and hands them to Cas, and absently unwraps a piece of chocolate for himself while watching Cas’s careful fingers tease the foil off one of the chocolates, smoothing the wrinkles from it as he goes. Dean chews up the chocolate, letting the gooey caramel center squish across his tongue, but Cas sits frozen just staring at the wrapper in his hand with his candy half-raised toward his mouth.

“Do all Valentine’s Day candies convey romantic sentiments?”

“Wha’s that?” Dean asks, leaning over to see what Cas is looking at. The inside of the foil wrapper is printed with a message.

“You’re cute,” Dean reads out, and then grins. “Hey, Cas! Your candy’s hitting on you.”

“You’re the one who read it out,” Cas replies, squinting at Dean. He raises his unwrapped chocolate to his mouth, but stops to point out the crumpled wrapper in Dean’s hand. “What does yours say?”

Dean looks at it and debates whether or not to just wad it up and pretend it doesn’t say anything, but he sighs and flattens it out enough to see the words inside. It’s just a silly game. It doesn’t mean anything. He can play along.

“You melt me.”

Cas puzzles at that for a second, and then nods in understanding. “Because it’s chocolate, and chocolate melts at body temperature. That is amusing.”

Dean tries not to choke at Cas’s interpretation of the sentiment, but goes ahead and starts unwrapping another one. Cas crams the whole chocolate in his mouth and bites down with a pleased hum. “You were right. That’s far more pleasing than the chalk candy.”

“Yeah, we’ll use the other ones to draw summoning sigils or something.” He dumps out the rest of the chocolates on the bed between them and drops the bag to the floor. He’s found something Cas likes to eat; hell yeah they’re gonna eat ‘em all.

“Hug me,” Cas says when he’s unwrapped his next candy.

“Huh,” Dean replies, holding up his wrapper for Cas to see. “Same here. Hug me.”

“Do you think it’s a command?”

Dean shrugs. “Dunno. Might be bad luck not to.”

Cas leans across the small pile of chocolates and wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulders. They lean awkwardly into each other for a few moments, and then break apart to tear into more of the candies.

“Sweet on you,” Dean says, and Cas replies, “You make me happy.”

Dean can’t help it. It’s probably just the sugar rush. He can blame it on a caramel overdose. Plus chocolate’s supposed to trick your brain into feeling pleasure or something, right? He grins and replies, “Aw, Cas, you make me happy too.”

“You didn’t read that in a wrapper, Dean,” Cas admonishes.

Dean shakes his head, looking Cas in the eye. “Don’t need a candy wrapper to tell me that.”

Cas turns as pink as the scraps of foil littering the space between them, but he’s smiling even broader now. Dean knows better than to try and pass it off as a sugar rush this time. They both reach for another candy without looking away from one another, rushing to be the first to get theirs unwrapped and read out their next confessions, because they’re both on the same page now.

“Be mine,” Cas reads out triumphantly, handing the wrapper to Dean.

“I’ve been yours since you collected me from the pit, Cas. Didn’t you call dibs or some shit?”

“I didn’t call dibs on your soul, Dean,” Cas replies, slightly scandalized and slightly overwhelmed at Dean’s confession. “I battled through countless ranks of the damned to reach you first. I didn’t need to call dibs.”

Dean grins. “So you won me fair and square. Impressive.”

Cas rolls his eyes and pops the chocolate into his mouth, pointing at Dean’s still wrapped piece.

“Fine,” Dean says, rolling his eyes and unwrapping the candy.

His heart heaves a mighty thud and then sets to racing when he reads the message printed inside. It’s just two words. He should be able to say them. Cas gets that this isn’t really a game anymore. At least, Dean hopes Cas gets it.

“Love you.”

It comes out a little hoarser than he’d intended, and he’s not entirely sure Cas answers at first because he’s too busy wondering if it’s possible to stare a hole through a piece of pink foil. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, clears his throat, and then slowly raises his eyes to Cas’s face. Cas looks stunned, like he’s not sure he heard correctly, or if he’s not sure that Dean would ever have said those words if it weren’t part of some silly game. But he looks so damn hopeful that they’re true. So Dean repeats them.

“Love you, Cas. I really do.”

And that’s it, Dean thinks. Cas knows all his secrets now. Every last one. If anything ever happens to him again, he’d never truly be gone. Cas has the complete backup version. He’d thought it should terrify him, to lay himself bare like this, but Dean finds it strangely soothing, to be emptied out of all his long-buried feelings.

Cas just nods for a few seconds. “I love you too, Dean.”

“Does one of these say kiss me?” Dean asks, scooping up the rest of the chocolates.

Cas takes them from his hands and tosses them to the floor. “I don’t need candy to give me commands.”

So Dean leans in and kisses him anyway.

The next morning Cas wears his new shirt to breakfast. Dean beams when Mary tells him it suits him, that it brings out his eyes. Cas smiles over at Dean, and Dean grins back, wrapping an arm around Cas’s waist. He doesn’t need a candy wrapper to tell him to. Then again, he also knows Cas stole his goofy heart-covered boxers, and somewhere over Cas’s hip where Dean’s hand is resting, his fingers press all the most important words into Cas’s skin, angel, all mine, true love, forever.

There’s no way either of them will forget again.

if you enjoyed it, here’s a link to the ao3. Thanks! :)

#spn fanfic #destiel #spn 12.11 coda fic #valentine's day fluff #things i have written #conversation hearts #the scheherazade of supernatural

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mfabusblog-blog · 6 years

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A Day Without Social Media

Before conducting this social media experiment, I had a general idea about how many hours I typically spend in front of a screen or consumed by social media. This reminded me of when I have completed surveys for online classes and how much I think I spend on a computer each week for that course. I have a rough idea in my head of around 20 hours a week. After completing this assignment, I spent over seven and a half hours in front a screen, and within that were over four hours spent on social media or similar sites. Some days this number I know for a fact is much more than that. Some days I imagine this number could be closer to ten hours in front of a screen and as close as seven hours spent on social media. All of my classes are centered around technology and taking notes from either my computer or an overhead screen. From what I can recall, I can only remember a handful of classes I have taken in the past four years at CMU where technology was not used as a teaching tool and instead took traditional notes with pen and paper on the whiteboard. On average, I sleep about nine hours every night. Of the fifteen hours I have awake, about eight are spent on a screen or social media devices. That leaves me with seven hours of “technology free” time, which is less than half of the time I am awake each day. Even with that, in a two-hour time span I checked my phone twenty-five times. That is about every four and a half minutes I feel the need to look at my phone. And for what reason?

After this experiment, I was truly shocked with how much time I actually spend on social media and technology. I think it has just become to second nature to me to rely around technology because that is the world we live in. I can say, however, that a good majority of the time I spend on my laptop and looking at a screen is for school work. If I had known how much time I really spent centered around social media and technology, I would have put my phone down a long time ago. I talked in my first blog post this week about Sherry Turkle’s interview and how technology is a driving dividing force between humanity and I truly wish I lived in a different era or decade where this all did not exist.

Going through the social media experiment where I set aside windows of time to be device free was not all that hard to me. I went with the option of four 6-hour periods of social media free time. I started this out about three hours before I went to bed. I checked in with who I needed to and “unplugged” for the night. Waking up the next morning I had a slight urge to check my phone instantly, but held back. I hardly ever check my phone first thing in the morning anyway, so it wasn’t that big of a deal. By noon, I allowed myself to check my messages and updates, which only consisted of a few important things. Then came the next time frame and it became slightly more challenging. I know I say I wish I lived in a time without social media, but I have attached myself to turning to it when I am bored that it is out of habit. While I like to find other options to “entertain” me when I’m bored, I do turn to my phone if I am just sitting on the couch or wanting to look something up. However, I found other ways to occupy my time such as reading a book or drawing, which I used to do quite a lot. Throughout these intervals of time on my device and being device free, I found that when I was not attached to my phone or social media that I paid more attention to the things around me. I found that the conversations I had with my family and those around me were more meaningful and in depth when my phone was not present. I will admit that it was nice to check in after a while, but for the most part I enjoyed being device free and not feeling attached to the pulls of the internet.

Some of the ways that I would like to make space in my life to be free from the internet and social media is to continue to create windows of time to physically have my phone in another room. I have found that I felt a more significant urge to check my phone when it was just beside me or across the room where I could see it. The solution to this was to physically put my phone where I could not see it. By creating this device free time, I have found that I pay more attention to detail and what is happening around me. I think this will significantly affect my quality of life for many reasons. As I look around and see people sucked in to their phones and not aware of what is happening, it motivates me to almost be the opposite. After being on my phone or laptop for a while I notice that I have a reoccurring headache from staring at a screen. Along with this, I have set a goal for myself to put my phone away at least two hours before bed because I have also found that I have a harder time falling asleep when I am on my phone right up until I try to go to bed. Technology and social media have many great qualities that come with them, but it is crucial to realize that we might be overusing them. It is important to set time aside from technology and live in the world that is not the internet. Overall, this experiment has been very beneficial for me because it has reinforced my beliefs that I would rather spend more time off the internet and my phone than on it.

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juliolopez81s9 · 7 years

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✝️

Wisdom and Warning in Harsh Poetry (Ecclesiastes 7:13-20) The wisdom in the verses above are a lot more than what is expected when reading the first few sentences. This is a good reason to explore these eight verses in a great book of wisdom such as the Bible. There is a mix of simplicity with confusion in the teachings here. Not everything is black and white in life. The ideas in the Bible sometimes start out as simple. This is evident in these parallel views on what is good verses what is not in an individual's walk in God’s light and love. And when the writer makes a turn in the knowledge being brought forth in a way that makes the reader reflect upon their personality or underlying or hidden ways of living, there is a sense of moving forward to seek more of God wants us to know, and how He wants us to be. It is great to think beyond the scope of one’s understandings of the things they may think they know, both about others and themselves. To develop a better opinion on a subject and a new way to practice something new to utilize in everyday interactions, one must start with a simplicity that is tangible and relatable. These verses do that and reflect a reader in a way they may either not want to be portrayed as, or need to be shown to grow in their readings in the scriptures. The short amount of verses give a very straight forward feeling of how God wants us to be in comparison with those who do not know Him, and there is a good deal of instructions on how we should not use our humanity to over power the holiness with which we should walk and should shine on earth. The first verse brings on a type of omnipotence of God’s work over that of what mankind does. (7:13) "Consider what God has done: Who can straighten what he has made crooked?". It shows the person reading that they are imperfect and kind of struggle with fixing mistakes they make. The single verse itself does not say God’s work in the lessons which are about to be taught, but there is a comparison of what humans are beside God without even mentioning what He does. The fact that they are making an example of our imperfection beside something He has not even done yet says a greatness that we are weak even at the beginning of something, in the eyes of the Lord. The last sentence in the eight verses in the Book of Ecclesiastes (7:20) "Indeed, there is no one on earth who is righteous, no one who does what is right and never sins." there is only shown how we as human beings are never perfect no matter how much we try to be or even think we are. There is no direct mention of God himself in this verse, but it says that we who live on His planet basically may try to be as God, who is perfect in every way, but inevitably fail on some level. The six verses in between these two surprisingly do not give a lot of comparisons with people and God. There is sort of an instructional/warning in the center verses. The way that people live today, especially those who are trying to do good in His name might be be underlying their purpose as children of God. there is a repetition in the telling of the reader to not overdue things that we tend to do under His watch. (7:15) the righteous perishing in their righteousness, and the wicked living long in their wickedness. In these two lines it says that people that feel as if they are as great as God is, or higher than other people die in that belief. The second line makes a statement that non christians live longer lives, but still perish in their unGodly ways. There is sort of a confusion lying in these ideas. My first thought on this is that: is that how the Bible determines our life span, according to our sins? Every living person has an expiration. Is there a greater reason to our time span on earth than what we do physically to our bodies either directly or with daily interactions with our environments and work/school etc. lives? I believe that these thoughts were written in the view of someone who loathes those who blatantly sin continuously, and who try to live so Godly that they believe they are superior to anyone else. Either way, both types of people will fall from grace, but it says that one type will die before the other because of the faults they know they do. This leads to a question of whether or not they are equally judged in the laws of the almighty. Is all sin is equal in the eyes of God. Do not all sinners have the same consequence for their bad actions which is death? The answer this is that, yes we do all die, and yes we are all punished justly according to our sins. And since sin is all the same evil to Him up above, the difference is not the consequence. it is the length of time with which we are given to try to change our ways. Those who know the word of God and use it to uplift their own selfish ways die before the ignorant sinners who may not even care about the disgust they are spreading. This might be so there is evidence to the many non believers around the world who that no one comes nearly close to God and that attempting to do so will shorten their chance to make right in His eyes. Because some know who God is and still disrespect the authority under which they must stay, their over indulgence in their overpowering ways around even the people who want to learn to be worthy of life in God stops the chances of them to walk in His glory. The view of this author seems one of witness to two types of sinners. The two kinds which seem to be: the holier than thou and the wildly stupid and obviously lost, are viewed as equally badly looked upon. What about the faithful ones who try to follow the rules the author believes in? Everyone sins, and it seems as if the writer is trying to be good in the name of God but is sickened by those they see who do not care to try. There is a belief that is learned that wiser people live longer. Most young people or teenagers are not as wise as someone in their forties or fifties. Wisdom comes with experience. If it is true in the belief that the overly righteous children of God perish before most, maybe it is not suggesting that children who pass at a young age are in either of the groups of sinners who die with the sins in their hearts in verse seven of Ecclesiastes. Although it does not mention children specifically in the chosen verses, we are all sinners. I believe it is referring to those who have experienced to teachings of God and either refuse to follow them or use it falsely, which corrupts themselves and others aroundd them. There is a lot of simple wisdom in the verses in Ecclesiastes. (7:19) "Wisdom makes one wise person more powerful than ten rulers in a city." The overall feeling is that there is a way to go with God which can be learned by anyone who is willing to pay attention to the guidance. The use of parallelism seems apparent when the author compares over righteous with other evil people. They commit the same crimes against the Bible in default, and that is a small similarity. But their is a bigger comparison of the patience God has with the two types of people. He says one half is given longer lives, perhaps to show the other people they effect that God has mercy on our bitter evil. We always can change, especially if we see what we did not know before and stay under God instead of trying to be higher than Him. The writer of these lines feels disgusted by the disrespect of mankind. In the words they wrote they are mainly talking to the other type of sinner in the world. The one who strives to listen to the wisdom in the word of God and want to learn and shine in his grace. The author uses a sort of cautionary guideline which should be obvious to find acceptance in God. Mainly it states not to be overly confident by praising oneself instead of he who is worthy of praise. This warning is most likely given because if there is a chance to continue a positive life with God, it should be taken and followed through. It could be viewed as if the writings are made in hatred towards those who raise up their fleshly life, but that would be a false view. There is no hatred in the lesson, mostly anger and, hope to overcome what is seen to being done with the word of God: selfish use of it or denial and ignorance of what is right. Sometimes anger and disgust can be misconstrued as hostility towards human beings who do not do as what one knows is correct in God’s eyes. The use of poetry should catch the eyes and minds of someone who is searching for the truth about the sinful life they are living. Harsh honesty is evident in the person's writings in this chapter in the Bible. Mostly because a lot of things seem one way, which attract anyone at first, then reveal what the core and reality of a situation with further interpretation and recognition.

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