#(the disaster being fourth ripping his pants)

[bevioletskies]

gemini & fourth + favorite videos (in no particular order) ↳ behind-the-scenes of my love mix-up! (episode two)

[birminghamblinders]

in my life, i love you more; tommy shelby

His father had always been known for his sharp punctuality, so it was only fitting your son came roaring into the world, crying his little lungs out, at noon on the dot.

Even more appropriate was that the first time in his multiple decades of life that Tommy Shelby had been significantly late for something was the birth of his son, bursting through the door when Charlie was already three hours old, panting and frantically ripping his hat off as he rushed to kneel beside your bed and cradle his son’s face. He’d stayed on his knees for the better part of half an hour, only speaking to make certain you were alright, spending the rest of his time staring in awe at his son.

Tommy seemed almost unable to comprehend that he was a father at first, snapping out of his full daze when you asked if he wanted to hold his son, but gazing at the baby with an air of confusion, not quite connecting the dots of your nine months of pregnancy with the child he now had to raise and take care of.

The nurses had permitted you to leave just hours after Charlie was born, but Tommy had insisted you stay another two days, fatherly instincts kicking in belatedly with a furor. You’d brought your son home on a Sunday, church bells tolling in time with your clacking heels as you pushed his pram down Birmingham’s relatively empty streets. Tommy was right by your side, hand cautiously resting on your back and seeming determined to allot an even half of his worried glances towards you, and the other half towards his happily gurgling baby.

-

About ten months later, on a bright August day, the most feared man in England sat directly across from your, settling against a couch and holding his arms out, coaxing his son toward him with a mixture of babbling and softly spoken encouragements.

Charlie hesitantly left your arms after a warm smile and a gentle push from you, bobbling wildly the first half of the way before finding his balance and giggling his way into his father’s arms.

Tommy smiled widely at you as his son burrowed onto his lap, quieting a bit as he glanced quickly down at his son.

“He’s just going to keep growing, isn’t he?”

“It’s what babies do, Tom. He’s still little.”

“I know, I just...I feel like there’s a clock in the back of my head, counting down to the day when this boy eagerly tells me he wants to join the family business.”

“Shut up, you,” you chastised, easily placing the wariness that remark placed in you to the back of your mind, standing up and holding your arms out for your son. Your husband relinquished him willingly, standing with a groan as the knee that had been bothering him for the better part of a month twinged.

To you, that was the end of the issue, but Tommy still fretted, not letting the issue of his son’s future leave his mind until the end of the month, when he opened the door, exhausted after a day of threats and intimidation, and was greeted by his first born toddling towards him, smiling widely.

Walking wasn’t such a disaster.

-

Charlie had (perhaps unsurprisingly) turned out to be fairly precocious, eager to learn, constantly climbing up onto your lap and brandishing books at you, from Tolstoy to cookbooks he’d had to climb onto the cabinets in the kitchen to reach. You had been more than happy to help him learn to read, teaching him short words until he formed a pleasant habit of telling you what the labels on all the foods you saw said.

His father was more at a loss when asked to explain arithmetic to his son, trying to explain the economic ins and outs of horse racing without letting on his involvement in the sport was illegal, finally turning to you in frustration and imploring that you enroll him in school a year early. Tommy’s moving of your family to the countryside shortly after Charlie’s first birthday proved advantageous, as you were only a few roads away from being adjacent to a school which fit your husband’s stringent demands, private and highly competent.

You were given a date of the first of September, and for the first time, you found yourself becoming the nervous one, fretting over Charlie’s tiny blazer and pants until they were perfectly ironed, collapsing onto the couch, where Tommy found you, staring at the wall.

“You were right, Tom.”

“Hmmm?”

“He’s growing up and I don’t like it.”

“It’s just school,” he reassured you, settling beside you and placing a kiss on your hair. “He’s still our little boy.”

Little, you told yourself continually as you watched him walk through the front door of his school and away from you, taking a deep breath and compartmentalizing your feelings.

He’ll be fine, you reinforced. Better to focus on the multiple violent things you’d like to do to Alfie Solomons’ smug face.

-

Tommy was, you were loathe to admit, occasionally right. You hadn’t even considered the inevitable, preferring to cross that bridge when you came to it; your son wanting to become a full member of the Peaky Blinders.

It happened three weeks after his thirteenth birthday, when Arthur snuck him his first shot of whiskey and you and your husband pretended not to see him holding hands with a girl so he wouldn’t be deeply mortified.

Charlie had been wearing his Peaky cap religiously for the three years he’d had it, stalling small pieces of paper inside it in place of razors, which you refused to add. He’d learned how to shoot small pistols fairly accurately, and though you’d never caught him, the smell of cigarettes had begun to permeate his bedroom.

School had become less and less appealing to your son, as he brushed off your attempts to encourage his learning, telling you he knew all he really needed to know already.

He hadn’t proposed the issue to his father, instead turning to Michael for some kind of convoluted ‘permission’ to become involved in England’s criminal underworld while barely a teenager. Michael hadn’t quite laughed in his face like you’d wanted him to, instead sending your only son on small pickups for money or firearms.

This continued for two and one half months before Tommy got wind of it, stomping into the house past noon and slamming his cap on the table.

“Michael’s got him fuckin’ running errands,” he spit at you, staring with fury at you.

“What?” You said faintly, unwilling or incapable to understand.

“For the business, love. Our son has begun transporting fucking deadly firearms to foreign nationals who’d sooner kill him than pay him.”

You sat down heavily in the nearest chair, threading fingers into your hair and regarding your husband forlornly.

“Now he’s started, he’s not going to want to stop. It’s the nature of the business.”

“I know. I was the same damn way.”

Tommy leaned heavily on the table, close enough to place a reassuring hand on your shoulder, and you were reminded of the day you first brought Charlie home from the hospital, and the trepidation you and his father both felt. You thought you’d had more time before your son became eager to join an industry that would sure destroy him in the same way it destroyed the man you loved.

That trepidation took on a new form as Charlie was quick to plead his case to his father, demonstrating his prowess at loading firearms as well as his eagerness to take on any small task allotted to him.

You relented before your husband, surprisingly enough.

It was harmless enough, you told yourself, and being a full-fledged Shelby could help your son, even, inspire people to be more wary around him and enforce the ranks of the men of the Garrison.

-

It was achingly, ironically sunny the day you buried your son. An equal two weeks before from his twenty fourth birthday and two weeks after the date he was married.

His casket had to be made especially long, as he’d grown like a weed and long since surpassed his father.

You had felt fear many times since you’d become a mother in the beginning of February, many moons ago, but now you just felt numb, leaning into your husband, who refused to shed a tear, and drawing your daughter closer to you, swallowing hard and ignoring the fact that she was all you had left.

[magicalworldweb]

It’s that time again!  This week’s Interview with the Author stars the Amazing Susan Rooke!  Susan is my neighbor on Twitter, but later I found out that she’s my state neighbor, too!  Susan writes smart and scary stuff.  You might want to read during the day, or at the very least, next to a bright lamp.  I read her first book several months ago.  When she approached me about reading her second book ahead of publication, I pounced on the opportunity.  Thanks again, Susan!

Susan’s books offer a new look at angels and demons and the creatures beneath.  Book 2 released this week, and I’d love to share my review of it with you:

In Susan Rooke’s first book, The Space Between: The Prophecy of Faeries, no time is lost in whisking Mellis to a new land of misshaped creatures. Mellis discovers exactly why she is being kept in a mysterious house, unlocks the history of the inhabitants, and discovers part of her own past. Throughout the book, we are given glimpses, detailed and grisly, of the Realm Below.

In the The Realm Below: The Rise of Tanipestis, the order is reversed, and we get to find out what has happened in both realms after the end of the first book. There are fallen angels, dragons, characters in disguise, a fight for supremacy, and the natural happenings of life in the lands Susan has expertly designed.

One of my favorite things about The Realm Below is the chance to go deeper with the characters. In the first book I met them, and began to get to know them. In the second, I got the chance to dive in deeper with multiple characters and understand them better. We also get to know the house better, and the lands surrounding. There are even hints about further lands and people. It’s just enough to give a taste and make you hope the third book takes us on a further adventure!

The second book jumps right into the adventure and intrigue, and continues the well-crafted weaving of beauty and grotesque. A creature has awakened after its master’s disappearance, and life will not be able to go on as before.

Susan Rooke has taken the theme of angels and demons and done a fantastic job of producing a world that has just enough nod to the familiar while telling a story that is distinctive and remarkable. It’s a strong middle book that satisfies the wondering left over from the first book, and launches you into the space after, where I will be ready and waiting until the next book is released!

I have greatly enjoyed getting to know Susan on twitter.  She shares great recipes (Yes, I’ve tried some!), has promised to write a cookbook just for me (jk…mostly), and shares her beautiful photography.  Also, she has a great sense of humor.

Have you found her on Goodreads and Amazon yet?  We can pause real quick so you can do that.  Here are the gorgeous covers of her books:

    Now, on to learning more about Susan!

  Introduce yourself.  Name.  Nickname.    Susan Rooke. No middle name. I’ve had several nicknames over the years (“Rookie,” “Monkey Arms”), but my favorite is still the one my older brother (by 8 years) came up with when I was just a little girl. He called me “Bug,” because I was an annoying little sister; I bugged him. And it stuck. In time I became “Aunt Bug” to his kids. 

If your Wi-Fi name was a reflection of you, what would it be? WhenIGetAroundtoIt. I’m an awful procrastinator.

What personality trait has gotten you into the most trouble?  Probably the mistaken notion that I’m going to last forever, so what’s the rush?

What genre (of collection) do you write in and why?  I write all sorts of poetry, but the fiction I write (short stories and novels) is always speculative. I don’t know why, though, because I read in any genre.

Who is important to you?  My family and friends. Plus our animals: Australian Shepherd Lucy; our part Maine Coon Phoebe, aka Tatonka or Jabba the Catt [oh lord, here she comes now. It must be time to feed her again]; and our dear grandcat, Tsuki.

Where do you call home?  Central Texas.

What books are/have you written?  The Space Between: The Prophecy of Faeries, and The Realm Below: The Rise of Tanipestis (which is brand new, even as we speak). I’ve just started writing the third book in the series.

If you are having a rotten day, what do you do to conquer that?  If it’s not something that I’ll probably find humor in eventually, I just try to soldier through. Then that evening, I’ll pour myself a stiff highball and turn to my husband Glen for solace. Poor man! (He gets a stiff highball too.)

If you were invisible for a day, what would you do?  I’d walk our property trying to get some incredible, close-up nature photographs without nature being any the wiser.

Your life is made into a musical.  What is the title of at least one of the songs?  “Better Late Than Never”

What are your sleeping habits?  Nonhabitual. The lack of consistent sleep is annoying. And fatigue makes my lazy eye skew a bit, which is weird.

What would you name your boat?  The Slithy Tove

What’s your biggest kitchen disaster?  At bedtime one night I was prepping a 14 lb. brisket for Glen to put in the smoker at 5A.M. the next morning. I had the brisket in the kitchen sink and was hauling it out of its vacuum-wrap using a pigsticker: a sharp steel skewer with the pointy end curlicued like a pig’s tail. I was tired and not paying close enough attention. The pointy end wasn’t all the way in the meat. It ripped loose and flew up and hit me in the forehead, right above the bridge of my nose. This was followed by a trip to the ER, a tetanus shot and some glue to close the wound. I was lucky not to lose an eye.

Tell me about one of your characters.  Would you get along in real life?  I can’t pick just one to tell you about. When I tried, they all came crowding into my head, wanting to have their say. I’m grateful to have their trust, and it’s an honor to be able to record their stories. (Don’t tell any of them, but Lugo is my favorite and we would get on famously!)

If you were arrested with no explanation, what would your friends and family assume you had done?  They would assume it was a case of mistaken identity. I haven’t even had a speeding ticket since 1984.

What are your favorite clothes to wear?  Around the house, T-shirts and knee-length yoga pants, or fleecy long pants and long-sleeved henleys in cooler weather. Running errands, jeans and linen blouses.

If someone asked to be your apprentice and learn all that you know, what would they end up learning?  They’d learn how to put off until tomorrow what they could have easily done today. And then how to freak out over it. There’d also be some cooking, baking, cocktailing and playing Cards Against Humanity.

What are your future writing plans?  There will be at least a third book in the Space Between series. As for a fourth, I don’t know. I’m not a fast writer, and the books are somewhat intricate, requiring my careful thought and close attention because of their interweaving storylines and timelines. I’ll continue to write poems and short stories/flash fiction. And there’s always the possibility that there’ll be another book that’s not in the series.

What’s one thing you absolutely adore in life?  Leaving aside beloved people and pets, I absolutely adore Glen’s barbecue pit. It’s a combination grill and smoker. After much research, he designed and built it in his shop, working late several nights a week for months. With this contraption and his mad pitmaster skills, he makes the best Texas-style barbecued brisket and pork ribs I’ve ever tasted. No barbecue sauces, no fancy dry rubs. Just salt and pepper, heat, time and smoke.

What is one of your pet peeves?  Hearing people end their sentences with “at.” “Where are you at?”

You’re in the middle of a wizarding duel.  What animal do you transfigure into?  Why be an animal when you can be a cosmic entity? Cthulhu, of course!

Would you survive if you were a character in your own books?  Maybe. If I got too gabby, the author might kill me off just to shut me up.

You are putting on a dinner party.  What do you serve and who do you invite?  The weather would be mild, low 70s, with just enough cloud cover as the sun sinks, and a soft breeze. We’d be eating outside on the patio, digging in to Glen’s brisket and pork ribs, or, for the pescatarians, grilled swordfish with lemon juice, olive oil, garlic and capers, prepared on the grill side of the pit. There would be sides: a gratin of potatoes, a cucumber-cherry tomato-kalamata olive salad and feather-light yeasty rolls. A selection of cocktails and beers/wines. Coffee macadamia brickle ice cream for dessert. And everyone we love would be there. Including a handful who can’t be there under any circumstances anymore.

Would you rather relive the same day for 365 days or lose a year of your life?  I can’t relive the same day for 365 days. I wouldn’t be here at the end of that time anyway, so I might as well pick the other option.

You are transported to one of your favorite books.  Where are you?  I’m in T.H. White’s The Sword in the Stone. Learning, as the Wart did, how to live as different creatures under the instruction of Merlyn and his owl, Archimedes.

  For even more fun information on Susan Rooke, check out her blog where you’ll find amazing pictures like this one:

It was hard to choose just one of her pictures to share.  This wasn’t my favorite, but it was up there.  Thanks so much Susan for your time and for the great books you’ve written!

  Live Bravely, Love Strongly, AEM

  P.S.  Imaginary Bonus points if you correctly guess my favorite picture on the Shutterbugging page of her blog.  Ready, Set, Go!

Interview with the Author: Susan Rooke It's that time again!  This week's Interview with the Author stars the Amazing Susan Rooke!  Susan is my neighbor on Twitter, but later I found out that she's my state neighbor, too!  

[eytanbayme]

TFF #4: The Best Cash

The new bill was something special. It would ban women from having sex before he met with them, approved of their partners and personally inspected their pussies. It was great for so many reasons. First and foremost, he was very good at choosing sexual partners for women. He had chosen partners for all his favourite children and for his three wives; and all of them were great choices. Second and foremost, the sex systems in place were just not working. Too many women made poor decisions about the men they had sex with, leaving the regular guy American to pick up the check. For instance, when a woman had sex with a criminal, the guy would continue his criminal behavior because he’d figure he must be doing something right if he was getting laid. It was entirely irresponsible for women to be giving sex to thieves and terrorists. Something had to change. Had any man, in all of history, ever been asked if he wanted to have sex? No. It always came down to how the woman felt about it and that had created the disaster they were in. But now, finally, the power would be taken back and placed in his responsible, intelligent and large hands. It would mean the end of STDs, because he’d spot them on the pussies and forbid them from having sex. It would end all rape because he wouldn't approve of sex with a rapist. And the whole abortion issue would become moot because he wouldn't okay sex with a guy who refused to wear protection. It was called the Pussy Order because he knew that lots of men found it difficult to say pussy front of women. That they were embarrassed by the way it made them purse their lips in a feminine way. That the only way lots of men could say it was very quickly or quietly, or while coughing and looking at their feet. It had even been a problem for him . In bed he’d say “Take out your pu—‘ without being able to finish the word. He’d found that it helped to have other men in the room — men who would nod along and clap his shoulder at how masterfully he could conduct sex. But that wasn't always practical and when he was alone with her, he felt naked saying anything at all— like a kid who'd watched lots of pornography, but didn’t know anything about real women— even vagina made him want to whimper on the bathroom floor and long for the soothing touch of his dead mother. One time he got so frustrated with his bedroom vocabulary that he put his hand in front of his wife’s face and shouted, “Just give me your snatch!” To which she responded by letting him fuck her, but with even less enthusiasm than usual. Anyway, by using pussy in the wording of the law, no man would ever again feel ashamed to say it in front of a woman.

Sure, there were haters who weren't behind the law, calling it an overreach, calling it misogynistical and even, in a few ridiculous cases, calling it widespread, state-sanctioned rape. But how could looking at pussies be rape? He had nothing but love for them. A few people rehashed the whole ‘grab em by the p-word,’ thing, but what no one ever got about that remark was that he had said it out of a sense of respect, that pussy was something he wanted to behold. Did they know how much stuff there was out there he didn’t want to behold? Grabbing it meant he valued it, wanted to foster it, wanted to capture  and ensure it was looked after appropriately. Besides, all women wanted to be grabbed there. It was basic human nature and anyone who thought otherwise didn’t understand the first thing about women. Anyway, this bill would be nothing but great for the country. Yes, it would take a considerable portion of his time, but that was a sacrifice he was willing to make. And besides, it would only apply to women between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five, who weighed no more than a hundred and twenty-five pounds and were no shorter than five-foot-one.

He looked over at Killer Mike, who gave him a thumbs up. The Steve-machines saluted him. And all the women in the room were so proud, they were in tears. He poised his hand to scribble his kick-ass signature, but then realized he had to take a piss, and he excused himself to the bathroom.

He always preferred pissing in stalls instead of urinals. Contrary to what everyone thought, his penis was actually very small, and it didn’t extend far enough past his zipper to piss in a urinal without wetting himself. In a stall he could let his pants fall to the floor in a bunch by his ankles, and he could lean over the bowl and relieve himself while airing out his legs out at the same time. Inside the men’s room though, he found that the stall was already occupied. Something told him that he should wait for it to open up, but people were waiting for him, and he could see a pair of trousers bunched up at the floor beneath the partition so whoever was in there was obviously taking a shit,  and he really needed to piss. So against his better judgement he dropped his pants in front of the urinal, but the moment his gold belt buckle struck the tiles and he poised his dick in place with the tip of his pinkie fingernail, the toilet flushed. He was about to bend down when a weak stream of piss began to flow. Stopping now was out of the question.

“The D man!” shouted a familiar voice. He felt a large, warm hand slap his shoulder and disrupt the delicate balance with which he held his penis in place with. Urine soaked his legs and pants, and he cupped his hands over his crotch, but it only spread the piss out over his thighs and knees.

He looked over his shoulder and grimaced at the sight of Barack Obama. “Man! What the hell are you doing?”

“Was in the hood. Thought I’d see what’s happening in the office since retirement. Man, you and I piss the same way. Only thing is I only use the stall. Don't wanna be caught with my pants down. Lol!”

“Can you get outta here!” He shouted.

“Yeah, man. Sorry, didn’t realize I was intruding. Everything alright?”

“Yes! Fine! Just go!” One of his socks were so logged with urine, it squelched.

“Alright, I’m gone.”

He watched Barack move to the door and open it, but after a pause, he let it close again and then, strangely, locked the dead bolt.

“What are you doing?”

The ex-president turned around and stepped behind him. He could feel his hot, sweet breath on his thin scalp.

“I asked, what you’re doing?” He shouted.

In one swift movement Barack placed his hand on his neck and pushed his head into the wall, holding it there tight. He heard him unbuckle his belt and say, “Been wanting this for years,” and then something hard entered him. It pushed passed his anus, shredding his delicate, already chaffed skin, before plunging deep into his rectum and telescoping right up his colon.

“What the hell are you doing?” He shouted, his face full of cold tile.

“No one ever asks who I wanna fuck,” Barack said. “I’m fucking who I want to fuck.”

“But I don't want to be!” He pleaded. Barack’s penis was hard and unforgiving, like the unfinished leg of shaker dining chair.

“Why you saying that like it’s my problem?” Barack asked. His penis thrashed about inside him, pushing his lower intestines and stomach up towards his chest, doing untold damage, for sure.

“Please?” he cried. The tile tasted like window cleaner and the urinal flushed on his shirt. Barack crashed into him over and over again, demolishing him, ruining him, tearing him down like a piece of by-gone era Manhattan real estate. He longed for the horrible, deafening sound of a jackhammer chipping away at seventy-five year old concrete to drown out Barack’s pleasure grunts at each terrible thrust. He smelled shit and shea butter, and sweat was somehow dripping up his nostrils. He wanted to scream, but couldn't find his voice. He wanted to punch Barack away, but couldn't call upon the muscles in his hand. Finally, the forty fourth president shuddered, sighed and pulled out, a  something messy fell out of the forty fifth.

Barack let go of him and pulled his pants up before pushing him, only slightly gentler this time, into the urinal, saying “Mm,” and he walked out the door.

He scrambled into the stall and sat on the toilet, where he placed his face in his palms and cried. He felt like he’d been robbed of something, but couldn't quite explain what had been taken from him. He’d never really thought of his body as something that could belong to someone else, but in those few minutes, it felt like it did. It felt like when J-dawg sometimes ripped his phone from his hand and refused to give it back until he promised not to tweet something, but slightly worse than that. His body was his, not anyone else’s, and it was just not fair that someone could take it and do as he pleased with it. He sat there for hours, maybe even days, until the tears dried up and the last bits of frothy sperm and shit fell out of him, and then finally, he texted his daughter to send everyone home and rip up the bill on his desk.