#1991 US magazine

[shannendoherty-fans]

September 1991 - Shannen Doherty, Luke Perry, Jaqson Priestley and all the "Beverly Hills, 90210" gang at the US magazine.

THE FALL ENTERTAINMENT PREVIEW

For everything, there is an entertainment season. You may want to take it all in or turn, turn, turn it all off, but one thing's for sure, you can't avoid it. So kick back, look at what's in store and take your pick. • The networks' experimental phase seems to be over (for now). Sitcoms are flourishing, with very few hour-long dramas on the schedule. Pfeiffer, Pacino and Moore are all going to be visiting a theater near you. Mariah Carey and Barbra Streisand will try to fill the void left by the lack of the long-awaited Bruce Springsteen album. But what makes entertainment so exciting are the inevitable surprises. After all, who would have picked a rotund guy named Schwarzkopf to be the star of last year's fall season? Only in America.

FAST TIMES AT TEEN ANGST HIGH

Take a handful of beautiful babes and Doherty. After he demands refreshments, extra bedding and hunks, toss in some smart story lines, add a liberal dose of adolescent hor- mones, give it time to simmer and what have you got? TV's coolest prime-time hit: 'Beverly Hills, 90210'.

By Karen Schoemer, Photographs by Timothy White.

BARE-CHESTED AND GRINNING, LUKE PERRY stands on the Beverly Hills, 90210 soundstage, prepping for a scene. Two women from the crew hover over him: One lightly dabs his face with a makeup sponge, and the other fastidiously wraps his lean torso in a cotton bandage to signify the broken ribs Perry's character, Dylan McKay, has sustained in a surfing accident. Perry holds his arms above his head and chats merrily about his "studly" physique and "the large shadows cast by my chest," before he dons a white T-shirt through which the bandages poke sympathetically. Preparations complete, he takes a quick drag or two from a Marlboro Light and saunters onto the set. Time to go to work. Time for a make-out scene.

Perry lies down on a couch in the Walsh family living room. With his arm draped luxuriously over the sofa's back and his head cushioned by piles of pillows, he suggests nothing so much as a Roman aristocrat waiting for his grapes to be peeled. In fact, this particular episode has the recuperating Dylan being waited on hand and foot by ex-girlfriend Brenda Walsh, played by Shannen reading material, Brenda stands before him and says with more than a hint of sarcasm, "Anything else?" "Just one more thing," whispers Dylan seductively. "You." Brenda falls on top of him, and the two share a passionate reconciliatory smooch.

"We're trying to keep the set clear," says the assistant director with attempted delicacy. The remark would probably be lost on Perry, who isn't the least bit shy about his vocational duties. "It beats other jobs I've had," Perry says later. "Kissing girls for a living is not a bad way to go.'

Perry has every reason to be enjoying life right now: Beverly Hills, 90210, airing Thursday nights on Fox, is one of the hottest shows on television, and its cast - especially Perry, Doherty, and Jason Priestley, who plays the show's leading man, Brandon Walsh have become some of the most talked-about young actors in Hollywood. Set in a ritzy Beverly Hills high school, 90210 looks at such teen issues as pregnancy, drunk driving, peer pressure and AIDS through the eyes of the Walsh kids, two transplanted Minnesotans. Like a pubescent thirtysomething, 90210 truly excels at melodrama; a single hour of the show packs enough teen angst to fill a year's worth of scrawled diary entries.

Also like thirtysomething, 90210 works on a deceptively simple formula: quality writers, quality directors, and a creative team that balances youthful enthusiasm with years of TV experience. The husband-and-wife team of Steve Wasserman and Jessica Klein, the series' story editors, have written for CBS's smart smash, Northern Exposure. Writer and executive producer Charles Rosin produced several made-for-TV movies and was the supervising producer at Northern Exposure last season. Episode directors have included movie folk like Tim Hunter (The River's Edge) and such cuttingedge TV directors as Charles Braverman (The Brotherhood of Justice). Rounding out the team are 30-year-old creator/ writer/supervising producer Darren Star, a newcomer whose 90210 pilot was the first he'd ever written, and TV production legend Aaron Spelling (his long career includes megahits like Dynasty, The Love Boat, The Mod Squad and Charlie's Angels) whose company produces the show.

Not exactly known for his small-screen depictions of teenagers, Spelling came to the show after Star had sold his pilot to Fox. "Fox called and said, 'Would you like to do a high school show?' and I said, 'Not particularly," Spelling recalls. "I said that I don't know how to do Ferris Bueller's Day Off and Parker Lewis Can't Lose. They said, 'No, no, we'd like to do a show in Beverly Hills, with strangers from a foreign land like Minnesota coming to it.' I said, 'That's intriguing.' I really got excited." (Later, Spelling's 18-year-old daughter, Tori, auditioned behind her father's back and was cast in a supporting role.)

DESPITE THE STRONG CREATIVE TEAM, Fox obviously didn't know what it had: 90210 debuted in the fall of 1990 with no fanfare, no hype, no colossal marketing schemes and no ratings. Although many of the cast members had worked in television before ─ Priestley in the sitcom Sister Kate, Doherty in the series Our House, Perry in the daytime soap Loving ─ certainly none had much name recognition with the viewing public. By December, the show was slogging along in the bowels of the ratings, while its cast and crew grew increasingly frustrated. "We were so marginal for so long," says Charles Rosin. "We went into the [Fox] network and said, 'Listen, unless you start promoting us, no one's going to know we're here.'

Fox agreed and went into promotional overdrive, with immediate results: The ratings began to rise once teen America got a look at Priestley and his young cohorts. (Incidentally, most of the cast won't reveal their real ages ─ they are rumored to be well into their 20s ─ for fear that it will ruin the illusion of them as high school students.) By the end of February, the show was in the Number Two position behind Cheers for its time slot; by April, Priestley was being hailed as the new teen heartthrob; and by the season's end in May, Perry was being hailed as the newer teen heartthrob, and 90210 was approaching the Nielsen Top 40.

  Then Fox unveiled a revolutionary strategy: Instead of the normal three-month hiatus, 90210 would go back to work and prepare seven new episodes to air during the summer, in addition to the standard twenty-three episodes for the regular season. "Thirty shows!" says Spelling. "It's a gamble, but I'll tell you, they've got guts.' (And smarts: The first summer episode rocketed the series into the Top 20.) Like Fox's previous youth smash, 21 Jump Street, 90210's success could be attributed to its gorgeous cast, hot topics and sympathetic characters. Then again, the most important ingredient may be the series' uncondescending view of the problems of preadulthood. As Darren Star notes, "Teenagers take themselves very seriously and really see their lives in terms of high dramatics, and I think the show represents that very well." Jessica Klein agrees: "The show is very honest, and the characters don't always do the right thing, which is, I think, terrific."

Around the set, happiness make that rampant, untethered giddiness ─ is the primary mode for most of the cast and crew. Call it climbing ratings, but the atmosphere on 90210 is phenomenally joyous. The actors joke and giggle with one another between takes; everybody walks around hugging and kissing each other; and director Braverman never once raises his voice. With the actors' spirits still high at ten o'clock on a Friday night, Braverman quips, "All right, guys, tense up!" as if all this relaxed fun is starting to get to him.

Mixed with the cast members' obvious enthusiasm, however, is a feeling of nervous edginess, an anxiety that the show's massive popularity might interfere with a formula that has worked up until now. "We're at a time that could really make or break the show," says Gabrielle Carteris, who plays school newspaper editor Andrea Zuckerman. "I think everybody thinks that we've made it, because we're in our second season and there's so much response. And it's exciting and it's scary because it's new for all of us." "When you have a lot of hype around a show, it puts a lot of pressure on," adds James Eckhouse. "I just hope this show will be allowed to have its own life." Not everyone on the show has such a philosophical outlook. After the first four weeks of shooting, during which the press was present nearly every day, Priestley demanded that the set be cleared while he was working and refused to do any more interviews with other cast members present. Some actors with secondary roles were squabbling over receiving inadequate press coverage. By mid-June, Jennie Garth, who plays Kelly Taylor, was showing signs of stress and, after almost collapsing on the set, was taken to the hospital (and quickly released).

In other words, the cast is being forced to deal with the consequences of their own popularity. And while most of the pressures are external, there does seem to be one internal source of tension on the set.

SHANNEN DOHERTY STANDS AT THE front of a classroom, looking anxious. She wears one of her trademark Brenda Walsh outfits: chocolate-colored stretch top, tan chinos, black boots. Her brown hair lies perfectly across her back as if it were carved out of stone; her round, graceful features look brittle and pinched.

Even though it's a hot June afternoon, school's in session for the cast of 90210, and actors, crew and extras are crowded into an airless room in an abandoned hospital building in Encino. The plot line has several of the characters ─ Brenda (Doherty), Andrea (Carteris), Donna (Tori Spelling) and freshman David Silver (Brian Austin Green) enrolled in a summer drama class, and today's topic is Shakespeare. Sixteenth-century England, it would seem, is a long way from twentieth-century prime time.

"I f---ed up, Chuck," says Doherty slowly, tragically, to Braverman.

She has just fumbled her lines for the fifth time. She walks over to the script supervisor, studies the speech and returns to her mark. She runs through the speech again and sits down.

"Cut," says Braverman, putting his hand to his forehead. This time, Doherty has left off the final line of her speech. "Let's try it again."

But the actress remains seated, her head down. Carteris and Tori Spelling quickly cluster around, as if trying to console her. Abruptly, Doherty gets up and runs out of the room, crying. There is a long, dead silence. Spelling gives a nonplussed shrug. Around the 90210 set, Doherty ─ an acting veteran who's appeared in everything from Little House on the Prairie to the cult teen movie Heathers ─ is usually described as “difficult.” Her mood swings are becoming the stuff of set legend; by the end of this particular afternoon, after returning to the set and completing her scene, she is gamboling through the classroom like a child on her birthday, giggling with costar Spelling, hugging Braverman and sitting in his lap. Between scenes on other days, she shuts the door of her dressing room and blares death-rock at ear-searing volume. Even Aaron Spelling admits, "She does some strange things.'

Braverman, who is jokingly referred to as "Shannen's director," tends to indulge her: He gently coaxes and has huddled one-on-one discussions with the actress. "Shannen and I have become closer and closer on each show," he says. "She's a very strong-willed woman. She used to disagree with me more when I would make a suggestion. Now she listens to me and, more often than not, she'll take it. One of the things I've done with Shannen is try to soften her character and make her more vulnerable. I think it's because I'm really crazy about her, and I don't want her to be the bad girl of 90210."

Doherty pulls up at the studio the following day in great spirits. She climbs out of her black BMW holding a shopping bag. "My house was so cold this morning I live in Malibu," she later explains, flashing a friendly smile. "I bought clothes so I could bundle up."

She steps lightly into the hair and makeup trailer to prepare for that day's scenes. "It was the Shakespeare," she says confidently when asked about the preceding day's difficulties. "I always know my lines, I never ─ I was in front of a crowd performing something I wasn't very familiar with. I've read Shakespeare, but I've never actually performed it before. So it's all very new to me. I got hot in there and I just got very nervous and then I couldn't get it straight. Also, when I screw up I get really mad at myself. So it was like a whole emotional breakdown that happened."

Doherty's makeup girl begins massaging her face with an electronic appliance that makes a sound like a bug zapper. "It takes out all the bacteria that's in your skin," Doherty explains. "Anyway, Chuck is very understanding. When I did start having this breakdown, he didn't really pressure me and was just like, 'Take your time, go slow, don't worry about it.' She moves down to the hair chair, reflecting on the show's growing success. "I just hope that the popularity doesn't change us in any way. Because we all want to be popular, and we all want the show to really take off, because it is a really good show. Give us a couple of years and let us establish our audience, and I think we will easily be in the Top 20. So it's good; it's just you can't let it affect you. In some ways it does change, the popularity does change it, but you can't all of a sudden think you can go out and do anything you want because you're a little bit famous."

The hair stylist holds up a lock of Doherty's eyebrow-length bangs and asks if she can trim them. "No," says Doherty flatly. She scrutinizes her face in the mirror. "I'm flying out to be in a celebrity softball tournament this weekend. A whole bunch of guys ─ a whole bunch of athletes ─ are going to be there."

LUKE PERRY IS CRYING. HE LIES curled up and trembling on a couch in the beach cabana set, located in a dif- ferent wing of the vacant hospital build- ing. A single candle, placed next to an old- fashioned photo cube, flickers light onto his face; around him the crew is frozen motionless, and the room's thick, heavy silence is broken only by Perry's barely audible sobs. The scene being filmed has Dylan returning to the bungalow where he used to spend summers with his family as a child; seeing the place much as he remembered it, he's overcome by difficult memories, and as the camera creeps clos- er to Perry's face, his performance becomes more vulnerable. All his earlier bravado has vanished. "Cut," whispers Braverman, as if reluctant to break the mood. "One more time."

Priestley, on set waiting to shoot the fol- lowing scene, decides to crack a joke. "Luke, can you get this right?" he calls out. "I don't want to be here all day."

Perry walks towards him, wiping his eyes. "You're being so mysterious," teas- es Priestley, affecting a lisp. "It's all so covert and dark."

Obviously in no mood for antics, Perry manages to respond, "Gotta get sensitive when the camera gets in there."

Priestley seems to take nothing seri- ously except the exact moment of execu- tion; when he's on the set, he yuks it up, yet as soon as the camera rolls he's com- pletely focused and seems to get impa- tient if he can't nail his scenes in two or three takes. “With Jason it's very easy and cool almost all the time," says Braverman.

"Jason's been our quarterback, keeping everybody on an even keel," raves Aaron Spelling, who also offers an opinion on his star's popularity. "I think Jason is the date that every girl would like to have. He's very attractive, he's sensitive, and he seems safe. That's why we brought in Luke Perry, because we thought we need- ed a character who was a little more off- center, who has a little James Dean."

The ploy has worked, perhaps too well: In the second season, Dylan seems to be overshadowing Brandon, the show's Richie Cunningham-style nice guy and all-around do-gooder, as the character with the most interesting emotional situ- ations. (Even Priestley seems to recognize certain limitations in the role: "Brandon," he says with something close to a sneer. "What is there to say about Brandon?")

Perry's fan mail is now coming in at a rate of some 500 letters a week, and he's only recently begun to grapple with the reality of his growing popularity. Earlier in the summer, a low-key promotional appearance in a Seattle area mall turned into a riot when some 5,000 screaming fans showed up instead of the expected turnout of a couple hundred. (Perry had to be hustled out in a laundry hamper.)

After he finishes his scene, Perry walks outside into the parking lot and sits down for a cigarette. "This particular scene was about a kid who was neglected by his father," he says. "[In real life] my rela- tionship with my father was very strained, and that kind of gives me a lot to draw on. You can never escape your past as an actor, because you always have to keep churning it up. I find that real dangerous."

Perry takes a look around the lot. "I used to make parking lots," he says suddenly, as if the irony of his situation has just hit him. "We'd pour the asphalt, paint the lines, make the curb, paint the stencils. The only thing I know how to do besides act is phys- ical labor. I was a paver, I was a cook, I drove people around in their Mercedes, I worked in a video store, I sold shoes, I worked in a hotel, made a lot of beds myself." He takes a drag and shakes his head. "When I think of the alternatives... my alternatives are not pleasant."

Priestley emerges from the building and invites himself into the conversation. "We get along because we come from the same school," he says loudly, grabbing Perry's cigarette.

"We're very similar," agrees Perry with an abrupt change of mood. "Know what you're doing, don't let anyone tell you anything different, have fun, and when the time comes, do your job ─”

"The work is very serious, and other than that─”

"Nothing is!" finishes Perry, and the pair lapse into an extended bout of male bond- ing and locker-room humor, all the pres- sures, demands and realities of their fast careers once again banished from their young skulls, at least temporarily.

[riphertoshreds]

Madonna for US Weekly magazine (June 13, 1991).

[90s-2000s-barbie]

Nickelodeon Belly Bumper by Mattel (1991) 💥

[cerealbastard]

"When [Disgrace] published the 'Ruff Sex' portraits in On Our Backs in 1989, I ran one photo as the centerfold - a girl gang bang that showed it's femme bottom in the outer reaches of sensation. It was an amazing construction of a classic girl fucked into insensibility by strangers who carry that 'don't know or care' air about them. The magazine was immediately returned by most of our retailers, and never made it though the mail to others. 'Ruff Sex' was seen as the unthinkable

- a lesbian oxymoron. How could women be so rough with each other? How could there be a

"victim' and her tormentors? How could they

'use' her that way? And to top it off, how could these women be such remorseless exhibitionists as to perform the whole scene for the camera?

None of these questions would be relevant if it weren't for the assumptions that we have about female sexuality: deferential, gentle, nurturing, modest. We are surprised to see women put their bodies to the test sexually, to go to the extreme - although this is exactly what a woman's body is made for: extremes, endurance.

One thing about women who are into masochism is the stamina factor - the endurance, and the yearning for release through endurance. Perhaps the greatest feat of 'Ruff Sex' is the players look out of control - as candid and spontaneous as spit-"

Susie Bright, Nothing But The Girl: The Blatant Lesbian Image (1996), photo from Love Bites

(1991) shot by Del LaGrace Volcano

[sammaggs]

3x08 Spy vs. Spy | Protection

So this is the true story of how Sports Illustrated came to Canada, and it was such a problem that the government shut it down.

Here’s the thing about being this close to America, and this small by comparison: Canada is at constant risk of having its culture entirely dominated and obliterated by the States. All of our music, movies, TV, magazines—we don’t have the money or the manpower to compete, so it’s all American.

It sounds kind of silly, but in 1991 Canadian magazines were operating on a profit margin of TWO PERCENT. It’s impossible to compete with glossy, expensively-made magazines from America. The government subsidizes our magazine industry now; that’s how magazines like Macleans can continue to exist.

In the ‘60s, to try and stem the cultural hemorrhaging, the government established what we now call “CanCon” mandates, or our Canadian Content laws.

Basically, about one-third to one-half of all the media we consume has to be written, shot, produced, published, created, etc. by Canadians, in Canada. That goes for music on the radio, books on the shelves, shows on the screen, magazines on the rack—everything.

It was codified into NAFTA in '92: Free Trade includes everything except cultural exports.

I mean… they barely tried

The Americans obviously think this is stupid, and also not their problem. We are a huge export market for them culturally—almost all media we consume is American, and that’s big $$$ for American companies. They would love to swallow us whole.

So on April 5, 1993, American publication Sports Illustrated rolls in and slaps the word “Canada” on the end of it. They include some references to Canadian sports teams (even getting some wrong) and try to call it a legal day, even though it was foreign-produced and really did not hit the CanCon marks at all.

And the Canadian. Government. Got. Furious.

The government basically tried to litigate and tax them out of existence entirely. It was a massive controversy through the '90s, which is why they're still bringing it up in this 1997 episode of due South.

And uhhh... yeah Canada fuckin super lost. We lost as fuck. Deeply unsurprising.

Many scholarly articles came out about this at the time, as you can see above, and if you want to know more you can read a great one for free here. But yeah, this is a real thing that happened.

Dave Cole, who wrote Spy vs. Spy, also wrote Perfect Strangers, which includes that perfect bit about the human tragedy that is the lack of arts opportunities for filmmakers in Canada so, he was obviously a big supporter of all this (and rightfully so).

Bonus treat! Because Canada is not real, here's how music qualifies as CanCon: It must fulfill two of the following four conditions:

M (music) — the music is composed entirely by a Canadian

A (artist) — the music is, or the lyrics are, performed principally by a Canadian

P (performance) — the musical selection consists of a performance that is: Recorded wholly in Canada, or Performed wholly in Canada and broadcast live in Canada.

L (lyrics) — the lyrics are written entirely by a Canadian

That's right... it has to fulfill two of the four...

MAPL conditions.

Quiet Canadiana in due South [more]

[nexility-sims]

𝐍𝐎. 𝟗   ❛ 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 ❜   |   CANARÍS, OCTOBER 1991

❧  𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲  /  𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠  /  𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬  /  𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

In Canarís, something shifted. Arnaut perceived it as subtle, and he struggled to name it when he wondered aloud to Lorraine. He danced around it, grasping for meaning in observations, but there was a simple explanation. In his gut, he felt that people had been happy to see him. Their family arrived at the train station as the work week ended, emerging like generations before them to a crowd of locals eager to greet royalty. German and Abelina were becoming accustomed to the rhythm of life in Uspana. It was cause for optimism that the newborns would grow up without the adjustment pains that the rest of the family faced. Just as well, their birth inspired a deluge of good press. Arnaut quickly learned the public more readily embraced him as a father than as someone capable or even destined to lead them. Yet, at the train station, the tenor of their shouts was different. The questions they asked were different. He embraced them, old women and teenagers and grinning toddlers, and they gazed at him with what struck him as new—changed, even—eyes. 

❧ we're back !!!!!!! gonna post the magazine covers separately :^) as a reminder, large text will be below the read-more going forward, for ~readability~

𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 & 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ��

Such welcomings happened everywhere, but residents of Canarís understood themselves to be reenacting a kind of ceremony when it was their turn. A century after abandoning Canarís, the House of Tecuani remained seemingly divided on where its capital lay. The seat of government was in Nakawe. The ancestral home was in Yaas. Many members preferred in recent decades to live by the sea in Canarís—or to buy second homes, at least. This was where the Hunter went when he descended from the mountains to build the kingdom of Uspana, joining seafaring families whose names were subsumed into the clan they chose to lead them. It was the capital until revolting Uspanians many generations later burned and razed much of it, including the king’s palace. There were no palaces in Canarís anymore. There were still magnificent estates, but everyone politely called them villas or cottages, speaking as if belief alone could render the enduring resplendence quaint and inoffensive. 

It was possible the crowd’s warmth felt so palpable because Arnaut had spent the entire train ride stewing in desperation. This vacation was unearned, he had decided. The Crown positioned holidays as indispensable. Beatriz herself set aside a few days each month to feign relaxation away from the capital; Arnaut held fond memories of those childhood getaways spent in Initizara, surrounded by their ever-expanding family. No one much had the stomach for Initizara these days, but the schedule of vacations remained.

Yet, Arnaut felt anxious. Didn’t it teeter on the dangerous edge of presumptuousness—promising to work hard, to change minds, and then sacrificing time to pleasure instead? He wrote the accusatory headlines in his head. More than just knowing their names, he listened to news commentators enough to conjure up imaginary criticisms in their voices. Should I smile? he wondered. Or would that make it worse, looking sour and ungrateful? They would ask what he had to complain about. They would think, ‘I’d lose my job if I ran off to Canarís for a week!’ Disapproval had a face in his mind. It was an older woman who watched daytime television while her grandchildren played nearby. She was a clan mother. She voted. She used a backstrap loom. She had looked into a television camera and insisted with dismay, ‘People don’t change at forty.’

Still, that was the sense he got as he interacted with the crowd. Some wanted to fawn over him. They said beguiling things about how excited they were to see him, how happy they were he had come to Canarís, how they prayed for him. The mood was distinct. These people were not just eager for photographs and stories to brag about; they hadn’t all joined the crowd amassing at the station for want of afternoon plans. For some of them, enough to matter, Arnaut inspired something positive. He wasn’t an unwanted pretender masquerading as their crown prince. His visit meant something to them because, in an undeniable way, he did. 

Later, he would finally blurt out to Lorraine, ‘I think they were proud of me—really, who knows why or if it’s true, but I believe they were.’

It wasn’t implausible. Arnaut had been hard at work for months, single-minded in his pursuit of improvement. Managing a crowd with charisma had never been an issue for him, but they were too often overcast by a cloud of suspicion and disappointment. On some level, he understood that the smiling faces and enthusiastic waving spoke for themselves and, in reality, his own insecurities were to blame for any misgivings. It was the litany of surveys and polls that shaped his reality, however. He obsessively watched the news, and his head swam with a flood of data pinpointing all the ways the nation found him lacking. It represented the millions of people who didn’t turn out in hopes of having their hand held by a prince for one brief, fleeting moment. Of course, those millions didn’t closely follow his real work, either—weren’t regular readers of tabloid rags like the National Exchange or newspapers of record like Relay. They responded instinctively to what was in the water. If the politicians at Nakawe Palace and the reporters who circled it and the royal family’s true fans found him lacking, the distaste became unimpeachable truth. It was truth to the faceless millions, and it was truth to him.

Lately, he had begun to feel like there was less blood in the water. 

They were joining Martin in Canarís, and the two families spent the time frolicking on the beach and dining under the stars. When they went out onto the water together, Martin confirmed Arnaut’s hunch. He suggested in his characteristic brusque way that Arnaut wasn’t as much of a laughable embarrassment as he had been that spring. Martin's wife was frail and almost a stranger, but she laughed heartily and smacked Arnaut’s arm after teasing out the admission that, yes, he was finally feeling likable. She was kind and likable herself, and her slow but steady decline was one of two dark spots on the vacation.

One morning, Arnaut found Martin out on the deck with remnants of breakfast and pages of print news splayed on the table. He only glance at them long enough to register what they were and remarked, “I thought we weren’t reading the news here,” as he sank down into an open seat. 

Martin’s nose was in a copy of the Fiscal Register. He replied without looking up, “Not really news, is it?” 

Examining the pages, a series of similar headlines grabbed Arnaut’s attention. He slid one of the papers, reorienting it in his direction, and absorbed the cover story with wide eyes. It wasn’t unusual to see Leonor on the front page of tabloids. She had become an exciting subject, and the loyal pack of photographers that trailed her around Nakawe ensured a steady supply of intriguing, occasionally outrageous, exploitable pictures. Arnaut remembered those days. Or, he remembered something akin to what her life was now, so limitless and delicious as to be out of control, with the crucial distinction that the press felt less hungry in his memories. His bad stories came from trustworthy leaks given to reputable journalists, not from candid photographs that spoke—screamed, really—for themselves. He had also never found himself in the mess Leonor appeared to have fallen into almost overnight. These covers offered grainy but unmistakable pictures of her, and Arnaut didn’t need to believe the sensational headlines and captions to be troubled by what the images suggested. 

“Did you see this?” he demanded of Martin, his tone incredulous. He flipped the paper around and pointed at the picture dominating the page. 

Martin lowered his paper. “Obviously. These aren’t here to be decorative.” 

Slowly, Arnaut blinked. “Is that it?” he asked. “You don’t—what, really, no thoughts? It’s shocking, isn’t it? Does anyone know—they do, they must, but what are we doing?” 

He might have continued with this attempt to process the news aloud, but Martin interrupted him. “We’re not doing anything.”

“Aren’t you concerned?” 

Martin shrugged. “It’s a little dramatic, huh?” 

“Is it?” Arnaut shuffled the papers together and read from them. “‘Princess L’s Big Plunge—Almost,’ ‘“Wanted to End It All,” Friend Says,’ 'Drug-Induced Psychosis? Our Expert Speaks on Page 3—’” Arnaut huffed. “I mean, look!”

“We’d know if it was that serious,” Martin replied, untroubled. “You see her all the time, don’t you? Either you can’t be that surprised or it’s all nonsense. You tell me.” 

At this, Arnaut frowned. It was a stretch to say they saw each other that frequently. Leonor’s preference was to behave like coworkers, not like relatives and certainly not like people who had always been bound together by deep love for the same remarkable person. Her hours were erratic at best, but it was difficult to complain when no one else did. The people on their team knew her; she had been gifted their unshakeable trust at birth, it seemed, and he struggled with envy for that. When she jeopardized the infallibility of that trust, she would do something to shore it up—impeccable contributions on the policy front, experience-informed insight in a meeting, effortlessly leveraging valuable connections that Arnaut still bumbled his way through. She was living a double life of sorts, so was the problem that she did it too well?

“Maybe she’s fine,” he ventured, folding his arms on the table. Martin had set aside the Fiscal Register and was looking at the papers Arnaut had reorganized. As he did, Arnaut continued, “You know, she looks thinner, but she seems better? I suppose it seemed inappropriate to comment on that kind of thing—everyone else does, so why would I? Someone would say, if she wasn’t healthy. And, she’s there, she’s present, except for when she’s literally not there, which, frankly, is often, but—” At this, Martin snickered. “Even if she’s not actually—uh, what would you say?” 

“A drug addict?” Martin offered, grinning.

Arnaut groaned. “Right, okay. Even if she's not doing that badly, then ... She's going to get in trouble for this. I haven't talked to Mama lately, but—”

Martin sat back in his chair. “Oh,” he said, making a show of the pause in a way Arnaut found obnoxious. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“What?” Arnaut retorted. “Don’t be an asshole.” 

“Well!” Martin exclaimed, raising his hands. “Look, it’s a mistake to think that this isn’t ... part of the plan.”

“Plan?”

Looking solemn, Martin nodded. “You know Mama reads the tabloids every day. She’s worse than anyone. I think she likes getting mad, or maybe she just likes the gossip that much—” Arnaut waved a hand, and Martin sniffed. “Anyway, she knows what’s going on. Absolutely. I guarantee she knew about this story before either of us did.” 

Their mother was a voracious consumer of lurid slop, Arnaut knew. It was a hobby of hers in the same way other people read literature or advice columns. Copies were delivered nightly, and she read them alongside her stack of briefs and letters. Broadly, she was part of their target audience. Uspana’s gossip rags, especially those with an emphasis on royalty, targeted women of a certain age who had grown up alongside Beatriz, who felt empowered by her unprecedented reign, and who saw themselves as equivalent matriarchs in their own communities. They were gatekeepers. They dispensed advice. They protected order, tradition, and the future itself. In all gossip, they found tools to aid their missions, whether it was identifying local problems or raising new national specters to be exercised from their communities. On a baser level, one that was just as real for Beatriz, witnessing other people’s private messes spilled in public gave them an enjoyable reprieve from cleaning up those that were their responsibilities. 

Arnaut nodded. “But ... This is a problem, Martin. It looks terrible for all of us, and Leonor is—she’s official, not someone on the sidelines.”

To Arnaut’s surprise, this elicited a knowing smirk from Martin. He nodded and said, “That’s right. Think about it, okay? I know this isn’t your strong suit, but there’s a logic here. It’s a simple idea. Give someone enough rope, and they’ll hang themselves, eh?” Martin mimed the tug of a noose, sticking his tongue out. Arnaut winced as he asked, “Does that ring a bell?”

It did, but it wasn’t clarifying. Arnaut frowned. “I don’t ... Why would that be helpful?” 

Martin shrugged. “Mama’s from the old way. Competition? Neutralize it.”

“What?” Realization dawned on Arnaut as Martin sat staring at him, pleased with himself, and he struggled to beat it back. It was the kind of awareness he didn’t want to have, that would be a burden on his heart, but Martin was determined he have it. 

“What? What!” Martin laughed, mocking, before concluding, “It makes you look better. If our little niece is out ruining herself, less people are going to be daydreaming about the alternate universe where she does a Beatriz and—”

Arnaut held up his hands. “Alright, I get it. That’s horrible.”

“That’s Mama,” Martin quipped. “But, you know—”  

Perhaps as no coincidence, Lorraine and German appeared in the doorway behind Martin’s shoulder. She offered a greeting, and Martin waved before picking up his paper again. The conversation was over. Arnaut looked up at her with gratitude in his eyes, and German leapt over on cue with a large kite in his hands. 

“Can we go?” he asked, looking briefly at his uncle before tugging Arnaut’s hand. “The wind is perfect, and Julian is saying I don’t have the right ‘energy’ for flying kites. I don’t even know what that means. They’re not alive, are they?” 

Arnaut chuckled and stood up. “Let’s go find out, huh?”

TRANSCRIPT:

[Crowd clamoring]

ARNAUT | I thought we weren’t reading the news here. MARTIN | Not really news, is it? ARNAUT | Did you see this? MARTIN | Obviously. These aren't here to be decorative.

ARNAUT | Is that it? You don’t—what, really, no thoughts? It’s shocking, isn’t it? Does anyone know—they do, they must, but what are we doing? MARTIN | We're not doing anything. ARNAUT | Aren't you concerned? MARTIN | It's a little dramatic, huh?

ARNAUT | Is it? "Princess L’s Big Plunge—Almost," "'Wanted to End It All,' Friend Says," "Drug-Induced Psychosis? Our Expert Speaks on Page 3—”

ARNAUT | [huffs] I mean, look! MARTIN | You see her all the time, don't you? Either you can't be that surprised or it's all nonsense. You tell me.

ARNAUT | Maybe she's fine. You know, she looks thinner, but she seems better? I suppose it seemed inappropriate to comment on that kind of thing—everyone else does, so why would I? Someone would say, if she wasn’t healthy. And, she’s there, she’s present, except for when she’s literally not there, which, frankly, is often, but— [Martin snickers]

ARNAUT | Even if she’s not actually—uh, what would you say? MARTIN | A drug addict?

ARNAUT | Right, okay. Even if she's not doing that badly, then … She's going to get in trouble for this. I haven't talked to Mama lately, but—

MARTIN | Oh. You don't get it, do you? ARNAUT | What? Don't be an asshole.

MARTIN | Look, it's a mistake to think that this isn't … part of the plan. ARNAUT | Plan? MARTIN | You know Mama reads the tabloids every day. She’s worse than anyone. I think she likes getting mad, or maybe she just likes the gossip that much—Anyway, she knows what’s going on. Absolutely. I guarantee she knew about this story before either of us did.

ARNAUT | But … This is a problem, Martin. It looks terrible for all of us, and Leonor is—she’s official, not someone on the sidelines.

MARTIN | That’s right. Think about it, okay? I know this isn’t your strong suit, but there’s a logic here. It’s a simple idea. Give someone enough rope, and they’ll hang themselves, eh? Does that ring a bell?

ARNAUT | I don't … Why would that be helpful? MARTIN | Mama's from the old way. Competition? Neutralize it. ARNAUT | What? MARTIN | “What? What!” [laughs] It makes you look better. If our little niece is out ruining herself, less people are going to be daydreaming about the alternate universe where she does a Beatriz and—

ARNAUT | I don't … Alright, I get it. That's horrible.

MARTIN | That's Mama. But, you know—

[postpunkindustrial]

Negativland – Fair Use: The Story Of The Letter U And The Numeral 2 Book and CD

From a description from the Bleak Bliss blog

“In 1991, Negativland’s infamous U2 single was sued out of existence for trademark infringement, fraud, and copyright infringement for poking fun at the Irish mega-group’s anthem “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” In 1992, Negativland’s magazine-plus-CD "The Letter U and the Numeral 2" was sued out of existence for trying to tell the story of the first lawsuit. In 1995 Negativland released "Fair Use: The Story of the Letter U and the Numeral 2," a  270-page book-with-CD to tell the story of both lawsuits and the fight for the right to make new art out of corporately owned culture.

The overwhelming (and very funny) "Fair Use" takes you deep inside Negativland’s legal, ethical, and artistic odyssey in an unusual examination of the ironic absurdities that ensue when corporate commerce, contemporary art and pre-electronic law collide over one 13-minute recording (and to hear the actual single itself, go here: I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For - 1991 A Capella Mix (7:15) I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For - Special Edit Radio Mix (5:46) (Links inactive see below)

The book presents the progression of documents, events and results chronologically, contains the suppressed magazine in its entirety, and goes on to add much more that has happened since, to illuminate this modern saga of criminal music. Also included is a (at the time) definitive appendix of legal and artistic references on the fair use issue, including important court decisions, and a foreword written by the son of the American U-2 spy plane pilot shot down over the Soviet Union in 1960.

Packaged inside the book is a full-length CD containing a new 45-minute collage piece by Negativland, “Dead Dog Records”- which is both about artistic appropriation and an extensive example of it- plus a 26-minute “review” of the U.S. Copyright Act by Crosley Bendix, Director of Stylistic Premonitions for the Universal Media Netweb.”

For the book Fair Use doscumenting the legal battle between SST and Negativland you can get it from my Google Drive HERE

For rhe accompanying CD you can get that from my Google Drive HERE

And here is the thing that started it all you can get it Here

[submissiveebrat]

When you're a star, they let you do it. You can do anything." He adds seconds later: "Grab them by the pussy. You can do anything." — Trump in a previously unreleased recording made by "Access Hollywood" in 2005, published Friday by The Washington Post and NBC News

"If Hillary Clinton can't satisfy her husband what makes her think she can satisfy America #MakeAmericaGreatAgain." — Trump tweeted in April 2015. He later deleted the post.

"It must be a pretty picture, you dropping to your knees." — Trump to a female contestant in 2013 on an episode of "Celebrity Apprentice."

"Did Crooked Hillary help disgusting (check out sex tape and past) Alicia M become a U.S. citizen so she could use her in the debate?" — Trump tweeted in September 2016. He was referring to former Miss Universe winner Alicia Machado, whom he publicly shamed for gaining weight when he owned the contest

"It's certainly not groundbreaking news that the early victories by the women on 'The Apprentice' were, to a very large extent, dependent on their sex appeal." — Trump wrote in his 2004 book, "How To Get Rich."

"All of the women on 'The Apprentice' flirted with me — consciously or unconsciously. That's to be expected. A sexual dynamic is always present between people, unless you are asexual." — Trump, also from "How To Get Rich."

"You could see there was blood coming out of her eyes. Blood coming out of her wherever." — Trump in an interview with CNN in August 2015, referring to Fox News Channel anchor Megyn Kelly.

"Look at that face! Would anyone vote for that? Can you imagine that, the face of our next president? I mean, she's a woman, and I'm not s'posedta say bad things, but really, folks, come on. Are we serious?" — Trump in a September 2015 interview with Rolling Stone, speaking about then-primary rival Carly Fiorina.

"It doesn't really matter what (the media) write as long as you've got a young and beautiful piece of ass." — Trump in an interview with Esquire Magazine in 1991.

"A person who's flat-chested is very hard to be a 10, OK?" — Trump in an interview with shock jock Howard Stern in September 2005.

"I saw a woman who was totally beautiful. She was angry that so many men were calling her. 'How dare they call me! It's terrible! They're all looking at my breasts.' So she had a major breast reduction. The good news: Nobody calls her anymore — nobody even looks — and not only that, it was a terrible job." — Trump to Stern in 2008.

Congratulations America, this is who is now president AGAIN. A misogynist, sexist, vile pig. Good Job. 👏👏

[demibats]

how to survive a horror movie - the first to go. . .

we aren't gonna talk about the fact that it took me an entire year to revisit this fic and post the first chapter ok? but without further ado, WE ARE SO BACK. give the masterlist a visit for context if you'd like <3 -demi xx chapter warnings: weed mention, brief description of homic*de and violence. minors do not interact!

word count: 3.4k

July 1991.

You’re practically being boiled alive in the tin can castle known as Munson Manor. The Indiana heat isn’t the awful part, but the humidity has you and everyone else in Hawkins choking on the air. The measly little air conditioner situated in one of the living room windows is working overtime to cool off the small trailer to no avail. You and Eddie lay on the floor, staring up at his ceiling, opposite of one another. He turned his head to look over at you, but your eyes are closed, trying to think of anything but the heat. You can feel his heavy stare on you, but you keep your eyes closed, knowing that the blood would rush to both of your cheeks if you caught him staring. 

“It’s hotter than Satan’s ass crack outside, can’t we go swimming or somethin’?” Eddie complains next to you, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

You take this as an appropriate cue to open your eyes and turn to him, watching him writhe in the uncomfortable temperature. It makes you chuckle a little, examining the way his ‘Slayer’ muscle tank sticks to his torso from sweat. 

“I recommended that two hours ago and you whined at that too,” you challenge, resting your hands on your stomach, folded neatly there. Eddie shifts, taking his hands away from his eyes, those chocolate buttons fixating onto your gaze.

“The people of Hawkins don’t deserve to see what I’ve got underneath the denim and leather, sweetheart, but I’m bakin’ like a pie and I’ve already undressed to my comfort level.” He sounds too much like some kind of massage therapist as he says that last part, earning another breathy giggle from you. 

Your gaze lingers too long on his cut-off jeans, muscle tank, and bunched up crew socks that he ends up snapping his fingers in front of you, “Hellooooooo? Do I need to adjust the antennas on this thing?” He teases, gesturing to the top of your head as if it’s his old television. 

Waving him off, you push yourself onto your elbows, then off the cool carpet you’d been laying atop of for the last few hours, trying to will the heat away with Eddie at your side. He scrambles to his feet as well, long limbs making him look less like an agile ballerina and more like a newborn giraffe. All leg, no coordination. 

“I’ll give Robs and Steve a call, see if either of them can get a hold of Jonathan and Nance. You can be in charge of recruiting Argyle,” as you give him his set of instructions, he pushes his bottom lip out in a faux pout, “Don’t give me those puppy dog eyes, they don’t work on me anymore, Munson.”

He mumbles something along the lines of ‘they used to’ before heading toward the front door, the jingling of his keychain making you turn your head toward him, his landline nestled between your ear and shoulder, “Make sure he brings sunscreen this time and not just pizza nachos!”

“I’ll make sure he brings both!” Eddie quips before the door is closed between the two of you.

. . . 

Hawkins Community Pool is always packed during the summer. It’s the one reliable spot to cool off, unless you prefer the hose from your backyard. The poolside is lined with women in bikinis, magazine in hand and sunglasses shading their eyes from the harsh light of the midday sun. Kids splash around in the pool, being scolded by lifeguards being underpaid to make sure none of the little shitheads drown. It's the picture perfect scenery for a small midwest town summer. 

Sitting at the edge of the pool, your legs barely in the water, you sway your feet and the crystalline liquid ripples around you. Jonathan and Argyle are two knuckles deep in pizza nachos, a delicacy only the ladder’s cannabis-coated mind could craft. Underneath your dark shades, you lift your gaze over to watch Eddie in the pool with Robin on his shoulders, Nancy on Steve’s as they poorly attempt a game of ‘Chicken’, before one of the lifeguards beckons them to stop. 

After getting reprimanded by the pool police, Eddie hangs his head in pretend shame as he slides next to you at the pool’s edge , the ends of his curls wet and dripping onto his shoulders. “I bet you could’ve knocked Nance over. Robin’s too soft to head into a brutal ‘Chicken’ battle and win.” He says this because he knows it to be true, although you aren’t so sure.

“I’m surprised Robin was being so nervous about it.” You respond coyly, pretending like neither of you know about Robin’s enormous crush on Nancy. 

Disregarding the conversation about Robin and Nance, Eddie looks around the pool at the moms helping their kids towel-dry off and the meatheads and their girlfriends either arguing or borderline fucking poolside. It makes his skin crawl a bit to see such blatant public displays of affection. 

However, you think otherwise. It might be nice to have someone dote on you the way some of the boys of Hawkins do to their girlfriends. Maybe not the kind of boy like Tommy Hagan or Billy Hargrove, but someone like— 

“Hey! Come play Marco Polo with us!” Steve shouts, Robin and Nancy wading around him like sharks circling their prey. 

Eddie immediately slides back into the water, but he’s facing you, droplets sliding down his tattooed skin, glistening in the sunlight, “Come on, it’s not every day you get to see how oblivious Steve is to echolocation.” He chides, bringing a ring-adorned hand up to rest on top of your knee. His gesture sends a shiver up your spine, but you nod, more excited than you should be about the prospect of playing Marco Polo. But truthfully, you know why you're vibrating with joy.

The first two games are way too easy. Robin is Marco the first round and finds Eddie first, bumbling around the water like a scared duck. Once Eddie is Marco, he finds Steve and nearly drowns him, causing the lifeguard to give Eddie a final warning. When Steve is Marco, he can’t find a single one of you to save his life. 

“You suck at this, Steve!” Robin shouts from her spot. Nancy even tries splashing water at Steve to make him find her easier, but to no avail. Eddie has half a mind to try to drown him again. You wade around, trying to stay away from the other three stooges, especially since they’re actively trying to get Steve to catch them. It’s amusing, watching the four of them seem so carefree. 

Marco Polo ends on a high note, Steve finally finding Nancy (by accident). The five of you exit the pool to reapply sunscreen and try to pick at the crumbs of the pizza nachos, but the two megastoners have demolished more than half of them. The heat and water games have you exhausted, skin dry and pruning from the chlorine water. You slip your plastic flip flops on, your towel still wrapped around your torso. 

“Credit where credit is due, it was a genius idea to go to the pool today,” Eddie compliments, drying his frizzing curls with an old Power Rangers towel, “Wanna ditch these crazies and get a slushee?”

. . .

Eddie convinces Nancy to load the whole gaggle of twenty-somethings into her station wagon while you and Eddie leave from Hawkins Community Pool early. She agrees with a roll of her eyes before she’s back in the pool with Robin and Argyle as she tries to explain how to play mermaids to the long-haired boy. 

Your thighs stick together in the heat of his van, the chlorine-water creating a layer of discomfort against your skin. You try not to squirm in the seat, flesh itching from the pool drying out your pores. After shoving miscellaneous items into the already packed and trashed back of his van, Eddie most elegantly thrashes into the driver’s seat, his typical dopey grin seated perfectly on his pink lips. He’s fumbling for a tape to slide into his player, realizing how disorganized his music collection is, he laughs at himself, “Maybe I’ll have Robin organize these by alphabetical order or somethin’, Jesus.”

“Do that and she may try to sneak some Madonna,” You quip, thinking about Eddie’s disgruntled disagreements with Robin about her taste in music. 

Turning around, his arm reaching around the back of the passenger seat, he cranes his neck and torso to look back as he backs out of his parking spot. There’s something about this gesture, something so simple and plain, that makes your cheeks burn. He doesn’t see this, but he notices how you straighten your back up into your seat as you turn to look out the window, “You’re good on this side,” you offer.

“I know, sweetheart, I’ve got us covered.”

Eddie’s not the best driver, but he’s confident and has always kept you safe when you’re riding shotgun. He’s even let you pick the music that plays, despite his limited options, leaning toward 80’s thrash metal more than anything else, but it’s grown on you. 

The drive to 7/11 is about fifteen minutes, give or take. The sun is fading behind the tree line, the bright orange orb glowing beneath, creating a silhouette of twisted tree limbs. It’s as haunting as it is beautiful. Eddie drums along the steering wheel with the beat to ‘Sweet Leaf’, his hair still dripping onto his muscle tank. 

You adjust the flimsy cover over your bathing suit, trying to find a more comfortable spot in your seat. Eddie turns into the parking lot to the 7/11, pulling up right in front of the doors. You’re quick to unbuckle your seatbelt, but Eddie is quicker, hopping out of his driver’s seat to run around the hood of his van, opening your door for you, “M’lady,” he purrs, offering his tattooed hand out to you. 

You take it with a gentle courtesy, “M’lord,” you respond as you jump onto the pavement, your flip flops clapping against your heels as you do so. 

“I’ve always pictured myself as the court jester. Yknow, fuckin’ around and makin’ a fool outta myself just because I can.” He opens the door to the mini mart for you as well, earning a hushed ‘thank you’ from you. 

You laugh at his comment, reflecting on his words, “Don’t you do that anyway?”

“I’m taking that as a compliment, so thank you.” Eddie’s tone is a bit sassy , assuming you meant your comment to be an insult, but it is in fact a compliment. 

The 7/11 is desolate, with the exception of one customer talking to the sole cashier who looks bored out of her mind. She’s twirling her red curls around her fingers, popping bubblegum between her lips as the middle-aged man in a baseball cap tries to flirt with her to no avail. Meandering through the maze of aisles, Eddie snags a bag of chips off the shelf before skipping up to the slushee machine, “What flavor of tooth-rotting sugar can I interest you in today?” He jests, eyes fixated on the sloshing colored ice in the machine.

Aftering pondering over the two options you have, cherry and blue raspberry, you decide to mix the two flavors, Eddie following suit. Walking through the sweet treats aisle, eyes scamming over the packaging to see if anything in particular looks good, the two of you head to the register, seeing that the man flirting with the cashier had left. Offering a smile to the ginger behind the counter, who’s name appears to be ‘Barb’ from her nametag, Eddie chats her up a bit, asking how her shift is going and commenting on the weather finally cooling down. She responds blandly, while ringing up the slushees. You reach for your wallet but Eddie’s already handing over bills from his own wallet. Always one step ahead. 

The bell above the door dings as you exit, Eddie holding it open for you as you step outside, a skip in your step, “I think her and Nancy used to be friends,” Eddie chides as the door closes, “She was in school with us.”

You nod, agreeing and acknowledging, “Yeah, I never got the full story out of Nance, but they had a falling out.”

The conversation ends there as the two of you climb back into Eddie’s van, treats finally acquired, mission accomplished. Blue raspberry and cherry slushee in hand, you take leisurely sips as Eddie drives, unsure of his decided destination. The Munson trailer had become like a second home to you, your tiny closet of an apartment being the unfortunate first. Even though having your own space is nice and preferable to any alternative, it’s stuffy and during the summer tends to smell like a gym locker room if air isn’t properly circulating. 

In the end, Eddie drives the both of you back to his trailer. Once his van comes to a shuddering halt and the metalhead removes the key from the ignition, the two of you climb out of the vehicle, goodies in hand, and head into the trailer. Wayne’s truck wasn’t in the driveway, you assumed he still must be at the shop, despite the slowly setting sun off in the distance. Unlocking the front door, Eddie gives it the typical shove the break the seal of the door against the frame. In the summer it’s indefinitely worse due to the heat and humidity. 

Kicking his damp converse off, his curls beginning to frizz up upon drying, he places the plastic bag on the small, cluttered dining room table, “Movie night?” he asks, gesturing to the tv, sitting low to the ground atop a beat-up entertainment center, a few stacks of VHS tapes piled up next to it. 

“Have I ever declined a movie night invitation?” You quip at him as you saunter backward toward the trailer’s bathroom, ready to change out of your still damp swimsuit. Backpack slung over your shoulder, turning on your heels, you can hear Eddie chuckling and making a snide comment under his breath. 

Once you’ve peeled yourself out of the fabric, you exit the bathroom adorning a clean and dry t-shirt and pair of jean shorts settling snugly around your waist. Eddie has already poured the chips from the corner store into a bowl, a smaller bowl of gummy worms sitting next to it on the couch. Eddie sits on his knees in front of the entertainment center, looking through movies that the two of you have watched numerous times before. Two tapes are set aside, as he picks through the rest, “The Evil Dead, Hellraiser… those are the two I’m feelin’. Penny for your thoughts, Dear Watson?” he looks over his shoulder behind you with a lopsided grin on his face. 

“Hellraiser, undoubtedly.” You chirp in a faux English accent back to him. 

. . . 

Before the end of the movie, both you and Eddie are passed out on the floor, the snacks only half-eaten and forgotten before your inevitable slumber. You wake with a start at the sound of the landline ringing, nearly jumping out of your skin the moment you’re awake, eyes wide open. Eddie, still sleeping peacefully, isn’t bothered by the phone ringing. You harshly nudge him awake, both hands shaking his shoulder. 

“Eddie, the phone.” You say with a yawn, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. 

Curls matted to the side of his face, he’s barely awake as he clambers off of the floor, limbs adjusting to consciousness. Sauntering too casually to the phone, he lifts it off the hook and up to his ear with a yawn, “Munson residence.” He states through the yawn. His demeanor shifts all too quickly, spine straightening at the drop of a hat, dragging the palm of his hand over his face roughly. He speaks in a calm manner, giving you pause. 

“Wayne, slow down… Yeah, I’m fine… she’s here, yes… We went swimming, left earlier than the others, grabbed some snacks… What?” He answers his uncle, who you gathered was on the other end once Eddie spoke his uncle’s name. 

Eddie shoots you a worried look over his shoulder. You hadn’t seen Eddie this pale since the summer he was set to graduate, worried half to death that he wouldn’t be walking across the stage with the rest of the class of 1986. But this worry… was more akin to fear than anything else. Climbing up off the floor, you tiptoe over to him and stand beside him, still unable to hear Wayne on the other side of the call. 

“When did this happen?” Eddie asked, his tone borderline frantic. There’s another pause.

At first, you think there’s been an accident at the auto shop Wayne (and Eddie) works at, that he or someone has been injured and he has to wait for the ambulance or police to arrive. An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of your stomach as you wait for the brunette man to speak again. 

“Jesus Christ… No, she’s standing right next to me… Yes sir… I’ll see you when you get home… Okay… Yeah, I know, I know… Alright,” he mutters the last part under his breath as he hangs his head, as well as the phone back on the hook. 

“Shit…” he blows out a breath of air, cheeks puffed up as he exhales.

“What, what’s going on?” you ask meekly, anxiety spiked through the roof already. 

Eddie lifts his head up, expression damn near impossible to read, but that fear is still there, even more prominent than before.Extending a tattooed arm out, he brings you in for a tight embrace. Hesitantly, you wrap your arms around his torso, holding his figure just as tight against you. As you separate, Eddie’s sluggish as he walks over to the couch, plopping down. 

“I uh, I think you should sit down for this.” He pats the spot next to him, chewing the skin on his bottom lip. 

Even as you sit down next to him, you can't shake the uneasy feeling that’s raging in your chest. He won’t meet your gaze, even with you staring daggers at him, trying to will the words out of him with just your eyes, though he doesn’t budge just yet. The metalhead leans forward, elbows balancing on his knees as he holds his head in his hands. “Wayne just called me from the shop… Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins were murdered.”

The anxiety dropped into the pit of your stomach like a large stone dropping into a calm pond. Bile burns at the base of your throat, but you quickly swallow the thick, intangible lump stuck there. A hand over your stomach, you take a deep breath, then another, trying to remain calm. Neither you or Eddie were particularly fond or even close to Tommy Hagan. He was a bit of an uncouth airhead during the years in high school together, and Carol was about as much of a girl’s girl as Tommy Hagan himself, always following him around like a lost puppy, but that didn’t mean that anyone wished any harm to either of them. 

After an unnerving silence between the two of you, Eddie hesitantly reaches over to take your hand into his. He strokes his thumb over your knuckles, noticing the subtle way your hand shakes. “He didn’t… say much. Carol’s mom found Tommy in the backyard, face down in the pool… Carol was… Listen, Wayne’s gonna be home soon, okay? Him and I can take you home-” Before he’s able to finish his line of thinking, you’re cutting him off.

“Can I stay with you?” you mumble, lifting your chin up to meet Eddie’s sorrowful gaze. He softens immediately, nodding. 

“You don’t even have to ask, m’lady. This castle is just as much yours as it is mine.” Hand over his heart, he gives a small bow, trying to incorporate his signature humor to such a grim time. 

Even with Eddie keeping you company through the night, both of you back to back in his bed. His pillow smells like his laundry detergent and stale weed and the dip next to you in the mattress gives you a sense of peace. Shifting in the bed for what seems like the fifteenth time in the past hour, you can’t get comfortable. Between the news of the double murder of your former classmates and the unruly heat, there is no finding comfort. 

A tattooed arm snakes around your waist, the warm fan of breath over your shoulder, “Quit fidgeting,” Eddie’s sleep-riddled, raspy voice says next to you. Part of you wonders if he realizes what he's doing, or if he’s not awake enough to, but you don’t argue. Though, you find your eyes drifting shut as you keen against Eddie’s touch, sleep slowly pulling you under, even with the macabre thoughts of the evening still plaguing your subconscious. 

tag list: @yaspillz feedback is always appreciated, and let me know if you're interested in being apart of the taglist <3

[shannendoherty-fans]

Beautiful Shannen Doherty portrayed by Timothy White, published on the September 1991 issue of US magazine.

[cazzyf1]

Some facts and stories about Roland Ratzenberger

• When he was seven years old his grandmother took him to a local hill climb race at Gaisberg.

• His first word was 'car'

• He was nine years old when year the family home the Salzburg ring opened. He was get through the gates to go watch the cars drive.

• He had a poster of Jochen Rindt on his wall as a kid.

• When he started karting at sixteen years old he had to get a secondary job at a bakery to fund it.

• In the winter of 1991 he married the former partner of another driver, becoming the stepfather of her son, however they were divorced in early 1992.

• While in the UK, he briefly gained some fame for having a similar name to the TV puppet 'Roland Rat'. ITV invited film to film a segment with the puppet for national breakfast television. He raced against the rat (who was in a car dubbed 'Ratmobile') the Rat Puppet ended up winning the race down to cheating.

• F1 author David Tremayne son's who was three years old insisted on calling Roland Ratzenburg-and-chips-and-beans to his face. Roland found it hilarious and became that young boy's hero.

• Described as 'gentle, always unfailingly polite, tall, good-looking, and with a ready smile'

• Journalist Adam Cooper went out drinking with Roland in Japan and at the end of the night they had decided he should come stay in Japan for a year or two to cover the local racing scene. When he turned up and realised the hotel was more expensive than he had planned Roland let him stay in the spare twin bed he had in his room. He was happy to have company.

• One of his unusual goals was to try to enjoy female company in the team motorhome between stints in 24 hour races. Adam Cooper reccounts ' I think the last time we discussed it he’d managed the feat twice at Le Mans, and once at the Nurburgring.'

• One time he used his deep Austrain accent to record a Terminator style 'I'll be back' answer machine message for rival Jeff Krosnoff

• He kept a black book full of 'ladies' numbers

• One time his friend Anthony Reid had an accident in a F3000 race, and had a lot of blood streaming down his face. Roland had to take charge of the scene as the marshals freaked out. He made sure his journalist friend wrote about the shortcomings of safety in a Japanese magazine afterwards.

• At a Formula Ford festival his team either ran out of funds or walked out and Roland was left with just his car and a toolbox. Because he was so well liked mechanics and personnel from other teams helped him prepare his car. He won that festival.

• On one occasion, Heinz-Harald Frentzen and Ratzenberger entered a nightclub. There was a confrontation between Frentzen and another guy which saw a knife pulled on either Frentzen or a random female bystander. Either way, Ratzenberger selflessly stepped in and wrestled the knife away from the man. 

• A documentary has been put out on YouTube about Roland by Levay film production, detailing all about his life. A recommended watch.

• Bernie Ecclestone personally delivered the confirmation of Ratzenburg's death to the Simtek team

• Ayton Senna commandeered an offical car to hurry to the medical center where he learnt of Roland's fate from his friend, Dr Sid Watkins

• Only five drivers attended his funeral

[the-fiction-witch]

The Festival

Media - The Maze Runner Series AU (1967 & 1991) Characters - Newt / Thomas / Gally Couples - Newt X Reader + Thomas X Reader + Gally X Reader Reader - Y/n Rating - 18 + drug use / drug abuse / public / exhibitionism / cuddling / kissing / making out / breast play / nipple play / breast sucking / spanking / fingering / sex / eating out / orgasms / side / missionary / cowgirl / love bites / nudity / Word Count - 5577

I hummed slightly to myself as I flipped through my magazine, glancing at the various articles and sensationalism, briefly stopping to take my tea in hand blowing across the rim before having a small tender sip.

I perked up a little as I heard footsteps rush down the stairs of my little cottage. And soon enough Ellis emerged in a pair of little white wedge heels, a denim skirt with embodied flowers, and a crop top that looked as if someone had run it over. Her Y/H/C hair was in a braid as usual.

"Mum? Opinions?" She asked doing a little turn,

"It looks lovely..." I began,

"And here comes the but."

"But, I think it might be a little... much,"

"I want to look nice,"

"I know you do, but do you really think heels are the best idea, Ellis? White heels? For a festival."

"...True,"

"You're a grown-up. I can't tell you what to wear, I can only advise."

"I know, I just wanna look my best. I spent nine hours shopping today. This is such a big moment."

"I know Ellis,"

"It only happens once every twelve years."

"I know Ellis,"

"The festival has been going on for so long! and I finally get to go!"

"Ellis. I know,"

"Sorry, Mum,"

"It's fine," I chuckled, "Of course you are excited to go. But it's probably not going to be as exciting as you think Ellis,"

I sat at the kitchen table flicking through my old photo album and looking for the pictures, Ellis beside me as we searched diligently until finally, I saw the first few pictures.

"Here we are," I smiled,

'Waterloo Sunset' Plays tentatively on the radio, cutting out ever so often. The single stolen beer was being passed from the back seat to the front seat over and over any time someone wanted a sip, excited shouting and shoving a constant across the car.

"Thomas quit purposely going down the fucking potholes! I'm getting a prostate exam of these tent pegs!" Gally yelled kicking Thomas' driver seat,

"won't be the only bloody thing shove up your ass over the next three days Gally," Newt laughed as he sipped the beer,

"Oh fuck off Newt!" gally shoved him,

I giggled and snapped a picture with my Polaroid camera,

"You gonna be a shutterbug the whole trip?" Thomas laughed,

"I hope so," I giggled,

We flipped through a few of the pictures of the mud, people, drinks and madness that I photographed, till we got to one that made me smile. The picture of all of us who went, together by our tents.

"Who are all these people?" She asked,

"Well, they were my friends."

"Why have I never met any of them?"

"Everyone went their own ways I guess," I shrug, "This was right before most of us went to college, we all got jobs and... drifted apart. It happens, Ellis."

"I still talk to all my friends from that age,"

"Yes well your twenty-three," I chuckled,

"Who were they all then?"

"Well, that's Alby and Brenda and there's zart and fry." I chuckled pointing everyone out, "And there's Gally and Minho. Thomas. and Then newt on the end,"

"...You had weird friends."

"... I'm aware," I nodded,

"Who's the one in the middle?" she pointed, "In the like long skirt and tube top thing?"

"Ellis, That's me."

"What!"

"Yes, that's me,"

she just looked at me rather shocked, "Mum!"

"It was 1967, I was sixteen. " I told her, "It was a different time."

I quickly flipped the page overseeing all the sweet pictures, of dancing, music, the mud, and all the strange clothes of course.

"You were really pretty,"

"Were?"

"You know what I mean, you seemed so happy,"

"I was, it was a fun festival. But... I'm sure it will be even better this year with you."

"Yeah, I'm sure it'll be great." she smiled, "I'm off to bed, night mum,"

"Night Ellis," I smiled,

She hopped off the table and headed up to the guest room,

I stayed up a little longer looking through all the pictures, it really was a fun festival. If I recall I didn't even actually see the Kurinji flower bloom, to busy with everything else. It really was the last big party as my life was changed forever after it ended. I did miss everyone, hadn't really spoken to any of them after it ended.

My eyes lingered a little on a photo of us all together, my eyes went over the three of them and I wondered as I have many times over the last twenty-four years... Thomas. Gally. or newt?

I tried to force the thoughts away, not like I ever needed to know. I did just fine on my own. I flicked through to one of the last pictures that got taken. I laid passed out from exhaustion and I was likely kinda drunk... possibly even stoned, I don't at all remember. I lay on my bed in my tent, and I couldn't help but look down at my exposed stomach and wonder... if Ellis was in this picture too.

"This. Is. So. Much. Mud." Ellis complained as she walked back to our tents from the bathrooms,

"I did try and warn you," I chuckled as I finished setting up, "You having fun through?"

"So far yeah," she nodded, "All though it is six pounds of a bottle of water,"

"Holly hell. No, we're lucky we brought water," I nodded heading into the tent to grab a bottle,

"Uhh sorry... uhh Hi," A voice that seemed familiar spoke outside the tent,

"Uhh hi..." Ellis replied,

"I'm sorry you're uhh-"

"Yeah, uhh no thanks you're like old enough to be my father."

"No! no! I'm sorry I wasn't trying to hit on you!" He defended, "You just uhh you look so much like-"

I went out to see what was going on and immediately my eyes went wide, "Newt..."

"Y/n!" he gasped,

I groaned a little beyond exhaustion the three days of, drinking, drugs, dancing, and food truck food had really gotten to me. and I needed my energy to pack everything up in the morning. So I just laid in the tent almost dead to the world. But I wasn't alone Newt was here with me too laid trying not to die too. I wrapped my arms around his torso my hands on his warm bare chest, I rested my cheek against his back close to his shoulder.

He let out a long peaceful sigh to feel himself in my arms, he wriggled a little but not away from me, back towards me adjusting himself back so we could be closer and he could be held tighter like a sweet little spoon.

I cooed and gave his shoulder a gentle kiss softly stroking his chest and stomach with my hands. We lay like this for a good while just enjoying each other's company,

He turned over to face me his eyes still closed, he came up close and nuzzled into my neck, he wrapped his arms tightly around my waist. I smiled and wrapped my own around him too my hands in his locks, I wrapped my fingers around his hair and kissed his forehead. For a while, we just lay like this very cosy, and comfy together. He lay so happily that the only sounds of sweet fumbles and grumbles in a sleepy state, after a good while his hand moved after it lay on my waist, I didn't mind and just held him close until his hand began to creep up my body taking a soft grip of my breast through my little dress.

I chuckled but didn't argue with him to try to complain and ... not sure I would even if I wasn't tried., as he groped and fondled my breast squeezing and squishing it, pressing and shaking it, compressing and massaging it, the only sound coming from him some low moans and grumbles of enjoyment. I smiled and kissed his forehead as he plaid with my breast slowly but surely getting more aggressive as he got hungrier and more flooded with his desires.

He began to kiss my neck softly and gently pressing a trail of kisses down to my underdress where his hand rested, He tugged down my dress to my waist to expose my bare breast and continued his kiss down my chest and breast slightly biting as he kissed, until he reached my nipple. He clamped his lips around my nipple and swirled his tongue to harden it continuing his circles as he gently sucked, I didn't bother to stop him he was happy and I admit it felt very nice to see him be so attentive, his hand of course left my breast and moved to my ass giving it a firm slap making me jump a little.

He gave my ass a few firm slaps as he sucked before his hand stroked my thigh moving it around his hip and slipping his hand between my legs, his fingers made short work of pushing up my dress and he stroked my mound before giving my clit a merciless rub I did my best not to moan. Still, he just kept rubbing until he forced a moan out of me, as soon as I moaned he pulled back from my breast and kissed my lips with a firey passion, I happily kissed back already excited even if I was amused that he was yet to open his eyes.

His hand moved so he could thrust his index and middle finger inside me making me gasp he used this as a perfect example to add tongue into our kiss, which I happily smiled into and began to battle with him, He thrusted his fingers slowly at first his thumb rubbing on my clit I did my best not to moan but it was very hard to keep quiet his groans into our kisses only fueled us more, I slipped my hand down and began to stroke his already hard erection which made him moan loudly pulling away to kiss my neck.

He pulled his hand away and kissed down my chest, flicking my nipple with his tongue as he kissed down my dress moving me onto my back as he reached my clit, he kissed and sucked my clit mercilessly his fingers slipping back inside me. I moaned trying my best not to be loud feeling the bubbles of pleasure curling my toes and digging my nails into the cheap camping bed, my head rolled back onto the pillow. His other hand came up and squeezed on my breast twisting and tugging on my nipple making me moan loudly.

I tugged him up by his hair, he moved pulling his hand away and kissing my neck. He tugged up my dress to my waist,

"One moment love," He cooed grabbing a condom quickly slipping it on and pulling me back to the kiss. "Come on love." He smirked and quickly wrapped my legs around his waist before slipping inside me, He groaned and moaned loudly as soon as he grabbed my hips and thrusted fast and hard.

I began to scream pulling his lips to my own and kissing him with passion and adrenaline, once he got to a very steady pace his hands left my hips to grab my breast making me giggle a little his other hand on my clit rubbing mercilessly as he thrusted both of us moaning and groaning until my body began to shake and I tightened my legs around him as I knew how close I was, which only made him smirk with a sly smile getting faster and more merciless until I hit my orgasm grabbing his face and biting his shoulder as I felt the pleasure flood from my head to my toes and back again,

I gasped as I collapsed against the bed feeling him keep going letting me ride it out as long as possible, until he buried his head in my neck and his hips bucking like crazy as he buried himself inside me with a long groan before he pulled out and collapsed on the bed beside me as we gasped and tried to get ourselves straight after all that. "Y/n..."

"Yes, newt?" I cooed as we cuddled up,

"I really like you..." he smiled playing with my hair, "do you like me?"

"Of course I do, you're my friend,"

"... more than that?"

"I don't know newt... my brain... very messed up after these few days."

"Okay" he nodded, "But.. if I ask again in a few days maybe once we've kinda got our heads back on. will you answer me then love?"

"I will. I promise."

"It's... actually you?"

"Yeah, it- it's really you?!"

"Oh my god how are you!" I smiled giving him a tight hug,

"I'm great, I'm great how are you," He smiled hugging me back too,

"I'm fantastic, you look amazing."

"Aww thank you, so do you. You've hardly changed."

"I don't know something certainly has,"

"I bet," He laughed, "I've really missed you,"

"I have to," I smiled, "what are you doing here?" I asked,

"I'm actually here with thomas and Gally."

"What?!" I gasped,

"Yeah, we met up again through work last year and we said how cool I would be to come back for the Festival. I mean it only happens every 12 years it would be so cool to come back."

"Yeah, I uhhh..." I stuttered trying not to panic,

"what are you doing here?"

"Here with my daughter." I smiled, "This is my daughter Ellis."

"Oh my god she's beautiful, lovely to meet you, Ellis,"

"Yeah, uhh newt, right?" Ellis asked,

"Yeah, I imagine your mum's probably mentioned me,"

"A couple of times," she nodded,

"Well you lovely ladies have fun setting up, We have to meet up one day for dinner and catch up though." He smiled,

"Yeah of course," I nodded

Before he gave me another hug and headed off,

"...So..." she smirked at me,

"Ellis. You might be an adult but I'm still your mother and I will still ground you."

"We're both adults. Can we... talk like adults?"

"Fine," I sighed,

"Did you and Newt? Use to uhh?"

"It was the sixties and we were sixteen... what do you think? It was a different time"

I headed over to the food truck to grab us some dinner after a long second day of enjoying the festival... and attempting to avoid the guys. I got the very expensive food and began the walk through the mud back to the tent but a voice spoke up,

"Y/n!"

I looked and I saw him, "Thomas! Hi."

"Thomas! What the hell are you doing!" I laughed from the protection of the tent's doors,

thomas stood in the rain and mud, barefoot, shirtless, dancing to the music the stage plaid as the band had gotten rained out,

"dancing!" He cooed,

"Why? it's raining come inside."

"But everyone else is dancing. The water is dancing."

"It's raining."

"The earth is dancing."

"That's mud thomas."

"so I am dancing!"

"...Have you been smoking?"

"Yes! but that seems unrelated."

"thomas come in the tent."

"Come dance with me Y/n." he cooed, grabbing my hand and pulling me out into the rain with him, I chuckled and held his hands as we danced like idiots in the rain, "You're really beautiful Y/n, Have I ever told you that?"

"Many times thomas,"

"Almost as pretty as a flower." he cooed as our dancing grew closer and closer, "thomas... I really like you,"

"... Yeah?"

"yeah."

"Not just the smoke talking?"

"No... I've felt like this for a while."

"That's very sweet thomas." I laughed, "Day one and you're already off your head,"

"We do... have the tent all to ourselves for a while," he smirked pulling my hips closer,

"We do," I smirked back moving my hips against his,

"We should make use of this."

"we should." I nodded grabbing his hand and pulling him into the tent, we quickly fell on the bed giggling away as we began to kiss,

Thomas gently and slowly helped me remove my dress kissing each part of my skin that he exposed fluttering kisses and compliments into my bruised scared skin, "you're so beautiful." he cooed, "So gorgeous, stunning, ravishing, exquisite, captivating, ravishing, attractive, irresistible, Perfect." He muttered until I was laid naked on the bed, "Uhh... Y/n," he groaned "How am I meant to resist you when you look like this for me?" He muttered, "May I?" He smirked eagerly his hands stroked my breasts so I nodded and he wasted no time, he grabbed my breasts squeezing me and fondling my breasts in his hands

"thomas..." I giggled,

"Uhhh! Y/n," he smirked nuzzling close to my chest mostly to have his head in my breasts giving them little kisses, before moving his hand and stroking my mound softly finding every nook and curve I possessed "May I?"

"You may thomas," I blushed,

He smirked before he began rubbing on my clit in soft little clockwise circles as we kissed often stroking my hands across his skin as he worked before his hand slipped down to push inside me,

"Uhhh!" I gasped rolling my head back,

He smiled and gently moved his fingers at a decent pace until he pulled back "May I Y/n?" he gave my lips a soft kiss before moving between my legs and pushing my thighs up until I spread my legs for him as far as they would go,

"Absolutely," I gasped,

"Perfect my sweet," he smiled before he kissed up my inner thigh I blushed a little as he moved closer softly kissing my skin being gentle and soft with his kisses until he reached my clit where he was more than intense at first giving me merciless kisses before then sucking and licking my clit so harshly and passionately I was lost in a world utterly my own holding my hand over my mouth to stop my screams being heard as he worked so hard and so skillfully before I squealed and reacted my orgasm squealing under my hand as I felt the toe-curling wave of pleasure rush over me. Which caused him to pull back "I love making you cum... you're irresistible when you cum for me Y/n," he smirked,

I giggled as I gasped and tugged at his pants undoing them enough to reveal him completely stiff and slender with not much girth to him but his veins desperate for attention, "May I?"

"You don't have to do that for me-"

"I want to,"

"Well.... Alright," he nodded, "who am I to deny what my sweet girl wants," he smirked holding his base and giving himself a few gentle strokes before I moved and gently took him into my mouth "Ohhh fuck-" he groans grasping my Y/H/Chair, "uuuuuuuhhh uuughhhh! Y/n!" he gasped and groaned rolling his head back "Ugghhhh! Ooohhh god! Y/n! Enough enough-" he said as he pushed me away, "May I my sweet?" he smirked gently moving me back to lay flat he grabbed a condom slipping it on and then moving closer and stroking his head against my clit,

"You may thomas," I nodded,

he smirked before moving and gently slipping inside me, "uuuuuuuhhh! Uughh! Ummmm" he groaned gripping my hips hard trying desperately to focus,

"Uuhhh" I gasped holding his hair as I tugged his face into my neck and feeling as each inch of him made its way inside me, he slowly sped up his movements and found a pace and path that seemed to suit him even if he was groaning seemingly uncontrollably only ever stopping to kiss me, He got faster running his hands over me as soon enough his hormones took over his body working mindlessly. I was close it was obvious he was trying so hard just to keep himself contained just a little bit longer wanting to savour this moment even if his hips didn't seem to give a shit and wanted his orgasm as quickly as possible

"I adore you, I worship you, I want you... I need you!" He groaned, "Fuck- fuck- I'm Ughh!" was enough to tip us both over I squealed and held him tightly and he completely lost it moving fast and hard as he groaned before he pulled out and we completely collapsed on the bed beside me gasping hard, "Y/n?"

"Yes, thomas?" I gasped,

"How do you feel about me..."

"I uhh...My head is on too much stuff for a straight answer,"

"That's fair. Will you tell me though... in a few days after all this?"

"I will"

"Hey! Yeah newt said he saw you!" He smiled putting his food on a table and hugging me, so I did the same,

"Yeah, Newt mentioned he was here with you guys,"

"How are you, you look fantastic!

"Thank you, you do too. I'm alright, how have you been?"

"Doing fine you know the world has been turning," he chuckled,

"Yeah, I feel that way too."

"It's great, isn't it? being back."

"it is it's just like I remember,"

"I know right, plus it's nice I barely got to enjoy it all those years ago given I whited out like a bitch on day one" he chuckled, "Such a shame,"

"Yeah," I laughed, "It's been really fun. Here with my daughter. Her first year coming so she's really enjoying it,"

"Aww that's so sweet you came with her," He smiled, "You know I'm just heading back you could come back and we could all catch up?"

"No, it's okay I wouldn't want to impose-"

"It's alright I know Gally and Newt would love seeing you"

"I uhh I need to get back to Ellis, and she has a bad headache so..." I lied,

"Ohh yeah been there." He nodded, "Maybe tomorrow we'll catch up yeah?"

"Yeah, sure." I nodded grabbed my food and headed away doing my best not to look like I was avoiding them.

I walked the festival site doing my best to find Ellis as she'd gone off a few hours ago and I hadn't yet found her,

"Y/n?"

I turned quickly and there I saw him "Gally! Hi!"

"This song sucks,” He told me as he wrapped his arms around my waist, as we sat by the fire everyone else had gone to see the band but we just sat by the fire instead. Slowly he moved closer and peppered slow kisses down my neck,

"Gally we shouldn't they could come back-"

“it's just you and me," he growled, He then pressed one kiss to the crook of my neck, I blushed a little but didn't move, so he tightened his grip on me a little hugging me a little tighter and kissed my neck again only one little kiss but enough to make me feel so happy inside, "come here on" He growled tugging me towards the tent, I giggled and ran in with him, he smirked bringing his face and lips into my neck again,

I couldn't control my playful giggles he merely continued his kisses so slowly and calculated waiting patiently between each one, his kisses slowly grew more intense until as he kissed my neck his teeth graced my skin, not enough to bite me but enough to make me feel his teeth, he repeated this just slow soft kisses occasionally tenderizing my skin by gracing his teeth on it, "Gally!" I giggled,

He chuckled with a familiar sly grin, he continued his kisses now starting little nibbles on my skin pressing his teeth more meaningfully, and continued his bites gently barely anything between his kisses and nibbles which were getting very intense,

"Gally no more," I giggled even if I didn't want him to stop,

He licked the spot he bit before kissing it again he would do this over and over up and down my neck like a vampire to my jugular, He continued with a prideful smirk, getting harder with his nibbles, kisses and bites. He smirked getting even harder "Hmmm..." He groaned leaving a hickey on my neck

"Gally-" I gasped feeling him force a hickey into my skin he continued biting and nibbling my neck around my hickey to ensure my attention for it, "Uhhh! Gally!" I moaned twisting my fingers in his hair, which he took as a sign to get even more intense "Uhhhhh!" I moaned as his hand had been settled on my waist this whole time moved under my skirt to my thigh he quickened his kisses stroking my thigh higher and higher he licked my hickey as he smirked and teased me further stroking my hip under my dress "Ummm..." he groans now all but attacking my neck with kisses, bites, nibbles and licks. I could feel he was hard against my leg I tugged on his hair almost pulling his hair,

"Uhhh Gally" I gasped moving his hand to where I so desperately needed him

He smirked stroking my mound before rubbing on my throbbing clit, "You have to try and be quiet"

"Uuhh uhhhh uhhhhhhh" I whined as he continued with my neck at the same time by now my neck looked as if I had been in a fight covered in hickeys and bite marks all down one side of my neck, not caring the marks he made just wanting to make us excited I moaned as he made a hickey on my most sensitive spot while he slipped his fingers inside me still rubbing my clit with his thumb but I clamped my hand over my mouth to stop my moan even if my eyes rolled back a little

"Ohh..." He growled "Do you want me to stop?" he whispered and I shook my head "I knew it," he groaned kissing down to my collarbone and across my gasping chest giving him more space and more real estate to leave hickeys and bites, "Let me see them." he unlaced the ties on my shirt making sure to be agonizingly slow before he tugged it off me leaving me naked on the bed, he smirked and pulled me to sit naked on his lap my back against his chest as his hand moved hard and fast-moving his fingers rapidly inside me, his other hand cupped my breast squeezing and fondling my bare skin,

"Ahhhh! Gally!" I screamed, "Please..."

He didn't need another word before tugging his trousers down, he stroked his hard shaft a couple of times before he grabbed a condom slipping it on, he held the base and guided himself inside me he groaned as he found his way, he held my hips to guide my riding to ensure the best pleasurable angle as he began his almost violent thrusts but this was normal for Gally, I didn't hold back my screams, he didn't hold back his grunts and groans either which I found sexier then I like to admit, I knew I was close clawing down his legs in desperation for the pleasure that was building and building and building until I hit it screaming and clamping my legs around him my eyes rolling back and my jaw hung open, pleasure rushing through my body but Gally kept going for a while but he was slower sloppier unable to control himself much longer until he moaned loudly and bucked his hips up hard as he came, We both just sat for a moment, gasping. Listening to the waves and to the music outside until he broke the silence,

“That song is still shit.”

“I know,” I chuckled, collapsing down on the bed to get dressed again,

“Y/n?”

“Yes?”

“How do you… feel about me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like… do you like me?”

“It’s hard to tell… my head is kinda..”

“I get it” he nodded, “But… you’ll tell me soon. In a few days right?”

"Hey!" He smiled hugging me, "So good to see you!"

"Yeah, it's great seeing you too."

"How have you been,"

"Pretty good, just here with my daughter."

"Yeah, the guys said that's really sweet." He chuckled, "Did you wanna come back to our tent? catch up?"

"No, no it's okay I need to find her,"

"Ohh I'll help you look,"

"You don't have to,"

"No no I insist." he nodded,

"Well let's try the tent again," I nodded,

We made our way back to Ellis and I's tents, where I found her sitting by the fire with thomas and Newt,

"Hey! We found a straggler." thomas laughed,

"Why didn't you call me?" I glared a little, "I was getting worried," I sat down,

"I tried my Nokia didn't have a signal."

"Alright so long as you're okay."

"Yeah we all got chatting," Newt smiled,

The five of us sat around the fire chatting and laughing talking about the times we had as teens, and asking Ellis about all the chaos she had too. It was... nice. Admittedly... it felt like nothing had changed in some ways.

But as the night drew in, the conversation changed... I knew it would come up, but... I had no plan for what would happen then it did.

"Ellis, How old are you?" Thomas asked,

"Twenty-three just turned in April,"

"And what do you know... if anything... about your dad?" Newt asked,

"Well... mum, you've never really mentioned anything. I guess for a lot of my life I just didn't question it, too dumb to realize, then... when I knew it was strange I didn't want to ask worried it was a question that would hurt your feelings." she explained, "But... I'm a grown-up. We're all mature adults. and I'm not stupid. I'm Twenty-three. I was born in April 1968. nine months back... that's July 1967. The Kurinji festival you all came too." she explained, "So... Mum, can you tell me about my dad?" she asked,

"Well... it's complicated," I nodded, "And I'm just gonna say it, 'cause it's kinda been eating me these last three days..." I sighed, "Here, at the Kurinji Festival 1967 we all came here with our friends." I began, "... The first night, thomas and I slept together. A few hours later-"

"I got so high I whited out. Packed my bag and got on a bus home." Thomas added,

"Yes," I nodded, "And then on the second night everyone went off to see a band they liked... and Gally and I slept together,"

"And... that night I went and snuck into the VIP lounge with Brenda and Fry. ended up there till the morning we had to leave." Gally chuckled,

"Yes..." I nodded, "And that third night, while everyone was off enjoying the last few festivities... I was so tired,"

"We cuddled in the tent together..." Newt spoke up, "And we slept together. Staid in each other's arms till the morning."

"Yes..." I sighed, "That morning we packed up and all went home, and... a few weeks later I learnt I was pregnant. With you."

"I- with me?"

"Yes... that's why it's complicated. I know I never slept with anyone between the festival and finding out I was pregnant. Realistically. It could be... any of them."

"Was there anyone else?"

"no. Just those three." I nodded, "You probably think I'm-

"Mum," she took my hand, "I don't think you're anything, you were a teenager... it was a different time." She reassured,

"Thank you," I gave her a soft hug, "we all drifted apart after the festival, work, college, and other relationships so we never really spoke."

"Makes sense... I always just thought you stopped talking to me to... let me down easy," Gally began, "I... I remember I asked you if you liked me, you promised to tell me when your head was clear and, after the festival we drifted apart I kinda assumed you were being nice."

"Yeah... me too." thomas agreed,

"I... I thought that too." Newt nodded, "We all said we liked her? Damn no wonder you stopped talking to us,"

"I was honestly just busy I had a fantastic little girl to look after," I explained,

"Makes sense, let's be honest we all drifted apart. No one's fault it just happens" Thomas shrugged, "I'm just happy being back with friends again, and I have no hang-ups Y/n I'm a happily married man."

"I'm glad thomas," I smiled,

"Not married, but very happy. We have two dogs together. and he is a really good man." Gally nodded,

"Aww, that's sweet. I'm thrilled for you gally." I smiled,

"I... I... Kinda have a hang-up," Newt spoke,

"What?"

"Y/n I loved you. I loved you more than I had or have loved anyone else. When... when you stopped talking to me... it broke my heart. Yes, I've had other girlfriends over the years but... I never really settled down, never thought about anyone like I did about you. and still now... in 1991... I still love you."

"Ohh newt," I almost cried, "I love you too!" I jumped and hugged him pushing him into the mud,

"I love you! I love you so so much!" he cooed squeezing me tightly,

"You owe me a fiver," thomas demanded,

"Still? After twenty-four years you want that?" gally whined,

"We had a deal. Without a time frame." Thomas smirked, "Five pounds. please."

Gally sighed handing it over as Newt and I sat up but still cuddled, "You are so god damn slow Newt."

"I know, but I did it... eventually," He chuckled before we shared a tender kiss,

"Adorable." Ellis chuckled,

I hummed as I made three cups of tea, as arms wrapped around my waist,

"Humm hello my sweet little flower."

"Hello Newt," I chuckled, "Tea,"

"Thank you, but I'd much rather have something sweeter," He cooed kissing my neck,

"Morning," Ellis calls as she comes down from the guest room,

"Morning Ellis," I smiled handing both her and Newt a cup of tea, "The letter came today." I told her, "Did you want us to leave you alone?"

"no. It's okay," she said taking it from the table,

"I'll happily go if you want" Newt said, "But no matter what the answer is, It won't change anything."

"I know," she smiled giving him a small side hug, before she opened up her letter, but didn't look. "Mum, can you read it?"

"...Okay," I nodded putting down my tea and taking the letter, giving it a good read, "After several tests, we have been able to determine with 98.9% accuracy that the subject was fathered but sample three." I explained, "Isaac Newton."

"You're first name is Isaac?" Ellis asked,

"Same as my dad, weird family tradition, everyone's always called me Newt." he shrugged, "So... it's true. I'm the dad."

"You're the dad." I nodded,

"Hey Dad," Ellis smiled,

He got a little teary but hugged us both so tightly, "Hello my sweet beautiful daughter." He cooed, "And my lovely wife." 

[pridequest64]

Anarky Reading Order

This is, based of my research the complete reading list in release order for all Anarly Comics as of October 1st 2024. Release dates were used when available but compromises were made with cover date when necessary. If you see anything that is wrong or needs new additions feel free to let me know!

(Comic Vine was a massive help in this Project!)

1. Detective Comics #608 November 1989

2. Detective Comics #609 December 1989

3. Detective Comics #620 August 1990

4. Batman #456 September 18th 1990

5. Detective Comics #627 March 1991

6. Batman Annual #15 April 18th 1991

7. Robin Annual #1 July 23rd 1992

8. Superman & Batman Magazine #1 Q3 1993

9. Batman: Shadow of the Bat #16

10. September 1993

11. Batman: Shadow of the Bat #17 September 1993

12. Batman: Shadow of the Bat #18 October 1993

13. Green Arrow #89 August 1994

14. Batman: Shadow of the Bat Annual #2 September 1994

15. The Batman Adventures #31 April 1995

16. Batman: Shadow of the Bat #40 May 16th 1995

17. The Batman Chronicles #1 May 30th 1995

18. The Batman Adventures #36 October 1st 1995

19. Batman: Shadow of the Bat #41 June 20th 1996

20. Batman: Shadow of the Bat #50 May 1st 1996

21. Batman: Shadow of the Bat #66 September 1st 1997

22. Batman: Shadow of the Bat #67 October 1st 1997

23. Batman: Shadow of the Bat #73 April 1998

24. DCU Heroes Secret Files February 1999

25. Anarky #1 May 1999

26. Anarky #2 June 1999

27. Anarky #3 July 1999

28. Anarky #4 August 1999

29. Anarky #5 September 1999

30. Anarky #6 October 1999

31. Anarky #7 November 1999

32. Anarky #8 December 1999

33. Sins of Youth: JLA, Jr. May 2000

34. Young Justice: Sins of Youth #1 May 2000

35. Young Justice: Sins of Youth #2 May 2000

36. Green Arrow #51 August 2005

37. Robin #181 December 17th 2008

38. Robin #182 January 21st 2009

39. Robin #183 April 1st 2009

40. Red Robin #3 August 12th 2009

41. Red Robin #13 June 3rd 2010

42. Red Robin #15 August 4th 2010

43. Red Robin #16 September 9th 2010

44. Red Robin #17 November 10th 2010

45. Red Robin #18 December 8th 2010

46. Red Robin #19 January 12th 2011

47. Red Robin #20 February 9th 2011

48. Red Robin #21 March 16th 2011

49. Red Robin #22 April 13th 2011

50. Red Robin #23 May 11th 2011

51. Red Robin #24 June 8th 2011

52. Beware the Batman #1 October 23rd 2013

53. Green Lantern Corps #25 November 13th 2013

54. Detective Comics #38 Janurary 7th 2015

55. Detective Comics #39 February 4th 2015

56. Detective Comics #40 March 4th 2015

57. Detective Comics: Endgame March 11th 2015

58. Detective Comics #957 May 24th 2017

59. Detective Comics #963 August 23rd 2017

60. Detective Comics #964 September 13th 2017

61. Detective Comics #966 October 11th 2017

62. Detective Comics #968 November 22nd 2017

63. Detective Comics #970 December 13th 2017

64. Detective Comics #971 December 27th 2017

65. Detective Comics #972 January 10th 2018

66. Detective Comics #973 January 24th 2018

67. Batman: Prelude to the Wedding: Red Hood vs. Anarky June 20th 2018

68. Harley Quinn #61 May 1st 2019

69. Harley Quinn #62 June 5th 2019

70. The Imfected: The Commissioner December 18th 2019

71. DC Nation Presents DC Future State November 24th 2020

72. Future State: The Next Batman #1 Janurary 5th 2021

73. I Am Batman #1 September 14th 2021

74. I Am Batman #2 October 12th 2021

75. Robins #4 February 15th 2022

76. Detective Comics #1054 February 22nd 2022

77. Batman: Urban Legends #22 December 20th 2022

[probablyasocialecologist]

The demand that Egypt take in 2.2 million refugees from Gaza in furtherance of Israel’s completion of the Nakba is not only immoral, but logistically infeasible as well. On October 24th, a document (currently being circulated by Israeli Intelligence Minister Gila Gamliel) was leaked to the Israeli news site Calcalist. It detailed Israeli plans for the forced transfer of Palestinians in Gaza to the Sinai peninsula as a culmination of Israel’s genocidal purge of the Strip. Pressure on the Egyptian government to take in the exodus of refugees is already underway, with unsubstantiated reports in regional press stating that the U.S. is prepared to offer Egypt some significant debt relief in exchange for hosting a large number of refugees in Sinai.  Egypt is currently facing a historic debt crisis; Bloomberg Economics ranked Egypt as second only to Ukraine in terms of countries most vulnerable to defaulting on debt payments. The Egyptian debt crisis has been little-discussed in the West, but it is a daily reality for Egyptians, who continue to face mounting inflation and unparalleled price hikes as a result of Egypt’s complete reliance on international lending from the IMF and wealthy Gulf states. Such reliance circumscribes Egypt’s range of action, making it difficult and unlikely for it to act independently from U.S. interests—including on foreign policy.  This wouldn’t be the first time the U.S. has used the prospect of debt forgiveness as a tool to bring Egypt in compliance with its policy demands. Most recently, in 1991, the United States and its allies forgave half of Egypt’s external debt ($11.1 billion USD, out of $20.2 billion) in exchange for Egypt’s participation in the second Gulf War in the anti-Iraq coalition. The precedent for 1991 however, was the 1978-1979 Camp David accords—Anwar Sadat’s infamous normalization treaty with Israel under the auspices of the U.S., which saw Sadat break with the anti-colonialism of his predecessor Gamal Abdel Nasser. In the post-Camp David period, Egypt became a creditworthy state for Western governments and Western-backed international institutions, both of which increased economic and military lending. The upshot was the further cementing of Sadat’s move away from the self-sufficient autonomy of Nasser’s regime.

[harrisonarchive]

George Harrison and Jenny Boyd at Friar Park, January 1991. Photo by Pattie Boyd. (In connection with this photo of George and Pattie that same day.)

“My former brother-in-law George Harrison spoke my favorite ‘Life Lesson Quote.’ I was in a car with my sister Pattie and George. We were on our way back from Bangor in Wales where we’d been staying at the Maharishi conference with the rest of The Beatles. It was when we’d heard that The Beatles manager, Brian Epstein, had died that we cut our visit short, and each of the Beatles headed for home. We all felt very sad. The car stopped in London to let me out. Just as I was about to close the car door, George jumped out and said to me, ‘Would you like to come to Maharishi’s ashram in India with us all in January?’ I couldn’t believe it, a dream come true! ‘How can I ever repay you?’ I asked. ‘Just be yourself.’ George said. This has been my ‘Life Lesson Quote,’ and it is the story of my book: the journey to finding myself.” - Jenny Boyd (in response to the question, “Can you please give us your favorite ‘Life Lesson Quote’? Can you share how that was relevant to you in your life?”), Authority Magazine, March 9, 2020 (x) The new edition of Jenny’s first book (Musicians In Tune), re-titled It’s Not Only Rock ‘n’ Roll: Iconic musicians reveal the source of their creativity, included a dedication: “Dedicated with love and gratitude to the memory of George Harrison.”

[nexility-sims]

𝐍𝐎. 𝟏𝟓   ❛ 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 ❜   |   RENZO'S HOUSE, NAKAWE, OCTOBER 1991

❧  𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲  /  𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠  /  𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬  /  𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

Leonor stayed for a few days, treating Renzo’s guesthouse as a hideaway for avoiding the reality waiting outside its walls. Jim was there for only a blip of that time. He was more of an observer than a participant. At first Leonor found the camera blocking his face distracting, but she got used to it the way one might a deformity. It was part of him. He must have been a shy child. Maybe picking up photography gave him a way into the world—a means to navigate it, to notice without truly being seen. It soon made sense to her why he and Renzo had become friends. There was a basic similarity there, although Renzo had much worse luck at being unseeable. But, Jim’s departure was welcome. Renzo intended to go out with him, to introduce him to would-be mutual friends, but Jim ended up alone. Leonor had leaned against the kitchen counter without an ounce of guilt and watched as Renzo scrawled a list of addresses and phone numbers. ‘Pick up a pocket dictionary,’ he’d warned. ‘Your Uspanian is worse than mine, brother.’ So it was. Jim gave them a cheerful salute before he disappeared into the backyard’s foliage, and Leonor decided she admired the pluckiness of braving a foreign city, all alone and clearly out of place.

❧ this concludes a sweet three-part arc, and i think it's a good one ! partial to the bonfire wide shot, personally, but it's all nice and fluffy. (& idk what exactly she’s reading aloud but let’s say it’s faulkner, as i lay dying. rip 2 leonor.)

𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 & 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

Leonor stayed for a few days, treating Renzo’s guesthouse as a hideaway for avoiding the reality waiting outside its walls. Jim was there for only a blip of that time. He was more of an observer than a participant. At first Leonor found the camera blocking his face distracting, but she got used to it the way one might a deformity. It was part of him. He must have been a shy child. Maybe picking up photography gave him a way into the world—a means to navigate it, to notice without truly being seen. It soon made sense to her why he and Renzo had become friends. There was a basic similarity there, although Renzo had much worse luck at being unseeable. But, Jim’s departure was welcome. Renzo intended to go out with him, to introduce him to would-be mutual friends, but Jim ended up alone. Leonor had leaned against the kitchen counter without an ounce of guilt and watched as Renzo scrawled a list of addresses and phone numbers. ‘Pick up a pocket dictionary,’ he’d warned. ‘Your Uspanian is worse than mine, brother.’ So it was. Jim gave them a cheerful salute before he disappeared into the backyard’s foliage, and Leonor decided she admired the pluckiness of braving a foreign city, all alone and clearly out of place.

She slept through morning again the next day, waking up occasionally to find herself still alone in the bedroom, eyes squeezed shut while the sun warmed her face, determined to stay in the sheets as long as she could. At one point, she looked around as Renzo ducked into the room. He lingered by the door. That must have a been a wake-up call of sorts, or perhaps his attempt at being polite. The sound of his footsteps going downstairs receded, then the music began. It wasn’t gentle piano or upbeat jazz, as appropriate for lazy mornings, but thrashing drums and electric guitar riffs blaring, if muffled, through the floor. With her face in a pillow, Leonor smiled. ‘It just does something for me,’ he told her once. ‘Loud music. Where it hurts a little. Distracts me.’ She asked from what, and he shrugged, ‘Cravings.’ Lying in his bed with her eyes closed, she imagined him downstairs doing the same thing, perhaps on the rug or with his feet hanging off the edge of the lounge chair. He was as likely to be crouched down chewing his lefthand nails, pacing with a magazine, staring at the vinyl collection with his hands knotted in his hair.

But, she wasn’t ready to go find out what he was up to just yet. When she did get up, it was with a mission. She picked up the Polaroid camera on the bedside table and held it at arms’ length to snap a picture of herself. While it developed, she opened the drawer and rummaged around. This table was the least used of the two—the guest one, in a way. There were hard candies inside, a few pocket knives, and a datebook with nothing inside. She peeked inside the plastic shopping bag shoved behind the table’s lamp: cheap red wine and cough syrup, both unopened.

The rest of the room’s nooks and crannies held the same kind of intriguing, mundane miscellany. In the large wardrobe across from the bed, he kept the clothes he wore most often. There was a dresser elsewhere with socks, underwear, tee shirts, and party favors he didn’t leave out downstairs. His favorite leather jacket was hanging, tucked haphazardly in the center, flanked by plaid flannels and jeans. Feeling around in all of the pockets, she found empty cigarette packs, less loved lighters, spare change, loose pills and matches, and scraps of paper—circled phone numbers, stick men without faces, and titles to what she assumed were books and songs predominated. One nondescript receipt had “Call Nora,” large and underlined, on the back. Tossed on the bottom shelf, some of his beat-up boots and sneakers concealed wads of cash tucked inside them.

His books were filled with marginalia, and Leonor took pride in identifying what belonged to him and what had probably been there when he acquired it. Some were gifts. Some belonged to libraries thousands of miles away. Among some, she saw pages of a script. She scanned the dialogue and concluded she wanted to ask about it later. Was he going to transform himself into “Sam,” whom context clues suggested was very busy running a quirky jewelry emporium and impersonating his possibly deceased landlady? Leonor could imagine it. He would swallow the angst on these pages whole and do something incredible with it. It would be charming, too. Although he refused to watch it with her, she had seen his turn as a rancher with a chronically ill child and wept over it. But, she hoped he didn’t find “Sam” that appealing. It didn’t look like a Uspanian project, after all.

What piqued her interest most was packed away behind his armchair in a box of keepsakes. The binders she flipped through were photo albums. She couldn’t picture him doing any scrap-booking. Were they made for him, then? By who? She didn’t recognize anyone in the photos, except for Renzo himself. He was younger, clean shaven, usually smiling toothy grins that didn’t reach his eyes. There were also worn blankets, souvenirs from places she had never heard of, innocuous trinkets she viewed differently now that she knew the backstory behind the toy cube on top of his television set. Maybe he was what some called a pack rat, but she believed his junk all had stories attached—consequential ones that would feel to her as it from another universe.

Looking through this box, she reflected on the patchwork way his life had come together for her. He knew her biography from start to finish, with the emotional filler that accompanied recounting it. There wasn’t much to tell; it was a couple decades’ long and uneventful for, conservatively, twenty of those twenty-one years.  It was less of a book and more of a pamphlet. “Born A Princess? Three Steps To Succeed.” His was longer, and she understood it as nothing but events, one after another, linked with knotted threads that looked like desperation, recklessness, craving. It wasn’t a book. It was the messy, unorganized, impenetrable cabinet of research that could become a collection of books someday, maybe. He had already lived four or five lives before she was old enough to seriously contemplate hers. Even then, she couldn’t conceive the kind of reinvention he alternatively stumbled or dove into without a second thought. Or, at any rate, she hadn’t really tried to.

What grabbed her amid the box’s treasures was a single framed photograph. She extracted it with care and held it in her hands for a long time. Music still thudded through the floor, so loud that she could feel it, but this was a peaceful moment. In the frame, what could only be his child self peeked at her from behind a notebook, and a woman who looked like his mother stared with the same heavy eyes. Only, hers were dark—browner than brown, black even, familiar in a different way.

Leonor stared at the photograph of them together until her vision blurred. She sniffed a few times and dried her eyes with the backs of her hands, letting the frame sit in her lap while she collected herself. Once she had, she stood up without much forethought and went to place it on the bedside table. There was space for it on his side, between the stack of books, alongside his ashtray and remote controller, with room to put it face down when needed. She sank to her knees. With her chin on folded arms, she resumed soaking in this rare glimpse of his first life. She struggled to picture what was beyond the frames of the photograph but tried anyway.

Her eyes drifted from his to his mother’s and back again. She did know what this woman had been like back then—a composite cobbled together from his mentionings, usually in some contrast to Leonor’s own mother, leaking unfathomable realities of his upbringing that made her balk and hold him tighter. ‘She wasn’t a bad mother,’ he claimed. ‘She’s just fucked up. Congenitally. And I am glad I got her variety of it instead of his, to be clear.’ Today, she lived in a place called Little Rock in a house Renzo bought for her. He noted that his father was with her more than ever, but that didn’t make much of a difference to anyone. 'He wants to move to Los Angeles,' Renzo recounted with a scoff. 'We told him, "Great, fuck off then!" No dice.'

As Leonor sat looking at the photograph, she wondered if there were others pictures in that house—whether she looked at them more than Renzo apparently did and whether she would agree with his assessment of their time together. Then, she tried to imagine them in a room together. There were huge windows, drenching the colorful furnishings in sunlight. In this fantasy, Leonor wore white, not because her mother had been dead for less than a year but because Renzo liked when she wore it. His mother liked her, too, and she liked Safya, who promptly breezed into the room, alive and bearing enough vitality to make up for what the three of them lacked.

At first, she suspected Renzo hadn’t noticed the photograph newly on display. That was fine, she decided. The prospect of having to explain herself sent a small chill up her spine. 'Oh, I found it' wouldn't suffice. He came into the room well after she had moved on to another, less invasive occupation. She was flipping through old music magazines on the balcony when he showed up at her shoulder, stripped down to just his white socks and announcing that she needed to come wash his hair. They could both fit in the bathtub without injury, most likely. Plus, he was proud of himself for having bought a hair dryer. It was the same one she had, in fact; that he didn’t know any other kind wasn’t important.

As they left the room so he could show her, he lingered to glance over his shoulder once, then a second time. His expression reflected in the bathroom mirror when he caught up with her was troubled, at least until their eyes met and seemed to distract him again.

[Muffled loud music, Leonor humming]

LEONOR | I’m excited to get the prints. RENZO | From Jim? Yeah. Good man. He misread you, though. LEONOR | You think so? Maybe … The candids were better.

RENZO | He wanted to impress you. Magazine spread treatment. LEONOR | Hm. It started like that, didn’t it? I’m offended, actually. RENZO | [chuckles] Oh, yeah? LEONOR | Like I can’t appreciate something simple.

RENZO | It’s an easy mistake to make, you know. LEONOR | That’s what you thought. RENZO | Big time. You wore pink sequins and a fucking tennis bracelet to a bar hang. Message loud and clear.

LEONOR | I felt ridiculous! It doesn’t come easy. I suppose it never needed to. I do like it, I really do—simplicity. Small things. Normalcy. RENZO | Normal is relative. LEONOR | You know what I mean. Like this. We have people for this. [Renzo laughs]

RENZO | I could tell—after a while, that very first night. Yeah, you started out awkward and uptight—maybe that was discomfort, maybe it was judgment—but I saw it. Genuine interest. Curiosity. Fucking rare.

LEONOR | Really? RENZO | You’re complicated, Nora. So sincere it makes me sad sometimes. Sweet—bittersweet. And surprising. I love that about you.

LEONOR | It would be better if you read it. I can’t do the accent. RENZO | Drawl. It’s a drawl. Anyway, I like listening. Doing this. LEONOR | Being together. RENZO | Being together.

LEONOR | Speaking of … I wanted to ask something. Hear me out?

LEONOR | I want to go to an event with you. Not one of mine; one of yours. Something real. Professional. That you care about. Maybe there’s nothing anytime soon, but when there is … I want to be there.

LEONOR | What? Is that crazy? RENZO | No, it’s not. I just don’t think it’s a good idea. LEONOR | Why? RENZO | You know why.

LEONOR | You don’t want to reconsider. RENZO | Don’t know.

LEONOR | Do you remember Arturo? RENZO | [sighs] Sure. LEONOR | The worst part about … all of that? I ended things where there was no way he’d get any closure—at all. I just kicked him out. He was going to go weep for Mama, with my family. That was certain. Then, I made him nothing with a few words.

LEONOR | Eventually, it occurred to me that it wasn’t actually an impulsive choice. Having him around that morning made me feel awful—I wanted to crawl out of my skin just looking at him; isn’t that terrible?—but … Grief makes it all bigger, doesn’t it? RENZO | It does, yeah. Too big. LEONOR | Five years. Living Mama’s life. I didn’t want to marry him. I don’t want to marry anyone. I told myself, later, that he must’ve known —felt it?—so it was okay. Not explaining or apologizing. Hurting him .

LEONOR | I gave him everything. I didn’t owe him anything else. He could figure that out on his own. RENZO | Alright, a little fucked up. LEONOR | [chuckles] Yeah. Not that I regret anything.

LEONOR | Don’t do that to me. I don’t need a promise, reassurances, whatever. It’s a request, that’s all. When the time comes, do it with your eyes wide open, okay?

LEONOR | —seriously, you could put on a dress shirt but not pants or shoes? I bet it’s a stunt. I think you like the attention. RENZO | Me? You know me better than that.

RENZO | Can’t a man be comfortable in his own yard? [Leonor laughs]

RENZO | I wish you didn’t have to leave. Wish you could stay in bed all day instead of talking to some fucking journalist for television. LEONOR | Me too. But it’s work. I have to go. Reality calls.

RENZO | This one isn’t just work. It’s going to hurt. Not ready, are you? LEONOR | Do you have to ask? RENZO | You didn’t bring it up again. Last opportunity.

LEONOR | [whispers] It’s so close. A year. It didn’t feel like anything—I knew it would happen, that’s all—and now I can feel it. Right here, in my chest. Bigger and bigger. RENZO | I know. LEONOR | Will it always be like this? RENZO | Yes. Sometimes it gets easier. Sometimes it doesn’t.

LEONOR | And if it doesn’t? RENZO | You can handle it. LEONOR | How do you know that? RENZO | Hell if I know. Being beat over the head with life experience. Knowing you. Lucky guess? Gut feelings are truth, usually.

RENZO | No tears. You’ll mess up your eyeliner. LEONOR | It’s okay. They all want to see me cry anyway. RENZO | Yeah, well, fuck that—I don’t.

LEONOR | Maybe later? Ruin my eyeliner, I mean. RENZO | Happy tears, sure. We can arrange that. LEONOR | Good. I need something to look forward to.