#Ali Auditorium

[paulpingminho]

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

A Duet of Fire and Fate

Part Three | Series Masterlist

Summary: tensions between Aemond and the pianist reach boiling point | Word Count: 4.6k~ | Warnings: smut, semi-public sex, forced proximity, mummy issues

There was a sense of unease about being awake at this time. An early riser, Aemond was, but even this was pushing it for him as he sat on the creaky bus, having to listen to the way plastic and metal jolted his bones with every little divot in the road, only amplifying the disquiet that was equally happening inside his head.

Glancing at his watch, the gold hands mocked him once more. 5:49 in the morning.

That morning, Alys had made her stance painfully clear: their encounters had to end. She seemed to realise that their relationship had become merely a means to an end, a way for him to escape his pressures. The implication that she felt used weighed heavily on Aemond, even though she framed her decision in practical terms.

"You need to focus on your music, not me," she had said, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. It was a logical decision, one that should make perfect sense to a disciplined musician like him. Yet, as he turned her words over in his mind, they struck a dissonant chord.

The thought of facing Otto's incessant messages about organising a meticulous solo practice session, only to nitpick at his every perceived flaw, was unbearable. So, Aemond sought refuge in the numbing scroll of social media, anything to ward off the encroaching silence of the apartment.

As his thumb flicked mechanically across the screen, a thought struck him, a reckless impulse that had been lurking in the back of his mind. He paused, his heart rate ticking upward with the audacity of what he was about to do. Swiping out of the mundane updates and into the search bar, he typed her name, the pianist who had so effortlessly invaded his thoughts and challenged his perspectives.

Her profile wasn’t hard to find, her public persona was as vibrant and engaging as her performances. There she was, in photos and tagged videos, her presence as dynamic online as it was in person. Each post, each snippet of her life and art, pulled him in deeper, her world unfolding before him through the glow of his phone screen.

The more he watched, the more he realised how much she had begun to permeate his thoughts, challenging not just his musical ideals but the very way he viewed his art. It wasn’t just professional curiosity, it was something more, something deeper. A connection he hadn’t anticipated, one he wasn’t sure he wanted, but also one he couldn’t seem to deny.

He thought perhaps a nice, hot shower would clear his thoughts with heavy ribbons of steam, near-scalding his pale skin as droplets of water slid off his body. His hair clung to his neck, falling in strips around his face as he stared at his reflection on the drain cover. Sometimes he could not bear to even look at himself.

But even with his eyelids pressed tightly shut, he did not know peace.

He was sixteen again, standing on the stage of a packed auditorium. The applause had faded, and he was left alone with Otto, whose presence loomed larger than the praise had ever felt. Otto's face was stern, his eyes dissecting not just the performance, but Aemond himself. "That was adequate, Aemond, but only just," Otto had said, his voice cold and precise. "Your bowing was sloppy in the second movement. You must control every motion, every emotion." Aemond's hands had trembled with a mix of exertion and suppressed anger. He had poured his heart into that performance, felt every note resonate within him, but Otto saw only flaws. "Control, always control," Aemond muttered under his breath, his grip tightening on the neck of his cello. Otto had caught the muttered defiance. "What was that?" he snapped, stepping closer. "If you have something to say, speak clearly, boy." "Nothing," Aemond replied, his voice low, but inside, a storm was brewing. Otto’s relentless criticism after every performance, his inability to see anything but the mistakes, Aemond felt like a vessel about to burst. That night, back at the music academy, in the solitude of the practice room, Aemond stared at his cello. The beautiful instrument, which had always been his voice, now felt like a chain. In a moment of blinding rage, a desire to break free from Otto’s relentless grip, he did the unthinkable. With a shout that echoed through the empty room, Aemond lifted his cello and smashed it against the floor. Wood splintered, strings snapped, a harsh, discordant noise that was the antithesis of everything he had been taught to produce. The destruction was quick, but the silence that followed was heavy, filled with the weight of what he had done. But didn’t regret it one bit.

Aemond opened his eyes, the memory leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He had eventually replaced the cello, and Otto had never mentioned the incident, assuming it had been an accident. But something inside Aemond had changed that day. The act of destruction, though regrettable, had been his first real rebellion, his first step toward finding his own voice amidst the oppressive expectations placed upon him.

Now, years later, as he considered reaching out to the pianist, he realised he was standing at another crossroads. Would he continue to conform to the stringent demands of his classical training, or would he dare to explore the emotional depth that she so effortlessly embodied in her music?

Stood there, beneath the stream of water that had now ran cold, Aemond felt the old, familiar stirrings of rebellion. This time, however, it wasn't about destruction but about discovery. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to smash through the invisible barriers he had erected around his music and his heart.

The loud chattering and messy runs of various instruments made it difficult to concentrate. She found herself blinking hard and tiredly, willing the exhaustion away. Lyonel Strong had yet to arrive to conduct today's practice, and so everyone had taken it as an excuse to not practise at all.

"Can you believe this?" Jason called out from across the room, his voice tinged with annoyance. He was leaning against the wall, his violin hanging loosely in his hand. "Lyonel's late again. We could have started at least half an hour ago."

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I know, Jason. But complaining isn't going to make him appear any faster."

Maris, with her fiery red hair and a perpetual scowl, was plucking at her strings, each note more discordant than the last. "It's not just Lyonel," she snapped. "Half of you can't even play your parts right. Couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery.”

The others chimed in, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of complaints and criticisms. Jason and Maris continued to bicker, their frustration with each other and the situation palpable. She tried to mediate, her soft voice lost in the din, while others muttered under their breath or joined in the argument.

The pianist tuned out the noise, focusing instead on marking her music sheets. She meticulously made notes, adding small annotations to help guide her through the piece. The process was calming, a small island of order in the midst of the chaos around her. She could hear snippets of the ongoing argument, but she chose to ignore them, her mind drifting.

Their band was a far cry from Aemond's. His ensemble operated with a precision and unity that seemed almost unattainable for her group. Every member of his band knew their role, their place, and they worked together seamlessly. In contrast, her band felt like a collection of individuals, each with their own agenda, their own frustrations.

When Lyonel eventually decided to join them, having had his fill of several espressos, their practice could finally begin. The tension lingered, a constant reminder of the disunity that plagued them. As she played, her thoughts drifted to the upcoming competition, the inevitable clash with Aemond's band. She knew they needed to be better, to be more cohesive, if they were going to stand a chance.

"Can I have a word?" Lyonel asked authoritatively as she was packing her things away with practised efficiency. The room had cleared, others wanting to escape the confining claws of his teachings.

She nodded, trying to mask the fatigue she felt. "Of course."

Lyonel glanced around the now-empty room before speaking. "I wanted to talk to you about your solo performance."

She had known for a while that she would have a solo, but the way he said it now made her stomach twist with unease. "Yes, sir?"

Lyonel studied her for a moment longer, then sighed, his stern demeanour slipping. "Look, I know our chemistry as a band isn't perfect," he admitted, his voice softer. "But that’s exactly why we need you to shine. Your solo can elevate the entire performance. It can make up for the lack of cohesion."

She bit her lip, feeling a mix of frustration and resignation. "I understand the importance of my solo, but wouldn’t it be better if we worked on our chemistry as a band? If we played better together, maybe the pressure wouldn’t have to fall entirely on one person."

Lyonel’s expression hardened again, though not unkindly. "I know it’s not fair. But with the time we have left, we need to play to our strengths. And right now, you are our strength."

She wished he would address the root issue instead of putting all the pressure on her, but she knew better than to argue further. "I'll do my best," she said finally.

Lyonel placed a hand on her shoulder, a rare gesture of support. "I know you will. Just remember, it’s not just about you out there. It’s about all of us. We’re counting on you."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She stood there for a moment, letting his words sink in. The pressure was immense, but so was the opportunity.

“Music is in your blood, my dear.”

Memories of her family surfaced unbidden. Her father, a renowned classical musician, had always been a looming figure in her life. His talent and success were legendary, casting a long shadow over her own musical ambitions. Yet, despite his fame, he had left her mother for another woman within the same industry when she was still a child. The betrayal had torn their family apart.

Her mother, once supportive of her daughter's musical pursuits, had become bitter and resentful. The very sight of a piano seemed to deepen the rift between them. "You'll end up just like him," her mother would say, the words dripping with disdain. "Consumed by music and blind to everything else.”

Their relationship had deteriorated to the point where they barely spoke. Communication was limited to snotty texts, her mother’s disapproval seeping through every word. Her mother couldn't understand why she wanted to follow the same path that had destroyed their family.

On the other hand, her father would occasionally reach out, but his messages were infrequent and perfunctory. His busy schedule left little room for meaningful connection. When he did find time to call, his conversations were often laced with criticism.

She often found herself caught between two worlds, one that resented her passion and another that demanded perfection. She longed for approval, for a sense of belonging that seemed always just out of reach.

Her fingers hurt but she didn't care. She stood on stage, feeling like a million dollars, soaking in applause that rang in her ears, the first place medal cool against her chest. But as her eyes scanned the crowd, searching desperately for a familiar face, for her mother, she felt her stomach sink. Her heart pounded harder than it had during her performance, but for all the wrong reasons. The rush of victory, the adrenaline that should have been pumping through her veins, was rapidly replaced by a hollow feeling. She stepped off the stage, clinging to the hope that maybe her mother had just been late or stuck in traffic. Maybe she’d be waiting outside, apologising for missing the performance, but there nonetheless. She checked her phone, scrolling through her contacts until her mother’s name flashed on the screen. Her hands shook as she dialled. It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Voicemail. The third call, the fifth, the eighth, it all blurred together as she wiped at her eyes. By the tenth attempt, her hands were trembling, and the high of winning was a distant memory. She dialled again, fighting back tears that threatened to spill over. When the voicemail beeped once more, she paused, then finally spoke, her voice breaking. "I won, Mum…” She stared at her phone for a long moment before slipping it back into her bag. The title, the first-place medal,  they felt like nothing now.

Packing up her sheet music, she made her way towards the practice rooms, and as if on cue, a text buzzed in her pocket. With a sigh, she opened the message from her mother, bracing herself for the usual criticism.

Your father mentioned you have a competition coming up. 

She rolled her eyes. As if her mother had expected her to bite when that is the bait.

No ‘how are you’ or ‘how is music school’. No. It was always about how she had to not follow the same path as her father and not let music consume her like it had him.

Whenever her thoughts drifted to him, she found herself sinking into confusion. However distant he was, she still craved his approval. Longing for him to say he was proud of her. Just once.

She slipped through the doors with the hotheaded mindset that she would do better. Determined. But she halted when she heard the familiar whine of a delicate instrument she had come to know so well. If her shoes hadn’t squealed against the varnished, wooden floor, she wouldn’t have disturbed him from his practice. But like an animal primed for distractions, Aemond’s head whipped up from his cello, his expression hardening once he saw her.

“I have this room booked.”

She narrowed her eyes, her jaw tightening. "Funny, because I do too."

Aemond's lips pressed into a thin line, his annoyance palpable. "You must have made a mistake."

She shook her head, stepping further into the room. "No mistake. Maybe you're the one who needs to check the schedule.”

She slipped her bag off her shoulder, searching it with her back turned to him. Her hands shook with frustration, the build-up of the day lingering with fire in her blood. She froze when she stared at her blue tinted screen, seeing that somehow…

Double booked.

“You're not going to leave, are you,” Aemond muttered annoyed.

She turned to face him, an eyebrow raised. “Why should I? I have as much right to be here as you do.”

Aemond smirked, leaning casually against his cello. “Is that how you justify it? Riding on the coattails of your daddy’s fame?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“You know,” he continued, his voice dripping with condescension, “the big famous musician embroiled in scandal. Must be tough living in that shadow.”

Her jaw clenched. “You don’t know anything about my family.”

“Oh, but I do,” he said, setting aside his instrument to taking a step closer. “Everyone does. It’s quite the story, isn’t it? Daddy leaves Mummy for someone else in the industry. Must be quite the inspiration for your music. I knew I'd seen your surname around somewhere. Turns out it was the tabloids.”

Her hands tightened, her nostrils flaring with irritation.

“Aw, sore spot?” he taunted, enjoying the way her eyes flashed with anger.

She took a deep breath, trying to keep her composure. “You think you’re so much better than everyone else, don’t you?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe I am.”

“That arrogance is going to be your downfall one day,” she shot back.

“And your baggage is going to be yours,” he replied smoothly.

Without warning, she stepped closer, their faces inches apart. “You want to talk about family baggage? Let’s talk about yours.”

Aemond’s eyes darkened. The smile, victoriously wiped from his face. “Careful.”

“Why? Can’t handle it?” she challenged. “Maybe you throw accusations of daddy issues because you have them yourself—”

“Watch it.”

“Or what? You’ll keep me from practising? You’ll sabotage me?” she retorted, stepping closer. “You're a fucking coward—”

The door to the practice room opened abruptly, and the sound of footsteps interrupted their heated exchange. Without thinking, Aemond grabbed her arm and pulled her into the storage room, shutting the door quietly behind them. They stood in the cramped space, their breaths mingling in the darkness.

The footsteps in the practice room slowed, followed by the unmistakable murmur of voices. Aemond stiffened, his body going rigid against hers, and for a split second, all he could smell was her perfume and feel the rapid fluttering of her heart against his chest. The weight of the voices hit him hard, and he recognised them immediately.

Otto.

And Lyonel.

His heart pounded harder now, not only from the closeness of her body, but of the two men outside the door.

Otto's voice carried through the thin walls. “I trust you’ve got a firm hand on your group.”

Lyonel made a noise of agreement, but there was a subtle edge to his tone. “They're a bit disjointed, but not as much as I hear yours are.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched. Neither of them dared to breathe too loudly, straining to hear the conversation outside, but the pressure between them, physical and emotional, was unbearable.

“That is none of your business,” Otto's voice was guarded. Icy.

Aemond’s breath hitched, and she felt the sharp intake of air against her ear, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. His hand slid to brace himself against the wall beside her, his body pressing more firmly against hers not out of seeking comfort, but simply because he had no choice.

“Hmm, your grandson I hear is a bit of a wild card.”

“He’s difficult, but I’ve trained him for this. He just needs focus.”

The footsteps shifted, and for a moment it seemed like they were heading toward the door of the storage room. Her mouth opened but Aemond’s hand shot up, covering her mouth as he leaned in even closer. His eyes widened in silent warning. 

Her pulse quickened.

"Your grandson is a good player," Lyonel said, a hint of frustration in his tone. "But from what I've seen, he’s too rigid. No room for improvisation. He might fall apart when things get unpredictable."

Aemond’s teeth clenched, his hand now gripping the edge of the shelf beside her. She could feel the tension vibrating off him, and she fought the urge to push him back and say something. But they couldn’t risk being heard.

“That’s why you’re counting on her, aren’t you?” Otto’s voice was quieter now, almost conspiratorial. “Your pianist, what’s her name again? She’s your only shot at taking the solo.”

Lyonel chuckled softly. “She’s going to win it for us. I have no doubt about that.”

The footsteps began to fade, the two continuing to speak about where the final performance would be held, and she heard the distant click of the door closing. Aemond finally released her, but the tension between them was far from gone. The room seemed smaller, the air heavier with the weight of everything unsaid.

She pushed against his chest suddenly, a sharp shove that didn’t budge him an inch. “What the fuck was that for–”

I am no fucking coward.

“Just stop fucking talking," he growled, cutting her off with a kiss that was as furious as it was desperate.

She felt the hardness of the wall behind her as Aemond shoved her against it, grounding her as he deepened the kiss, exploring with an urgency that made her breath hitch. Coupled with that was the hardness that pressed against her stomach. It was a fight in that of itself, the clashing of their lips and teeth only intensifying what was already a fiery dynamic.

There was something exhilarating about it. And as her fingers weaved into his hair, pulling him closer, no matter how small the gesture, it solidified the simple fact that he needed this. She was intensity personified. And he was drawn to it like a moth to a flame, in his personal and in his musical life, combined in one dangerous cocktail that was her. It wasn’t only lust, it was an addiction to the thrill of the chase, the danger that came with being so close to her. His rival, his obsession.

He trailed kisses down her neck, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat beneath his lips as she arched up against him in silent encouragement. But he was the one who pulled her legs around him, rucking her black skirt up to her hips and ripping ladders into her tights as he shoved them down her legs, his movements frantic and needy, as if he were a man starved of water. She was soft and yielding beneath him, yet there was a strength in her grip that intrigued him still.

Clothes. Fucking clothes.

He perhaps thought that if he tried to mould himself to her. If he could just be inside her for a moment, would he be able to understand her? To absorb her.

The urgency of their actions felt reckless, yet a part of him revelled in it. It was the kind of intimacy he craved, the kind that made him forget everything else. 

She gasped against his mouth as if completely not expecting the blunt head of his cock against her, his fingers having wrenched the gusset of her underwear aside to press against her bare skin. And she felt heat rise to her cheeks when she glanced down between them, watching the way his length glistened as he teased himself against her slit. The spontaneity of the moment meant that while she was not completely wet, it was embarrassing that she was at all.

She dare not look him in the face. He was doing this to prove he knew what he did to her. To let her sit in this feeling of resentment for responding to it.

And yet she would not admit how it stole her breath away when he firmly pressed into her. There was something exciting about the feeling of being partly unprepared. Her ego somewhat inflated that he simply couldn't wait a moment more. But the sting of it as he slid to the hilt reminding her that she would most certainly be sore the next morning.

He wanted her to feel it.

But equally, she wanted him to want it. And the breathy whimper he gave when he pulled back to push his hips back against her, made her think that he absolutely did.

And he didn't wait. His movements became frantic, each thrust igniting a fire deep within. Her breath hitched, and he felt a flicker of satisfaction at how easily he could provoke such a response from her. There were no words. If there were, they would have carried the same fire that had simmered for days, weeks.

Had it only taken weeks for him to crave her.

Her nails dug into his back, grounding him. And so his grip tightened around her thighs as he drove into her, as if holding on to her could tether him to something solid, something real. He could feel the tension in her muscles, the sharp gasps escaping her lips, the way she arched into him. And he knew, he knew this wasn’t just him.

They were both lost in it, both fighting against and succumbing to whatever this was. He wanted to hate her, to despise her for how easily she got under his skin, but in this moment, all he could feel was her, the way she wrapped around him, the way she pulled him deeper.

She wasn’t supposed to mean anything to him, just another obstacle, another rival to conquer. But her taste was on his tongue, her scent filled his lungs, and her body felt like the answer to a question he’d been too afraid to ask.

He raised his gaze from where they were joined, plunging into her with abandon, less about pleasure and now more about the release. 

Aemond's grip shifted, his hand trailing up her neck, his fingers curling gently around her throat. Not in a way that threatened, but in a way that demanded attention.

“Look at me.”

She hesitated for a beat, then her eyes flickered up, locking with his. A flush spreading over her cheeks, a soft pink bloom that travelled down her neck. His gaze was relentless, searching her expression.

Look at me.

He could see it now, the way her composure was slipping, the way she was coming undone beneath him. That small, vulnerable break in her guarded facade was everything, and it only drove him deeper into the need to witness her fall apart, to be the one who made her unravel.

Aemond felt the shift in her body first, the subtle tremor that ran through her as she neared the edge. Her head tipped back against the wall, her eyes fluttering shut as she finally surrendered to the intensity between them. He felt her body tense and then shudder as she came apart beneath him, the quiet, breathless moan escaping her lips like music. Soft, involuntary, raw.

It wasn't the feeling of her trembling around him, more the sight. He couldn't hold back any longer. His grip tightened around her hips as he followed her over the edge, his body trembling with the force of his release. His forehead dropped to her shoulder, his breaths ragged, the tension that had been coiled inside him snapping with a fierce, undeniable rush.

After, they stood still, bodies pressed together, the lingering heat between them slowly dissipating. For a brief moment, as he felt her skin warm under his hands, there was a flicker of vulnerability. But as quickly as it came, it was drowned out by something darker. Regret. A sharp, suffocating regret that sank deep into his chest.

He had given her power. Ammunition. She could use this, twist it, turn it against him. The walls he had carefully built around himself felt as if they had cracked in her presence, and that thought made him recoil internally.

She let out a quiet breath as he pulled away, feeling the loss of him instantly, followed rapidly by the warmth dribbling down her thigh. His hands worked swiftly to do up his belt, his movements mechanical and detached. He couldn’t look at her. Couldn't let her see the conflict etched across his face.

If he had looked. He'd be more irritated by what he saw.

She stood there, half-naked and breathless, the flush of their shared moment still on her skin. He didn’t stop to think about how she might feel, the confusion, the embarrassment, the sense of being used. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t let it matter.

She was never going to see that side of him again.

Without so much as a glance back, Aemond turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving her alone in the suffocating quiet, half-naked and stunned.

Aemond snatched up his cello as he left.

Leaving her behind, vulnerable and half-dressed, he had merely traded one form of destruction for another. But he’d rather face the self-imposed torture of his strings than the unpredictable vulnerability of human connection.

Swapping one prison for another, the cello felt safer. At least this was a pain he knew how to manage.

General Taglist: @1lluminaticonfirmed @aemondsfavouritebastard @all-for-aemond @bellstwd @blackswxnn

@blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @cl-0-vr @eddieslut69

@emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

@minholy223 @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @nixiefics

@primonizzutto @qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @sheshellsseashells

[myfavoritepeterotoole]

David Lean and Omar Sharif in the lobby of New York's Criterion Theatre beside the poster of Peter O'Toole as T. E. Lawrence

Lawrence of Arabia (1962) directed by David Lean

Peter O'Toole as T. E. Lawrence

Omar Sharif as Sherif Ali

*** The Criterion Theatre finally closed on May 4, 2000 and was gutted internally to become a massive Toys R Us store, which itself closed in December 2015. The auditorium now is occupied by a Duane Reade Drug Store, a soon to open (2021) tourist attraction ride, and Starbucks (on the stage). https://cinematreasures.org/theaters/528

[sillyname30]

I just listened to the latest episode of and that's what you really missed on Glee. Jenna and Kevin were both multitasking until the first song (You're All I Need to Get By) caught their attention. In other word: They don't bother to sit down for 40 minutes to watch the episode. And they are stupid enough to talk about it.

Anything Coud Happen: Becca, Vanessa, Alex, Sam were missing. A lot of the seniors were in this episode. They couldn't afford everybody, so they had to release some of the current glee club in order to suffice for the cast that they needed to pay. (There were so many people on Glee, I never noticed if someone wasn't there. Chord was in this episode though. Maybe he got sick.)

Kevin felt really awkward filming the bed scene with Ali.

Kevin talking about the hotel hallway: We had three main stages at Paramount. We had the school setup, we had the auditorium and attachted to the school we had NYADA. NYADA used to be Will's apartement. And then we had two smaller stages attached that were used for things that changed every episode.

Around this time they were all looking at their phones between takes and when they heard action they hid the phones under their legs or seats. Brad Fulchuk confronted them, because he could see the phones in the dailies. He went around with a little box and everybody had to give up their phone.

Cringe moments: asian bird flu, Emma telling her student her niece has big boobs.

Best dance: Artie (Jenna), You're All I Need to Get By (both)

best song: Getting Married Today (I don't really like the song, but I admire what Jayma did. It was so fast. It was amazing that she pulled that off. Jenna and Kevin didn't mention Amber. It was the first and last time we heard her sing like that. And Matthew was good too.)

performance mvp: Jayma

[presleypictures]

Elvis and Priscilla at Ellis Auditorium in Memphis to watch a closed-circuit broadcast of the Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier fight which took place at MSG in New York – March 8, 1971.

[eptodaytommorowforever]

Elvis Presley and Wife Priscilla Presley attended the broadcast of the first Ali-Frazier fight at Ellis Auditorium In Memphis Elvis Presley wore his gold “championship” belt from the International Hotel as seen here in these two rare b/w candid photo’s on the 8th March here in 1971. He was joined by a large group of guys and former sheriff Bill Morris.

[pocketfulofelviss]

03/08/1971: Elvis and Priscilla attend the first Ali-Frazier fight at the Ellis Auditorium. Elvis is wearing the golden ‘trophy’ belt given to him by the International Hotel and he’s accompanied by the guts and the Sheriff Bill Morris. 👮 🥊 * #elvispresley #presley #theking #graceland #elvis #smile #love #idol #music #iconic #vintage #style #classy #vintagefashion #kingofmusic #rockandroll #sideburns #blessedsoul #rip #elvisthepelvis #memphis #tupelo #soldier #elvislegacy #epe https://www.instagram.com/p/CphbAiusDn8/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[emabatis]

WIP Questionnaire

Thanks to @sleepy-night-child for the tag!

I'm tagging @chauceryfairytales @magscrane and anyone else who feels called to do it!

I'm doing this for "What Dahlia Knows"

1. What’s the first part of your WIP that you created?

Dahlia and Emilie are old characters of mine. I've been doodling them since I was about 15, but it wasn't until last year that I thought up a real story for them. The first line, though, "Every night, after Mother’s footsteps faded down the hall, Dahlia knelt in front of her water stained window and prayed that her daddy would never get better. This practice was to make sure he did get better, because Dahlia had discovered through vigorous trial-and-error that whatever she prayed for would never come true," has been a part of Dahlia since the beginning.

2. If your story was a TV show, what would the theme song/intro be?

Something like L'eternite by ALI PROJECT

3. What are your favorite characters that you made? Why?

I love all of my characters, but I have a special place for Ruth. I love her mystique. She talks like how I wish I could talk.

4. What other pieces of media do you think your fanbase would share?

I think my hypothetical fanbase would like old children's books, like The Secret Garden or Anne of Green Gables. Also, Lemony Snicket.

5. What has been your biggest struggle with your WIP?

The ending! The reason it's taken so long to finish my first draft is because I must've rewritten the ending a dozen times by now. I did actually start writing with an ending in mind, but with the direction the middle has taken it, I'm not sure it's the most satisfying option anymore. Much to ponder.

6. Are there any animals in your story? Talk about them!

No major animals, unless the incidental birds count, but Emilie does have a stuffed dog she carries everywhere. The stuffed dog not having a name is a bit of a callback to my own childhood, when I could never remember the names I'd given my many stuffed animals. Even today, I don't name my dolls, partially because it feels like imposing human ideals onto inhuman beings, but also because I'd never keep them all in my head.

7. How do your characters travel/get around?

Walking. Again, a callback to my childhood living in a very walkable area.

8. What part of your WIP are you working on right now?

Again, the ending. I actually really love editing, so I want to get to that as soon as possible, but tying everything together is really a struggle.

9. What aspects (tropes, maybe?) you think will draw your audience in?

The cryptic dead mentor, the kids walking around and having philosophical arguments unsupervised, and the prose style.

10. What are your hopes for your WIP?

That I'll finish it, that I'll be able to send copies to my local libraries, that I'll get to do one of those school auditorium author-visits.

[derekklenadaily]

NEWS: According to Playbill, Derek and Ali Stroker will be performing at the Carnegie Hall's Stern Auditorium/Perelman Stage for the New York Pops' 21 Century Broadway Concert on October 27th at 8 PM EST.

They will be replacing Elizabeth Stanley and Jeremy Jordan respectfully due to scheduling conflicts. Hailey Kilgore and Javier Muñoz will be part of the lineup along with Steven Reineke as a musical director and conductor.

[catchingbigfish]

~ find the word tag game

i was tagged by @words-after-midnight! my words are midnight, moon, fire, clock, and wings. i'm going to be pulling from the first draft of so it goes!

i'm tagging @horrormama, @blind-the-winds, @winterandwords, @captain-kraken, and anyone else who wants to participate! your words are cloud, branch, tree, animal, and stars!

midnight

“Okay.” Marisa dug her phone out of her purse. “Do I send the text now?” “Marisa, it is midnight. We’re eating Chinese food in an abandoned playground in the middle of the night in winter.” She looked at Marisa, waiting for her to connect the dots. She sighed. “No, don’t send the text right now. Just eat and when you wake up tomorrow, send a polite email thanking Katie for the offer but express your regrets you simply don’t feel it’s right for you.”

moon

Marisa was at her eye level and looked intently at her face. “Do I know you?” she asked. “You look familiar.” The woman shrugged. “Any sisters?” She shook her head. “Someplace quieter?” Marisa nodded and let herself be dragged into the back yard where a swing rocked in the corner, next to a bonfire where a couple messily kissed. “Sophia,” the woman said. “Nice to meet you.” It came out more like ya, a hint of an accent belying her assumedly Minnesotan roots. “Marisa.” Sophia nodded knowingly; Ali had already let her know. “When’d she get to you?” Marisa asked with another head tilt. “I got to her,” Sophia corrected. “I saw her bring you in.” Marisa smiled, shyly to her own surprise, and swigged her beer. The two women sat on the swing and talked for hours. They did not notice the crowd bulge, peak, and begin to thin out. They did not notice the moon rise and the bonfire die down. They stayed on the swing until Ali stumbled over and loudly announced the party was over, reaching out her hand to help Marisa stand up.

fire

They stood at the stream, watching fireflies dotting the horizon like sparks from a wildfire. Marisa often felt like Isaiah was water — a cooling, soothing presence in her life, something rushing around her and encasing her in tenderness. Today, leaning in to him, she felt like he was fire. Still nourishing and warming, but at a distance. Getting too close could hurt, but she was willing to risk it. She wondered if Isaiah thought of her as ice, maybe, or earth — something stalwart, steady, but resisting.

clock

“I don’t know,” Ali mumbled. She flopped the cover over her face, then back off, then over it. She was being repetitive again — it was another behavior Marisa recognized from childhood. She would lock into patterns, lean into the comfort of the same thing happening over and over. Marisa was intimately familiar with that technique herself; she found nothing more comforting than the tickticktick of an analog clock, even today.

wings

They followed their usual routine and arrived just early enough to score a good table in the wings of the auditorium where he would be playing, but not early enough to deal with the crowds for the meet and greet. They ordered drinks and sat at the table talking about Sophia’s new class while waiting for the lights go down and the crowds to get loud. The music was throbbing, throwing the crowd around in one large cohesive body, drowning out every sound. Marisa was blissed out in the din, watching Sophia’s back as she turned to watch the show and bobbed in and out of the light dancing. She sipped at her drink, letting the vibes wash over her while she rode the sound. She was surprised when the lights came back up, thinking it had only been a few songs when the full set had ended and the encore was a song she recognized from Isaiah’s car, the hook quoting the Vonnegut story he’d told her about not that long ago.

[paulpingminho]

[mileyscyrusspecial]

Miley Cyrus attending the American Music Awards held at the Shrine Auditorium on November 21, 2006 in Los Angeles, California - with Billy Ray Cyrus, Amanda Joy Michalka and Aly Michalka.

[ippnoida]

Arundhati Roy to be prosecuted under UAPA over 2010 speech

Delhi's lieutenant governor VK Saxena has given the go-ahead to prosecute writer and novelist Arundhati Roy in connection with alleged provocative statements made at a 2010 event propagating Kashmiri separatism. The author will be prosecuted under Section 13 of the stringent Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act, 1967, media reports said. 

Sheikh Showkat Hussain, former professor of International Law at the Central University of Kashmir, will also face action under UAPA for his alleged statements at the same event in New Delhi’s LTG auditorium in 2010.

Eight months ago, the L-G granted permission to prosecute them under Sections 153A, 153B and 505 of Indian Penal Code.

Section 13 of the UAPA deals with advocating, abetting or inciting any unlawful activity and is punishable with imprisonment for up to seven years.

The FIR against was registered in October 2010 on a complaint by Sushil Pandit, following the orders of the Court of the Metropolitan Magistrate, New Delhi. The other two accused in the case — Sayed Ali Shah Geelani, a Kashmiri separatist leader and Syed Abdul Rahman Geelani, a Delhi University lecturer — have both died over the course of the proceedings.

[rocknews]

Imtiaz Ali's Emotional Journey at Amar Singh Chamkila Premiere

Imtiaz Ali, the acclaimed filmmaker, found himself overwhelmed at the premiere of "Amar Singh Chamkila" on Monday night. Despite being the creator of the film, Imtiaz was initially unable to find a seat in the packed auditorium of PVR, which was bursting at the seams with nearly 400 eager viewers. The star-studded event, attended by luminaries such as Shabana Azmi, Mrunal Thakur, and Diljit Dosanjh, marked a poignant moment for Imtiaz.

As the lights dimmed and the film began, Imtiaz eventually found a spot and immersed himself in the story alongside the audience. The premiere, hosted by Netflix in collaboration with MAMI Mumbai Film Festival, became a testament to the enduring legacy of Amar Singh Chamkila, Punjab's original rockstar.

Following the screening, Imtiaz took to the stage, visibly moved by the experience. Reflecting on the film, he remarked, "We have just made the film, but they have lived the life." Imtiaz's sentiments echoed the sentiment of the film, which chronicles the extraordinary journey of Amar Singh Chamkila from poverty to stardom, tragically cut short at the age of 27.

Imtiaz's emotional connection to the film was palpable as he shared his thoughts on Chamkila's enduring popularity. "Chamkila is the roof breaker artiste, and this film had to be houseful. It is owing to him," Imtiaz expressed. He attributed the overwhelming turnout to the indomitable spirit of Chamkila, whose music continues to resonate with audiences even today.

In a rare moment of introspection, Imtiaz marveled at the phenomenon of Chamkila's "hit spirit," which draws people in and fills venues to capacity. As he basked in the success of the premiere, Imtiaz Ali paid homage to the timeless legacy of Amar Singh Chamkila, whose music transcends generations and continues to inspire artists and audiences alike.

[news4usonline]

King's murder fueled Olympic boycott talk

Ed Temple was fully aware of what was going on around him. The young women he coached at Tennessee State University knew what time it was as well. This wasn’t the time to go dancing in the streets. The acts of rebellion spilled out over the United States like a dark cloud of sawdust by the time 1968 rolled around. Revolt and defiance were heavy in the air. Black athletes were just as attached to the movement for the call of social justice as civil rights leaders.     As black Americans, these individuals wanted to do their part to help bring about change as the next man. The fact that they were cheered while in athletic competition didn’t shade them from the full-frontal bigotry they endured and being treated with less respect than a cup of spit. Racism was just as embedded in this country’s falsehood of democracy as a slice of apple pie.

Dr. John Carlos (left) and Dr. Tommie Smith finished first and third in the men's 200 meters at the 1968 Summer Olympics. The two men later engaged in a human rights demonstration on the victory stand which resulted in the pair being sent back home immediately. Carlos and Smith are now revered for the stance they took in Mexico City, Mexico. Photo credit: San Jose State University It certainly was not a walk in the park.   That was highlighted in a call to arms as discussions of a full-fledged boycott by black athletes heated up as the 1968 Summer Olympics approached. This wasn’t something new to Temple. He had seen this drama play out before. Mal Whitfield, a three-time gold medalist and a former Tuskegee Airman with certified combat duty, called for black athletes to boycott and ditch the 1964 Tokyo Olympics altogether. Whitfield felt America needed to live up to its standard of treating all its citizens equally. The country, he reasoned, fell way short of that goal when it came to Negro Americans as he wrote in a commentary to Ebony magazine. “I advocate that every Negro athlete eligible to participate in the Olympic Games in Japan next October boycott the games if Negro Americans by that time have not been guaranteed full and equal rights as first-class citizens,” Whitfield said in the March 1964 edition of Ebony. “I make this proposal for two reasons: First, it is time for American Negro athletes to join in the civil rights fight – a fight that is far from won, despite certain progress made during the past year. For the most part, Negro athletes have been conspicuous by their absence from the numerous civil rights battles around the country. Second, it is time for America to live up to its promises of Liberty, Equality and Justice for all, or be shown up to the worlds as a nation where the color of one’s skin takes precedence over the quality of one’s mind and character,” Whitfield added.

Dr. Tommie Smith, speaking to an audience at the Santa Monica World Peace Ikeda Auditorium on Martin Luther King Jr. Day on Monday, Jan. 15, 2018, re-enacts the gloved-fist, Black Power salute that he and Dr. John Carlos exhibited at the 1968 Olympics. Photo by Dennis J. Freeman/News4usonline Dr. Harry Edwards and the Olympic Project for Human Rights (OPHR) picked up the mantle that Whitfield left behind. Edwards and OPHR, with card-carrying members Tommie Smith and Lee Evans, meant business about gutting the appearance of American black athletes at the Mexico City, Mexico Olympics. They had a pretty good impetus for this to come to fruition. To OPHR, athletics was just another arm of injustice used against black Americans. Starting with Muhammad Ali fighting to get back his heavyweight championship belt, OPHR wanted to see change. Ali saw his heavyweight title stripped because of his refusal to go into the United States military draft. OPHR also wanted the International Olympic Committee (IOC) to rid itself of president Avery Brundage, the same man who brokered the deal that gave Adolf Hitler the 1936 Berlin Olympics.  With these and other demands going on deaf ears, Edwards and OPHR ramped up their efforts to arouse the consciousness of the black athlete. It seemed to work. Dozens of colleges and universities were left to deal with the upheaval of black athletes requesting better treatment. Protest had been years in the making, so by the time 1968 rolled around, the black athlete was sick and tired of being sick and tired about the perceived abuse they faced.    In Smith, OPHR had the perfect national shot-caller. Smith was on top of the food chain in track and field, having collected 10 world records before he even set foot in Mexico City. His penned letter “Why Negroes Should Boycott the Olympics,” placed Smith alongside Whitfield in the bodacious Negro department.

Dr. Harry Edwards, who established the Olympic Project for Human Rights (OPHR), speaks at the San Jose University's Inspiration to Innovation Gala 2018 at the Events Center on the campus of San Jose State University on Thursday, Oct. 18, 2018, in San Jose, Calif. ( Josie Lepe/San Jose State University ) The one major difference was that Whitfield had already put behind his Olympic glory days. Smith was aiming to get his moment to shine, should it come to pass. He wasn’t too concerned about that. Smith was more alarmed at the way black Americans were treated.           As far as Evans, the introspective quarter-miler sort of blended in the background but had the same mindset as his “Speed City” brethren that something had to change…and change soon.               John Carlos decided to hop aboard the mutiny train after attending an OPHR meeting in which Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and other civil rights stalwarts made an appearance. According to Carlos, King wanted a full-fledged strategy behind the idea. The talk of a black athlete boycott was getting serious.             “Dr. King made it clear from the beginning that he wasn’t just there to lend moral support,” Carlos said in his book, “The John Carlos Story. “He wanted to help us out hammer a plan and he made it clear that he a public support of the Olympic boycott.” Temple didn’t want his runners to get too caught up in the outside noise that could possibly distract them from what he wanted them to achieve. That outside noise, however, was too loud for anyone to put their heads in the sand and pretend racial tensions had not become the epicenter of the nation’s pulse. The state of Tennessee was in the middle of all this noise when King took a gunman’s bullet on the side of the neck in the spring of 1968. The assassination of the civil rights icon in Memphis set off rioting in hundreds of cities. Temple and his group of athletes could not escape the reality of being black in America.      “I was devastated and sad like everybody else,” Temple said. “It happened in Memphis, Tennessee, so it happened not too far away from us. We felt like everybody else.” This article is an excerpt from a forthcoming book written by Dennis J. Freeman about the Olympics and the legendary Tennessee State Tigerbelles Read the full article