#American players theater

[laurelroadpoetry]

Fall time in Wisconsin.

[electricfox]

Went to go see Much Ado About Nothing at APT today!!! The play was wonderful but it was so, SO hot out so I was sweating by the end.

My favorite characters were probably Benedick and Beatrice, I loveeee how their actors portrayed them and their relationship ^_^

[irisbleufic]

REVIEW

Gatsby: An American Myth (Welch, Chavkin, Bartlett, Majok, & Tayeh; American Repertory Theater)

Something that most adaptations of Gatsby get wrong, whether film or stage, is the treatment of characters as archetypes rather than individuals. Symbolism drowns out most genuine attempts at capturing emotional connections and conflicts of personality. They forget that this story is not only a failure of the so-called American Dream; first and foremost, it’s a tragedy of failed roles and relationships. Almost every one of the players is attempting to be someone they are not, and even as they reach for what they believe they should want, they reveal with increasing fervor what they actually want. This is the heart of what makes Welch’s new adaptation so devastatingly, disarmingly unique, so true to its source.

The set design is literal wreckage. Crushed and warped automobile chassis scaffold the moving staircases, and concealed trap doors. The backdrop shows no clear incorporation of the infamous Eckleburg billboard; rather, it is made up of a dotted grid resembling headlights. These play out effects ranging from a downpour to camera flashes to, briefly and only once, a pair of eyes that make no effort to hide behind the owlish frames of glasses. The only thing infusing this jagged framework with meaning is the people who move through it.

The lighting design works with the set’s incongruences, deepening or excavating shadows as needed. The brightness, when it flares, is blinding. Jewel tones either enhance or diminish a costuming scheme that is composed of either very pale or very dark shades, no in between. And whether it’s the post-apocalyptic black and gray cabaret garb of the ensemble or the wealthy protagonists’ pale suits or the gunmetal and gray denizens of the wasteland, everyone’s trouser and skirt hems are conspicuously rimed with reddish dust. The visual effects are nearly impossible to describe without sounding like I had some kind of desperate fever dream.

So far, I realize that these descriptions of the set and lighting design sound like this production is about to fall into the trap of overplaying symbolism, but please bear with me. With all of that established, I can focus on what’s truly extraordinary here, what’s meant to and does shine unhindered. The acting, musicianship and vocals are all so precise that it was hard for me to believe this show is still in previews. It feels Broadway ready, West End ready, major international tours ready. If I was the production crew, I’d turn this loose on a massive scale from the get-go without a second thought.

Much like with Hadestown, the musicians are not down in an orchestra pit. They’re characters in their own right, present on the stage from start to finish on tiered risers that run up from the center on each side from one of the catwalks. I’m sure Chavkin’s involvement as director has everything to do with why this show feels so much like, moves so much like Hadestown. The company is on an equally small scale, about 23 - 25 people including the principals.

Costuming among the ensemble is delightfully gender agnostic. I mention a cabaret aesthetic earlier in this review, and I’m not kidding. If you had shown me the ensemble costume designs without showing me the principals’ designs, I would have assumed I was looking at a Cabaret revival. They’re the most talented dancers I’ve seen occupy one stage in more than a decade. The choreography relies on movements in eerie unison for a significant portion of the show, but not without allowance for individual flair within those constraints. The guy sitting next to me, when I spoke to him at the intermission, said he works as a choreographer in regional theater, and he’d never seen anything like this. I couldn’t agree more; the dancing is singular, and as impressive as the musicianship is, the dancing and unusual body movement are maybe the greatest achievements of this show on the living, breathing end of things. I could have watched the dancers for those three hours without any dialogue or vocal intervention and still understood the story. That takes so much fucking doing.

As for the principal cast, they’re constantly among the ensemble; when I say these are all triple threats in the purest sense of that terminology, I really mean it. You always expect a few of the principals to be less dance and movement focused, more polished on the acting and singing side, but this show gives you terrifying proficiency from every angle. Even the guy playing Meyer Wolfsheim is at the center of what I think is the most memorable dance number in the piece. I’ve just never seen such versatile principals all in one production. What’s even more extraordinary is that I had never heard of or previously seen any of them, and that takes some doing given how much live theater I’ve consumed in several decades of life.

Ironically, the musical composition is the one aspect of this production on which I’ll be spending the least time. I need not tell you why Welch and Bartlett were perfect for this job. They understood the assignment, and then some. There’s not a single weak number among the track listings, and I desperately hope they release a recording soon. The standout numbers all have something in common: they showcase Soleia Pfeiffer as Myrtle Wilson. You can tell that’s the role where Welch sank most of the sound that’s considered her signature style. I don’t even need to describe it; you already know what I’m talking about. What’s impressive otherwise is the restraint, the lack of over-reliance on that signature style.

The principals are fucking perfect. I’ve kept this review tautly professional without meaning to thus far, but from here on out is where I start bleeding feels all over the post. If you don’t already know who my blorbos are due to my writing history with a Gatsby-related novel (The Pursued and the Pursuing, 2021), you’re going to know by the time you’re done reading this. You’re going to know exactly who I love and why, who I hate and why, who I ship and why. But you’ll also know that I approach all three of those elements from a place of enjoying every moment of those characters, even the ones I hate. Nobody’s performance put me off or struck the wrong tone when taken in context of the novel and how the tragedy of how their relationships play out.

For a long time, I’ve been saying that there are certain support roles, certain sidekicks, that make or break the higher-profile person to whose side they’re stuck, ride or die, until the bitter end. Horatio is a great example that I’ve ranted about before; if your Hamlet production has a lackluster Horatio, then it doesn’t matter how good the Hamlet is. You have nothing if you don’t have the binary star system at the heart of that harrowing universe. I’ve seen other adaptations of Gatsby consistently fall apart because Nick Carraway is treated like the kind of voyeur who doesn’t matter, the kind of voyeur who serves as the audience’s eyes and ears, and nothing else. Anyway, this is all to say: Ben Levi Ross as Nick might be the most compelling argument I can make for the fact that the creative team behind this show understood the assignment. He’s awkward, warm, sincere, and reactive in all of the ways you need Nick to be. He’s not a passive observer; he’s in the middle of everything, and he knows it. There’s a self-deprecating response he makes when one character, Jordan if I’m not mistaken, quips that maybe he’s the reason for Gatsby’s parties for all he knows. “Maybe I am,” he says, and the tongue-in-cheekness belies a gutting meta-sincerity. We believe Daisy is the point, Gatsby believes Daisy is the point, but what’s borne out every breathtaking moment of this production is that Nick is the point. He always was. He’s also given his due as a gay man in context of the story for the first time ever. I might make some folks mad when I say Nick has always been gay; I’m going to point you to Myrtle’s apartment party and the hookup with Mr. McKee as textual evidence in the novel. The kiss with McKee, the hookup with McKee, is unapologetically here. His lack of belonging everywhere else he’s ever been, because he is gay, is unapologetically here. One of the most memorable numbers in the show hinges on the hope feels at being able to be himself in New York. Queer fans of Gatsby have been waiting a long time for this. Anyone who’s read the text closely and understood him has been waiting a long time for this. I’ve been waiting several decades as a reader, and I would’ve waited forever to have Nick so fully, lovingly realized.

One of the other things that Gatsby adaptations have persistently gotten wrong is the titular character himself. The invention of Jay Gatsby hides the underlying James Gatz, makes it feel as if that old self is truly subsumed, as if it never mattered. But Isaac Powell gives us a Jay who’s exactly as he should be, who can’t hide beneath his own attempt at artifice and reinvention worth a goddamn. He’s young (as young as Nick; they’re 32 and 30 respectively both in the novel and here), painfully earnest, and just barely keeping a handle on the criminal shit he’s had to do in order to get where he is. When he says old sport to Nick, it’s not an affectation; when he says it to Tom, it becomes a biting insult. This is a Jay who knows where and why he’s vulnerable; he latches onto Nick like a not because he sees a man close to Daisy that he can exploit, but because he sees another young man who’s equally vulnerable, equally an outsider, equally haunted by the things they had to do in the war. From the moment they meet, they are almost always touching—a hand on the shoulder, on the back, getting in social harm’s way for each other, eyes seeking each other without cease in the most crowded of settings. When Jay takes Nick to lunch to meet Wolfsheim (who has in this production taken on the function of Dan Cody as well), it’s not to have somebody else vouch for the artifice of who Jay Gatsby is. It’s taking Nick to meet his fucking father-figure, and all of the messy, sincere “if you hurt my boy, I’ll kill you” sentiment that Wolfsheim aims at Nick was the moment I knew just how much the Nick’s loss by the end was going to hurt. Jay’s love for Daisy is a ghost of itself, even if as painfully earnest as everything else about him. Meanwhile, his attachment to Nick is so disarmingly genuine from the start that you understand the true tragedy you’re about to watch untold: these men who need each other, maybe even were made for each other, each prove unable to step outside their parallel distractions from what they truly are to each other. Jay’s interactions with Daisy and Nick’s interactions with several male and/or gender ambiguous members of the ensemble have something in common, which is a shocking level of physicality. This show had an intimacy coordinator; that’s the level of no holds barred we’re talking about. When you look at Tom and Myrtle, you can see why that was merited, too.

Speaking of Tom (Cory Jeacoma), the treatment of him here is every bit as scary as it should be. There’s no attempt to make him palatable, unlike what I’ve seen done with him in other adaptations. He towers over everyone else in the cast, I mean everyone, to a physical degree that’s uncomfortable. The way his wife, lover, and friends all flinch when he gets too close to them speaks volumes to the fact that he’s an abuser in every sense of the term. Even Nick, the prodigal college friend from Yale, is on eggshells around him (which, by the hotel blowup at the end of the show, becomes a sneering, reckless contempt, one of the driving forces that drives Nick to put himself between Jay and Tom whenever real harm is on the table). At the same time, this is a Tom who sincerely loves his wife and was only ever using Myrtle as a fling. You can tell he never meant any of the promises he made Myrtle. When Daisy tells him she didn’t stop the car on purpose, it’s as if his wife’s unapologetic act of manslaughter (“It was her or me!”) is the thing that wins him back. They aren’t careless people; they are people who consciously choose, day in and day out, to use others until they’re bored or done with them. The ruthlessness of Tom and Daisy as a couple is impressive, played up to a level that I feel more adaptations should do without fear of exaggerating the text.

As mentioned above, Daisy (Charlotte MacInnes) is no delicate, nervous creature who can’t help her actions under duress. She knows what she’s doing every bit as much as Tom knows what he’s doing. They use people, hurt people because they get bored and restless and enjoy it. I respect a Daisy who’s in control of her actions every step of the way even if I don’t like her; it’s better than trying to depict her as weak and at the mercy of the men around her. She’s a pragmatist and a survivor. So many of her songs are about choices and being conscious of those choices. She is a person you should fear every bit as much as you fear her husband, and even Jordan knows she’s not safe in Daisy’s orbit.

As Jordan, Eleri Ward is one of the neatest personalities on stage. Like Tom, she’s noticeably taller than most, which gives her a commanding physical presence. She has no romantic interest in anyone; I fucking love that this production show her and Nick bonding on the basis of being queer and tired of everyone else’s shit. This is a more likable, relatable Jordan than I’ve seen in the past. This is a Jordan whose relationship to Gatsby is much more familiar and warm, much more akin to the friendship she forms with Nick. In fact, the queer-and-tired vibes that roll off several of the principals in this production are palpable.

Myrtle and Wilson (Matthew Amira) aren’t always played as effective foils for Daisy and Tom, but here? They unquestionably are. They do actually love each other in spite of the things they’ve done to hurt each other, and it’s a constant dance of daring each other, challenging each other. The most memorable duet in the entire show is between them, during Act II. The confrontation is positively electric. These are two people with deep, complicated history. Of all the couples in the show, they feel the most real, the most alive. It makes the loss of Myrtle so much more wrenching; she’s not just a plot device emblematic of the bad choices they’ve all been making. She’s not shallow or frivolous or anything like that. She’s a shrewd woman with complex motivations, and for the first time ever I find myself loving her and caring what happens to her. She’s thrust even further into the action in that one of her part time gigs is working as a maid at Gatsby’s parties, a conceit that works shockingly well and hastens the devastating consequences of her affair with Tom.

I’ve made mention of Meyer Wolfsheim’s (Adam Grupper) uniquely enhanced role previously, so I’d be remiss if I didn’t comment on him again. This is a man who does, in fact, seem to give a shit about Jay above and beyond using him as a tool in his criminal empire. It’s not necessarily a healthy father-son dynamic, but Wolfsheim is usually played as ruthless, opportunistic, inhumanly calculating. Here, he’s a charming, but unquestionably dangerous man moved by a young soldier’s plight. He seems conflicted between his love for Jay and his need to have Jay continue to hold the party line within their business relationship. Wolfsheim is deeply conflicted about Jay in a way that I haven’t seen any Wolfsheim be played previously. And, as I mentioned earlier, the actor has a showstopper of a song and dance number. That may be the #1 “I wasn’t expecting that, but I’ll take it!” moment for me in this show. And I say “may be” only because the moment that truly stopped my heart, will stay with me until everything else fades from memory, is perhaps only understandable in the context of my engagement with the text of Gatsby as a writer of transformative works.

Daisy’s and Tom’s daughter, Pam Buchanan doesn’t always appear in adaptations because she’s a toddler. Even in the novel, she a throwaway mention plus a single scene near the end where the nanny brings her out to meet Jay and Nick. She’s most often left as a throwaway mention without even grave of the scene where she appears. The scene in the novel, however brief, is memorable—and has been captured in all its fragile beauty for the first time in this adaptation. Jay and Nick both pay bewildered, wondering attention to this kid when she’s brought out. Jay drops to his knees and takes her hand when she greets him while Nick looks on in a moment of singular focus on both of them. The child who plays Pam here has a spark, an expressiveness that made me choke up even though she’s only on stage for a few minutes, if that. The tableau is one in which you can feel the shock of reality, however brief, touch on these men—Daisy’s and Tom’s reckless actions may yet do harm to someone who’s barely even begun to live her life, but who is just conscious enough to be a participant in it. They recognize that they, like this child, are probably in for a word of ruin—and that they have let it go on for so long that there’s now nothing they can do about it. For me, the deepest tragedy was watching Nick and Jay throw off that moment of heartbroken, horrified recognition prompted by Pam and return to the parts they’d decided to play out until the moment one of their hearts stopped.

Speaking of grief, of Nick’s grief since he’s the one who loses so much: there is only one person who loses more, and that’s Mr. Gatz, Jay’s father. They preserve his arrival at the house when Nick is the only person who stays around to carry out Jay’s funeral and burial. And when he arrives, the visceral shock of seeing his dark skin, braids, and beaded elements of Native regalia in juxtaposition with his otherwise period-typical Western garb underscore the tragedy of what young Jay was running away from, of what he never quite succeeded in erasing from himself. The burial scene shows Nick reverently bringing several of Jay’s folded shirts from the house and handing them down into the grave to Mr. Gatz, who places them reverently as possessions to accompany his son into thereafter. The cultural ramifications are all at once understated and devastating. Nick has moments with each of Jay’s father figures that are among the most complex and moving in the show. The program does not make clear the name of the ensemble member who takes on this most memorable of all Mr. Gatz appearances, and this erasure in and of itself is both unfortunate and telling. This is a world that never belonged to the majority of those who inhabit it, and Nick realizes it with heartbroken clarity after having this final interaction. Even though he’s an outsider, he’s part of a world that has erased and betrayed the man he loved so much at every turn.

The closing number, “We Beat On,” felt like it needed something more, but it utilized the final line of the novel to a deeply moving effect. The lights go down suddenly as the last word is sung; it feels like the song is half finished. When the lights came up, Nick and Jay were center stage in each other’s embrace, just withdrawing from each other as the entire company transitioned into final bows. That’s how I’ll remember them, always: touching even when they’ve already lost each other, borne ceaselessly back into each other’s arms. If Nick is Orpheus, then I have no doubt that he, too, will tell this story again and again until someday, somewhere, something gives.

[meazalykov]

halloween costume

laura freigang x actress!reader

summary: while going to a party with your fiancee, she starts to tease you about a reoccurring event

the sound of laughter and chatter fills the air as you step out of the car, hand in hand with laura. 

the crisp october air nips at your skin, but the warmth from your fiancée’s presence makes it bearable. you squeeze laura’s hand, flashing her a grin as the two of you approach the house where one of her teammates is hosting the huge halloween party.

"are you ready?" laura asks, her german accent smooth as ever, a playful smile tugging at her lips. 

she's dressed as a pirate, a leather vest hugging her athletic frame, a bandana tied around her dark blonde hair.

you’re dressed as a pirate as well, nearly identical to laura. 

"i think the real question is if you are," you tease, tugging at the collar of her vest. "after all, you’re frankfurt’s football star here. i’m just here for the snacks."

laura chuckles, eyes sparkling as she leans down to press a soft kiss to your temple. "you’re way more than that," she whispers, and you can’t help but blush a little. 

the party is packed, as expected. frankfurt players, local celebrities, and plenty of people from town crowd the house and yard, all dressed up in elaborate costumes. 

the energy is infectious, and you can’t help but feel excited. it’s been a while since you had time to just relax and enjoy yourself. with filming starting again in january, this time with laura is precious.

"look at all these costumes," you say, scanning the room as you walk inside. "everyone really went all out."

laura hums in agreement, her eyes also darting around the room. "there’s a lot of ghost faces too, huh?"

you snicker at her observation. it’s only been eight months since your portrayal of ghost face in the newest scream movie hit theaters, and clearly, the character has made quite an impression.

“maybe they’re trying to pay homage to me,” you joke, though there’s a proud twinkle in your eye. laura just smirks at your playful confidence.

as you weave through the crowd, you suddenly spot someone wearing a ghost face robe, a wig matching your hair color, and sfx makeup that looks eerily familiar to the scene where your character was killed.

"laura, look at that," you nudge her with your elbow, pointing at the person. "they look just like drew in the movie!"

drew was the name of your character.

laura glances over and bursts into laughter, clutching her side. "oh my god, they really do!"

you can’t help but join her, your laughter mixing with hers. it’s surreal and flattering all at once. 

you played ghost face in that movie, but it wasn’t just the mask — it was you underneath, with the same hair, the same body language. and now, here someone is, practically a carbon copy.

"that’s insane," you shake your head, amused. "guess i’m more popular than i thought."

"you’re the actress the world loves, babe," laura says with a wink. 

"germany might adore me, but you’re on a whole other level."

"oh, stop it," you say, lightly swatting at her arm. "you know this crowd loves you just as much, if not more."

you aren’t lying. the attention you receive in germany isn’t as much as laura gets. most of your fans are english or american.

as the night goes on, the two of you bump into some of laura’s teammates, including nicole, who’s wearing a nice indiana fever costume.

"y/n!" nicole calls, waving as she approaches you with a bright smile. 

"i see there’s no shortage of ghost faces here tonight. i think everyone’s obsessed with your character!"

"honestly, it’s insane," you laugh. 

"i’ve seen at least five already. not sure how i feel about it."

nicole grins, her eyes scanning the room. "oh, speaking of, one’s coming your way right now."

you turn your head just in time to see another ghost face making their way toward you, the familiar black robe swaying with each step. 

this one’s holding their phone out in front of them, clearly looking a bit nervous but determined.

"hi y/n, i’m so sorry to interrupt, but i’m a huge fan," they say, their voice muffled under the mask. 

"can i get a picture with you? your portrayal of ghost face was amazing."

a soft smile tugs at your lips. "of course," you reply, always happy to meet fans who appreciate your work. 

"thank you so much for the kind words."

you stand beside them as they pull out their phone and take off their mask, posing for a quick picture. 

laura watches the whole exchange with a playful glint in her eyes. as soon as the fan walks away, she can’t resist.

“oh my god, y/n, i’m such a big fan! can i get, like, ten pictures with you please?” laura dramatically gasps, pretending to fawn over you as she pulls out her film camera, taking on the role of an exaggerated fan.

you burst out laughing, rolling your eyes at her theatrics. "laura, calm down," you giggle, trying to wave her off, but she’s already snapped a few shots of you.

"no, no, seriously, i’m your biggest fan!" she continues, mock gasping and throwing her hands up. 

"i’ll even frame them in the apartment! please, just a few more!"

"okay, okay, that’s enough," you laugh, swatting at her camera. "you’re going to run out of film if you keep this up."

but laura’s grinning, clearly having way too much fun with her impromptu photoshoot. 

"oh come on, y/n, you know i’m your biggest supporter. it’s not every day i get to party with a horror icon."

you roll your eyes affectionately. "i swear, you’re worse than my fans."

“it’s just ‘cause i’m marrying a horror icon,” she teases, slinging an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. 

“and don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

you smile, leaning into her touch. "okay, maybe i do love it. just a little."

"thought so," laura smirks, pressing a kiss to your lips. 

"you’re stuck with me and my endless teasing." she whispers against your lips.

"i wouldn’t have it any other way," you admit softly, feeling the warmth of her embrace as the night continues around you. 

masterlist

happy halloween 🎃

[woso-fan13]

It’s Fantastic

Most of the team is hanging out in the common room, everyone doing their own thing. The silence of the room is interrupted when you look up from your phone, calling everyone’s attention. 

“Hey guys? Do we have any plans tomorrow night?” 

The question is clearly directed towards one of the older players, as you and the younger players have made it clear that you would not be memorizing schedules. 

Alex scrolls through something in her phone for a few seconds before looking up and responding. 

“Practice until 6, dinner at 7. After that, we have the rest of the night off. Why?”

“That’s literally perfect! There’s a movie theater not too far from here, can we please, please, please all go see the new Barbie movie?!?” you’re not ashamed to admit that you may be begging slightly. 

The others chuckle at your enthusiasm, but all exchange glances. There really wasn’t a good reason that they couldn’t see the move. And judging by the looks on everyone’s face, you weren’t the only one who wanted to go see it.

“Tell you what, Y/N,” Pinoe levels you with a look, “if you can convince Vlatko to let us all go, we’re in.”

“Easy,” you say with full (false) confidence. “He can’t say no to me. Plus, I already rented out a theater.”

—-

It turns out, Vlatko has no problem saying no to you. But, again, you’re not above begging. You beg and plead, until he finally gives in. Honestly, it’s probably so he doesn’t have to listen to you anymore. 

Your team was in, Coach had approved it, now you just needed to make it exciting.

—-

“It’s Lucy and Kiera, and Georgia and Le-“ you sing, skipping into the England common room. “Hmmm, I guess that song doesn’t really work anymore. And I didn’t even get to the bridge about Beth and Vivi.”

The England team is somewhat startled by the American who came singing an obnoxious theme song. You had made the song up almost four years ago, after you had signed for Arsenal. At freshly 14, in a new country and away from your family, some of the Arsenal girls had taken you in. 

When they realized that going to camp meant leaving you behind, Leah worked some magic and managed to sort it out so that you could go and practice with the team. You clicked with the team instantly, becoming the annoying little sister that they couldn’t help but love. 

“Anyway, mates,” you start. Leaning over to Georgia, you whisper to ask, “did I use that right?”

At her nod, you continue, “as I was saying, anyway, mates, I’ve come to extend an invitation for a once in a lifetime opportunity. It’s been called bigger than the World Cup. Who wants to go see the Barbie movie tomorrow night?”

You’re bouncing on your feet slightly as you speak, clearly excited. 

Lucy lets out a small chuckle, “good luck convincing Sarina to let us skip recovery to watch a movie.”

You squint slightly at Lucy, somewhat questioning, “you seem to forget who convinced Sarina to let us have a Colin cake for dinner more than once. It’s on.”

“Meet in the US lobby at 7:45, and don’t forget to wear pink,” you shout over your shoulder as you rush out the door. 

—-

Sarina agreed with very little convincing. You assured her that all of the girls were okay with starting recovery earlier so that they could go to the movie, and she couldn’t deny that team bonding is always a good idea. 

She only had one stipulation, which you easily agreed to. After helping her pick out the appropriate pink outfit for her to wear the next night, you move on to your next project. 

—-

You knock cheerily on the door a few times before swinging it open. Your face lights up as you see the two people you were looking for, and you rush towards them. 

Rue and Katie pulled you in, hugging you tight. You hadn’t seen them in a long time, and you had missed the women who had watched out for you for so many years. Rue pressed kisses all over your face as Katie ruffled your hair. You pull away from them, giggling. 

“Guys, I love you and I missed you like crazy, but that’s not why I’m here,” now, you turn to address the majority of the Ireland team that’s in the room. “I’m here to invite you all to come to a very exclusive cinema screening tomorrow evening. Meet at 7:45 in the US lobby and wear something pink. Don’t be late!”

You shout a quick bye to the two women before leaving the room, now onto your hopefully last task. 

—-

“Oh, Sammy,” you say happily, trotting into the room where you found most of the Australian team. 

You knew Sam from playing against her in London, but you had become even closer when she started dating Kristie. If she could be your possible future sister-in-law who’s not actually related to you in any way, you had to be best friends. If you asked Sam, though, she may say that she mainly tolerates you. 

“Hi Ali, hi Sammy, hi rest of the team,” you rush out, “tomorrow night, 7:45, US lobby, wear pink, please come.”

You nod once, turning and waking out the door. The team sits in confusion for a second, scanning the others’ faces to see if anyone knows what you said. 

—-

When dinner started at 7, you ate about two bites before trying to get out of your chair and clear your plate. You get about a dozen glares and a hand catches your wrist before you leave the table. 

“I’m full, promise, I just gotta go. It’s almost time,” you protest. 

The glares don’t lessen, though, so you slump back in your seat. You pout as you push the food around your plate, the others trying not to laugh as you through what is basically a temper tantrum. 

“Y/N.”

Your full first name gets you looking sheepishly up at Alex. 

“You don’t have to finish your whole dinner, but you do need to finish your vegetables. Then you can go get ready.”

You still squirm slightly, too excited to sit completely still. But you don’t make any move to bring your fork up to your mouth. 

“You know,” Kelley starts in a way that makes it clear that you don’t actually know, “I bet Pressy and Tobs would love a call to hear about how the ‘golden child’ isn’t listening. I don’t think they’ll be asleep yet, how about we give them a call now?”

You stay silent, finally managing to still your body. 

“It’s funny, I bet Tobin still has all the numbers of the Arsenal players. And I would also bet that she would not hesitate to call them and tell them the plans are off because someone couldn’t behave.”

She pulls her phone out, then hesitates, “that takes care of England and Ireland, but I’m not sure about Australia. I could have Kristie call Sam, or I could have Chris call Ali. Y/N, do you have any preference?” Kelley fixes you with a look. 

Finally, you break, showing a bite of your dinner in your mouth. After chewing and swallowing, you look up. 

“I’m sorry, please don’t cancel. I wasn’t trying to be bad, I’m just excited.”

The rest of dinner passes quickly, and soon it’s 7:30. You’re basically vibrating in the lobby, waiting for everyone to arrive. Soon enough, everyone’s arrived and the lobby is a sea of hot pink. With a giant smile on your face, you start leading everyone out of the hotel and over a couple of blocks to the movie theater. 

“Was this planned?” Sam leans over to ask Kristie, “how did she have that outfit?” 

You were wearing a fully pink outfit that would have made Barbie herself jealous. Meanwhile, the England girls were doling out their pink warm up gear after you insisted that you wouldn’t let anyone not wearing pink into the movie. 

Kristie laughs, “no, that’s just how she dresses. Pink nails, pink dresses, sparkles, the whole deal. It’s easier not to question it.”

You were at the front of the group, talking to players you used to play with, players you currently play with, players you could only dream of playing with. There weren’t different countries, there weren’t rivals, there weren’t competitors. There were simply people following a girl dressed in far too much pink. 

[lamaery]

100 Portraits Training | Part 3 and 4 These are mostly from my ref folders for Adolin and Renarin :D Part three

15 - 16) Australian actor Remy Hii

17) Filipino-American actor Vincent Rodriguez III

18) German tennis player Alexander Zverev

19) Filipino-Canadian actor Manny Jacinto

20-21) Chinese weightlifter Lü Xiaojun

22) Burmese-Amercian mixed martial artist Aung La Nsang

Next to actors I looked for sportspersons to use as references, because they have enough of a public image that I could reference them with name (which felt better than just using random people from the internet). Actors are often shown often being very attractive (I should take more refs directly from movies...) and it was nice to also try more day-to-day faces. Everyone is beautiful in their own way, of course, but I wanted to look for pictures which didn't having the person they showed looking beautiful as their main objective.

Part four

23 - 24) Burmese mixed martial artist Aung La Nsang

25) Indonesian badminton player Tontowi Ahmad

26) South Korean sabre fencer Oh Sang-uk

27)Philipine pole vaulter Ernest John Obiena

28) Filipino-Canadian actor Manny Jacinto once more

As for links in this one hmm... This page by the Consortium of Asian American Theaters and Artists has shot overview of some terms which are important to be aware of for representation (albeit from a theater perspective, but it's still useful) This piece by Khoo Wei Shawn is a brief look into how racial representation has changed in the cartoons using the Ducktales series as an example. His footnotes could be useful for anyone wanting to get deeper into the topic, too. And lastly another take on racism in animation by Ruth Dubb. This one looks at the depiction of black people in early American cartoons and the stereotypes that came with those. Most sources I could find were from an American view. Or least from people living within a Western and American context. In part that's probably due to the language barrier (I have some in German, but there we go again... difficult to share that with most people here). Different countries have their own history of people being racialised and how that intersects with other issues and themes. So if you know of or have interesting takes from non-American sources and perspectives on the topics, please share. :)

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Part 1 – Start of the project Part 2 – Kaladin Part 5 – Dalinar Part 6 & 7 – Shallan and Jasnah Part 8 & 9 - various people and skin tones Part 10 – a little bit for The Lopen Part 11 & 12 - Wit and Navani Part 13 - ofmd und Dev Patel :)

[shewhoworshipscarlin]

Evelyn Preer

Evelyn Preer (née Jarvis; July 26, 1896 – November 17, 1932), was an African American pioneering screen and stage actress, and jazz and blues singer in Hollywood during the late-1910s through the early 1930s. Preer was known within the Black community as "The First Lady of the Screen."

She was the first Black actress to earn celebrity and popularity. She appeared in ground-breaking films and stage productions, such as the first play by a black playwright to be produced on Broadway, and the first New York–style production with a black cast in California in 1928, in a revival of a play adapted from Somerset Maugham's Rain.

Evelyn Jarvis was born in Vicksburg, Mississippi, on July 26, 1896. After her father, Frank, died prematurely, she moved with her mother, Blanche, and her three other siblings to Chicago, Illinois. She completed grammar school and high school in Chicago. Her early experiences in vaudeville and "street preaching" with her mother are what jump-started her acting career. Preer married Frank Preer on January 16, 1915, in Chicago.

At the age of 23, Preer's first film role was in Oscar Micheaux's 1919 debut film The Homesteader, in which she played Orlean. Preer was promoted by Micheaux as his leading actress with a steady tour of personal appearances and a publicity campaign, she was one of the first African American women to become a star to the black community. She also acted in Micheaux's Within Our Gates (1920), in which she plays Sylvia Landry, a teacher who needs to raise money to save her school. Still from the 1919 Oscar Micheaux film Within Our Gates.

In 1920, Preer joined The Lafayette Players a theatrical stock company in Chicago that was founded in 1915 by Anita Bush, a pioneering stage and film actress known as “The Little Mother of Black Drama". Bush and her troupe toured the US to bring legitimate theatre to black audiences at a time when theaters were racially segregated by law in the South, and often by custom in the North and the interest of vaudeville was fading. The Lafayette Players brought drama to black audiences, which caused it to flourish until its end during the Great Depression.

She continued her career by starring in 19 films. Micheaux developed many of his subsequent films to showcase Preer's versatility. These included The Brute (1920), The Gunsaulus Mystery (1921), Deceit (1923), Birthright (1924), The Devil’s Disciple (1926), The Conjure Woman (1926) and The Spider's Web (1926). Preer had her talkie debut in the race musical Georgia Rose (1930). In 1931, she performed with Sylvia Sidney in the film Ladies of the Big House. Her final film performance was as Lola, a prostitute, in Josef von Sternberg's 1932 film Blonde Venus, with Cary Grant and Marlene Dietrich. Preer was lauded by both the black and white press for her ability to continually succeed in ever more challenging roles, "...her roles ran the gamut from villain to heroine an attribute that many black actresses who worked in Hollywood cinema history did not have the privilege or luxury to enjoy." Only her film by Micheaux and three shorts survive. She was known for refusing to play roles that she believed demeaned African Americans.

By the mid-1920s, Preer began garnering attention from the white press, and she began to appear in crossover films and stage parts. In 1923, she acted in the Ethiopian Art Theatre's production of The Chip Woman's Fortune by Willis Richardson. This was the first dramatic play by an African-American playwright to be produced on Broadway, and it lasted two weeks. She met her second husband, Edward Thompson, when they were both acting with the Lafayette Players in Chicago. They married February 4, 1924, in Williamson County, Tennessee. In 1926, Preer appeared on Broadway in David Belasco’s production of Lulu Belle. Preer supported and understudied Lenore Ulric in the leading role of Edward Sheldon's drama of a Harlem prostitute. She garnered acclaim in Sadie Thompson in a West Coast revival of Somerset Maugham’s play about a fallen woman.

She rejoined the Lafayette Players for that production in their first show in Los Angeles at the Lincoln Center. Under the leadership of Robert Levy, Preer and her colleagues performed in the first New York–style play featuring black players to be produced in California. That year, she also appeared in Rain, a play adapted from Maugham's short story by the same name.

Preer also sang in cabaret and musical theater where she was occasionally backed by such diverse musicians as Duke Ellington and Red Nichols early in their careers. Preer was regarded by many as the greatest actress of her time.

Developing post-childbirth complications, Preer died of pneumonia on November 17, 1932, in Los Angeles at the age of 36. Her husband continued as a popular leading man and "heavy" in numerous race films throughout the 1930s and 1940s, and died in 1960.

Their daughter Edeve Thompson converted to Catholicism as a teenager. She later entered the Sisters of St. Francis of Oldenburg, Indiana, where she became known as Sister Francesca Thompson, O.S.F., and became an academic, teaching at both Marian University in Indiana and Fordham University in New York City.

Still from the 1919 Oscar Micheaux film Within Our Gates.

[raccoon-in-a-dumpster]

tell me ... about william.... fun facts maybe? or how he copes after getting springlocked?

ok so we all know he's lactose intolerant and has an alcohol addiction. he does cocaine sometimes. yes. yes with henry.

he has a faggoty little walk. swingin his hips around. think of the feminine or snooty walk styles in the sims 4 (just made this up)

putting cameras and shit in the fredbear plush genuinely didn't come from a bad place. he just wanted to keep an eye on his new baby boy, afterall, his wife was dealing with michael and elizabeth, why not lighten the load a little?

he's very loud and showey and eccentric. mentally ill theater kid style.

he kinda hated how he looked post-springlock (the scars weren't the problem. it was the weight loss that irked him. he could feel his bones thru his body. very uncomfortable. also he was cold 99% of the time)

FUCKASS SILVERY EYES. whiteboy stare.

he's soo materialistic he NEEDS the next big thing

VERY market savvy too. he probably bought stocks and made a good profit off of those.

he could prolly sell time to a clock honestly

BANJO PLAYER. he did it to get money with henry. good singer too :)

bunny themed EVERYTHING. bunny lamps. bunny pens. bunny telephone. bunny paintings. bunny porcelain figures. bunny plates. bunny cups. bunny.

not the artist of the duo but he can draw

he wanted ti be in the circus when he was little..

ECHOLALIA EXTRORDINARE!!!

he has a union jack outside his house hanging parallel to the american flag.

he has sooo many fun patterned suits and ties...

hyperopia boy. he has reading glasses for that.

ADHD.

he wants henry to pull his teeth out honestly.

he's bisexual. genderqueer. and nonebiney. he has no biney.

homophobic :(

he is so sad and pathetic post springlock he's in pain all the time and weaning off opiates. his hair is always greasy and he gets these bad pains (esp in his limbs, since that's where the wounds run deepest) and honestly the sprnglocks might've ruptured his appendix. cause fuck him. his skin is thin and his hair isn't as nice as it used to be. he recovers some of that but his skin always seems just a bit too pale sometimes. smile just a bit too wide for how sharp his body is. he probably would be unable to go on a modern day plane for awhile after the springlocks. metal detectors and whatnot. he broke a lot of bones. those bills. man.

[hylaversicolor]

the big eva and ocelot meta, or: how to use religious iconography and symbolism in a godforsaken, cunt serving, and incredibly transgender way

this meta started out as a way for me to learn more about ocelot by looking at eva. and then it turned into the opposite, i guess. because ocelot never, ever speaks directly about his motivation, except for one time at the beginning of mgs2 when he says he’s glad sergei noticed that he’s abandoned mother russia, and even then he hides through ambiguous wording and camera angles. (x) everything else we learn about ocelot is from other characters or is obfuscated by conflicting personas or both. we know why he does what he does (he was obsessed with big boss, eva says) yet he doesn’t state this in his own words. but you can use eva to analyze ocelot, and vice versa. during mgs3 they are both mysterious philosopher agents with ties to the book of genesis sent to help snake on his mission, often with nearly identical dialogue. (x, x) so in mgs3 when eva says “snake, huh. well, i’m eva… are you here to tempt me?” we can assume ocelot feels something similar. when eva says “don’t die on me” at rassvet, we’re meant to remember that moment when ocelot says the same thing to snake in the sewers, many scenes later. and when eva says “when i’m riding, the wind hits me so hard that it hurts. that pain keeps my mind off the pain of having to be someone else. it's not easy always fooling myself like this. it's only when i’m on the bike that i’m free to be the real me.” it’s in the back of our minds when ocelot also rides a bike later on. of course they are not exactly alike; the bike means something different to eva than it does to ocelot, and besides, ocelot is younger, less experienced, more hotheaded. eva, for all her cleavage, is reserved.

taking a detour for a moment to address the ocelot drag king thing that went around twitter recently. shinkawa and kojima noted that mgsv ocelot’s design was meant to inspire such questions from the player “like ‘is that a man or a woman, a woman dressing as a man’ kind of thing,” or “something like takarazuka” (x), japanese western-style theater “with all-female performers” (x). here’s a passage from jennifer robertson’s “the politics of androgyny in Japan: sexuality and subversion in the theater and beyond,” describing tarakazuka:

The femininity embodied and enacted by the musumeyaku serves as a foil for the masculinity of the otokoyaku. Much of the training of the Revue actors involves learning a vocabulary of gendered gestures, movements, intonations, speech patterns, and the like. An otokoyaku, for example, must stride forthrightly across the stage, her arms held stiffly away from her body, her fingers curled around her thumbs. In contrast, a musumeyaku pivots her forearms from the elbows, which are kept pinned against her side, constraining her freedom of movement and consequently making her appear more "feminine." In keeping with the patriarchal values informing the Takarazuka Revue, musumeyaku have represented the fictional Woman with little if any connection to the actual experiences of females. The otokoyaku, however, have been actively encouraged to study the behavior and actions of men offstage (as well as in films) in order to more effectively idealize men on stage, be they samurai or cowboys. Personal or contrary motivations and desires aside, both musumeyaku and otokoyaku are the products of a masculinist imagination in their official stage roles. (American Ethnologist, August 1992, vol. 19, issue 3, pg 423)

if, like all things with ocelot, we take this concept and run with it to eva, then ocelot is the takarazuka otokoyaku and eva is the musumeyaku. it’s all a performance. it’s all camp.

ocelot performs masculinity. he is (arguably) a gay character who lives and breathes his own interpretation, informed by the spaghetti westerns he watched and absorbed as a teenager, of the most idealized embodiment of western masculinity in existence: the american cowboy. his movements, his bravado, his persona are all exaggerated in mgs3. but his performance is also a mask behind which he hides his true self. ocelot physically conceals his whole body; his red gloves are his trademark. eva, by contrast, shows off her body. but while ocelot hides himself by hiding his skin, eva hides herself - crucially - by showing skin. and while ocelot's whole Cowboy Thing is him performing a fantasy version of masculinity, the opposite is true for eva. she is performing femininity just as much as ocelot is performing masculinity, only instead of playing a western cowboy dandy, she’s doing an over-exaggerated femme fatale. they are both acting. they are both camp. ocelot’s masculinity is rooted in westerns; eva’s femininity is, presumably, rooted in whatever charm school training the philosophers must have given her.

this juxtaposition informs the way their roles play out throughout the course of snake eater. ocelot can go off and do whatever; he has more freedom by taking on the persona of a man. eva is more limited in her performance, confined to a pseudo-caregiver role. she must support snake, care for him, give him food items. during the interrogation scene she is the one who is forced to step in and intervene, because out of all the players in the room, the personality she’s crafted for her role is most suited to sensitivity to snake’s torture. (x) she uses her vulnerability to exploit her enemies, turns people’s preconceived notions about her against them. ocelot and volgin both underestimate her; when she successfully evades volgin on the bike, and bests ocelot in hand to hand combat, these are not traditionally feminine activities, yet they are the things she truly excels at. also ocelot has had everything put together for him, even if he doesn’t see this. (x) he has been given incredible privilege at a terrible price. eva doesn’t even have that privilege. she is working to support snake completely on her own.

yet even though eva is unfailingly on snake’s side throughout the game, helping him, giving him items, often physically close to him, seducing him, etc., she betrays him in the end. ocelot is the opposite. he is farther away; he often watches rather than intervenes when snake is in trouble. it’s not obvious that he’s been on snake’s side the whole time. and yet by the end of the game, where eva (who had gotten the closest to him) betrays snake, ocelot (who had been farther away) does not. this speaks to mgs3’s theme of “there is no such thing as a timeless enemy” - also because after the events of the game, snake and eva (though parting ways as enemies) end up as allies again, and eva and ocelot, who had been enemies in the game, become allies as well, and remain allied for life.

ultimately, due to eva’s role being confined to a traditionally feminine one in mgs3, ocelot emerges as a more compelling character. behind that femme fatale persona, though, there is a lot going on. a lot of it, i think, relates to the way eva was raised as a charm agent. as a result of her philosopher training, she can only think of human relationships in absolutes. she equates sex and love in her mind and cannot conceptualize ambiguity:

eva: do you love her? snake: no, nothing like that. eva: do you hate her? snake: does it have to be one or the other - love or hate? eva: between a man and a woman? you bet. […] eva: you were interested in the boss. snake: she was different. eva: really? how do you feel about me? snake: i should be asking you the same question. eva: me? i can fall in love - if it's part of the mission. even with you.

this is meant to be a callback to mgs1, but it’s also eva in her element, in action, working. she unzips her top as she says these lines, revealing her breasts. there’s some meta commentary here about eva fooling or charming the player, using her own sexuality as a weapon, but still being objectified nonetheless because kojima wrote her to do this. in the context of the game, yes this is eva acting of her own accord, molding her appearance and mannerisms to appeal to her target, but she is doing so as a result of philosopher training. this isn’t eva’s true self, not really. the only place she feels free to be her true self is when she’s on her bike, with the wind hitting her so hard “that it hurts.” we see eva performing increasingly risky bike stunts as mgs3 goes on. i think the stress of playing her role only continue to increase as time went on throughout operation snake eater. but not because of being forced to fool john: i think she took some pleasure in that. rather:

eva: the boss was the only one i couldn't fool. she was the only one who knew i was a fake. she told me everything. why did she open her heart to me like that? at the time, i couldn't understand it. but now I think I do. snake, she wanted you to know the truth. she chose me to tell you. that's why she saved my life. i’ve lied to you so many times, but not this time. my orders from the government were to obtain the legacy and to eliminate everyone who knew the truth about what happened. in other words, I'm supposed to kill you. but i can't do it. not because we loved each other. and not because you saved my life. but because i made a promise to the boss… and i intend to keep it. i just wanted you to know. and… you have to live.

because the boss was the one person to understand her, to look at her and see that at her core, she, like ocelot, is the embodiment of a 404 error. but this lack of self, or lack of recognition of the self, ironically, is what makes her human. the boss looks at her and instantly sees that the only way she can feel anything at all is to ride her bike so hard that the wind hurts her. she sees the pain of having been transformed into a blank slate by the philosophers, ready and willing for anyone’s preconceived notions of femininity to be projected onto her, because the boss went through the same ordeal - but unlike eva, whose earliest memories are presumably of philosopher charm schools, the boss did not start as a blank slate. she had a life, a personality, a family first, and had all that taken away in order for higher powers to reduce her to something malleable and ready to be manipulated for the sake of nations and empires. the boss is eva’s connection, her lifeline from the sterile, casually cruel world inhabited by the children of the philosophers, to the emotions and the messiness and the nuance embodied by the rest of humanity. and this connection goes doubly deep because the boss probably encountered eva in one of the philosopher charm schools while searching for her own son, who she knew had to be at a philosopher facility too.

and by choosing eva as the one to pass on her message to snake, the boss gives eva’s life new meaning, a renewed sense of humanity. in eva’s mind now the boss and snake are connected. she is part of that love the boss had felt for snake, and she inherits it by proxy. i don’t think she loved john as a human being, at least not during mgs3. even after mgs3, i don’t think she comes to understand this connection that the boss and snake had, but she still clings to it. and i think that, just like ocelot who was far away and fixated on snake, once eva is the farthest away that she’s ever been from snake at the end of mgs3, now she becomes fixated on him too. just like ocelot, snake represents humanity to her. their connection is less about love and more about trying to make sense of her own emotions, her personhood. the boss endures and haunts eva into perpetuity because i think she is a reminder of what eva could have had.

big mama: your father never wanted you. i’m sorry. human life isn’t meant to be manipulated like that. i knew that. but—i wanted you.

eva allows her own pursuit of humanity to convince her to do inhumane acts. we know ocelot joined the patriots to stay close to john (the same reason he eventually joined foxhound). eva joined the patriots, i think, because staying close to john brought her closer to the boss. that, i believe, is the reason she wanted the kids so badly. eva in mgs4 is motivated by guilt. we can see that she takes in war orphans as the leader of the paradise lost army (ironically facilitating the creation of more child soldiers, and perpetuating the vision of the philosophers even as she’s trying to dismantle their legacy). in mgs3, eva and ocelot are a pair of young philosopher spies aiding naked snake. in mgs4, eva and ocelot are a pair of aging ex-patriot spies from another time forcibly dragging the past along with them into the present. they both mistake solid snake for naked snake in semi-lucid moments; they share similar last words; they both are ultimately killed by foxdie. they kill and steal and lie and torture and maim, but in their minds it’s all out of necessity. take this analysis of paradise lost by john leonard:

The hostility of Chaos raises troubling questions about God. If God is good, all-powerful, and the ultimate source of matter […] how can we account for the existence of an evil Chaos? An evil Chaos would suggest either that God is not good or that he is not all-powerful. Many critics try to get around this problem by arguing that Milton’s Chaos (despite appearances) is not evil but good. (Introduction, Paradise Lost, Penguin, 2003)

zero, by mgs4, is the alpha and the omega. he has surpassed the limitations of his moral body and become an all-seeing, all-knowing system of AIs: in the metaphor of adam, eve, and the snake, zero is god. we can see that eva feels somewhat complicit in this transformation: “zero created the patriots to manage and control the american state […] but i am partly to blame. i bear some of the guilt for creating the organization.” ocelot’s feelings are less apparent.

back to the beginning of this essay: ocelot only explains himself once throughout the entire game series, and while he does, the camera conceals his face. importantly, his red gloves are gone in mgs4. his black gloves show us that this isn’t ocelot anymore. but since his fingers are uncovered, we can infer that ocelot is in there somewhere and he is speaking his truth. so when liquid says “cigars… father's favorite.” that’s really ocelot (with the cigar blocking his face…there’s so much in that) saying “cigars…john’s favorite.” when liquid says, “snake, we were created by the patriots. we're not men: we're shadows in the shape of men. […] the patriots saw fit to create us, and in doing so became our only raison d'etre […] so long as we both live, the world will not know an age of light […] the only choice left to us is death." that is ocelot saying “when i saw what the patriots had done, my only reason to exist became to take them down.” when liquid screams “do you see this, zero?” that is 100% ocelot saying, “watch us, zero, we’re going to undo everything you did to john.” and when liquid gives this odd, regretful glance after the confrontation at the river, (x) i think that is ocelot reacting (albeit late) to eva saying, “adam…” a scene prior.

john: ocelot and eva wanted two things…to bring me back to life, and to end the patriots. […] for me, and for them […] nothing was more important.

in the words of steak bentley, mgs4 shouldn’t have been about big boss. (x) i agree. forcing everything to connect back to big boss and to zero shrinks the universe, imbues the story with this weird predestination, makes everybody’s contributions to the plot feel less significant, weakens both mgs4 and mgs3 in hindsight by showing the writers’ lack of faith in their new material.

but you can also look at it in a meta sense of ocelot and eva saying “this story’s not done yet, i’m still going to get revenge on big boss’s behalf. this is going to be about big boss whether you all like it or not.” metal gear solid 4 is really the story of two people who loved big boss so much and carried so much guilt over the part they played in zero’s betrayal that they created this entire overly convoluted plot to make john relevant again. the irony of it is that if they had just let him fade into obscurity (the first time, after snake eater) the LET project might not have even happened at all. by mgs4 i think they both recognized this. and yet they continued to drag it out - understanding, i think, on some level, that they were doing it all essentially for nothing. and through eva and ocelot’s actions, john ends up getting….not exactly a redemption, but at least closure. i don’t know if it’s warranted or even deserved, but he gets it nonetheless. and still eva and ocelot spend most of their time away from big boss and die without seeing him again. the thought that john would be able to survive, that he would endure and live and reconcile with solid, get one final moment of “i understand.” at the boss’s grave - this kept eva and ocelot going for decades.

by the start of mgs4, for eva and ocelot, everyone else is gone. john is out of their reach, the boss has been dead for fifty years, they killed the rest of the patriots themselves after zero betrayed john. the kids that eva had wanted, too, are no good, since liquid is already gone and solid needs to die in order to bring the cycle to a close. the only way they can access their own humanity (that ocelot had found in snake and eva had found in the boss) is through clinging to each other.

big mama: naturally, ocelot and i planned to free [john] from zero's prison. we enlisted naomi hunter, an authority in the field of nanomachine research, into our organization. and we used frank jaeger to kill dr. clark. ocelot tortured the DARPA chief, donald anderson - also known as sigint - to death…and made it look like an accident. […] with para-medic and sigint dead, zero was the only one left. but we, too, paid a price. i lost ocelot. ocelot wasn't fighting for the pentagon, or the russians. and certainly not for zero. he was fighting for big boss. he idolized him.

[rhapsodynew]

#classic rock news

#new music

A book with memorable graphics of legendary bands. It is being prepared for publication.

Only 500 copies – such a limited edition will be released the book “Rock Visions: Rock 'N' Roll Graphics From The Print Age”, which is a collection of memorable artifacts of twelve famous rock bands and performers of our time. In this list: Alice Cooper, David Bowie, Elton John, BAD COMPANY, JOURNEY, KISS, LED ZEPPELIN, PINK FLOYD, QUEEN, THE ROLLING STONES, STEVE MILLER BAND and THE WHO.

The book presents their graphic legacy – from original tour programs, backstage passes and concert tickets to T-shirts, posters and record covers.

🌧 It's time for November Rain. November will delight us with a lot of good music. Courtesy of UCR News

November 1st

• The Cure – Songs of a Lost World ❤️

• Elvis Costello – King of America and Other Realms (6CD box)

• T. Rex – Bolan Boogie: The Best of T. Rex (2CDs or 2LPs)

• Todd Rundgren – Arena

Warren Haynes [Allman Brothers Band] – Million Voices Whisper

• Weezer – Weezer (The Blue Album): 30th Anniversary Edition (3CD set) ❤️

November 8

• Beach Boys – The Beach Boys' Christmas Album

• Hawkwind – Doremi Fasol Latido (multiple format reissue, including 3CD/2Blu-ray deluxe box)

• Neil Young – On the Beach

• Paul Carrack [Squeeze / Mike + the Mechanics] – How Long Has This Been Going On?

• Pete Townshend [The Who] and Rachel Fuller – The Seeker ❤️

• Rick Wakeman – Yessonata

• Steve Perry [Journey] – The Season 3 ❤️

• Talking Heads, Talking Heads: 77 ( 3CD/Blu-ray или 4LP

• Widespread Panic – Hailbound Queen

15th of November

• Black Keys – Ohio Players (flying double act)

• Bryan Adams – Concert at the Royal Albert Hall in 2024 (3CD/1 bLue-ray box)

• Burton Cummings [Guess Who] – Some good moments

• Don Henley – Creating the Perfect Beast (original 40th Anniversary vinyl edition)

• George Harrison – Life in the Material World (original edition of the 50th anniversary vinyl record)

• Iron Maiden – The Mighty Slave (original edition of the vinyl record with zotrope for the 40th anniversary)

John Cale [Velvet Underground] – "The Academy is in Danger"; Paris, 1919: Luxury Remastered Edition (VP)

• Linkin Park – From Scratch ❤

November 22nd

• Allman Brothers Band – Final concert on 10/28/14 (3 CD sets) ❤️

• The Beatles – American albums of 1964 in mono format

• Kan–Kan lives in Kiel, 1977

Chicago, I live at 55

• Don Henley – I Can't Stand Still; Cass County (Multi-voice editions)

• The Doors – The Doors 1967-1971 (box of 6£) ❤️

• Judas Priest – Rock and Roll: the anniversary edition for the 50th anniversary (in English) ❤️

• Motley Crue – Dr. Feel Good: Deluxe edition for the 35th anniversary of the group (set of 3 CD) ❤️

• Neil Young – On the Beach (opposite)

• "Smashing Pumpkins" – Aghori Mhori Mei (VP)

• Marilyn Manson – "One Murder under God" ❤️

U2 – How to Disassemble an Atomic Bomb: 20th Anniversary reissue (CD; limited edition super deluxe 5CD or 8LP box; cassette); How to Disassemble an atomic Bomb: Re-assembly edition (extended digital edition)

• Van Zant [Lynyrd Skynyrd/.38 Special] – Always look up ❤

November 29th

• Eric Clapton – Crossroads Guitar Festival 2023 (4CD/2 bLue-ray set) ❤️

• John Wetton – Concentus: The John Wetton Live Collection, Volume 1 (10CD box)

• Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes – Concert at the Capitol Theater, Passaic, New Jersey - December 30, 1978 (series of 3 albums, including yellow marbled edition; Sovenoman Zandt)

• Status Quo - The Path to Glory (reissue in summary, including a limited section of "Autographed Vinyl Records")

• War - CD Collection 1977-1994 (set of 4 CDs)

• Wilco – Hot Sun Cool Shroud ("Cold Sun")

🤘 New U2 track

The song "Happiness" was written during the session for the Irish rockers' 2004 album "How to Disassemble an atomic Bomb" and was included in the new album "How to assemble an atomic Bomb again" along with the Wound inspired songs "Rural Mile" and "Your Photo (X + W)"

The upcoming album will include new, previously unreleased songs found in the session archives of the original album. It will be released on November 22 in the room with the main version of "How to disassemble an atomic Bomb"

Tool Group announces the first ever all-inclusive "Live In The Sand" festival featuring Primus, Mastodon and others

Festification and Tool are pleased to announce the holding of the first ever "Tool Live In The Sand" festival at the luxurious five-star Hard Rock Hotel & Casino and Royalton Resort in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic, from March 7-9, 2025. "Tool Live In The Sand" will bring Tool fans from all over the world to the island

At this unique event, which will be headlined by Tool. There will be two nights featuring some of the most iconic and influential rock bands in the world, including Primus, Mastodon, Eagles Of Death Metal and Coheed And Cambria. The stars also include King's X, Fishbone, Wheel, Cky, Moonwalker, and longtime Tool collaborators Alex Gray and Allison Gray join as special guests.

Scorpions announce a concert in honor of the band's 60th anniversary in their hometown with Judas Priest

The legends of German hard rock Scorpions will celebrate their 60th anniversary on stage with a big concert in their hometown

The "60th Anniversary — Homecoming" event will take place on July 5, 2025 at the Heinz von Heiden Arena in Hanover and will include performances by special guests, including Judas Priest

Recall that as part of the celebration of their 60th anniversary, the legends of German rock will also visit Las Vegas

THE NEW CONCERT ALBUM TEARS FOR FEARS

Songs for a Nervous Planet is a live album that includes four new studio tracks, as well as live recordings by Tears For Fears during the tour and in their best moments. The album includes live versions of such hits as "Shout", "Head Over Heels", "Everybody Wants To Rule The World", "Mad World" and others. Covering all periods of the band's existence from The Hurting to The Tipping Point and beyond, this album will take you on an incomparable sonic journey, which is the Tears For Fears concert and their career to date

[shakespearenews]

William Schlaht poses as the Ghost of Hamlet's Father, 1986. Rendering by Bud Hill.

Scott says, "An amazing costume in this show was the Ghost of Hamlet’s Father, appearing in smoked blue armor head to foot with a winged helmet. We still have the armor, but I actually store it to keep it out of harm's way.” We asked him to tell us where it is. He would not.

[manygeese]

Look, I love Percy Jackson. I love the movie and board game Clue. Without further ado, I give you

PJO/HoO CHARACTERS AS CLUE PLAYERS

Just gonna do the 7 for now, maybe Yvette and the other npcs later

LEO AS WADSWORTH

Wadsworth is nothing if not a theater kid. He’s got oodles of whimsy and the energy levels to match. And he’s annoying and sassy as hell. Who else is as dramatic, quick witted, and hyperactive as Wadsworth? Leo freaking Valdez. Nobody else’s knees could take all that running around a murder mansion trying to find a murderer. Therefore, Leo Valdez is Wadsworth.

PIPER AS MISS SCARLET

Miss Scarlet is a businesswoman. It just so happens that her business is sex work (and secrets). She’s a murder suspect, she’s a girlboss, her coping mechanism is making jokes, she’s Piper McLean. Not only does Piper’s role as a daughter of Aphrodite fit Miss Scarlet’s profession, Piper would be just as shrewd and stealthy, use everything to her advantage like Miss Scarlet. Therefore, Piper McLean is Miss Scarlet.

FRANK AS COLONEL MUSTARD

Colonel Mustard is a military man, as you can tell from his title. Frank is the son of the god of war. And while the Colonel isn’t particularly good at war (cough war profiteer cough), who better to cast Frank as? I can also see Frank being so caught up in the moment to say some of the stupid things the Colonel does in the movie. Colonel Mustard has some A+ lines. Therefore, Frank Zhang is Colonel Mustard.

HAZEL AS MRS PEACOCK

Mrs. Peacock is a tad bit kooky. Her favorite dish is monkey brain soup. Her husband is an American official. She faints a lot and screams even more. She may or may not be a murderer. I can’t put my finger on it, but Hazel just oozes socially awkward/oblivious and would definitely pull the sort of stuff Mrs. Peacock does in the second ending especially. She’s got that supposedly harmless but actually a serial killer swag. Therefore, Hazel Levesque is Mrs. Peacock.

PERCY AS MR. GREEN

I’m gonna be honest, this is probably the weakest connection but I’m going for it. Mainly because I cast Annabeth as Mrs. White and there’s this one scene in the movie where he offers to show her a supposedly impossible sex position. Percy as Mr. Green + Annabeth as Mrs. White + one weird ass scene=Percabeth. Honestly, I can’t see any of the Seven doing stuff like Mr. Green does it and Percy was the last one I had to cast so. Percy is Mr. Green.

JASON AS PROFESSOR PLUM

He’s gay. He’s timid. He’s named after the color purple. What more could a guy want? Although Jason doesn’t have amazing POVs, I know when a character is meant to be another one and this is a match made in heaven. Professor Plum even sort of looks like Jason’s description in the books. I can SEE Jason as Professor Plum in the movie, I can HEAR him saying “MrS. pEaCoCk WaS a MaN?????” or some dorky shit like that. Jason’s gay, a lil shy, and he loves the color purple. Therefore, Jason is Professor Plum.

ANNABETH AS MRS. WHITE

Mrs. White was tragically widowed… five times. In the immortal words of the woman herself, “Husbands should be like Kleenex: soft, strong, and disposable.” Annabeth has the cunning to get away with five (ALLEGED) murders. Annabeth has that weeping widow, secret murderer energy. She lives a lavish life due to her husband’s being cut short. Also, Mrs. White is one of the funniest characters in the movie, and some of her lines are things Annabeth would say ironically so I’ve connected the dots. Therefore, Annabeth is Mrs. White.

Let me know if you want me to elaborate or cast Nico, Reyna, or anybody else :) I can also draw them as their characters if this gets enough notes soooooooo lemme know if u want that

[from-memphis-with-love]

Songbird - Chapter 7 - Friends, Enemies, and Everyone in Between

Summary: Valerie adjusts to life in Memphis, dealing with a frosty welcome from some locals. A confrontation at a hair salon leads to her being labeled a homewrecker. She receives shocking news from Elvis whose life appears to be unraveling.

Author's note: Yes, I know this picture of E is from 1968. But he looks so hot, so roll with it.

The Memphis airport was smaller than Vegas, quieter. But the photographers weren't.

"Miss Pedretti! Over here!" 

"What about Mrs. Presley?" 

"Is it true about you and Elvis?"

I kept walking, sunglasses firmly in place. Jerry had warned me they'd be waiting. Memphis press was different than Vegas press. Hungrier, more personal. These weren't just looking for a story. They were defending their hometown boy.

The black Cadillac Elvis had sent waited at the curb, Red behind the wheel. No Elvis. I hadn't really expected him to come, but still. The empty seat felt significant.

"Welcome to Memphis," Red said, taking my bags. His smile was apologetic. "Boss wanted to be here, but..."

"But Priscilla's at Graceland." The words came out steadier than I felt.

I unfolded the newspaper I'd been clutching since the airport, smoothing out the real estate section. The ad was still circled in red crayon: "East Memphis. 2BR, hardwood floors, good light." Something about it had called to me. My place. My choice. My life in Memphis, even if part of that life belonged to Elvis.

"Change of plans," I told Red. "I’m not going to the hotel."

He glanced at the paper, understanding dawning. "You found your own place already."

"I did."

"Boss ain’t gonna like that."

"Boss doesn't have to like it."

Red's laugh was warm. "Girl, you really aren't like the others, are you?"

The apartment was on the third floor of a red brick building shaded by magnolia trees. The realtor, a sharp-faced woman named Mrs. Whitmore, was waiting.

"Oh!" Her eyes went wide when she saw Red. Recognition flickered. "You're..."

"Just the driver, ma'am." But he winked at me as he carried up my bags.

The apartment was exactly as advertised. Hardwood floors that needed polish. Windows that caught the morning light. A kitchen small but workable. The second bedroom could be a music room. I could teach here, once I got settled.

"It's perfect," I said.

Mrs. Whitmore named a price. With my new salary as a studio musician - the Colonel's 'arrangement' - I could afford it easily. But I was already scanning the newspapers for teaching jobs. Someday soon, I'd be free and clear of his influence.

"Welcome home," Mrs. Whitmore said, handing over the keys. Then, trying too hard to sound casual: "Will you be... living alone?"

Red coughed.

"Yes," I said firmly. "I will."

After she left, I stood in my empty living room, keys heavy in my hand. My place. My life.

"You sure about this?" Red asked softly. "Being out here on your own?"

Through the window, I could see downtown Memphis in the distance. Somewhere out there was Graceland. Elvis. Priscilla. All of it waiting.

"I'm sure."

But by the third day, with no word from Elvis, doubt started creeping in. The apartment felt too empty, too quiet. The Memphis humidity crept through the windows, making everything feel damp and uncertain. I'd unpacked my clothes, arranged Elvis's books on makeshift shelves, even bought a secondhand record player. But something felt unfinished.

The phone didn't ring.

*

American Sound Studio looked nothing like the gleaming facilities in Vegas. It was a converted movie theater on Thomas Street, all red brick and character, with a soul that Vegas studios couldn't touch.

"This is where the magic happens," Red said, leading me through a back entrance. "Where Boss cut 'Suspicious Minds.'"

The other backup singers were already there. Three women, all perfectly coiffed despite the Memphis heat. They stopped talking the moment I walked in.

"Ladies," Red nodded. "This is Valerie Pedretti. She'll be joining us. She is a seasoned studio musician from Chicago. Got a hell of a set of pipes."

Mary Holladay, the eldest, stepped forward first. Her handshake was firm, professional. "Welcome to Memphis." Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "We've heard so much about you."

I bet you have, I thought.

Ginger and Donna, the other two, exchanged looks that spoke volumes. But before anyone could say more, a familiar voice carried from the control room:

"Where is she? Where's Valley?"

Elvis appeared in the doorway. A week's worth of missing him, of wondering why he hadn't called, of practicing what I'd say when I saw him again - all of it vanished the moment our eyes met. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to run to him. I did neither. Only Elvis could make a woman forgive him just by walking into a room. I both hated and loved him for that power.

He wore black, as he often did, but somehow he looked different here. More solid. More present. His eyes found mine through the cigarette smoke that perpetually hung in the studio air. Bad for the lungs, I noted. 

"There you are. Welcome to Memphis." His smile was careful - we had an audience. "Everyone ready to make some music?"

The other singers watched our interaction like hawks. I kept my voice professional. "Ready when you are, Mr. Presley."

Something flickered in his eyes - amusement? Frustration? - at the formality. But he played along. 

"Alright then. Let's see what you've got." He turned to the group. "From the top, ladies. 'Sweet Sweet Spirit.'" A beautiful hymnal that he loved so much. Perfect for a warm up. 

For the next three hours, we worked. Really worked. Elvis was a perfectionist in the studio, demanding take after take until the harmonies were exactly right. I kept up, matching Mary's powerful alto, complementing Ginger's soprano, finding my place in their well-established blend.

During a break, Ginger cornered me by the water cooler. She was stunning - tall and elegant, with flawless mahogany skin and eyes that could pierce right through pretense. Her eyeliner was perfectly winged, and she carried herself with the kind of grace that came from years of knowing your worth in a world that tried to deny it.

"You're good," she said, surprising me. "Real good. But..." She glanced around, lowered her voice. "Be careful, honey. Memphis ain't Vegas. People here have long memories and longer knives."

Before I could respond, Elvis called us back in. As I took my place behind the microphone, I caught him watching me in the control room glass. For a moment, his carefully maintained facade cracked. The look in his eyes made my knees weak.

Then Mary started the harmony, and it was time to sing.

We recorded until our voices were raw. Elvis was relentless, but I understood why. Here, in this shabby-beautiful converted theater, he wasn't the Vegas showman or Graceland's lord of the manor. He was a musician, pure and simple, chasing perfection in the grooves of a record.

"One more time," he'd say, and we'd do it again. He even threw one of his latest hits at us to stretch our harmonies to the limit. "Kentucky Rain" was complex - a four-part arrangement that required absolute precision. Mary led with her powerful alto, Ginger and Donna weaving around her like smoke, and me... me finding spaces I didn't know existed in a song I'd heard a dozen times.

"That's it," Elvis said suddenly during our seventh take. He was looking right at me through the control room glass. "That's the sound I've been hearing in my head."

The other women shifted slightly. They'd been doing this for years, crafting those harmonies to perfection. Now here I was, changing things.

"Again," Elvis called. "From the beginning."

Seven lonely days and a dozen towns ago…. I reached out one night and you were gone…. Don't know why you'd run, what you're running to or from… All I know is I want to bring you home.

My voice wound through the arrangement like thread through fabric. Not competing, not dominating, just... belonging. I closed my eyes, letting the music take me somewhere beyond this room with its watchful gaze and careful distances. God, this is what I’d been waiting for. What I was meant to do. 

When I opened my eyes, Elvis was in the recording booth with us.

"Ladies," he said, but his eyes were on me, "take five. Except you, Valerie. Need to work on your phrasing."

The moment the door closed behind them, he was there. His hands found my waist, burning through the thin fabric of my dress.

"Been going crazy," he muttered against my neck. "Three days without touching you..."

"Then why didn’t you come see me?" But my protest died as his mouth found that spot below my ear. "Hey. The others could come back..."

"Let ‘em." His hands tightened possessively. "Missed you so damn much. The apartment's really necessary? Really gotta be so far away?"

I pushed him back gently, needing space to think. "Yes. It is."

He studied my face, something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes. "Cilla leaves for California next week. Then you can—"

"No." I kept my voice soft but firm. "I need my own place. For now."

"Even if it kills me?" But he was smiling now, that crooked boy's smile that made my heart flip.

"You'll survive."

"Will I?" His thumb traced my lower lip. "What if I don't want to survive? What if I just want—"

The control room door opened. We sprang apart like guilty teenagers as Chips Moman, the producer, stuck his head in.

"Ready when you are, E.P."

Elvis's face smoothed into professional neutrality. But his eyes, when they met mine, still burned.

"From the bridge this time," he said, his voice steady. "One more time."

The other singers filed back in, careful not to look at my flushed cheeks or Elvis' slightly mussed hair. But I caught Mary and Ginger exchanging glances. In Memphis, I was learning, nothing stayed secret for long.

We worked until dusk painted the studio windows purple. My voice was shot, but Elvis kept pushing - not just me now, but all of us. Something had shifted in him since our stolen moment. He was chasing perfection again, but with a new intensity.

"That's the one," Chips finally said after what felt like our hundredth take. "Elvis, man, that's it."

The playback filled the studio - four voices weaving around Elvis's lead like they'd been born to it. Like they'd always belonged there. Like I'd always belonged there.

"Beautiful," Elvis breathed. Then, softer, meant just for me: "Like you."

Mary cleared her throat. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Actually," Elvis said, not taking his eyes off me, "I thought we might try something new tomorrow. Valerie, you play piano, right?"

The other singers went very still.

"Yes," I said carefully.

"Good. I've got this gospel arrangement I've been working on..." He finally looked at the others. "Full band, full choir. Everyone's invited."

The invitation was pointed. Clear. I wasn't just the new backup singer - I was going to be involved in arrangements. In creation. In his music.

Donna muttered something under her breath. Ginger touched her arm quietly.

"Sounds wonderful," Mary said, her professional smile firmly in place. "We'll see you tomorrow then."

After they left, Elvis caught my hand. "Stay? Just for a minute?"

"Elvis..."

"Just want to play you something. The gospel arrangement." His thumb traced patterns on my palm. "Need your opinion."

I knew I should leave. The sun was setting, and Memphis wasn't Vegas. People would talk.

But when he sat at the piano and patted the bench beside him, I sat.

"It goes like this," he said softly, and began to play.

*

The next day, Memphis showed its teeth.

It started at Burke's, the only decent bookstore in East Memphis. I was looking for sheet music when I heard them - three women with carefully sprayed hair and pearls that gleamed like armor.

"That's her," one whispered, not bothering to lower her voice enough. "The Chicago girl."

"Playing piano for him now, I heard." 

The second voice dripped with disdain. "Like we don't have perfectly good piano players right here in Memphis."

“Well,” said the third, “you know what they say about Northern girls…” The words stung more than they should have. It didn’t feel fair. My parents were Southern, born and raised, though these women would never bother to learn that. For a moment, I felt a flicker of understanding about the gossip Elvis dealt with daily - even if my small taste of it was nothing compared to what he faced.

I kept my eyes on the sheet music, but my hands were shaking. The whispers followed me to the counter, where the clerk suddenly ran out of change. Funny, since it was right there in front of her.

"Register’s all out," she said sweetly. "Maybe try Goldsmith's instead? They're more... accommodating."

I left without the music.

At the grocery store, a woman pulled her children away as I passed, like being a session singer was contagious. The butcher couldn't find the cut of meat I wanted. The coffee shop was mysteriously full, though half the tables sat empty.

By the time I got to my apartment, fury had replaced the hurt. I'd faced down the Colonel, handled the Vegas press. By God, I could handle some small-town spite.

The phone was ringing when I walked in.

"How you holding up, sugar?" It was Ginger, surprising me. Her voice was like warm syrup on a waffle. "Mary told me about Burke's. Her sister-in-law works there."

"News travels fast."

"Honey, in Memphis, news travels before it happens." She paused. "Listen, some of us are getting together tonight at the Rendezvous. Just singers, no... complications. Want to come?"

I hesitated.

"Come on," she pressed. "Can't hide in that apartment forever. Besides, you need allies in this town."

The Rendezvous was underground - literally. A basement restaurant thick with barbecue smoke and history. Ginger was already there with Donna and two other women I recognized from the studio - backup singers who worked for the studio.

"Valerie, meet Sophie and Jane," Ginger said. "They also sing with Al Green."

"When he lets us," Sophie laughed. She was older than the others, with kind eyes. Her dark skin popped against her bright orange dress. Even in the dim lighting she was absolutely radiant. "Heard you held your own with Elvis yesterday. Not many can keep up when he gets in one of his perfectionist moods."

"The arrangement was beautiful," Donna admitted grudgingly. "Even if it did take forty takes in all."

"Forty-three," I corrected, and they all laughed.

The ribs came, and with them stories. About Al Green's legendary temper. About B.B. King's generosity. About Elvis, back when he was just a truck driver with big dreams.

"Mary's the only one of us who knew him then," Ginger said, wiping sauce from her chin. "Says he was real shy, if you can believe it. Always polite, calling everyone 'sir' and 'ma'am.'"

"Still does," Jane noted. "When he remembers he's not in Vegas."

"Speaking of Vegas..." Sophie's eyes were sharp but not unkind. "You gonna be okay here, honey? This town can be hard on outsiders. Especially ones who..." She trailed off diplomatically.

"Who date married men?" I kept my voice level.

"Who catch the eye of its favorite son," Sophie corrected gently. "Elvis isn't just a singer here. He's... Memphis. And Priscilla might live in California, but she's still his wife. Still comes to church when she's in town. Still has friends here."

"I have my own place," I said. "My own life. I'm not trying to take anything from anyone."

"Honey," Ginger sighed, "that's not how they'll see it."

As if to prove her point, a woman passed our table and "accidentally" spilled her drink on my dress. She didn't apologize.

"Maggie Johnson," Donna muttered. "Dated Elvis in high school. Still bitter about it twenty years later."

"That's nothing," Sophie said. "Wait till you meet the Sunday School crowd. They've been praying for Elvis and Priscilla since 1959."

"And now here you come," Ginger added, "all talent and beauty and Northern independence. They don't know what to do with you."

"I don't know what to do with me either sometimes," I admitted.

The women exchanged glances.

"Well," Sophie said finally, "for what it's worth, I like what you did with our harmonies today. About time someone shook things up around here."

After dinner, Ginger insisted on driving me home. "Memphis isn't Vegas," she said for the hundredth time. "Not safe for a woman alone at night."

But when we pulled up to my building, Elvis's Cadillac was waiting.

"Oh Lord," Ginger muttered. "Here we go."

He was leaning against the car, all in black despite the heat. Sunglasses on, despite the dark. When he saw us, he straightened, and even Ginger sucked in a breath.

"Still got it," she whispered. "After all these years, he still just... got it."

"Thanks for dinner," I said quickly.

"Remember what we said," she called as I got out. "About allies!"

Elvis waited until her tail lights disappeared before pulling me close.

"Missed you," he murmured against my hair.

"It's been six hours."

"Too long." He pulled back, frowning. "You smell like barbecue. And... is that wine on your dress?"

"Local hospitality," I said dryly. "Your old girlfriend Maggie says hello. Sort of."

His jaw tightened. "Who's been giving you trouble?"

"No one I can't handle."

"Valley Cat—"

"I mean it." I touched his face, feeling the tension there. "I knew what I was getting into."

Elvis's jaw tightened at my words, and I recognized that look - the one he got when he wanted to fix something, to make it better, to protect what was his. He'd bought Cadillacs for strangers just for being kind to him; I could only imagine what he wanted to do to people who were cruel to me. But we both knew his protection would only make things worse. Memphis had to accept me on my own terms, or not at all.

"I don't need protecting."

"No." His smile was sad. "You never did."

We stood there in the humid night, neither speaking. Somewhere a radio played "Love Me Tender" - in this town, Elvis was always playing somewhere.

"Come up?" I asked finally.

He glanced at my dark windows, wanting to say yes. I could feel it in the way his hands tightened on my waist.

"I shouldn't," he said reluctantly. "Cilla’s at Graceland, and people watch..."

"People always watch."

"Around here, they do more than watch. They remember. They judge." He pressed his forehead to mine. "Just a little bit longer. ‘Till she goes back to California. Then maybe..."

A car passed slowly, its headlights lingering too long. Elvis stepped back automatically, the gesture practiced. Protective. Of me? Of himself? Of the image he had to maintain?

"I should go," he said. "Early session tomorrow."

"The gospel arrangement?"

"Yeah." His smile returned. "Got some ideas I want to run by you. If... if that's okay?"

He was asking permission, I realized. Giving me the choice to step back, to be just another studio singer. To make my life in Memphis easier.

"I'd like that," I said.

He kissed me then, quick but tender, not caring about the watching eyes. When he pulled away, there was something like wonder in his face.

"What?" I asked.

"Just thinking," he said softly, "how glad I am you said no to the Colonel's house. How right you look here, in your own place. Being yourself."

Another car drove by, slower this time.

"Go," I said gently. "Before the whole neighborhood figures out."

He touched my face once more, then got in the car. I watched until his tail lights disappeared, then climbed the stairs to my apartment.

Inside, the empty rooms felt different now - not lonely. Purposeful. This was my space, my choice. My life in Memphis, complicated and difficult, but also exciting.

On the coffee table, my copy of "Kentucky Rain" waited. I put it on the second hand record player, letting the music fill the space.

Our voices rose behind Elvis's lead - Mary's strength, Ginger's grace, Donna's precision. And mine, weaving through them all, finding my own way.

Just like I was finding my way here.

One day at a time.

*

The studio sessions were going well - too well, maybe. Every day we made magic, laying down tracks that even Chips said were something special. The other singers had warmed to me, professionally at least. Even Mary had stopped giving me those sideways looks when I suggested arrangement changes.

But Elvis? Elvis was all business. Professional. Controlled. As if that night outside my apartment had never happened. As if his hands hadn't burned through my dress, his voice rough with need. As if he hadn't promised "soon" and "when things settle" and all those other sweet half-truths I was starting to doubt.

I told myself to be patient. Priscilla was still at Graceland. Things were complicated. He had to be professional. But at night, alone in my apartment, those reasonable thoughts offered little comfort.

"You need your hair done, honey," my next-door neighbor Mrs. Patterson said one morning as I was collecting my mail. She was new to the building, recently divorced, and had taken it upon herself to "help" me settle in. "I know just the place. Lucille’s - best salon in town. They know how to handle hair like yours."

I touched my unruly curls self-consciously. The humidity had been winning lately.

“They're not too expensive?"

"Oh no, quite reasonable. And they take walk-ins on Thursdays."

That's how I found myself going to Lucille’s on a sticky Thursday afternoon.

The bell jangled above my head - one of those tinny, brass things that somehow manages to sound cheerful and ominous at the same time. The smell hit me first: peroxide, perm solution, hairspray thick enough to choke on. But underneath it all was something else. Something like gardenias and honeysuckle.

Priscilla's perfume.

The usual salon chatter died faster than a summer romance. Through the sudden silence, I could hear the whir of hair dryers, the steady drip of a leaky faucet, the hammering of my own heart. And there she was, reflected in every mirror like some kind of multiplying nightmare - Priscilla Presley herself, perfectly poised under a dryer hood.

Time did that funny thing it does in moments of pure horror – stretching like taffy, making each second feel like an eternity. I could see every detail with excruciating clarity: the precise way her eyebrows arched, the perfect curve of her mouth, the slight tilt of her head that made her look down at you even when she was sitting.

When our eyes met in the mirror, I saw something shift in her face. Like a mask slipping just enough to show what was underneath. She'd been waiting for this, I realized. Maybe not here, maybe not today, but sometime.

"Oh." Her voice carried over the hair dryers, honey-sweet and twice as sticky. "The new backup singer. How... enterprising of you to find your way here."

“I was just leaving,” I stammered.

“Not only do you have designs on my husband, you now want my hairdresser, too!”

Every head turned. The stylist working on a blue-haired lady's perm froze mid-roll.

"I'm sorry," I started. "I can leave. I didn’t know–" I reached for the door handle and missed. Humiliated. 

"That this was where I go?" Her laugh tinkled like broken glass. "Don't apologize. It's actually perfect timing. I've been so curious about the girl everyone's talking about." She examined her reflection, adjusting a roller with precise movements. "Though I must say, up close, you're not quite what I expected."

Someone near the shampoo station whispered "Lord have mercy." Three women by the magazines crossed themselves. I heard a comb drop, its sound like a gunshot.

"Really, I should go," I said, turning toward the door. 

"Oh, but you just got here." Her smile was pure poison honey. 

My stomach dropped. She smiled, seeing it land. "I'm not—" I swallowed hard. "This isn't—"

"Let me guess." Priscilla's voice went softer, more deadly. "You're different. Special. You understand him like no one else can." She laughed, the sound sharp as razors. "Does he still use that line? Or has he moved on to something else?"

The manicurist dropped her file. The receptionist wasn't even pretending not to listen anymore. It seemed as if the entire salon held its breath. Even the hair dryers hummed quieter.

"He's not—" I started, but she wasn't finished.

"You're staying in that little complex off Marquis, aren't you? That’s where they always stay." 

I was nowhere near Marquis. But my cheeks were so flushed and my heart pumping so loud, I wasn't able to speak. All I saw were fifteen sets of eyes, unblinking, trained on me. The receptionist was practically vibrating with the effort of not running to the phone. Two women by the magazines were staring, open-mouthed.

"And now think you're helping him with his music?" Now her voice had an edge, like she'd forgotten her audience for just a moment. "That's what he does. Finds sweet little things who think they can save him with their... understanding." She practically spit the last word. "Meanwhile, he's probably already got another one lined up in Nashville. Or Vegas. Or wherever he's running to next."

"Mrs. Whitfield!" the blue-haired lady stage-whispered to her friend. "Call Martha. She needs to hear this!"

I gripped my purse strap so hard my knuckles went white. 

"Now that's enough."

The voice belonged to a regal woman under the dryer next to Priscilla's. She lifted the hood, every pearl around her ebony neck gleaming like armor.

"Mrs. King." Priscilla's voice had that careful tone people use when they know they've gone too far. "I was just having a friendly chat with—"

"Girl," Mrs. Lucille King cut in, "I have known that boy since he was singing in church basements. Known you since you were barely more than a child yourself." She adjusted her pearls with dignified precision. "And I know the difference between drawing blood and drawing attention."

Priscilla's perfect composure cracked, just slightly. Then, with deliberate care, she stood.

"You're right, of course." Her smile could have frozen hell. "I apologize for any... unpleasantness. Riley, we'll reschedule. I seem to have developed a headache."

She gathered her purse, not bothering to remove the rollers. As she passed me, her perfume wrapped around us both like a cage. The bell jangled as she left, somehow managing to sound like the end of something.

"Honey." Lucille's voice cut through my daze. "Come sit by me. We're going to fix what the good Lord gave you, and forget what the devil just stirred up." She paused. "At least until it hits the church prayer circle. Which should be... oh, about fifteen minutes from now."

Three hours later, I emerged with my curls tamed into something that could handle the humidity. But Priscilla's words followed me home, echoing with every step.

*

By late afternoon, it seemed like every woman in Memphis had heard about the showdown at Lucille’s. You could practically hear the story spreading, phone lines burning with the details - how Priscilla had held court under that dryer, how Lucille King had come to my defense, how Elvis Presley's wife and Elvis Presley's... whatever I was... had squared off between the shampoo stations and hairspray shelves.

The whispers followed me home from the salon, even with my newly tamed curls. At the corner market, Mrs. Henley - who'd been perfectly friendly yesterday - suddenly found the canned goods fascinating when I passed. Her friend Mrs. Durham actually crossed herself, like being the other woman was catching. Their voices carried as I pretended to study tomatoes:

"Bold as brass, showing up at Leonard's..." 

"...and Lucille King taking her side! Times sure are changing..." 

"...but what about poor Priscilla? In her condition and all..."

That last bit made me pause. In her condition? But before I could process it, the florist - who'd been watching this little drama unfold - called out that they were closing early. At 3 PM. On a Thursday.

Memphis was choosing sides, and it wasn't choosing mine.

I decided to walk home instead of calling a cab. Bad decision. The humidity pressed down like a wet wool blanket, and every passing car felt like it was slowing to stare. One actually was - a blue Buick full of what had to be church ladies, their beehive hairdos perfectly unmoved by the weather, their eyes sharp as they took my measure.

About halfway home, sweat making my new hairdo droop, a familiar black Cadillac pulled alongside. Not Elvis' - this one belonged to Red.

"Get in," he said through the open window. "You shouldn't be walking alone right now."

I slid into the blessed air conditioning. Red's face was grim.

"News travels fast," I said.

"Like lightning in a dry forest." He navigated through the afternoon traffic with practiced ease. "Boss is... well. Let's just say the Colonel's got his hands full right now."

"Is he..." I trailed off, not sure what I was asking. Is he angry? Worried? Coming to see me?

"He's Elvis," Red said, which could have meant anything. "But listen - you might wanna lay low for a bit."

"I can handle a few dirty looks."

"It ain't just looks I'm worried about." He pulled up to my building. "Promise me you'll keep your doors locked tonight?"

That sent a chill down my spine despite the heat. "Red, what aren't you telling me?"

He studied the steering wheel like it held secrets. "Last time Elvis had a... special friend... in Memphis? Lady found her tires slashed. Sugar in the gas tank. Real Old Testament stuff." His eyes met mine. "People get real jealous around here. Just be careful, okay?"

I nodded, but as I climbed the stairs to my apartment, his warning echoed in my head. My hands shook slightly as I unlocked the door - all three locks. The apartment felt different somehow. Smaller. Less like a sanctuary and more like a target.

The phone started ringing the moment I walked in.

"Lord have mercy." It was Ginger. "I just heard. You went to Lucille’s? Are you insane?"

"I didn't know—"

"Honey, everyone knows that's Priscilla's salon. Has been since '63." She paused. "Although word is, Lucille King put her in her place something fierce."

"You heard already?"

"Girl, my hairdresser's cousin's best friend works the front desk there. I knew about it before you'd finished getting your hair done." Another pause. "But that's not why I'm calling. Listen - some of the old church crowd is real worked up. Mrs. Whitfield - you know, from First Baptist? - she's organizing some kind of prayer circle. For your soul."

"My soul is fine, thanks."

"It's not funny, Valerie. These women... they take this stuff seriously. Real seriously." She lowered her voice. "And there's something else. A rumor going around about Priscilla. About why she's still in town..."

But before she could finish, the line dropped. Just as I was about to redial, the phone rang again.

It was Jerry this time, his voice tight with tension. "Boss is on the warpath. Broke three vases at Graceland, fired two of us, and told the Colonel to go fuck himself. Which, honestly? About time on that last one." He tried to laugh but it came out wrong. "Just... maybe don't answer your door tonight?"

The calls kept coming. Sophie. Donna. Even Mary, her usual cool professionalism cracking enough to warn me that "things were getting complicated." Each one trying to prepare me for something they could feel coming but couldn't quite name.

Between calls, I paced. The apartment felt like it was shrinking, the walls closing in with each pass of the phone's ring. Outside, the sun started to set, painting my windows blood red. In the distance, I could hear church bells - First Baptist, probably, calling its flock to Thursday night prayer meeting. Probably to pray for my immortal soul.

That's when the first rock hit my window.

It didn't break the glass - just a warning shot, you might say. But the message was clear enough. Through the curtains, I could see shapes moving in the parking lot. Women's voices carried up, sharp with righteousness:

"Jezebel!" 

"Homewrecker!" 

"Leave them alone!"

I didn't bother calling the police. What would I say? Help, Elvis Presley's fan club is mad at me? Instead, I turned off all the lights and sat in the dark, listening to the voices below. They faded eventually, but the fear didn't.

Around nine, my next-door neighbor - the one who'd suggested Lucille’s in the first place - slipped a note under my door: "Sorry. Didn't know it was her day. But maybe you should have?"

The sounds of Memphis at night filtered through my walls - distant traffic, a train whistle, somebody's radio playing "Suspicious Minds" like a cruel joke. I sat in my reading chair for hours, still wearing my salon-fresh hair and pride-stained dress, waiting for... something. The other shoe to drop. The next rock to hit. The world to end.

It was well after 2 am when I heard it. The distinctive rumble of a Cadillac engine, followed by the slam of a car door that sounded like judgment day. Heavy footsteps on the stairs - taking them two at a time from the sound of it. Then the pounding started.

"Open the goddamn door, Valerie!"

Elvis's voice carried down the hallway like thunder. A door opened down the hall - Mrs. Patterson again, probably calling the building manager. Perfect. Just what I needed - witnesses to this particular scene in the ongoing soap opera of my life.

When I opened the door, he nearly fell in - a bundle of barely contained fury in black leather despite the heat. His eyes were wild, pupils pinned to nothing.

"I'm going to fucking kill her," he snarled, pacing my small living room like a caged tiger. All that coiled energy had to go somewhere. "What she said to you... how dare she... in public..."

"Keep your voice down," I said, even though it was far too late for that. "The neighbors—"

"Fuck the neighbors!"

But he lowered his voice to something more dangerous - that deadly whisper that meant real trouble, not just show trouble. He knocked a book off my coffee table. One of his books. 

"She had no goddamn right—"

"Actually, she had every right."

He stopped pacing. The sudden stillness was worse than the motion.

"What?"

"She's your wife, Elvis." The words tasted like copper. I sniffled back a tear. I couldn’t help it. "Your wife. Who has to read about her husband's new girlfriend in the papers. Who has to hear gossip about late-night visits to some apartment in East Memphis—"

"Are you defending her?" His eyes were fractured glass. "After what she did to you today?"

"I'm trying to understand her!"

"She humiliated you on purpose!"

"And you let her!" The words exploded out of me, surprising us both. 

"I'll handle Priscilla."

"How? By not divorcing her?"

"You knew the situation when—"

"No, YOU knew the situation." My voice cracked like a whip. "I can handle a whole lotta bullshit, Elvis. But I don’t know if I’m cut out for you still being married." I gestured around my empty apartment, at all the shadows where dreams used to live. "It makes me look bad while you play house with a woman who hates you."

He flinched. "Priscilla doesn't hate me."

"Oh, yes she does. She hates you, Elvis. And if you haven't noticed, you're blinder than I thought." I laughed, but it wasn't funny. "She's got her life in California. You've got yours here. So why keep up this charade? What are you so afraid of?"

"I ain’t afraid of anything," he snapped, but something flickered in his eyes. Something like truth trying to get out.

"Then explain it to me. Because - God damn, Elvis - you're choosing misery with her over happiness with me, and I can't figure out why."

"You don't understand—"

"Then make me! Give me one good reason why you won't divorce her. One honest answer instead of all this Colonel horseshit about timing and image and—"

"She might be pregnant!"

The words hung in the air like smoke. Through the window - the one with the spiderweb crack - I could see the moon hanging low over Memphis. Fat and yellow, like it was watching our little drama with unholy interest.

"What?" My voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

He sank onto my couch, suddenly looking older. Tired. His hands were shaking so bad he could barely light his cigarette. The pills had him wired wrong tonight - I could tell by the way his eyes wouldn't quite focus, the way he kept starting sentences and losing them halfway through. 

"The last night in Vegas. After the final show. I was... I wasn't..." He stopped, started again. "The stuff was hitting wrong. Everything was spinning. I couldn't... I don't really remember…"

The implications of what he wasn't saying made my stomach turn. But he pushed on, words tumbling out like he needed to get them gone.

"Next morning she was there. In my bed. Said we... said I..." He looked up then, his eyes lost. "The papers were all ready. For the divorce. Then she tells me... tells me she might be..."

That's when he saw the window. The crack running through it like a question mark.

"What the hell?" He was up again, moving too fast, nearly stumbling. "Did someone... who did this? Was it those church ladies? Those sanctimonious cunts with their prayer circles and their—" He stopped. "You're not safe here."

"I'm fine."

He stood there in my small apartment, undone by his own choices. Through the cracked window, I could see his reflection fractured into pieces - like the man himself, broken into too many versions to count.

He moved toward me, hands reaching. Those hands that could make a guitar weep, that could make a crowd scream, that could make me forget everything but him. "Baby, please. I love you."

"Get out." I stepped back. His eyes were wild now, desperate. The pills wearing off, reality setting in. "Go home to your wife, Elvis. Or what might be the mother of your child."

"Val—"

"Get. Out."

The last two words came out like bullets. He flinched as if they'd hit flesh.

After he left, I sank to the floor, my back against the door. Through the thin walls, I could hear my neighbors pretending they hadn't heard every word. Their silence felt like judgment.

The cracked window threw moonlight across my coffee table where his copy of The Prophet lay. Inside, I knew, he'd written questions in the margins about parallel universes. About other worlds where choices were different, where timing was better, where love was enough.

But this wasn't that world.

This was Memphis, where Elvis Presley might have made a baby with his wife the night before he told me he loved me. Memphis, where good Christian ladies threw rocks through other women's windows. Memphis, where I was just another girl in just another apartment, learning the hard way that some loves hurt more than they heal.

Tomorrow I'd have to go to the studio. Have to stand next to him, sing harmony like nothing had changed. Have to watch him, love him, hate him, all at once.

But tonight?

Tonight I just let myself cry.

Taglist: @whositmcwhatsit  @ellie-24  @arrolyn1114 @missmaywemeetagain  @be-my-ally  @vintageshanny  @prompted-wordsmith @precious-little-scoundrel @peskybedtime @lookingforrainbows @austinbutlersgirl67@lala1267 @thatbanditqueen @dontcrydaddy @lovingdilfs @elvispresleygf @plasticfantasticl0ver @ab4eva @presleysweetheart @chasingwildflowers @elvispresleywife @uh-all-shook-up @xxquinnxx @edgeofrealitys-blog@velvetprvsley @woundmetender @avengen @richardslady121 @presleyhearted @kendralavon7 @18lkpeters@lookingforrainbows @elvisalltheway101 @sissylittlefeather  @atleastpleasetelephone @eliseinmemphis@tacozebra051 @thetaoofzoe @peskybedtime @shakerattlescroll @crash-and-cure @ccab @i-r-i-n-a-a @devilsflowerr@dirtyelvisfant4sy @elvislittleone @foreverdolly @getyourpresleyfix@gayforelvis @headfullofpresley @h0unds-of-h3ll @hipshakingkingcreole @p0lksaladannie @doll-elvis @tacozebra051 @richardslady121 @jaqueline19997 @myradiaz@livelaughelvis @deke-rivers-1957 @jhoneybees @atleastpleasetelephone @eapep @elvispresleywife @that-hotdog @landlockedmermaid77 @sissylittlefeather @kawaiiwitchy

[blue-thief]

oh the wonders of realizing due dates are actually farther than i expected

@marcsnuffy this is all basically just based off how this guy is made up of twelve billion contradictions esp when we're considering gender expression.

i've gone over this before, but he's the type of guy who would read dazai, dostoevsky, kafka, etc in a male manipulator kind of way. this type of guy also goes in hand with the type of guy who watches fight club, american psycho, etc with zero self awareness (i'm not much of a film nerd so i can't really speak about his taste in films specifically).

his dad probably had a collection of old films he worked on, and kaiser watched them all on some old cd or cassette player in hopes of finding some with his mom. even though his mom showed up in more dramatic films rather than tougher serious ones, these ones hold a special place in his heart. he's not in denial about this, but he never brings it up to anyone. around the time he was a tween, he snuck into a movie theatre to watch one of his mom's films.

i believe it was mentioned that his parents started off in theater, and once kaiser became rich enough, he took time to see live productions at least once a month. his goal is to catch up on shakespeare since he never got a chance to learn about him at school (i had to check r/askeurope to see if shakespeare is taught there 😭😭).

as much as it's funny to imagine hamilton fan kaiser, i don't think he'd be drawn to musicals that much. he doesn't mind them, but they aren't usually on his radar. he's considered going to the opera though. for the sake of affirming to himself that he's now financially stable.

he canonically reads psychology textbooks, and i think he has read jordan peterson's books. (SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP BECAUSE I HAVE PROBABLY WALKED ON THE SAME FLOOR AS JORDAN PETERSON ON MULTIPLE OCCASIONS GET ME OUT OF HEERREEEEEE) i don't think he'd care or agree with jordan peterson but he definitely has read him, maybe even bought some of his works shudders he also read the dictator's handbook + the art of war and has used this in ways that are disastrous for everyone involved

beyond the dazai, dostoevsky, kafka, etc vibe, i don't think there's much fiction he'd be drawn to. at some point, he decided to check out f. scott key fitzgerald, saw jay gatsby, and went "he's just like me fr" (again, zero self awareness)

as for music, i think he would listen to three days grace in particular (i have listened to exactly ONE three days grace song and that is "i am machine" and all i could think was "he would listen to this /neg" then added it to my own liked songs playlist). he might have stumbled across panic! at the disco and he probably vibed pretty well with a fever you can't sweat out. he would not care for any other panic! at the disco album. he also wouldn't care for ryden so he wouldn't read throam. but i need this guy to somehow read throam because throam!ryan ross is literally him.

he probably heard primadonna girl by marina but didn't care at first. it wasn't until he accidentally stumbled across oh no that he was like "i need to listen to the rest of this". he only ended up caring for the family jewels and electra heart, and electra heart is more feminine than most things he would allow himself to listen to, but this is just his way of going "whoa look i'm a feminist i like women i'm listening to a woman and sings about woman stuff". relates to the persona of electra heart once again because AGAIN. THIS GUY HAS ZERO SELF AWARENESS 😭😭 HE NEVER REALIZES THE ART HE CONNECTS TO IS TELLING HIM THAT HE SHOULD NOT BE THE WAY THAT HE IS 😭😭😭

but yeah. electra heart is his limit to willingly admitting to feminine art but this guy is subconsciously drawn to taylor swift but more like in the sense that he's fascinated with her presence in the cultural zeitgeist. which is a strange form of being a swiftie, but his relationship with famous women is strange considering his relationship with his mother. if his mother got big enough that she worked with americans on american projects, there's a chance that she would talk about/be publicly acquainted with a lot of young famous women for the sake of white feminism yk. he consumes their art just through cultural osmosis but his understanding of their personal drama and stuff is weirdly detailed

also these are all totally definitely absolutely not examples of me projecting 😁😁 because i AM self aware and i am better than michael kaiser in every way possible 😁😁😁

[choiceofgames]

Author Interview

https://www.choiceofgames.com/2024/07/new-author-interview-drew-morrison-bootlegger-moonshine-empire/

I think this is your first time writing interactive fiction, but you’re rather an accomplished playwright, I gather. Tell me a little about your background and what brought you to Choice of Games.

I started writing for theater in middle school, and got my Masters in Playwriting at the University of New Mexico. Dialogue has always been my favorite part of writing, and theater offers such a great way to get together with friends and tell a story. I worked for a devised theater company in Albuquerque for about five years, and I really got attached to the camaraderie that develops around putting up a play, especially when it’s done without a lot of financial resources. It means everybody learns different tasks, and shifts around with each show: sometimes you’re a writer, sometimes an actor, director, technician, or shadow-puppeteer. The whole thing ends up being this wonderful process of collaborative problem solving: How do we make what we want to make with what we have? Those limitations spark more interesting ideas than the ones you’d have if you could just pay problems away.

I was introduced to Choice of Games by a friend who had worked for the company as a cover artist. I’d never written anything like this before, and it was a steep learning curve, but the Choice of Games forum and community is such a vibrant scene of supportive people that it’s been really exciting to work on. As a writer, it’s so easy to get sucked into the lonely process of submitting to distant strangers and contests, rarely getting any feedback on your work. The opportunity to have people engaged and willing to respond to your drafts is an invaluable resource, which was my favorite part of working in theater.

What did you find most challenging about the game design and using ChoiceScript to craft a narrative?

Pretty much everything? I was so proud the day I finally submitted a full draft that you could play through from beginning to end that it’s fueled me through the whole editing process since. Having finished a CoG game now, it’s amazing how many tips and tricks you pick up along the way that would change how you approach writing another game.

There were a lot of really fun challenges purely at the level of the prose. For one, second-person/present tense is such a fun, propulsive voice to write in. As someone who didn’t grow up with tabletop roleplaying games, it’s a relatively new voice for me.

Also, as a playwright, my plays are often structured around reveals and buried secrets. When lights come up on a play, we don’t know the people on stage, and revelations about their pasts, motives, relationships, and shared histories are part of what fuels the drama.

In an interactive fiction novel, the reveal isn’t as useful, because it will only work for the first playthrough. This completely changes the notion of suspense as a storytelling technique–a returning player has already seen behind the curtain. Plus, in the main character’s case, the player needs to know (and decide) all major backstory decisions from the outset, so that they can make informed decisions. This was really fun for me; as a writer I couldn’t rely on old tricks. It feels like I usually write as someone watching from the audience, and this was like going on stage and whispering in the main character’s ear.

Bootlegger is set during such an interesting period in American history. What about the period, and about Prohibition in general do you think modern readers may not know about?

The intersection of coffee and alcohol is really interesting to me. Part of the reason people drank so much pre-Prohibition was because alcohol was one of the only reliably safe ways to drink water. It would be much lower alcohol content than we associate with booze today, but people would drink the entire day. Coffee and tea were new forms of safe ways to drink water, so people went from being mildly drunk all the time to sober and caffeinated. The intellectual and political ramifications of that are massive.

The period is great for anecdotes, and I love all the methods people came up with to get away with drinking. Speakeasies would install levers that, when pulled in the case of a raid, would dump their entire liquor display down a hidden chute, shattering the bottles and draining the booze. Alcohol had been determined to have no health benefits, but during Prohibition that suddenly changed: whiskey could be gotten legally with a prescription for all sorts of maladies.

For me, it’s also a really interesting time of how people respond to a ban. For many, Prohibition was an attempt to stop some truly devastating habits, such as poor workers and farmers blowing their full paychecks on the way home, before even getting to their families. You can see how the Women’s Christian Temperance Union and the Anti-Saloon League could see alcohol and the people who sold it as criminal enterprises. At the same time, the complete ban on it meant that many people saw a market, and exploited it ruthlessly. With Bootlegger, I wanted to explore the sudden emergence of a new market that’s illegal, lucrative, and slightly absurd; something that was legal a few short years ago is now a violent, thriving industry.

Do you have a favorite NPC, one you enjoyed writing most?

I’ve never written any kind of gangster story, so writing Capaldi was a lot of fun. Writing a villain in general is a lot of fun, actually, but especially in this case, since Capaldi can be a villain or an ally depending on the play-through. That type of character, alternately frightening and endearing, is so rich and prevalent in gangster movies, and I like that in interactive fiction you might only see someone’s worst side when you’re on their worst side, which is just a terrible place to be. I think one reason we get into stories like The Godfather is because we see two sides of people, while the other characters in the story only see one: loving family member, terrifying murderer. It seems impossible that they can be one person.

If you were transported to the world of Bootlegger, what kind of underground shenanigans would you be best at? Distilling, smuggling, or imbibing?

I think I’d be good at distilling. I know I’d be terrible at being in charge of an operation, I have neither the economic wherewithal or ruthlessness. But I was a barista for a long time, so I think I’d be good at tending a still. I don’t think Prohibition had much of a “craft rotgut” scene, but I imagine I’d be able to get to the point of describing the flavor notes to my customers, which could maybe help me work my way up to get the kind of clients who could afford to care about the quality of their whiskey during Prohibition. But I’m also too trusting, so I’d be very easy to rip off. So, if I could find my way into an operation run by someone like Sam in Bootlegger, who takes care of their own, I’d make a very good worker.

Do you have a favorite tipple or are you a teetotaler?

I do love the occasional bourbon or an old fashioned, but generally I stick with beer.

What else are you working on/working on next, writing-wise?

I’m currently getting my Masters in Political Science, so I’m writing several essays, mainly focusing on the global impact of the film industry. I recently had a staged reading of a new play, Wildlife, which focuses on the illegal wildlife trade, as part of an ongoing project for my classes focusing on climate change. I am also working on an audio drama, called Ambrosia’s Big Break, with the hopes of releasing it in podcast format. Over the process of revising Bootlegger, I’ve had more ideas about things I’d like to do in this medium, so I’ve started to sketch out ideas for another interactive novel. This one would take an interconnected series of science fiction stories I wrote, and adapt them into one big world for the player. It’s one of those narratives that I’ve been attached to for years, but haven’t found the proper form for yet.