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nadiaportia · 4 years

Text

Groom-Show

Summary: Cibela needs the approval of someone to take an important step in her life

Word count: ~4k

One of various fics I wrote in the last couple of weeks, whether I’ll post the rest... I’ll see. But for now, enjoy a short introduction to the third and eldest Rubalcaba sister and the last of my main OCs to properly appear in a fic. ❤

“So I was thinking: last names. We could keep it all like it is... or we can get a little bit inspired by Kerusksch traditions and take the other’s name: traditional with Cibela Heßling, or progressive and modern with Aníbal de Rubalcaba-”

“No. We keep it like this.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Aníbal said after some hesitation to Cibela’s relief. She didn’t need to have this discussion now, especially since it was futile - she would remain a Rubalcaba, he a Heßling. She knew he desired to be officially taken into their family but it wouldn’t happen - even with a marriage or one day a shared child.

“What is the Grand Marshall of Galbrada saying? That’s his sigil at the bottom, right?” He tried to peek into the scroll she was studying, and she let him.

“It’s a plea for help against marauding mercenary troops coming from the South of the Emerald Sea. Small fish, but with our help they’re crushed in an instant.”

“So, do you wanna go? I mean, it would be great, you could gain a lot of support from the troops if you fight alongside them.”

Cibela briefly looked up and studied his face. She knew he wanted her to but at the same time would miss her. “I will send Ippolita in my stead. She’s capable enough to handle this on her own, and with my instructions little can go wrong. The Galbradans are desperate, and I don’t need to be there to throw a bone their way. My signature will suffice.”

“Will they know it’s yours? I mean, forgery and such.” He grinned, obviously an attempt at a joke. Cibela quirked an eyebrow at him in amusement.

“Do you want me to go?”

Aníbal furrowed his brows. “What? No!” He bent over to kiss the knuckles of one of her hands holding the scrolls. “If it were up to me, we’d stay forever in Cartagenth! Occasionally coming to this place to have a bit of time for ourselves, away from all the troubles of the capital, free to do whatever we want.”

He kissed the back of her hand, shifted closer to her and wrapped an arm around her waist before he peppered her jaw with kisses.

“Aníbal.”

Her companion hummed in response and gently turned her face towards him. Some strands of light brown hair had fallen loose and onto his forehead, his green-brown eyes were fixed on her lips and there was a slight red tint to his fair skin tone.

“I know, I know, there’s plenty of time when we’re at the residence, but I think the danger of getting caught is getting to me a little.”

That was a sentiment Cibela did not share in the least. The worst thing that could happen in this scenario was the carriage stopping and while Tía Esmé and Agustín were in the carriage in front of them and thus most likely wouldn’t notice anything for a while, Ximena and Heloisa were right behind them. Xime, of course, was more likely to simply either not go there mentally or shake her head and move on with whatever she was doing but Heloisa being Heloisa has never been one to waste an opportunity to make an innuendo or another kind of remark, be it to get under Aníbal’s or her skin. And besides, she was in the mood for anything but an impromptu make-out session that could lead to more.

She gently pushed him away. “Not now. Not when I’m feeling like a pig led to the slaughter.”

Aníbal instantly backed away. “Ah, yes, I… almost forgot about that. I mean, I’m trying to just not think about it because I’ll get nervous and then I get all sweaty and your mother’s going to think me a complete tool.”

Cibela waved away his concerns. “Don’t worry about her, she’s going to love you.”

Aníbal nodded. “Okay. Fine. You told me she’s nice, so I believe you.”

“Oh, she’s very amicable. Just don’t… talk about any of your weaknesses. Try to exile the expression ‘I can’t’ from your mind for the duration of the crossfire she’s going to put you under.”

“... I think I’ll be able to do that. I hope she’ll like my gift.”

For a moment neither said anything. “Actually,”, Cibela began, “I think it’s a better idea if you just… don’t give it to her.”

When Aníbal raised a brow at her, she merely shrugged. “I told you before, you’re not going to be able to buy her love, and material goods are as good as meaningless to her.”

“It’s a vase from the fifth century of the Golden Age of Bizatena, it belonged to the Emir himself-”

“-yes, and it doesn’t matter. Unless it’s something you made yourself, it’s practically worthless because she could just buy it herself. What does matter though is what you say to her, and the impression she gets.”

Aníbal stared at her and then nodded meekly. “I think I can see your point.” Then after a brief hesitation: “So we keep the vase?”

“Yes, it’s a nice vase.”

He took a deep breath. “I think I just caught your nervousness.”

Well, damn. Cibela took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “No need for that, love. Really.” She tried to give him a reassuring smile, fully knowing she was unable to bring across actual ease.

She hadn’t lied about her mother most likely loving him - hell, she probably had fallen in love with him the moment she heard about him from Tía Esmé - but when it came down to everything, her opinion didn’t actually matter. Esmé’s did, and Esmé was much tougher in her judgment.

When they left the pine forests of the most Southern province of Calpacia, controlled by the Duque of Linpauxa and close to the Northern border of Oriol, Cibela knew it wouldn’t be much until they got to the Summer Palace. Were this be any other occasion, she would feel nostalgic about returning here, remember the many times she had travelled here with her parents, feel like a young girl again.

Aníbal’s soft hand holding her own callused one didn’t relax her in the least but she didn’t let go of him until the carriage stopped and someone knocked on the door.

“Mi señora, Don Aníbal, we have arrived at your residence.” The servant said and opened the door for them. They already had their hand at the ready for Cibela to take it and be helped down from the carriage. She nodded at the servant when she was on the ground and turned to see both Tía Esmé and Agustín approaching her.

“How was your ride?” She asked and straightened her back.

“Just fine, the usual.” Tía Esmé’s voice sounded tired. If her aunt were anything like most old women, Cibela would have assumed she had fallen asleep during the ride, but it was more likely she had simply grown bored with staring out of the window.

“What about yours?” Agustín yawned, he must’ve slept for sure.

Cibela shrugged. “It was alright. Not a lot happened.”

“Well, I liked it. The scenery is amazing, you must be so happy to have this place. I remember Bela said some ancestor was from here.”

“Yeah, Saturnina de Pollensa. A great leader revered by the people of Linpauxa.” Esmé spoke with undeniable pride in her voice, to which Agustín made a grimace at.

“And also a notorious robber baroness. But nobody’s perfect, I suppose. Where’s Xime and Heloisa?”

Tía Esmé gave her son a cold glance but turned her attention to the missing last carriage. “They probably stopped at the city, at least Lola mentioned on our last stop she wanted do that.”

“We can wait inside, I don’t want to grow roots near the gates.” Cibela tried to calm her growing unease and standing around waiting for someone was the opposite of calming; she wanted to get this over with as soon as possible - and she wanted to see her mother.

“Agustín, wait for your cousins and instruct the servants where to take the luggages. I’ll go with Cibela to see Marisol.”

As she passed them by, Aníbal gave her a questioning look but said nothing, until Cibela gave him a look that basically insisted on him coming along as well. She didn’t want him to be singled out and shoved off to the side, much less realized that someone was trying to do that.

The Summer Palace was an impressive building, made of salmon red sandstone with white decorations and tall high windows. There were a total of 23 rooms, which made it smaller than the Palace in which the De Rubalcabas resided since five-hundred years in the outskirts of Cartagenth, but she had always preferred being here than in the capital. It was calmer, there wasn’t an obnoxious amount of people, both locals and foreigners who brought their petty little infighting to court, and the weather was a lot more pleasant to her personally than the tropical temperatures and rain seasons of the North. One winter, she remembered, it had snowed here so much that they couldn’t leave the grounds and they had been isolated for three days, and those days they had spent entertaining themselves with all sorts of games.

The servants opened the door when Tía Esmé approached the building and bowed deeply as she passed by. They kept their heads down when Cibela did and somehow this gave her a surge of confidence so she held her own head up high and tried to look the part of a future marquesa the best she could.

The entry foyer was, to their surprise, not empty but occupied a small woman with brown hair on one of the couches. A walking stick was leaning against her leg and she was coughing just as they entered the hall.

“Mi amor!” Marisol de Rubalcaba exclaimed and stood up quickly. Cibela didn’t wait for her mother to come over but bridged the distance between them in long strides and embraced her tightly. Judging by the trembling of her body, her mother was trying to not cry, preserve some dignity. She rubbed her back and gently stroked her hair for a few seconds before letting go and looked at her daughter’s face.

“It’s so good to see you again, Bela,”, she said with a smile and tears in her eyes. She was just a little smaller than her, a few centimeters, but she had thinned considerably since the last time she had seen her, her once slender face looked almost gaunt now with a grey tinge having replaced the warmth on her cheeks. Her brown hair was dull when looking at it close up and had more grey patches as well, and the fine lines in her face had deepened; she looked as if she had aged at least seven years in the last single one.

Would that happen to Cibela too one day, would her strength abandon her? Or would she remain strong and steady like Tía Esmé, who with even sixty years was every bit as healthy as a woman in her forties?

“Marisol.” Esmé, who together with Aníbal had taken a step back, now came over to them.

Mother hesitantly let go of her and turned towards her older sister. “Esmerelda. I’m glad you’re here.”

She also hugged her, and Tía Esmé held her tightly, perhaps even tighter than Cibela herself had.

“How are you feeling?” Her aunt gently took a strand of hair in between her fingers and in a rare moment of tenderness smiled earnestly at her sister.

“Better. The air of the sea treats me kinder than the capital. If I had known, I would’ve convinced Valentín to stay here and never leave years ago.”

Cibela swallowed at her mother’s words. She hadn’t come here to talk about her dead father, and it wasn’t what she wanted to be reminded of.

“Let us hope it will continue to do so and improve your condition.” Tía Esmé rubbed her sister’s back and only now Marisol seemed to notice the third guest. The look she gave him at first was one of confusion, then curiosity and after throwing a brief side glance to Cibela, one of glee.

“And who are you, young man?” She took the walking stick and made her way over to Aníbal who until now had stood a little awkwardly in the foyer.

“This is Aníbal Heßling.” The snarl in Esmé’s voice had not escaped Cibela but while her mother must’ve noticed, she simply chose to ignore it.

“Aníbal, eh? So you’re the fine gentleman at the side of my eldest daughter?” She wore a gentle smile, and for a moment there was some of her characteristic charisma back from her days as First Adviser of the Zaan. Aníbal’s pale face tinged slightly with color and he bowed.

“Marquesa Marisol, it is an honor to finally meet you.” He took her mother’s hand and placed the ghost of a kiss on the back of it.

“Oh no, the honor is all mine, Don Aníbal.”

Tía Esmé cleared her throat. Cibela threw her an icy look, to which Esmé merely responded with an indifferent raise of her eyebrow.

“Marisol, I think we should have a conversation about this soon enough, maybe after dinner?”

Marisol paused, and looked from her sister to Aníbal. Then she grinned and nodded. “I think that is a wonderful idea, after a full stomach we are all surely in a better mood. I specifically told the cooks to make ceviche, Bela. What do you like, Don Aníbal?”

...

By the time dinner started, Ximena and Heloisa were already back after they had indeed stopped at the town by the sea for a small shopping tour. Ximena wore a necklace with pieces of coral of an intense vermillion and Heloisa had gotten a brooch made of mother-of-pearl and lapis lazuli in the shape of an emperor angelfish.

“The merchant said his husband had brought this from Prakra, where this species of fish can be found en masse.” Heloisa said proudly to Tía Esmé who approvingly nodded while watching the brooch.

“It’s a very beautiful art piece.”

Tía Esmé sat to the right side of Marisol; Cibela herself to her mother’s left. Aníbal was next to her as her companion on her silent insistent demand and had been trying to make small talk during the dinner with her mother.

“So, Bela told me you used to come here on the regular?”

“Ah, yes, that is very true. My husband and I would travel here with her for some weeks during the storm season, but by the time Heloisa was born, I was already first counselor. Not enough free time as I would’ve liked.”

“Yep.” CIbela gave Heloisa a sharp look who nonchalantly chewed on a shrimp, and Ximena scoffed in response as well.

“Oh, and the food is great!” Aníbal said quickly and raised his glass of red wine to her. “I am already loving this stay.”

Marisol laughed gently. “I can see that you’re enjoying yourself.”

Cibela didn’t miss the look Agustín and Ximena, who sat the furthest away from the head of the table, exchanged and took another bite of ceviche to focus on something else.

“Well, there’s no place I’d rather be right now.” Aníbal leaned over to Cibela and pressed a greasy kiss on her cheek. Esmé showed no outward emotion but she could have sworn she saw the corners of her mouth twitch in something close to amusement.

“I can think of a few.” Heloisa’s grin widened as she noticed the reddening of Aníbal’s ears.

Cibela wished that Aníbal would leave it at that and not rise up to her sister’s bait - but of course, that wasn't going to happen. “What I meant is that there is no thing more important than family, especially if it's such a loving one.”

“So you're not courting Cibela anymore?” Agustín's remark earned the sharp looks of Esmé and Marisol, and Cibela responded with a smile that was more akin to a sneer and a rude gesture.

“Now now, children, play nice, we're at a dinner table, not a war council.” Marisol said and tapped the table with her long fingernails. “Let us not frighten our guest, that's bad manners.”

“Don't worry, Doña Marisol, a family as highly regarded as yours, I'm sure bad manners aren't even in your vocabulary.”

Cibela resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. She understood he was trying to play along with the game, but she wasn't in the mood to see him grovel. Her sisters and cousin seemed to agree because Ximena frowned deeply as she took a big sip from her glass of iced wine, Agustín tried to look as uninterested in what was being said as a person could while Heloisa seemed to consider the phrase for a few seconds with more than enough facial expressions.

Marisol didn't seem to be sure whether to share that sentiment or be satisfied with it. She gave him a smile.

“Tell me a little about your family, Aníbal. I must admit I have not met them during my time at court?” She leaned forwards a little. When seated, Marisol de Rubalcaba was able to mask her fragility quite well, that deserved considerable respect.

“You might know my mother; Paloma de Cordovero.”

Marisol's eyes widened in recognition. “The junior assistant of the Third Judge! She went to-- I can't remember where it was that she went, I'm so sorry.”

A muscle in Aníbal's face twitched. A reminder of his relative low status among Cartagense nobility was not something he needed for his confidence.

“Keruska, where she met my father, the noble Baron Karl Diederich Heßling.”

“How lovely! And carrying his name and not hers even when you are in service to her sovereign, one is almost tempted to be charmed by the quaintness.” She laughed, and in its pitch it almost matched Heloisa's gentle laugh whenever she just said something insulting but tried to mask it as a joke. “But I don't mean to mock you, my boy, I'd be a hypocrite considering I fell in love with a man who wasn't even of noble blood.”

“Yes, Cibela told me about her father, the late Don Valentín. My condolences, truly, I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. It is… not an easy loss.” Some of the light in her mother's face faded away and Cibela was quick to bring the conversation back on track.

“But Aníbal is of noble blood, mother, there is no need for such comparisons. He is a vital part among the Information Council.”

“Information?” Marisol turned to Heloisa. “Is that true?”

Heloisa raised an eyebrow. “Is it? I would say so. One might even say that the entire Council is his fanclub.”

“Lola.” Esmé had not looked up when she spoke but Heloisa sighed. “He does a fine job, is diligent and has assisted me on the odd occasion. That's the truth. Yay.” She turned her wrists in faked excitement and then dedicated herself to her dinner plate.

“How many years are you at court now, Aníbal?”

“It'll be five now. I was recommended to ease relations between Keruska and Calpacia by Philipp II and the Zaan was satisfied enough with my work to allow me to remain permanently.”

“And also because your mother is Calpacian.” Esmé's calm tone cut through the air regardless. Cibela felt anger surge in her. Could she make it anymore obvious that she was unsatisfied with him?

“Yes, that as well.”

“Of course the Kerusksch want a strong ally like Cartagenth; they're a crumbling nation and the situation in the East has been a disaster for the last couple of years. It's no different than how the tribes beyond the walls of Hjalle treat each other: with open animosity and destructive warfare instead of diplomacy and negotiations.”

“To be frank I think comparing the political situation in the East with fighting savages is a bit facetious. One are civilized people who simply don't know how to solve their disagreement, and the other are scavengers who have no loyalty to anyone but themselves!” Marisol interjected. Esmé scoffed and then shrugged.

“Opportunists are still abundant. One ought to be smart about who you choose to ally yourself with.” Now she was directly looking at Cibela, and even though the temptation to tear her gaze away was strong, Cibela held against it and leveled her aunt calmly.

…

“I like him. I really do.”

“He reminds you of Papá.”

Marisol sighed and sat down on her bed. “Fine; he does. But he seems to like you an awful lot - all those little touches and the looks he gave you, there was so much love in the air.”

Cibela shook her head. She did not have her mother's inclination for romanticism at all, and this sort of talk seemed nothing but excessive while reeking of kitsch.

“Did you learn Kerusksch for him?”

“Mamá!” Cibela almost cried. “Don't be ridiculous… you know my tutor was a Kerusksch themselves.”

“I know - but it would've been a sweet gesture.” She beckoned her daughter to sit next to her. “And you seem to like him, which is what matters most.”

“But I don't think I love him the same way you loved Papá.”

“Oh, Bela.” Marisol gently touched her daughter's hair and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “No one loves the same way. You do it yours, less intense but more pragmatic. Whatever your choice is, I support you.”

“Thank you for that, as of now I think you might be the only one in my corner on that.” Cibela wished she could sound less bitter but Marisol knew her too well.

“Don’t pay so much mind to Esmerelda, my child. She is... just overly critical, but that is a constant. She will need her time.”

“What exactly did she say?”

Marisol shrugged. “A lot, not all of it worth repeating or for you to pay any mind to it. The way I know her at some point she is going to see you content and decided that it’s enough.”

Cibela knew exactly that this was never going to happen, hell might freeze over before Esmerelda de Rubalcaba would be at peace knowing someone was simply settling for something. But it was not a discussion she wanted to have right now, the morality of her mother’s eldest sister who had always been a protector figure in her eyes and figure of great inspiration to the point that she had left most official work in her hands despite her being the matriarch of their family was not something to touch upon in the middle of the night.

Bidding her mother a good night and almost not wanting to leave her embrace, she left her bedroom.

On the way to her own temporary chambers and just a hallway away from Marisol’s quarters, she came across someone she was not in a mood to see for at least the entirety of their two weeks stay.

“Get some rest instead of skulking around the halls like a restless wraith.” Tía Esmé's tone was cold like the shard of ice in her chest, and the look in her eyes sharp like a dagger. It was something reserved only for her - not once had Ximena and much less Heloisa been under that scrutinizing gaze, and if then surely so much less often than she had been its victim.

“I was talking to my mother.” Cibela straightened her back and pulled down her shoulders. She wouldn't let herself be intimidated.

“I know. And I can imagine just too well what she said.”

“So what?”

Tía Esmé shrugged. “Do what you think is right. I say you can do better.”

“Of course you say that.”

“You deserve someone with a backbone - something he lacks, and it is obvious to anyone who wishes to see so.”

Cibela scoffed. “In your eyes, those who give in to you are spineless and those who don't are self-absorbed fools.”

Esmé raised an eyebrow. Immediately Cibela shrunk a bit and cursed herself for doing so.

“You want him to be spineless because if he weren't, there could be a chance he might abandon you for someone else, something else.”

“Please, Tía, decide whether you want him to be power hungry or a sycophant. I might start to believe you're just making up reasons to deny me any happiness.”

“If this is the happiness you wish for, then I pity you. He is both because you need him to be both in order to tie him to you.” Her voice was so calm and gentle and it made Cibela angrier than if she had shouted. The muscles in her jaw were twitching aggressively and Esmé clearly enjoyed seeing her niece conflicted and irritated - it might push her to agree with her words. Then she sighed.

“If you're so content to marry a man leagues beneath you, I'm not stopping you, you'd go behind my back anyway.” Go be the failure that you have always been, it didn't take much to interpret the true meaning of what Tía Esmé said into her actual words.

“Thank you for your kind words, dearest aunt.”

Esmé didn't deign to reply to Cibela's words, dripping with sarcasm as they were. She merely gave her a piercing look for a few seconds and then continued her way along the hallway to her chambers.

After gathering herself, Cibela began walking away as well, careful to not turn around to see whether her aunt was still there or had already disappeared from her sight. That was a weakness she wouldn't allow herself to display.

#the arcana #my writing #the arcana fic #the arcana oc #cibela de rubalcaba

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troybeecham · 4 years

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5th Monday in Lent

The Gospel reading for today and reflection:

Mark 9:30-41 (NRSV)

“Jesus and his disciples went on from there and passed through Galilee. He did not want anyone to know it; for he was teaching his disciples, saying to them, “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.” But they did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him. Then they came to Capernaum; and when he was in the house he asked them, “What were you arguing about on the way?” But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest. He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.” John said to him, “Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.” But Jesus said, “Do not stop him; for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us. For truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward.”

Imagine teaching a group of people that self-sacrifice for the salvation of others is how God’s kingdom works, and you been teaching them by word and example for years...and all they can think about is who is the greatest amongst themselves, and who will be given the top positions of power in God’s coming kingdom. I imagine Jesus often said “Oy vey!” to himself often. I imagine he says that about me often. The Gospel of Jesus is not just counterintuitive, it v is diametrically opposed to human society and the ways of our world as it is now. To choose to follow Jesus is one thing; it is another to be born again. Why does Jesus talk about being born again? It’s because every fiber of our being and all of our social enculturation teaches us to live, feel, and behave in ways that lead to death. In order to begin to live the life of the kingdom of God in the here and now, before his kingdom actually dawns, requires a level of personal transformation that only God can accomplish in us. And it isn’t an easy or painless process! Once you become born again, the world, and the oriole in it, begin to realize that you’re not like them anymore. And that can be dangerous, even deadly depending on where you live. So why ask God for this transformation? Because it is the only true path to joy, peace, and the kind of love that seeks no reward or return. God begins to change our desires, which place us in conflict with each other, into mirroring his desires, which are always to seek the healing, rescue, and restoration of others. Simply put, it is the only path to salvation; salvation from competitiveness, wrath, violence, degradation...all the things that destroy and deform the human soul.

Oh my friend, won’t you ask God to begin to transform you today, to be remade in the image of his Son, our Savior, Jesus, who lived a life of perfect selflessness, of desiring and doing only what his Father desired and did?

Almighty God, you alone can bring into order the unruly wills and affections of sinners: Grant your people grace to love what you command and desire what you promise; that, among the swift and varied changes of the world, our hearts may surely there be fixed where true joys are to be found; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.

Amen.

#father troy beecham #christianity #troy beecham episcopal #jesus #father troy beecham episcopal #saints #god #salvation #peace

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theawkwardterrier · 5 years

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things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 10

AO3 link here

Drea is the only one of his kids who Steve successfully gets into baseball. Rosie at age six tells him seriously that she has other, more important things to do than watch grownup men get excited about a ball, Em sits patiently through a couple of games that she clearly has no interest in, and Nate, when offered a chance to visit the ballpark for the first time at five years old says, "If you would be happy about it," in such a sweet, guileless way that Steve chokes up and tells him right away to forget about it. (Peggy is only too happy to have him look for someone else to bring - while she knows the rules by now and has watched a few games herself, he thinks that she'd have happily abdicated her seat to any passerby who wanted it. It's fine: she once tried to explain the rules of cricket, and he thinks he might still be comatose.)

But Drea loves it enough for all the rest of them, collecting cards, scanning the sports section each morning as the season approaches, and talking statistics like they're her second language. Nothing much has changed for her since they moved to Maryland: she has a group of boys to trade cards with, her best friends even as she enters junior high, and she's still a solid early choice in a schoolyard or street pickup game.

Steve's too cheap to shell out for Orioles season tickets - they live closer to DC, so getting to Baltimore is less convenient especially for weeknight games, but he's pretty sure that Washington loses their team sometime soon and he doesn't want his daughter getting attached and going through the same heartbreak he did - but he makes sure to take her to a few games a season, just the two of them.

It's a beautiful May Sunday, and the Orioles have just absolutely trounced Kansas City. Steve tosses their hot dog wrappers in the trash on the way out - four of his, one of Drea's - and wraps his arm around her, kissing the top of her baseball cap-covered head as they join the chattering crowd on the way back to their car.

"That was a great game," he says. "I think the O's have a good chance of making the series this year, huh?"

"I'm not very much like other girls, am I?"

It's more momentum than anything that keeps Steve walking. "What do you mean?" he asks carefully, looking down at her. The brim of her cap blocks him from seeing her face, but her shoulders hunch a little under his hand.

"I'm not like Mom," she says. "Or like Emma."

"Well that’s good, because I don't know if I could handle two Emmas. We'd never be able to finish all the desserts." Steve jokes. "And it would be a pretty big coincidence if you were like Mom." Everyone in town is used to the Carters by now, but when they had moved down from New Jersey five years ago, the variation in looks between the children and their lack of similarity to either parent had brought reactions ranging from pity to outright disdain.

"That's not what I mean." Drea starts to walk a little faster, even knowing that her dad can keep up. Her words come out in small, breathless bursts, and Steve aches a little at the bravery it is taking her just to keep speaking them. "It’s just...they know about girl stuff. Mom knows when to wear fancy gloves and pearls and it never looks weird, and Emmy just knows how to talk with other girls. They understand everything without even trying. They like this stuff. The only stuff I like is boy stuff."

"Hey," he says, pulling her to the side of the crowd so he can stop and bend to face her. He peers into the shadow beneath her ball cap, finding her jewel-dark blue eyes. "You're a girl. Anything you like is girl stuff."

She turns away from him. "Yeah, okay."

"I know that Em is a certain kind of girl—" Emma has already requested her own set of mixing bowls for Christmas. Practically the only time she wears pants is in the garden. She used to spend entire afternoons pouring “tea” for a dozen dolls and stuffed animals, signing politely to them as she sipped with an extended pinky. "But your mom put up with a lot during the war, and even now there are plenty of people who say that she isn't doing the things a woman should do. And what about Rosie? She doesn’t exactly fit into a box."

"It's different for me than it is for Rosie." That she says it simply, without a sigh or a teenage eyeroll, makes him sad. Even sadder than that: she's right. As much as he doesn't want it to be, it is different for her than it is for Rose, or Emma, or even Peggy.

"Okay," he says. "You're different than some girls. But that doesn't mean you're doing anything wrong. And I would hate for you to change the way you are or the things you love just because you felt that you had to fit in.” He tries to smile. “Besides, Bucky and the family are coming to visit over the summer and I promised them a good time, which means a trip to the ballpark with the two of us."

This time she does sigh, a tiny hiccup of not being entirely understood or at least of realizing that her father can't fix everything for her. "Yeah," she says again. "Okay."

Steve stands to his full height once again and hugs her against his side for a moment. He and Peggy have changed a lot, but there are some things even more stubborn than they are.

Tonight was supposed to be a date night with Steve, but there’s been a new FBI head for three, nearly four years now, and Peggy is only just getting around to inviting him and his wife for a collegial dinner engagement. Steve very sweetly said that he doesn't mind any of the time that he gets to spend with her, but she knows that this isn't exactly his idea of an enjoyable evening out. She'll have to remember to make it up to him.

"Which one?" she asks Drea, holding three dress options in front of herself. There's a deep, vivid scarlet number, a classic flared black, and a black and aubergine paneled silk with the tags still on.

Drea considers. "The red. Daddy likes it when you wear red."

"So he does." She strips off her robe and leaves it on the back of the chair as she slides the dress over her head, moving to the mirror to do up the last of the zip and smooth it over her hips. Peggy keeps herself fairly trim, but it's been a while since she wore this particular dress, and one never knows how things might have changed.

In the glass, she glimpses Drea, her black hair tangled and wild around her shoulders as always, her knees tented as she tucks nearly her whole narrow body into the white T-shirt she's wearing: one of Steve's undershirts, no doubt. Drea practically lives in them as it gets warmer. If it were prior to Lula-Cat's escape of the previous summer, the beast would surely be purring on the bed beside her favorite Carter, allowing herself to be petted as she got fur all over Peggy's clean pillowcases.

She is almost fourteen, Peggy realizes with a pang, and not only because her children are growing up even more quickly than she had expected. They will have another year of people plausibly believing her to be a late bloomer, perhaps not even that. She, Steve, Drea and her doctor have an appointment soon for a discussion, and Peggy makes a note to sit down Howard with as well. The little tools he's made for Emma - the vibrating clip for her swimsuit for when they go to the beach, the egg timer with its flashing lights - have been helpful, but the things he could make for Drea might be lifesaving.

As she moves to the vanity and fixes her face, traces on her vividly red lipstick with a practiced hand, thinks for a moment and adds pearl earrings and a simple crystal necklace which Steve gave her for their fifteenth anniversary, she fights to keep both the fear and calculation from her face. Drea already looks melancholy enough.

Peggy sits at the edge of the bed to put on her hose and her pumps. She is just about to get up and take in the final product when Drea says from beside her, "Mom, can you teach me how to put on makeup?"

Peggy pauses for just a moment, then asks, "What brought this on?" She allows only a tiny amount of surprise into her voice. It would be unbelievable otherwise, but the true amount of shock she feels at the question would be insulting, would drive her daughter away.

"Some girls at school are starting to use it. And I—" Her voice falters a bit, then comes back stronger, perhaps too strong, as if she's given herself a stern lecture. "I think I should also know how."

"I think you're a bit young for it, and I'm not sure that 'because everyone else is doing it' is a particularly good reason," says Peggy, continuing over the beginning of Drea's protestations. "But if that's what you truly want, I can certainly give you a lesson or two." She sighs, perhaps a bit theatrically. "Goodness knows I'd have liked for Rosie to ask before she made her first attempts."

It works. Drea laughs a little, remembering Rose's early experiments with cheap drugstore eye makeup and vending machine lip color in a particularly revolting shade of tangerine that gave her a rash.

Peggy stands, smoothing her dress one final time and going over to the closet. She takes out a handbag, and riffles through Steve's tie hanger, selecting a red one which will match her dress and coordinate well with the gray suit she had watched him put on earlier.

"Are you ready?" Drea asks, her voice a bit less dispirited than it had been a few moments earlier, and Peggy nods and moves toward her. Drea spritzes the perfume precisely, two sprays that float in the air for Peggy to walk through. She had always touched on her own scent, a bit at each wrist and at her throat, and just a drop or two on a sachet in her brassiere, but then the children had come along, and now this was a particular tradition whenever one of them helped her get ready.

"Be good for Rose," Peggy says as she leaves the room, and Drea calls back, "If she's good to me."

Rose herself is sitting sprawled out in the doorway of her bedroom, scribbling into a notebook. She is in the midst of a hard-fought campaign for presidency of the upcoming senior class, and lately seems to have decided to plop herself down whenever an idea might catch her. Her legs aren’t long, even at the end of her growth spurt, but she’s positioned herself so they stretch out into the hallway and Peggy steps over them as she passes.

"Don't forget about bedtime," she reminds her eldest, and Rose makes a vague affirmative sound before she places a firm full stop at the end of whatever sentence she is writing and, stretching, looks up at her mother.

"What did you say?"

"Bedtime," Peggy repeats firmly. "Your siblings must adhere to it. As should you. I know that school is coming to an end, but it isn’t here yet."

"Fine," Rosie says with a wave of her hand, and Peggy knows that she'll see the bedroom light snap off just as they turn up the driveway. She starts on her way again (if Rose wants to develop poor sleeping habits, that is her responsibility) but then turns back.

"And be kind to your sister," she tells Rose, dropping her voice a bit. "I think she's having a hard time."

"I can make her a Surprise," Rose suggests, and Peggy shudders, and not just because of Rosie's notoriously poor cooking skills. Drea is the only one of the children with clear memories of her birth parents - she was five when they were killed in a fire while out for their anniversary dinner. One of the things she remembers most clearly is the multitude of casseroles her birth mother made: Hamburger Surprise, Tuna Surprise, Potato Surprise... Peggy has no doubt that they were as ordinary, or perhaps as lackluster, as any example of such a dish, but Drea had built them up in her mind, built them up for Nate, who had no memories of their parents, such that she had spent her childhood requesting various types of Surprises for birthday meals or following an especially good report card.

Steve has turned into a good cook and with Emma at his side they can turn out almost anything, but a Surprise has never been Peggy’s idea of fine cuisine.

"Supper is already being taken care of," Peggy says, adding the thankfully for you only mentally. She can smell Sam's Cornbread in the oven now, can hear the airy silence downstairs, punctuated with little sounds that signify Steve refereeing a fight between Emma and Nate, likely about how much spice to add to the chili. "Just be nice to Drea."

"If she's nice to me," Rosie says, and Peggy refrains from lifting her eyes upward and asking why she had been given two daughters who were so similar and yet refused to realize it.

"Everyone's finished their schoolwork, but make sure that Nate’s book report ends up in his bag. And Emma is trying a new recipe for creamed Brussels sprouts - please tell everyone that they must at least taste it. Don’t simply take the whole pot and bury it in the garbage pail, and certainly don’t try to throw it in the woods the way you did the spinach," Peggy tells her shrewdly, but a new idea seemed to have struck and Rosie is back to her notebook again.

Peggy moves on. Rose has minded her siblings before, and Peggy doesn't want to be late to the dinner and cause an inter-agency incident; Howard would never let her hear the end of it. Besides, she and Steve will have an opportunity to discuss Drea in the car over - there comes a point where even a night away from the children is never truly away from the children.

Rosie lets Nate and Emma stay up for an extra half hour to cement herself as a Cool Older Sister. Once they're asleep, she knocks on Drea's door, barely waiting to be invited before she enters.

Drea is lying on her back on her bed, tossing a ball up and catching it.

"Be careful it doesn't hit your face," Rose says, hoping that it doesn't come out mean or bossy the way her words sometimes do when she's talking to Drea.

"It’s never happened to me before.” Drea doesn’t take her eyes off the ball. “Just because you’re still scarred from the Wiffle Ball Incident—”

“You said you wouldn’t ever mention that!” Rose comes in and closes the door all the way. “Ugh, just move over.” Drea groans as she sits up against the headboard, but she tucks her legs up to make room and Rosie takes a seat. “Look, I heard you asking Mom about makeup and stuff. Are people giving you trouble at school? Because I’ll give them a talking to if they are.”

“You’re not queen of the high school yet. No one has to just listen to you when you go blab in their face,” says Drea, jutting out her chin, although they both know that when Rosie gives someone a talking to, it not infrequently involves violence. (There had been a question about whether or not she was even allowed to run for the student council based on the number of detentions and suspensions on her record.)

“You’re my sister,” says Rose, setting her own chin. “And if someone’s making problems for you, I’ll take care of it.”

Despite herself, Drea laughs. “You sound like Jimmy Hoffa.”

“Maybe, but Mom would make sure that I covered my tracks better than he did.” Rose lies back across the bed, legs just long enough for her feet to still touch the floor. She turns her face, her hair fanned around her as she looks at Drea, curled up at the head of the bed. “You know I’m serious, right?”

“I know. But it’s not really someone in particular, it’s just...life.”

Rosie sighs. “Yeah.” She puts out her hand, and Drea scooches down to grasp it. “Life’s hard.”

Sarcasm is on the tip of Drea’s tongue - “Tell me more, oh wise one!” - but instead she stays quiet and holds her sister’s hand until their parents return.

Drea and Steve go with Bucky, Layla, and their kids to watch a blowout Orioles win during their vacation at the end of July - Drea cheers louder than anyone. In August, after they've returned from their own vacation, Peggy sits Drea down at the vanity and walks her a half dozen different beauty products, while Rose comments loudly from the bed. Just before school starts in September, Drea uses her allowance to get a flat iron and gives herself three burns learning how to use it.

The Orioles lose the Series to the Mets, and Drea starts wearing dresses for the first time since she was a child.

It won’t be any help, Steve realizes as she sits down across from him at the breakfast table, settling her skirt self-consciously, sitting up straight and crossing her ankles with awkward politeness, to remind her once more that she doesn’t need to do this. She has a good head on her shoulders, and she’s using it to process everything in the world that tells her otherwise. He remembers what Peggy has said about it, that she’ll come back to herself, she’ll come back to them, when she’s ready. So instead he says, “Hey, kid,” and when she looks up at him, he smiles and tells her, “there’s always next year, you know? Always another shot if we need it.”

And to his relief, she smiles back, the expression familiar, wild-edged and lovely, the same as it’s always been. Hello in there, he thinks.

“Yeah, Dad,” she says. “There’s always next year.”

More chapters here

#Steggy fic #Steggy #Steve Rogers #Peggy Carter #things left behind fic #probably nothing new next week while I do other fic prep

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hellyeahomeland · 6 years

Note

How about explaining all of the episode’s titles? Would you? Maybe one a day/week.

“Ok, here we go. This is only from memory and if any of this is wrong or contains typos please don’t @ me I didn’t edit!

Season one:

“Pilot: twas the pilot!

“Grace”: Brody prays at the end

“Clean Skin”: I think this is because Nazir lets Brody take a bath

“Semper I”: it’s a play on “Semper Fi” which is short for “Semper Fidelis” which is a Marine motto which means “always faithful”

“Blind Spot”: Carrie thinks Brody uses the blind spot in the safe house to slip Hamid the razor blade plus her growing attraction for him is kind of her blind spot!!

“The Good Soldier”: almost undoubtedly a reference to a novel about a love triangle between a woman and two soldiers

“The Weekend”: because it’s THE weekend, duh

“Achilles Heel”: Saul’s Achilles heel is that he always answers when work calls, Tom Walker’s is that he loves his wife and kids… Carrie’s is literally every aspect of her existence

“Crossfire”: Issa gets stuck in the crossfire

“Representative Brody”: it’s the episode where Brody decides to run for Congress lol

“The Vest”: Brody tries on a vest!

“Marine One”: *FORGET ABOUT BEFORE, THIS IS NOW. I SAW THEM! WHO? BRODY… THEY HUSTLED IT RIGHT THROUGH THE METAL DIRECTORS ALONG WITH THE VICE PRESIDENT. DO YOU EVEN REALIZE WHAT YOU’RE SAYING. YES. HE’S PLANNING ON TAKING THEM ALL OUT. THAT IS WHAT’S COMING. WE’VE BEEN HEARING CHATTER FOR DAYS NOW, MARINE ONE, MARINE TWO. IT’S NOT THE PRESIDENT’S HELICOPTER. IT’S ACTUAL MARINES. BRODY. AND WALKER. THEY ARE MARINE ONE AND MARINE TWO THEY’RE WORKING TOGETHER THEY MUST BE. **transcribed verbatim from memory

Season two:

“The Smile”: CARRIE FUCKING SMILES FOR FUCKING ONCE

“Beirut Is Back”: I could have sworn that there was a tourism campaign for the city of Beirut and this was the slogan but now I can find no evidence of that online

“State of Independence”: idk if this is a reference to the Donna Summers song or just a reference to Carrie being on her own again

“New Car Smell”: Brody gets a car wash to get rid of the odor of tobacco and murder

“Q&A”: Carrie asks some questions

“A Gettysburg Address”: play on words with Abraham Lincoln’s speech and the fact that Quinn & Co. literally go to a physical address in Gettysburg

“The Clearing”: I think this has multiple meanings: Carrie meets Brody in the clearing in the woods, Dana clears her conscience, Brody attempts to clear his

“I’ll Fly Away”: a reference to the 90s TV show that Henry Bromell (and, hi! Barbara Hall!) both wrote on but a more literal reference to Brody being whisked away on a helicopter at the end (lmao s2 is wild)

“Two Hats”: so many people wearing hats in this episode!!

“Broken Hearts”: lulz Walden’s breaks at the end

“In Memoriam”: because Nazir dies (fact: this episode was originally titled “The Motherfucker in the Turban” but was changed last minute, thank god)

“The Choice”: Carrie must choose between red and white wine JUST KIDDING IS ANYONE STILL READING THIS???

Season three:

“Tin Man Is Down”: someone says this during the weird Wizard of Oz op

“Uh… Oh… Aw”: phonetically it sounds like “fuck… you… saul” if you were drugged out on thorazine

“Tower of David”: Brody’s residence

“Game On”: because it’s when Carrie and Saul’s spy-came-in-from-the-cold operation is revealed

“The Yoga Play”: it’s Carrie’s very unoriginal name for an espionage scheme in which a lady with blonde hair attends a yoga class in her place

“Still Positive”: Carrie takes a 47th pregnancy test and is still positive #scarredforlife

“Gerontion”: ugh this is a poem I don’t know more go find Jacob Clifton’s TWoP recap

“A Red Wheelbarrow”: Carrie texts this to the Franklin man, it’s like spy code for “i’m the one answering this not some other dude”

“One Last Thing”: Saul to Brody: “you will do this one last thing” (literally though!)

“Good Night”: more spy code. I think it means “we’re fucked!”?

“Big Man in Tehran”: Brody becomes one of these when he denounces America for terrorism! (but only for show!)

“The Star”: probs dual meaning and allusion to the literal star Carrie draws and Damian Lewis’ stature on the show

Season four:

“The Drone Queen”: we stan one!

“Trylon and Perisphere”: a reference to the two structures at the World’s Fair and I can’t remember where I read this but I think it’s a reference to Quinn and the Landlady which is 100% horrific and offensive

“Shalwar Kameez”: this is the national dress of Pakistan but beyond that I got nothing

“Iron in the Fire”: Carrie says this about Aayan

“About a Boy”: think this is not a reference to the book/film but rather just to Carrie trying to figure out Aayan’s dealio

“From A to B and Back Again”: possibly a reference to the circular nature of the episode? They go from thinking they’ve got Haqqani to being back at square one by episode’s end

“Redux”: Carrie hallucinates Brody

“Halfway to a Donut”: Duck says this about some pastry. Like 4.06, they think they’ve got Saul and end up back to zero (donut)

“There’s Something Else Going On”: well there was!!

“13 Hours in Islamabad”: reference to the Benghazi attacks, which the episode basically lifts from directly and which also lasted ~13 hours

“Krieg Nicht Lieb”: Carrie meets a German spy woman! This means “war not love” (not perfectly translated), so an ironic take on “love not war”

“Long Time Coming”: Carrie and Quinn finally have sex!!!!!!! (just seeing if anyone is still reading this)

Season five:

“Separation Anxiety”: I think this a meta reference to the time jump and also to Carrie’s anxieties about being out of the CIA but back in that world

“The Tradition of Hospitality”: I believe this is a reference to Carrie + Otto being guests at the UN refugee camp and how… un-hospitably that trip ends

“Super Powers”: Carrie believes she has super powers when she’s off her meds

“Why Is This Night Different”: these words at said at Passover seder, which starts out the episode

“Better Call Saul”: horrifically embarrassing title that is a reference to Carrie calling Saul as well as the Breaking Bad spinoff starring Bob Odenkirk

“Parabiosis”: I honestly don’t know. It’s a scientific term and I haven’t rewatched those middle season five episodes since they aired and also don’t care to!

“Oriole”: this was Carrie’s code name with one of her assets in Iraq

“All About Allison”: this episode centers on our Lord and Savior Allison Carr, Queen of Online Handbag Shopping!

“The Litvinov Ruse”: I think this describes the trick they played on Allison thinking she was blown when she wasn’t

“New Normal”: some military or CIA person says this about ISIS or Russia and Quinn being gassed

“Our Man in Damascus”: this is the title of a book about a man who infiltrates a foreign government at the highest levels so I’m pretty sure it’s a reference to Allison

“A False Glimmer”: lifted straight from Quinn’s letter!

Season six:

“Fair Game”: was surely sad by Keane or Dar or Saul or someone else about something (sorry, haven’t rewatched these episodes either)

“The Man in the Basement”: it’s where Quinn threw that mug at Carrie

“The Covenant”: believe this is a reference to the scene with Saul and his sister and Palestine/Israel

“A Flash of Light”: Etai says* this to Saul: “And the question I keep asking myself is this-- should we [the Jewish people] pack up and leave before it's too late? All eight million of us? Should we go back to the ghettos of Europe and Asia and wait for the next pogrom? Or just pray it doesn't happen here first, in a flash of light?” *not recited from memory

“Casus Belli”: apparently this was the actual name of meat face?? The phrase actually means a justification for war, so...

“The Return”: isn’t the episode where Javadi comes back?

“Imminent Risk”: Carrie is this to Franny and Quinn is this to.... himself?

“alt.truth”: I think this was someone’s sock puppet handle or website name or something? Idk it was about online trolls I think

“Sock Puppets”: Max finds ‘em!

“The Flag House”: the house where meat face lives has a flag out front

“R is for Romeo”: there was an R on the white board at the flag house which I think meant eastern time?? It was spy code I can’t remember!!

“America First”: term that used to mean non-interventionist policy but has been today co-opted by the American right to mean that we gotta put America ahead of all other interests (moral, humane, rational, etc.) because... AMERICA!!! Typically used to justify fascist policies

Season seven:

“Enemy of the State”: Carrie’s power of bun have put her in the crosshairs (is anyone still reading this?)

“Rebel Rebel”: I remember this being a play on words and it’s a verb, not a noun. Said by those gun crazies with Brett O’Keefe.

“Standoff”: Saul and O’Keefe

“Like Bad at Things”: definition for “incompetent.” Said by Carl, who deserves a Best Supporting Actor Emmy

“Active Measures”: term for actions taken by Russia to undermine America

“Species Jump”: another science term to describe the jumping of a pathogen from one host to another... I’m thinking this might be Carrie understanding who Dante really was but it’s a Chip Johannessen title so anything is possible

“Andante”: it’s how Carrie ends the episode! (that is a joke and it is 100% another meaning for the title but it also refers to a moderately slow tempo which is basically this episode’s structure until, y’know, the ending!)

“Lies, Amplifiers, Fucking Twitter”: it’s one half of a haiku Carrie is writing

“Useful Idiot”: see: picture of Carrie in a PowerPoint presentation

“Clarity”: Carrie gets it (kinda)

“All In”: what Carrie must convince Saul she is for the 650th time because Saul remains trash

“Paean to the People”: a reference to Keane’s speech

#painterx92 #ask #hyh ask #by: sara #OH MY GOD I CAN'T BELIEVE I WROTE ALL THAT #i put it under a cut for kindness

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throughtheglassdarkly · 5 years

Text

Roadblocks, part 2

Welcome back. When last you were here, Bella broke all the glass and I used Day as a makeshift hurdle. Onward.

The day after our last adventure, Bella spent pretty much all day meeting and having dinner with her entire extended family. Pam, being such a mom, decided to stay on call in case anything went south. So that meant only three of us were free for the next nonsense that came up. I was at home, whipping up a perfectly nice lemon cake, when trouble called. Or texted, to be more accurate. I got a message from Evain that simply was an address about half an hour away. I washed my hands and texted back, “Need me to bring lube?” He replied, “You wish. Meet you there in 45 minutes. With the others.”

I sent off a message to Yova and Day: “Evain wants us to meet him at the Goblin Market. You in?” Yova texted me back, “Do I have time to change into something appropriate?” “Do you ever?” I asked her. She showed up ten minutes later, dressed to the nines, and we drove over to pick up Day and get to the address. It was a Sunday evening around 7:00, definitely getting dark early at that time of the year. We drove on the thoroughfare for about 20 minutes before pulling off on another highway. When we got there, we had to double check the address about eight times before we realized we were in the right place. It was the saddest looking mall any of us had ever seen. The biggest sign was for the Cash 4 Gold store and the parking lot was almost deserted. The only thing that told us we were in the right place was Evain, who was sitting on the hood of his SUV next to a large unlit Super Kmart sign.

Evain greeted us and gestured for us to walk up to the abandoned-looking Super Kmart. We were skeptical, but the double doors did slide open as we approached. The first thing any of us smelled was an overpowering reeking mixture of cheap incense and burnt rubber. It got worse from there. We didn’t see any electric lights at first, but about ten feet in, things started to brighten up a bit. Inside was what could only be described as the Spirit Halloween of Faerie markets. It had none of the class, ambiance, or deafening power of the goblin market we witnessed in Arcadia and none of the charm of a usual street fair. There were tacky streamers hanging from the metal supports in the ceiling, Christmas lights strewn over the walls, multi-colored lanterns lighting individual pathways between the vendors, and fairy lights on a few of the stalls. It was laid out in the aisles like a department store and awful, just-barely-out-of-sync folk music was playing. The three of us just stood there, staring in disbelief for a few moments.

“I’m pretty sure we can get goblin dysentery just sitting here,” Day said. “I want to find whoever’s playing that music and beat them over the head with a metronome,” Yova said. “I think Bella would be right at home here,” I said.

Evain apologized that it wasn’t the classiest place in the world, but said it was the best they could do. “They don’t announce this place until the last minute, so it’s not like they’ve got a lot of time to set it up and make it look nice,” he said. “But there’s a lot more you can buy here than it looks like. And they take a lot of different stuff in exchange. Cash, memories, toenails.” All three of us turned to look at the same moment. “Wait, toenails?” Yova asked. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Couple of months ago, there was stand selling this amazing hedgebeast jerky. Best stuff I’ve ever eaten. And all they wanted was a month’s worth of my toenails. Don’t know what they used them for.”

“Please tell me you didn’t have that ready to go to exchange,” I said, feeling my gorge start rising. “Oh, no, it was installments. I just had to keep a jar of them and hand them in at the next market,” he said. “Where’d you say this stall was?” Day asked. “DAY,” I said. “What?” he asked. “Day, you don’t save your toenails, do you?” Yova asked. “No. I mean, not really. I haven’t changed my vacuum bag in a while, so-” “Gyaaaaaah,” I said, going through a full body shudder.

Evain warned us that our phones weren’t going to work inside the market due to magical wards, so we planned to meet back at the entrance in an hour and a half. He headed off to find some things of his own and the three of us tried to figure out a good plan of attack and what we were looking for. “So, uh, maybe we could pick up some things for the others? Maybe some treats for Paisley?” Day asked. Yova and I both turned our heads so slowly to look at him I heard creaking. “Day, are you suggesting we get presents for Pam and Bella?” I asked. “…maybe. I dunno,” he said. “I guess since you guys pulled me out of that office I should probably do something nice.” “Awwww, I think his heart grew three sizes today,” Yova said.

Yova, our resident strategist, suggested that we do a lap around the main floor to see if we could figure out where everything was before we started buying anything. “It’s just like an anime convention. You don’t give your money to the first person who catches your eye, you might see the same shirt being sold three different places,” she said. Nerd. We ended up doing what she said and I realized while we were scouting things out that the market was laid out just like a big box store: if you found one thing you were looking for, everything else like it would be in the same area.

Our first stop was in the pet section, which was FUCKING LOUD. All the creatures were damn vocal about not wanting to be in crates and cages. Most of what was on sale was small to medium hedgebeasts, which meant Yova was a lady on a mission. She stopped off near a cluster of tables and shelves and I saw her blinking her eyes behind her Jackie O sunglasses, the big softie. The proprietor, a short, squat goblin, took clear note of her and asked if there was anything in particular she was looking for. She tried to play it cool, but then she saw a terrarium in the back with a bunch of tiny geckos. She moved closer and they all started swarming, trying to look up at her and get her attention.

The proprietor took a puff off his pipe and waddled over, asking her, “God a soft spot for the wee dragons, do ye?” “I’ve always preferred things of a herpetological nature over things with fur and feathers, yes,” she said. “HEY,” I said. “Shush, you,” she snapped. He asked her if he could interest her in one of the little dudes and she gave him a look, asking what the price was. He eyed her up and down, asking what she wanted it for. “Cockroaching, companionship, food?” When she told him she was interested in a pet, he considered this and said, “Well, since you’re looking for something to fill that void, how about a memory, a time when you felt that void?” She extended a hand, saying, “I get to pick the gecko.” He reached up, took her hand and shook it. She told me later that as soon as he did, she felt something ripple in her memory. She could tell there was something gone, but she couldn’t even remember what. Everything around it was just missing.

(Side note: Yova lost the painful memory of the time she came out to her parents and they rejected her. Per her player, “Not the worst memory to lose.”)

That, however, was a concern for another day. She put her hand in the bowl and started feeling around. The geckos were stepping all over each other, pushing each other away. As they were doing so, she noticed one of the less excitable geckos crawl onto her and she pulled him out. He was a scrawny little guy who was much paler than Paisley and he hadn’t fully grown into his wings yet, but as soon as she pulled him out, he wrapped himself entirely around her knuckle like a ring. “Awww, look at the little guy. Whatcha gonna name him?” I asked her. “Gershwin,” she responded without missing a beat. “What?!” Day scoffed. “You had that name completely ready to go, didn’t you?” I asked her. “Yeah,” she said. As we were walking away, I overheard the shopkeep chuckle darkly to the other geckos, “And to think you guys were just going to be feed!” before he tossed one of them to another hedgebeast, which caught it and crunched down hard. I decided it would be best not to mention that to Yova.

We realized that we would probably need to look for weapons and other supplies we could use on our mission to Arcadia, but in asking around it became clear PDQ that there was a total moratorium on weapons and other deadly things. Nevertheless, Yova spotted a stand that got all our attention quickly. It was a stand with a bunch of weird odds and ends: a golden comb, a pair of mudboots, an old IOU paper, a pair of chopsticks, a spool of silver thread. The thing that really got her attention was an old Montreal Expos pennant. I tried to ignore the pennant as best I could because when I was a much smaller, even more awkward Derek, I had to play shortstop on my local Little League team for one brief and tragic summer and as a “reward” for doing that, my dad took me and my brother up to Montreal for an Expos game. I just wanted some goddamn crepes, but no, I had to sit and watch one of the worst professional teams in history get completely trounced by the Orioles. The Orioles, for crying out loud.

Sorry. I have some baggage.

Point being, every time Yova looked at the pennant, she was filled with a swelling of pride. In fact, all the items at the booth did that. The chopsticks filled you with overpowering dread, the thread with a feeling of belonging. The proprietor, a taller Mrs. Pepperpot-type goblin named Nanny Primrose, asked us if she could interest us in anything. Yova casually reached out to touch the thread and Nanny Primrose rapped her knuckles with her cane. “That is not easy to come by, I don’t want it stolen!” she crabbed. “What is it?” Yova asked. “That, my dearie, is the length of a leash that one of the fae used to keep one of their pets on,” Nanny Primrose said. “Ohhh, like Bella,” I said low-key to Yova. “And what does it do?” Yova asked. “Well, if two people love each other very much and don’t mind the thing, you just pull them back to you like a fishing rod,” Nanny Primrose said. I leaned in and murmured, “You know, nine months out of the year, the Autumn Lodge is closed to outsiders…” She didn’t dignify that with a response, but I did see her eyeballing it more closely.

Yova did ultimately end up pointing to the pennant, asking, “And that?” “That, dearie, has seen a great number of battles within the Hedge. You could call it a call to arms, as it were. When things are looking down, sometimes you need just that little bit of oomph to get the guy who’s trying to beat you down. Of course, I have it look like that right now because,” she chuckled unpleasantly, “people don’t like to buy things that are covered in blood.”

Yova asked what the cost was and Nanny Primrose asked for something that had a story. “What do any of you have that has a story?” she asked. Yova and Day looked to me and I reached up, pulling a feather out of my neck and daubing it in some of the ink that was running free. “With this, anyone can write their own story,” I said, handing it over to Nanny Primrose. She looked at it appraisingly and then looked up. “Give me another one and we’ve got a deal,” she said. I pulled another feather out of the opposite side of my neck and handed it over. She tucked the feathers away and passed the pennant to Yova. “Bit of advice: you need heart’s blood to activate it,” she said. “Pardon my ignorance, but heart’s blood?” Yova asked. “Stab yourself with a stick, dearie,” Nanny Primrose said.

With a gecko and a banner secured, we decided to start looking for some things for the others. At least Yova and I did. Day wandered into the stands that were selling food and wild horses couldn’t have helped us drag him away. So Yova and I wandered into the décor section. There were a ton of different stands selling everything from carpets woven out of vines to cups carved out of pieces of rock to still-dripping paintings to glass that bent in ways glass shouldn’t have been able to bend. We ended up near a stall that was selling a collection of geodes that were SO SHINY and while I was drooling, Yova picked up one that looked like bismuth, though circular instead of the usual geometric shapes.

Unlike a lot of the items in the market, the geodes all had clear price tags on them. When Yova flipped the tag over, she saw that there was an image of two mice on it. I was distracted by all the shiny things and didn’t notice when a tortoiseshell cat jumped onto my shoulder and meowed loudly in my ear. Over my wailing, Yova asked it, “Pardon me, are you the purveyor of this establishment?” It meowed again and popped off, rubbing its tail under the “2 mice” price tag. “I’m afraid I don’t have any mice, but what about this?” She pulled out some glittery thread and twisted it back and forth so it would catch the light. The cat stuck its tongue out at her.

“You know, I think I have an idea,” I said. I reached in my messenger bag and pulled out the laser pointer I used to give Paisley some exercise and flicked it on, running it in front of the cat. It started batting at the laser and I flicked the pointer off. It looked up at me. “How about this: I give you a good chase with the red dot in exchange for the geode?” It thought for a moment, then nodded. I flicked the pointer back on and started running the cat through its stall. “You might want to go look for something for Pam. I’m gonna be here a minute,” I told her.

Yova ended up making her way through the rest of the décor section, noting a jewelry stand and a stall with journals that made noise upon opening. Eventually, she found the housewares section and a stall that sold a variety of different kinds of brooms. There was one with a polished oak handle and bristles made of something silky, which she knew Pam was going to love. Surprisingly, there was another changeling running the stall, a woman with blue iridescent scales and dark skin. Yova asked her what the cost was and the changeling gave her a knowing smile, saying, “I’m not complicated. I take cash. $75, I carved the handle myself.” Yova gave her four twenties and told her to keep the change.

Around this time, both Yova and I heard the music come to a blissful stop and an announcement came on over the loudspeakers: “Attention patrons: there is a blue light special on aisle 16!” Yova made her way back over to where I was still letting the cat chase that goddamn laser pointer. “Do you think we should check that out?” she asked. “Uh, yeah. Gimme one second,” I said. I threw the laser light about as far away as I could get and when the cat chased it away, I turned to go. Or at least, I tried to. It was a lot harder to do than I thought; it felt like there was something forcibly keeping me in place. I had to wrench myself away and when I did, I felt guilty. Some part of me knew I was leaving before I was formally dismissed and that part knew I should still be there.

“You should’ve just left the laser,” Yova told me as we made our way over to aisle 16. “Dude, this is Paisley’s favorite. You have no idea how picky she is,” I told her.

When we got to aisle 16, we saw a soapbox that had a blue light radiating out of it. The man standing on top of it was very pale with wavy silver hair pulled back in some updo that was somewhere between a ponytail and man bun. He was wearing a navy blue suit and had milky white eyes. Even before he could speak, I had the distinct feeling of oiliness.

When he spoke, that feeling was confirmed ten times over. He said, “Distinguished guests of the Spindle City Goblin Market, welcome! I have for you today a very interesting item, a very useful item, I’m sure you’ll all be quite interested in placing bids on.” He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a long crocheted rope with little precious gem beads embedded in it. “Behold!” he bellowed as he waved it in front of him. “A skinwalker’s trinket! Yarn woven from the wool of several different powerful hedgebeasts with beads carved from the dream gates of some of the most powerful changelings on the Earth! This is a very effective back alley doorway into the dreams of anyone you want to get into the dreams of! Bidding starts at a minor boon!”

Yova and I got into a huddle quickly and we agreed we were going to at least try to get it. “I think the best thing I can offer is to ensure a promise he has someone make is locked, but I’d have to be there for it to happen,” I told her. “True. But we just need to give him some way to get in touch with us. And worst case scenario, we get outbid,” she said.

We split up and Yova stepped forward to make the bid, holding up her hand and smiling her biggest bullshit smile. “My good sir, I have an offer!” she said. “Oh, do you, do you, do share, my good madam!” he said, matching her bullshit for bullshit. “I have the guarantee of a promise, locked down and guaranteed to happen,” she said. “What sort of promise are you talking about, a sworn pledge, a guarantee to kill someone?” he asked. “A Notarized promise. My friend here has the ability to do so – he is a Notary, a very rare breed, who can make such a thing happen,” she said, swinging her arm in my direction. I felt about eighty pairs of eyes on me and tried to give my friendliest smile, which has on occasion caused people to offer me antacids and made small children start crying.

The vendor looked over us (and me in particular) and grinned. He looked back to the rest of the crowd and said, “Well, we’ve got one going all in right at the start. Can anyone beat a promise from one who knows many of the secrets of the True Fae?” I was relieved that our gambit seemed to work. There were a few tepid bids coming in, but they were pretty puny and clearly not landing. The vendor rocked back on his heels and said, “I hate to say this, but you’re all boring as fuck. This is supposed to be a Goblin Market! Notary boy, come forward!” I stepped forward, clutching my messenger bag. He looked at the rest of the crowd and yelled, “SCRAM!” They all left, grumbling and looking unhappy.

He came forward, putting an arm around both of us (I was surprised to see he was almost as tall as Yova) and he said, “To be quite honest, your bid wasn’t so exciting either, but you have a reputation, so I’ll bite.” “We have a reputation?” Yova asked. “In certain circles,” he said. “What kind of reputation?” I asked. “You have people who are fond of you. They tell stories.” He turned to me and said, “So, how does it work? Are the words actually on your skin or what?” I pulled back some of my feathers to show the skin beneath and where some words had been printed on my flesh. “Ooooh!” he said, leaning close to see what was written. “Hey, watch your business,” I said, pushing the feathers back into place. “This is my business! This is my very business! Yuri, by the way,” he said, extending a hand. We introduced ourselves and hammered out the details of our deal, with him proposing that he come for his favor within the next lunar cycle. I agreed, pulled a feather on my lower arm out and wrote a note for him to take. I felt the Glamour leave my body and enter in the words that flowed onto my wrist under the ink that was bleeding out. At the same time, I felt some pushback from the Glamour he was pushing into the deal as well. It’s definitely a weird feeling. I’ve never gotten a tattoo, but from what I understand it’s kind of similar – it doesn’t exactly hurt, but there’s definitely a pressure there, pushing it down into my skin.

Yuri handed me the Token and I tucked it into my messenger bag right away. “One more thing before you go, and you don’t have to answer this, but it’s something I’m curious about,” I said. “You didn’t happen to have sold something similar to a young lady with tan skin and the legs of a white deer, did you?” He grinned wider and said that he had. “Sweet girl. Owes me a ton of favors now. And she’s very fond of all of you. I told you I’d heard about you.” With that, he waved and disappeared back into the throngs at the market.

“Okay, what next?” Yova asked. “Maybe we should go check on Day and make sure he hasn’t sold his toes for beef jerky?” I asked. “Day is a grown man, if he wants to sell his toes, he can do that,” she said. “Yeah, but we need him to be able to walk and stand in front of us,” I told him. “Besides that, why beef jerky? It’s disgusting,” I said. “I hear it’s very high in protein,” she said. “So is semen! Doesn’t mean you need to choke it down!” I said. She gave me a look of complete disgust and said, “This is exactly why I’m a lesbian.”

We passed by the food vendors and saw Day eagerly talking to the vendor at a stand marked “Organic” “Fruit” (yes, exactly like that, both words in separate quotation marks) and decided we’d swing back and get him later. Yova told me about the journals she saw earlier and they sounded intriguing, so we went back to the book binders. And that was when I realized that every single one of them made the sound of the animal whose hide was used to bind it. “NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE” I said. Yova quickly pulled me over to the other side of the stand. “What about these?” she asked, pointing to another set of journals. I picked one up and the face on it opened up and stared at me. “NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE” I said and she pulled me away.

“Look, Derek, you haven’t gotten anything for yourself, don’t you want anything?” she asked. I shrugged. “I dunno. I’m fine,” I said. And here’s something for those armchair psychologists of you out there: I was a middle child and I got used to getting passed over on stuff, so half of the time I don’t even really think about getting anything for myself. Yova, however, was not going to hear about that and she dragged me over to the cookware section to find something. And it was there that we found the most awesome stone rolling pin with kaleidoscopic handles. It was shiny and practical. I was about to ask how much it was but Yova had already spent the Glamour on it and she practically shoved it at me to put away. Having friends is awesome.

We found Day not long after that, about as big a smile as I’ve ever seen on his face. “You look pleased,” Yova told him. “I found the best freaking burgers I’ve ever had!” he said, pulling one out of its wrapper and shoving it in his face. He swallowed it whole and said, “And all they asked for was a bottle of my tears!” Yova and I looked at each other and she asked, “How many times did you have to punch yourself in the face to fill up a bottle of tears?” “None! They’re really spicy!” he said, chowing down on another one. And then, because I am a bad person, I started trilling, “Mind you, I can’t hardly blame them… these are probably the worst pies in London…” Yova bit down hard on her knuckle to keep from laughing and Day paused mid-chomp and looked at me. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asked. “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all,” I said.

We were running close to the time where we said we’d meet Evain, so we took our purchases and went back up toward the entrance, where he was standing. He asked what we got and we showed him all of our goodies. He looked around and pulled a small doll out of his canvas bag. It looked eerily like Cassi and he asked hesitantly if we thought she was going to like it. “I think she’ll be very touched,” Yova said. “Yeah, you can say it’s for the first Christmas you missed. Oh! Oh, you know what I just saw this week that’s coming to Blu-Ray? Cinderella! You should get her that!” I said. “Oh, yeah, she’d love that,” he said.

“Did you watch that a lot with her when she was a kid?” Yova asked. Evain gave her a deadpan look and said, “Okay, listen. This is going to sound awful, but when you’re a single parent, sometimes you have to put them in front of the TV for a while to get stuff done. But then they want to watch the same movie six times in a row.” “Yeah, with my little sister it was Mulan,” I said. “Hey, Mulan is a perfectly good movie!” Yova protested. “She just liked the Reflection song,” I said. “She’d watch it, rewind to the start of the Reflection song, play the Reflection song. Rewind to the start of the Reflection song, play the Reflection song.” “Not I’ll Make a Man Out Of You or A Girl Worth Fighting For?” Yova asked. “Nope. Because ‘Mulan was pretty,’” I said. Evain looked around and said, “Uh, fun as this conversation is, maybe we should get going before they realize I stiffed them on the doll.” We quickly made our way for the exit and told him we’d be in touch about our mission in. And then we stopped off at PetSmart on the way home to get crickets for Gershwin.

So that’ll about do for our shopping excursion into the Goblin Market. Until next time, be safe and may you never be around well-meaning idiots who take you to go see journals bound in flesh.

#Changeling: The Lost #changeling #ctl #ic #recap #day got a punchcard where every fifth toe he gives up he gets a free burger

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anewkaiju · 3 years

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Everybody Likes Something Good (a Premier League write up)

We have now run through two weeks of action, however, I am no closer to knowing where to place my allegiances. That being said, I remain undeterred. Over the last week, I watched Aston Villa versus Newcastle, Arsenal versus Chelsea, West Ham versus Leicester City and most of Wolves versus Tottenham. Also, last Friday, I spent my lunch break watching Manchester United versus Leeds again, but this time, paying more concentrated attention to what United were doing on the pitch.

The two football podcasts that I've been spending time with spent so much time last week raving about what happened at Old Trafford (where Manchester United play) that I began to wonder if I hadn't missed something. I struggled a bit when I watched the match the first time around because I already knew the finish so it was hard to get too excited watching shots that you absolutely know are going to find the back of the net. The second time around, I made a concerted effort to watch and follow Paul Pogba as moved around the pitch. In doing so, it was hard not to marvel at Bruno Fernandes as he racked up three goals with relative ease. It also helped seeing his tweet after the match where he said he had simply been waiting for fans to be present before registering his first hat trick. They looked so strong against Leeds but then they drew with Southampton, so there's some balance out there I suppose. While we are talking about Manchester United, we have to acknowledge their away kits which are just divine. However, all that being said, I cannot hop aboard the United train; the idea of it feels so boring.

The big highlight from the Aston Villa versus Newcastle match was not Villa's kits, although they remain pretty great, but rather the wild goal that ended the first half. It may still be early in the season, but there's no doubt that that was the best goal yet. It was picturesque. It's the sort of play that any fan of any sport can at least appreciate. In conducting research and reading around the internet, it seems that Villa are actually considered to be one of the cooler clubs around. At the very least, people who talk about football for a living seem to really want them to succeed this season after seeing Jack Grealish leave for Manchester City. It's my understanding that Villa spent the Grealish transfer money very wisely and really strengthened their club. Also, as mentioned before, their home kits are very nice and yesterday I discovered that their away kits are almost equally appealing. Villa Park was a lively atmosphere, and by all accounts, their owner is a pretty ok dude.

So, not to state the obvious, but Chelsea are incredibly strong and incredibly deep at every position. Saturday saw the return of Romelu Lukaku (he had played for the club before) and he made his presence felt almost immediately. He scored early, and probably could have scored again. Arsenal just looked powerless for much of the match. Despite finishing eighth last year, they managed to be Chelsea twice so there was a thought that perhaps they had Chelsea's number. They don't, or at least, they didn't on Saturday. They're a bit short on players at the moment, including a number of guys that they've paid handsomely for their services, but that doesn't really help explain away what happened on Saturday. That being said, that sure looked like a penalty on Saka there toward the end. It's hard to say when relief will arrive for Arsenal and its supporters as they are scheduled to take on Manchester City this upcoming weekend. Also, worth noting, I didn't love the Arsenal home kit as much as I expected. It's nice and plenty good, but the all white sleeves and red base moving around came across a little too disconnected for my tastes. Still, it's hard not to feel for Arsenal and their supporters as they struggle like this so early in the campaign.

Leading up to yesterday's match, Leicester City had really emerged in my mind as a club to watch. Their outsider status is great, Jamie Vardy is great, Jannik Vestergaard is great, their coach seems intense but in a one-step-ahead-of-everyone tactician kind of way. However, for as much as I appreciate these various things about the club, the fit still felt a little off. Maybe it's the other teams, organizations and people in my life that I throw my support behind. Historically speaking, I almost never ride with a team that other people like or appreciate (your loss, folks. The Baltimore Orioles and Washington Wizards are fantastic franchises and I will continue to run with them.) Anyway, yesterday happened and West Ham just rocked Leicester City. This was my first time seeing West Ham in action, so it's hard for me to say if yesterday's effort was in line with their usual output or what, but I do know that they finished directly right behind Leicester City in the standings last season so I'm inclined to think, yes, they are in fact a highly competitive club. Declan Rice seems like a real stand-up guy, talking with everyone throughout and helping to de-escalate things after the red card. Their kits are also claret and blue, which as has already been documented here, is just great.

If there was a battle of kits this week then it was, hands down, Wolves versus Tottenham. The Wolves kits aren't mind-blowing or revolutionary or anything like that, but yellow and black is a great, sharp color combination. Also, their full name, the Wolverhampton Wanderers sounds like something out of Harry Potter (please note: this not an endorsement of Harry Potter or its distressingly transphobic creator.)

Tottenham were the away team in this match, which means that they wore their away kits. Simply put, they are awesome. Their home kits are so clean, which is great in its own way, but these away ones look like they'd come alive underneath a black light. In reading about the Spurs, I've gleamed that their supporters don't seem to know what to make of them anymore. Some fans have posted online that the club should let Harry Kane go and fill his trophy case as Tottenham aren't really poised to compete for the title this year. Other fans come across as far more mystified and unsure what the answer for the Spurs is or what that would even look like. All I've learned about the owner is that he refuses to agree to a Kane transfer. I think I said this before, but it bears repeating. I'm very hesitant to take the side of a rich, white guy but it would just be so dull if another star player joined the Man City roster.

Speaking of Man City, they'll take on Arsenal this upcoming Saturday in a match that will probably be talked about tons between now and then.

#arsenal #manchester united #manchester city #leicester city #wolves #tottenham hotspur #aston villa #premier league #kits

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thatbanjobusiness · 3 years

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Time to rate labels of 78 rpm records according to how awesome I think they look. Because this is a better use of my time during work hours than my work.

Oriole, early 1920s / A+!

Dudes look how magnificent this is. The gold and white on top of the black! What a classy combo of colors, simple but elegant. The simple beauty of the bird and leaves. I would buy this record for the label. Who cares what it sounds like! Best label is bestest, I feel like this would be just as pretty today a hundred years later on a label.

Oriole, mid 1920s / B+

Not as alluring as the white and gold combination. Pure black is simpler and you lose something with it. Still, I like orange, orange is unique, my prom dress was orange for fuck’s sake, and I can’t complain to the bird still being present. I’m giving a B+ because the bird is still on it and I’m biased toward the bird. The B is for Birb. B+rb.

Victor, 1929 / B

Dog listening to music. Good doggo. A classic look. Solid B. B for.... bdog. Yeah that works. The design doesn’t appeal to me as much, but I’ll admit that when I see a Victor label from circa the 20s and 30s and such, I immediately know what I’m seeing, so they succeeded in what they needed... to be distinct.

OKeh, 1923 / D

True to their name, OKeh’s label is...... okay. Meh. Even the way the word “OKeh” is written looks weird.

Brunswick, 1931 / B+

What is that curly leafy design thingie called? Gilding? I dunno. The gilding design feels way overdone when you first see it, even though when you think about it, it’s really not THAAAAAaaaAt elaborate. I think it’s how thick it is and how much it circles the outside that makes your eyes go “what the.” But because it looks overdone, you’re also like, “You go, label, you go.” I would buy a cake with this design. Here the visuals are somehow simultaneously overdone and austere, like, the text everywhere else is banal. But the swirlies and combination with the fancy “Brunswick” lettering means somehow I like it. B+, there’s no mistaking these bad boys. B+ = double B = Bad Boys. I guess.

Vocalion, 1929 / B

Vocalion: because Brunswick swirls and fancy text are not enough. I feel like these two labels should be compared because of common aesthetic features. The bleh parts of the Brunswick design aren’t part of the Vocalion. For instance: that three-edge square with the curve at the bottom? Looks slightly off-kilter. Here, we go hardcore with a FULL SQUARE. Harshness in the middle of swirly curly softness. But I dunno, there’s something about the squareness in the center where the text is that hurts my eyes in comparison to the rest of the... whoosh. There’s so much whoosh it’s almost white noise (visual white noise?) So it gets only a B instead of a B+.

Mercury, 1950 / C

Could you make this any more boring? I mean, good job for making the lettering big enough to read and all. The basic font looks good. But the mask face logo thingie barely even looks like a mask. If I weren’t thinking about that, I’d be asking if that was a Tusken raider or an astronaut or a medieval knight’s breastplate. Like I actually am not sure what it is... I assumed it was a mask? And then somehow they always manage to mess up the combination of the font of the name “Mercury” with the mask. Like on the 45 rpm of this same release, the font is thinner (which looks more elegant), but then the M runs directly into the... the mask thing.

Columbia, 1952 / C

Okayokayokay fine, there are lots of labels that are just as boring or even boringer than early country music Mercury. Columbia’s red label here is...... utile. You just have the words and the logo and that’s it. No attempt at being fancy whatsoever in my books. But you should see later Columbia with its 45 rpm releases in like, the 1960s. It gets real boring REAL fast. It’s like the longer records were out, the less anyone cared what they looked like.

Columbia, 1928 / C

Oh wait I forgot nevermind, Columbia has been boring for decades. I like some aspects of this but when compared to others, it doesn’t draw my eye. Can we please talk about how the words “Electrical process” look like they DO NOT BELONG on this label? Otherwise would’ve been a solid C. C for “Could you try better next time with that font, I get you want to emphasize electricity, but YOU’RE THROWING OFF MY GROOVE.” This is not a Kuzco-endorsed label. Holy shit, I just realized “groove” is a pun. Record grooves. Har har, get it?

Perfect, 1927 / B I Guess?

Trying to match up to its conceited name, we’ve got a conceited design that’s more elaborate than it needs to be, complete with the outline of human butt cheeks, lorng hoomin hair, people bowing or something in Awe Of The Perfect, and three million dots. Okay gotta admit it draws my eye though. UNLIKE CERTAIN OTHER COMPANIES I HAVE LOOKED AT [cough]. Okayokay it’s probably just a... a... a 1920s thing, to try to look like.... this. I dunno. What do you take me for, an expert?

Edison, 1929 / A-

Yeah yeah it’s boringer than many of these, but hear me out: lightning zaps from above. Coming to smite you. MWAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA. Why have naked women when you can have DEATH

#long post #that's enough spam for now #tbd #thatbanjobusiness #that banjo business #music #do not take a single thing I have said in this entire post seriously or as Informative Information #I will do this all year watch out #really long... sorry #this doesn't suit well for a read more #new tags applied--#Collectors Corner

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amberlylillian-blog · 4 years

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wsmith215 · 4 years

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Tom Brady catching Patrick Mahomes? Our lineup of NFL stars drafted by MLB

The past two quarterbacks to win a Super Bowl could have been pro baseball players.

Before Tom Brady won six rings, he was chosen in the 18th round of the 1995 draft by the Montreal Expos. “He was a left-handed-hitting catcher with power. He had a good future,” the Expos’ then-director of college scouting, Ed Creech, told the Montreal Gazette in 2002.

No one knows where that path would have led, but it’s safe to say Brady made the right choice to focus on football.

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The same can be said for reigning NFL MVP Patrick Mahomes, whose dad pitched in the major leagues for 11 seasons. The Chiefs quarterback was also a gifted pitcher, tossing a no-hitter with 16 strikeouts in high school.

Several current NFL players were once drafted by Major League Baseball teams — enough to field an interesting lineup.

Before the first round of the 2020 MLB draft begins Wednesday (7 p.m. ET, ESPN), check out our star-studded baseball team made up of NFL players, featuring six quarterbacks, five former first-round NFL draft picks (including two No. 1 overall picks) and two former NFL MVPs.

Starting pitcher: Patrick Mahomes

Current job: Kansas City Chiefs quarterback

Patrick Mahomes was an MLB prospect as both a pitcher and an outfielder coming out of high school. Texas Tech Athletics

Drafted in baseball: 2014, Round 37, Detroit Tigers

MLB player comp: pitcher Edwin Jackson

Stat line: Mahomes not only could reach 93 mph as a pitcher for Whitehouse High School, but he reportedly “hit better than .450” his senior year, according to MaxPreps.

Scouting report: As a high school junior, Mahomes was still pretty raw. While he was also an outfield prospect, Mahomes was most promising as a pitcher, where he was a third-round prospect or so. — ESPN MLB Insider Kiley McDaniel

Famous baseball connection: It starts with Mahomes’ father, who pitched for six major league teams in 11 seasons. Mahomes pitched a no-hitter in high school, striking out 16. The opposing pitcher? White Sox pitcher Michael Kopech, who was traded to Chicago in the Chris Sale deal.

He said it: “I just wanted to follow it and see where it took me,” Mahomes told ESPN’s Jenna Laine on choosing football over baseball. “I still thought there was a good chance I was gonna play baseball, but I wanted to see where football took me, and I was able to go out there [and succeed].”

The pitcher threw him a hot dog. And you know @PatrickMahomes brought ketchup. #BigSlickKC pic.twitter.com/LBYIIkQamk

— Kansas City Royals (@Royals) June 7, 2019 Catcher: Tom Brady

Current job: Tampa Bay Buccaneers quarterback

Drafted in baseball: 1995, Round 18, Montreal Expos

MLB player comp: Retired catcher Brian McCann or Brewers catcher Omar Narvaez

Why was he drafted: Brady “was drafted in the 18th round because everyone knew how difficult it would be to sign him,” John Hughes, then a scout with the Expos, told the New York Daily News in 2019. “He was very talented. I mean on talent alone he would have been projected a late second-round pick. And I believe he would have made it [to the majors]; as a catcher, he would have gotten there.”

Tom Brady said he was a better baseball player in high school than a football player. Serra High School, San Mateo

Scouting report: Brady “could really catch and throw,” former Junipero Serra High School baseball coach Pete Jensen told the Star-Ledger in 2012. “I was a part-time scout with the Mariners. So, prior to the June draft, I took Tommy to a pre-draft workout at the Kingdome with a bunch of other prospects. He put on a show. He hit two or three balls out in batting practice with a wood bat and was probably the best-throwing guy there.”

Added former Expos GM Kevin Malone, via Bleacher Report’s Bill Sparos: “He could have been one of the greatest catchers ever. I know that’s quite a statement, but the projections were based on the fact we had a left-hand-hitting catcher, with arm strength and who was athletic.”

Famous baseball connection: Brady went to the same high school as outfielders Barry Bonds and Gregg Jefferies.

He said it: “I just loved football more,” Brady said to Howard Stern in a 2020 interview when asked why he didn’t pursue pro baseball. “I was a pretty good baseball player. I was probably a better baseball player in high school than a football player, and then I think I was just in love with football. When I became quarterback, I wanted to become more of a football player and I … even though I got offered to play baseball. I thought in the end I’d rather go to college and play football than go play professional baseball. It was a pretty easy decision.”

Full coverage of the 2020 MLB draft is available here

Watch the 2020 MLB draft on ESPN & the ESPN App

Wed., June 10: Round 1 starting at 7 p.m. ET (ESPN)

Thu., June 11: Rounds 2-5 starting at 5 p.m. ET (ESPN2)

Kiley McDaniel’s latest mock draft

Team-by-team draft guide: Fits, needs for all 30 teams

Ranking the top 150 MLB draft prospects

Current job: Seattle Seahawks quarterback

Drafted: 2007, Round 41, Baltimore Orioles; 2010, Round 4, Colorado Rockies; 2013, Rule 5 draft, Texas Rangers

MLB player comp: Rockies second baseman Garrett Hampson

Stat line: Wilson played a combined 93 games for the Single-A Tri-City Devils and Asheville Tourists in 2010-11, hitting a combined .229, with five home runs and 26 RBIs. He stole 19 bases, but he also struck out 118 times in 315 at-bats.

Seahawks quarterback Russell Wilson was drafted not once, not twice, but three times by MLB teams. AP Photo/Lynne Sladky

Scouting report: Has the athleticism and aptitude that gave scouts reason to believe he could be a quality infielder. — Baseball America

He said it: “While football is my passion and my livelihood, baseball remains a huge part of where I came from and who I am today,” Wilson said in 2018 after being acquired by the New York Yankees. “I’ve learned so much on the baseball field that translates to my game physically and mentally playing quarterback in the NFL.”

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Maria Taylor takes Kyler Murray back to the diamond to talk about how playing baseball led him to football.

Current job: Arizona Cardinals quarterback

Drafted: 2018, Round 1 (No. 9 overall), Oakland A’s

MLB player comp: Diamondbacks outfielder Starling Marte

Stat line: A shortstop in high school, Murray played 51 games in the outfield for the Oklahoma Sooners in 2018 — his last season. He had a slash line of .298/.396/.954, with 10 home runs and 47 RBIs.

Scouting report: The A’s took an optimistic viewpoint on his talent, essentially assuming he’d continue improving with more reps at the same rate that he’d improved throughout the year. He’s an easy plus runner, strong center fielder and was electric at the plate with above-average raw power, but a little too aggressive with poor pitch selection. If he hit his upside, he’d be a .260-ish hitter with 25 homers who played as an above-average center fielder — in the Victor Robles or Starling Marte area. Ironically, the weakest point of his game aside from pitch selection was throwing. I watched him for a weekend, and the scouts’ most-discussed topic was about watching him throw and concluding that his football-type throwing motion was holding him back. — McDaniel

Kyler Murray is the first player ever to be selected in the first round of both the NFL and MLB drafts. AP Photo/Jeff Chiu

Famous baseball connection: Teammates on the 2018 Oklahoma team included projected 2020 first-round pick RHP Cade Cavalli and 2018 Rangers second-round pick OF Steele Walker.

He said it: “It helps a lot,” Murray said of his baseball skills on the football field, according to a report by ESPN’s Josh Weinfuss. “I’ve seen a lot of terrible slides in my day. It’s a lot smoother than other people, you know, the pop-up slide, stuff like that, just being able to get down whenever I want. Yeah, I think it helps.”

Murray got some advice on choosing between baseball and football from Wilson: “I told him do what he really kind of dreamed about doing ever since he was little. … Try everything you can to keep your options open in that sense,” Wilson told ESPN’s Brady Henderson. “I think that to be able to have the gift of playing pro football and pro baseball is a special gift. There’s only so many people in the world who get to do that and have the opportunity to do that at a high level, too. I think that, more than anything else, is look at it as a blessing, not a curse. Sometimes you can get worried about what may happen or this or that and am I making the right decision. Just go for it. At the end of the day, something great is going to happen.”

Current job: Carolina Panthers linebacker

Drafted: 2012, Round 18, Boston Red Sox

MLB player comp: Brewers outfielder Keon Broxton

Stat line: In 13 games with the Gulf Coast Red Sox in 2012, Thompson had 37 strikeouts in 39 at-bats.

Scouting report: The prototypical raw athlete with impressive tools and very few baseball skills. His summer in the rookie-level GCL is the classic example of what can happen if you lean too far toward tools and upside and ignore baseball skills. He’s a big center field-type athlete with power, but not much else. — McDaniel

Famous baseball connections: Fourteen teammates on the GCL Red Sox have played in the majors — a few were veterans on rehab, such as Carl Crawford and Jacoby Ellsbury.

Quote: “I just learned how to be a professional,” Thompson told NFL.com in 2016 of his time with the Red Sox. “Learned how to carry myself and it really taught me how to be on my own. I was on my own at 18, and I didn’t have my mom or nobody down there. It was learning how to grow up.”

Current job: Philadelphia Eagles wide receiver

Drafted: 2007, Round 47, Arizona Diamondbacks; 2010, Round 50, San Francisco Giants

MLB player comp: Cleveland Indians outfielder Delino DeShields Jr.

Golden Tate was drafted twice as an outfielder — by Arizona in 2007 and by San Francisco in 2010. Ted S. Warren/AP Photo

Stat line: In 264 at-bats for Notre Dame over two seasons in 2008-09, Tate hit .318 with 25 RBIs and 16 stolen bases.

Scouting report: Tate displayed good speed but showed little in-game power at Notre Dame. Tate said he struggled hitting curveballs, but his speed was “what got [him] around.” — McDaniel

He said it: “I quickly realized that I can affect a football field more than a baseball diamond,” Tate said in an interview at the fourth annual Tennessean sports awards via USA Today. “On the baseball field, I could maybe make a diving catch or maybe hit a home run every now or then.

“But on a football field on first, second, third, fourth down, punt return and kick return, I can make a play. I felt like I was better at football. Looking back at it, I think it worked out.”

Current job: Tennessee Titans wide receiver

Drafted: 2016, Round 19, San Diego Padres

MLB player comp: Dodgers outfielder A.J. Pollock

Stat line: Brown was a standout on the Starkville (Mississippi) High baseball team, batting third. He hit “over .360” during his senior year, according to the Jackson Clarion-Ledger.

A.J. Brown was once a promising baseball prospect who was drafted by the San Diego Padres. David Banks/USA TODAY Sports

Famous baseball connection: Brown played with Toronto Blue Jays shortstop Bo Bichette in the 2015 Under Armour All-Star game. Brown said Bichette sent him an autographed jersey, and Brown plans to return the favor.

He said it: “My dad, he put a bat in my hand as soon as I could walk, and I was good at it,” Brown told ESPN’s Turron Davenport. “Baseball really helped me out with that for football. When you’re tracking a ball, especially a deep ball, it helped me a lot. I played center field in baseball. On a deep pass in football, you judge it and go track it just like a center fielder.”

Jameis Winston used to dream of being the next two-professional-sport star. AP Photo/Phil Sears

Current job: New Orleans Saints quarterback

Drafted: 2012, Round 15, Texas Rangers

MLB player comp: Diamondbacks pitcher Archie Bradley

Stat line: Over two seasons for Florida State, Winston appeared in 41 games, registering 52 strikeouts, nine saves and a 1.94 ERA in 60⅓ innings.

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0:43

Jameis Winston shares his thoughts on what MLB Hall of Famer Ken Griffey Jr. meant to him at a young age, as well as if he thinks about what life could have been for him if he pursued a career playing baseball.

Scouting report: As a high school underclassman, he was a big-bodied, plus-running, switch-hitting center fielder with power and speed. By the time I first saw him, he was a high school senior and a below-average runner who was either a right-field or first-base fit. He had plus raw power, but his contact skills were just all right and obviously he never got the reps to improve there. On the mound, at his best, he sat 92-96 mph as a reliever in college and his curveball was a 55 on the 20-80 scale (above average), but his command was below average, so he projected as a middle reliever, a fourth- to sixth-round prospect for the draft who would pitch in the sixth through eighth innings if things went well in pro ball.– McDaniel

Famous baseball connection: Played at Florida State with future first-round picks OF DJ Stewart (Orioles) and RHP Luke Weaver

He said it: “Baseball was one of my passions just because I just felt so relentless when I was on that bump,” Winston told ESPN’s Jenna Laine. “You kind of felt individualized at times, because everyone saw when you made a mistake and everyone saw if you shined. And I really credit baseball to the way I am as a quarterback now because it’s the same way it is as a quarterback — everyone sees when you mess up and everyone sees when you shine.”

Current job:Atlanta Falcons tight end

Drafted: 2012, Round 17, Pittsburgh Pirates

Scouting report: I saw him pitch a few times in high school and the last one was just before the 2012 draft. He was well developed physically and got into the mid-90s with a breaking ball that flashed above average, but he had some reliever elements to his game. … His athleticism played as a hitter as well. — McDaniel

Stat line: Hurst was drafted as a relief pitcher who could reach 97 mph, but he also played some first base and designated hitter. Across the 2013-14 seasons with the Gulf Coast League Pirates, Hurst recorded 53 at-bats in 16 games, hitting .245 with two RBIs and a stolen base.

Famous baseball connection: Hurst played on the 2013 GCL Pirates team with Rays OF Austin Meadows.

He said it: “The biggest thing that I take from my experiences from baseball, as hard as it was, what I went through in those three seasons, it’s made me a pretty resilient person,” Hurst told ESPN’s David Newton in 2018. “Having that all taken away from me lit a fire under me. I don’t take anything for granted these days, and I’m going to outwork the next guy. It’s who I am and in my DNA right now.”

Current job: Free-agent quarterback

Drafted: 2004, Round 22, Los Angeles Angels

Scouting report: “He’s got a beautiful hack,” Hart High School baseball coach Jim Ozella said of Moore to the Los Angeles Times in 2001. “He’s an athlete.” Moore didn’t play baseball at UCLA, but while he was pursuing a college transfer for football, Moore was noticed by an Angels scout who spotted him playing in a Southern California rec league, and he was drafted as a third baseman.

Quote: “I had a lot of friends that went and played baseball out of high school. No offense to any of them, but it’s hard,” Moore told The Associated Press. “Baseball is a hard road to take and they were good players. I don’t look at it as I took the wrong road by any means.”

ESPN senior writer David Schoenfield contributed to this story.

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junker-town · 5 years

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Trading Mookie Betts is unforgivable

LA Dodgers outfielder Mookie Betts | Billie Weiss/Boston Red Sox/Getty Images

The Red Sox just dealt a homegrown superstar entering his prime because they were too cheap to pay him.

God, this is so stupid.

Mookie Betts is a homegrown superstar entering his prime with a World Series ring and an MVP already in the bag. You don’t trade players like Betts. You build franchises around them. You sure as hell don’t trade players like Betts in a glorified salary dump just so you can get under the luxury tax.

I don’t ask for much from the teams I grew up rooting for. Frankly they’ve given me more in the last two decades than I ever imagined was possible. What I want is players that compete and competent management.

On the first point, Betts played his ass off. His final act as a member of the Red Sox was dashing home from second with the winning run in a meaningless game against the Orioles. On the second, where was the need for fiscal sanity when the Red Sox let a lame-duck general manager sign Chris Sale and Nathan Eovaldi to massive extensions?

Don’t come crying poor now, especially when you’re raising ticket prices yet again. I particularly resent the idea that being a baseball fan in 2020 means I’m supposed to spend more than a minute worrying about the budgets of billionaires like John Henry in a sport without a salary cap.

We will be told that Betts didn’t want to be in Boston. That he didn’t want to sign an extension and that he was intent on testing free agency. ‘Can’t lose him for nothing,’ and all that. I don’t want to hear it. There’s a responsibility with having a great player. You pay the man his money. Pay all of it. Do it now or do it this fall. Just pay him what he’s worth.

I’ve been watching the Sox for close to 40 years, and Betts is the one I’ve been waiting for. He’s a wonderful combination of early-period Fred Lynn and late-career Dwight Evans with the power of Jim Rice, the batting eye of Wade Boggs, and speed like no other.

Betts is all of Ellis Burks’ potential realized. He’s Nomar Garciaparra without the fussiness. He should have been here forever, mashing baseballs over the Monster and robbing triples in the right field corner until the moment they retired his number.

I’m supposed to be too old to get attached to players. I’ve lived through Roger Clemens pitching for the Yankees and Pedro Martinez leaving for the Mets. I remember when they forgot to send Carlton Fisk a contract in time. I’ve learned the hard way that the Sox will do dumb things even when the people running the team are way smarter than the ones that ran it into the ground last century.

This is the same ownership group, after all, that thought giving Carl Crawford and Pablo Sandoval huge contracts was a good idea. They’re the same ones who tossed Don Orsillo overboard and hired Bobby Valentine.

I’m mad, but my son is devastated. He has a Betts poster on his wall and two T-shirts with his name on the back (one in red, the other in blue.) He went to a game, saw Betts hit a home run and that was it. Betts was his guy forever. Even wrote him a letter.

This would be different if Betts left in free agency. I’d use that as a teaching opportunity and give him my copy of Marvin Miller’s A Whole Different Ballgame. I’d be pissed at the Sox for letting it happen, but I’d hold no grudge with the player.

But this? I’m supposed to tell him, “Well son, the Red Sox needed a payroll reset. That’s called responsible franchise building and financial flexibility is the name of the game in this modern era.”

No, I told him the truth. The Red Sox were too cheap to pay the best player they’ve had since Carl Yastrzemski.

I’ve got nothing against Chaim Bloom. Red Sox general managers come and go, man. He’s merely the latest to carry out the ever-changing whims of ownership who did him no favors by tipping their hand right after firing the last GM.

But Chaim, buddy, it would have been nice if the return for a top-five player in his prime was more than a 23-year-old outfielder with a bad back and a pitching prospect with a history of arm troubles. Especially when you’re also footing half the bill for the last three years of David Price’s contract, yet another financial albatross that could have been avoided.

What’s the point of having financial flexibility when you could simply pay the best player on your roster right now? You’re not going to get anybody as good as Betts when you stop acting like the freaking Pirates.

It never should have come to this in the first place. The Sox just won three straight division titles and a World Series. That’s good, right? The reason they scuffled last year was all those pitchers with big-money deals kept getting hurt and the previous regime couldn’t build a competent bullpen to save their life. That’s not on Betts or any of the other homegrown talents.

Xander Bogaerts and Rafael Devers are becoming superstars in their own right. I haven’t given up on Andrew Benintendi and I’ve enjoyed every second of Jackie Bradley Jr. playing center field, thank you very much. Christian Vazquez? Sure, him too.

This was a golden era and it was just getting started. It’s what the mid 70s were supposed to be like before they screwed that one up too.

There’s no going back from this. It’s all so unconscionably absurd. Congrats on the payroll reset. The damage will last a generation.

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sarcasticgamerandwriter · 7 years

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The sorceress meets her past

Hi guys! It’s me again with a new shot in witcher au. The story continues and jumps a bit further, showing an adventure (quite important btw) from Eryn and Wirei’s journey. Hope that you’ll like it :)

Enjoy and sorry for any mistakes!

tagging @ciri-yen-iris for her massive contribution in creating so many OCs and going through my writing :)

Fandom: The Witcher

Warnings: none

“The sorceress meets her past”

On one day of our adventures we found ourselves near the elven ruins of Assengard. Wirei wanted to see them, so I suggested that we should go to Beechdale, a small town, first because I needed to repair one of my swords. At that she was reluctant and tried to convince me to go straight to the ruins and find some other place to fix my gear. I found that highly suspicious and I told her so.

“I heard that this town is very dangerous,” she pointed out. “And a blacksmith will probably be too incompetent to fix your sword.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I responded calmly. “I can do the reparations myself, I only need his tools.”

“Can’t it wait?” Wirei sounded annoyed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked directly.

She was silent for a moment but only a brief one.

“Nothing,” the sorceress shrugged.

Although that ‘nothing’ sounded like ‘something’ I decided not to press her.

“You can go to Assengard if you wish,” I nodded in order to show that I understood her rush. “But I can’t risk going anywhere without a useful sword. I have to be prepared.”

“Your silver sword will be enough to protect us,” Wirei retorted firmly.

“You don’t understand,” I smirked. “These swords are important in my profession and I have to care about them. A witcher can forget to eat, to drink, to breathe even but a witcher never ever forgets to care for his blade.”

“Whose words are those?” Wirei smiled a little. “Geralt’s?”

“Vesemir’s,” I replied.

“All right,” she sighed heavily. “Let’s go to Beechdale. Can we make it brief though?”

I nodded. I understood that she didn’t want to stay there for long.

As we approached the valley I noticed that something was off. The air was too heavy and I felt that something was about to happen. Freyr’s snorting confirmed my suspicions just before a loud shriek resonated in the valley.

“What was that?” Wirei looked at me with wide eyes.

“A wyvern,” I explained and hurried Freyr in the direction of the sound. Wirei and her mount followed.

When we got closer I could hear that there was a fight. Some men were fighting against the beast and they were losing terribly. The wyvern was young and easily infuriated. Unless they had someone experienced among them, they were destined to be doomed. At a run, I reached into my bag and found the potion I needed. I drank a golden oriole in order to inure myself to the poisonous venom of the wyvern. Apart from that I made sure that I had a grapeshot bomb close at hand. When we arrived on the fight site I could see the situation clearly. Three men were trying to lure the wyvern with a piece of fresh meat but the beast was flying around looking for a chance to strike them. They were lucky because they stayed close to the forest; high trees impeded the wyvern’s landing. However it didn’t stop them from enraging the creature further by throwing items at it; one of the men had a bow and was aiming at the wyvern but without any luck. I couldn’t stand that idiotic hunt so I barged in. Freyr galloped past them into a nearby clearing. I took the grapeshot bomb and threw it at the flying wyvern. The small explosion gained its attention and from then on the creature was focused on me. Just what I wanted. I lowered myself on Freyr’s back when I heard wyvern’s hissing above my head. Once we reached the clearing I jumped off the saddle, grabbing my silver sword. The wyvern was already nosing down. I readied Aard for the oncoming beast and struck it with the strong wave of the sign. The wyvern collapsed onto the ground. I attacked immediately, cutting its wings and limbs. The creature shrieked and lifted itself on its bleeding legs. It spat its poisonous venom at me but I dodged just in time. Although wounded, the wyvern swirled deftly in order to strike me with its tail which ended in a venomous trident. I jumped back but I wasn’t quick enough; I was struck by the middle of the tail and flew back, hitting the ground. The wyvern made a shrill noise of triumph and before I got up and heard that it charged at me. However it didn’t crush into me because a magic barrier appeared around me and I knew I owed that to Wirei though I couldn’t see her. The beast bellowed angrily swinging its tail at the barrier. I was aware that Wirei wouldn’t be able to hold it for long, so I got up and prepared Aard again. She must have noticed that because the barrier faded and I released the sign on the wyvern. The monster tumbled back and I didn’t waste any time; I charged at the creature, aiming at its throat. I cut the gorge with one swing. The beast screeched horribly while the blood was dripping profusely from its body. The wyvern tried to rise but it was an unsuccessful effort. I wanted to save its suffering thus I pierced the wyverns heart. The beast was defeated. As usually I proceed with examining the species and almost immediately I was baffled. That wyvern was quite different from those which I used to encounter. It was as big as a royal wyvern but it didn’t share other characteristics with the species. And its colouring was truly odd. Its scales were most peculiar; most wyverns had scales of one colour: green, brown, rusty... but that one, even though it seemed rusty after a moment it reflected iridescent, resembling rainbow. Its claws were distinctly hardened and covered with something I couldn’t name. Also, its eyes were odd; average wyverns had eyes similar to those of reptiles whereas that one had acid red orbs. I was certain that that creature wasn’t natural, it must have been created by magic. I wanted to ask Wirei about her opinion but when I raised my eyes I noticed that everything around was silent, and that my friend stood a few inches away, staring blankly at the group of three men who tried to fight the wyvern. The men didn’t move, two of them were eying me curiously but the another one with red hair looked at Wirei. There was something intense in the way they looked at each other and yet none of them made any step. Then it occurred to me. It must be him, I thought to myself. The one who had tricked her, the one who had left her, the one who had hurt her. I narrowed my eyes and walked to the sorceress slowly, keeping an eye on the men. I could see that Wirei was shivering a bit and her eyes were a bit clouded. I was angry that such a situation made her that way. Then at the road to the town, two more men appeared as they hurried to the scene. I suspected that they were governing the town but then I noticed that one of them had elven features. There was no way that people would allow an elf to be on a high position, which involved ruling the town. Though the other one seemed to be more of a leader figure and looked like a nobleman. He didn’t notice us at first, his focus was on the group of men. He appeared to be angry and disappointed.

“What is going on here?!” he spat out, looking at the red haired man. “I’ve told you to stay away from the beast! You shouldn’t have listened to Liam!”

“It wasn’t my fault,” the brown haired man from the group of three protested. “He wanted to do something fun so...”

“So you dragged him here so he would kill himself,” the nobleman glared at the man whose name was Liam.

“Nothing happened,” Liam rolled his eyes. “We’ve been aided by those lovely...”

And then the nobleman looked at us and was dumbstruck. He studied Wirei with wide eyes that could tell only one thing, he was afraid. At first I found it odd but then I understood, when he glanced at the red haired man. He must have been the friend with whom Wirei corresponded; he was the one who made sure that they would never meet again and apparently he failed. The red haired man shook his head as if he had woken from a dream, and then he stormed out full of rage and pride. The elf followed but the nobleman stood there regarding Wirei with a stern look. The sorceress seemed ashamed and distressed. I didn’t like it. When he proceed to walk into our direction I stepped in front of Wirei, shielding her. The man stopped surprised.

“Step back,” I spoke with a neutral tone. “Or it will get unpleasantly.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” he answered pursing his lips.

“Nor am I of your angry faces,” I retorted.

The man called Liam snorted and his friend with a bow covered his mouth.

“She killed the dragon,” Liam said smirking.

“It’s not a dragon,” I groaned and looked over my shoulder at Wirei. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, I want to talk,” the nobleman demanded.

“But she doesn’t,” I folded my arms and narrowed my eyes. “Leave her be.”

“I don’t mean to hurt her,” he explained with an annoyed sigh.

“I don’t care about your intentions,” I eyed him threateningly. “Unless they include my friend. It would be wise of you not to cross that line.”

“I can see that your company has worsen,” the nobleman said to Wirei.

“Insults will not bring anything profitable to this conversation,” I sneered. “So better be off.”

“Eryn, it’s alright,” Wirei spoke out with a shaky voice. “Let him speak.”

I stood back but I didn’t let the nobleman came too close. Apparently he sensed it because he stopped in front of Wirei, keeping some distance.

“What are you doing here?” he asked harshly. “I’ve written to you. You were supposed to be somewhere else!”

“My plans have changed,” Wirei uttered quietly. “I’m sorry Arwin.”

“Well that had to happen,” Arwin sighed heavily. “I have to check on him. But... if you want to talk we can meet at a tavern. I don’t remember its name...”

“The Golden Basilisk,” Liam shouted form where he was standing with his friend.

I rolled my eyes. People and their imagination...

“Yes, meet me there later,” Arwin nodded and I could sense that he was tense. “I’ll understand if you won’t come.”

Wirei only nodded. Arwin glanced at us last time and went away with his two friends. When they were out of our sight the sorceress’ expression became full of panic.

“We need to go,” she whispered. “Now!”

“Wirei...,” I started calmly.

“I can’t be here,” she said frantically. “They can’t see me again...I...”

“Wirei...,” I repeated.

“No, there is no time for talking,” she shook her head. “We need to go now.”

“You need to calm down first,” I noted. “And I’m afraid that we need to talk. I won’t make you but I feel that I need to understand what has happened here.”

She looked at me for a while as if she were unsure what to do next. But then she sighed.

‘You’re right,” she admitted. “I have to tell you the whole story...”

#My writing #Witcher #Witcher AU #wiedźmin #fanfiction #eryn #witcheress #wirei dampierre #ocs #ciri-yen-iris #sorceress

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tnp4tbowm · 7 years

Text

THOTS & PRAYERS FOR THE BROTHERHOOD OF WHITE MEN

is what I’m gonna call this mess

since we’re the demo that does them best

if thots and prayers mean acting less

or voting against marginalized groups with minority stress… as if women at conference tables… and brown folks in dorms… need white guys subtracting more… and I know we use categories for making sense… and giving names to groups we haven’t met

but no

WHY DO YOU HATE WHITE MEN THAT’S LIKE ME SAYING I HATE FAGGOTS AND LATINAS

my brother

on the phone while I’m at an intersection

but what about flesh in the grass and women in ironworking and los trumpistas in southern california and pixie boys in kootenai county and ill-eagles fireworks on the skokomish reservation and mothers nursing children in rocking chairs at spokane international airport… and steer ropers staring in horses’ eyes… and words so strong they become actions like “guilty” and “I hereby pronounce you”

I want to say

it comes down to

while animals aim for physical victory bc they’re rewarded by evolutionary gain… my brother aims for high-volume sucker-punching bc… well same

no no no I reassure myself… I’ve prepared for this moment… covering my bedroom walls with butcher paper and definitions for agápē and wisdom and grace

the light turns green

in seattle where my boyfriend and I saw a band named “boyfriends”… consisting of three guys some with girlfriends maybe play-acting “gay”

not the faggot town I grew up in

did I say faggot town

flipped my thoughts

I live with faggots now

bc of course I moved away

from where I was raised… where ladies in subdivisions filled rusted bathtubs with dahlias… and re-arranged living room sectionals and side tables… and guys in trailer parks worked on TVs in their yards

I never smeared deer blood on my face after a kill… and neither did my brother

we never paintballed stop signs… or climbed trees to catch squirrels (the unofficial after-school workout of the wrestling team)… or nailed the bloody skins to the weight room wall… or chilled in the parking lot with the tenth-grade science teacher slash security guard

where I grew up

white trash was designated white as opposed to other dodgy colors

wonder if the cafeteria table at school still says derek smith is a fag… I see blocky letters behind my eyes… nirvana on the lawn… holding a stick next to a praying mantis… hoping she’ll crawl on

live in the same place long enough and the frogs will be gone

each year I bike a block further

find certainty in school

lay around and think about what's true

leave cleats books water bottles in the living room

train for x-country in july and august… dream of anthropology and art history in college… parents fill out FAFSA forms

unconscious

at the intersection of my privs

square jaw wide grip

I give in

I say to my brother

driving by the gaybucks

are you serious? I ask... you want to do this rn? you think I hate white men? you didn’t show much interest in my self-hatred when we were teens

we were raised to read widely on top of doing our homework for English class… stories about white men unable to find work or shelter… I stayed awake by reading one chapter in the basement of our three-story home and another chapter in the bath… and another chapter in the basement… and another in the bath

it was 1997 and everyone was wearing ck jeans and eternity cologne and disappearing into the wood paneling of their basements

not everyone wrote a 5-paragraph paper on why abortion was wrong

but I did

most people ate the pro-life sundaes at youth group

as the tin man in our high school production of “The Wizard of Oz”… I dreamed of a fabulous life in the emerald city… while listening to conservatives in the community complain about the presence of witches and pagan values in the play… a few token liberals described how the Wicked Witch’s green skin and Glinda’s button nose… equated virtue with appearance

I worked on a farm for $

hi-ho the derrrrrrrrry-o

faggot on the farm

flesh in the grass

telling stories and pulling weeds as I acknowledged “weed” was a human category… for life distinct from other forms of life… standing out in color and shape… budding out of place

when I got home I studied Zanie’s backwoods dialect in Zora Neale Hurston’s “Their Eyes Were Watching God”

four years later

ash-covered New Yorkers crossed the Brooklyn Bridge with their hands on their faces

I picked blueberries on Mount Rainier… asked if subalpine flowers should smell like dryer sheets… if lakes should be toilet tab blue

¾” threaded galvanized pipe two chain links eye bolts flag

supplies list from the guy at the rest-stop on the way home… old glory should stand up to a 96 mile trip up to 70 mph

I went to work folding taco wrappers into triangles like nothing had happened… and made food with beef that showed up in boxes marked “fit for human consumption”… staging mexi-fries under heat lamps in groups of two or three

while boy george (w.) signed the Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism act

after work I slept in self-inflicted poverty in a house full of guys who did backyard enemas and drank jars of pee and kept mushroom journals… and changed my opinion about property ownership… bc why bother storing up treasure when human possession is an illusion… and condoleeza rice has a chevron tanker named after her

we argued about earth history and theological precepts like pre-destination

but agreed

god’s complacent

should be more like the hippie guy in the volkswagen van… with Eden Before The Fall painted one side… and Eden After The Fall on the other… and a nice patch of grass growing on top

textbooks copied screens

fireplaces provided intimacy w/o heat

virtual experiences dominated references in speech

green-tongued goats on forest service roads licked antifreeze

we asked if the phone was real or surround sound prestige... did the spin instructor in the windowless gym want sixty percent on hills or ninety percent on streets… is the norway maple transplanted to the front lawn of the new house conveying a line of aristocratic family wealth

an old-growth tree

the entrepreneur in an education workshop talked about “products” metaphorically

a patriot/explorer on a mustang/bronco went on an expedition/excursion to the frontier/tundra… passing through the winnebago tribe saying

srry bout it

the kids on the makah reservation don’t want whale sandwiches

wal-mart got blue and target red

white wonder bread

happy meals

j. christ

c.e.o.

5 lb cereal

4 brown ghosts

the speaker at the commencement ceremony joked, “what’s the difference between Pullman and a cup of yogurt?”

the cup of yogurt has more culture

zuckerberg’s hoodie went from “disregard for convention” to “purity of intention”… for someone too focused to worry about clothes… monastic gray was helping folks

now we’re here

we’re here

at the mindfulness weight loss retreat… three raisins… six almonds… the right herbal tincture… twenty minutes in the redwoods

dragging

the past in front of us bc it happened

we’re at home eating pancakes with butter and syrup and powdered sugar… but the sugar is crushed-up hydroxycut

city buildings capture sun for the 20%

hey shadows

and data-mining companies have been adding my places of employment and the mesh shorts I almost bought… and the dreams I deferred and the shows I watch… to their digital dossier of me… and I guess the gazing goes one way but not the other… like church… where predictive analytics play upon thirsts… and hunt me down like unicorn shirts

what’s next

trees drop plastic fruits

domesticated deer eat out of troughs

stunt-double bears rent suits in parking lots

forest rangers lasso the last of the orioles and roll up the sky

we learn

the last time I had a long island iced was... the last time I had a long island iced tea

seeeeeeeeeeeeeee

bro

I’m doing better

you’re like me

except I’m a busybody

with no kids

wish: “pc lecture with moral authoritarian tone by urban elite who reflexively rejects critiques of globalization”… reads “fearless inventory in a world where ‘quinoa empanadas’ are a thing… and platters of deviled eggs watch the horizon”

so even as I call your baby’s bedroom view of the skyline from your island home

privilege bestowed

I call out myself

for lavender cookies and oatmeal soap

never noticing appropriation in cartoon indian smokes

white peace pipe under a red sun on a yellow box

database of ruin snapshots

you know how I spent those years teaching high school in gig harbor… what you don’t know is I had two Hispanic sisters… Maria and Paula… spend a quarter translating children’s books on sticky notes

they

smiled

yawned

bored

I was their teacher and offered “support”

(but if you need more… in 2009 I was plucking spraying spiking shaving shoving… like the guys on jersey shore… watched every episode and called it my reward… for getting through two president bushes)

the founding fathers designed our branches of government to withstand the likes of King George

(also: granted love to gather more of it, shirked a wrong but lorded over it)

psychologically spiraling… debating if I should share the video of the first lady in the blue dress staring at her feet during inaugural prayer… wondering if I’m feeling personal irritability or existential despair… if I have “compassion fatigue” from doing “emotional labor” in my newsfeed

why someone hasn’t invented a female-friendly pee trough between the knees… why menopausal sensuality gets teased… why testosterone means feeling confident about incorrect answers

have the decency to feel guilty

living off the massive retail workforce stocking big-box brick-and-mortar stores and online fulfillment centers

what did we expect

detaching personal accountability from global effects

what did you think

watching nature documentaries frame lions as villains… positing giraffes as victims… when we know aggression isn’t something “we get out of our systems”

but confessing rings wrong

I say to my brother

pulling up to my apartment home

ear hot from the phone

how’s the kid

peeing blood

good… he’s got a kitchen set with a stove and dishwasher… he cooks plastic things while he toot-toots… farts on command... he says

I hope he’s reading “Radical American Women A-Z” and “The Adventures of Toni the Tampon”… I say… and playing with the nine new ken dolls with ethnically ambiguous face-sculpts… developing new play patterns… bc brown kids asked to play with “the good doll” choose the white doll… and still grow up overly disciplined at school… by administrators analyzing “racial predictability and dis-proportionality in achievement categories”… without saying the word “racist”

I like body positive post-holiday ken his paunch

also our white immigrant ancestors got rich enslaving Blacks

(the rest of the starter kit for understanding institutional injustice can be found online @ www.google.com)

(intermediate: people of color fight against constructed realities… internally and externally… and the racial imaginary overlaps with the gay imaginary bc invisible people need some space to practice their fkn moves… but what about time and place… whose ear does the hearing… which mouth translates)

o say can I… being me… understand how corporate restructuring shows one face and sublimates others… contributes to oppression where double consciousness affects women and people of color

o say can I hear the oppressors’ voices renegotiate my thoughts decolonize space

where do I fit in? will there be room for me? how do I make room for others?

my brother suddenly has to go asks if you’ll be him on the phone

yes

it's complicated

but yes

(if you're not my brother and the request is nbd bc you've always heard the voices of white men… I invite you to continue… if you’d rather not… peace be with you… let’s hang soon… I love you)

and right there did you feel that [ [ [ [

in actual life we aren’t there yet… I hung up the phone after “faggots and Latinas”... bc my hands were shaking so hard I could barely steer

typical of you to back out of conversation before we say the hurtful things you say

before we say the hurtful things? before? I ask

1) well at least I finally have the upper hand with you thinking you can threaten broken bonds 2) I’ve never seen two belief systems more perfectly in line 3) I guess you stand for democratic values most of the time

we’ll never know what’s depraved and what's divine… I can’t read hearts and I can’t read minds

already I had escaped into the televised self-help seminar in my head… where I am the host rolling up my sleeves… ready to hear from household cleaner huffing sisters… and visualize problems worse than mine

after the commercial break I engage the girls in patient-therapist interactions... mixing hard-hitting realism and hypersensitive dialogue… as intolerable and inauthentic as my wife’s bouffant

basically I’m dr. phil… but also… if it’s okay with you… I’d love to try being the girls… who haven’t seen their father since they were two

and later during the re-tape… the visiting expert with a new self-help book… explains the “colorization of the soul”… saying “I think it makes sense to nurture the ‘daily me’ before skimming the news… look here… on the color rubric… reds before blues”

red apples picked by farm workers with multiple SSNs

blue mechanics in overalls twirling ballpoint pens

white eggshell enamel over pink or saccharine

symbols up for grabs… by anyone… bc that’s what I was told growing up and believed… I can be anyone I wanna be

hope the same for Muslim girls wearing spandex hijabs in P.E.

our country is not exempt… when campaign rallies look like nests… but I know I’m like… eighty-two percent spoon-fed/tone-deaf

tomorrow

is a child’s flying drone-wish… where native plants have extraordinary ability visas like the biebs… germinate round-up ready soft white wheat… and facial recognition software on my self-driving truck beeps… bc I’m not wearing guyliner… and lack ethereum cryptocurrency

so I walk into a bar and borrow liquid pencil

apply it in the mirror by the urinal

remembrance of things pabst

love comes in spurts

the worst

hasn’t

hap-

pened

be around

thanks

I’ll be a morel mushroom full of vitamin d in the dark

an emerald city queer in the shadow of Rainier where bark is bark

mist from the Nisqually River rolls above the fast part

torrent > P2P file sharing

a robot hands me a warm towel after yoga… scans my sweat for communicable diseases

construction workers buy baguettes out of a wheelbarrow… from my kids

paid in no-nuance knockoff dramatized black lady gifs

blood on their faces hunting feral pigs

allahu akbar… on the fortieth click… means more than the first search results about jihadist battle cries… jihad… means more than the first search results about holy wars

as-salaam aleikum… peace be unto you

saw-lahm

all-lay-koooooooom

while keeping an eye on the horizon

for crowd estimation software in weather balloons

across the un-crossable Puget Sound

not really

we live in western wash.

what I’m saying is… I’m not traveling down Tolkien’s path… climbing Silverstein’s precipice… crossing a toothpick pier… or boarding a balsa wood boat… for a “dialogue event”… when I see you across this metaphorical inlet

not everything overlaps… smoke + fog = smog… marionette + puppet = muppet… enchilada + burrito = enchurrito… intermingling > provinciality…but apple slices on guacamole is white people saying to Mexicans we want your food and want to “touch” it too

eww

I want the queer bar full of queers… and that’s true of any gathering place… the identity shifts with who’s there and who stays… for physical touch and feeling safe... and cultural intensification... we congregate

I could never hate feminist separatists reading sappho by lyre

agrarian nationalists and queer energy collectives disappear

cross the cascades… to north idaho�� passport in hand to show agents at the skin of the bubble… preparing for my cousin the welder… who can’t get out of his trailer… and my dad who says seat belts and metric measurements are communist and has a legal pad with instructions for working the computer

the girl on the greyhound says she didn’t go to college for four years to sit on her ass and bake cookies

been awhile

a few days later I ride in the back of our uncle’s truck to the parade… where grandma reminds me to keep my beer tabs so kristy will get a party for her class… as we set up folding chairs on the sidewalk… to watch shriners on little cars… and wave at hooters girls on the make-a-wish float… the mayor… always pooping in other people’s pants… grandma says… as we find ourselves standing and clapping for the coeur d’alene tribe

after mayor and police go by

later help grandma make tater tot hot dish... wrap the pan in a bath towel she pulls from a cabinet full of towels stacked vertically like pizza boxes

small talk

fawn over the s’mores pie with graham cracker crumbs on bottom and top… especially the marshmallowy middle

oh oops

did I go there

pre-prayer

here’s the thing… the alliances we need to overcome the monster are never what we think they are… and seeing anti-american sentiment in the firmament… and indicator species’ temperaments… reminds us the world collects… and/or usurps the throne… the debt is more than we think we owe… there won’t be polite knocking or ceremonial drumming… by so-called “others” we didn’t see coming

solution… testing limits… and I don’t mean excusing myself to get the wings by the jumper cables in the trunk… walking back in and telling everyone angel gabriel is here… saying… oh I guess this isn’t… is this not the sexy jesus party with a crucifix selfie station?

omg that hoe over there

our arguments are basically light divisions… internal-only obstacles where I go back and forth debating

I know

this makes you wanna scream into the phone

well

here’s a semi-autobiographical lyric novella in the form of an epic poem

typical passive progressiveness… I can’t even talk to you face-to-face… when you wanna chill by the water tank… I communicate via popsicle stick messages in the gutter / everyone on tumblr

one thing’s for sure… we’re giving up some things... s’mores pie is on the table… but it’s not on the table… of sacrifices I’ll be making… bc I love s’mores pie

we don’t wanna give up anything but we have to try

our lives are characterized by conveniences with steep costs

like celery and bell peppers and onions already chopped

people with invisibility powers can’t be stopped

rowing outside San Diego and the Gulf

above cracked pipes and pvc

clouds of oil

grass and reeds

dragonflies and damselflies with heavy wings

on multi-generational round-trips without breaks to breathe in juniper trees

addition: we had a seed vault… a plan b food bank… to take care of us... in case a plague trapped in siberian ice destroyed our crops… but ten years went by without permafrost… and car-less urbanites with mileage plans... shrugged and said there was nothing they could do

a collapsed ice shelf is another place for cargo ships to pass through

our ecosystems depend on conversations among interlocking interdependent parts… more than mermaid toast or zombie shows… or mother nature wish-fulfillment fantasies… where we ask quail and cranes in the forest… to come out of the trees and lift us away by our shoulder pads

our second eye watches the ground… as we pace sidewalks disrupted by roots… thank inchworms for decompositions…. trace the paths of ants on the side… turn our ears like ferris wheels on the sly

inner vision attuned

wilderness survival guide

I do not have superior autobiographical memory like my faggot boyfriend does… brother… but if I remember right you beat up the guy who peed on my backpack in ninth grade… bc the next passing period… he apologized

I’m in bed rn… thinking about how I hate your muscular public practice… but needed it… srry for being confused

the word is not the thing

the menu is not the food

the plan

after I’ve figured out what I can give up

is to invite people to a park

grand theft auto fans

promote

slacktivist slash accent coach

mom in dallas… cashier cleric caregiver… competing for section 8 vouchers

developer counting kickbacks and calories... at a housing tax credit industry gathering

middle-aged man afraid to lose… leaving Buenavista for Baton Rouge… parents of dead black kids don’t know what to do… Saudi women barred from carpools… El Salvadoran sugarcane harvesters… closeted Egyptian police officers… Filipino nannies tinikling to Lil’ Wayne… trans women fighting the state… Miss Texas 1988… Harlotte O’Scara Hellen Tragedy… snake handler crab trapper… adjunct professor qualitative researcher… world’s most prolific fortune cookie writer… Bible Jim… shirtless guy next to him in briefs and “This man gave me a blowjob” sharpied on his chest

salmon in gasoline

up the bank across the street

pipeline burst on whatcom creek

hyper-empathic hatchimal colleggtor

trained to serve but not hit back

except in tennis lessons

the male coach

flips that

srry

gay hater cake maker cradle labeler

homo-plausible bi-logical

floral arranger

retain it or give it away

intellectual property is three chords

and the person with less power says you're not allowed

your brother

it’ll be the opposite of when I showed up at your house after my wife left me… and you opened the door… and I collapsed in your arms in the hallway… and bc you’re a few inches taller than me… and my knees wouldn’t work… you saw the nail marks on the walls of my subconscious

we’ll play a game… where we introduce ourselves

recall times in our lives with less repetition more repair

describing versions of ourselves adding post-scripts unaware

listing words we never use: farce, fatuous, machination, myopic, subterfuge

sorting beliefs by size date modified proof

discuss satire-less south park

duraflame start

galvanize flake n rust

behave spontaneously n not combust

help hippielandia hostel in flames

learn ancient proto-langs

repeat shit we wanna forget

like, has anyone checked on the family in the nuclear train car yet

we’ll discuss what should change… what should stay the same… believe ourselves capable of restraint… revive the practice of communal processing… where townspeople gather side by side… to watch events from the day reenacted in light

practice… on a page

like in a play

oceans and lands… dna strands… airspace… electromagnetic spectrums… gridded and privatized… but the public square

ACT I

CURTAINS OPEN ON PARK/SQUARE. TOWNSPEOPLE GATHER IN HALF-CIRCLE. MISSILE, WEATHER BALLOON, AND RED SUN HANG OVERHEAD

NICO: “I’ve been thinking about how I might convey my progressive morals in a way that sounds wholesome to my family.”

ISSA: “I’m done with that. I spend ten dollars on tampons at the store and my husband gets a bowlful of condoms every time he orders a jaeger shot. Then if I mention the disparity he blames ‘red tide.’ When I needed postnatal care to stop my fourth trimester pants-pissing, my doctor’s visit wasn’t covered. Society isn’t family friendly. I spend forty-minutes on the couch organizing housework and childcare each week, and regardless of what society says, that’s project management.”

JASLENE: “Last year my teacher gave everyone two bathroom passes and if you didn’t use them they were worth extra credit, so I left bloody circles on the chair para mostrarle que esto es lo que sucedería.”

CROWD SILENCES. BOY IN “WANNA LIFT?” SHIRT LEAVES. DARLENE STEPS TO THE MIDDLE.

DARLENE (to vacated space, then to group): “We’ll miss you… Every manifestation of good and evil has part of the answer, but also, immovable people will not be moved. We will show civil inattention by giving him the space he needs.”

MARK: “I’ll never represent my beliefs adequately since I have trouble telling the barber how I want my hair without the assistance of visual aids, but I’m here to talk anyway.”

JAMES: “We're standing on varying levels of culturally constructed oppressive frames and the only way to deconstruct the artifice as it exists is to stand on the ones that are more entrenched and take apart the ones that are less entrenched.”

SOFÍA: “I’m so confused by the fact that I’m not supposed to feel shame, except for all the things I’m supposed to feel shameful about, which aren’t the things I thought were shameful. Am I supposed to know what a ‘gender illusionist’ is? I thought liking men made my nephew gay.”

CURTAINS CLOSE

overheard in audience:

they’re not connecting… just waiting turns and expressing

let’s not underestimate the hard work of avoiding moral outrage

dismayed at the repetition of “but” while conversation disintegrates

hang on

looking up cognac insta chef’s recipe for caramel-drizzled hennessy cupcakes

unwilling to listen generously… while aiming for an ending other than intensifying favoritism is like nailing jelly to a tree

using a chainsaw to cut butter

jumping from flower to flower in a fern gulley type situation

pragmatism is a dangerous alternative to conviction

ACT II

CURTAINS OPEN. CHARACTER ‘YOU’ GAZES OUT OF HOUSE WINDOW ON AN ISLAND, STAGE LEFT. CHARACTER ‘ME’ LOOKS OUT APARTMENT WINDOW IN A CITY, STAGE RIGHT

In unison: I promise me: to fight for-profit prisons, schools, and kidney-dialysis centers. you: [ [ [ [

In unison: I think I can give up me: the scholarship I got in college and give it to someone who needs it. But don’t touch the s’mores pie. you: [ [ [ [

In unison: I’ve been thinking about me: what you shared with me about China building artificial land around the Spratly Islands. And how prison construction companies look at standardized test data from second grade children of color. you: [ [ [ [

In unison: I believe I am owed me: a reply. Not long, but something. you: [ [ [ [

In unison: I care about me: how Ryan and Jesse’s mom used to put Carl Budding lunchmeat with mayonnaise and mustard in a blender… set it on ‘mash’ for a game of Duck Hunt… scoop it into Tupperware… and smear it on white bread throughout the week. I would eat that over apples on guacamole. The real globaloney. you: [ [ [ [

In unison: I hope me: we find space to show real love to kenyan baboons in garbage dumps and dioxin babies walking like spiders with red septic skin and people in apartments named after species they’ve displaced and women planning the clean-up of their suicides. you: [ [ [ [

CURTAINS CLOSE: INTERMISSION

overheard in lobby:

coming up with a formula for interacting in common space

himalayan crystals from the mystic utilikit dude

maybe we’ll see them agree… or calm down… or point towards partial truth… or connect idealism to privilege

not youth

we know old folks are idealistic

planting seeds without expecting fruits

going to target and payless shoes

ACTS III+

CURTAINS OPEN ON PARK/SQUARE. TOWNSPEOPLE HUDDLE AROUND A RADIO, AS IF IN A SNOWSTORM.

RADIO: ... let it be that great strong land of love… where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme… that any man be crushed by one above…

DARLENE: “Starting sentences with ‘I’ is a good place to begin, but feelings of belonging go deeper. Shift responses bring the attention to ourselves. Support responses ask for more. Let’s be more than cannibals with knives and forks.”

MARK: “Food metaphors. We want to think about asking better questions. ‘What place most inspires you?’ instead of ‘Where have you traveled?’ ‘What work are you passionate about?’ instead of ‘What do you do?’”

JASLENE: “What's your weightiest belief? What's your most potent fear?”

RADIO: … clutching the hope I seek… and finding only the same old stupid plan… of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak… it never was America to me…

ISSA: “The desperate search for an ethic, a specter.”

JASON: “I am willing to give up my authority but don't touch my autonomy.”

RADIO: ... say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? and who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

YOU: [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ [

EPILOGUE

Before sharing my brother’s response, I want to say I wrote “Thots & Prayers” because women get fewer obituaries than men in newspapers. Because the Baltimore Orioles lost way back when they had no tree canopy in which to land. Because trauma squats in the valley and anxiety raps her knuckles on the hill. Because Taco Bell spent 10 years and $15 mill developing stretchy cheese. Because men look at other men working in daycare centers and think they’re dumb for frittering away perks that should have been theirs from birth. Because my older brother yelled about faggots and Latinas after visiting the site of the Orlando Pulse shooting.

I am not looking to be comforted or assuaged.

White men need to educate each other. It’s not anyone else's job. We need to listen to the cultural conversation, see connections, and act on behalf of people who aren't seen. We need to be friendly in crowded places, and pull each other aside and be bridges.

I hope my family understands how many things will break if we don’t accommodate fragility. I’m not a metaphysician and don’t know about quantum mechanics or particle physics, but I know the phrase “I hope” is a glimmer of light living outside my rage. “I hope” signals my privilege. I hope to understand more about “I hope” in the context of everyday life in coming days.

As a beneficiary of entrenched systems, I work for everyone to have equal voice and access. I work for what’s best in my neighborhood and nation, on this striking and stunning and astoundingly polluted planet. I avoid asteroid-bashing. I avoid the ossification of stalemate. I avoid co-opting languages of the oppressed. I save room for warmth and time for children. I learn about neuro-diversity in the workplace and nutrient density in school lunches, and communicate generously about these issues and other issues, like the shared struggle for justice.

Mantras I’m saying and acting upon.

What’s mine is yours.

We do not need all the parts of the old society to create a new one.

If you feel inspired, please comment. I’d love to hear your weightiest belief, most potent fear, frustrations, considerations, qualifications, corrections, assessments, and agreements. No presh. I get nervous sharing my feelings, and words impact and behave differently for different people. The spaces between known grains of wood make wood strong.

I wasn’t sure if my brother would be a grain or a space. He’s the first person to admit he doesn’t read much and would rather talk on the phone or hash things out in person. Before sharing this, I called him up and said, “I’m about to send you a piece of writing. You don’t have to read the whole thing. You can always ‘Ctl. F’ and look for ‘brother.’”

Here’s what he wrote:

FYI, I don't really like you writing somewhat rude things about me and my house (which I take as jabs towards my wife and kids), etc. I don't do that towards you. I know there was some nice stuff too… I am communicating by e-mail as I know email is your preferred method, but at some point you need to realize I have feelings and opinions too, and don’t share them with everyone.

Right now I’m looking at 40+ people smoking joints outside the subsidized housing across the street. Wish I had that option. I wonder if their chronic drug use is helping out the health care system – I know they're not paying into it? I was up at 4:05 a.m. today to keep working toward losing that 20 lbs. so I'm not a burden on the system in the future. Learned that from Mom and Dad. I guess sometimes I feel ripped off. Need to get back to work now as I need to pay bills.

I’m sorry about the hate stuff that one day, you know I don't feel that way.

On another note, is hydroxycut good stuff?

He attached a document where he continued the conversation.

I promise to… take care of my kids and not cheat on my wife.

I’ve been thinking about… how to lose 20 more lbs. so I’m not dead when my kids are 40.

I feel like I am owed… nothing. I don’t feel I’m owed anything. Everyone chooses how to spend their money.

... and gave me prompts of my own.

In unison: I’ve been busy me: working about 12 hours per day if I count commuting and working on my house. you: [

In unison: I save my money for me: the future. I think I’m responsible for taking care of my own problems instead of hoping someone will help me out if something happens. you: [

In unison: I feel I’m privileged because me: I had a good Mom, Dad, and brothers growing up. I was never given any money, but having someone in your corner is more valuable. I am in your corner if you are in a pinch, and I know Mom and Dad are too. you: [

Working for a great strong land of love,

COLOPHON

Published on tumblr on Thursday, Aug. 10, “Thots & Prayers” is a phone transcript, visual essay, poem, and interactive self-help manual. I edited my brother’s written response for clarity. My mom took the pictures of my brother and me. My friend Jonathan Ursin took the pictures of me kneeling on the amphitheater stage and laying in the grass with rosary beads. I took the rest. Spanish phrases were proofed by Alè Barrientos. Radio broadcast lines are excerpted from Langston Hughes’ “Let America Be America Again.” Endorsement by Seattle performer Nico Pecans (they/them) / Miss Texas 1988 (she/her) is available. Lines from “James” and “Jason” are from interviews with James and Jason. PDF with original formatting shared upon request.

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davewakeman · 5 years

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3 Strategic Reasons Major League Baseball's Attendance Is Free Falling...

Let’s get right to the point here:

No one outside of the teams themselves knows exactly how bad MLB’s attendance really is because the reported numbers are all built around tickets distributed and not tickets used.

Many of the examples that are thrown out in these lists of think pieces about what’s up with attendance are largely tactical and might act like a dose of sugar to an 8-year-old.

As someone that works with companies all over the globe, I look at Major League Baseball and I don’t see a tactical problem…I see a strategic problem and one that hasn’t been framed properly to this point.

In my view, the challenges that MLB is dealing with comes down to 3 things:

Value proposition:

Let me ask you a question: what is the value proposition of going to a Major League Baseball game at this point?

No one really knows.

Are you purist that is going for the love of the game?

Are you a family, enjoying a night at the ballpark?

Are you a business, entertaining clients?

All of these things might happen, but the reality of the situation is that no one really knows the point of view of Major League Baseball for why you should attend a game.

Looking at this challenge through the lens of the larger business community, we need to recognize that most teams and leagues don’t do a very good job of initiating a story about why someone should be a fan of the game or attend a game in person.

This is partly due to the fact that most of the teams have standardized their websites and content under the idea of making things uniform and simpler to create…with the unintended consequence being that, unfortunately, a lot of the brand personality has been squeezed out of the leagues and teams.

Outside of this reason though, the more important issue is that if the value proposition of what you are selling isn’t present from the first image on the landing page, you are likely costing yourself tons of money because as consumers shift more of their recreation dollars to experiences, you aren’t just competing against the in-home experience, you are also so competing against things like concerts, arts, festivals, road trips, and more.

Check out Disney World’s website:

Clean homepage with almost everything dedicated to highlighting the value of the Disney experience

Video

Strong language about the experience and limited time, to create urgency

Images of people having fun and some of the things you’ll see

I mean, I’m not going to Disney. But it looks fun!

Contrast that with the landing page of the Washington Nationals and what do you see:

Cluttered home page with nothing specific to draw your attention towards a game

Scrolling headlines that are likely interesting if you are a Nats’ fan, but if you aren’t…

A clear call-to-action about “Vote Daily! Vote Nats!” that would likely be better positioned to sell the in-stadium experience or tickets.

Best practices around the world of marketing and sales tell you three things:

Your message should be clear.

Your message should be compelling.

Your message should be consistent.

A critical eye on the website of most MLB teams would show that it varies whether or not teams are using a pop-up to alert visitors to a special game, series, or offer.

Within those that offer, there is also a wide variation of the pop-ups being good or bad.

This is hard to explain in a blog post, but if it is me…I’m starting out with 3 things to drive home the value of the in-game Major League Baseball experience:

1. Start by laying out a clear value proposition: The team side needs to be all about winning. To quote Al Davis: “Just win baby!” But on the business side and the fan experience side, my goal is to be to provide a world-class entertainment experience. Then I benchmark myself against what other experiential businesses are doing.

If I am selling premium seating and suites, I’m not looking at what other teams are doing in sports…I’m going beyond that to look at what the Four Seasons is doing.

When I’m looking at the presentation of my game, I’m looking at what Disney is doing, in their parks, on their cruises, and all the other places they entertain.

This goes on and on because every aspect of the experience matters and people’s expectations are growing as they are exposed to what experiences are like in other towns, countries, and areas.

2. Paint a compelling picture of why going to a game matters:

I did a keynote speech in the UK in 2017 that focused on the community and the connection of the live experience.

I didn’t do this for any other reason except for I’d seen a lot of reports and data that stated pretty emphatically that people want, yearn for a community and connection to the world around them.

Contrast that information with the way that is often presented when we are selling sports.

One isn’t reflected in the other.

If it is me, I’m beating people over the head with the excitement of the in-game experience:

I’m showing fans jumping up and down with joy at an exciting play.

I’m highlighting the goofy dancing and antics of fans during breaks.

I’m pointing people to see the ways our guests interact with each other in the concourses.

To put it another way, I’m putting everything out there like you have the chance to be at the best party in town 81 days a year.

To me the challenge looks like keeping demand up at a nightclub when you have 365 nights a year to get people to come to your party.

3. I’m going to deliver this message consistently:

While there may be some variation to the specific message, I’m going to be going crazy with the repetition that you need to come out and see the Orioles this weekend because the Royals are here for their only weekend series of the year and we are going to be throwing Baltimore’s best party all weekend long…and, best of all, it is family friendly.

Every message you get from me is going to be you are getting world-class entertainment that you can’t get anywhere else…best of all, bring the entire family.

…best of all, bring a client or prospect and share a one-of-its-kind experience.

On and on and on…

Customer Focus:

I’m pretty certain that if you just spent a little time going through the value proposition and really digging into how you could amp that thing up, you’d get a long way down to the point of solving many of the issues at the heart of baseball. Because out of understanding the value proposition you are likely to see that you aren’t really doing a good job delivering for your customers and you aren’t marketing very well.

Back to the customer.

There are 2 points here:

Who is MLB’s customer today?

What does their customer value?

First, does anyone really know who Major League Baseball is targeting as a customer today?

I certainly can’t tell.

Is your customer a high-end professional taking family or clients?

If so, you may be priced things the right way, but your stadium isn’t really built to encourage those fans to attend because if that was the case, you’d likely need to cut the size of your stadium from 40,000 to 4,000.

Is your customer the discount shopper?

Great!

You’ve now taught your market that if they stay away long enough, they’ll eventually get a better deal.

Is it someone else?

Who knows?!

The other point is that what do these customers value?

Without understanding your customer, you can have no idea what is valuable to your customer.

Worse even, how often are executives and marketers and sales folks just chatting with their customers, understanding what they like and don’t like, what they find valuable, etc.?

If I were to ask you the question in a workshop, I can guarantee everyone’s hand would go up.

I’m also betting that a lot of people are thinking that they do enough…and my challenge would be to do more.

Then there is the likely majority of people that aren’t really doing this at all and need to start ASAP.

The general idea being, MLB has a customer problem and it is that they don’t know who their customers are.

As far as I can tell the majority of their customers are TV partners, business sponsors, and brokers.

But if you want to get people back in the ballpark, start with your most valuable partners and ask these 2 questions:

What is the value that you receive from working with us?

What do you wish we could do better?

From there, let’s go to people you want to come to the ballpark:

Families

Young adults

Business folks

Other

Ask them what they are doing now. Why are they doing it? Why aren’t they going out to a game? What would they like to do more of?

And, on and on.

You want to understand what people find valuable.

What will cause them to come out to your venue?

What they are doing currently?

This isn’t rocket science though maybe it feels like it sometimes.

But the secret to generating demand is:

Understanding your market

Understanding their needs

Designing something that fills those needs based on your knowledge of your product and your customers.

Marketing!

Everyone knows how to market…I get it!

At least that is what most people think.

I’d argue most of you are wrong.

I go between two definitions of marketing:

Marketing is about selling shit! And, making boatloads of money! (Credit this one to Mark Ritson.)

Marketing is about creating discomfort. The discomfort of knowing that you could have something better if you’d only take action: buy it, vote for it, do it…you get the point.

I believe they are pretty similar, but too many people roll out the garbage about social purpose and brand identity and all these other things that really mean that people don’t know how to sell something or get someone to take action.

My perception of the situation is that there are 3 big marketing challenges facing MLB:

For a long time, MLB’s partners have done a great job of promoting the game, the players, and the story of baseball that the chops to market holistically just aren’t there. Look at the NHL’s decision to hire from a background outside of sports and how that has improved their marketing dramatically in a year or so.

Marketing and advertising are looked at as cost centers and boxes to check, not profit centers.

The art of storytelling has been lost.

How do you solve those 3 challenges?

First, you need to get some new life ideas into the marketing rotation.

Having the opportunity to do things across industries, I get to see the best and worst of marketing from all over the place.

Here are 3 ways to dramatically improve the marketing of baseball:

Expand the types of advertising and marketing that you are doing. I’ve used Alan Weiss’s concept of Marketing Gravity as a jumping off point of my own marketing and he lists 24-26 ways to promote yourself. I also keep a list in my folder with 125+ different ways to create content. So baseball needs to get out of the same old, same old emphasis and be creative in sharing its message.

Do better with your email marketing: email marketing for MLB is bad! Fix it. People buy from emails ask Kirk Bentley. He works with nonprofits, but I’m telling you his advice works…

Be consistent in telling the story of the game and link it to the emotional: nostalgia, experience, and community: emotions get people to act, period. Advertising and marketing is about striking an emotional chord with your target audience to get them to take action in a way that you need them to. It might be a decision ladder like I need you to go to the site, buy tickets, come to the game, repeat. Whatever it is, tell your story…over and over with an emphasis on what is going to create emotional reactions in people and get them to take action.

These things aren’t happening today. And, they are limiting the impact on what MLB is able to do from a marketing perspective.

I’ve done nothing here to cover other important parts of the issues confronting Major League Baseball like scheduling, pricing, and more.

In truth, if you knew your customers or were more in touch with the people that you need to come into the ballpark, some of these issues would be resolved during the designing an experience for your customer phase.

But this is my take on MLB’s attendance challenge from the POV of a strategist.

What say you?

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3 Strategic Reasons Major League Baseball’s Attendance Is Free Falling… was originally published on Wakeman Consulting Group

#advertising #attendance #branding #customer experience #customer focus #major league baseball #marketing #NHL #selling #strategy #ticket sales

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