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snowbellewells · 4 years ago

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Captain Swan Movie Marathon: “Carolina Moon”

Here is my second submission to the @captainswanmoviemarathon event!! This one is a modern au of the Nora Roberts tv movie (adapted from one of her novels) Carolina Moon. The main female character in the movie is psychic/clairvoyant (I’ll admit, I’m not too sure on the distinction between the two) and I thought her visions and what she goes through in connection to them made a nice real world parallel to Emma’s magic. (There’s also a scene in here where the male lead says something that I could so perfectly see Killian saying to Emma… I just cannot wait to get to that point!)

Anyway, I hope you will enjoy this romantic thriller with some murder mystery elements. There are some instances of abuse and violence in here though - which I feel like I should mention, since that’s a little darker than my typical style. Most of them are in flashbacks of Emma’s past, or in visions she has of victims, more than in the actual present day plot, still I wanted to make people aware before we got too far.

Please enjoy! (I’d love to hear what you think.)

Chapter One

July 1993

The water at their hideaway always feels so good. She could sink into it until her head slips below the surface and never, ever want to come up for air. It’s cooler, more luxurious than even the rich, satiny sheets on the trundle bed those rare nights she gets to sleep over at Rose’s. Emma Swan’s gangly, 13-year-old limbs slice through the murky water as if the constant humidity and sultry air of Storybrooke, South Carolina can’t penetrate here in their little haven. She knows, of course, logically, that the real world isn’t all that far away. The shaded pond she and Rose discovered two summers ago is just a short trek into the woods at the furthest edge of Rose’s family’s boundless acres. Still, it feels removed enough to bring Emma a sense of peace and contentment she gains nowhere else.

Looking over her shoulder to the large, smooth boulder jutting up out of the pond at the bank where they left their flip flops and cutoff denim shorts, she can see her best friend stretched out with her new book where they had spread their towels on the rock’s surface, just in the wash of warming sunlight that streams through the tree branches overhead. Her friend’s flawlessly creamy pale skin is prone to burning, but at the moment Rose seems willing to take the risk for the benefit of lazing cozily to read as she dries in the sun after taking a quick dip. Shaking her head, Emma plunges back under, happy to stay in the chilly water a bit longer herself. She knew as soon as they’d met outside Rose’s house that afternoon and Rose had held the newest entry in her favorite mystery series in her hand that she wouldn’t be able to resist burrowing into those pages for long.

It’s funny, Emma supposes, but that’s exactly what bonded she and Rose in the first place. They might seem different on the surface, but in the end, neither of them quite fit with everyone else, and so they gravitate to each other, and have ever since Emma first arrived in Storybrooke as an eight-year-old orphan. They’re willing to give each other at least one other person who takes them as they are and with whom they won’t have to pretend. Emma doesn’t care if Rose wants to read quietly and tell her about the stories she’s already finished instead of picking out dresses for the next cotillion class or preening in front of the mirror to practice batting her eyelashes to charm boys or bragging to Emma about which ones she intends to kiss. Her sister Ruby, who shares the same thickly shining, burnished mahogany hair and pretty pink lips but little of her fraternal twin’s calming, gentle personality, does enough of that for the both of them. Their mother, a former debutante and southern belle, delights in the one daughter’s traditional coquettishness, and despairs of the other’s shyness, a true throwback to another time who wants nothing more than to see both daughters marry well and retain their places atop the social ladder. In turn, Rose doesn’t mock Emma for her thick, dark-framed glasses or secondhand clothes, nor does she cringe away from the “fits” that sometimes take hold of her friend, making strange, disturbing scenes Emma can’t understand flash across her mind with such intensity they sometimes knock her off her feet. Emma knows Rose’s mother and sister find her an unsuitable and embarrassing companion for Rose, but she is eternally grateful her friend seems able to see the best in anyone - even a lost girl nobody else wants - and so blithely acts as though she has no idea of the rest of her family’s opinions.

Cringing even while still submerged in the pond’s depths and practically invisible, Emma tries not to think of her unwanted visions. Her strict, hypocritical, and more than a bit deranged foster father claims she’s possessed - and more than once has taken her episodes out on her hide. The man swears he’s beating the devil out of her and putting the fear of God in Satan’s place when he takes the thick leather strap to her shoulders, back and legs until she bleeds, but Emma has already lived long enough in a cruel and unfair world to know that his violence and “discipline” have less to do with parenting and concern for her soul, and more to show for his own twisted mind and overindulgence in the bottle. She wants to hide her spells from him, but when they come on her so abruptly and with such power, they are impossible to miss. She can’t fathom how a person like him was deemed fit to take in and care for a child, but it seems to be her lot, and so she simply grits her teeth and survives.

It’s different when the spells happen around Rose; the slight brunette merely rests a cool, steadying hand on Emma’s forehead or her arm until it passes, helps Emma stand until she feels in control again, listens as she attempts to make sense of whatever she’s seen, and most importantly… believes her. If only she could stay in the huge house Rose’s family calls home. She’d cook, clean, do chores, and stay in the servant’s quarters, Emma isn’t picky. It would still be a far sight safer than the situation she had in the rundown shack with the monster who’d been deemed her caretaker. Barring that, she would honestly rather live wild in these woods and survive off the land. She knew which plants and berries were safe to eat, Graham, her friend and a fellow orphan now happily adopted, had taught her how to fish; it wouldn’t be easy, but she’d get by, and at least no one would lay a hand on her again.

This afternoon, those eerie images she sometimes had seem far away as she splashes up out of the water, trying to arc playfully like a mermaid as she breaks the surface. Drawing in a big gulp of air after staying underwater so long, Emma startles at the sound of teasing laughter, and whirls to see three figures on the bank where she and Rose left their shoes and shorts.

“Well, look here,” calls out a taunting voice that never fails to set Emma’s nerves on edge. “It’s the baby beached librarian and her drowned rat friend!” none other than Emma’s nemesis Killian Jones crows from his vantage point on dry land.

Rose sits up ramrod straight, book still in hand and annoyed scowl on her face at the quiet of their sanctuary being interrupted. She isn’t genuinely angry, though; for all that she and her sister shared little in common, she and her two years older brother are affectionately close. “Shut up, Killy!” she shoots back, throwing in the childhood nickname they all know he hates. “Who asked you to come looking anyway?”

The boy standing next to Killian speaks up next, making Emma scowl just as playfully as Rose had moments before. Graham Hunter might as well be her big brother; he’s the closest thing she’d had to family since her parents were lost in a car crash and she was thrown into the foster care system. Be that as it may, he and Killian Jones are thick as thieves, and he’ll give her a hard time for all he’s worth in while in the presence of his buddy. “We just wanted to swim,” he calls across the water to the two girls, smirking at Emma, now standing in the water with one hip jutting out and hands planted on her waist. “How were we supposed to know you two were infesting it?”

“Ha!” Emma jeers back, the affront plain in her voice; despite the fact that the entire routine is like a practiced girls-versus-boys exchange they’ve all engaged in countless times. There isn’t much else to do for entertainment in their sleepy little one-horse town. “You idiots know this is Rose and I’s hideaway, fair and square!”

“Well, Rose’s anyway,” a third voice cuts in snidely.

The cruel jab reminds Emma once more that she is just a charity case, quite possibly only included in anything at all because of her friend’s kind heart, and causes her gaze to cut sharply to the third member of the boys’ little crew, hanging back slightly in the shadows behind Killian and Graham as he always does. Her green eyes narrow to slits in genuine dislike and suspicion. Where before her animosity was largely for show, when they land on Walsh Ozman it is all too real.

She has never understood why the other two boys - jokers and annoyances though they may be, but good guys when it comes right down to it - hang out with Walsh at all. Where Graham and Killian are much more cut from the same cloth - athletic, outgoing, well-liked and pleasant - Walsh is a splindy, sniveling character, complaining and whining whatever their little trio gets up to. He lives not far from Emma’s foster father’s cabin with his single mother - a bushy-haired redhead who seems strangely overprotective and attached to her only child. Most people give the property a wide berth, except when high schoolers teepee it the whole month of October, and the general town consensus is that Zelena Ozman might be a witch and to steer clear. Still, beyond all of that, Emma might have been able to look past the boy’s circumstances and see him for himself - she of all people knew the gift it was not to be judged by where a person came from - if Walsh hadn’t simply given her “the willies”. Even standing too close to him made the fine hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end - and not in the way that nearness to Killian sometimes did; an altogether much more pleasant tingle, even if she was just as unable to explain one as the other.

“We could just take their things,” Walsh suggests, holding up the threadbare, faded jeans Emma had left on the bank. “Make them walk back in their skivvies.” The wicked smile on his face makes Emma’s stomach turn over sickly.

Something sharp flashes in Jones’ eyes, his nostrils flaring slightly and his head giving a subtle shake of dissent that Emma can see even at the distance she stands away from him. Protectiveness, chivalry, or maybe the honor of a southern gentleman passed down to him through generations of his impressive family line, whatever it is, it sparks to life in his eyes at that moment as he quashes Walsh’s mean-spirited suggestion in no uncertain terms. “That’s my little sister you’re talking about Oz,” he growls, smacking the worn material from the smaller’s boy’s hands, even if the article of clothing isn’t Rose’s at all.

Emma feels her breath rush back into her lungs, though she continues to watch the guys warily for whatever they might do or say next. Before long, they grow bored of standing around and move on, hollering out age old taunts of “Bye, losers” and “Hey, smell ya later” to Emma’s derisive snort and Rose completely ignoring them to flip open her book again.

However, even with the intruders gone, it seems as if the perfect comfort of their retreat has been shattered by the unsettling interruption. Soon, Emma wades to the shore and Rose clambers down from her perch, to dress once more and return to the world outside. For a moment, as she refastens her jeans around her skinny waist, Emma feels a strange prickling along the fine hairs on her arms… like they’re being watched. She jerks around, searching the surrounding trees and brush, but can’t see or hear a thing.

Rose’s small hand takes hers, snapping Emma out of the moment. “What is it?” she whispers, only true caring in her voice. “Did you sense something?”

Emma nods, but can’t give her suspicions voice. Usually her vision are clearer than that - this had just been heavy breathing and like looking at herself and Rose through another person’s eyes, outside her own body.

Rose stooped to grab the little canvas bag she’d bought along with water bottles, towels, and a second book in it. “Hey, don’t worry, okay?” she offers, hopeful and kind as always. “You’ll figure it out. Wanna meet back out here tonight? Secret Sister bonfire?” she winks mischeivously. “I have to get to dinner now. You know how Mama hates it if I’m not washed up and properly attired for the evening meal - or a second late. But we can talk some more then, maybe you’ll remember more and it will be clearer.”

Emma nods gamely. “The stars’ll be beautiful by midnight,” she suggests. “And we’ll definitely have the place all to ourselves.”

“Since we were so rudely interrupted,” Rose chimes in with a giggle and roll of her eyes.

“Shake on it, pinkie swear,” they say together in practiced unison, executing a complex handshake that ends with their pinkies hooked together and wide, matching grins on both their faces.

“Thanks Rose,” Emma whispers sincerely, trying to speak around the lump in her throat as if it’s no big deal. “I’ll be out here as soon as I can sneak away.”

Rose, for her part, wraps her taller, golden-haired friend into a tight, momentary hug. “Hey, we’re Secret Sisters! You can count on me. I’ll see you then!”

They part ways at the edge of the forest, Emma heading to the rundown cabin that serves as her nightmarish version of a home and Rose to the pristine, Jones mansion standing tall over all the surrounding land. Rose looks back over her shoulder with a smile and wave that bolsters Emma, and the memory fades back into the haze of the past…

Eighteen years later….

September 2011

The blaring of the horn as a sports car whizzed by, barely missing the nose of Emma’s beat-up yellow VW where it had begun to edge out into the country intersection jarred her back to the present with a gasp and painful jolt to her chest. Panting for a moment as she gripped the steering wheel, Emma tried to clear her head and calm the pounding of her heart at the near-miss.

‘Get it together,’ she berated herself. It might have seemed like only yesterday as she remembered that sunny afternoon at the swimming hole, but that day had been nearly two decades ago. She was a grown woman, had made a way for herself, fighting tooth and nail for every step forward, and she answered to no one. She had learned to stand up for herself, to control her visions and use them for good, and was a special consultant for the NYPD. But, more than all of that, she had come back to this place to find peace, to lay to rest the ghosts that followed her everywhere else she’d gone in the years between, once and for all. If she expected other to leave the past in the past, she’d first have to manage it herself.

She’d had no way to know as she and Rose parted that afternoon with promises and plans for later that it would be the last time she would ever see her friend. Emma had harbored the pain and the guilt and the unanswered questions ever since. Finally, it was time to meet the gazes of all of those who’d stared at her in suspicion before she’d been packed up and moved away once more, and it was time she found answers. She wasn’t the scared, whipped, mistreated adolescent she had been at 13. What she had lived through then wasn’t her fault, nor was what had happened to Rose that muggy July midnight.

And if she had to return to Storybrooke, South Carolina to lay that burden down… well, it was long past time she did.

Tagging: @captainswanmoviemarathon @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @lassluna @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @jennjenn615 @hollyethecurious @stahlop @winterbaby89 @lfh1226-linda @therooksshiningknight @thejollyroger-writer @artistic-writer @resident-of-storybrooke @darkcolinodonorgasm @tiganasummertree @xsajax @spartanguard @laschatzi

#captain swan movie marathon #cs ff #cs au #carolina moon #chapter one #cs mc

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klaineccfanficlibrary · 4 years ago

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Hi, do you know any fics where Kurt is a prince and Blaine is a merchant's son and he falls for Kurt but Burt (or whoever Kurt's father is) doesn't approve their relationship?

There are none that I know of where Blaine is a merchant son, but the ones listed below, Blaine is from a different class than prince!Kurt. - HKVouage

Nothing Can Keep Us Apart by @teddyshoney

Blaine is a Prince…well, he used to be. Now, he’s just a lowly Peasant living in the city of Hucal, a kingdom under the rule of the man who ordered his father to be killed. Unexpectedly, Blaine falls in love with a boy, a boy who should be far, far out of his reach. And just as he thinks that things are looking up for him, Hucal goes to war, and Blaine must fight. Will he make it home? Will he get to marry his soulmate? Will they have their happily ever after?

~~~~~

Debutante by bowtiewearingowl

Born to high society Blaine is raised to be quite the Beau, but when he comes out as gay to his mother she gives him a 'coming out party'. Enter Kurt Hummel, a modern day Cinderella, who finds himself enamored with the belle of the ball, Blaine Anderson.

~~~~~

Say You’ll Be My Nightingale by Poorlittleklainer

Prince Kurt has been engaged to Princess Rachel since the two of them were born. However, what should he do when he finds himself falling for the Princess’s beautiful knight?

~~~~~

King Of All Wild Things by NotUnusual

Kurt, a sheltered royal in the Sylvester kingdom, is banished and forced into the Wild - a place of fierce beasts and cannibals. At least, that’s how the stories go. But what Kurt finds in the jungle, or rather, what finds him, is not what he was prepared for.

~~~~~

Knight Errant by alilactree

Blaine is a knight who meets a young prince Kurt and is later assigned as his personal guard.

~~~~~

A Noble’s Journey by thentheyhadsex [PDF]

The night after Kurt, Crown Prince of Turano, finds out he’s to be married to seal a treaty, he feels that his life is over. He always thought he would marry for love, not to make peace with their eastern neighbors. But his plan to escape takes a turn for the worse, and in the woods he finds something he was never expecting. Blaine’s quiet life, in his quiet cabin in the woods, is changed forever when he finds Kurt. After his months of solitude, their days together are like something out of a fairy tale. So, when the time comes for Kurt to make a decision for where he goes next, Blaine’s decision is the easiest he’s ever made: to follow Kurt. Blaine’s life, however, is not what it seems. Will their love win over everything, or will his past tear them apart?

#klaine #klaine fanfic #klaine fanfiction #fic finder #anonymous #prince!kurt #teddyshoney #soulmates!Klaine #bowtiewearingowl #Disney!Klaine #Poorlittleklainer #Knight!Blaine

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gsbrandson · 5 years ago

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Buttermilk

I am the debutante’s offspring.

Streaks of marigold and straw.

My Grandmother once said to me,

“Your cadence, your tongue,

Must mimic a rosewater ellipsis.

It must linger.”

We are the modern-day courtesans.

The muses from Xanadu.

Bathing in the buttermilk,

Poured from a white porcelain pitcher.

A southern delight.

I am a figment of your imagination.

The sensation of fingertip on rose petal.

The unthreatening presence,

That lingers in your grace.

But in reality,

Or something like it,

I am just a dancer.

Living day to day,

Leotard over breast,

On the subways of New York.

I was taught quite young,

How a lady speaks,

Without saying a word.

You don’t have to tell me,

That I have broken the mold.

I already know.

The book that I learned from,

“The Language of Flowers”,

Was written by Sheila Pickles,

In 1989.

The Miss Sheila who taught me how to arabesque,

Ended her professional dance career,

In 1972.

To this day,

Nothing quite compares to the moment,

When she positioned me center stage.

My pointe shoes were colored peach,

And the rouge of my cheeks,

Matched them perfectly,

On opening day.

We performed the Tarantella,

Beginning in a V formation.

Corseted, red and green.

In the grand ballroom,

Underneath the crystal chandelier.

As we finished,

The crowds,

They threw red,

Long stem roses at our feet.

I picked one up,

And placed it between my teeth.

“Passion,”

I thought.

“They want passion.”

Months earlier,

I sat in the study,

At the estate on 108th Avenue.

“Recite to me, dear one,

The meanings,

Of the colors,

Of the rose,”

My grandmother demanded.

I began, meekly:

“Red is for passion,

Blush, for first emotions of love,

Yellow for friendship and remembrance,

And white,

For a love that is spiritual.”

Many an afternoon was dedicated,

To southern etiquette,

The symbols of beauty,

And improving my posture,

A book balanced on my blonde head.

These are the makings of a woman,

In the upper echelon.

A woman whose art,

Is found in her restraint.

The skillset of the demure woman,

Can only be taught,

By studying the most delicate of flowers.

But I had a question.

“The Marigold is oh, so sunny,

In its disposition,

And so robust,

In its form.

Why then is it a symbol for death?

Are there other symbols, Grandmother?

For death?”

Through the beginnings of my dance career,

I received two pieces of advice.

The first,

Being ‘bend so that you do not break’,

And the second,

Being ‘A hint of evil does wonders for the art form.’

I listened,

And moved from the oil money territory,

Of deep Texas,

To a salted soda cracker box,

In Brooklyn.

But my buttermilk would never go completely sour.

I would remain pure and sweet.

“A being of moonlight and cream.”

That’s what you said to me when you found me in the village.

The mink coat I wore,

I bought second hand in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.

It used to belong to someone else’s Grandmother.

The mink coat that you wore,

Belonged to yours.

We were on the naked intersection.

The two tea roses,

In the one bouquet,

Atop the front desk,

Of the Chelsea hotel.

Blooming for all the wrong reasons,

And the fairest of the seasons.

Amongst the baby’s breath,

And the folly.

We were dreaming of men tremendous in stature.

Reminiscing about the times,

When we had our own.

The marksman of the cotillion,

And the king of Buckaroo Ball.

How the Blue Waltz from their mouths,

Was on our pressure points.

And how we allowed it to decant.

But that was all before.

And so we set sail to Coney Island,

On a ship named Susie Q.

The look I gave you was telling.

Yours, in return,

Knowing.

And from your silk garter,

Underneath the petticoats of splendor,

Appeared your golden flask,

Filled with a buttermilk liqueur.

We could see the heat,

The blurred mirage on the horizon.

There was HP-5 in the film compartment,

And visions of Suavies Island on the deck.

The young bucks,

They came out of their cages.

And they asked, quite desperately,

For the directions to our hearts.

After a simultaneous drag,

From French cigarettes,

We pointed them all,

To the ocean.

You are the toast of New York.

Celebrated throughout the generations,

Via streets echoing ragtime jazz.

You were a cocktail waitress back then.

Throwing your pearls,

Not before swine,

But before the Wallstreet banshee’s,

With the most overflowing of wallets.

A fine dining hustler.

And I was the Boutonniere on your lapel,

Reminding you that traditions,

Sometimes,

Were meant to be broken.

In the back of a taxi,

On New Year’s Eve.

We carried Champagne from the wine cellar,

Underneath our mink.

We were cackling,

The witches of the Alamo,

Out of our elements.

High.

The driver asked for our destination.

We exclaimed,

“To Mercury!”

We were speaking the language,

Of the wildflowers now.

Vibrational.

Transcendent.

This really is what makes us girls.

We were suffering,

From a horrible case of root rot.

One the botanists,

Could never explain.

For you, it was,

A witnessing of the decay,

Of a love that,

Sent the Kachina’s to the rooftops,

On the night of your conception.

And for me, it was,

A witnessing of the decay,

Of the beings who had conceived me.

For I am the daughter of Rage.

He would never speak,

The language of flowers,

From his final resting place.

And neither would the perfected loveliness,

Of the Camellia’s that drove him mad.

But we knew what love was.

We were carved,

From the same block, you and I.

It is the demi plie,

The bread and butter,

The basics,

The sustenance,

Of the soul.

We fell asleep each night,

To the riverbed sirens.

The lights of Times Square,

Had replaced La Bella Luna.

We were known in the speakeasy circuit,

As a package deal.

You performed under the name Ambrosia Michaels,

And kept a bottle of Chanel No5,

On the blues piano.

It aided the alto fingering.

I kept desert poppies,

Pinned to the tulle I danced in,

And violets pinned to my furs.

We were the modern-day vaudeville,

Swimming underground.

Carrying our floral hat boxes,

Full of our accoutrements,

On the A train,

To Manhattan.

To them, we were a local favorite.

An offering that was never on the menu.

If you knew,

You just knew.

My pointe shoes were blood colored at last.

And the lacquer on my lips,

Matched them perfectly,

On our opening day.

We had become them.

Flightless in their disdain,

And their bewitching.

The quail and the kakapo,

Of the Marsh.

The lonestars were out yonder,

And I was a civilized lady,

When it was convenient.

I’m afraid I danced,

Until I turned blue.

Because I wished to embody the cornflower,

And all of her delicacy.

Through the primal act,

Of performing,

The dance of the velveteen belles,

Of New York.

And where are we now?

We’re on Eighth street.

Pounding the cobblestone,

In soft, Italian leather.

Water spotted, almost ruined.

Because freedom,

Is jumping into the puddles,

Of the holy water,

And the buttermilk,

Uncaring.

I learned that from you.

The people of our city,

Have flower mounds under tongue.

And in the blue,

Behind their eyelids.

Because we are the indigo children.

And they speak of us often.

Of our arts and our leisure.

We are forever stamped,

In the passport,

Of the history,

Of death and rebirth.

What they love about us,

Is our lingering in frivolity.

Our return to analog.

Our floral, syllabic homage,

To the divine.

Our repeating praise of Delphine.

We aren’t as crazy as sixth street,

But we’re close.

We can smell the smoke of Winter,

Before it is real.

We can feel the chest fluttering,

Soul excitement,

Of our evening show.

“Introducing,

Ambrosia Michaels,

And Violet Crawford.

But you can call her,

Buttermilk.

Please,

Ladies and Gentlemen,

Deliver them from evil.”

#poetry #writer #artist #short story #gs brandson

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readiceprincess · 6 years ago

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Chapter Twelve

Luther greeted them at the door when they came back from a quick errand run. “I must confess I wasn't expecting this.”

Sibyl and Westley carried bags full of magazines, snacks, and cleaning equipment. She shrugged.

“I'm gonna educate Westley then we'll clean this place up,” she explained. Luther raised his eyebrows. His eyes were puffy, but that just made him more attractive. Maybe it was law that people in Faerie and the Grimm Order had to be good looking or something. She couldn't complain.

“We? Your highness is cleaning too?”

“Trust me, I don't want to,” Westley said behind her, “but she's left me no choice.”

“Nope. No choice whatsoever. Now come on, modernization time.”

They walked in, Luther moving out of the way with a stunned expression. Westley and Sibyl sat on the dusty kitchen table. She used a swifer to wipe the dust off then laid out the magazines and snacks. Holding up a box, she grinned. “These are pop tarts. The best pop tarts are chocolate chip and wild berry. And the best way to eat them is frozen. Got it?”

“Chocolate chip and wild berry. Yes,” Westley repeated. He reached for the box and opened it, pulling out a chocolate chip pop tart.

“Here are some magazines. Magazine's are like little paper books that come out once a month. They're horrible and a plague on the earth but for now we'll use them to teach you about our world. I got all I could find,” she continued, opening a box of Mike & Ikes. “This is candy. There're all types of candy and it's pretty bad for you. But delicious.”

“You know we have candy and magazines in Faerie right?”

“You do?”

“Of course. Just not this colorful,” Westley replied, gesturing to the magazines. “Well you learn something new every day.”

Luther watched, leaning against the wall with an interested expression. There was a twinge of amusement in his eyes as one brow rose with interest. Westley took a few Mike & Ikes then grabbed a magazine and stared at the cover.

“Who is Bradgelina?”

“Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie,” Sibyl answered. “Both are actors. They're a famous couple. People like to mix the names of their favorite couples.”

“Oh okay. What plays have they performed in?”

“They act in movies.”

“Movies?”

“Movies are like plays but on a television screen. I'll show you sometime when Josephine and I have our movie night. I guess you haven't seen The Goonies either.”

From where he stood Luther chuckled. The prince peered back at him. When he smiled Luther had wrinkles by his eyes. “You're doing something very human, Westley,” Luther commented. “Eating junk and reading gossip is as human as it gets.”

“Now we just need to watch hours of Netflix and order pizza. I bet you haven't seen Friday Night Lights or Pushing Daisies.” Sibyl munched on a sour gummy worm. There was a knock on the door. Her eyebrows furrowed as she leaned back. “Are you expecting anyone?”

“Ahhh.” He tapped his temple and moved from the wall. “That must be your tutors.”

She made a face, Westley chuckling.

Luther opened the door. The short council member and a tall women waited. Her hard gaze made Sibyl straighten. With silky black hair in an ornate up do, crystals and snowflakes decorated her and made her appear out of this world. And she was a big fan of smoky eyes. It was like she and Rose had the same makeup artist and made her still.

Luther welcomed them with a warm smile. “Good morning Council Member Xavier and Miss Sonja.”

The woman seemed bored. “Hello Sir Luther.”

He motioned for them to come in, stepping aside. They entered, studying the home with disdain. “Mortals have such horrible taste in decor,” Miss Sonja murmured. With a frown Luther lowered his head.

“We're working on it,” Sibyl piped up. Their attention snapped to her, Miss Sonja's lips forming into a thin line. “We got some cleaning supplies. I'm just teaching Westley about the modern world before we get started.”

“Good Oberon,” Miss Sonja whispered. “You must be Celia's daughter. The resemblance is uncanny. Yet you lack her sophistication and grace.” Sibyl shrank into herself. Yup, she reminded her of Rose alright.

“Can't you see?” Westley countered. “There's something magical about her.” A small smile curved the corner of her lips.

“Prince Westley, forgive my rudeness,” Miss Sonja gasped. She and Xavier bowed, but he didn't notice, reading a magazine and peeking over to Sibyl. “Your mother asked I return you immediately.”

“I don't want to go home.”

The tutors exchanged a glance. Xavier cleared his throat. “But Westley your mother is worried. And your bride-”

Westley slammed down the magazine. “I will not marry that toad and I'm not returning. For Faerie’s sake I'm an adult. Let me make my own decisions – as a prince and a man.”

Xavier and Miss Sonja were dumbstruck. Sibyl smiled. Courage was intoxicating.

“You know it doesn't work that way,” Miss Sonja sputtered.

“Why don't we let Westley settle this for himself? He can make his own decisions. And as for me,” she pulled out her chair and stood. “You're here to tutor me right?”

Xavier frowned. “You're siding with him?”

Sibyl put her hands on her hips. “Everyone deserves agency.”

“What a bold statement,” Miss Sonja snorted.

“Never mind that,” Xavier said. “Miss Sonja will begin her tutoring session first. As you continue to be a part of the Order it's imperative you learn proper etiquette. On the summer solstice a Masquerade Ball is hosted and both courts will want you to present yourself.”

“What? I-”

“There will be no getting out of this,” Luther interrupted. “You're a representative of Earth now.”

Sibyl stared at her clothes. Debutantes didn't wear Barbie graphic tees, right? “I don't look the part.”

With a snap of Miss Sonja's fingers Sibyl was in a beautiful Victorian gown. It was monochromatic, as if it came from a black and white photograph. The hoop skirt brushed against the ground.

“How did you do that?”

“Glamor,” she replied. “Every Fae can use it.”

As it hugged her body – and the corset was pretty tight – a strange sensation ran over her. Glamor was weird but cool. It was much like a whisper of winter's edge. But there was something transparent about it hinting to its fabrication of reality.

“Let me show you what imagination energy can do.” Miss Sonja snapped and they appeared in a gray ballroom. People danced, their expressions hollow but movements swift and precise. Something about the ballroom seemed familiar, as if she had been there before. There was a different feeling here. It wasn't the same as Glamor. While Glamor felt like a mask imagination energy was real. It breathed life in an almost ironic way.

The dancers parted, revealing Miss Sonja, Xavier, Westley, and Luther standing across from her. They were dressed in Victorian attire, dashing and beautiful yet gray. Maybe Faerie was a bit gray too. “Your first lesson will be proper introductions and the Waltz.”

“The Waltz?”

Luther stepped forward and offered a hand, bowing. “I'm Sir Luther, knight of the UnSeelie Court under Clan Bear.” There was a sparkle in his eyes. “The Waltz happens to be my favorite. Would you do me the honor of this dance?”

Sibyl blinked. If she thought he was good looking before he was downright gorgeous in his Victorian suit. If there was ever a man born to dress in Victorian suits, it was Luther. “Y-Yes.”

“Introduce yourself. Curtsy,” Miss Sonja instructed.

Sibyl wobbled into a curtsy, not sure how to move in the dress. “Like this?”

A snap of sharp pain rippled down her back and she yelped. “Graceful! Graceful! It's hard to believe you're Celia's daughter. Address him as you go down and introduce yourself as you come up. Then give him your answer.”

“Is this really necessary?” Sibyl groaned. Another sharp pain rippled down her back. “Okay okay.”

Behind Luther, Westley waved. He put one foot forward and curtsied, pretending to grab his skirt. Oh. Sibyl mimicked him, saying, “Sir Luther, I'm Miss Sibyl Bix. I'd love to dance.”

Luther gave her an encouraging smile. “Well done. We'll work on how to introduce yourself.” He winked. “Now follow my lead.” He put his hand on her waist and held her other. “Keep your shoulders back. Good. Now keep your chin raised and don't look at your feet. Do you know a box step?”

“I was a dancer. It's the dress that's a problem.”

An encouraging smile played at his lips. “You'll get it.”

They danced around, Sibyl counting the steps in her head. It'd been so long since she danced. A few more sharp pains rippled down her back but for the most part she got it.

“Ahh see,” Luther complimented. “You're doing a wonderful job. Your mother would be proud.”

“Thank you.”

She was beaming. Maybe it was the mention of Celia or the fact that a handsome man was dancing with her. Either way it wasn't too bad. Heck she could get used to this.

As they danced, he held his head up high. It was kind of endearing how his ears stuck out a bit and his hair kind of curled. Every now and then she caught glimpses of Miss Sonja watching with critical eyes. Xavier swayed to the music, closing his eyes. There was no sign of Westley but she had to concentrate on her dancing anyway.

“You said you were a dancer?” Luther asked, making small conversation.

“Hmm? Oh yeah. I took ballet for ten years,” she replied, keeping her eyes on him. “Sorry. I keep counting in my head so I'm not being the best dance partner conversation wise.”

“Well to be honest, I think you're the belle of the ball even if you're not conversing,” he whispered, leaning closer and peering past her. She chuckled.

“Oh man, are you serious? With this competition?” She gestured to the hollow figures around her.

“It's hard to believe, I know,” he agreed with a chuckle. His breath was cool like a winter morning. A thrill of pleasure soothed her at his touch. “I think someone wants to take you away from me.”

“Hmm?”

Luther didn't answer. He released her to spin, but Sibyl stumbled and bumped into someone. Embarrassed she turned to Luther. He was gone. Her hands balled into fists at her side and she sucked in her lips. There was a tap on her shoulder. When she turned she found Westley smiling down at her, comfortable in a nice suit but a touch shy.

“Shall we?”

She curtsied, almost stumbling. “Right. Um sure.”

Westley pulled her close and cleared his throat, beginning the dance. For some reason she couldn't look at him. It wasn't that he was bad looking. Far from it. He was a walking dream. Luther had nothing on him, and that was saying something. But something about him just... Ah she couldn't put words to it.

They moved to the song, the pace quickening. Sibyl gulped, then stepped on his shoes.

“Ouch,” Westley winced. A sharp pain rippled down her back.

“Sorry,” she said through grit teeth.

“Stop.” They froze, taking a deep breath. “Perhaps we should dance slower.”

Sibyl frowned. “I'm not cut out for this etiquette and lady-like stuff, am I?”

“You underestimate yourself,” he whispered with a shake of the head. “You can do this. I know a lady when I see one.” He tipped her chin. “And you have the makings of a great lady in you.”

“Lies. All of it.”

He laughed, and it was the most beautiful thing in the world – both worlds. “I'm not lying. Let's try again. Show me that you have the grace and beauty of a swan. Or like your mother. Or whatever is graceful on Earth. I'll spin you this time.”

“I'm not ready for a spin.”

“Let's try.” And he let her go for the spin.

She couldn't keep her head straight. The room swirled. Losing track of her feet, Sibyl tripped, pulling Westley down with her. The impact knocked the wind out of her and Westley bumped against her. The room spun until she could make out the details of the roof. Cherubs frowned at her. Westley propped himself up on his elbow.

Sibyl covered her face, waiting for his reprimand. Nothing happened. She peeked through one eye. His face was bright red as he chortled and her jaw dropped. “You think this is funny?”

“Don't you?” And he cracked, exploding with laughter. “I've never had this much fun at a ball.”

Sibyl put her hands on her face, hiding her red cheeks as she laughed. “That's it, no more spinning. Or falling.”

“Brilliant idea.” Westley sat up. The ghostly figures parted as Miss Sonja stormed over, eyes wide and appalled. The prince stood and coughed. “Miss Sonja.” He acknowledged her with a slight bow. “Sibyl,” he whispered to the laughing girl. “Sibyl get up.”

“I can't,” she laughed. “Why are you whispering – Ow!” She turned to her side, her back aching from another sharp ripple of pain.

“Miss Sibyl! We can see your unmentionables,” Miss Sonja scolded. Westley grabbed Sibyl's hand and helped pull her up, her hair falling in her face. “You have the grace of a duck. You'll never be ready for the Masquerade.” Miss Sonja rubbed her eyes. “This is a disgrace.”

“I - Ow!”

“Silence,” Miss Sonja hissed, dropping her hands to her sides. “I've never had such an embarrassment of a student. Disgraceful! I can't do it Xavier. I'm done.” Xavier walked to them, disdain marring his features. “Now Miss Sonja-”

“I'm done Xavier. She'll never learn. She'll never have what it takes. Celia made a big mistake in raising this girl on Earth surrounded by hicks,” Miss Sonja bellowed. Westley squeezed Sibyl's shoulder but she stepped forward.

“My mom did the best she could to raise me,” she snapped. “And if this is the world she grew up with then it's my world too. But don't you dare talk about her like that. I don't care what you think about me but you better keep your mouth shut when it comes to her.”

Miss Sonja crossed her arms, glaring down at her. Sibyl held her ground, her hands clenched into fists at her side.

“You have no idea what kind of world you’re throwing yourself into, child. And you’ll never make it or impress anyone.”

“Well not if I give up I won’t,” Sibyl retorted. “I messed up. It’s my first time. Don’t expect me to be an expert right away. But don’t count on my failure so soon either.”

Tapping her chin, the tall woman considered her words. Her eyes flickered to Xavier. He sniffed, his lips forming into a thin line.

“Now that's what I expect from the daughter of Celia,” she told him. Westley raked his hands though his hair.

“I told you, she has it in her.”

****

Sibyl fell on the couch. If she thought Miss Sonja was bad, Xavier was worse. She was supposed to create these things called power pulses from her hands and every time she failed – which was most of the time – he'd shock her. She did manage to freeze a few things when she got upset, but that didn't impress Xavier.

When Reeve and Josephine arrived Sibyl laid sprawled across the couch and Westley was eating gummy worms and reading magazines.

“How was your... Day?” Josephine asked.

“Just leave me alone to die,” Sibyl whined into a pillow. She lifted her head, bags under her eyes and her hair a frizzy mess. “Who's idea was it to let those two tutor me?”

Josephine turned to Westley while Reeve put his stuff down by the coat rack. “Was it that bad?”

“Horrible.”

“You had the etiquette lesson didn't you?” Josephine frowned. “Miss Sonja's well known in Faerie. She plans events for both courts, especially the UnSeelie court.”

“What are these courts anyway?”

“Seelie and UnSeelie,” Reeve said, flexing his arms as he came to sit beside her. “Seelie is the summer court and UnSeelie is the winter court. But they've been disbanded and are now a bunch of countries. Like here.” So it was just as Rose said, and just what she feared.

“Is everyone in the UnSeelie court a butch like Miss Sonja?”

“If so then you're a butch. And Luther's a butch. What's a butch anyway?” Reeve scratched behind his ear and slouched on the couch.

“I'm UnSeelie?”

“How else can you walk around in the middle of February in that?” Reeve pointed to her shorts. “Which I approve of by the way.”

She hit his shoulder but they smiled. “Okay. UnSeelie. I know what to research now.”

“Speaking of which we have some books to give you on Faerie. Remind me later. Don't you have somewhere to be?” Josephine asked as she sat on the dusty arm chair and put down her things. Sibyl groaned.

“Work! I hate my life.”

“Did I tell you I got a job at the antique store too?”

“Beautiful. Now pick me up and take me.”

“You know I can do that. I'm serious.”

She considered this for a moment, then leaned on his lap. “Okay. Carry me away. Then let me sleep.”

“Carry you?” Westley asked, raising his head from the magazine. His eyes locked on Sibyl resting on Reeve's lap.

Reeve stood and pulled her up with him. Sibyl toppled into him, groaning at her heavy muscles.

“They worked you to the bone, eh?” He pulled her forward so she stood in front of him. Sibyl blew through her lips, limp in his strong hold. “Well come on. You can sleep in the car.”

“Get some food for dinner,” Josephine called.

“I vote donuts,” Sibyl mumbled.

“I second that notion.” Josephine raised her hand to vote.

“Okay princess. Come on.” Reeve instructed as he helped her out the door.

“I came in with a dooooonut hoooole. I just wanted to eeeaaaaaat them aaaaall,” Sibyl sang into the cold night.

Westley stood, watching, but said nothing. He sighed, turning back to his snacks and magazines.

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littlebiggains · 7 years ago

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What I’ve learned from Youtube fitness

‘Youtube fitness’ is a challenge to all conventional definitions of fitness. It is a category on its own and a whole different ball game. On the face of it, Youtube fitness teaches us how to be ripped and strong and healthy. But look a little closer and it becomes a bustling microcosm of the modern society that provides a riveting daily account of its current condition. Like many of us, I first turned to Youtube fitness for advice on lifting and nutrition. What I’ve found there exceeded even the wildest expectations. This post will sum up some of the lessons I’ve learned...

Lesson 1. Youtube fitness is a parade of egotism and idiocy. Sometimes it takes a few videos to know you’re dealing with a moron; other times it only takes a few seconds. Some Youtubers are hilariously clueless, some dangerously delusional, some will expose the cluelessness and delusion and turn it into comedy. Some are straight up demented...

There’s also a good deal of opportunism and hostility in the mix. Personal attacks are frequently used as a traffic-boosting tactic. It is almost fascinating to watch people fight their little virtual wars, get triggered and sport verbal abuse against each other, dog on each other, have each other’s videos taken down, and so on. A 'diss’ video usually sparks a response video, and on it goes. At the end of the cycle there’s often an apology video. It’s like show business or politics - repetitive and predictable but at the same time oddly entertaining. And just like in show business or politics, a legitimate specimen is an extreme rarity. Thankfully a handful of them exist and are deservedly doing pretty well.

Lesson 2. Youtube fitness is full of bullshit advice, bullshit stories, bullshit products. After years of training, when you’ve gotten to understand that bodybuilding is a long-term game, to spot a mercenary with an agenda becomes a lot easier. The word ‘shortcut’ makes me cringe because I know there are no shortcuts unless via the syringe. But I wasn’t always like that. An eon ago when I was starting my adventure with fitness I was so gullible I’d probably pay for a sham program it if was packaged nicely. Thankfully there was no Youtube. There wasn’t even the Internet. On the bright side though, there is some legitimate advice on Youtube, too, but it does take a little bit of experience and critical thinking to spot the real deal.

Lesson 3. Youtube fitness is a business and businesses exist to make money. You must invest to get a return. By the laws of economy, the amount of money spent on producing a professional video is in inverse proportion to the value of information that video contains. It’s logical - you don't spend a fortune on advertising a product only to give it away for free afterwards. A professional crew, expensive light rigs, cameras for A-roll and B-roll, post-production - that’s a king’s ransom right there! The outcome is simply a prestigious-looking sales pitch (which is still just a sales pitch) aimed to create an impression of credibility and lure you into signing up for paid content.

Lesson 4. Youtube fitness rails against bro science but has little to offer instead, other than more bro science dressed up in sophisticated terminology. Most Youtube nutrition tutors and health experts could not answer a simple practical question. The advice is often chaotic and self-contradictory but when it is delivered in a confident manner by a guy wearing a white coat, it sure makes an impact. Sadly, the question in the title of the video hardly ever gets answered. The idea is to confuse you with vague collateral (loosely related to the subject, at best) and keep you coming back in search of answers.

Lesson 5. Youtube fitness insists on busting myths but all it does is introduce more myths. I’ll give you an example. I’ve seen videos discrediting bulking and cutting as a myth. During a bulk - so the argument goes - you’re gaining muscle but you’re also gaining fat, while during a cut you’re losing fat but also losing muscle. At the bottom of the balance sheet you’re back to where you started. That’s just silly! Fat loss is much easier and happens quicker than muscle breakdown. Plus, if you keep your routine going and ensure proper nutrition, the muscle will stay, guys. Some of the muscle glycogen will wear off and you may look a little less bulky, but you will retain the muscle. You will actually become more defined and vascular, and overall more shredded-looking.

Another example of a myth that Youtube is so eager to bust these days is the myth of overtraining. I see plenty of buff guys on there explaining to me how I’m never going to reach overtraining because overtraining is reserved for a small percentage of high-performance athletes who train extremely hard for hours every day. Oh, really? What about hormones? Each day of the week I spend 10 hours at work absolutely grilling my nervous system, which elicits the same type of stress response as does hours of training. And I do that even before I even get to the gym! So yes, I am very much at risk of experiencing overtraining symptoms, people. And so are you. You don’t have to be a professional athlete for that. I am producing cortisol like crazy for 13 to 14 hours each day, sometimes longer. It adds up!

Lesson 6. In an endless chase for click traffic, Youtubers will focus their videos on what’s popular at the time, as opposed to what’s important or valuable. Whenever a trend comes along everyone will rush to make videos about it. If you don’t offer an opinion on a popular subject your subscribers may ditch you for someone who does. And if there’s little to no research on the subject and you’re not willing or smart enough to investigate it yourself, just rip off what others did. Don’t forget to sound like you’re the smartest guy in the room. Then upload your video and call it good. A week later you won’t remember what you were advocating. Next time a trend comes along you will make a video on it too. Basically, you’ll keep replicating superficial and unverified information other Youtubers post on their channels. There will be no coherence across your content and you will contradict yourself from video to video. Worse still, you will be using whatever scant information you manage to pick up to support your agenda. That’s opportunism. And a scam.

Lesson 7. There are predominantly 4 types of Youtube fitness personalities. There’s the jacked guy with no fat on him whose looks everybody wants. There’s the blocky natural lifter, strong and intimidating, with excessive fat and barely any definition, whose deadlift is enviable, unlike his physique. There’s the almost muscular, almost shredded guy who looks like any gym debutante after a couple of months of lifting on a junk diet. Finally there’s the smart guy who doesn’t need gains because he has the brains - this one's usually fully dressed, talks like a book and likes to call himself a doctor. The jacked guy - whose bulky frame and chiseled structure are the very embodiment of your dream physique - is the type most of us will want to take advice from, in hope that it might get us his looks. Sadly - and here’s my lesson - this guy is usually on some type of synthetic compound. Whatever he preaches couldn’t work for you, unless you’re part of the Anabolic-Androgenic Syndicate… You want to listen to the naturals even if they look like shit. The nerdy doctor type may need to be taken with an extra pinch of salt though. He can quote from the book but whether he's able to relate that to fitness if he’s never done any serious lifting is another matter.

Lesson 8. Youtube is full of ‘easy' diet and exercise programs, all of which are just as worthless as they are overpriced. The truth is this: any diet or exercise plan that’s not radical is not going to produce noticeable changes. Period. To guarantee results from short- or medium-term moderate-intensity workout programmes and nutrition plans is the epitome of bullshitterism and should ring all your alarm bells. If someone is telling me I can get a jacked chest from doing twenty pushups every day, that’s not just stupid but also disrespectful of my intellectual capabilities, and of me as a viewer. Those 'x pushups a day for a month' challenges and transformation videos are fun to watch but, guys, all of this is hogwash. Muscle takes years to build and it builds in barely noticeable increments. My lesson is to remain consistent, enjoy working out, and take pride in my willpower.

To sum up, trust no one. There are a lot of channels on Youtube where you can occasionally pick up a good tip but if you’re looking for a game changer you will have to design it yourself. No one on Youtube is always right. Some advice is down right dangerous. There is no 'one size fits all' in fitness. Things that work for Peter may cause Paul a lifelong injury. Don’t take anything at face value. Personally, I use Youtube to collect exercise ideas from a few channels I’m subscribed to. I test them to see what they do to me. If I can get good quality contraction and my joints are generally OK with the movement pattern, I will include the exercise in my repertoire. But never without criticism. I apply a filter to everything I see on Youtube and make my own research outside of it. It’s safest to assume that everyone has a hidden agenda, or some sort of a bias, like when they’re covertly sponsored by a supplement company. I repeat, don’t be gullible. Investigate things yourself. Stay safe. Have fun.

#youtube #youtube fitness #fitness #exercise #advice #youtuber

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