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mordoriscalling · 4 years

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The Life (of) Surprise (2/4)

Jaskier lies to his family about being engaged to Geralt for the second time… and there are way too many surprises involved.

Part 4 of the Singer and the Sailor AU that no one asked for but I wrote anyway (again). This fic happens a little bit more than a year after Geralt returns home from his last deployment. Warnings: referenced alcoholism and trauma.

(Part 1)

II - A Surprise Is Uttered

The day begins with a sleepless night. For Geralt, not Jaskier. Jaskier is a heavy sleeper, so he has no idea about it until nature’s call wakes him up at half-past three in the morning. The bed is empty so, after relieving herself, Jaskier looks around the house and finds Geralt sitting by the kitchen table. His face is hidden in his hands and there’s an empty mug next to him. It’s the third night in a row that he hasn’t slept at all and Jaskier’s heart breaks for him a little.

They’re supposed to take a little trip to Brighton and return in the afternoon, before Yennefer drops Ciri off at Geralt’s after school. Now, Jaskier decides that the plan changes. In half an hour, they’re both ready to set out. Geralt drives because he already had coffee.

The drive passes in silence. Jaskier dozes off in his seat for some time but after the sun rises, it’s too bright outside for sleeping, and he wakes up slowly. They arrive in Brighton a few minutes after six. Save for occasional joggers and people walking their dogs, the streets are blissfully empty, and so is the beach.

It’s just a quiet, sunny morning like any other. In short: perfect. Jaskier doesn’t have to worry about someone photographing him, or anyone (quite) possibly seeing his proposal being rejected.

The air is slightly chilly as they stand at the shore, the waves almost touching their shoes. Geralt doesn’t say anything, only looks at the water. Jaskier watches him bask in the closeness of the sea. The delicate morning sunlight accentuates all his wrinkles in a stunning way and his white hair is lit up like a halo, gentle breeze ruffling it slightly. Jaskier takes in Geralt’s strong profile, his pretty stubble and his tired, tired eyes, and he thinks to himself that he loves this man so.

Jaskier can’t help but recall everything that happened since Geralt’s return, the good and the bad. All the times Jaskier pushed too far or Geralt was too gruff. The piano lessons with Ciri, and the adorable look on Geralt’s face when he concentrates on playing. The quiet weekends they sometimes manage to squeeze into their lives. Geralt chuckling at Yennefer’s disgusted expression after Jaskier asks her if she’s off to do “hot girl shit” again. (Jaskier knows she actually loves that phrase). How Geralt’s insecurities get better of him some days and he turns into a brooding idiot. The way the two of them are able to have a conversation without words, the way their bodies move against each other when they have sex. The smell of Geralt's sweat after he works out.

How, when they stay over at Geralt’s house, Geralt is always annoyed that Jaskier doesn’t wash the dishes right after using them. How, when they stay over at Jaskier’s house, Geralt always forgets to take his shoes off, much to Jaskier’s dismay. How Geralt is an annoyingly good cook but he’s also really shit at paying the bills on time. How he doesn’t allow Jaskier anywhere near kitchen appliances, which wounds Jaskier’s pride.

All of Geralt’s mannerisms. How he’s grumpy by default but then sees a dog. How Jaskier sometimes wants to talk very much but Geralt doesn’t. How Geralt delivers freaking sermons sometimes. That one time they managed to go out for a drink with Aiden, Eskel and Lambert, and Eskel started talking about his retirement plan involving goat yoga. Lambert nearly went batshit crazy, insisting that there was no way that something like goat yoga existed. Eskel and Jaskier tried to demonstrate how that would work, with Jaskier pretending to be a goat. Lambert, Geralt and Aiden almost pissed themselves laughing. The following day, Ciri woke Geralt and Jaskier by blasting a techno remix of Her Sweet Kiss so loud that the windows rattled. Then Yennefer made them go grocery shopping despite their killer hungover.

How Geralt holds him when unpleasant memories haunt him. How Geralt’s brutally honest when some of his songs suck. How he looks at Jaskier when he sings. His smothering gaze when he calls Jaskier his siren. How he makes sure that Jaskier eats and drinks when he forgets about it himself. How Geralt stands by him and supports him in his career, withstanding all the paparazzi nonsense even though he hates it with passion. How Geralt doesn’t want to know him for who he knows, how he’s always there for Jaskier and never asks for a thing in return.

All of this, and Jaskier suddenly doesn’t know where to start. He only knows that he wants to keep this man in his life so much that there’s hardly any air left in his lungs. His heart is hammering in his chest, his hands are sweating, and he decides to begin with what’s safe.

“Hey, Geralt,” he says, “I love you very, very much, you know that?”

Geralt hmms an affirmative and looks at him. There’s a smile on his face and warmth in his gaze as he answers, “I love you too.”

His golden eyes stand out against the blue of the cloudless sky. Jaskier slowly drowns in them, only the sound of the waves reaching his ears. It seems like only the two of them matter in the world and the reality is a safe distance away. In this state, almost hypnotized, Jaskier simply does what he has to do and gets down on one knee.

“What are you doing?” Geralt demands with a sowl.

His tone isn’t exactly a good sign. Jaskier flashes him a shaky smile and reaches for his hand. Then, he slides the buttercup ring halfway down Geralt’s finger. He didn’t buy a new ring; there’s no need for it really. He only needs to give their old rings new meaning on this seemingly meaningless April morning.

“Geralt, I-I,” he stutters out. His heart is beating so fast that he can’t breathe. He makes himself look up at Geralt, who stares down at him with a frown. Jaskier smiles nervously and forces the words out, “Will you... will you marry me?”

Geralt’s eyes widen and his mouth opens in shock. The silence drags on like eternity and Geralt doesn’t move a single muscle. When he finally does, his lips slowly quirk upwards and his whole face lights up with the tiniest, shiest joy. Jaskier is about to sigh in relief but then Geralt’s answer comes.

“Jaskier,” he grumbles, “get up, you’ll ruin your trousers.”

His trousers are white and it’s indeed a bad idea to kneel on the wet pebbles. As Jaskier gets up, his heart sinks and his head hangs low. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “This doesn’t have to mean anything, I just–”

He’s still holding on to Geralt’s hand and the ring, so he starts taking it off Geralt’s finger completely. Geralt stops him, though. Jaskier watches in amazement as Geralt’s muscular hands guide his own so that he slips the silver band back on Geralt’s finger.

When the realisation hits him, Jaskier gasps. He looks up at his fiancé, for real this time, and sees Geralt’s whole expression is alight with happiness. The sight takes his breath away. “Geralt...” he begins, but what Geralt does next takes away his ability to speak.

Geralt fucking kneels. Then, he takes Jaskier’s hand and slides the golden wolf signet off Jaskier’s finger. As Geralt looks up at him, he raises an eyebrow in silent question. Jaskier, still rendered speechless, only gives a jerky nod. Geralt grins like he almost never does, sharp teeth on display, and slides Jaskier’s ring back on.

The next moment is a blur. Jaskier, blinded by joy, wants to throw himself at Geralt. Geralt seems to want the same thing because he meets Jaskier halfway. Their bodies collide and they almost fall into the water but Geralt steadies them. Then, they’re standing up, and Geralt holds him tight, so tight that Jaskier may get bruises. Jaskier doesn’t care about that. He’s laughing and Geralt is smiling, truly smiling, and they pepper kisses all over each other’s faces.

“Please say it,” Jaskier whispers hoarsely, “just that one little word,”

Geralt huffs a laugh. He pecks Jaskier on the cheek, then murmurs into his ear, “Yes.”

It’s just one word but it’s said it the gravelly baritone Jaskier will never be tired of hearing, and his heart almost bursts with all he feels at that moment. The need to kiss Geralt stupid is stronger than ever, so he does exactly that. Burying his hands in Geralt’s hair, he brings their mouths together. Geralt lets out a pleased hum and sneaks his strong arms around Jaskier’s waist. The kiss resembles their very first one during the birthday party – it’s deep and slow, the best kind of passionate.

It takes them some time to break apart. When they do, they take off their shoes and take a walk along the shore, ankle-deep in the cold water, holding hands and talking. When Jaskier sees a little fish, he starts naming all the fish that he knows while Geralt laughs at him. Then Geralt wets his hand in the sea and puts it against Jaskier’s nape because he’s a bastard. They’re a moment away from splashing war when Jaskier’s stomach rumbles loudly. The two of them realise that they’re both hungry, so they embark on a search of some nice restaurant. Eventually, they find one and treat themselves to a big breakfast. Jaskier drinks coffee but forbids Geralt from having one, to Geralt’s immense displeasure. He steals a sausage from Jaskier’s plate as revenge but Jaskier physically can’t be mad at him today. His grumpy expression makes Jaskier melt.

The drive back passes in silence. Jaskier sits behind the wheel; the coffee Geralt had at night is wearing off and he’s too tired. Geralt sits in the front passenger seat with his eyes closed the whole way back but he’s not sleeping. His thoughts often don’t let him sleep, Jaskier knows.

They return before noon. Walking into Geralt’s house feels different somehow, now that they’re truly engaged. As soon as the front door closes behind them, Jaskier drags Geralt in for a kiss. Way too soon, Geralt breaks it... because he needs to yawn.

Jaskier laughs and says, “C’mon, my jolly sailor bold, you need a nap.”

Geralt grunts but doesn’t argue. They go to Geralt’s bedroom upstairs and change into comfortable sweats and "for home" t-shirts, stealing some kisses in the meantime. Geralt closes the thick curtains and they lay down in the bed, facing each other. Jaskier shifts closer until he can tuck Geralt's head under his chin and run his hands through Geralt’s hair while Geralt rubs his palms up and down Jaskier’s back.

It’s one of their favourite ways to cuddle. They say nothing for some time, simply enjoying the closeness. Jaskier’s lost in his head, picturing how Geralt’s family is going to react to the development in their relationship, but then he suddenly remembers what he said to his own family yesterday.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“What would you say about marrying next spring?”

Geralt opens his eyes and squints at him. “So soon?”

“I’ve always wanted to have a May wedding,” Jaskier answers. It’s not even a lie. After he and Geralt got together, he’s started fantasising about his own wedding for the first in his life and, in his mind, it always happens in May.

Geralt watches him closely, clearly sensing that there’s something he isn’t being told, and damn him for reading Jaskier so well. Jaskier tries not to squirm under the golden stare, as unforgiving as the sun, doing his best not to let his fear show. Jaskier will have to tell Geralt about the circumstances of their engagement one day, and when he does, Geralt may take it extremely the wrong way.

“I’ll think about it,” Geralt says finally.

It’s not a no but it’s not a yes either. Jaskier can’t have that, so he brings out the big guns and innocently suggests, “We could marry at sea, you know.”

A pause.

“Hmm.”

It’s definitely an intrigued hmm. Jaskier presses on, “I could rent us a yacht. Or a boat. Or a big ship, even. Whatever you want.”

There’s a moment when Geralt doesn’t even breathe. Then, he heaves a long, resigned sigh, and Jaskier smiles in victory.

“Damn you, Jaskier,” Geralt mutters tiredly, “Damn you.”

Jaskier chuckles and kisses Geralt on the forehead, earning himself a happy hum. He keeps running his fingers through Geralt's hair and begins to sing softly. It's the first song Jaskier wrote for Geralt; Jaskier knows that his fiancé has a particular fondness for it. As he croons lyrics about woods and the Fae, Geralt's breathing starts slowing. After he finally falls asleep, Jaskier lets himself doze off too.

***

“Dad!”

Jaskier jerks awake, opening his eyes just in time to see Geralt do the same. There’s a moment when they stare at each other in confusion. Then, Cirilla’s wails reach their ears, and Jaskier’s blood runs cold. In an instant, there’s pure, unadulterated terror written all over Geralt’s face. He gets up lighting fast and rushes out of the bedroom. Jaskier follows right after him.

“Dad!” she shrieks again.

“Ciri!” Geralt shouts, completely frantic, as they run down the stairs.

Cirilla meets them at the bottom of the stairs. Her face is red from crying, her cheeks wet. She falls into his arms and buries her face in her father’s chest, sobs tearing through her frame.

“Ciri,” Geralt breathes out, running his shaking hands all over the girl’s body in search of any injuries.

Ciri appears physically unharmed but still, something is definitely very, very wrong. The girl keeps bawling her eyes in Geralt’s embrace while her father strokes her head soothingly. Jaskier finds it to be a truly gut-wrenching thing to witness, and he isn’t even Ciri’s relative. He can scarcely imagine what Geralt is feeling, though a good portion of his fear and worry shows on his face. Jaskier, in an attempt to comfort Ciri and Geralt, puts his arms around them both.

“What happened?” Geralt asks, his voice hushed and gentle.

Cirilla cries harder and Geralt’s face scrunches up in pain he feels for her. Jaskier’s heart breaks for them both.

“Dara,” Ciri finally chokes out, “He wasn’t at school today and didn’t text me back and... He called me just before I walked in and told me... “ Her body starts shivering. “There was a fire at his house, dad, only he...” She trails off and wails. “His parents and brother didn’t...”

Jaskier gasps and Geralt curses.

“He has nowhere to go, dad,” Ciri adds, “no relatives in the country, he has nothing....”

Ciri weeps on while Jaskier looks at Geralt helplessly. He silently asks Geralt what to do and Geralt answers with a slight shake of his head. Jaskier purses his lips and racks his brain while Ciri slowly begins to calm down. Finally, he gets an idea.

“Sweetheart, did he tell you where he is now?”

“Yeah,” Ciri replies, her face still hidden in Geralt’s chest, “Why?”

“Well... My house has more than enough room for two.”

***

The day ends in a sleepless night. For Jaskier, not Geralt. Geralt, just like Ciri, collapsed from exhaustion around an hour ago in one of the bedrooms in Jaskier’s house. Jaskier, unfortunately, can’t say that about himself. Too much has happened for one day and he still hasn’t processed even half of it.

It’s almost midnight. Jaskier sits on the couch in his living room, strumming his acoustic guitar idly and trying not to think about the dead look Dara had in his eyes the whole day. When Jaskier pictures what kind of trauma the boy has just gone through, he wants to scream.

The sight of Dara himself snaps him back to reality. He acknowledges Jaskier with a nod and goes to the kitchen, which is open to the living room. Jaskier watches in the corner of his eye as Dara pours himself a glass of water and drinks. The air around is still, awfully so, and Jaskier itches to break the oppressive silence.

“You can’t sleep too?” he says.

“Yeah,” Dara answers quietly.

“You can sit here with me if you want.”

Dara hesitates for a moment but then comes over and sits down next to Jaskier awkwardly. He and Jaskier did meet before but they never talked much. Usually, Ciri would just say that the two of them are going somewhere before dragging Dara away. Jaskier’s aware that he’s a stranger to him and he certainly has no idea how to act around a person who’s currently experiencing the worst kind of nightmare that they can’t wake up from. Still, if there’s one thing he knows, it’s the fact that music can be a cure for many ailments.

“Any requests you’d like to make of this humble bard?” he asks, gesturing at himself theatrically.

“I like Metallica,” Dara replies with a shrug.

Jaskier smiles. “Ah, good taste!”

After a moment of thought, his fingers strum the strings and the first notes of The Unforgiven ring out in the air. Dara tenses but Jaskier decides to go on. When he sings, he pours all his emotions into it: how much his heart aches for the boy, how he wishes to ease his pain. His voice is mournful but strong and Dara listens to him carefully. During the second chorus, the boy’s eyes glaze over. Jaskier’s voice cracks. A tear rolls down Dara’s cheek, then another, and another. Jaskier plays on and Dara starts crying in earnest.

The same couch that Ciri and Geralt sat on when Jaskier met them for the first time, the same couch that Jaskier and Geralt sat on when they exchanged their rings before the birthday party, now Dara sits and weeps, his face hidden in his hands.

Jaskier almost breaks down in tears himself but he fights it – he has to finish. His voice is loud and clear as he sings the last verses, openly but unapologetically raw because that’s how the song should be sung. That’s how this moment should feel.

After the last notes of the song die down, only the sound of Dara’s sobs can be heard. Jaskier’s looks at the mourning boy, only sixteen and left with nothing, and wants to help.

“Do you need a hug?” he asks hoarsely.

Dara nods and Jaskier moves closer, putting his arms around the boy’s shoulders. Dara leans against him and cries, and cries.

As they sit there, Jaskier thinks to himself that he has lived a life of immense privilege. There were times when it was bad, like his serious health problems in childhood. There were moments when it was even worse, like when his dad’s drinking spiralled out of control when he was a teenager. The memories of that time still make him shudder. Yet, all ended well in the end. Jaskier’s a healthy man, his dad is sober. Jaskier's career pays very well. He doesn’t have greater problems than pursuing his dreams, and he realises there are scarcely any people with similar lives in the world.

People like him, Jaskier muses, should learn to put their own wants and needs aside more than anyone.

“Hey, Dara,” he says, feeling shy possibly for the first time in his life. He swallows down the nervousness constricting his throat and says, “I know this can be a weird question, you don’t even know me, but... Would you like to stay? You could live here, at least until everything, well, settles down. ”

Dara doesn’t reply for a long time. When he does, his answer is just, “Okay.”

The single word is said so quietly that Jaskier almost misses it. When he does catch it, and it feels so monumental that his breath is taken away.

#myfic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #modern au #the Sailor and the Singer AU #tw: alcohol #tw: trauma

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carryonsimoncarryonbaz · 4 years

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NEW FIC!!!

Written for the Carry On Quarantine event organized by @xivz for the prompt of food delivery. My thanks to @fight-surrender and @basic-banshee for the beta reads and support!!

Baz is a teacher quarantined at home and Simon is doing temp work delivering food for The Girl and the Goat, a local pub. A craving for a burger leads to Baz ordering from the pub, followed by weeks of mutual pining, the slow burn of a developing relationship thwarted by the physical constraints of social distancing, and a refrigerator full of pub food. Movie nights, exasperated friends, lots of texts, way too much food, and multiple awkward encounters.

Let My Love Open the Door

Baz

I close my laptop and drop my head down onto it. I’m knackered. The metal feels cool against my forehead. I roll my face from side to side, relishing the smooth chill of it against my cheeks. And then I remember.

Fuck, now I have to disinfect the damn thing.

I’m done. Done for the day but also so done with this.

How can I be expected to effectively teach students—Sixth Form students at that—from a computer terminal? I’m almost three weeks into this, but their looming A Levels and GSCE’s are still on schedule for May.

That’s less than two months away. Five weeks and three days, to be exact.

Thank fuck it’s Friday. I’ll at least have two days to prepare next week’s frightfully inadequate lesson plan.

I grab a disinfecting wipe from the canister and methodically wipe down my laptop. I’m not sick—not a cough, not a sniffle—but I’ve bought into this not touching my face directive and I shouldn’t be smearing my germs on random surfaces. For all I know I could be carrying this thing. One of the asymptomatic Typhoid Marys, spreading it far and wide.

Not that there’s anyone to spread it to, seeing as I’m on my own here, but I wipe the laptop down anyway, unnerved by the whole idea of it.

I’ve washed my hands more in the past month than I have in my entire life. I spent the first day at home wiping down every surface, laundering the bedding, mopping the floors. My house went from having a pleasant, woodsy scent to the overwhelming stench of bleach instead.

It gave me such a headache that I had to open the windows and damn near froze. Bloody coldest March we’ve had in years. April’s not proving to be much better.

My mobile buzzes. I should have left it in the bedroom but I’ve become painfully attached to it.

If I’m not planning out curriculum, video conferencing with my class, answering frantic emails from parents, students, the other teachers at my school, or compulsively cleaning and reorganizing my house, then I’m moodily scrolling through Twitter and Instagram and ratcheting up my anxiety.

I should delete my social media.

My mobile buzzes again.

I glance at my watch. It’s six o’clock.

Bound to be Wellbelove.

Wellbelove: are you done yet?

Wellbelove: Baz!!

Wellbelove: you can’t still be doing classwork it’s after 5

Wellbelove: BAAAAZZZZ

Me: Give it a rest, Wellbelove. Some of us are actually working from home.

Wellbelove: I am working, you poncy bastard I’m obviously far more efficient than you.

Me: Look, some of us can’t just post our morning exercise routine and somehow have that count as work.

Wellbelove: Why are we friends again? Can you remind me why I put up with this slander from you?

Me: Because of my sparkling wit and undeniable charm.

Wellbelove: more like your fashion sense and propensity to pick up the bill when we eat out. Neither of which are in evidence at the moment so I may have to rethink my devotion to you

Me: Still, I’m indispensable.

Wellbelove: then buy me dinner. what are we watching tonight?

This all started at the end of that first week, when Agatha couldn’t concentrate on the book she was trying to read and I’d reached the pulling-my-hair-out state of lesson planning. She suggested we watch a film together—FaceTiming while our Netflix accounts played in sync.

We’ve done that almost every night since. Dinner and a movie, separately, from a distance.

We spend almost as much time arguing over what to watch as we do watching, but that’s just how we are. I’ve known Agatha Wellbelove since we were toddlers at the same crèche when our parents were at uni. Same primary school, same secondary school.

We drifted apart during our uni years, with Agatha at Brighton for phys Ed and Oxford to read for English Language and Literature for me.

It was some bizarre twist of fate that we were both hired to teach at the same secondary school in Chilham. She was the last person I expected to see on my orientation day.

We picked up where we left off, latching onto each other as we navigated our first real world experience after uni.

It’s been three years now and I think the past three weeks have been the longest stretch we’ve gone without seeing each other since we moved here.

She’s self-centered, brutally straight-forward, horribly short-tempered, dreadfully impatient, and devastatingly gorgeous.

A perfect match for me if I wasn’t so irrevocably gay.

And if she wasn’t . . . well, categorically uninterested in me in that way is probably the best way to phrase it.

But she’s my best friend and I know it hasn’t been all that long but fuck, I miss her.

Wellbelove: WHAT ARE WE WATCHING BAZ ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION

She’d be kicking me in the shin by now, if she were here. Maybe I don’t miss her quite that much.

Ugh, it’s my night to choose. I don’t know what I want to watch. Something soothing, not one of those action films or plucky sports dramas she likes so much. I actually like Bend it Like Beckham but not those sappy American ones she’s inflicted on me.

I need something familiar. Comforting.

Me: Pride and Prejudice.

Wellbelove: 2005. Kiera Knightley. I will accept no substitutes.

Me: The 1995 version is superior.

Wellbelove: Colin Firth doesn’t look like that anymore Baz. Let it go.

I start to type “Keira Knightley doesn’t either” but fucking hell she does still look the same.

Wellbelove: and you owe me dinner

Me: 2005 AND dinner? You are greedy and demanding, Wellbelove. I’ll agree to Knightley. Make your own dinner.

Wellbelove: I want a burger I’m ordering out since you’re being a berk and won’t send me food

Fuck. I’m craving a burger now too.

I don’t even want to think about cooking anything. I’m so sick of pasta, even though I’ve tried to make it a different way each time, with my dwindling pantry supplies. And much as I love the curry place down the road I can’t eat it every day.

I used to think I could. I used to say I’d be happy eating tikka masala every day for the rest of my life, but I was mistaken.

And no more chippies. I can’t do another chippy.

Me: Who’s delivering burgers? Please tell me you aren’t getting McDonald’s.

Wellbelove: why would I get McDonald’s when I can get a lamb burger from The Girl and The Goat?

Me: they’re not still open?

Wellbelove: of course they’re still open you stupid git.

I don’t know why I hadn’t thought to check. Why I assumed the pubs would close down, when they all have kitchens and food service, just like the chippies and fast food places.

Me: why didn’t you bother telling me, you hag?

Wellbelove: You are a grown man Hunter gatherer type you should be able to forage for your own food

I want one of those burgers. We don’t go there all that often but The Girl and The Goat has some of the best burgers in town. Fucking hell, I’m salivating at the thought of it.

Me: Text when you’ve got dinner and we’ll start the movie

Wellbelove: you’re ordering from The Goat aren’t you you hypocrite and not even paying for mine

I close the messenger app to look up The Girl and The Goat online. I scan the menu and then ring them up.

The warm, cheerful voice on the line assures me the order will be delivered to my door within a half hour. I give my mobile number so the driver can text when he arrives.

“Just be looking for the text, love,” the woman’s warm voice continues. “Simon will leave everything at your door, no need to open up until he’s gone. I know how wary people are these days so we’re trying to make it easy.”

A little over a half hour later my mobile buzzes with a message from an unknown number.

Unknown number: Food’s here!

Unknown number: I’ll ring when it’s on your doorstep

The doorbell chimes and I peek at the doorway video display only to startle at the huge grinning face looming on the screen. I push the audio button.

“Yes?”

“Hullo! I’m Simon. I’ve got your order from The Goat. Lamb burger and chips.” He holds up a gloved hand carrying a bag. “I’ll just leave it right here for you.” I get a brief glimpse of a broad back clad in a brown leather jacket as he bends down, before he’s back to grinning at the camera again. “Thanks for ordering from The Goat. We appreciate the business. If you text me back you’ll get a discount for next time!”

“Text you back what?”

He leans in closer and shrugs. “Whatever.”

He’s got brilliant blue eyes. A scattering of freckles dotted across his face.

“Um, right, ok then. Thanks.”

He waves and then he’s out of sight again.

I move to the front window and twitch aside the blinds to watch him get in a blue car with “The Girl and The Goat” displayed across the door in white lettering.

I wait until the car is long gone before opening the door, gloves on, carrying the parcel of food as if it’s radioactive until I reach the kitchen, where I can dispose of the bag and transfer the food to my own dishes.

It’s likely overkill, I know, but I find being wary and methodical helps calm me.

I settle down in front of the television with my meal and my mobile, ready to message Agatha, when I see the text from the unknown number again.

I’d not say no to a discount. I click on it to text back. What exactly does one text to an attractive delivery man?

I shake my head. He’s just the delivery man, it’s irrelevant if he’s attractive or not.

My finger is still hovering over my mobile. I’m having an existential crisis over what to text a delivery man so I can get a discount on a pub meal. These are the depths that I have sunk to with this self-quarantine.

It would help if he were ordinary looking. It really would.

Me to unknown number: Whatever

I hit send before I think too hard about how unoriginal and trite a response that was.

My mobile pings back a moment later.

Unknown number: 15% percent off the next order. Just say Simon said when you call it in! :)

Read the rest at ao3!!!!!!!!!!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23590015

#carry on quarantine #carry on #baz pitch #simon snow #snowbaz #quarantine au #my writing #my fic #wayward son #agatha wellbelove #agatha is all of us #food delivery

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maaaddiexo · 4 years

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Chapter Two | Peter Pevensie

[Red Series Book One: Roses]

Synopsis: With World War Two ravaging the world, no one is safe and no one is happy.

Despite their protests, Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy Pevensie are evacuated from London and sent to live in the English countryside with an old professor. Scared and unhappy, only the youngest Pevensie child remains optimistic and ends up sharing her hope with her siblings in the form of a wardrobe that takes them to Narnia, a different world where they are the only form of hope to bring an end to an evil witch's reign of terror.

Rosemary Bennett has no more hope left in her heart. Her brother and father are off fighting for their country, the former having gone missing months ago, and her mother ignores her, preferring the company of a bottle over her own daughter. Giving up seems the only logical plan of action. But when it finally comes to carrying it out, she's transported to a different world, with talking animals and a prophecy that doesn't involve her. Unsure as to why she is there, she must navigate a new world and ponder the possibility that maybe - just maybe - she doesn't actually want to die.

*Warning: this book deals with depression and suicide. Though mental illness isn't what this story revolves around, the act of suicide and depressive thoughts are intertwined with the plot and act as 'backseat drivers' to the novel.

[Chapter Three] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

Rosemary woke up gasping for breath with tear-stained cheeks and pain in her foot. Looking around, she was back in her bedroom, with the blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon. The sun was just beginning to peak over the farmhouse at the edge of their property and the birds had already begun chirping. It must be closer to 5:30, which meant that Rosemary had gotten around a full hour and a half of sleep entirely undisturbed. It was also all that she would be getting - of that she was sure.

Looking around her room, nothing seemed out of the ordinary - except for the pain in her foot which felt a lot like it had in her dream when she'd stepped on that twig. Pulling the blanket up her legs, Rosemary discovered that the corner of Gulliver's Travels was the culprit. She'd pushed it up against the wall in her sleep.

"Had to buy the hardcover," Rosemary muttered, placing it on the creaky floor. Rolling back over to look out the window, Rosemary pulled the blanket up to her chin, content to watch the sunrise like she had done every morning in the past few months. A small, stupid part of her wished to see Daniel walking across the field, but she knew that wouldn't happen. It couldn't. Because M.I.A. meant he was either stuck behind enemy lines or dead someplace where they couldn't find him, and she didn't like either of those options.

So instead, she watched the sky change from dark blue to purple to red in a serene and beautiful way. She couldn't see the ruins of London from Brighton nor any smoke curling up towards the sky. So far, the day was beautiful.

•

Though the rising sun was beautiful, the day quickly turned dreary. Rain pounded against the window panes and the house shuttered as Rosemary made her way down the stairs into the small living room. It was only eight o'clock so her mother would still be asleep. Unfortunately, a rainy day presented her mother a perfect excuse not to do anything at all that day - not that she ever used one. Ever since Daniel and her father went off to war, Rosemary's mother had been quite absent. She would either sit in her husband's favourite chair and drank or hide away in her bedroom and drank.

Rosemary was more than glad that most of the farmhands were underaged, so they hadn't lost many when a lot were called off to serve their country. Sighing, she started cleaning the living room, picking up pillows that had been thrown on the floor and refolding blankets. After that, she moved to the kitchen - washing the dirty dishes and then drying and putting them away.

Hours later, Rosemary was done. She had cleaned the entirety of the small house and not once had she seen her mother, which was now a bonus.

Rosemary frowned, looking up at her parents' bedroom door. It was closed over but not shut tight. Sadness, worry, and curiosity prompted Rosemary to gently place the broom back in the closet before swiftly climbing up the stairs without making a noise. She'd quickly learned the loud spots on the boards when she and Daniel used to play hide and seek.

That was when they were younger and times were easier. When Daniel wasn't so stupid as to go off on a suicide mission for fame and glory. He didn't go to war to fight; he went to prove himself and Rosemary couldn't help but think how foolish Daniel was. He was the perfect person in Rosemary's eyes - always had been and always will be. He didn't need to prove anything to Rosemary.

At the top of the stairs, Rosemary peeked through the crack in the door. Was her mother even alive? She hadn't heard anything from her room the entire time she'd been cleaning, and she'd been listening.

Inside, her mother was sitting on her velvet pink chair, looking out over their land. A glass of alcohol was in her hand - no more than half. Her eyes were distant and unfocused. She was lost in her head.

Had she been drinking all night?

For the longest time, neither of the Bennett girls moved. Rosemary held her breath as she focuses on her mother, looking for a sign of life. She didn't want to go in if her mother was alive. She wouldn't know what to say. Not anymore.

But then she watched as her mother let out an exasperated sigh and brought the heavy glass up to her lips. When she brought it back down, it was empty. Rosemary's eyes dropped to the floor. Before the war, her mother rarely drank - only on special occasions. But now, she drank all day and every day, and it was breaking Rosemary's heart.

Unfortunately, the worst was yet to come. Rosemary's mother rose on wobbly legs and she walked over to the small table beside the wardrobe, where more alcohol waited to be poured and consumed. But instead of walking in a straight line, Rosemary's mother tiptoed around the room, carefully and slowly. Immediately, Rosemary knew what her mother was doing - avoiding the creaky parts in the floor.

At any other time of day and in any other situation, it could be seen as a kind gesture - a mother being quiet, careful not to wake her sleeping daughter. But it was nearing three in the afternoon and Rosemary hadn't been the quietest while cleaning. She'd even found herself singing under her breath occasionally.

No. The only reason Rosemary's mother would be so careful as to not make a single sound would be to avoid her own daughter.

And that was what shattered Rosemary's heart to pieces.

•

Dear Mother,

I am leaving. And I don't think you will see me again - not that you seem to want to. I know that Dad and Daniel leaving was hard. It still is. Especially because Daniel wasn't supposed to go. Not yet anyways. I wish every day that Daniel and Daddy would walk back through the front door, safe and sound. But we are at war, and unfortunately, this isn't one of Daddy's fantasy adventure novels.

Although I am leaving, I still love you. I always will. I know my absence will not fill the hole in your heart, but I cannot live like this anymore. At first, it was just the house that felt empty, but now it is my heart that feels empty as well.

Every day, my hope on Daniel and Daddy's safe return dwindles and I have finally reached my breaking point. There is no hope left in my heart. And I wish that I hadn't given up, but I have. And I don't think there is anything that can be done to change that.

I understand why you drink, but I wish that doing so didn't mean shutting me out.

If they return, tell Daniel and Daddy I love them, and that my chocolate stash is at the bottom of my pants drawer.

I love you, - Rosebud

[Chapter Three] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

#narnia #the chronicles of narnia #peterpevensie #edmund pevensie #susan pevensie #lucy pevensie #peter pevensie imagine #peter pevensie fanfiction #peter pevensie x oc #peter pevensie x fem!oc #love #romance #fantasy #adventure #william moseley #the lion the witch and the wardrobe #chronicles of narnia

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paulvibe · 5 years

Text

Just Friends - Part 6 (Paul McCartney x Reader)

Words: 3.1k

Warnings: Family Member Death, Parent Death

Summary: You and Paul travel to your parents house for your fathers funeral

A/N: For the purpose of this chapter I’ve decided to add my own names to your family members. It’ll make it easier to follow for you, as well as me. You may also have more family than you do IRL, but this is my story and I choose your fate (lol that sounded dark, but I promise it’s not.) Once again, this is a fanfiction story, so all of this isn’t real. Thank you!

“My dad died.”

The weather seemed to match your mood today. The usual warm summer atmosphere had turned a harsh gray. Thunder rolled throughout the sky while rain poured down. You sat on the porch of your apartment, staring out at the wet weather. Paul had ended up staying overnight, taking care of you. He had also made arrangements for you to travel home to be with your family. To think, just yesterday you were the happiest you had been in a long time, just to have the world turn around and stab you in the back again.

“How’re you feeling?” Paul’s voice startled you. He walked out onto the porch, bringing you a blanket and a cup of hot tea. You shrugged as a response to his question. He let out a soft sigh and sat down next to you, wrapping the blanket fully around your shoulders. It was comforting just to have him near.

“Do you remember when my mum passed?” Paul spoke up after a few moments of silence. You nodded. “And how she left neatly folded clothes on mine and Mike’s bed?” You nodded once again. “What was the last kind thing your dad did for you?”

You thought for a moment. The last time you’d talked to your dad was about a week ago. He had rung to see how things were going. The two of you ended up talking for a solid hour before Mom had to take the phone away. You hadn’t told your parents about reconnecting with Paul. They’d only beg you to marry him, well your mother would try at least.

“Well,” You began but felt the lump in your throat grow in size. You coughed trying to suppress it, before continuing on. “It wasn’t exactly a kind deed, but, we chatted about stuff. Football, the bakery, and then how crazy mom is.”

Paul let out a chuckle, “Your mom is crazy.”

“He then told me he loved me, and was proud of me.” Tears spilled down your cheeks now, there was no point in trying to suppress them anymore. Paul pulled you into his chest as you let out gentle sobs.

“I tried to hide it, but I missed Mum like crazy. I still do.” The man said softly, rubbing your back. “I wish I would’ve told her I loved her more.” You remember how Paul grieved. He threw himself into his music, he distracted himself.

You had managed to stop crying, but still felt that emptiness. The rain pattering down covered the silence that lingered. It was strange to think about death, how one moment that person has a beating heart and blood flowing through their veins. Then the next moment they’re cold and stiff.

“Will you come with me back home? I just don’t want to be alone.” You spoke after a few moments, still resting on Paul’s chest. “My dad always liked you.”

“Of course. It’ll be nice to see your family, given the circumstances.” Paul said, still rubbing your back. You wiped your eyes from the remaining tears and sat up straight, pulling yourself away from Paul. He handed you the still warm tea and you took a sip.

“Would you like to shower before we go?” He asked softly, knowing you’d feel better if you showered.

“Yeah.” You thought for a moment before nodding and standing up, shucking the blanket aside and setting the tea down. Paul followed in behind you and then to your bathroom. He helped ready the towels as well as turned on the water, making sure it was hot enough for you.

“I’ll be outside if you need me.” He spoke softly, kissing your forehead. You bit the inside of your cheek, and watched his figure start to exit the bathroom.

“Wait,” You called faintly. He paused in his tracks and turned back around to face you. “Will you shower with me?”

Paul only stared at you. He could feel a creeping blush crawl up his cheeks and he cleared his throat. “If- If that’s what you’d like, then yes.”

You nodded at him and watched as he shut the bathroom door, leaving you two alone in the increasingly hot bathroom. You begun undressing first, but lost your energy quickly, feeling drained. It had been difficult to do even the most simple tasks all day.

“Would you like help?” He asked gently. You nodded ‘yes’ and sat down on the lid of the toilet. Paul began by taking your socks off first, making a comment about how cold your feet were. He then stood you up and helped take off your pants, followed by cardigan and then shirt. It wasn’t weird or uncomfortable, in fact it was more relaxing. Being a gentleman, he faced the other direction while you took off your underwear and then undressed himself. You climbed into the shower first, relishing the feeling of the hot water. You heard Paul climb in shortly after.

You stood in the stream of the water, the heat of the shower gave you feeling again in your hands and feet. You could feel Paul’s stares on your back, and decided to adjust how you were standing so he could have some of the warm water too. You now faced him entirely, covering your chest with your arms.

“Thank you.” You mumbled, standing closer to him. His hands rested on the sides of you arms as he pulled you in tight for a hug. So there you stood, with your childhood crush, both naked in the shower. If the circumstances were different, this moment would be a lot more enjoyable.

“Kitty, you know I’ll always be there for you.” He spoke so delicately, kissing your wet forehead. He held you close, soaking up your warmth. The water streamed down onto both of your bodies and steamed up into the air. You didn’t know why you asked Paul to stay. Maybe it was because you didn’t want to be alone. Or maybe it was because of how you felt. With each moment you two were together those feelings you tried to suppress always came running back at full speed.

“Thank you.” You spoke up, bringing your eyes up to look into Paul’s. His black hair was pushed back, revealing his face better. Water droplets dripped from his face, down his chest and soaked onto yours.

“For what?” Paul questioned.

“For being there for me. I missed that.” You replied. He smiled softly, kissing your forehead again.

--------------------------

Your shower finished normally. Paul helped wash your hair, and you insisted on helping him, even though he was perfectly capable. It was weird, it hadn’t even bothered you that you had just bathed with your friend. In a non-sexual way. It was more comforting to have him close. You didn't want to be alone. Though, you couldn't deny how intimate it was to be so close and so naked.

The two of you were now on the way to your parents. It was about an hour and a half drive from London to Brighton. Your parents had moved to Brighton from Liverpool shortly after you finished your nurse schooling and moved out. Now your mother resided in their home alone, after nearly seven years in their new home. It saddened you. Though your mother was a strong, stubborn woman, you knew she was still going to be lonely without your father. To think he was only fifty-seven.

“How’re you holding up?” Paul spoke softly, grabbing your hand. The two of you sat in the backseat while Paul’s chauffeur drove.

“I’m a little nervous.” You responded. Truthfully, you were. You felt an array of emotions, but the one that stood out the most was nervousness. You weren’t quite sure why. Was it the fact you had to see your family? Were you confusing guilt with anxiety? Why were you guilty in the first place? You talked with your family often, sure you didn’t visit a lot, but you always made an effort to send gifts and cards on holidays.

“It’s going to be okay.” The man reassured, giving your hand a tight squeeze. “Did you by chance let your relatives know I was coming?”

“No, I didn’t. My cousin Nancy, who was born shortly before you left, is going to freak out.” You lightened the mood a little.

“I remember little Nancy, oh she was only three when we took off.” Paul mentioned, smiling at the thought.

“Well, she’s thirteen now. Going through her very first Beatles phase. Be gentle.” You spoke. Paul chuckled.

You looked back outside the window now. The rain continued, pounding down onto the metal roof of the car. It nearly drowned out the radio. Paul’s hand remained tied with yours. You didn’t know how Paul felt about you. Everyone around probably thought you were both as dumb as doornails. It was obvious that he too had feelings for you; given the events that had taken place over the last few months since you’d reconnected. So why hadn’t you, or him for that matter, taken any steps towards being a couple? Maybe you thought it would just happen, and then one day he’d call you his girl while introducing you to someone.

Paul was scared of getting into another relationship. After Jane, he was crushed. Everyone assumed they were to be married. He thought so too. Until he found her in bed with one of their roadie’s. When the media found out about their split, that detail was left out entirely. To be kept a secret between the three of them. Image ruining, something of that sort.

There was also Linda, a short relationship he'd had after Jane. They dated for a few years before they broke up, due to personal reasons.

However, when it came to you, Paul could imagine the white picket fence, the family car, the food fights, the movie nights. He could imagine growing old with you. Paul was finally realizing that he wanted to be with you, for the rest of his life.

Sometime during the drive, you had fallen asleep; due to the depression and exhaustion of your emotions. Paul looked over at your sleeping form, curled up impossibly and uncomfortably. He unbuckled your seat belt, adjusting your body to lay your head in his lap. You mumbled a few incoherent words, but he only shushed you and you were quick to fall back asleep. His eyes gazed your face, drinking in your features. You still looked as young and beautiful as you were when he left.

He was proud of you. You had made something of yourself, first putting yourself through nursing school, followed by opening your own bakery. It was amazing to him, sure he was a music legend, but you? You were… amazing, incredible, strong- willed. You were you. And he loved that. Paul loved you, with his entire heart and body. Infact, he was in love with you.

“Sorry to bother Mr. McCartney, but we’re nearing the (Y/L/N) residence.” His drive spoke up, speaking softly knowing you were asleep.

“Thank you.” Paul replied. He didn’t want to wake you up, but he knew he had to. At least you had gotten some rest before having to face your family. “Hey, love, we’re close.” He spoke gently, brushing some hair from your eyes. You groaned, and sat up.

“God my neck, don’t let me sleep in a car again. I’m too old.” You said, rubbing your neck uncomfortably.

“I’ll take note.” Paul spoke, amused. Your parents home came into view, along with cars parked out front. You sighed, grabbing your purse as the driver parked. Paul thanked him, and asked him to pick us up again later that evening. You took in a deep breath and made your way up to the door. Paul’s hand found its way to the small of your back, as though he was reassuring that he was there, also pushing you up towards the door.

You quietly knocked on the door. A herd of footsteps could be heard and the door opened to reveal your mother. She looked at you, then her eyes gazed at Paul standing behind you. She took a double take at Paul, and then blinked.

“Come in.” She spoke quietly, not like her usual self. You walked up into the house, Paul close behind. There were a few of your family members sitting in the living room, looking through old family albums. They didn’t bother to raise their heads to look who had just entered. You spotted your Aunt Pauline and Uncle Fred sitting at the kitchen table, tissues in hand. They were your fathers siblings.

“Hi,” You said softly, grabbing their attention. They both looked up and smiled wearily at you.

“Oh, little Sunflower, you made it.” Aunt Pauline spoke, standing up to hug you. You gladly accepted her embrace immediately feeling the warmth she always gave. Aunt Pauline basically raised you, both of your parents worked to help you gather a college fund, as well as your siblings. She gave you the nickname ‘Sunflower’ because of how you were always outside playing in the sunshine as a child.

“How’re you?” You asked, glancing back at Uncle Fred, directing to question to him as well.

“Holding on as best we can.” Pauline answered for Fred. You felt Paul’s hand once again rest on your back. He was so quiet you forgot he was standing there.

“Oh, um, Pauline, Fred, this is Paul. You must remember him from when we were little.” You introduced Paul.

“Paul! I hardly recognized you.” Pauline spoke, smiling warmly at him. Okay, so your family must not pay attention to any form of media.

“You haven’t aged a day.” He spoke, charming your Aunt to blush. She even let out a soft giggle.

“Oh, well,” Pauline cleared her throat before continuing, “Your cousins are in the other room. And, Dear, please be kind to your mother today.” Pauline knew things with your mother were slightly rocky. You nodded at her and grabbed Paul’s hand leading him to the basement. A few of your cousins, and your sister and brother, sat on the couches.

“(Y/N)!” Your sister smiled up at you. Her eyes then looked at Paul behind you. “Oh, my god.”

“Okay, let’s get this over with.” You muttered, walking down the steps fully. “Before someone screams, let’s be civil okay? You all know Paul and I were childhood friends, so today, please, treat him like a human being. We’re here for a reason, to mourn dad.”

“But- That’s-” Your cousin, Nancy, stuttered.

“Yes, Nan, it’s Paul McCartney.” You said, pointing at Paul who was standing behind you. He smiled and nodded at Nancy. She squeaked, but kept her mouth shut. Her knuckles were going white from holding her dress so tightly.

You were the eldest of your siblings, and cousins. It was difficult growing up, always being taught you were the example. That’s why your relationship with your mother was so rocky. She expected you to set a solid example, but when you left nursing to pursue your bakery, she became extremely bitter.

You and Paul sat down next to your sister, Cindy. Your brother, David, sat on the other side of Cindy. It was quiet; mostly because Nancy was still having a heart attack, and your other cousin Brindy was trying to calm her down. It was strange, here you and Paul were, both grown adults, sitting with your cousins and siblings who were much younger than you. You were seven when Cindy was born, and then David didn’t come along until you were ten. Brindy was seventeen, same age as David, and Nancy was your youngest cousin at thirteen. The cousins on your mothers side hadn’t arrived yet.

“How’ve you been?” David leaned forward to look at you.

You shrugged, before answering, “Same old, same old. Bakery, hang out with Paul.”

“And you, Paul?” David asked. David and Paul had always gotten along; Paul loved playing with David when he was little, he was only seven when Paul left.

“You know how it goes.” Paul smiled at David.

The rest of the day went along well. Most of your family didn’t register that Paul was ex-Beatle Paul, they only thought of him as your childhood friend. The funeral service went wonderful, and afterwards just your close family, gathered to have dinner together. Meaning your mother, siblings, you, and finally Paul. You all told stories of your father, some happy, some silly, and few sad. It was good to catch up with your siblings, having not seen them for nearly a year. Towards the end of the night you and your mother were cleaning up dinner; Paul was in the other room telling your siblings stories of his Beatle days, keeping them fully entertained.

“Mom?” You questioned. She stood focused at the sink, scrubbing a clean dish over and over. You could tell she was distraught.

“Yes, dear?” She questioned, still scrubbing. You walked over to her and gently put your hand over hers, to stop her from brushing so hard.

“Are-” You hesitated before taking a deep breath and continuing, “Are you okay? I- I know I haven’t been very present as of late, but-”

“(Y/N), I’m just happy you showed today.” She interrupted your speech. She set down the dish, and shucked off her rubber gloves. You finally got a good look at her. She was worn down, her usual bright eyes were dull today. She had bags under her eyes as well. Her smile lines seemed less deep than usual, meaning she hadn’t smiled in a while.

“I know we haven’t been on the best of terms. But, If you need anything, please call me. I- I can send money home to care for Cindy and David. I can send baked treats.” You paused, grabbing her hands. “Anything.”

“Thank you.” Your mother spoke quietly. She looked defeated. You pulled her in for a tight embrace. The two of you hugged for what it seemed like forever before you released. She kissed your forehead before turning back to washing the dishes, now moving onto a new dish. You took off the apron you had put on to help her clean and walked to the living room where Paul and your siblings sat.

“Are you ready?” You asked Paul. He looked up at you and nodded, with a small smile.

“It has been so lovely to see you two.” He said to your siblings. They each gave him a hug and you and Paul set off on your way back home.

Taglist: @starlight-and-moonshine @tarantinoandmetal @brifilm @yllwtaxi Thank you for reading, my lovelies!

#the beatles fanfic #the beatles fanfiction #paul mccartney fanfic #paul mccartney x reader #the beatles x reader #paul x reader #classic rock fanfic

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thpatterson · 5 years

Text

Why I love Utah

Laying in bed at the Wedge campsite number 4, my thoughts were turned to why I love camping and how I have come to love Utah. I'm thinking of all the great outdoors places, but also all the great food and entertainment I've enjoyed here. A co-worker who moved here from Atlanta was going to visit the Great Salt Lake. I was able to share with him the nearest place to do that and I realized that I've learned a thing or two about enjoying this great state and that perhaps it would be worthwhile to share.

Your experience will be different and you should do additional research and consider your own circumstances, particularly when it comes to outdoor activities, but I hope others find this interesting and helpful.

52 things to love about Utah The idea here is to list out something that could be done every week of the year, even though for me it's been spread out over 17 years (now 19, wait 22). This list is of things I've done that readily come to mind without much effort and in no particular order. My descriptions will not be exhaustive. You will want to do additional research and find your own trails or activities and experiences. But this should give you an idea. Many of these are activities were with my family, work associates, friends, Boy Scouts or the now defunct Bingham High School Wilderness Club.

The list is below. Posts for each will follow.

Goblin Valley/Wild Horse Canyon/petroglyphs, etc.

Zions

Dispersed Camping/Boondocking/Primitive camping.

Shakespeare festival.

Sand Hollow triathlon

4 Corners

All the national parks are awesome

Tibble Fork, Payson Lakes

Cleveland Lloyd Dinasour/Buckhorn Wash petroglyphs/ Slot canyons near mine and Muddy Creek

The Homestead free concerts

Escalante/Hole in the Rock/Devils Garden/Dance Hall Rock

Manti and the Mormon miracle pagent

Pioneer Trek

Patriotism

Skyline Drive

Climbing Mt Timp

Climbing Kings Peak

Mirror Lake Highway

Green River 50 miles of floating

High Uintas backpacking

Canoe the Jordan River

Timpanogoos Cave

Flaming Gorge

Vernal

Cache Valley Century/Big Boys/Pepperidge farms cookies

Scenic drives

The Ruby-Horsethief section of the Colorado River

ATV Riding

Provo Canyon Trail and Jordan River Trail

Saltaire/Antelope Island

Tabernacle Square/Beehive and Lion House

Quirky politics

Sigfrieds/Salt Palace/Downtown

Bingham Copper Mine

The Forgotten Carols

Bell Choir concert at tabernacle (bunch of free concerts at Christmas as well as the rest of the year)

Christmas lights on temple square

Ski Alta, Snowboard Brighton, Canyons rewards good students

Schofield, ice fishing and sledding

Snow Shoeing

Hale Center Theatre, Orem

Snowmobile at Bear River or Daniel's Summit, not at Timberlakes

Crystal hot springs and/or Diamond Fork hot springs

Sundance. It's a film festival and a ski resort. I had dinner there twice. One of those times is forever etched in my memory.

Capital theater/The Roof

Ballroom dance competition/Murray Arts Center

BYU

Hill AFB Air Museum

The Golden Spike

RSL

Moab/top of the world/Dead Horse Point/Snoopy

General Conference

#WhyILoveUtah #WhyILiveInUtah #ILoveUtah

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lokidiabolus · 7 years

Note

Hey, Misha! Needless to say, I absolutely adore your writing 💓 I've always loved Childhood Friends!AU and I was wondering if you're keen on writing a prompt (or more prompts, it's not like I would be complaining haha!) about Newtmas as childhood friends? It would be so cool!

To be completely honest, childhood friends!AU is one of my favourite tropes ever. I had several ideas in my head for it, but this one occured to me y-day after p browsing internet, finding a picture of unrequired love kind of thing. I'll probably return to the childhood friends!au with different ideas, but I just had to get this one out ^^

Ao3 Version.

Newt was born in England, Brighton, but when hewas five, his family decided to move to America and settle down in a house witha white fence and a dog, living the American dream. Newt hated it there – he hated how peoplespoke, he hated how they laughed, how they behaved, how nothing was like he wasused to. He missed his friends and their little house near the coast, the airand the beaches.

After a year he got used to his new life to adegree where he didn’t whine to his parents anymore, but secretly remainedbitter about people around him, until the first day of the first grade where hemet Thomas in his class.

Thomas was a kid of the same age; with bigbrown eyes and really adorable way of pronouncing “squirrel” (that was also whyNewt remembered him so well right the first day). He didn’t live too far fromNewt’s house, just few blocks actually, and he was the friendliest person Newtmet in America so far. They became friends very fast and 11 years later Newt consideredhim his best friend he could tell everything to.

Well, almost everything.

He started crushing on him when he was aboutfifteen, but if he really wanted to be honest, he probably somehow fell in lovewith Thomas’ adorableness right in the first grade and it stuck to him like aglue. He tried to get rid of the feeling at first, because hey, two guys andThomas being straighter than an arrow didn’t really offer anything but trouble,but he failed miserably, so he just decided to ignore the problem until it wouldeventually go away.

He was 17 now and it was still there. Newt wouldeven say worse than before, especially when Thomas started to date his highschool sweetheart Teresa and Newt had no idea what to do with himself. He wasstill the best friend, still the main person Thomas turned to and telleverything (sadly definitely everything)but how the creeping desperation inside of him progressed, Newt started to hatehimself with passion and the fear of not fulfilling the expectation of the TheBest FriendTM was eating him up alive.

“You’re awfully quiet today.”

Newt jolted and almost spilled his drink he wasabsentmindedly holding all this time, while sitting in Thomas’ bedroom,completely ignoring the TV that was playing. He didn’t even know why he cameover in the end, but it probably involved Teresa not being present. Spendingalone time with Thomas had been rather difficult lately, but Newt thought itwas better, since it would give him less chances to screw up.

“Sorry,” he put the glass with drink on thetable, wiping his hand to his trousers. “Just thinkin’.”

“’bout?” Thomas’ voice was full of curiosityand Newt sometimes thought he should work harder on pretending everything wasfine before Thomas would put one and one together.

“How lame your hair is today,” he shot back,glancing at his friend with a perfectly faked smirk, and Thomas sputtered.

“Noooo…”

“You look like an idiot,” he insisted, becausehey, Thomas really did look strange with the hair being all up and ready to runaway, judging from the weird angles it had. He kind of guessed it was Teresa’sinfluence or something, but it didn’t mean it looked good. Thomas groaned andslid down his bed and onto the floor like sack of potatoes.

“Fuck, I really hate it too,” he heard himsaying. “But I tried; therefore no one should criticize me.”

“Go wash it,” Newt nudged him and Thomascrawled away, whining all the way to the bathroom, and then some more frominside. He was dating Teresa for about four months now and Newt was alreadyspotting her touch on all kind of things – the hair, some clothes, even musictaste. All things were screaming no toNewt, but he couldn’t really say much about it, unless he wanted to upsetThomas marginally (unless it was really bad, like the hair today). They weremeeting up less too, gaming together felt like impossible task and all the freetime got usurped with deadly accuracy, as if on purpose. But Newt was braveenough to say it couldn’t be Teresa’s aim, because he was really trying hisbest to pretend, and nobody found out yet. Thomas even preferred her most ofthe time and Newt wasn’t the one to complain, it was usually other Thomas’friends who did.

Or was it because he wasn’t loud enough?Because he acted so reconciled with the fact Thomas was in love with somebodyelse?

No, he thought. Can’t be it. Would be weirder if I whined about it.

“Phew, that’s better,” Thomas emerged back fromthe bathroom, towel around his shoulders and his hair wetly plastered on hishead. “That’s for me believing what a girl is saying.”

“Feels bad, man,” Newt commented with a smile andThomas sat next to him on the floor with a sigh. The TV played some randomdrama and Thomas seemed too interested in it, which meant something wasbothering him but he tried to pretend everything was fine.

Newt tilted his head to the side and nudged himagain.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly and Thomasmade a face at the TV. Newt wasn’t sure if it the scene was that bad, since hebarely paid attention, or if it meant he didn’t want to talk about any problemthat could be occurring.

“Think I’m a shitty bf,” Thomas said with hiseyes still fixated on the screen. Newt stared back at him with no idea what thehell to say, until Thomas finally glanced towards him with embarrassedexpression.

“What,” Newt managed, his mind reeling. True,it was kind of strange Thomas wasn’t with Teresa as he always did, or at leaston the phone texting her, but he didn’t really think much of it until now. “Why?”

“Cuz she’s not happy,” Thomas answered withsurprising calm.

“Not happy?” Newt repeated incredulously. Whatelse she wanted from Thomas than what he was already giving her? They werebasically always together lately too. “She told you or something?”

“She didn’t need to,” Thomas shrugged, but itlooked rather weak. “She’s not happy cuz I’m not happy.”

Then break up withher, Newt greedyside wanted to say, but he forced himself to stop. Under no circumstances hewould say something like that, ever. Hewas going to support Thomas because he was his best friend, even though herepeated it in his head like mantra too many times so it would still be true.

“Did something happen between you?” he askedinstead, carefully, like walking over broken glass, and Thomas shook his head. “Youtalked about it with her?” Thomas nodded. “And?”

“I guess it’s kinda over?” Came a reply andNewt’s heart almost stopped. They broke up? Broke up for real?

Nonono, stop thinkingabout it!

“’m sorry to hear that, man,” Newt forced outas apologetically as he could and patted Thomas on his back. “Can I do anythingfor you to feel better?”

Because of course his stupid, greedy self wouldsay that. Like oh great, you broke up,let’s spend more time together again, so I can get my dose like a junkie beforeit’s too late!

“You being here is already doing a lot,” Thomassmiled at him gratefully and Newt kind of wanted to cry. This was not fair andyet it absolutely was, and in the end it changed nothing and it never would.Teresa might have been out of picture, but there were going to be other girls,other dates and relationships and Newt was stagnating on one spot, unable tomove forward, the best friend watching from side lines.

“Anytime, man,” he said anyway and when Thomasrested his head on Newt’s shoulder like a content overgrown cat, Newt waspretty sure he was soon going to burn in hell.

***

“Man, I’m so jelly of that guy.”

“Huh?” Newt raised his head from the notes whenWinston was staring into his phone like somebody sent him a death threat.

“I wanted to buy a ticket for today’s B-Clubperformance, but they are all sold out already,” Winston whined, uselesslyclicking on order while getting errormessages.

“That rubbish band?” Newt raised an eyebrow andWinston made a face at him.

“They may be rubbish, but it’s full of prettyladies, sue me,” he commented with pursed lips and Newt shook his head with achuckle. “And that bastard Thomas already have a ticket!”

“What?” that made Newt alert again, this timewith confused undertone. Thomas never listened to the band, quite frankly nevereven paid them much attention, despite the fact it was full of young girls, andsuddenly had a ticket for the show? Why?

“That chick Brenda got him one,” Winston letout a sigh. “Seriously. Lucky bastard, scoring a date and ogling at one night.”

A date?

Newt hated how his stomach clenched at that,like somebody was kicking him repeatedly. It had been two weeks since the break-upwith Teresa and Thomas fell back into his let’shang out every day routine with Newt. They usually had at least dinnertogether, either at Newt’s or Thomas’ home, and their parents were like: oh, glad to see you coming here again [name]!It was almost like they were kids once more, playing videogames or justtalking, even helping each other with assignments. Thomas never mentioned anyBrenda during the talks, and Newt was perfectly sure if there was a dating possibility,he would tell Newt as the first person. And Newt would smile and congratulatehim, as he always did, and the meetings would diminish, as they always did, andeverything would be the same once more.

But now he didn’t know about anything thatmight have even resemble Thomas wanting to date, and unless he met her justtoday and she immediately gave him a ticket for a rubbish show, it just fellout of the learned way of Thomas’ behaviour pattern.

He despised himself the moment he grabbed hisphone and sent Thomas a message about tonight’s dinner, because his masochisticside of wanting to suffer just couldn’t be repressed, apparently. Surely Thomaswould tell him about dating. Surely Winston just heard wrong?

Thomas – 14:21 – Sorrymy man, can’t tonight! Call it for tomorrow though, ayyy!

Newt sent something neutral back, he knew that,it was a well learned move, and then the rest of the day somehow passed as ablur.

***

“Chinese food.”

“Your favourite,” Thomas responded proudlywhile presenting the kitchen table full of white, neat boxes. The food in themsmelled fantastic and there was too much for just two of them, and Newt bit histongue in order to keep any questions about yesterday inside. Thomas waspractically glowing and he knew that kind of state – falling in love, beingobsessed, overdosed with endorphins. Newt had no bloody right to pry into it ifThomas didn’t want to tell him, and maybe it was easier with the blissedoblivion for a little longer.

“You’re too nice,” he said instead withpracticed smile, and no, he was happy for him, he was glad Thomas was in goodmood and in great place right now. He was still his best friend, and bestfriends were basically family. He was (bitterly) happy for him. “What’s theoccasion?”

“You looking like an advertisement for Twiggyfashion?” Thomas joked and pulled a chair away, gesturing for Newt to sit down.

Oh no, Newt thought. He’s going to drop something huge. He’s never this super nice without areason.

“Thomas,” he eyed him warily, but the brunetjust grinned and gestured towards the chair again, so Newt sat down and hopedfor the best. “You’re creeping me out now.”

“Oh no, this soon?” Thomas faked a shock andNewt wanted to groan. “What are you going to say after the candles and themarching band I ordered to play your favourite song?”

“I’d just rather die already,” Newt buried hisface in his hands and Thomas laughed in honest amusement and patted his back.

“Oh c’mon, Newtie, you know you love it anyway,”he had the nerve to wink at him and when he finally sat down on the other chairand handed Newt one of the boxes without pulling a bouquet of roses out of hisass, Newt could relax a little.

“So, I had been thinking,” Thomas started and Newtbraced for the inevitable as casually as he could. It was fine, a good friendordering his favourite food while telling him something insane, like thatwhoever Brenda had been was now pregnant and Thomas was dropping out of schoolto marry her to have a nice house at the beach, a golden retriever and a whitefence.

Good grief, I hopenot, for his own sake.

“I hope it didn’t hurt,” Newt piped withoutlooking at him when Thomas grew quiet. “You rarely use your brain, don’t strainit too much in one go.”

“Oi, I use it when it counts!” Thomas retortedback with a smile in his voice and Newt’s mouth curled up in a smile too,almost involuntarily. He kept his eyes on the food though, just to be sure.

“So?” he asked matter-of-factly and Thomassighed.

“Are you not going to look at me at all tonight?”

Newt blinked and glanced up, spotting Thomas’sour expression aimed at him.

“Huh?” he let out stupidly. “Uh, sorry. Lookingat you now.”

The sour expression stayed and Newt cleared histhroat and put the box back on the table.

“Sorry,” he repeated. “What’s yours I had been thinking thing then?”

“Eh, never mind, the mood is gone,” the brunetshrugged and reached for his food as well. “My bad.”

He didn’t elaborate even when Newt was glaringat him for a full minute after and then half of the first episode of Scrubs.

***

It came as no surprise when Thomas couldn’tcome for dinner the next day or the day after. It gave Newt the right message,and quite frankly he was a little glad he managed not to hear Thomas out theother day, because even when he could imagine what Thomas had to say, it wouldstill take too much effort to keep straight face during it. So he was nowcontent with the Schrodinger relationship that kept Thomas busy and justwallowed in his own self-pity for a change.

Was it going to be like this forever? Was hegoing to pin after him until he would be old and wrinkly and Thomas would havea wife, and kids and grandkids and occasionally invite Newt over for the good old-timesake while sporting his wife’s favoured brand of clothes and hairstyle?

Am I going to bebitter and alone forever because I just can’t give up?

He took his phone, his eyes fixated on Thomas’name in the chat log, and the last message was a lil busy this week, I will make it up to you.

“Make it up to me,” he read out loud, the lightfrom the phone almost blinding him in the dark room where he was hidden underthe covers.

Newt – 20:11 – Hey, Ireally miss you. Hewrote, then his fingers stopped and got back to the delete button, erasing thewhole message.

Newt – 20:15 – I loveyou since the first grade and can’t stop thinking about you. He wrote again, his fingerstrembling, and it hurt inside. He left the text shine on the screen for awhile, reading it over and over again, but it didn’t make it a lie, it didn’terase the truth in the words. He deleted it again until there was only ablinking cursor staring back at him, mockingly challenging him to writesomething that wouldn’t completely destroy the friendship he clung to almosthis whole life.

Newt – 20:30 – Hey! Anyplans for tonight? :)

He hit sent and tossed the phone next to him onthe mattress, leaving it bounce several times before landing screen down,muting the light. He knew what answer to expect and didn’t want to read itanytime soon.

The sleep claimed him almost immediately.

***

“Newtie, you’re getting old,” said Thomas’voice in his dream. It was warm and friendly and Newt imagined him sitting onhis bed, gently stroking his hair while smiling down at him.

“Am I?” he asked back, basking in the raremoment of calmness, free of bitter reality and his own wicked thoughts abouthis best friend.

“Falling asleep so early,” Thomas was stillsmiling and his hand was warm on Newt’s cheek, caressing it. “Is there somethingon your mind?”

“You,” Newt responded back and it was so easyand liberating to say it. “It has always been you.”

The caressing stopped for a fraction of second,but then Thomas was leaning down, tilting Newt’s chin up, and his lips were alittle dry, but Newt loved the kiss anyway. It was soft and gentle, like sailingon waves of serenity and when Thomas started to pull away, he boldly chased hislips, stealing one more kiss before letting go, swiping his tongue over Thomas’lower lip in satisfaction.

“I know it’s a little overdue, but,” Thomas’voice was lower now, huskier, and Newt goddamn loved this kind of dream. He lethis best friend, his unfulfilled love, to sit over him like a knight waking upa princess and it was ridiculous to think about it that way, but it fitted sowell Newt just had to chuckle at the thought.

“What?” There was evident confusion in Thomas’eyes, but Newt wished it away – not here, not now. Thomas, his dream Thomas,understood his thoughts.

“A knight and a sleeping beauty,” he said witha smile and Thomas barked out a laugh.

“Can’t say it doesn’t fit,” he agreed, and Newtfelt more clarity now, more noises came to him. He must have started to wake upand the thought made him sad.

“What I meant to say,” Thomas started talkingagain and Newt started to feel thirsty, like after a night in a hot room, and alittle stuffy. Didn’t he turn off the heating before going to sleep? Damn, itwas already ruining the dream like an apocalypse. “Was that I had beenthinking-,”

“Déjà vu,“ Newt mumbled and then it hit him.

He wasn’t sleeping. This wasn’t a dream. Thomaswas in his room, sitting on his bed, talking to him. Kissing him.

“And you never let me finish,” Thomas sighed,fully in flesh and here and Newtstarted to panic. The terror was setting in his bones like lead and pinned himto the bed with deadly accuracy of somebody, whose sentence was to die in thevery bed, by shame and mortification and so, so much bitterness.

“What are you doing here?” Newt croaked out,his eyes wide, and Thomas didn’t move an inch from his current bent downposition above him. The living nightmare was too cruel now, too merciless.

“You asked me what plans I have, I answered youand you didn’t reply,” Thomas responded with eerie calm for somebody who justgot kissed by his best friend out of the blue. “So I stopped by, auntie saidyou’re in your room and then I found you here sleeping.”

“Oh no,” Newt croaked. “Oh god no.”

“Then I kissed you, you were fine and now you’refreaking out,” Thomas ended the elaboration and added an eyeroll for a goodmeasure. Newt hoped the bed would open and swallow him whole.

“You were a dream!” Newt whined in defence, butunfortunately knew already it wasn’t the case. Thomas was here, and had beenhere when the apparent dream started, and Newt told him things he shouldn’thave, and the world might have ended today and it would be just perfect.

“Nope, not really,” Thomas assured him. “Wait,do you mean you’d kiss only dream me but not real me? Where’s the equality?”

“Thomas, please-,”

“Newt, I know you’re a smart guy,” Thomas didn’tlet him finish. “I know you are. But this is slow even for a snail running dry,just realize it already.”

Newt never felt so scared in his life, sofragile upon hoping in impossible, of Thomas being here, telling him he likedhim back in his own way, and no, it couldn’t be true, it couldn’t be happening.Not after all these years and-

“So I had been thinking,” Thomas started once more,and it was so familiar now, and he even stopped, looked at Newt expectantlylike he was challenging him to interrupt him once more, but Newt remained quietas a mouse, drinking Thomas in. “I had been thinking that we should date.”

Newt was happy the world didn’t end just yet.

#prompts #newtmas #tmr #the maze runner #Anonymous

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xmasimt · 4 years

Text

I Gave You My Heart

“We were the bastard children of The Clash. We thought music could change the world.”

-Bono, on the recording of “Do They Know It’s Christmas”

Track One

“It’s Christmas time…

There’s no need to be afraid.

At Christmas time

We let in light and we banish shade…”

Christmas Eve was always special for George. Not only because of the anticipation of Christmas morning, or the time away from school and his family’s restaurant (it was the only time of year the restaurant closed), but because Christmas Eve was also his mother’s birthday. Nothing fancy—his mum never made a fuss and hated to be fussed over; just a nice dinner his father prepared—traditional Greek favorites and an English Christmas pudding, then a movie on T.V. George was allowed to stay up late, watching holiday favorites with his mum, happy to have her to himself after everyone else had gone to bed.

Since she passed away twenty years ago—was it really twenty years ago, he wondered in disbelief—Christmas and Christmas Eve were nearly unbearable.

This Christmas Eve, people were singing one of his own songs just outside his window.

God bless them.

He waved and they cheered before marching on (“He looked like a ghost standing there looking out his window,” a neighbor told reporters later), down the lane they went with their candles and their carols, passing slowly along outside his beautiful little house. His favorite of the four homes he owned. Don’t feel too bad for me, he joked.

He was happy to be here. He was always happy to be here. People let him be here.

He had gone out and danced among the stars once. And, for a while, he even outshined them.

Falling…

Star.

He was a star. For what it was worth. Not a flash-in-the-pan. Not just a teen idol. Here today, gone tomorrow.

He showed them, didn’t he? Didn’t he?

He was a star!

It costs him nearly everything and he nearly threw it all away. For what? He couldn’t tell you now.

It was his own fault. There was no one to blame but himself. Maybe he wanted it. That’s what he told everyone anyway. Sometimes, he even convinced himself.

His life was an open secret. Always had been, even from the early days. In the earliest days when they were still schoolboys, he told Andrew the truth and it did not matter. Andrew loved him. And still did, even now.

But he could not—would never tell his parents. His mother lost a brother because he could not live with the truth. He could not do that to her again. And there was always the fear of death, especially in those days. He could not, would not, worry her needlessly.

But now his mother was gone.

Anselmo was gone.

Kenny was gone.

George (the other George) called him, “camp,” the night they famously sang that song together, the one the crowd sang for him tonight. It’s funny looking back on it (consider the source); but he wasn’t laughing then.

No matter now.

He watched the holiday lights twinkling on the tree. Looked out on the fading stars outside his window. Could still hear the carolers as they wandered the neighborhood as they did every Christmas Eve, singing. Some years he joined them, but not this year.

His heart hurt and he needed sleep.

Track Two through Five

“This is the year of the hungry man

Whose place is in the past…”

He went upstairs to bed. Turned on the T.V. and flipped through the channels (his mum used to let George choose the movie they watched even though it was her special day). He stopped when he saw “Last Christmas,” on one of the music channels. He didn’t normally watch himself on telly, but tonight, what difference did it make? What harm could it do now to look back?

He turned on his laptop. Searched Youtube. Found himself there.

God, why didn’t anyone tell me? He laughed. My hair! That earring! He saw now, with hindsight, why it would be so distracting that the songs he sang were all but ignored, but at the time…

He tried to have a sense of humor about it all, even then. He put on a happy face and his dancing shoes. His tightest pants. Versace suits. That leather jacket he borrowed from the video’s director at the last minute. That damn jukebox.

He often felt like little more than a prop himself. James Dean for the MTV crowd. But he played his part and it paid the bills.

Isn’t that what everyone does?

“But some mistakes were built to last…”

Right?

Listen now…

without prejudice.

Tracks Six Through Twelve

“My memory serves me far too well

The years will come and go

Some of us will change our lives

Some of us

Will still have nothing to show

Nothing, baby, but memories.”

He never listened to his own music once the work was done or the show was over. He never read reviews. He never watched his own videos if he could avoid it (that one where he played the cab driver/stalker made him cringe. He hated that one. But whatever, it sold CD’s).

“Sometimes love can be mistaken for a crime…”

And didn’t he know it.

But the truth was always there…if you listened closely.

Normally he would watch Coronation Street and doze off (where was Fadi, he wondered).

But tonight…

Damn the internet…

Damn Youtube…

All the ghosts were there...

“Stop playing with that radio, George. I’m trying to get some sleep!”

His mum. God love her. She didn’t understand him, but she tried to be supportive. Especially when his father seemed cruel. His father was a Greek immigrant who worked his way up from waiting tables to owning a fish and chips shop in Kingsbury until finally he was able to open his own restaurant, Mr. Jack’s, where he and George’s mother, George and his two sisters worked the long, long hours that enabled Mr. Jack to move his family to Radlett and send his young son to a posh school that he could never have dreamed of getting anywhere near himself. His father was furious when George refused to darken the doorway of that place.

“You’ll never amount to anything,” his father said, frustrated with him; hurt that he would spurn such a grand opportunity, one that Jack, himself, had never had and had worked so hard to provide for his son.

So, George went to Bushey Mead Comprehensive at thirteen, partly out of shame, to please his father.

He worked in his father’s restaurant after school, bussing tables and washing dishes, and spent all his money buying records: Tom Jones, Aretha Franklin, the Supremes. Dancing around and singing in his room upstairs.

“My, my, my Delilah

Why, why, why Delilah.”

He imagined that he was David Cassidy, high atop the old LWT building in London, crowds of screaming fans below, adoring, but unable to ever reach him.

It was just a matter of time, he knew, and even his father would see what he saw in the mirror then.

“Sing?” his father scoffed after scolding him one too many times. “You barely speak!”

But his mother, who once upon a time had been a singer and a dancer herself (he never knew until years later when she mentioned it, off-hand, after he made his first record) indulged him. Maybe she just understood him better and was not surprised when he said that he dreamed of being a pop star. Even though he was always painfully quiet and shy; awkward and a bit funny looking with his glasses and curly hair. A pudgy Greek kid; his nickname was Yog (short for Georgious, his given name) and kids at his old school teased him by calling him “Yogurt.”

“Yogurt! Yogurt!” they taunted as he ran home and up the stairs, their voices fading behind him, then finally obliterated with the blare of the records he played.

He was happy, at least, to leave that behind when he went to his new school.

His mother tried to comfort and encourage him.

“You’ll make new friends there,” she promised, “You’ll see.”

And to his surprise, he did. On the first day, even.

“Students,” the teacher introduced him. “This is George. He’s new this year.”

His classmates all stared blankly at him.

“Who will volunteer to show him around?” she asked.

One boy raised his hand. He stepped forward from the back of the room where he sat and shook George’s hand. “I’m Andrew,” he smiled at George. “Stick with me,” he said.

“Alright, alright,” the teacher said, “Now that that’s settled, take your seats.”

George sat in front and Andrew returned to his seat at the back. When class was dismissed for lunch, Andrew sat with him. After school, they rode the bus together and Andrew walked him home.

“Would you like to come up?” George asked, certain Andrew would politely decline now that his duty was done.

“Sure, mate!” he said, to George’s surprise.

From that day on, for the next ten years, the two boys were rarely apart.

It was Andrew who broke hearts back then. Young Yog just followed Andrew’s lead. He straightened his hair with his sister’s hot iron and stopped wearing his glasses. Dressed like Andrew in jeans and leather jacket. Learned to play guitar and started busking at Green Park Station. He made new friends, aside from Andrew, and snuck off with them to Bolts in Brighton where the boys would play their first live show a couple of years later. George worked in a cinema, selling tickets at the door, and saved his money to record some of the songs he had started writing up in his room and shared them with Andrew.

“Guilty feet?” Andrew laughed.

He once even wrote a song from a note that Andrew had left for his mum: “Wake me up, up before you go, go…”

It was at Monroe Studios, six months after leaving school, where the boys went to record their first demo tape of George’s songs, that they were heard by a record producer who took them right next door to the Hope Workers Café to sign them on the spot.

“Can you believe it, mate?” George asked, signing on the dotted line without a moment’s hesitation.

“Of course, I can,” Andrew smiled as he signed his name on the line beneath George’s.

George had grown in confidence, at least when it came to his music, but even he was gobsmacked.

By September they were playing their first live gig, for drinks, at Bolts, a gay club in North London.

“Andrew only came down when they performed,” the DJ, Norman Scott, said later, “But George kept coming back and even came to Bolts in Brighton on our bus. People left him alone. Some asked if he and Andrew were a couple,” he laughed. “But really he just came because nobody bothered him there.”

“Looking for some education

I made my way into the night

All that bullshit conversation

Baby, can’t you read the signs…”

Once, on New Year’s Eve, he and George shared a cab.

“Everything is gonna change soon,” Georgee said. “After we hit America.”

‘On to bigger things?” Norman asked.

George stared out the window; watched the snow fall; two men were walking down the icy sidewalk and one slipped and fell. The other one pulled him to his feet and for a moment the two men embraced then pulled apart when they saw George watching them and they walked on together as the cab drove on.

Two years later, on another New Year’s Eve, George returned, again, to let Norman play the boys’ new record—a song called, “Freedom.”

It was the last time Norman saw George at Bolts, dancing alone in the crowd of men on the dancefloor as his record played and his music filled the club and echoed out onto the snowy streets.

Sold-out crowds. Girls screaming.

“Was it everything you dreamed it would be?” his sister asked.

“How could I have imagined all this?” he said.

He imagined that he was David Cassidy, high atop the old LWT building in London, crowds of screaming fans below, adoring, but unable to ever reach him. He didn’t imagine being mobbed and manhandled everywhere he went.

“I couldn’t believe that was my son up there on stage,” his father said the first time he saw the boys perform at Earl’s Court a year later. “But I couldn’t deny he’d gone out and proved me wrong, hadn’t he?”

Amazing what selling a few million records will do to change people’s minds, even his father.

But he was already so weary, and he wasn’t even twenty-one yet. They had conquered America. Japan. Returned home to England idolized and filthy rich.

He watched now, all these years later, and tried to see what others saw then. There he was at the Concert of Hope, introduced by Bowie, whom he had loved as a boy; Princess Diana in the audience. There he was with Queen, singing for Anselmo. All the ghosts were there.

He turned off his computer. He’d had enough for one night. “Haunt me no more, spirits.”

He wanted to be famous…then, but he didn’t really care about the money. He never got used to it. He gave much of it away. The royalties from their own Christmas song, he donated to charity as he did many of the royalties from his songs. The song he wrote for Anselmo, years later, was given to a children’s fund. The duet with Elton, he gave to an AIDS hospice and eight other charities. Every Christmas he gave a free concert for the nurses who cared for his mother when she was sick.

He would miss it this year. Truly, he would miss it. He enjoyed it, maybe more than they did. But he just wasn’t strong enough.

Maybe next year.

He flipped the channels. Nothing but old movies. Bing Crosby, George C. Scott, Jimmy Stewart.

Sometimes, he wished that none of it had happened to him, too. But he was glad, in the end, that it had happened.

In the end, it was all worth it.

Track Thirteen through Sixteen

“Loving you takes such courage

Everyone’s got their eye on you.”

Even he sometimes forgot how young he was back then.

He was only eighteen the first time they were on Top of the Pops. They took the bus there and stayed in a cheap motel near the T.V. studio. “I was shocked,” he said later, “It was so tiny!” After the show, they rode the bus home. The next day he strutted around the streets, just waiting to be recognized only to be left utterly disregarded, the moment cheapened. “I thought, ‘This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,’” he laughed.

He was nineteen the first time they appeared on American Bandstand in America.

He was twenty-one when he performed at Live Aid singing with Elton with literally the whole world watching.

“Although I search myself

It’s always someone else I see…”

Who was that boy? He barely recognized him. He never recognized him. Even back then. This monster he created.

“Choose Life,” his T-shirt read.

Choose Life.

In the 80’s and 90’s being gay was deadly.

And well he knew it.

In the 80’s and 90’s being gay was career suicide. Rock stars are heroes and there’s no such thing as a heroic poof.

It never occurred to him that he could be the one; the first.

“You didn’t talk about it in those days,” his sister said, “Even if you knew—and I did—you pretended not to know, and life went on as normal. In fact,” she shrugged, “You pretended not to know what you knew so that life could go on as normal.”

That’s just the way it was then.

“It’s hard to be proud,” he told a reporter years later, “When loving is something you associate with shame,” he looked away wistfully for a moment, “When it’s something that you have to hide.”

Stealing looks at the boys while he danced with the girls. Popping E to get in the mood. It was the 80’s and 90’s and he partied like it was 1999, certain it would be over long before then.

Stealing looks at the boys while he danced with the girls just like a lot of boys back then…

But he wasn’t just any gay boy back then. He partied like a rock star because he was one. He could laugh about it now, but at the time it was, in fact, overwhelming. And the thing he hated most was that he was such a cliché.

“Be careful what you ask for…”

Two years on the road pretending.

His album, Faith, was released in time for Christmas and spent two Christmas’s at number one.

Two years on the road.

Pretending.

There he was onstage doing “The Monkey,” for the cheering crowd.

It seems so funny now….

He brought his family with him—his sister, Melanie, and his cousin, Andros. With Andrew gone, he needed the support. Melanie did his hair and make-up and Andros…well, for a while he filled the space that Andrew’s absence left wanting. Andros brought his best friend with him and the three boys tore across America, three lads with the world by the balls. Or, at least, so it seemed. The truth was, George spent most nights alone in his hotel room, and later recounted the stories that Andros told him as if he had been there too.

And he had Kathy. Made famous in one of his videos, he bragged to Rolling Stone (no less) that she was his girlfriend. But those on the inside knew otherwise.

“They had adjoining rooms on the tour,” a gossip columnist confessed years later, “They went into his room together, but…. everybody knew.”

George wasn’t the only one hiding in those days.

Everyone knew. Or, at least, suspected. Yet, somehow Andros was taken by surprise.

Andros went out with his best friend every night, “pulling birds,” unaware that his best friend snuck into George’s room when they returned.

Andros bragged to George about their conquests each morning.

“It was like you put a knife in my heart,” George told him, years later, when he told Andros the truth.

“Now you know how it feels,” Kathy said when George cried in her arms at night.

Track Seventeen through Twenty-one

“Turn a different corner and we never would have met…”

(“This song is dedicated to a memory”)

They met in a club in LA when George and Andrew were on tour in America.

Brad was dancing with his friend, Kathy, when she saw George watching them.

“Isn’t that…?” Kathy whispered.

“I don’t think so,” Brad told her though he was certain that she was, in fact, right.

It was him.

That guy from England. That guy on MTV.

George asked Kathy to dance,

“Take me where their eyes can’t find us. Where their two eyes may as well just…”

She stood, took his hand and they danced together all that night, much to her surprise, while Andrew disappeared into the crowd.

“I always thought you were gay,” she confessed, giggling.

“What?” George responded. He seemed genuinely shocked

“Are you going to introduce me?” Kathy’s roommate, Brad, asked once they came off the dancefloor.

“This is Brad,” Kathy said, pissed to be interrupted.

“Charmed,” George said, shaking his hand.

“Are you?” Brad smiled

Too much vodka. Too much Ecstasy.

He went home with Kathy and woke up in bed with Brad.

How did that happen?

“Morning,” was all Brad said, “Tea?”

Too much vodka. Too much Ecstasy.

He went home with Kathy and woke up in bed with Brad night after night.

“My daddy says the Devil looks a lot like you…”

“Did you really think I didn’t know?” Kathy laughed. “Of course, I knew,” she said. “So what?”

Brad was always the third wheel in public. Always the “unidentified friend.”

George marveled at how easy it was for Brad. He watched as Brad danced with other men. He heard them in Brad’s bedroom as he lay in bed with Kathy watching T.V. And when they were gone, he would sneak into Brad’s room and crawl into his bed with him.

“This just isn’t my thing,” Brad finally told him. “I’m not like…the others,” he said. “I duh‘wanna be a rock star’s wife. I don’t wanna be in your videos. And I damn sure don’t wanna be just one of your songs.”

“Too late,” George chuckled.

“What?”

George picked up his guitar and played “A Different Corner,” for him. “It’s about you,” he told him.

“And if all that there is

Is this fear of being used

I should go back to being lonely and confused…”

Too much vodka. Too much Ecstasy.

He went home with Kathy and woke up in bed with Brad.

Kathy loved George;

“I know you think that you're safe Sister Harmless affection that keeps things this way…”

George loved Brad.

“I know you think that you're safe Mister Harmless deception That keeps love at bay…”

Too much vodka. Too much Ecstasy. Too much of everything.

He partied like a rock star because he was one.

But even he noticed the men dying all around him.

“Choose Life,” his T-shirt read.

Choose Life.

And he did, selfish as that may seem now.

“I so scared

Of this love…”

George changed the video he was watching on the computer.

How could he?

If he had only known, then…

But back then he only knew…survival…not pride.

Twenty-four seems so long ago now.

Thank God.

Track Twenty-two

“My mother had a brother…”

“Who is this?” George asked his mother.

He was down in the basement, going through old boxes of books and clothes, when he found an old black and white photo, taken at Christmas, apparently—there was a tree and there were decorations; and people, some he even recognized—wasn’t that his grandfather—opening presents.

“That’s me,” his mum said brightly, hanging garland, “Could you lend me a hand, Yog?”

“But who is that?” George insisted, pointing to the young man beside her in the picture.

“That was your uncle, Colin,” she answered, simply, with her chin lowered and her eyes cast down.

In 1963, the year that George was born, the year that photo was taken, to be a man like the man that George would become was a crime.

George’s mother had a brother named Colin who was…like George.

“Same desire, different time…”

All that wasted time.

On the day George was born, Colin attempted suicide.

“…the empty spaces tortured him…”

According to records he was, “suffering from some sort of anxiety disorder,” and was hospitalized as an inpatient at Maudsley Hospital. He was let home on Christmas holiday when he took his own life shortly after the new year.

It was George’s mother who found Colin.

As a boy, she feared for George—so like the brother she remembered. Over-sensitive and kind. She tried to protect him (his father could be so hard on the boy). But she worried, as his father did, that he was too soft. Like her brother.

“He wasn’t strong enough,” she said,

“My mother had a brother,” George sang years later, “I thought I knew them all, I thought I knew But she lied I said, "Show me his face again, tell me again why he died."

She worried for her boy. She worried that he would be like his uncle Colin.

There once was a waiter who worked at their family restaurant and who lived upstairs in a rented room.

“A poof,” George’s father scoffed.

George was forbidden to go upstairs when the man was there.

“She was so afraid that she had somehow passed this ‘gene,’ onto me,” George later said. “It was like she was afraid I could catch something. And that if this ‘gene’ was in me it would turn out the same way for me as it had for Colin.”

“Poor Mum,” he later said. “She spent years being so remorseful.”

Friends claimed George was haunted in later years by this uncle he never knew. He claimed to see his face in his dreams.

But this Christmas he couldn’t sleep, so there were no dreams to haunt him. No ghosts. Just that photograph which he still had and still held, now, in his hands.

“Mama will you tell him from your boy The times they changed I guess the world was getting warmer While we got stronger Mother will you tell him about my joy I live each day with him The sun came out, yeah, And I'm still breathing it in…”

Track Twenty-three through Thirty-one

“I knew you were waiting for me…”

George wasn’t sure he believed in love, much less love at first sight.

But then…

It was 1991.

It was at Rock in Rio.

His Royal Badness, Prince, opened the gig and George closed the next weekend, reuniting with Andrew for the encore on Sunday night. A surprise for the fans.

George was dressed all in black—tight black slacks, shirtless under a black leather vest. His hair cut short and dyed black, too; his long, blond hair long gone.

Those days, he hoped, were over.

It was a hot night in Rio and the band was on fire. George bolted from one side of the stage to the other, his energy boundless, it seemed, but the truth was…

He was avoiding the right side of the stage…

There was a man there in the front, the most beautiful man George believed he had ever seen, and that man caught his eye even in the massive, swaying crowd.

But George did not want to be distracted while he was working. Putting on a show.

He was working. Dancing his ass off; singing his heart out.

Was that beautiful man watching?

Was he listening closely?

Listen…

George, somehow, got to the end of the set. The big finale.

Was he still there? George bounded across the stage.

There he was.

“I knew you were waiting…

I knew you were waiting for me…”

George sang…to him.

George called Andrew out onstage and the crowd cheered. Andrew sat on a stool, center stage, with his guitar and strummed the opening chords of “Careless Whisper,” as George sang, standing behind him. The two hugged when the song ended, and the crowd erupted. After introducing the members of the band, Deon Estes, George’s bass player, played the thumping bassline that opened George and Andrew’s Wham! Song, “I’m Your Man.” George danced with Deon; then with Andrew and then sprinted across the stage, his face beaming.

And there he was. That beautiful man. Singing George’s song from the front row and singing the song back at George as he danced on stage.

“Baby,

I’m your man….”

Was he singing to him?

George sang back to the man dancing just below him…

“Don’t you know that…

Baby,

I’m your man…”

Back and forth before George danced across the stage and back again.

“One, two, three, go,” he yelled at the crowd

“If you’re gonna do it, do it right

Right, do it with me…

If you’re gonna do it, do it right

Right, do it with me…”

George ended his set, ironically, with his recent single, “Freedom 90,” dancing around with Andrew as he sang.

“Heaven knows we sure had some fun boy,

What a kick

Just a buddy and me-ee…”

George ran off stage after the song ended, glancing over to see if the man was still there, but he was gone.

George waited for Andrew in the dressing room as he looked in the mirror and changed, putting the rock star away for the night. When Andrew walked in the room, the man from the crowd in the front row was with him.

“Mate,” Andrew said as they hugged again. “This is Anselmo,” he introduced the man beside him as he pulled back. “He designed this thing I got on,” Andrew stood back and turned, showing off the outfit he had worn onstage for their big reunion—a sharply cut fitted jacket and black slacks like the ones George wore.

“Nice to meet you,” Anselmo said. “I’m a huge fan.”

Oh God, George thought as he shook Anselmo’s hand.

Still, looking at Anselmo, he spoke to Andrew. “They’re throwing a party for us, but,” he blushed, realizing that he still held Anselmo’s hand. He let go, reluctantly. “I really don’t wanna go,” he said turning to Andrew at last. “Would you mind if we just went back to my hotel room?”

“No, it’s cool,” Andrew said. “Is that okay with you?“ he asked Anselmo.

“Oh I…” he stammered, suddenly shy and awkward.

“You’re coming,” George insisted because something told him (his heart was beating wildly) that he must insist.

“Okay,” Anselmo smiled at him. “If it’s what you want.”

George had never wanted anything—or anyone—more.

Two years.

All of life in two short years.

George never spoke in detail about those two short years. Only that they were the happiest days of his life. Only that for the first time he loved someone without shame or disgrace and that it was Anselmo who taught him that he could love with pride because when you loved someone as he had loved Anselmo how could you hide it? He didn’t care—as he had before—who saw him with Anselmo. There was no sneaking in and out of his room; there were days on the beach or at home watching T.V; nights dancing in the clubs. George had danced among the other men back at Bolts as a teenager; but he danced with Anselmo now; held his hand when they went out to dinner or walked down the street. Was even photographed with him in public (George would have died if that had ever happened before).

How grateful he was for those photos now!

It’s so easy to forget that the clock is ticking, that your days are numbered; that even the hairs on your head are counted, as the Bible says.

“Heaven sent.

And heaven stole.”

“Maybe we should all be praying for time…”

Anselmo became ill with a flu that he could not shake. “The doctor says I should be tested,” he told George.

“Tested?” George asked. “for?” he asked, though he knew, had always known, had always dreaded this moment. Had always feared it was inevitable. It was, wasn’t it? Isn’t that what you get? He thought, then pushed the thought aside. Anselmo would need him now.

“For the virus,” Anselmo whispered, still holding George’s hand.

There was silence and then Anselmo stood to leave. George walked out to the patio. Stared out at the beach. Looked up at the clouds, numbed.

“Don’t you dare do this to me,” he begged, finally crying.

“Maybe we should all be praying for time…”

Anselmo went home to Rio later that year to finally have the test and George went home to be with his family. Normally Christmas, New Year’s and his mother’s birthday were a time of celebration—laughter and food and gifts. Late night watching old movies. Normally, the weeks before were hectic with preparations and giddy with anticipation. But this year, of course, he was distraught: Was Anselmo sick? Was George sick?

“What’s wrong, Yog?” his mother asked.

“Nothing, Mum,” he promised, squeezing as she put her arms around him. “I’m just tired,” he said (and he was).

On the morning of November 24th his sister woke him.

“It’s someone wanting a comment from you,” his sister, Melanie, told him as she shook him awake, “Bloke insists it’s urgent.”

“George,” George’s press man, Martin, asked as soon as George picked up the phone, “George, have you seen the news?”

“You got me out of bed, Martin,” George replied. “And you wanna know if I’ve watched the news?”

“George,” Martin went on, “Freddie Mercury has died this morning. I’m afraid…We’ll need a comment for the papers, George. As soon as…”

George could not believe it. He was overwhelmed. First Anselmo…Anselmo might be…He might be…And now this. He burst into tears and simply sobbed into the phone. He wiped away his tears, gathered himself, gathered his thoughts. Said a few words he could not even remember once he hung up the phone. What had he said?

“Yog,” Melanie asked, “Yog, what happened?”

But, of course, he could not tell her. It might all come flooding out if he did and he didn’t want her to worry.

Let her find out about Freddie on the news.

George stayed in his bedroom the next few days as he had when he was a boy in the days when he dreamed that he was David Cassidy, safe above it all where nothing and no one could ever hurt him.

He lay in his room, avoiding even his mother, and waited for the worst.

Four months later, in April, he was onstage at Wembley Stadium in front of 72,000 people, being broadcast around the world in seventy-six countries at the Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert with Anselmo in the audience as George sang Queen’s “Somebody to Love,” Anselmo—that beautiful man—looking up at him just as he did the night they met.

“I went out there,” George said later, “knowing that I had to do two things: I had to honor Freddie and I had to pray for Anselmo.”

One more year was all that was left; though, thank God, they did not know it then.

George was home, signing charity copies of Live Five, the CD of his performance at Freddie’s concert, when the phone rang.

Anselmo insisted on being treated at home in Brazil. He could not risk that news would leak of his illness, that he was gay, that he was George Michael’s lover. His family was Catholic; his parents would never understand or forgive, he feared.

George was not the only one with secrets.

George respected his wishes. But now he wished he had not.

The phone rang again. George signed one last Live Five CD and picked up.

“Hello,”

“Is this George Michael?” a voice sked.

“Yes,” George answered. “You called my personal cell, so…”

“Sorry,” the man responded. “I’m so sorry.”

“Who is this?” George asked.

It was a friend close to Anselmo, the man explained. “We’ve known each other since we were boys,” he said. Was the man crying?

“What’s wrong?” George asked. “What’s happened?” he stood to his feet and walked out to the patio, looked out across the beach. The water coming in and rushing out again.

“It’s Anselmo,” the man said, “He’s…he’s had a brain hemorrhage,” the man said. “He’s…gone.”

George dropped the phone in the sands below and glared up at the sun.

“How could you?” he screamed. “How could you?”

He did his best to make sure that those last years were happy ones for the man he loved—despite the sickness and the pain.

“Take care my love, he said Don't think that god is dead Take care my love, he said You have been loved…”

Track Thirty-Two through Thirty-seven

One last Christmas.

One last time.

Three years had passed since Anselmo died. Three years and George had barely written any new music or performed, save for “Jesus to a Child,” his song for Anselmo written a year after he died and performed only once in November of 1994 on MTV Europe.

“So the words you could not say I'll sing them for you And the love we would have made I'll make it for two For every single memory Has become a part of me.”

Three years passed and then George met Kenny.

They met at a posh Hollywood spa.

“Not a gay spa,” Kenny said, “Just a regular…Hollywood spa”.

George asked him out to dinner. Where did he find the nerve, even if he was George Michael, supposed rock star, George laughed later. He wasn’t even sure if Kenny was gay.

But he was so handsome. A Texan. Southern drawl and all.

Who could resist? Certainly, not George.

The next morning, George woke with Kenny still sleeping beside him. He got out of bed quietly and went down to the kitchen to make coffee. Tea? No, George thought. He’s an American and a Texan. Definitely, coffee, not tea.

He poured two steaming cups, placed them with sugar and milk on a tray and headed upstairs, anxious to surprise him.

And then the phone rang.

George put the tray down and picked up the phone. As he was standing, his back turned so that he as looking out at the ocean outside his window, Kenny watched and waited, uncertain what to do (George was on the phone but was not speaking, just listening), until George hung up the phone and turned to face him.

There were tears in his eyes.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” Kenny asked.

George didn’t speak. He just stood there as Kenny held him. “Don’t go,” George finally pleaded, “Please don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Kenny promised him.

George’s mother was ill. Stage four cancer. Months, a year to live at best.

George had just finished and released Older, his CD of songs for Anselmo. He was supposed to be going on tour. An MTV Unplugged performance was already scheduled for later that year. But now—as he had when Anselmo was sick, he called his manager and cancelled all plans indefinitely.

“Will you come with me to England?” he asked Kenny. And to his surprise, Kenny said yes.

His mother was a fighter. Most days she was well and insisted that life go on as normal. No fuss. Never a fuss. Even when George or Melanie or George’s father took her for her treatments. For a while it seemed she might beat the odds even. She even insisted that George do the show for MTV in the fall.

“I’m not leaving you,” he told her.

“The we’ll come with you,” she said.

And so, the show went on.

Rehearsals went well, George was surprised to find (after all, it had been a long time).

“You’ve never sounded better,” his mother told him as she watched.

“You have to say that,” he teased, “You’re my mum.”

The show went on. He opened with “Freedom 90.” Sang “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” for Brad. Sang “You Have Been Loved,” for Anselmo. He sang, “Praying for Time,” for his mother. He barely got through it. He started to cry right there on stage in front of everyone.

“Hi, Mum,” he smiled, trying to hide the sorrow as he had done all his life.

Finally, the show was over. They went back to the hotel so his mother could rest. The next morning, they flew home to London.

“Did you enjoy yourself, Mum?” George asked.

“I’ve never been more proud,” she told him.

They started making plans for the holidays.

“George, Christmas is two months away,” his mother complained.

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

It might be her last Christmas, her last birthday, he feared, and he wanted it to be special. He made plans, so many plans; even wrote a new Christmas song. He wanted it to be perfect and straight out of Dickens (except for the ghosts), but by Christmas his mother had taken a turn for the worse and was in hospital.

George slept in her room as she slipped in and out of consciousness, leaving the T.V. on all hours. He spoke with the nurses who tended to her (his father spoke to the doctors). One night, when he thought she was sleeping, he sang softly as he stared out the window at the blanket of snow that covered the ground below.

“That’s pretty,” she said.

He turned to her. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he apologized.

She reached out and took his hand. “Finish it,” she said.

“It’s not finished,” he laughed. “I’m still writing it.”

“Finish it,” she said again, closing her eyes.

He sang what he had of the song he had only just begun, humming to fill in the parts undone until she was sleeping soundly again.

Thank God, he thought.

That Christmas Eve, he called his band down to London, to the hospital, and they put on a show for the nurses who cared for his mother. George wanted to thank them—he could not thank them enough, he thought. He only sang Christmas songs—“Last Christmas,” and the new song, “December Song,”—his only nod to his own repertoire. One of the nurses even joined him when he sang the Pogues “Fairytale of New York.”

“Thank you, Sir George Michael,” she beamed.

“Elton is Sir, love,” he smiled. “I’m just George.”

They made it through the holidays—Christmas and the New Year, his mother growing weaker.

She died in February and was laid to rest near George’s home so that he could (as he did) visit her grave each day.

And for a thousand days, I was lost I said, 'Heaven knows I'm ready to be found', Underground But I think I'm ready now So please send me someone to love

Please send me someone, someone to love As much as I loved you.

Finale (Tracks Thirty-eight and Thirty-nine)

George had plans for this Christmas.

Brunch with Geri and Martin and Fadi.

Where was he?

They had a row over nothing. George couldn't even remember what is was now. And Fadi left. George didn't know it, but Fadi was just outside sleeping in his car. If George had known, he would have gone out to him. Said, "Come inside. Let's make a fire." But he didn't. For all he knew, Fadi, too, was long gone.

There was still so much to look forward to in the new year. A new film about Listen Without Prejudice; the re-release of that CD and the MTV Unplugged show together. New music that he was excited about. If he could only finish it after the holiday.

George turned off the T.V. and finally went to bed. He could see the sun coming up outside his window—the sky turned violet and blue.

His last Christmas morning.

Track List

Ch I: Track One

Do They Know It's Christmas?

Ch II: Tracks Two through Five

Praying for Time

Last Christmas

Faith

Freedom 90

Ch III: Tracks Six through Twelve

Waiting for that Day

Father Figure

Round Here

Too Funky

Careless Whisper

Fast Love (Live)

Freedom

Ch IV: Track Thirteen through Sixteen

The Edge of Heaven

Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me

Wake Me Up Before You Go Go

Monkey

Ch V: Tracks Seventeen Through Twenty-one

A Different Corner

Hard Day

Cowboys and Angels

Happy

Kissing a Fool

Ch VI: Track Twenty-two

My Mother Had a Brother

Ch VII: Tracks Twenty-three through Thirty-one

I Knew You Were Waiting for Me

I'm Your Man

Freedom 90 (Live)

You Know I Want To

The Strangest Thing (Live)

My Baby Just Cares for Me

Something to Save

Safe

Somebody to Love (Live)

CH VIII: Tracks Thirty-two through Thirty-five

Jesus to a Child

I Can't Make You Love Me (Live)

You Have Been Loved (Live)

Praying for Time (Live)

CH IX: Tracks Thirty-six and Thirty-seven

December Song

Please Send Me Someone (Anselmo's Song)

Ch X: Track Thirty-eight and Thirty-nine

Fantasy

This is How We Want You to Get High

#George Michael #Wham #Christmas

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mgibsonfilms · 6 years

Text

A view from the A270

Seeking refuge along the Lewes Road in Brighton & Hove’s forgotten suburbs

At its source, the A270 divides the affluent Hanover area with its crescents, private roads and estate agents from ‘The Level’, the preferred daytime refuge for many of the city’s heterogenous groups. The socio-economic divide that plagues Brighton & Hove is encapsulated topographically here. This series of photos explores the in-between spaces or heterotopia that mark the arterial drag that is the Lewes Road. I wondered what spaces of refuge or evidence of local community exist along the way? As a former Sussex postgrad (MA Digital Documentary) I rarely ventured beyond the Falmer campus, instead heading in the opposite direction towards home in Kent. Nevertheless, the Lewes Road area is home to a sizeable proportion of Brighton & Hove’s student population. Many of my fellow students lived here but have since moved on.

Unusually, the A270 begins as two separate one-way streets, a fork created by ‘The Level’ which merges into two-way traffic at the Vogue gyratory. Named after the former Vogue Cinema which was replaced by a Sainsbury’s supermarket in 1985, the Vogue was an X-rated film and strip club in the 1970s. Even today, iconic Brighton & Hove landmarks such as the pier, the Royal Pavilion, The Dome, Victoria Gardens couldn’t seem further away amidst the endless commuter traffic of the gyratory. The A270 then snakes its way north-eastwards to the neighbouring town of Lewes via the sprawling suburbs of Bevendean, Moulescoomb, Coldean and the Falmer campuses of Brighton and Sussex universities.

This series of 27 sequential images therefore reflects the A270 that inspired them; images are displayed as they were captured one afternoon on Easter Saturday. Most students had gone home for the weekend and ‘the Albion’ were at home to Leicester City. Apart from the odd pedestrian, the streets were mostly deserted. This helped me avoid reproducing unhelpful social stereotypes of hooded youths, gangs and ‘asbos’ that arguably occupy the social imaginary of the area. One of the problems with bearing witness to a socially deprived area through the photograph is sensationalising its aesthetic of decay. I sought to subjectively frame details which interested me; lines, perspectives, disparate features that are subversively characterful. Much of Brighton centre has become ‘hipsterfied’ or 'studentified', sterilised by modern developments and commercial property. Instead, the spaces depicted herein seem to intrinsically counter that narrative. I sought therefore not to sensationalise or romanticise a downtrodden area but where possible, to create or restore former spaces of refuge or 'heterotopia' within the images themselves.

This is Wagner Memorial Hall named after Rev Arthur Wagner who commissioned the construction of adjacent St Bartholomew’s Church. This upset locals who complained that the excessive height of the building (as the tallest church in Britain) stopped their chimneys from drawing properly. Wagner bought all 400 neighbouring houses and subsequently reduced the rents.

The Extra Mural Cemetery next to Woodvale Crematorium is a sheltered, gently sloping, well wooded area of down land between two much steeper hills.... a good place for a walk.

The Bernard Oppenheimer Diamond Works was a diamond polishing factory built 100 years ago. It provided work and refuge for the majority of Brighton & Hove’s disabled war heroes, some of whom were amputees needing specialist treatment. Now the Big Yellow Self Storage, popular with local students often leaving for the summer before returning and renting different rooms.

The site of the former Preston Barracks which were builtin 1793 to sustain potential Napoleonic invasion after the French revolution. They were demolished in the 1990s and the site is now a University of Brighton student housing development.

Like the nearby more modern St. George’s hall in Moulsecoomb, halls like this one build in 1949 which were once community meeting grounds are now often left empty with staff blaming changing demographics in the community.

Behind this junction at the end of Queensdown Rd is Homewood College, a community special school. Accessible only by foot from Moulsecoomb Station are Brighton & Hove Pupil Referral Unit and Cedar Centre Special School. The absence of these schools in image was both an aesthetic and political decision, reflecting on the otherwise hidden nature of their geographical location.

Since the mid-eighties, the twin phenomena of the Right to Buy scheme and the 1992 Universities Act have had the dual effect of displacing once established communities in these post-war housing estates as many residents have cashed-in and moved out creating increasing numbers of tenanted HMOs (houses of multiple occupancy) to cater for the increased influx of students from University of Brighton. Situated on Bates Estate noted for its high incidents of report crime, this housing office closed down in March 2014 due to a decline in the number of people using the office. Local residents have rejected plans for a new block of flats on the site. This is in spite of a similar development in neighbouring Whitehawk on the site of the old housing office. The scheme is known as New Homes for Neighbourhoods and is intended to provide much-needed affordable housing. Council bosses hope that a new block of flats could help lead to the regeneration of one of Brighton’s ‘most notorious estates’.

The Moulsecoomb scheme was in the form of a garden city with winding roads, large grass verges, and big gardens. It was intended to house veterans of the Great War; there were even tennis-courts provided in The Avenue. In South Moulsecoomb, the earliest buildings were effectively an adjunct to the existing housing opposite Preston barracks, but the later extensions of North and then East Moulsecoomb took the estate out into relatively remote countryside. The 478 houses were meant to provide new homes for people in the proposed slum clearance areas on Albion Hill, but the rents charged by the council were prohibitive for most of the intended residents, and tenants were brought in from other towns, especially London, following an advertising campaign. Little was therefore done to relieve the appalling conditions in central Brighton.

The mainline rail track between Falmer and Moulsecoomb stations running adjacent to these dilapidated garages separates the Bates Estate from the Home Farm Business Centre, home to American military weapons manufacturer EDO MBM Technology Ltd/Harris. The UK firm makes the EDO MBM Zero Retention Force Arming Unit, an electro mechanical device used on military aircraft bomb racks to arm munitions as they are released from the aircraft. The headquarters has been the target of multiple instances of anti-war activism.

Anyone coming down Lewes Road from Falmer can’t miss Rory’s Hand Car Wash which backs on to Wild Park. Near the back of the park is what's known locally as the "ski slope" which rises to the Hollingbury Fort and gives views across the city. Wild Park will always be synonymous with the ‘Babes in the Wood’ murders in 1986 which remain unsolved.

The Stringers have the monopoly of funeral services in the Lewes Road area and have been a staple of the community from Moulsecoomb down to the Level for decades, if not centuries.

This phone box appears like a grotesque tardis to some lost past. This one interestingly without a door, as if it would be too tempting a prospect for ‘scoombers’ to make varied use of a phone box with a door... city planning at its finest.

As well as housing students in HMOs, Barcombe Road is home to some local families, whose kids patrol on bikes haranging visitors to take pictures of them.

The entrance to 'The Keep', the East Sussex Record Office. A heterotopia of time... '...an unrivalled, detailed record of the region’s history, dating back over 900 years. These archives document the lives of individuals, places and events from across the county and beyond, and they include written records, maps and plans, prints and drawings, photographs and films, oral histories, and digital and electronic records.' (Source - thekeep.info)

The Keep serves as an artificial and psychological barrier between the Moulescoomb estates and the universities.

The end of Moulescoomb and the continuation of the A270 under the flyover. The next stop is HMP Lewes, home to many of Moulescoomb and Bevendean's convicted criminals.

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zoebechtle-blog · 7 years

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Unlikely Chapter 14

It never occurred to me that Niall had a key to his bathroom. When he opened the door and found me curled in a ball on the side of the bathtub, crying my eyes out, he pulled me up and into his arms. I buried my head in his chest, ugly crying. I didn’t want him to touch me, but it was also the only thing I wanted. My face was streaked with makeup and I smelled like vomit. I tried to fight him off so I could at least straighten myself up, trying to gather my wits, but he took control, turning on the shower and getting me out of my clothes and then shedding his own. He pulled me in and sat on the bench, pulling me onto his lap. The whole time he was whispering words that weren’t even registering. My brain just keep shouting at me that he was done, that it was all over. My abrasive personality (my father’s word for it) had chased yet another person out of my life. He ended up washing my hair and body, and basically carrying me out of the shower stall, drying me off, and laid me down in the bed. I was wrecked physically and emotionally. He left for a few minutes and brought back a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. We both swallowed a shot and stared at one another. I was naked with just his duvet wrapped me around me and he was in a pair of shorts. I was pretty sure I’d just cried more than I had in the last five years of my life combined. He looked distraught, moving his feet and picking at his hands. I wanted to talk, I wanted to yell, but I didn’t even know how to start. So I opted to just crawl over and lie my wet head on his shoulder.

“Z…” I waited on him to continue, lifting my head which suddenly felt too heavy to hold up. I laid it on his pillow, looking at him from the side.

“Goddamn it, you’re beautiful.” He said it reverently, leaning down to touch my cheek. It was two thirty. He would be leaving for the airport in five and a half hours. There was so much between us now, and I didn’t know how to fix it. Was it even mine to fix?

“I’m...I’m sorry, baby.” He kept caressing my face, his voice almost a whisper. “I fucked up. Didn’t mean to smother you. I’ve never done this before. Thought we were supposed to be together like that all the time, that’s what a girl wants. I shoulda asked you.I freaked out when you left the other day. I had no idea what was going on and I thought you were just done with me. ”

Where the hell were all these tears coming from? Fuck them. “I held it in and didn’t tell you when I started getting annoyed. I blew up and overreacted.”

“And I was hurt. So pissed. I lashed out at you. Calling Kimmy was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Shoulda just left the plans like they were.” He hung his head.

“If this is going to work, and previous to Sunday I think we were both pretty gung-ho on making it work…”

“You don’t want to anymore?” Sheer panic crossed his face, his lips parting.

“I do. I mean, I’m pretty sure. But fuck, these last two days have sucked. We have to be better and talk about shit. But we’re still on the learning curve. We have to figure it out together.” He nodded at me, his eyes wide and unblinking. “And you can’t goddamn run away from me.”

“If I could stay, I would.” He bent his forehead and pressed it to mine.

I hated to beat a dead horse, but… “Five weeks?”

He had the good sense to look miserable when he nodded. “One of the Nashville guys is only available that last week, and they’ve spread out some of the studio time. The gaps aren’t enough to really make it home.” He started biting his fingers again.

“You’re going to miss my birthday,” I whispered.

“Oh my god. Zo.” I could see him trying to do the math in his head (carry the one, June has 30 days…). “Fuck. July 29th. FUCK.”

“Nashville?”

“Baby girl, I’m so sorry. I’ll fly you in and we can go away for the weekend. We can find someplace quiet that won’t require you to be near bugs.” Points, he did know my phobia.

I shook my head. “We always have a big party. Go to Brighton the weekend before and stay at Aaron’s grandparents’ beach house. Paulie has named it Zoepalooza. Ruth always comes and makes me banana cake. I’ve never had the heart to tell her I hate bananas.” I gave Niall a wry smile, basically telling him I wouldn’t be coming to America for my birthday. I have my own thing, and him not being there was going to hurt.

He buried his face in my neck. “I will make this up to you, even if it takes me twenty years. I’ll buy ya whatever you want.”

“Sounds like you can’t get me the only thing I want.” I wasn’t trying to be an asshole (well, just a little). Being with him was what I wanted.

“You’re still going to visit your family for your mom’s birthday, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. In two weeks. But I fly into St. Louis Friday morning and leave Sunday night. Dr. Summit has that conference in Glasgow the week after.” He sighed.

We laid quietly for a moment. “So…” He let out a shaky breath.

“Yes?”

“If I sign with, um...an American label? Like Capitol?”

“That’s what you want, right?”

“Yeah, I mean, it uh...makes the most sense. And the idea that they even want me, Z. That was Sinatra’s label, yeah? But I’ll be in L.A. more now.”

Another thing I wasn’t aware of. I leaned away. Not running. Just processing. How much is more time? “I didn’t know that.”

He nodded. “I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t know that they really wanted to come after me this hard. You think we can do this? Your life is here.”

“Isn’t yours?” I was confused - his friends and his home were here. I was here.

“Yeah. But if I’m in L.A. part of the time, then tours, and promos...Zo, that’s a lot of time I’m not in London. Like two years ago I only spent 59 nights here over the course of the year. All the time I’ve been here now has kinda been a fluke.”

Well this would have been helpful knowledge to have had at the beginning of March. “I think I’m too far gone to do anything but try to figure it out, eh?” I felt a sort of deflated but peaceful. I rolled into his shoulder and buried my head, biting on my inner cheeks to not cry. He ran his fingers up and down my arms, singing “Unsteady” by X-Ambassadors, then “Gale Song” by The Lumineers softly. Eventually, our mouths found one another’s and the desperate kisses began. We made love with tears in our eyes until Deo knocked on the door to tell him it was time to leave for the airport. Willie drove us to City Airport, Niall and I cuddled in the back of Range Rover. When we got there, we stood apart from the boys, our heads bent together, making promises to talk every day, to facetime, and telling one another how in love we were. I knew it was all true and despite my sadness, I felt relief. Deep down, I knew we’d be okay. The text he sent from the lounge of him holding a teddy bear with a shirt that said, “I Left My Heart In London” made me smile. He was flawed and clueless about matters of the heart, but he was mine. I needed to get over the demons in my brain and my stubbornness, but I was his. We had to learn how to do this together and it was going to hurt. But it was also going to be the best experience of my life. I knew it. Willie took me home afterward, stopping to buy me a peppermint milkshake. He didn’t let my tears scare him and he gave me a long hug outside of my flat.

“You survived it, Z. The first fight. I told you, he was going to take patience. I’m glad you’re giving him the chance. You two are meant to be.”

I hugged him again and thanked him. For everything.

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mattbrothersscriptwriter · 7 years

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My Top 20 Films of 2017 - Part Two

Ok, so about ten minutes ago I finished watching my last 2017 film of the year. For my FULL list - all 127 films watched in order of preference - jump on over to my Letterboxd page: https://letterboxd.com/matt_bro/list/films-of-the-year-2017/

Alright, top 10:

10. Logan

In a time when a lot of people still bemoan the existence of so many comic book movies (occasionally, with a point) this has been a stellar year for them. Marvel’s triple whammy of Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2, Spiderman Homecoming and Thor Ragnarok were all excellent, heartfelt, fun knockouts and Wonder Woman was a terrific showcase for both Gal Gadot and Patty Jenkins (not to mention hugely important in its own right). Only Justice League really fell back on old tired habits and resulted in a bizarre mashup of tone and purpose and featured the single most damning piece of CGI buffoonery ever conceived in Henry Cavill’s ‘we’ll fix it in post’ deleted moustache. That really is one for the ages.

But I could never have foreseen the power and beauty of something like Logan, a near-perfect capper to a spinoff trilogy that began with the God-awful Wolverine Origins. It’s strengths come from it’s convictions – this isn’t an episodic story servicing a franchise, this is a true stand alone character piece, focusing on the rarest of things – an actual ending to a beloved, previously untouchable, immortal superhero. Played out as a tragic western with claws, the film beautifully champions the importance of family and love, seen (at last) through the eyes of those that never dreamed they would experience it, let alone fight for it. With some fantastic action set pieces to boot too, this one really has its cake and its eat and is also a real sight to behold – I saw it for a second time in it’s gorgeous black and white ‘Logan Noir’ cut and every frame is a revelation. Huge props to Patrick Stewart too, delivering a devastating performance of a character is has also lived with for the past SEVENTEEN years.

9. Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool

This film is a heartbreaker. My God. Definitely the most surprising cinema-going experience I had this year. I went with a friend of mine and by the time the credits were rolling, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house – best encapsulated by a burly scouser sat behind us who was openly saying “Fuck me, didn’t expect that for a Sunday afternoon. Jesus! How bloody brilliant was that!? Got any tissues?’.

Focusing on the later years of Hollywood starlet Gloria Grahame (Annette Bening on Oscar sweeping form), it finds her semi-washed up and treading the boards in London where she meets and falls for Peter Gallagher (Jamie Bell – never better than this) another actor, half her age. The tenderness and straight forwardness of their pairing is so refreshing, never making an issue or point about the older woman/younger man dynamic unless directly challenged by other characters (including Gloria’s bratty sister Joy) or themselves. The most effective emotional beats of this film aren’t signposted and drawn out for Oscar clip schmaltzyness but instead hit you in a sudden burst of passionate regret; hurtful words said in anger or defence – truly proving that the most harmful things you can say to someone you love are all too easy to let slip out before you’ve had a chance to think about what you’re saying. But the damage is done.

The film-making here is exceptional too. What could have been a rather dry biopic is given such momentum through brilliantly executed scene transitions and a flashback-enhanced narrative that keeps us embroiled in the present day scenes of Gloria succumbing to cancer whilst we watch their initial courtships and brutal arguments from the months and years leading up to it. The supporting cast that includes Julie Walters, back as Bell’s mother and Stephen Graham as his brother are brilliant but this is Bening/Bell’s movie and they knock it out of the park.

8. Baby Driver

My big birthday blowout screening of the year, following last year’s Aliens 30th anniversary showing, Baby Driver did not let me down. All the usual energy, narrative foreshadowing and tightly controlled construction you’ve come to expect from an Edgar Wright flick blown out onto a much bigger and more confident scale. The genius pairing of getaway driver crime heist flick and vehicular musical allows for some hugely inventive set pieces, from the opening police chase set to Bellbottoms by the John Spencer Blues Explosion to the car-on-car parking lot duel with Queen’s Brighton Rock echoing through the tunnels.

Ansel Elgort delivers a breakout turn and everyone from Jon Hamm, Jamie Foxx and Kevin somebody-or-other are having a ball playing bad. The romance with waitress Lily James initially feels a little under cooked but it all plays into the escapist fairytale of the action and seeing them dance together in a laundromat whilst sharing headphones is one of this year’s purest joys.

7. Get Out

Where It soaked up much of the straight spooky horror acclaim this year, Get Out walked a much more tantalising and complex line between thriller, social drama, satire, comedy and horror – and pulled it all off effortlessly. Jordan Peele has long had grand cinematic aspirations as evidenced in some of the larger scale sketches in his fantastic show Key and Peele but this clearly represents everything he wanted to say and do in a debut feature. I think the odds of so perfectly nailing your voice and intentions in your very first film is astronomical but damn, he must be proud, not only of the film itself but the cultural reach, impact and resonance it has had with audiences.

Daniel Kaluuya is excellent as the everyman battling his own (rational) fears and paranoia before his instincts slowly become the domineering voice in the back of his head. Trust in oneself is the saving grace here and it’s great to see an array of other ‘traditional’ characters for this genre twist the knife and reveal their true colours. The “Rose, where are my keys” turning point is perhaps the tightest I’ve gripped the arm of my chair all year. And the eventual climax is one of the best examples of subverting expected genre tropes. Brilliant.

6. Raw

Speaking of confident debuts, Julia Ducournau’s is equally astounding. Not for the faint hearted, this queasy, cannibalistic coming of age tale is a near perfect slice of fucked up fever dream. It follows a young vegetarian attending veterinary college who is forced to eat rabbit meat in a sick hazing ritual – one that her fellow student and older sister has clearly already experienced. Slowly but surely, a triggering of her animalistic appetite grows, coinciding both with her own first steps into a sexual awakening as well as a growing sense of unease that something isn’t right in her family to begin with.

The plot takes some nutty turns, not least in the last few minutes, but everything works; from the gorgeous imagery to the tonal juggling to the assured performances. This would make an excellent entry in an ‘arthouse does horror subgenre’ triple bill, doing for cannibals what A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night does for vampires and The Witch does for... witches.

5. Jackie

This is a breathtaking biopic - interested less in the broad strokes of history and what we think we know about the aftermath of one of the most infamous events of the 20th century and more in the nuanced, private, personal moments of grief in the public eye. Natalie Portman is astounding as Jackie Kennedy, nailing everything from the look to the voice to the affectations, and its the dreamlike, woozy way that the film unfolds that really draws you in and positions you in the eye of a hurricane. The JFK assassination was a monumental cultural milestone but this story asks you to put yourself in the shoes of a woman who was unavoidably trapped at ground zero - and largely all alone with her memories and emotions, despite the surrounding pressures of aides, the press and the American people.

This is supremely confident filmmaking, incredibly affecting and features another stand out score from Mica Under the Skin Levi.

4. 20th Century Women

The second film on my list for both Annette Bening and Greta Gerwig, this is a wonderful story about the strengths and flaws found in both the family we’re given and the family we choose. With an anecdotal, episodic structure, it is less focused on plot and more on the individual moments that the characters in our lives provide us with; how they affect our own life story and evoke memories of a certain time and place.

It’s highly emotional, with touching asides and rambling voiceovers telling us numerous stories whilst keeping a sense of an anchor through the relationship between Jamie (Lucas Jade Zumann) and his mother Dorothea (Bening). The supporting cast is uniformly great, from Elle Fanning as the girl next door to Billy Crudup as a lonely tenant/handyman, this one really hit me hard. The late 70s period details, along with the soundtrack, and the sun bleached cinematography recalls the joy of discovering yourself through questionable music, bad decisions and rebellious behaviour. Check it out.

3. A Ghost Story

I doubt any other film this year left quite a long lasting impression as this one did. I couldn’t stop thinking about it afterwards and became rather obsessed with pretty much everything it accomplishes. It’s a fairly straight forward tale of a couple (Casey Affleck and Rooney Mara) whose relationship begins to feel the strain as they quietly realise they might want different things in life. We’re not privy to many more details, positioned as a voyeur which will continue as things unfold but before long, Affleck is killed in a simple car accident outside his home and seemingly rises from death to haunt his old home, dressed entirely in the hospital bed sheet his corpse was covered in. It’s a genius depiction of the traditional ghost - simultaneously off-putting, amusing, whimsical and ridiculous - and it’s also rooted in logic too. As the ghost continues to watch his Mara grieve for him (mesmerisingly encapsulated in an unbroken take of a depressed Mara eating an entire pie that her neighbour brought round), he (and us) slowly begin to notice time... breaking.

The way the passing of time is visualised here is beautifully simple - rather than the long slow fades that normally indicate transitions, here it is as sudden as the ghost turning around to look over his shoulder, through a series of hard cuts or sometimes, no cuts at all. That feeling of time literally slipping away is brutal and the ghost can do nothing but wander about, seemingly helpless to how fast things change. One moment, Mara packs up and leaves, the next a new family of three have apparently been living there for months. Ultimately, the film becomes a meditation on the importance we embue in places, not so much people. The house is the anchor - the core - of what the ghost latches on to and if you’ve ever had the feeling of wondering who lived in your home before you and who will be there after you’ve gone, this film will dig deep into your mind.

I found this to be a brilliantly low-fi way to tell a huge thematic story and the use of music throughout - including one central track in particular - only adds to it. If you can get past the pie-eating without thinking ‘da hell is this’, you’re in for a treat.

2. Dunkirk

I’m almost scared to put this so high. I’ve no doubt in my mind that it’s a five star film and it’s certainly the most visceral, immediate cinema going experience I’ve perhaps ever had (I caught it at the BFI IMAX, opening night, at a late showing and it truly does fill your entire periphery vision) but a part of me wonders if it will hold up on second viewing - i.e. if seeing it anywhere other than the IMAX will diminish it. Well, I’m sure it won’t be the same but I’m also convinced it won’t matter either because this is clockwork precision film making of the highest order; an exercise in narrative structure as well as simply being the most accurate representation of the event in question as there possibly could be.

Some people have complained that this film does a disservice to its characters but I disagree. The power of this story is that it’s the tale of the everyman - how all of these people, no matter the extent of their involvement or the merits of their bravery, became heroes. I don’t need to see the ‘movie’ version of this - where characters chat about their backstories or show photos of loved ones or do every other cliche around. I KNOW all that is going on within the frame but I don’t need to see it. What we’re seeing is the immediacy of these events, which heightens the terror and the hopelessness felt by everyone on that beach or in those boats or in those planes. The land/sea/sky split is impeccably done and the devotion to practical battle scenes is stunning. The aerial dogfights - in full IMAX - practically made me feel like I was strapped to a wing. But even looking past the spectacle, the performances DO bring out the heart of the characters we’re presented with. From Cillian Murphy’s PTSD riddled soldier to the steely determination of Mark Rylance to the rather genius casting of Harry Styles - the exact kind of kid who would have been swept up in this war - everyone is all in and they all blew me away. Especially Tom Hardy, in perhaps his most restricted role yet (it’s like Bane meets Locke), who garners the biggest cheers.

And Hans Zimmer’s epic score can make me sweat just thinking about it. A perfect compliment to the tightening framework and increasing stakes of the action.

1. La La Land

Where do I even begin with this? Full spoilers ahead, I couldn’t help myself.

Clearly, this isn’t a film for everyone. And I get that. Some people think it’s fine but kinda hate musicals. Others get frustrated with the character’s choices. Others would have preferred it to actually remain a musical throughout. I understand all of these criticisms but for me, it does perfectly what it sets out to do.

First of all, I personally love the musical numbers - from the jaw dropping opening of Another Day of Sun to the kinetic, glamourous rush of Someone in the Crowd to the heartfelt yearning of City of Stars. I think they’re great tunes, wonderfully performed and exceptionally shot. I think of the long one-shot takes of the first, the swimming pool splashdown of the second and the little smack on the shoulder of the third. They’re rooted in feeling, in character and in the tradition of Hollywood. They wear their influences on their sleeve but never feel like a parody. And to me, the sudden shift away from being a flat out musical at the end of the first act is not a misstep but entirely organic - this is the rare love story that has its head in the clouds (romantic dating montages, dreamlike dancing through the stars) as well as being brutally honest about what we want, how we get them and the sacrifices these things cost.

The movie starts out as this fantastical anti-meet-cute before morphing into a romantic fable full of wonderment but the moment the characters get together, it switches gears and becomes more grounded in reality. The music largely stops and the real world catches up. Arguments are had, compromises are made, promises are broken. This is the harsh truth of getting what you want at the cost of losing what you’ve perhaps always wanted. The tension between Sebastian (Ryan Gosling) and Mia (Emma Stone) becomes uncomfortable - he’s lying to himself about doing what he must to achieve his real dream, even despite Mia’s support and she is battling her own demons in chasing hers. It’s only when the film brings them to their lowest points does it slowly turn back into being something more magical. Sebastian returns to Mia with the news of a new audition, which results in the most raw song/anecdote of the film ‘Audition (The Fools Who Dream), and just as we’re swept into the happy ending we were promised from decades of these movies, the pair realise they have to do their own thing. “We’ll just have to wait and see”...

The film’s extended epilogue is where it really doubles down on this idea. As we’re treated to a return of the ‘full blown musical’, we see the true Hollywood version of this entire story, played out in dreamlike fast forward. Sebastian leaping off his piano to kiss Mia the second he meets her, the villainous J.K. Simmons snapping his fingers and stepping aside, Sebastian giving a standing ovation at Mia’s one woman show that he missed entirely before, the two of them travelling to Paris and crafting a life together that Mia actually did alone. On the surface, it’s a joyous, colourful, happy finale but the final curtain reminds you that it’s all been... a daydream. The road not travelled. So while the film ends with them both achieving their own desires, they’ve lost one another. This is the all-too-often-true cost of creative pursuit and fulfilment and it’s so rare to see it held aloft in the final reel of an Oscar winning movie that appears to be the exact opposite on the surface.

It’s daring, brave and imaginative and it hit me like a ton of bricks. Maybe I’m too soppy and maybe I’ve just ruined the entire plot for you (I definitely have) but I just couldn’t see anything topping this the moment I saw it. And I guess I was right. Damien Chazelle is a wizard and I can’t wait to see what comes next.

#top 10 #Films of 2017 #2017 #logan #film stars don't die in liverpool #baby driver #get out #raw #jackie #20th century women #a ghost story #dunkirk #la la land

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keepthingslocal · 5 years

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Elsie Paine Part 1: Brackenbury born and bred, she reveals how times have changed but somethings remain the same

Elsie Paine has lived in Cardross Street for all of her 87 years. In this fascinating account of a life in Hammersmith, she reveals how times have changed but somethings remain the same Sitting in her living room, Elsie Paine points at the spot where she was born 87 years ago. Her accent bears a soft London lilt as she lists her many relatives who have lived in her picturesque cottage in Cardross Street; her family home for over a century. The rented house was passed on from her grandparents to her parents and then to Elsie and her late husband, who she always refers to as: ‘my Jack’. Elsie is the only surviving resident to have been born and bred on the street. Her vivid recollections of the history and all the changes in Brackenbury Village are both a fascinating and moving account of the place she calls ‘a haven in Hammersmith’.

Elsie Paine (née Barrett) was born in May 1928, the younger of two daughters to Florence, a part time cleaner, and Edward, a carpenter. ‘I have known nowhere else, and I honestly believe that I could not have been brought up anywhere better than here,’ she says laughing. ‘It’s always been home to me. ‘My nan had five boys and two girls living here; I have no idea how they all slept in a lounge this size. They’d leave the front window open so they could get in and out.’ At that time the 19th century cottage had an outside toilet and three bedrooms. ‘We didn’t have a bathroom back then,’ she recalls, adding that all three bedrooms were upstairs – the third was converted into a bathroom only seven years ago. ‘We had an outside toilet and we had a tin bath, which, once a week would be put in front of the fire in the kitchen. My mum would then fill it with water boiled on the stove, and me and my sister, Lilly, would take it in turns to wash. We were never dirty. 'It was totally different. There were no motor cars parked up, you would see the occasional horse and cart, so all the children always played out on the street.’ ‘I remember Mondays were wash days. I would come home from Brackenbury School and all the gardens out the back were full of linen hanging on washing lines.’ In stark contrast to today, back then the Street was filled with children playing in the empty road. ‘It was totally different. There were no motor cars parked up, you would see the occasional horse and cart, so all the children always played out on the street.

‘At the top of the road there was a man who used to shoe horses. Us kids would sit for hours watching him. The smell was terrific. We would all go ‘Ohh!’ whenever he produced the red hot poker from the furnace. I also remember that one neighbour secretly kept a horse in the back garden.’ Regular parties held by residents were a major part of creating the street’s unique character, as Elsie fondly remembers. ‘There was a Scottish family over the road, and the two sons would come out every New Year’s Eve with their bagpipes. Everyone would go out into the street with a drink in their hand to listen to the lads welcome in the New Year. They really made it something. ‘In the summer, a bus took mums and kids on trips to Brighton.’ ‘We also held parties at Christmas and whenever the Allied Forces in WWII won a victory against the Germans. There was also a children’s day street party. It all helped create a real sense of community. ‘In the summer, a bus would take the mums and kids on a day trip to Brighton. The men would also have their day out which always started in the pub while they waited for the bus. When it arrived they got on board and opened the windows to throw pennies out for the children. I was always out there picking up the coins! ‘There used to be a greengrocers on the road and at Christmas the owner would bring his joanna – the piano – out to the front and one of the locals would play and sing Bing Crosby tunes. It was such a great night as everyone joined in the singing and dancing.’ Of the many characters living on Cardross Street a roguish bookie called Jim was renowned for a merry dance he led the police. ‘Jim ran an illegal bookies and the local copper was always trying to catch him. Everyone would leave their front doors open so that when he was taking bets inside on the horses they could keep an eye out for the police. ‘If someone saw a copper they would shout out, “Watch it old Jim, he’s about.” Jim would shout back, “I’m on it, I’m not silly, mate.” He would then disappear through the back gardens. At one point the policeman even hid in the laundry van to try to catch him. But, he never did.’ The residents forged a sense of community through celebration as much as they did loss. ‘When an elderly resident died on the street, two old ladies would go out with a basin and a book. They would knock on your door and ask for some money to help pay for the funeral and flowers. You’d put your name in the book and throw some money in the basin. Everyone wanted to help each other out.’ In her 20’s, Elsie worked as an assistant at a clothes shop in Kensington and there met Jack Paine who was on leave from the Army. They were married at Holy Innocents Church near Ravenscourt Park. At one point the newlyweds, her sister and her husband, and her parents all lived in their house.

‘We were one big happy family although it was a tight squeeze. My only regret is that Jack and I didn’t have any children. But, I had a good marriage, a good mum and dad; that’s what counts.’ ‘People today live a very different life to the one I know. They even have their shopping delivered to their door these days! Can you believe it? Both her parents died at the home; her father passed away when Elsie was in her 20’s, leaving her mother to survive on a widow’s pension. Her mother died more than 30 years ago. Her sister, who moved to a house over the road, passed away in 2013. Elsie’s husband died 23 years ago. For someone who has lived through a world war and seen dramatic technological changes of the 20th and 21st centuries (her family listened through their wall to a neighbour who owned the street’s first radio), it is often the little things that signify the biggest changes. ‘People today live a very different life to the one I know. They even have their shopping delivered to their door these days! Can you believe it? ‘When I was a kid no one bought their home, everyone rented. I think I’m one of the few people left here who still rents. But my nan would have a fit if she knew how much I am paying now!’ Looking back on a rich and varied life in the very room where it all began, Elsie shakes her head in disbelief as she considers how homes on her street now fetch more than £1 million. ‘It doesn’t make any sense. Everyone has gone crazy. Where do people get that kind of money from?,’ she asks. ‘I used to know everybody on this street back then. Nowadays I couldn’t tell you who is living where. It’s changed so much.’ SB *In the next issue Elsie recalls the horrors of the Blitz and its dramatic impact on the people of Hammersmith. Click to read the second instalment of Elsie’s life

Thanks to Jane and Michael Anderson for arranging this interview, and Hammersmith and Fulham Local Studies and Archives. Read the full article

#BrackenburyVillage #BrackenburyLocals #ElsiePaine #Hammersmith #HammersmithHistory #HammersmithLocals #KeepThingsLocal #streetparty #WWII

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willswalkabout · 7 years

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Sydney, Melbourne

This post is fairly delayed, as I departed Melbourne last Sunday, 20th. For reasons to be explained later I was extremely tired on the way home, followed by a pretty busy schedule while in the UK. I'm writing this entry during the last 2 hours of my Singapore to Auckland flight. The journey from hell to Sydney took its funniest twist when Melbourne airport informed me that I'd actually booked my 4th, and final flight of the last 36 hours, from their smaller more remote airport, Avalon. It was also to be the airport I would fly back into, and to this day I cannot work out the point of it. I could only laugh at this information, and was lucky that JetStar agreed to put me on the next flight from the airport I was standing in, for only £30. It would have cost me ~£100 to get the taxi to Avalon in time to catch my flight. I met Madeline, my aupere of 7 years previous, near her home in Bondi, where she had generously let me stay for the next 2 nights. After a pretty awful last 3 nights, spent ill, in a cell, and on a cramped plane, it was an incredible relief to have my own room, and the ability to wash clothes. That night I joined her at a cookout/dinner party hosted by some of her friends. The next day, and do forgive the details being a little weaker, this being two weeks back, I started out with an incredible brunch. Google had recommended it, and I since found out Sydney is well known for its brunch culture. It was also a wake up call to food prices, something I had come, well warned of. The meal with coffee was $24 Australian, for something that was delicious, but wouldn't come to £17 in the UK. This sadly meant that other than a few token occasions, I mostly ate pretty badly while in Australia. I then did the coastal walk from Bondi beach to Coogee beach, before getting a bus to Watson's bay. From here you can get a commuter/tourist ferry into Circular Quay. Monday was my only warm day, so it was nice to get the ferry into the Sydney Opera House and Harbour Bridge area. I walked to St Mary's cathedral, and then got the train back to Madeline's flat. That night I went for a great burger with Madeline and her boyfriend Morgan. The next day the weather was horrible so I lied in as long as possible so I'd be able to go straight to my hostel and check-in immediately. There's very little else to say about that day. In the evening I tried to find a couple of bars that I'd read about, but due to Sydney's ludicrous lockout laws they were closed. I walked to Mrs Macquarie's chair, a good viewpoint of the harbour. I was having quite a nice reflective moment when Sydney's heavens opened and I got absolutely drenched, before getting an uber back. The next day it was grim again but I managed to fill it by going up Sydney's sky tower, and then a tour of the Opera House. The tour is great, and the magnitude of the auditoriums is impressive. Sadly the one photo in this blog is the only photo I was able to sneak. With productions on the whole time photos were banned and the tour guide was quite scary, watching everyone leave before he left the room. That evening I hung out with an American who was on his 2 week break from an eight month tour of Afghanistan. He was clearly fairly senior and there was quite a bit he couldn't tell me about his life, but what he could sounded horrific, tiring, and a lifestyle you've got to believe in to take part in. On my last day I had to leave at 4 for a flight, and so I just went to the NSW art gallery, which was alright, and then made my way to the airport. I also had breakfast with Viv, who you'll find in the Thailand blog, and who had told me I simply had to visit Sydney. She then told me I simply had to come back as I hadn't seen enough sunny days. On arrival in Melbourne, which took a while cause the bus at the stupid rural airport was delayed and so it was two and a half hours from landing to hostel, I took a short walk around Melbourne river before finding myself the only person in my hostel room at midnight. A clear sign that Melbourne had a vastly different nightlife culture to Sydney. It did give me an opportunity to continue my addiction to the Netflix serial drama, 'The People vs OJ Simpson'. The next day I met up with Kitty, who was at forest sixth form. We went to Hosier Lane, famous for its street art, then to the library, and onto Brighton Beach, which is a warmer, cleaner, less busy, version of the British version. I also got pretty badly burnt there, something I'm still suffering from today. That night I went to see the Melbourne Rebels vs Waikato Chiefs (Rugby Union). The Rebels were supposed to get taken to pieces, given they had shipped 80 points the week previous, and this game was 18th vs 5th (in an 18 team league). The Chiefs did receive 2 yellow cards, but it was still impressive that the game was 14-14 with 10 minutes to go. Although Melbourne went down 27-14, the local papers the next day practically treated it as a victory they were so in shock. I then had a pretty late St Paddy's day night with some people from my hostel. This meant that the next day checking out at 10am was a struggle, and I didn't have a huge amount of energy to achieve much. I did walk around Melbourne's CBD for a bit, I had intended to go to St Kilda beach but in too much pain from the previous day's burn. Luckily I had Adele tickets with Kitty that evening, at the 75,000 seater Etihad Stadium. She was incredible, and came with her trademark self depreciating stories, and quirky mid show events, such as shooting t-shirts into the crowd, and revealing that she had hidden a letter behind the seat of the person she believed to have the 'worst seat in the stadium'. Despite buying the cheapest seats in the stadium we actually had a great view as the pictures hopefully show. It's taken me a long while to complete this blog, the plane landed and then I was busy etc, now sitting in the tent near Lake Taupo, NZ. So to cut a long story short, I wandered around Melbourne for a few hours that Saturday night, before going to the 24 hour casino to watch England lose to Ireland in the rugby. Then, heavily sleep deprived, I slept in the hostel's lounge room for the majority of Sunday, before flying home. At home I played in the old foresters hockey game, and was with family on Thursday for Granddad's funeral. I am so pleased I was fortunate enough to be able to get back for it, and I feel we did him justice. I'll try and post again after 10 days in NZ with a roundup. I will also add some photos to match these words, tomorrow night, when I will have better wifi.

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ccorinnef · 4 years

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Sketchbook Flipthrough: Dec 19 - Jun 20

One of the creative practices I have developed is to work in my sketchbook for one hour every day. It seems that the key to my personal creativity is consistency rather than quality. I have gone through so many sketchbooks in my developing career as an artist but this is the very first one that I have fully completed. I worked in this Seawhite of Brighton A5 sketchbook from December 2019 to June 2020.

This first page I was attempting to finish up my self-made Inktober prompts by drawing a Garden Chafer. I don't think I really did it justice but it got me past the dilemma of the first blank page. On the next page I've drawn a mandala - I love drawing mandalas to practice symmetry and linework.

This next drawing was for a Christmas present for my partner; it is one of his favourite Warhammer characters: The Green Knight. The composition of this piece was taken directly from the reference picture I had from a Warhammer book but I drew it in my style of ink illustration with a bold triangle frame. Next to this I tried my hand at some faux calligraphy by inking the words "lose hate not weight." This is a message that became a personal mantra in the post-Christmas and New Year diet culture frenzy that is so overwhelming and all-consuming.

This collection of small drawings is titled "Some things I found while walking the dog." It features some winter plants and a lot of litter as well as a turnip that had washed up with the recent floods, which my dog thought was the best ball ever.

This spread has a very simplified not-quite pattern of houses of different designs. I was just playing with different shapes and patterns to create the buildings and their features. Beside this we have a baby Yoda - can you tell we started the year watching the Mandalorian?

Next, I've drawn a very fine lined rendition of the Wallace Monument in Stirling - this one may become a print in the near future, I am as yet undecided. On the opposite page I've drawn another mandala, this time taking up the entire page. I love practicing my linework and incorporating more bold black elements is something I am going to work with more going forwards.

This is a random doodle page - I tend to have my sketchbook out on the counter while volunteering with Made In Stirling so I can doodle in between customers when it is quiet. I like to do these random shapes of lines to practice getting the flow and ease of specific line styles more natural. The drawing beside this is of Stirling Castle - this one is definitely going to become a print in my collection soon! I just love the combination of the semi circle and the trees.

On the next spread, I've done a simplified drawing of a local building - I use local estate agents pictures as reference images as they tend to take really good building pictures! The next drawing was another style I have really started to gravitate towards. It's a kind of line practice except in the style of a topographic map. I had great fun doing this and they'll definitely pop up in my sketchbook practices regularly in the future.

This drawing was one of the ones I did while idly watching TV to stop myself from fidgeting. It's just a collection of tiny leaves that look as though they are drifting slowly in the sky. On the opposite page is a weird lined abstract shape thing - I don't particularly like it, but bad art is just as important to the creative process as good art.

This next spread is another that I don't particularly like. On the left, I've drawn a group of tree shapes in a similar vein to the not-quite house pattern. On the right is an attempt at a more structured architectural drawing of a fancy modern style house. You can tell I got fed up of it by the time I got to the shading.

This next piece is actually my first ever drawing from life. I took a life drawing class at my local college at the start of the year to push my boundaries a bit. I just glued it into my sketchbook after class and folded it so it would fit properly. It was drawn in charcoal and I didn't use any setting spray on it so it has smudged a little bit. Beside this is a tiny collection of baby animals which I think I drew at one of the Community Creative Club meets. I will never not love baby hedgehogs - they are the cutest thing on this planet.

Next up, I've got a collection of the local birdlife. These are all birds that I have seen around my home and tried to identify as best as possible. The heron, which I had mentally named Herman and saw every morning, unfortunately died after being caught in the floods of the start of this year. I have since seen another heron take its place in the misty mornings. This spring it was a delight to watch the swan and duck families grow up - we saw the same goosander family almost every day and took great delight in witnessing the mum duck diving under the ducklings and teaching them how to swim and forage.

This drawing is another random linework practice piece - it's kind of noodly. On the right is a drawing of Mooncake from Final Space which we were watching at the time. Chookity Pok!

This is another simplified building drawing using local estate agents' pictures as reference images. Beside this, is another drawing from my life drawing class. In this activity I thouroughly misunderstood the instructions so everyone else in the class ended up with tiny drawings on the side of their bigger collaborative pieces.

Next, we have another topographic style line drawing but a lot more simplified, as well as one of the first of my portraiture practices for the 100 Heads Challenge.

This two page spread is another piece from my life drawing class - this time I drew with materials more familiar to me, using white ink to add highlights and make the figure pop out from the brown of the paper.

On the next pages I've drawn a leafy plant and a Totoro - this was when Netflix started adding Studio Ghibli to its catalogue.

This next drawing is another that I don't particularly like, I think I just got the composition not quite right. It's a kind of composite of a few different trees that formed the view out of our cabin window on our February holiday to Aviemore. Beside this I've drawn a collection of simple fine line mushrooms.

The next page is an attempt at illustrating a map of an imaginary town - I have mixed feelings about it. On the opposite page is an aimless doodle of tiny flowers, for no particular reason.

Next is a page of random tiny doodles which almost looks like a (really bad) tattoo flash sheet. On the right I've drawn a self-portrait.

Next is almost a cartoon board but made up of intricate food illustration. I wanted to really test my textures with ink in this piece to try and capture a sense of likeness of the food items. Also, a pine cone. I have a weird obsession with pine cones.

On the left is a kind of spiderweb doodle which was probably another line work practice. On the right is another piece from life drawing class which I've just glued in so as to keep a memento of my progress.

This drawing is yet another one from life drawing class where I used different colours of ink pens to create depth and shadows in the model. Beside this is a drawing of a monument in Edinburgh called the Dugald Stewart Monument.

Another piece from my life drawing class is followed by a rough sketch of the Falkirk Kelpies.

The next two pages are made up of another piece from life drawing class - I like the way I've used different shades of ink to add highlight and lowlight to the figure.

Here is a monument in my typical style, this one is a part of Glasgow University. And next to this is another very simplified topography style map.

This spread features more monuments of Glasgow - the Duke of Wellington Statue (complete with cone hat, obviously) and the Clyde Auditorium. Both of which will become prints before long.

These next drawings are of another topographic map and the Falkirk Kelpies. These Kelpies took me about two weeks to draw in total because there are just so many intricate details.

Up next is a couple more monuments, the Stirling Robert the Bruce statue, and Edinburgh's Greyfriars Bobby.

The next drawing is another in my usual style of Castle Stalker. I love how this one turned out and it will definitely be in my shop soon! Beside this is an attempt at drawing a building from the Royal Mile in Edinburgh - I don't think it turned out very well, I got some of the angles of walls a bit wrong.

This next page features a simple drawing of a piece of hawthorn blossom that I found earlier this year. Beside this is a cute little Japanese building which I've coloured in with pencils. I was inspired to draw this from watching Midnight Diner on Netflix.

This painting was one of the first that I did during lockdown - it's of some daffodils that smudged a wee bit. On the right is an ink illustration of St Andrew's Cathedral, which also has some smudged daffodil paint.

This spread includes a yin and yang mandala and another colour pencil Japanese style house.

This is some more linework practice. On the left is a drawing of some wintery cow parsley stalks. On the right is some simple lined circles - I really like how when they cross over each other it appears like cross hatching.

This next page was inspired by watching Chris Riddell's IGTV's during lockdown. Beside this is a fuzzy bumble butt grazing on a thistle.

These next two drawings are my first tentative steps into character design - when I'm learning something new I tend to take inspiration from artists that already work in a particular way so that I might pick up some of their tricks along the way.

The next spread features another tiny building and an adorable mouse peeking out of a tulip flower.

Next is another practice of character drawing and an attempt at a fairytale style house, I didn't get the proportions quite right unfortunately.

On the left is a drawing of a treehouse which looks like an amazing place to live. On the right is an illustration of Fenton Tower - you might recognise it as Archie's humble abode from Balamory.

Next is another couple of spaghetti like line practices. I love playing with flow and texture within linework.

This drawing is a local building, the reference picture came from estate agents’ images. Beside this is some triangular line practice with the crossing over crosshatching again.

This is an illustration in my usual style of Dunnottar Castle - it will soon be in my avaible print collection. Next to this is an ink and watercolour drawing of a building from Culross, Fife where they have very distinctive white washed walls and bright brick edging.

This is another spread of linework practice - this time with squares and another topographic map.

This is a funky building I found online and wanted to draw - it's wedged between two sheer cliff faces! Next to this is a random page of scraps really. I started trying to draw some fairytale buildings before abandoning that idea and splashing some watercolour over the page instead. I then added this small watercolour painting of Kate from @kateshappinessjourney, which I tried to paint with a colour palette similar to Fran Menses.

These are two paintings of tiny country cottages done in ink and watercolour. I really enjoyed doing these and will probably do more going forward. Beside this is another bumble butt on a flower.

This is another Studio Ghibli inspired drawing and some character design practice. On the right is a couple more tiny watercolour cottages.

This page is has a random drawing from a reference on Instagram of a person wrapped up in a blanket along with a quote that reads: "I have planted worth, beneath my skin, in all the places, you made me doubt." Beside this is a practice loose watercolour painting of some flowers and leaves in a vase. It's not my usual style but I like to practice using watercolour regularly so that I can continue to develop my skills.

Next up is a collection of tiny drawings taken from scrolling through Instagram - I do this particularly when I want to draw but don't have a specific subject in mind. On the right hand side is a little landscape painting in gouache. I'm still learning how to use this medium so I don't expect masterpieces any time soon!

This is another weird building drawing - it did not turn out how I had envisioned so I am quite disappointed with it. On the adjoining page is a Draw This In Your Style challenge from @moonylux on Instagram. Its a very dainty and glamourous looking mermaid that I quite enjoyed drawing.

Here are some more gouache painting practices of some Scottish landscapes. I really like how my use of brushstrokes makes the paintings more vibrant and alive. Beside this is a little line drawing practice of some ocean waves.

This next drawing is another bumble butt on a flower. I think I might turn these into a print. On the right is a tiny collection of watercolour snails being adorable and curious creatures. I'm low-key obsessed with snails - I always move them from the path after the rain so they don't get stood on. I think these paintings could do with another layer of paint to increase the saturation of the colours.

This is an ink drawing of a Jackalope. I wish I could have one as a pet because they are so freaking cute. On the other side of this spread is another gouache practice piece - this one of a pink flower on a dark blue background.

This is another in my series of mythological creature illustrations. It's a fairy based off of the flower fairy drawings by Cicely Mary Barker in her books. Next to this is my first attempt at creating a repeating pattern for Minnie Small's #minniemission. It did not go well but I like to keep the scraps of my ideas.

This is a series of sketches for a commission for The Kitchen at 44. I often test out ideas in my sketchbook - sometimes completing the whole commission in my sketchbook and other times, as in this case, transferring the drawings over to something more fit-for-purpose (like watercolour paper).

Here is another of the great Scottish mythological creatures - this one is a Kelpie which features in stories across the country. Beside this I've done another gouache practice, of yet another landscape... I miss my studio and my acrylic paints a lot, but I am having great fun learning to use a new medium!

This is an illustration of a bean-nighe, or washer woman, who foretells death when she is seen washing the bloodied clothes of the people who are about to die. She also has breasts so saggy and cumbersome that she throws them over her shoulders to keep them out the way while she works. Next to this is a drawing of a building inspired by Ian Mcque's incredibly intricate illustrations.

This next drawing is another mythological creature illustration - this one is an uilbheist of Orkney and Shetland legend. This three headed sea serpent protects the islands from danger. On the right, is a little gouache seascape study. I really like how this one turned out.

This is another gouache study - I don't like how this one turned out much but there are tiny elements of this piece that I like. Beside this is some portrait practices for the 100 Heads Challenge - the challenge is to do 100 Heads in 10 days but that is way too difficult for me to achieve, so I just practice some here and there when I want to draw something different.

This is an illustration of a Boobrie, another of Scotland's mythological creatures. Beside this is some more portrait practice. I don't think I did these ones very well - but that is exactly why it is called a practice.

Here is a random piece of paper that I was testing pens on when decluttering. Over the top of it I've just drawn a quick flower doodle. Next to this is a collection of some of the Black Lives Matter protestors from June. Please keep this movement alive, listen and learn as much as possible. Only we can make the future better.

This next drawing is a commission I did for a friend who is about to embark on her probation year as an English teacher and wanted some literary themed illustrations to make signposts for her classroom. They are Narnia, Desire St, and East Egg, since they are some of her favourite stories. Beside this, on the right, is a collection of random shapes drawn with a highlighter and then turned into cartoony people. This kind of drawing practice really pushes you to look at shapes in a different way.

Here is some more portrait practices. I'm quite pleased with these. Next to this is some random leafy doodles, just for the hell of it.

This is another simplified house using a reference image from local estate agents. Beside this is another topographic map style linework practice.

Here is a creature by Karolina Plutowska from the book 'Sketching from the Imagination: Creatures and Monsters.' Practicing drawing like this helps me learn new ways of approaching illustration that I might not have considered before. Of course, I would never seek to claim any kind of profit or credit for drawings like these since they are based on someone else's artwork. On the right, is some more portrait practices which I never got around to inking. The pencil lines are very faint but you can see that I use a lot of shapes and lines to get the proportions right and help map out the whole page before I ink.

And this very last spread consists of another creature drawing from the book 'Sketching from the Imagination.' It is an illustration by Ksenia Bakhareva which I am particularly fond of. On the very last page of this sketchbook I've stuck in the finished repeating pattern that I made for Minnie Small's #minniemission. I am really pleased with how this piece came out and I can't wait to turn it into something fun!

And there you have it! That is the entire contents of my last sketchbook - dated from December 2019 to June 2020. It was been a wild few months but I've grown a lot as a person and as an artist, as can be seen from my sketchbook progression.

I hope you enjoyed taking a look inside my sketchbook. I use it basically as a place to store all of my art and treat each page as a new opportunity to practice my skills and talents. Not everything you create has to be a masterpiece but the act of practicing your skills every day will get you so much more creative than you ever thought possible .

#sketchbook #art skills #art #artwork #creative

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