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beatrice-otter · 5 years ago

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Yuletide Recs 2019

Happy Yuletide, everyone! First, I got a delightful little fic written for me: promenade. My Fair Lady, Eliza Doolittle and Mrs. Higgins. Wonderful story. Mrs. Higgins was superb, and Eliza's reactions to the English upper class abroad are perfect. Here are some other fics I have enjoyed: 4'33"--John Cage The Sound Of A Yuletide Fic Not Being Written. There sure are a lot of cars going by. Great meta look at writing, and 4'33" The Addams Family (movies) An Addams Family Contract (Written in Secret, Signed in Blood). “I’m an Addams,” Debbie protests indignantly. Immediately after making this statement, Debbie realized that it was true. (Or, Wednesday wants to exorcise Debbie. Debbie wants to kill Wednesday. A negotiation begins.) This is AMAZING and hysterically funny, and the thought of Debbie and Wednesday working together is TERRIFYING. Don't I Deserve Love (and Jewelry). The plan to win Wednesday’s friendship did not start well. She shared her admiration for the girl’s blowtorch, then hinted about her own childhood affinity for matchsticks and fire accelerants, but Wednesday was unimpressed. Do better,” she said before lowering her hockey mask and stalking after Pubert. Honeymoon in Transylvania. Ahahahaha, this is wonderful. Gomez and Morticia vs. the TSA! Alien Series A Room with a Crappy View. 17k of Ripley and Hicks awesomeness post-Aliens. This is an absolutely AMAZEBALLS fic, and I LOVE it. I love that they deal with their trauma. I love how they wrote the Colonel, doing the best she could on the evidence she had and how frustrating that was and yet, when you look at it from her POV, what better way could she have handled it? The action is great, the relationships between Ripley and Hicks and Bishop were awesome, this is an absolute treat. All About Eve Getting Back to Being a Woman. Karen knew enough not to go to New Haven. Never let it be said that Margo Channing doesn't know how to take care of her friends. I love this. I could just hear Bette Davis and the others saying their lines, and the ending is perfect--I think Karen and Lloyd will be able to have a much better relationship after this, if he's willing to accept and live into the changed relationship. Till I have the possession of everything she touches. Addison DeWitt/Eve Harrington and their daughter. VERY well done Addison perspective. Aubrey-Maturin series. Vent de Boulet. Jack & Aubrey, Teen. The aftermath of Stephen's escape from the French interrogators at Port Mahon. Wonderful portrayal of the relationship between them and natural consequences of their trauma-filled lives. Babette's Feast Body and Soul. After the French dinner, a new normal established itself among the faithful. Ballet Shoes A Long Way from the Cromwell Road. Petrova visits Pauline in Hollywood after the war ends. Bletchley Circle Logical Recovery. After the showdown with Marta Magro at the warehouses, Jean, Millie, and Lucy embark for Glasgow to find Eliška. Archival research, an extended stay with Jean's cousin, undercover rescue missions, and much emotional processing of past events ensue. Cabaret Infinite Variety. London, 1950. Clifford has coming looking for Sally. Instead he finds a girl who may or may not be her – or their – daughter, the reclusive former Master of Ceremonies, and an annoying parrot. He becomes part of their strange household, full of love and bickering; sorrow, pain and music. No-one will tell him where Sally is, or even whether she’s alive. No-one will tell him anything. Except the parrot, who tells him that life is a Cabaret. Oh, wow, this is painful but SO GOOD and the ending is perfect. DC Teen Titans From Cold to Fire. "Do you want to go out with me?" "What?" Young Justice Getting Stupid in your area. Hang-time includes considerations of evil clones and taking down a newly raised lich lord. Love the banter. Die Hard Your Answers Please. “Come on, kid,” McClane said gruffly. “This place is fucking depressing. You’re coming to stay with me.” Enchanted Forrest Chronicles Best Served Cold. In which Antorell causes trouble in the Enchanted Forest, and Cimorene and Alianora make an amphibious new friend. Hilarious, I love Ribbita! Ghostbusters Better Than Roses. Janine dates. It's...something. The Goblin Emperor Imperial (non) Immunity. Csevet doesn't get sick. Maia's not so confident. Light a Mourner's Candle. The Archprelate finds a chaplain for Maia. Against a Sure Winter. When the opportunity arose to become one of the four ceremonial bodyguards for the new Emperor, Cala Athmaza volunteered. He didn't fully realize what he was letting himself in for, but he knew in his heart he had made the right choice. Sugar Lumps. Maia spends some time with his horse. Greek Mythology beauty, her artificers. Shortly after their wedding, Aphrodite sustains a small wound. Really great Aphrodite/Hephaestus dynamic. a thing of beauty, golden. Olympus’ one-century wonder appears in Hephaestus’ workshop between one strike on his anvil and the next.. Another really great Aphrodite/Hephaestus fic. Hancock yeah I know the shortcut, rather take the long way. Ray daydreams a New York that looks a lot like something out of an old Daredevil comic - towers looming over the city like cragged, jaded sentries, impartial to the neon kaleidoscope of chaos churning along below them. Hancock roosts on the tallest, craggiest one of course, brooding as he watches the slow pulsing heartbeat of the city below him. Ready to dive off his perch and into action with the first cry of distress, and there’s probably lots of those in a city like New York. Lots of zooming around, saving people, saving the world. Hopefully with slightly less metaphorical middle fingers to the world. And less alcohol. Ray’s not an idiot though, and one sparkly life-changing month doesn’t just fix people. History RPF 15th Century. these late eclipses. Anne Neville, like others of her line, is born with a gift. I LOVE the way magic is brought into this, it melds so well with the history. 19th Century/German folklore The Bargain. Bettina finds a secret door at her grandmother's house, one that leads to something very unexpected. The things she learns as a result change her life in small but important ways. Imperial Radch Still Left in Want of Mercy. The Republic of Two Systems is about a month old. Seivarden is having yet another crisis - can Mercy of Kalr get her through it? Maybe, with the crew's and Fleet Captain's help. Interesting Ship perspective. high above the trees. An unexpected embassy. Really excellent, probably the best way I've ever seen "Awn Lives" done. The Incredibles Life of a Superhero, Junior Grade. Fortunately, this was Tuesday night training, not a real villain-chasing experience. Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell The Magicians of Starecross Hall. Being a series of interludes in the life of John Segundus, newly practical magician, in the year following the disappearances of Messrs. Strange and Norrell. Including: a new school for young magicians, explorations of the King’s Roads, Lady Pole’s alarming needle-work, unanticipated trips to Faerie, and John Childermass. I love this story! How the school got started, and 'Miss Wintertowne' (although I do think she would style herself 'Mrs' Wintertowne, because she is married and up through the 18th Century 'Mistress/Mrs' vs. 'Miss' had as much to do with age and experience and such as it did with marital status) and how she uses embroidery as a kind of art therapy. I love the slow burn, and I love the stuff about exploring the King's Roads and Faerie. It is excellent and awesome. Lilo & Stitch The Dance. Lilo peeked out from behind the curtains and looked over the stage. A Little Princess Discipulae. "I just realized," Sara said. "Becky, I could have a tutor now. I could hire someone to teach me anything I wanted. All the things that are hard to learn alone from books — Greek and Latin, Sanskrit, algebra, anything I wanted. What would you learn, Becky, if you could?" Really great look at what their lives could be like post-canon. Marvel Captain Marvel Take my hand (and we'll march to the front lines). There's a dream Vers has sometimes. this youthful heart can love you. Carol waited a week before she left with the Skrulls. Space Cases. Monica tried many other times to win her mother over to a pet. A rabbit, a pony, a parakeet. This is not any of those stories. This is the story of Monica Rambeau and a Flerken named Goose. Or: Why Nick Fury is never allowed to babysit ever again. The Tesseract's Wife. A straight line is not the shortest distance between two points: non-linear snapshots of a love story. Fly Me To The Moon. "It's a vacation. Like spring break," Carol says. Monica's eyes widen. "Really? So we can hang out? What are we going to do?" "Well," Carol says, leaning back in her chair and flashing that old, familiar smirk. "I thought we could go to the moon." Into the Spiderverse i got you. Miles thinks he's hiding the truth about Spider-Man, but one unfortunate night, it comes to light. one last leap. Telling his parents he's Spider-Man is a leap of faith Miles can't bring himself to take. My Life to Liv. Liv survived her encounters with her interdimensional Spider-nemeses, of course. So what's next for her? Interdimensional Phone Pals. Gwen Stacy is many things, but open to friendships isn’t really one of them. Or, Five rules Gwen makes for herself, and how Peter B. makes her question them. Into the Spiderverse/Murder, She Wrote Spider, She Wrote. Miles and May visit her old friend Jessica in Cabot Cove. Mulan (1998) the proper order of things. Great outsider perspective. The Mummy After the Mummy. London was becoming Rick's least favourite place, and not just because of all the rain. Loving Evy was one thing: figuring out whether she loved him back after the Egyptian heat faded away was something else. Where's a good rising of the undead when you need one? Don't worry, Jonathan found one. Lovely fun adventure. Course Correction. Jonathan really is serious about staying away from tombs and mummies this time (except trouble always seems to find him). Good thing Ardeth is there to help him stay on-track. Travelers by Night. Very quickly, Jonathan weighed the odds. On one hand, potential death, whether by armed bandits, a mummy’s curse, or people who looked like bandits and who were very angry about someone unleashing a mummy’s curse. On the other hand, potential riches, home ground, and topics of conversation other than what happened at school fifteen years ago and who got it in the neck where. Murderbot How I Spent My Vacation Between Survey Missions. What happens when ART reunites with Murderbot during another break between research survey missions? Media gets viewed, of course, but there might also be some bad news for more shady corporations. Situation Normal. Hi, I said, along with amusement sigil 159 = wave. It seemed a little inadequate, but what do you say to the ship that radically altered your appearance, helped you figure out your past, and also threatened you with terrifying weapons? Amusement sigils seemed like my best bet. My Fair Lady Here We Are Together. Eliza and Freddy are working together. Henry isn't happy, and makes sure everyone knows it. One Day at a Time what they say about the young. Without the kids around, it feels like everything has changed, except for all the other things about Penelope's life that could change, too. a return to normal. Penelope and Schneider's Friday night plans fall through, so they have a movie night instead. Very sweet. Persuasion. The Pen in Their Hands. Five letters that were written, but were never sent, aboard H.M.S. Laconia. (And one that was.) Smooth Water. “If I wanted easy comfort, I should not have become a captain’s wife.” Wonderful Austen voice. A Step Not Taken. What if that day at Lyme had gone just a little differently? Peter Wimsey The Duke's Parlormaid. A story in correspondence, with detective interruptions. Really captured the feel of the books and all the character voices. Poirot The Mice Will Play. When Poirot returns unexpectedly from a case, he finds out something new about Miss Lemon. RED The One Bathtub. “I did have dinner plans,” Han said, grudgingly, and so Victoria kicked the door in and graciously allowed Han to be the first into the bathroom. She understood the pain of missed reservations. Rivers of London Through All the Years, This Is My Home. At night, when the rest of the staff and most, if not all, of the masters were asleep, Molly would wander the moonlit halls and remember what fresh air felt like on her skin. Of Molly, of Thomas, and of the years they've spent together - and of the Folly, strong and everlasting. Lovely Molly perspective. Peelian Principles. "You're very calm about this," Seawoll said on the fifth day. Nightingale's perspective on Peter's time as a hostage, and REALLY AWESOME. UXB. When one the deadliest weapons of the Blitz threatens London once again, Peter finds himself on the front line. Wonderful casefic, just perfect. Saved! Conversation Starters. Cassandra and Roland have five important conversations. Sense and Sensibility Realization and Renewal. As Marianne recovers, Elinor and Colonel Brandon find themselves drawn to one another. Sense8 Blue and Gold. Wolfgang comes home with Kala and Rajan after Paris. Finding a place with them. Star Trek: Rihannsu Day Comes Up New. "I have done something spectacularly stupid," Arrhae said. This is a wonderful extension and meditation on what might happen past canon. Ever since I first read The Romulan Way as a teen, I've wondered what happened to Arrhae in the end, and the subsequent books were great but didn't answer the ultimate question. This doesn't either, but it suggests something further, which I appreciate. Terminator Movies A Fistful of Sarahs. The sky cracks open, and Sarah watches herself tumble out of a rift in the space time continuum. She’s older than she is now, and she’s got a lot more scars, and she’s carrying the biggest and weirdest looking gun Sarah’s ever seen. with all the hope in my heart (and doubt in my mind). Sarah Connor has done this before. Dani has not. Post-Terminator: Dark Fate. Fate, the Future, and Other Sons of Bitches. Sarah and Dani hit the road. Winnie the Pooh In Which Pooh Hunts for the Meaning of Christmas. Pooh finds a mysterious envelope pinned to the door of his house. In Which Eeyore Loses His Tail Again, Or At Least Plans To. It's a bright, sunny day, and Eeyore has a plan to make it tolerable. Now if only his friends will cooperate.

#fic rec #fanfiction #fanfic #yuletide

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spartanguard · 6 years ago

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honeymooning (A Tall Tail)

I couldn’t let @initiala‘s 30th birthday pass without some mersmut, could I? heck no!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FRIEND!!! Hope it’s been a lovely day and thanks for being amazing and always down for merman shenanigans :)

a/n: Just Emma and Killian doing waht couples do on their honeymoons. Except, you know, with mermaid tails. RATED SO M; 1.8k ish

The railing pressed hard into her lower back, but there was too much other good stuff going on for Emma to mind a bit of discomfort. It was hard to worry about something digging into your kidneys when you were far more concerned with what was happening on top of you—

—that being your super sexy husband, naked as the day he was born (save for a couple choice accessories), kissing you like he was a drowning man and you were air.

Or, more appropriately, he was a merman out of sea and you were water.

Something like that; I really suck at metaphors.

(But it’s also hard to come up with them when he’s the one sucking on my neck like that.)

To be fair, she was naked, too, and they were on the deck of the Jolly Roger, a mile out from land and not another soul in sight. How else were they supposed to spend their honeymoon?

His hand was hot on her waist and his hook was equally cool on the other side, a balance that always confused her flying hormones once they got to this point. And the coarse brush of his chest hair against her bare nipples only added to it, made all the worse (or better?) by the press of his growing erection so close to where she needed it—but not close enough.

She tried to amend that by hitching a leg up, using her calf to press against his pert rear end and push his stiffening length against her waiting arousal. Almost...there… “oof!”

But he wasn’t ready for her to shift their shared weight like that and ended up being pushed off balance, pinning her against the railing and only staying upright by quickly grabbing the edge, his hook no doubt leaving a mark. And my back will definitely be bruised.

“You alright, love?” he breathed, voice still wrecked despite the concerned tone. He was looking her over for any obvious sign of injury, but she felt fine, albeit impatient, so just grabbed his neck to resume their previous activities.

She’d barely gotten a few pecks in before he pulled back, chuckling. “Eager, are we, my wife?” he teased, using her new title. She was still getting used to it, but loved the way it sounded, as much as she was enjoying the use of husband now.

“Uh, yeah,” was her simple reply. “Aren’t you?”

“Always,” he purred. “But we have all the time in the wo—ooooooh,” he tried to lecture, but she cut him off with an expert brush of her fingers down his pecs, pressing a bit harder over his nipples. His head fell back and eyes closed as he basked in the pleasure, the full moon light showing off the cords of his neck.

“Enough talk,” she murmured. “More action.”

She tried to grip his waist and tug him close again, but he stilled; she could feel the muscles of his abs working against her hands. “You want action?” he asked, putting a weird emphasis on the last word.

“Yes,” she replied, almost annoyed.

“You want...an adventure?” he continued, leaning over and speaking softly into her ear; his hot breath made her shiver.

“Please,” she practically whined.

“Then come and get it.” His voice was low but his smirk was full of mischief. And in a move that he’d clearly rehearsed, he stepped back, tugged off his cuff, and used those ample biceps to launch himself over the railing before the transformation had even finished. I should have seen that coming, really. She watched as he gave her a come-hither wave of his tail before disappearing below the surface.

“Bastard,” she muttered under her breath as she scrambled to find her own cuff, lost somewhere in the mess of strewn clothes that covered the deck. Thankfully, she was able to catch a glimpse of the moonlight glinting off it from under where her lacy bra sat discarded near the helm.

Not wasting any more time, she perched on the quarterdeck rail, slipped it on, and dove into the sea. It took a second to get her bearings once she was underwater—having a tail instead of legs always threw her for a momentary loop—but only one more to see his golden scales swimming away ahead of her. Does he not understand the point of a honeymoon? she wondered. We’re supposed to be together, for fuck’s sake.

As fast as she could, she swam to catch up to him, thankfully not far from the ship; he was waiting with that same cocky smirk on his face that always had her torn between wanting to punch it off or kiss it off. (Usually kissing won. Who was she kidding—it always won.)

“Now, most brides would have cause to worry when their husbands run away from them on their honeymoon,” she lectured once she got her breath. “What gives?”

He grabbed her waist and drew near, wrapping his tail around hers. “If it’s adventure you desire, love, then what better one than this: coming together here, in the open? No barriers, no walls—of any kind; just as we are.”

“Well, this isn’t exactly as I am,” she countered, flicking her fin against his. “But I see what you mean.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and placed a kiss on his lips, hoping to resume where they’d left off. I really don’t care where we get it on, as long as we do.

He responded in kind—but only for a bit (nowhere near long enough, in my opinion), pulling away and looking up at the dappled moonlight overhead while thoughtfully humming.

“You better have a damn good idea for you to not be kissing me right now,” she scolded playfully and squeezed his tail with hers, pressing her aching nun against the bulge that told her he was just as keyed up as she was. So let’s do something about it already!

“What if we were able to have the best of both worlds?” he suggested.

“What do you mean?”

“Follow me.”

She didn’t have much of a choice, entwined as they were, but she did what she could to help him swim to the surface. They broke through with an instinctive gasp and bobbed in the water for a long moment; she got lost in watching the droplets of water as they traveled down his beautiful face, their edges illuminated by the moon until they rejoined the sea.

“How’s this, then?” Killian said quietly. “Half in, half out?”

Her jaw dropped, though she didn’t really know why—it was the perfect solution. Her expression quickly morphed into a grin. “Sounds amazing.” And she didn’t waste any more time, claiming his lips once more.

Things had never really cooled down, even with the ambient temperature being less than ideal, so it only took a bit of tonsil hockey and light fondling (her breasts, his pecs—I just love the feel of his chest hair underwater) to be raring to go again.

Maybe it was their True Love connection, or maybe it was just how well he knew her, but no words needed to be said for him to unsheath his length, putting just enough space between them to get himself ready while not letting up the kiss. Carefully but quickly, she too grabbed his cock and guided it to where she was waiting and ready. And he slid in easily, filling her wholly.

It was definitely different, how she felt almost like an outsider looking in on their coupling—with all the times they’d done it both above and below the surface, it was like there was a disconnect from the rest of her body with their connection being submerged. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like it.

“Good?” Killian breathed.

“Yeah,” was her equally breathy answer.

“Good,” he said again, and then started to move.

It was like everything was delayed—it still felt amazing, but almost like it took longer for her brain to catch up to her body. Every thrust felt incredible; each nibble of his lips on her neck gave her goosebumps; and she could slowly feel tension building within. But even though his pace was anything but languid, it was a slow burn—and it was divine.

Her hands roamed the expanse of his firm back, gripping his waist and tracing where skin turned into scale, and grinning at the way he jumped when she traced the line of hair below his belly button. It seemed like an eternity that they were there, moving as one and slowly coming unwound together.

Finally, she felt like she was approaching her peak; the frothy bubbles surrounding them, as well as Killian’s now-frantic pace, let her know that he was, too. “Are you—” he stuttered, not slowing at all.

“Mhmm,” she hummed, incapable of actual speech.

He nodded into her shoulder, where his head came to rest while his hand found itself drifting from her breast to where they were joined. She loved how he always insisted on being the one to help her finish, no matter where they were.

Not being able to see well through the surface meant his hand wandered a bit before he found his goal, but as soon as he pressed against her mermaid clit, she was gone, gripping his shoulders tight as she fell off the edge and let the waves of pleasure carry her away (just like the tide might, if we’re not careful...oh, but who cares?).

Killian’s stuttered movements eventually stilled, and she could feel him pulse within her as she held onto him tight in any way she could. Heck, she thought she was seeing rainbows; is True Love’s bang a thing? (She wasn’t sure she wanted to ask Regina that.)

Some unknown amount of time later, they were floating—literally and figuratively—completely wrapped in each other. The moon had moved a bit, the only thing letting them know how long they’d been there (or, at least letting Killian know). They should probably get back to the ship, and maybe get some rest—they had gotten married that morning, after all—but honestly, this was the only place she wanted to be.

“I love you, Emma.”

“I love you too, my sexy merman.”

He chuckled. “So eloquent, darling.”

“Yeah, but now you’re stuck with me.”

“I can think of much worse fates,” he shrugged; she lightly slapped his chest, but was running out of energy for anything more malicious. “Now, I think there’s a bed calling our name; what do you say, love?”

“Yup. And then maybe we do this again?” That’s what honeymoons are for, right?

He just laughed again. “Obviously.”

“Okay.”

Emma let herself be carried away with him as he swam back to this ship, and had just enough left in her to toss his cuff at him once they got on board. He insisted on carrying her over the threshold—or rather, down the ladder—to his quarters, and was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

(But she was up again a few hours later for the next round. This time, they both had legs, and the only thing digging into her back was the bunk’s mattress. There’s plenty of time to mess around, though.)

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thanks for reading! and be sure to give A some birthday love! tagging some mermates: @kat2609 @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @xpumpkindumplingx@optomisticgirl @phiralovesloki @shipsxahoy@clockadile @kmomof4 @snowbellewells@branlovestowrite @word-bug@idristardis@sherlockianwhovian @wordsmith-storyweaver @wingedlioness@theonceoverthinker @annytecture and I know there are more but it’s almost bedtime and i needed to get this posted.

#cs ff #cs smut #mermaid!killian #mermaid!cs #a tall tail #my ff #mermay 2019

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knifeshoeoreofight · 6 years ago

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Zhenya works with a lot of other pilots. He prides himself on his ability to get along with anyone in the confines of a cockpit just fine. He’s a convivial guy, and he’s a professional.

But there’s something special about working with Sid. Whenever he spots those unmistakable shoulders in the crew lounge, he can’t stop himself from grinning ear to ear. There’s just something about him. Besides how good he makes the uniform look.

He’s an incredible pilot, for one. Dedicated and exacting in a way Zhenya knows drives other people nuts, but that Zhenya respects. Serving as Sid’s First Officer is an experience. Sid treats the mundane routine of a flight from New York to Pittsburgh with the intensity and precision of a military exercise.

And then there’s the other side to his personality. Warm, and dorky, and oddly shy. It’s charming beyond belief. Sid, once coaxed into casual conversation (and Zhenya is good at coaxing) can make a long haul flight feel short. He talks lovingly of his friends and family, he rants about hockey, and what he doesn’t know about his own profession isn’t worth knowing.

And, well. He’s beautiful. There’s that. Every once in a while, Zhenya will get absolutely lost in watching Sid’s gorgeous mouth and pretty eyes as he expounds upon WWII aircraft design or the current weather conditions and needs to rip his attention back to the controls and his, you know, job.

All that, and he’s kind. As much as he talks, he listens intently, with a patience not many people have for Zhenya’s occasionally stumbling English. He always asks about Zhenya’s family, he remembers personal details and he’s just….he’s just…

Zhenya is fucked, basically, is what.

EWR-MIA (Newark to Miami)

Sid has just given his perfectly professional greeting to the passengers when Zhenya snags the comm from him.

“And this your first officer,” he says cheerily. “Congrats for you, you have best pilot in fleet today. Today’s his birthday, so please embarrass and say happy birthday when you leave plane in Miami to enjoy beautiful sunshine!”

“Geno, oh my god, hang up—”

Geno replaces the comm with a cackle, and grins sunnily at Sid. He let go of the switch right after Sid interrupted and the passengers definitely heard that. “What? Is your birthday.”

Sid sighs deeply, but the corner of his mouth is twitching, he’s not fooling anyone.

There’s a crackle on the radio as Ground sends them their taxiing and runway information. Sid immediately focuses in on his tasks.

“Juliet, Zulu, Sierra, and short of Yankee on the way back. United 8771,” Sid replies to Ground, and Zheya really shouldn’t be this into Sid echoing back Ground telling them which taxiways to take to the runway.

***

When the passengers disembark in Miami so many of them lean in to congratulate Sid on his birthday that Sid gets brick red. It’s all awkward head bobs and Canadian thank yous, until it’s kids telling him and then he smiles and his eyes go all soft.

“Happy birfday!” says a little boy who can’t be more than five or six. He’s one of the last passengers to leave.

“Thanks, bud,” Sid says, in a gentle tone that makes Zhenya’s heart feel too big for his chest. “Have a good vacation, eh?”

“Imma see dolphins!” the child shouts gleefully before his parents walk him out of the plane.

Sid leans back into his seat and smiles out the cockpit window at nothing in particular.

“Thanks, G,” he says warmly. “Wasn’t too thrilled about being away from family on my birthday but that was pretty neat.”

“No problem,” Zhenya blusters, and ducks his head so Sid can’t see his rising blush.

IAD-LAS (Washington D.C. to Las Vegas)

“So,” Zhenya says with a grin. “Excited for two days off in Vegas?” Fuck yeah, he thinks. It’s February, and still cold as shit on the East Coast. He’s ready to lay out in the sun, poolside.

“For sure,” Sid says. “My best friend’s an air traffic controller and he had to transfer out there. I’m really looking forward to seeing him and his family.”

Zhenya is hopelessly charmed. Las Vegas, city of sin, and Sidney is enthusing about quality family time. “Sound great, Sid,” he says, inflection probably too fond.

Their conversation is halted by the need to do a few systems checks, but when they’re done Sid turns back to Zhenya.

“Uh, so. I know you probably have plans? But if you didn’t, you could come with me? Marc-Andre has a guest room, saves the cost of a hotel. And a pool, so. I mean, you’re probably no—”

“Would love,” Zhenya says quickly. Spend time with Sid outside of work? Hell fucking yes. “As long as okay with your friend. Maybe check?”

“Okay!” Sid says, and he seems a little excited, even? “His wife is awesome, and he has two kids—”

Sid spends the next hour telling Zhenya all about “Flower,” his great family, and he and Sid’s years working out of the same airport. Zhenya doesn’t care if they’re a family of trolls. He’s just thrilled that Sid invited Zhenya to spend time with him, on purpose.

***

Flower and his family are not trolls, they are a lovely family of French-Canadian expats who welcome Zhenya with open arms. They seem inordinately amused by the fact that Sid brought a friend with him, though. Zhenya is a little surprised. Apparently it’s not something Sid does, as a rule.

“He must really like you,” Flower says with a shit-eating grin.

If only, Zhenya thinks.

***

The visit is both wonderful and extremely trying to Zhenya’s soul. Sid in swim trunks, Sid laughing and scooping up little Estelle to gently dump her into the pool, where she shrieks delightedly for “Uncle Sid” to do it again. Sid with wet hair and water beading on his skin, collapsing into the lounge chair beside Zhenya for a breather. He sniffles and wipes water from his face.

Zhenya had been ostensibly trying to read a paperback but he’d be hard-pressed to even remember the book’s name at the moment.

“How’s it going?” Sid asks him quietly. “Not too boring for you?”

“Perfect,” Zhenya says, thankful that his dark sunglasses probably hide the way his eyes keep darting from Sid’s arms to his chest to his insane, perfect thighs. Which are stretching the legs of Sid’s trunks in a way that is in danger of giving Zhenya a heart attack. “Relax, read book. Lay around by pool. Everything I’m want to do in Vegas. And your friends are great.”

Sid beams at him. “Awesome,” he says, and leans back onto the lounge chair and closes his eyes. “Wake me up before I get get burnt?”

“Sure,” Zhenya says. “Sweet dreams.”

“Mm-hmm,” Sid mumbles, and Zhenya can’t help but feel his heart twist at the thought of Sid falling asleep next to him all the time.

EWR-PDX (Newark to Portland)

Zhenya loves flights like this, where they’re chasing the sunset. The clouds outside the cockpit windows are lit up in indescribably glowing hues of pink and orange. He makes the mistake of looking over at Sid, and the sight of him limned in gold light is enough to take Zhenya’s breath away, cliche as that sounds. Sid is smiling wide, delight bright in his eyes as he takes in the view.

“Makes it all worth it, eh?” Sid says. “The crazy schedule and the hours. The boring long-hauls. Everything.”

Zhenya looks out over the clouds. Sid’s right. It’s a grueling job, but they do it because flying is in their blood, written into their DNA. Because they love it.

“No other job for me,” he tells Sid in agreement, and Sid turns to smile at him. Zhenya stares at the way the way the sun lights up his eyes and skims over his lips, and almost does something stupid. Like lean forward over the instrument panel and kiss him.

Sid blinks, frowns a little. “What’s up, G? Is there…something on my face?”

“Just sun,” Zhenya says, quickly busying himself with his readouts.

“…okay?” Sid say, clearly ready to inquire further. Luckily, he’s interrupted by the need to check in with the Minneapolis ARTCC, and Zhenya’s off the hook, for now

ORD-YQB (Chicago to Quebec)

It’s been a while since they’ve been on the same flight. They’ve been texting some, but nothing beats flying together, the smooth efficiency of how they work with each other.

“Been a while, Sid,” Zhenya says once they’re at cruising altitude.

“I know,” Sid laments. “I got stuck with Dubinsky on a flight from Newark to LA. It was so bad, G. So bad.”

Zhenya laughs. “I’m best first officer,” he says, preening exaggeratedly.

He expects well-deserved teasing for that. What he doesn’t expect is the almost shy smile Sid gives him instead.

“Yeah,” Sid says softly, and Zhenya blinks. “You’re the best, G.”

Their conversation is subdued that flight, but not in a bad way. In a way that makes it feel like something is going to happen.

EWR-YHZ (Newark to Halifax)

“Boston, United 7187 leveling 1-3 thousand feet,” Sid tells the Boston ARTCC as they near it on their flight to Halifax. The radio crackles with the tower’s reply.

“United 7187, Boston Center, climb and maintain 1-7 thousand.”

“1-7 thousand, United 7187,” Sid acknowledges, and switches the radio off. He turns back to Zhenya to resume the conversation they’d begun.

“I live in Dartmouth,” Sid tells Zhenya. “Between Halifax and Cole Harbor, where I was born.”

“Parents still there?” Zhenya asks.

“Yeah, I’m excited to spend some time with them—my sister too.” Sid pauses for a moment. “We have really good seafood. Nova Scotia, I mean. You ever see much of Halifax?”

“Just hotel by airport,” Zhenya admits.

“The waterfront is pretty,” Sid continues. There’s another pause.

“Maybe…I should see sometime?” Zhenya says, not sure where this conversation is going.

Sid kind of lights up. “Oh man, you should! I mean, it’s not New York, or Moscow, or any big city really, but, it’s nice? You really should.”

Zhenya looks over at him, notes the almost nervous way Sid’s chewing on his lip. Zhenya blinks, then takes his gaze back to the cloudscape beyond the cockpit windows.

“You take couple days leave, yes? Maybe…I take some too? See more than airport?”

Sid straightens in his seat. “Yeah, G, that would be awesome. You can stay with me? I mean, if you want? I have a guest room. It’s not much and like I said it’s a quiet town and—”

“Sid,” Zhenya interrupts, hope and excitement starting to unfold beneath his ribcage. “Excited to see place where you from, would love to stay with you. Would visit even if you live in New Jersey.”

Their airline has its hub in Newark and they spend enough time there as it is. Sid glances over at him, then back to the flight log. His cheeks look flushed and the corner of his mouth is twitching like he’s trying not to smile. It makes Zhenya’s chest feel warm and tender.

“Yeah?” Sid asks, somewhat unnecessarily.

“Yeah,” Zhenya replies. “Anywhere.” His heart must be in his tone because Sid’s nascent smile blooms. It’s enough to make Zhenya brave. He reaches over the console to take Sid’s hand, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. Sid inhales sharply.

They stare at each other for a long moment. “Want to do that for so long,” Zhenya finally admits.

“Just that?” Sid says, looking a little shell shocked. Just from a kiss to his hand.

Zhenya snorts. “No. But—anything. Anything you want.”

“Go on a date with me?” Sid says softly.

“Yes,” Zhenya replies quickly. “So many date. Date you so hard.”

Sid laughs, the awkward almost-giggle that is, by now, pretty much Zhenya’s favorite sound in the world. “I’ll hold you to that. Now we had better re-focus on flying a tin can all the way to my hometown, eh?” He catches the stealthy movement of Zhenya’s hand and yelps. “And do not make a fucking announcement to the passengers, Geno, I swear to g—”

“Good afternoon, this is your first officer. Perfect weather and ideal conditions for our flight to Halifax. Also, I’m finally go out on date with your captain when we get there, so is best day ever—”

#sidgeno #sidney crosby/evgeni malkin #hockey rpf #dana writes a thing

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rain-drop-sky · 7 years ago

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Awwwww itty bitty sid and geno! What about #8? Whatever pairing you want

“Oh and looks like healthy baby boy has a soul mark! Melissa, please record baby boy has a small gold soul mark on the back of the left forearm, right beside the elbow. Got the camera? Okay, let’s take a quick picture for the database. Oh, and he’s got a healthy set of lungs too! Okay mom, ready for your new baby?”

“Troy, look, he’s perfect.” Trina gently strokes a finger down her newborn son’s red face once he’s placed on her chest, her eyes bright.

Troy presses a soft kiss to his wife’s forehead and another to his son’s. “Hey Sidney,” he whispers. “We’re your mom and dad.”

- - - - - - - -

“Daddy, how come you and Mommy don’t have a mark like me?” Sidney idly prods at his soul mark over his Habs jersey as his dad tugs off his skates.

“Well bud, not everyone is born with them. Some people are born with marks to help them find their best friends in the world. If you’re really lucky, you’ll even get a chance to meet them in real life.” Troy pats Sidney’s socked foot.

Sidney wiggles his toes in response. “Do you think my soulmate will like hockey too?” He asks seriously.

Troy laughs. “For you buddy? I don’t think it’s possible you’d have a soulmate who isn’t just as crazy about hockey as you.” He pulls Sidney up off the bench and ruffles his hair.

- - - - - - - -

“Here mom, let me get it for you.” Sid fishes out the tupperware his mom had been bending over to grab from the back bottom cupboard.

“Thank you, Sidney,” She sighs, stretching with her hands on her lower back, her large pregnant belly between her and Sid.

Sid hangs around the kitchen and dutifully places the stacks of leftovers in the fridge. They’ll quickly disappear as he continuously snacks, always hungry thanks to hockey.

Trina’s about to shoo Sidney back to finishing his homework when she hears a quiet, “Do you think she’ll have a mark? Like me?” Sidney’s back is to her, still as he stands in front of the open refrigerator.

Her heart twists. Troy has told her of the still impossibly escalating bullying Sid has been facing at the rink from fellow kids and insane parents. She even saw it herself before Troy and Sid told her to stop coming, worried about the stress on her and the baby. She knows her baby (oldest baby now, she thinks bittersweetly) feels lonely and confused, trying hard to believe the mantras of “it gets better,” “none of this matters, you’re strong, Sid,” and “they’re only like this because they’re jealous” Troy repeats over and over.

She smooths a hand over her large bump. “I don’t know,” she answer quietly. “But mark or no mark, she’s going to love you because you’re going to be the best big brother in the world.”

(Turns out Taylor Catherine Crosby, born on March 16, 1996, doesn’t have a matching gold soul mark or any soul mark at all. Sidney doesn’t care and loves her with all his heart.)

- - - - - - - -

Sid nervously hikes his gear bag higher up onto his shoulder. He’s the youngest on Team Canada, he knows what people are saying about him, just how many people are watching him. Counting on him. Judging him.

“Hello there,” an accented voice drawls behind him. Sid turns. “You must the baby everyone is talking about.” A genuine smile cuts through what could sound like a snide comment.

Sid smiles nervously. “Hi,” he gets out.

A hand is thrust out. “Maxime Talbot,” the tall dark haired boy introduces himself. “You can call me Talbo.”

“Max? Maaaaaaaax,” another voice whines down the hallway.

Talbo rolls his eyes. “Ugh, clingy weirdo goalies,” he jokes. “I’m over here,” he yells back. “What do you want, Flower?”

A lanky boy bounds down the hallway and flings himself at Talbo, plastering himself over Talbo’s back. “Hi,” he grins. “I’m Flower. Or Marc, Marc-André if you want to be fancy and proper.” He ignores Talbo’s exaggerated grunts and staggering, and sticks out his hand.

Sid takes his hand with a shy smile that drops when he feels a sharp hot tingle zap through where their palms are touching and up his arm. “I remember you,” he blurts out. “You’re the Eagles goalie who keeps poke checking me.”

Flower’s gaze sharpens and he slides off Talbo’s back, shoving him to the side. They both ignore his wounded yelp. He looks down at their clasped hands and back up at Sid. “Good memory,” his teeth glint. The air feels like it’s sparking, hundreds of tiny static shocks snapping between them.

“Do,” Sid stutters. His eyes flick to Flower’s left arm, covered with a long sleeved tee. His heart is pounding, his ears are ringing. He squeezes Flower’s hand reflexively. Neither of them have let go yet. The back of his own left forearm is tingling in anticipation. For the first time the medical tape he has over his mark feels heavy and itchy.

“Yeah,” Flower breathes.

Sid clears his throat. “Do you ask the sky for a bond beyond distance and time?” He rasps out the traditional question one asks a potential soulmate before revealing each other’s marks.

“And the stars shone brightly in response.” Flower murmurs the traditional response in French but Sid understands, he remembers learning and reciting the call and answer in both English and French at school.

They simultaneously reach for each other’s left sleeves, giggling as they realize someone is going to have to pull the other’s sleeve up first since they still haven’t let go of their joined right hands. Flower pushes up Sid’s Team Canada jacket and tee. He looks up for confirmation and at Sid’s jerky nod, he carefully picks off the white medical tape. He sucks in a harsh breath at the small shooting star that is revealed, a simple set of crossed lines and dots in pale gold, barely a couple inches in length. “Criss,” he breathes.

“Do mine. Hurry.” Flower commands. He shakes his raised wrist impatiently, eyes glued to the pale gold star. Sid tugs up his sleeve and stops breathing when he sees a matching pale gold star on the back of Flower’s left forearm, same spot, same size, same details. “Oh my God,” he whispers. His vision blurs. “Oh my God.”

He gets a wet laugh in response. “Yeah,” Flower responds. He shakes his head and jiggles their right hands. “Let’s do this, eh?”

They reluctantly let go and bend their left arms, mirroring their soul marks at one another. Their right hands tremble above each other’s golden mark.

“The sun and moon forged a bond,” Sid chokes out.

“And so we have found one another.” Flower grins brightly.

They touch each other’s mark gently for the first time and shudder. Sid feels his pulse ratcheting up, his body overheating, the buzz intensifying in his ears and he thinks he’s going to pass out but then everything calms. He can feel an extra heartbeat thumping reassuringly in counterpoint to his own in the back of head and under his fingertips.

I never thought I’d find you, Sid thinks to himself. I thought I was going to be alone forever.

Flower smiles and reels him into a tight hug. “You aren’t alone. You’ve never been alone,” he whispers furiously into Sid’s ear. The extra heartbeat thumps comfortingly at the base of his skull. “We found each other. We made it.”

Send me in a pairing and a prompt number and I’ll write a snippet!

#ask rain drop sky #my writing #fic prompt #prompt fill #hockey rpf #sidney crosby #marc andre fleury #soulbond!au #soulmates #idk if sid and flower have a romantic or platonic bond #in my head they're platonic #but it can be whatever you want it to be #you decide #dialogue prompt series

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fenweak · 7 years ago

Text

2017 jon/pat fics!

Here are some of my favorite kane/toews fics that were posted in 2017. Give these authors some love, if you haven’t already! Or better yet, visit the 1988 AO3 tag!

Canon Divergent

catching feelings by novajanna - E | 29,846 | friends with benefits with pining

Play Up Your Breakdown by sorrylatenew - E | 5,492 | buddyfucking with feelings

we were too busy makin’ hurricanes by tazernkaner - 2,431 | pat plays for buffalo au

I Just Wanna Know What’s On Your Mind by liveinfury - G | 3,159 | ryan hartman POV

follow your arrow wherever it points by cinderlily - T | 12,050 | pat takes queer studies class in uni

Just to Break My Own Fall by Linsky - M | 9,094 | friends to lovers | post-election, trump tower bashing lol

What I’m Trying to Say by cupstealer - E | 4,256 | tonsil things | gay porn hard fic

Things Gotta Change by Mullsandmutts - G | 3,893 | post-playoffs angst

Aubergine (Eggplant, if you’re nasty) by snapple_jax - E | 1,294 | dick picks

Can’t Take My Eyes off of You by Linsky - E | 4,996 | 3rd person voyeurism

Looked So Fine (I Just Had To Speak) by svmadelyn - M | 19,592 | sentient penis, or is it

I miss the way you make me feel (it’s real) series by asfroste | E | 9,075 | bdsm

The Places No One Else Gets to See by Swathor769 (Mullsandmutts) - T | 2,784 | post loss frustration

Empirically Verifiable by fourfreedoms - E | 3,604 | Nolan Patrick POV

This Bulletproof Bond by fourfreedoms - E | 1,117 | est relationship codependence

Bad Timing (Could Be Worse) by sahiya - G | 3,322 | future fic

break the chain by emmared - T | 1,914 | proposal fluff

Standing in the Light by wildfoot - T | 5,328 | house-buying | getting together

the thrill isn’t in the winning, it’s in the doing by thundersquall - E | 1,618 | wjc pwp!

Double the D by Penelopiad - E | 3,443 | this is hot like green chili

everything we have is all we need by clayisforgirls - T | 4,518 | timestamps

AUs

So Lift Those Heavy Eyelids by SimoneClouseau - 5,902 | independence day AU

Custos by hatrickane - T | 4,189 | fantasy | soul bond

soiled hands by Caivallon - E | 24,358 | possessiveness | ballet dancer!pat

i was born in a thunderstorm by stoletheshow - T | 1,552 | childhood friends AU

I’ll Be The Cure by fourfreedoms - E | 19,585 | a/b/o

kiss the boy by gasmsinc - G | 39,886 | mer!Patrick

maybe all you need is someone to trust by alwaysbuddy - M | 4,738 | kingsman AU | crossdressing

Theoretical Maximum Tolerated Dose by fourfreedoms - E| 11,024 | university professors au

If You Were Real by toewsyourheart - E | 5,428 | prince Jonny, caddie Pat

S(t)ick by allthebros - E | 2,842 | frat boys AU

Empty Chairs by heartstrings - E | 7,662 | small town boys, childhood sweethears au!

off green mulligan by Pinkmanite - E | 5,336 | caddie Pat

Make No Mistake, It’s Organic & Give and Take by toewsyourheart - E | 9,571 + 4,369 | farmer jonny, police pat au

Gonna Bite Your Feelings Out by runphoebe - E | 2,166 | quality angst | not a hockey player Jonny | infidelity with an ofc partner

wolf like me by gasmsinc - E | 30,790 | werewolf regency au

We Were Both Young by Linsky - E | 17,351 | de-aged Jonny

This Is What A Love Song Sounds Like by fourfreedoms - E | 7,237 | high school reunion AU

something ours, and ours alone by nuuclears - E | 5,521 | soul bond pwp

Lay Out The Odds by fourfreedoms (WIP) - E | 38,379 | underground fighting au | i love this so much???

l'amitié by alwaysbuddy - T | 36, 478 | rush AU

(when the moon hits your eye) Like a Big Pizza Lie by jezziejay - T | 19,190 | architect student Pat, pretend-Italian Jonny

new neighbours series by Penelopiad - E | 5,453 | neighbors AU | gay porn hard

The (Somewhat) Serious Bride by AnythingThrice - T | 7,288 | princess bride AU

Turnabout by fourfreedoms - E | 6552 | a/b/o

kiss the boy by gasmsinc - G | 39, 866 | mer!Patrick AU

Quantum Entanglement by TheNorthRemembers (WIP) - 55,264 | time-traveler’s wife AU

A Sorta Faerietale by jezziejay - G | 6,574 | christmas fic | elf jonny, faerie Pat

we were made to win by heartstrings - E | 22,673 | pat and jonny makes a porno

Diamonds in his Pockets by hatrickane - E | 17,454 | royalty AU

Every Little Thing He Does (is magic) by jezziejay (WIP) - T| 45,268 | magic!

Rimed by SimoneClouseau - E | 7,874 | faerie/human established relationship

Smoothly Protective by Celly1995 - T| 7,883 | barista Jonny | est relationship

Can’t Stop This Feeling by Linsky - E | 20,754 | The Giver AU

perfect match by thundersquall - E | 33,811 | online dating

The Full Monty by CoffeeKristin (WIP) - E | 15,518 | online dating with a dash of bdsm

I Was Busy Thinkin’ ‘Bout (Girls) by Linsky - E | 25,687 | rule 63

if i had a voice i would sing by gasmsinc - E | 4,000 | a/b/o

Roller Coaster Romance series by MrsBarnes - E | 19,844 | meet cute | not a hockey player Pat

how deep is your love by thundersquall - E | 7,620 | a/b/o regency AU | courtship | gay porn hard fic

The Epic Dating Misadventures of a Cockpipe Cosmonaut by verily_I_write - M | 4,158 | bad matchmaking | 4th man out AU

I Know Your Soul by PensToTheEnd - E | 35,724 | soulmates

we’re looking for something dumb to do by hatrickane - M | 13,551 | the proposal AU

I’ll Be Your Best Friend And You’ll Be My Valentine by snapple_jax - T | 11,176 | mythology, cupid!kaner

Romance Can Blossom Any Old Time by Celly1995 - M | 27,764 | retail co-workers au

bare and unaware by emmared - E | 5429 | reality tv | absolutely hilarious

Can’t Stop This Feeling by Linsky - E | 20754 | The Giver AU

#fic #jonathan toews #patrick kane #kaner #kane/toews fic rec #1988 fic rec

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actuallylorelaigilmore · 7 years ago

Text

the ultimate citation list for Schneider of ODAAT, volume 1

A reference collection of quotes and details, organized chronologically, for the first 26 episodes of One Day At A Time. Used to create this character guide.

“Can you believe it's only been 10 months since you moved in? I remember 'cause I got my five year sober chip and your mom baked me that cake. I enjoyed watching you guys eat it." 1x01

"You're 40 and you look stupid." “I'll have you know, I was invited to several Pride parades." 1x01

Uses a “very expensive” Damascus steel hammer. 1x01

"I've been doing some outreach down at the rec center, talking to at-risk youth. You guys wanna start takin' bets? Actually, scratch that. I'm addicted to gambling.” 1x01

"Love isn't even real. It's just something your nanny says sometimes to your dad." 1x02

"Hey, I may have money in the bank and two living parents, and four living stepmothers but there is a hole in here. We never had family meals. I ate alone in front of the TV. Oh, don't get me wrong. It was a massive TV. Sometimes my nanny would join me, but only if I agreed to watch telenovelas. This one time, Rosa got jealous of the housekeeper 'cause she was makin' a move on her man, so she threatened to throw live scorpions on her while she slept. Rosa was my nanny. Ex-nanny. Now, stepmother." 1x03

[Lydia and Pen fighting] “It's startin' to feel kinda like home in here.” 1x03

Schneider cooks fancy hipster food. "Nutted quinoa, wilted broccolini with radish micro-greens, and venison carpaccio on a bed of nettles. Grab a cedar plank and dig in." 1x04

"Always interesting to be the sober one at a dinner party." 1x05

"I immigrated here illegally. I'm a Canadian. But yeah, born in the 'Couve, overstayed my student visa, forced to live in the shadows of Pepperdine University. Anyway, it's fine now. My lawyers made it all okay." 1x05

Uses sheet masks, knows about chauffeurs, butlers, estates. 1x06

“The kids barely touched my black olive tapenade.” “Thanks for helping out, but maybe next time pick a food a kid would wanna eat or has heard of.” “Yeah, and maybe next time, don't hand out masks with my face on them.” 1x07

"The members of my college band have finally put aside our differences and we're reuniting to play at the fair this afternoon. My band, Full Sail, plays yacht rock. These guys were like family. I used to show up at their dorm rooms unannounced and just hang out for hours and hours and hours." 1x07

"We were setting up for the show and our keytarist threw a decorative anchor at me. This is why Full Sail broke up in the first place. Too many passionate personalities." 1x07

Has a magnifying glass in his costume trunk. 1x07

"I know nothing about my grandparents and I never will. And they live in Pasadena!" (but he goes to 'the depot' in Pasadena) 1x09

"I have never seen such un-professionalism. This is why I don't work!" 1x09

"I need to find a new place to get my eyebrows threaded." 1x10

Has a safe. 1x10

"Well, Father believed it's best to have this kinda discussion in a car because you don't have to make eye contact. Plus, you're traveling in the same direction, which fosters intimacy. So we're in the Bentley with our chauffeur, Paco. Father said it's time to have the talk. We came to the next stoplight. He hopped out, Paco told me everything." 1x10

"I didn't get the period talk till I was 12. Paco just called it 'Shark Week.'" 1x10

"When I was a kid, there was an adult section in the back of the video store. Behind the beads. I'd always chicken out and just rent a Jane Fonda workout tape. Still worked. Still works." 1x10

"You'd be surprised how many of my hookups started with 'Ugh!' ...When I was 15, I told Father I wanted to be a professional tap dancer. He laughed. It was that lack of support that contributed to my drinking and drug problem. Oh, do you find that amusing? Because 15-year-old Schneider's drinking peach schnapps out of an unused tap shoe right now." 1x11

"You have a girl over here and you were offering to have sex with me?" - "Yes, Penelope. That's the kind of friend I am." 1x11

"My dad never came to my games. All he ever did was put me through rehab six times and buy me this building." 2x01

"Maroon 5 is the best." 2x01

"Okay, I decided to take a break from dating. See, I realized that women were just another one of my addictions, like alcohol, drugs, gambling, cigarettes, snow globes. The point is, I've broken the cycle of addiction with spinning. Five hours a day, every single day. I have to do it! Plus, it's the perfect substitute for dating, 'cause it burns a lot of energy and also numbs my junk!" 2x02

“Snow globes? Is this one of our family?” 2x02

"I come over, tell him to do stuff to me, he does it, I go home. You should get one." "I think what Nikki was kinda dancing around is that you don't always have to have a relationship with a capital "R." Sometimes all you need is what the great poets of the Renaissance called a junk buddy." "Exactly. You don't even have to like them." 2x03

"See, the great thing about having a green card is you get to live here without having to do all the stuff Americans have to, like vote or serve jury duty or become obese."

"Okay, but at least you vote in Canadian elections." "Mmm. No. Even in Canada, nothing ever changes. Clean air, sensible gun control, free health care. The system's rigged." 2x04

Can picture himself “doing it” with Elizabeth Warren, was Stephen Hawking for Halloween. 2x04

"You have to pay taxes with a green card? I just texted my accountant, and he said 'cause I'm in the highest income bracket, I don't have to pay taxes." 2x04

Keeps on hand: panic room, gas mask, water purification pills, MREs, enough cash to get to Cape Verde by boat. Followed Max on Instagram. Would be honored to be Penelope's maid of honor. 2x05

"I'm very patriotic. Look in that basket. There's a bald eagle thong." 2x06

All Elena's video game equipment belongs to him. 2x06

"Penelope, tell my third stepmother I loved her! Not the second one, though. She was kind of a jerk." 2x06

"Hummer limo's downstairs. My third stepmother used to take me to the racetrack to spy on Father. For the longest time, I thought she was saying, 'Your father is with Rebecca, that horse!' It's like I'm back at the racetrack with my stepmom. What's next? Throw a mint julep in his face?” 2x07

"I love Cuba! I've been there four times. Property manager, job's just temporary. My father owns the building. I'm really a musician. Play a lot of rap-rock-ska. I'm like a male Gwen Stefani. When you're hiring a nanny, make sure she's not too hot. That's how I met my fifth mom. I had four nannies and look at the results." 2x08

Did not speak a word of Spanish when he first met them, is interested in single moms. 2x08

"If you joined an adult kickball team after saying you were too busy to join mine, you are on a long road to forgiveness." 2x09

"Your idea of stress is when your chest-waxer goes out of town." "Roberto is the only one who doesn't make it sting!" 2x09

"I shouldn't have to need these either, but I do. To see. So it's Fourth of July, 2011. I'd been sober for a while, so I thought I'd celebrate with a beer. Woke up three days later in an alley. Then the bowling ball hit me. I was in the gutter for a long time. It's really slippery without the shoes. That was the day I truly accepted that I can't have alcohol or drugs, ever. Not a beer, not a glass of wine, not even six hits of acid at a Grateful Dead show, no matter how well it makes me dance. I kinda get where you're coming from. There's something I want that I can't have for the rest of my life." 2x09

He and Pen are best friends. Also considers Max his bestie. Wants to Netflix and chill with them both, together. 2x09

"My abuelita used to put Vicodin in her coffee. And her lemonade and her sandwiches. Maybe she had a problem. As my father said to me on my ninth birthday, 'You don't need me anymore.' I use my garage for pickling and sea horse breeding." 2x10

Loves puns. "This is Elena Alvarez, my handyman mentee. Or handy-manatee." "The toilet is a cruel mistress. She is flush with complications." 2x10

"Herb and Sherb McGurb. Her real name is Sheryl, but she gets a kick out of Sherb." 2x10

"Bonsai's for dorks. This is penjing. The gentle Chinese art of tray scenery. Now that you're working for me, I finally have some leisure time." "Oh, look, there's little people. Wait, is that my family?" "Could be any Cuban family." 2x10

"I may only look two or three years older than you, but I have the wisdom of that ancient bonsai!" 2x10

"Always take the lemonade. That's Handyman 101! So you watched Jeopardy with them and then what? Well, now we know what your problem is! You fixed their toilet, but you didn't fix their souls. Elena, growing up, I had everything. But I was always alone. I don't want my tenants to feel that way, so I do more than just fix stuff. Apartment 306, macrame with Mrs. Watson. 201, lose at chess to Mr. Roth. 402, listen to all their Cuban nonsense. That's the job. That's what takes four hours. That's the difference between being a handyman and a super." 2x10

Has heard 'you're fired' a lot. 2x10

"After a grueling 30 minutes of thought, Nikki, will you be my starter wife? You're on the rebound. That's the best time to get married. You don't have time to think. So you were never thinking about me? My emotions? My feelings? You used me, Nikki, Finn's mom! And not in the way I like! And that's not all, Sister Barbara. We knew each other. Biblically. And while we were doing it, she took the Lord's name in vain. A lot!" 2x11

"Last night, I was testing the pH of the water in my seahorse ranch and, as I looked at those vomiting little guys, I realized I suck at tests. All tests. Drug, sobriety, vision, IQ, smog. You name it, I fail it!" 2x12

"Have you ever been arrested?” “Does public nudity at a hockey game count?” “There is, uh, no mention of a public nudity charge in your file.” “Oh, you just go to YouTube and type in 'Zam-boner.'" 2x12

"Yeah, they didn't specifically ask if I got drunk and tried to ride a moose, so after that I was golden." 2x12

"How important is having kids to you?" "Never really thought about it." 2x12

"I'll have you know I babysat my babysitter's kids while she was babysitting my dad, so, yeah, I got a little experience under my belt. Oh, it's my cousin Gordy. He still thinks I'm full-on Canadian. All right, good news is Gordo bought it. Bad news is I'm judging a poutine festival in Saskatoon next week." 2x12

"You're the single greatest mother I know." "Thank you. That means a lot coming from a guy with five moms." 2x12

"Fuzzy Afghan she likes, picture of the Pope, picture of a different Pope, picture of your dad, picture of the family, picture of me with the family, picture of me by a waterfall. I'm just gonna keep talking 'cause I'm not good in crisis situations." 2x13

"It's so crazy how we're both immigrants. I mean, I would never compare my story to yours, but the parallels are spooky. You were 18, I was 18. You left your family behind. I left four step-families, a maid, a butler, a chauffeur, and a horse groomer who really got me. But Father was expanding his business to the US and so I had to go. I remember, at the airport, I was crying. But Father put his arm around me and he said, 'Son, only losers cry.' So that was a long flight. You don't know how dirty a dirty look can get until you're crying for a whole plane ride and you're not a baby. I really didn't wanna be in America. So I drank. And I recreated the snowy plains of Canada with cocaine. I'm told I attended classes at Pepperdine University, but I will have to take that on faith. So, I'm in a detox center in El Segundo. This was my fourth rehab. My re-re-re-rehab. I thought I'd been doing a kickass job keeping my drug stuff a secret from all the tenants and then you showed up in my room at that clinic. You brought me sopa de pollo and said it's Cuban penicillin. You told me, 'You eat this, you get some sleep, and tomorrow, you try again.' And then you tucked me in and kissed me good night on my forehead. Forehead kisses are wildly underrated. Just something really comforting about 'em. Then again, it might just be you. Dad never did that. Or my horse groomer. After I got out of rehab, I started hanging around your apartment a lot more, 'cause it helped. Back then, it must have felt like you had this annoying, intrusive guy over. Not like now. 'Cause now you're my family. Don't worry. I haven't legally changed my last name to Alvarez. My lawyer said it was a whole thing, so... Anyway, Pen said no crying, so I'm not gonna. Actually, for once, I agree with Father. Only losers cry. And we're not losing anybody today. Let's hit that oath ceremony soon, okay?" 2x13

#schneider #reference #odaat #one day at a time

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shananaomi · 7 years ago

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2017.

Giving myself an hour on the clock to get through this, if at all possible. (ETA: Done!)

Here’s 2016.

What did you do in 2017 that you'd never done before?

I have such a great answer to this that I’m still not ready to write about. Ask me in person and I might tell you. Also: went to yoga fairly regularly and found I both could and wanted to lay peacefully in one pose or another for 5 or 10 minutes at a time.

Did you keep your New Years' resolutions and will you make more for next year?

We did in fact #GetFitToFightFascism, or anyway on days when I didn’t know how else to treat the creeping anxiety I got up and hiked to the Observatory or somewhere else so ridiculously stunning that I felt slightly reassured we’d live another day. We were determined to see our BFF Jamie every Saturday night and except for weekends when one of us or the other was out of town or we had plans already for the weekend we had a near-perfect attendance record. And though I didn’t think I wrote that much, I got enough out in TinyLetter (now backposted at Medium) to add up to a decent Twitter thread last week.

I always feel like next year should maybe be its own post, but for now I’m thinking about: Writing, always. Reading more. And finding a way to host maybe monthly dinners for small groups of our friends at home.

Did anyone close to you give birth?

My childhood best friend’s daughter was born on New Year’s Day 2017 and we finally got to meet her last week. She is able to reach for and drink from a glass of beer so I think she’ll be just fine.

What countries did you visit?

This was a year between big adventures out of the country, but we just booked a February getaway to Puerto Vallarta to celebrate the 10th anniversary of our first date. Went back and forth to New York a few times, plus a quickie up to SF for work.

What would you like to have in 2018 that you lacked in 2017?

Confidence the pendulum will in fact swing back from fascism.

What date from 2017 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

I guess the run from January 19 (Hamilton) to January 20 (bus trip from NYC to DC, with the worst possible welcome from post-Inaugural attendees) to January 21 (meeting up with so many old friends at the Women’s March). The rest is still vividly sharp but not so much tied to any specific date.

What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Surviving it with some semblance of hope. Making the move to a better, bigger place in Pasadena. Leading a loyal and devoted staff through a major corporate transition and many other hard challenges.

What was your biggest failure?

I have never done anything as hard as being a boss lady, and I’m still not sure most days I’ve left things at least better than I found them.

Did you suffer illness or injury?

For the first 9 months or so I got super sick every single goddamned month: a recurring case of America, I called it. Overall I’ve been very lucky.

What was the best thing you bought?

The peace of mind that privilege allows when you need to pay your way out of a loud, anxiety-ridden neighborhood for the quieter (at least most days) and more serene outskirts of town. A weekly outlet and focus for my physical stress in the form of the most amazing personal trainer. A 40th birthday blowout weekend that included renting the most ridiculous house (as seen when CJ fell into the pool in The West Wing), hosting a dinner party and then pool party for so many of our friends and family.

Whose behavior merited celebration?

My wife’s, always. Because all I do these days is listen to Kesha, I’ve been thinking about these lines:

I know forever don’t exist But after this life, I’ll find you in the next So when I say “forever,” it’s the goddamned truth

Where did most of your money go?

The house and moving into it, the car, the trainer, the birthday celebrations.

What did you get really, really, really excited about?

Did I?

We discovered Two Bunch Palms, an old getaway near Palm Springs that soothed my soul in quiet calm ways I hadn’t realized could be so close at hand or that I needed so much. This year’s LA Pride parade became a protest and was the most joyous and community-filled day like that we’ve felt in a long, long time.

What song will always remind you of 2017?

This fairly goes to Kesha’s “Praying,” but since I already wrote a whole thing about that, I’ll say Julia Michaels’ “Don’t Wanna Think,” in part because I listened to it on repeat for so many hours in a row while flying back and forth from New York that it’s kind of embedded in my subconscious: I’m not really one for drinking songs, but — fuck it, here it comes. Heartbreak is annoying, and I’ll feel it in the morning. Swallow it down like a bitter pill. At least it will taste better than this feeling will. I don’t like myself when I’m just standing still.

Compared to this time last year, are you:

i. happier or sadder? Happier, though I’d say that’s grading on a goddamned curve for real.

ii. thinner or fatter? About the same, if trimmer and stronger in some places.

iii. richer or poorer? Close to a draw here, more or less.

What do you wish you'd done more of?

I was happiest when I was hiking, reading, sitting quietly on the couch with my wife and dog. I did a decent amount of all that but it was still to keep my head above water.

What do you wish you'd done less of?

Be on the goddamned internet. But I’m also aware that finding the right balance between awareness and mindfulness and rest and action is the most pervasive and elusive self-care challenge for literally everyone I know, so I’m trying hard not to give myself a hard time about it. And there’s probably something here to say about the betrayal and pain that came from incorrectly trusting people to be their best selves instead of being undeserving of the benefit of the doubt but I am working so fucking hard at leaving that behind in 2017.

How did you spend Christmas?

In Reno with my family and friends, bouncing between two houses full of other people’s people (and mine) and a lot of very rich and exotic meats and liquors. The last couple years have been really hard and not well-balanced or rejuvenating visits, and this year was much better if still not without its own drama.

What was your favorite TV program?

New: Star Trek: Discovery was almost everything I needed in a show this year. Also I loved The Arrangement and found it way smarter and more complicated and fucked up than I’d expected.

New to me: I was only a little late on Riverdale but found it very enjoyable.

Oldies but Goodies: Also I watched a lot of older Star Trek, from TOS to the early movies. Everyone keeps saying next week need to do DS9, so I guess that’s the kind of geek I am proudly now.

What friends did you make or meet this year for the first time?

All but one were not new but I really loved our all-girl get-togethers to watch hockey even when we barely paid attention to it.

What was the best book you read?

I didn’t make a real resolution about reading more but boy did I. It’s just so much better than being in the world or on the internet. The ones that really stand out are Queen of the Night by Alexander Chee (not from this year, but my fave read from it), John Green’s Turtles All the Way Down, and Amy Bloom’s White Houses, which comes out in a couple months. If we’re not already GoodReads friends come find me there—I’m terrible at writing reviews but I find it super helpful personally to know what y’all have read and liked?

What did you want and get?

A new house.

What did you want and not get?

A Japanese wooden soaking tub of my very own. (See below.)

What was your favorite film of this year?

We just saw Call Me By Your Name last night and now I can’t think of anything else. Though I’d say the sheer joy of Wonder Woman is still a solid contender.

What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I was 40, and I took 5 days to basically do only what I wanted, and it did the exact trick I’d hoped for: I just enjoyed it instead of ruthlessly evaluating what I haven’t done with my life.

What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? What political issue stirred you the most? Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

I am going to charitably say the answer to all three of these is both obvious and tiresome. Be better, 2018.

How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2017?

Lots of jumpsuits and DVF, all courtesy a Rent the Runway Unlimited subscription, which also falls under where all my money went but was a ton of fun and practical in many ways too.

What kept you sane?

Remembering how many amazing women are already in my life and know exactly what I mean even when I can barely say it out loud.

Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

Ugh, this one feels too much like work and also like tempting fate.

Who did you miss?

For the first time in a while there were frankly some people who I miss greatly but was glad didn’t have to live through this shit themselves.

Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2017.

Just because it could have been worse doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be better.

Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.

Here’s what I wrote about 3 songs that shaped my 2017. I don’t think I can do much better in one quote.

What’s one photo that sums up your year?

#2017 #yearly update

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blondrichclosetwitch · 4 years ago

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No I don't expect

You to forgive me this

Siding with the soldiers who say

We cannot win the day

A theatre of war the frame

Inner conflicts now reign

Their intent: division till

There is no side to take

You feel betrayed

I feel played

By our so called friends

Not the friends we should have made

So when the story ends

And the stage goes dark

And we both can hear

The writing on the wall

Then I beg the bard

To write another scene

Because you're the one

Who taught me to believe

There is something more

That I need to say

I should have said it though

Before yesterday

Before your breakaway

This jungle is dark

But full of diamonds

That can cut and exploit

With just a whiff of blood

"Faith in spades" in us

So what were the odds

Our hand of hearts would have to fold

To their flush of clubs

You've been betrayed

And I've been played

At least they made me exit

Through their chopper on the stage

“Molina was fascinated with the moon and stars, flowers and trees, deserts and trains, static and silence, leaving and staying, the city and the country, birds, darkness, the heart, history, blood, resurrection, sickness, change, ghosts, the Midwest, doubt, heaven, the blues, thunder, and the highway. All of these things found their way onto the album, and when you listen you can feel Molina—his voice somehow illuminated by lightning—guiding you through an earth-shaking storm.

I used to think that this was the kind of record truck drivers must listen to. Never mind that I’ve never really known a truck driver. It’s probably more truthful to say that it’s the kind of record people who don’t know shit about truck drivers imagine truck drivers listening to. Part of that’s not my fault: Secretly Canadian billed it, on its release, as an album sure to be embraced “by the world’s truck drivers, sorority chicks, and hockey players, alike.” The record, they continued, had “more than one song that could be played at a strip joint or monster truck show.” If there’s a stripper out there who strips to “I’ve Been Riding with the Ghost,” I’d like to know her.

But, mostly, the attempts to classify the album as “working class rock” or “white soul” always fell flat and just seemed like a weird marketing ploy to me. No matter how accessible the songs, Magnolia Electric Co. was never going to be embraced by a mainstream audience. Molina claimed to be going for a “1950s sound, ancient echo techniques on the voxs, doo wop backup singers, [and] dirty guitars,” and that provides us with probably the best description of the record we’ll get: it’s raw and heartfelt, never falsely retro, always striving to sound like something coming across a great distance.

***

In my house, we celebrated the anniversary of Magnolia Electric Co. by spinning it on repeat all day, my wife and son dancing around the living room, the windows heavy with the kind of guilt and triumph only this album can elicit from us. To me, it just doesn’t get old. It’s my go-to on long walks on cold nights when a Molina moon brightens the sky. I was listening to it the day before my son was born, and I used to rock him to sleep to “Hold On Magnolia.” There’s a crossroads in Gardiner, NY, where I remember belting out “Just Be Simple” with my wife as the wipers cleared the windshield of a heavy rain. Driving through the Bronx on summer afternoons, I pumped “Almost Was Good Enough” with the windows down. “John Henry Split My Heart” was in my headphones when my mother and I sat in the hospital with my stepdad a few weeks before he passed away.

In Mississippi, where I live now, I’ve cleaned the house and knocked back whiskeys on the front porch with friends and played with my son while “Farewell Transmission” gusted from the speakers. I’ve carried the record with me to France and Italy and Spain and New Orleans and Seattle and Kentucky. I’ve listened to it when I was high with happiness and booze-shaky with fear. It’s been there for me to get healed by when I feel the old sadness coming back.

Molina was always making peace with the fact that terrible things awaited him, and it’s somehow uplifting. On “Farewell Transmission,” he sings: “The real truth about it is there ain’t no end to the desert I’ll cross / I’ve really known that all along.” But on “Almost Was Good Enough,” we get this: “Did you really believe / That everyone makes it out? / Almost no one makes it out / I’m going to use that street to hide / From that human doubt / To hide from what was shining / And has finally burned us out / But if no one makes it out / How come you’re talking to one right now / For once almost was good enough.”

For Molina, there was always the struggle of falling back into the darkness, but there was also always a way out, something to hang hope on, and this ability to walk the rail between despair and faith marked so much of his greatest work.

Then there’s the majestic cover art by William Schaff—a cloud throwing lightning, a crying owl with human hands, and a magnolia, all backed by a long darkness and a strip of deep blue—that pins itself to your memory. You look at it and you listen and you forget that Jason Molina’s gone now. You forget everything else you love.

This album can be a dusty slant of light in the corner or it can be bones you’ve dug up from a riverbed or it can be the sounds of birds or it can be talking to the devil or it can be skimming your sickness like fat from milk in the worst of winters or it can be kneeling in front of your wife and kissing her elbows or it can be all you’ve ever learned about death. For me, what Neutral Milk Hotel’s In the Aeroplane Over the Sea is to the 1990s, Magnolia Electric Co. is to the 2000s. It frames the decade, makes sense and meaning of years of feeling lost and fearing sadness and holding steady and putting the hammer down.”

#2:22 #almost no one makes it out

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jjaywmac · 5 years ago

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Sound familiar. August 2016. “Over the age of 60. Underlying health condition (heart problems. Pneumonia in the lungs. ICU. Insulator. Unexpectedly.” That is exactly what happened to Steve 4 years ago. Was it a virus before its time? I will never know. The doctors cured the pneumonia. He died of heart failure. It was fast. Like today. That should want you to stay home! And keep your loved ones at home! It does me. I remember only too well.

SO, how do I start with a clean slate of this? By introducing you to some books I think you may enjoy reading during this down time.

SO, I am spending today, a (férié) in France (the day after Easter is always celebrated as a holiday) by staying inside and writing a lot. Sorry. But, I cannot stop thinking about what happened to him as I read the news and all of the descriptions of what to expect. Plus, in my head, I am processing a Lot of new ideas that have come to me over the weekend. My “clean slate”/ “eternal NOW” frame of mind is running wild with new ideas of how to spend this unusual time in Paris. I have ideas for new books that excite me. I have projects that need to be completed. I have courses I want to take, places I want to walk, pictures I want to take, sites I want to develop. There is never a dull moment around here. My mind keeps me busy.

I want to spend time with my “new present”. So here is a fresh look at something that means a lot to me. What?? I have in my safe keeping, several books that I want to bring to your attention in this new day!!! OK. So a tad of past. Don’t worry. I will try to make it interesting and worth your time.

It all started on September 20, 2011. I was (for 20 years) an Entertainment Attorney (and an Employment Law Litigator) in Los Angeles, California USA. In early September 2011, I was invited by the Writers Guild of America (WGA) to be the legal representative by on a panel for the members – an E-publishing Panel. The Panel sought to empower writers to create new opportunities for work in film, television, new media, and transmedia. Since WGA did not cover book publication regardless of format, it was thought that e-publishing could be a stepping stone towards potential work on Guild-covered adaptations. So, on September 20, I joined other Panel members Lee Goldberg (The Glades), Derek Haas (Wanted), and Alexandra Sokoloff (author, Book of Shadows, and Mark Coker (Smashwords) on a panel. Our task was to discuss the latest ebook/self and indie-publishing developments. WOW, what a lineup! I got very excited. Needless to say, it was a power-packed evening with the Writer Members and members doing most of the talking. The evening flew by with everyone sharing information, questions, and answers.

The next day I said to my husband Steve Orlandella, “You need to write a book”. He said, “What? A book? I have nothing to say.” I laughed. Steve ALWAYS had something to say. So did I. I needed to write a book. And, we did.

Steve wrote eight books before he died in 2016. I have written seven (7) and am still writing every day. But, this post is about Steve and his books.

He had specific things he liked – history, cheesecake, sex, trivia, condiments (of every kind), Castle (TV show), the Titanic, and baseball. Not necessarily in that order. So, he wrote about things he liked. Now, to be honest, he was not a great American writer. He just wrote about topics he enjoyed. I was glad to see him happy. He loved working. Retirement was not his cup of tea. And, he loved writing. He created two characters he liked. And, he would spend all day creating their “banter”. I would often hear his chuckling to himself. That would be when he would come up with something he thought was particularly clever. He started out with a collection of his writings on Facebook. All of that was new at that time, and his posts were funny and interesting. When it was published, he was thrilled. He would read it over and over. Amazed and proud of himself for actually publishing a book!

Next, he tackled baseball. He was an Emmy-winning Live Sports producer for Hockey and Baseball. 9 seasons for the Dodgers. Personal friend of Vin Scully. He KNEW his baseball. Then, he wrote “his masterpiece”, a wonderful book about the Titanic. He poured his soul into this book. His love, his heart, his skill, his all. He could not believe it when he held that book in his hands. He read and reread and reread it.

It was then that he thought that he had no more to write. I did not want to see him depressed because he was happy when he had a book in progress. So, I suggested he create a detective and do mysteries – novels. After thinking about it a LONNNNNGGGGGG time, he came up with an idea. He really loved the television show “Castle”. He loved their “banter”. He would create a sexy couple – an ex-baseball player (a private investigator – Vic Landell) and hot babe attorney/news anchor (The Redhead). They would solve crimes in Sarasota, Florida (his favorite location in the world). That was how it started. It evolved from there.

So, I am going to introduce you to his books. I am not presenting them in the order they were written. I am doing this my way. Novels, first. I am suggesting you try them. they are light reading and enjoyable. And, I think the reader can experience the fun Steve was having with the dialogue and spending time with his characters. He loved Tina Louis and Dusty Springfield. Plus, he had some favorite News Anchors. So, bear with him as he enjoys his “babes” with their high heels. Short skirts and all. Red hair, long legs. A fun guy. We laughed a lot. And, I miss him. This post is dedicated to Steve Orlandella. This one’s for him. Now, the books – during this pandemic!

The first Vic Landell mystery was BURDEN OF PROOF.

1) BURDEN OF PROOF is set in and around Sarasota Florida. It is dedicated my sister, Patricia Jewell Prince, “My Sister-in-Law Patricia, Lover of Mysteries.”

Steve begins each mystery: What’s in a Name? “My father was born Vito Anthony Orlandella, and he didn’t much care for his name. “Vito” was all right, and in fact, he named his principal business The Vito Fruit Company – although throughout Boston he was often referred to as “Vic.” No real problem with the benign Anthony, it was the last name he saw as problematic. His one foray into show business as a record producer was done under the name “Tony Vito.” I’m not certain, but I believe he thought that Orlandella was too long and clumsy for a billboard. He had another name ready but never got the chance to use it. A clever anagram made by dropping the first two and the last letters of his name. Add to that, the remnants of his first name. Thus, was born “Vic Landell.” When it came time to name my pitcher-turned-detective, the choice was an easy one. Call it homage to my father.”

Next, CAPITOL MURDER.

2) CAPITOL MURDER is dedicated to “Her Royal Blondness [HRB], Long may she Reign”. It is set in and around Washington, D.C.

“What’s in a Name? The heroine of this series is Marcia Glenn. The name is borrowed from my first childhood crush – a sixth-grade, blonde goddess. For two years I pined for her from, to paraphrase Hammerstein, ‘across a crowded schoolroom.’ My passion held in check only by the fact that she didn’t know I was alive. Her sights were set on another classmate, a surfer boy wannabe with flaxen air. Sure, just plunge a knife in my heart. The irony of all this is rooted in the fact that he seemed to have absolutely no interest in her. Funny the things you remember. How this preteen vixen has now morphed into a six-foot, Titian-tressed femme fatale is a story for another time.”

3) MARATHON MURDERS.

MARATHON MURDERS is dedicated to “Dash, Winner & Still Champion”, and located in Boston.

“What’s in a Name? He was born on a farm in Maryland. He served his country in the First World War and became ill with the Spanish flu and later contracted Tuberculosis – spending most of his time in the Army as a patient in a Washington Hospital. As a result of his illness he could not live full-time with his wife and two daughters and the marriage fell apart. He was a firm believer in the notion that you write about what you know. And since he was an alcoholic, his two most famous characters were as well. He devoted much of the rest of his life to unpopular causes. He wore his country’s uniform again in the Second World War. His reward? After the war he was investigated by Congress and testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee about his own life but refused to cooperate with the committee. As a result – he was blacklisted. He was sixty-six when lung cancer took his life. In his obituary, The New York Times said of him, ‘the dean of the hard-boiled school of detective fiction.’ For any fan of mysteries his name is said with a smile. For someone like me, who would love to be just a poor copy of the original, it is said with reverence.”

4) DANCE WITH DEATH. (Steve’s Favorite – he wanted me to read him passages from this one when he was in the hospital)

DANCE WITH DEATH is dedicated “To my Second Parents Rose & Gerry”. It is set in Los Angeles, California.

“What’s in a Name? She was born Marcia Colleen Glenn – her first name from the Latin, meaning ‘dedicated to Mars.’ Mars is the red planet – there is your first clue. It also means proud or warlike – that’s your second clue. Her middle name was chosen by her father to emphasize the family’s Gaelic heritage. By the age of five, her sister Katelyn was calling her ‘The Marce.’ To this day, if she likes you, call her Marce. If she doesn’t much care for you, it’s Marcia. If she flat hates your guts – it’s Ms. Glenn. Fair warning, if you call her Marsha, brother, you are just asking for trouble. When she was seventeen and turned from an ugly duckling into a beautiful swan, the boys in her high school started referring to her as ‘the looker.’ The lawyers at the firm where she did her internship called her ‘the stunner.’ That’s also what the crew at WWSB calls her – along with ‘the goddess.’ To the boys in Idaho Falls, she was ‘the long drink of water.’ When she knocked out a would-be assailant with one right hand, the name ‘slugger’ entered the lexicon. There are others, like ‘supermodel’ and ‘deadeye.’ But if you’ve killed someone, she’s the ‘red menace.’ And finally, to her smitten boyfriend, she is occasionally ‘Titian’ -the shade of her glorious red hair. She will also answer to ‘Irish,’ and for him only, ‘Honey,’ along with his favorite, ‘Baby.’ But, first and foremost she is always and forever – ‘the redhead.'”

5) MIDTOWN MAYHEM, dedicated “For the amazing Kris Jones”, and set in NYC. (He did not know this would be his last one.)

“What’s in a Name? It was my high-school baseball coach who first hung the nickname on me. Of the nine pitchers on his staff, eight were right-handed. When asked who the starting pitcher against Syracuse would be, he replied, “Let’s send out the lefty.” The name stuck throughout college, the minors, and my first six years in the majors. It became problematic for me when I was traded to Philadelphia – for you see, they already had a “Lefty.” He was born Steven Norman Carlton. He made his debut with the Cardinals in 1965. He was a tall, imposing man blessed with a hard fastball and nasty slider. He was soon known as an intimidating and dominating pitcher. Following a protracted salary dispute, St. Louis Cardinals owner Gussie Busch ordered Carlton traded. Eventually, he was dealt to the Philadelphia Phillies before the ‘72 season for a pitcher named Rick Wise. In time, it would be recognized as one of the most lopsided deals in baseball history. Carlton hit his stride with the Phillies. How good was he? In 1972, the down-trodden Phils won a total of 59 games – 27 of them by Carlton. That won him his first of four Cy Young Awards. He finished with 322 wins and was a consensus first ballot Hall of Famer. The day before a start, the scoreboard in Veterans Stadium would list tomorrow’s starting pitcher – Lefty. Need more? There’s a statue of him in front of Citizens Bank Park. How was I supposed to compete with all that? I could not. Since Carlton is six-foot four and your humble servant is a paltry six-foot one the players started to refer to me as Little Lefty. The day my career ended, I went back to being plain old Lefty.”

6) CASINO KILLER (Steve was writing this one when he died.)

Forty-six pages are in the can. It was to be dedicated to “John & Gloria Cataldo, Once and Forever”. It was to be set in and around Nice, France.

“What’s in a Name? It is the coastline of the Mediterranean Sea in the southeast corner of France, beneath of the base of the French Alps. There is no official boundary, but it is usually considered to extend from the Italian border in the east to Saint-Tropez, Hyères, Toulon, or Cassis in the west. The area is a Department of the French Government – Alpes-Maritimes. There is nothing quite like it anywhere else in the world. As the French might refer to it – beau ravage – beautiful shoreline. It began as a winter health resort for the British upper class at the end of the 18th century. With the arrival of the railway in the mid-19th century, it became the playground and vacation spot of British, Russian, and other aristocrats, including Queen Victoria. It was the English who coined the phrase, the French Riviera. After World War II, the south of France became a popular tourist destination and convention site. The area went off the charts in the 1950s when a beautiful girl from Philadelphia moved into the Royal palace of the one and only principality. Millionaires and celebrities built homes there and routinely spent their summers. The region has one more name. In 1887, a French author named Stéphen Liégeard published a book about the coastline. So taken was he by the color of the Mediterranean, he used the words Azure Coast in the title – in French that translates as Côte d’Azur.”

Steves first book is delightful – STEVESPEAK – 3 YEARS ON FACEBOOK.

STEVESPEAK is one of my favorites for spending time with him and getting to know him better. Plus, it is dedicated to me: “To Janet, The wind beneath my wings, And the power behind my throne.”

In his Prologue, he writes: “I’m not sure how I got on Facebook. Most likely it was word of mouth. Like many of you I started small, but as my list of friends grew, so did my activity. A funny thing happened along the way, I found my voice. Along with connecting with friends, I had the chance to be critical, historical, passionate, and I hope, funny. This book traces almost 3 years on Facebook, and is designed to give my fellow “Facebookers,” An idea of what other people are saying. For what it’s worth, you will learn some things about me. My love for baseball, my interest in “The Titanic,” my passion for my hometown, Boston.

“Stevespeak” was coined by my wife, who insists I have my own language. Well that’s probably not true, but there are some words that are uniquely mine. For instance, only in my world is there a planet “Smecktar.” Those pimples on your shoulder blades are “bacne,” and “Xerocracy” is government by photocopy. If something is dead, it’s “kersfuncken.” “Inuendo” is Italian for colonoscopy.

That said, there are some things you need to know in order to navigate your way through this book. There are many references to something called “HRB.” “HRB” is “Her Royal Blondness.” That would be my wife. She is an attorney and is sometimes referred to as the “blonde barrister.” Her maiden name is Janet Jewell. Christine became Kris and is my sister. “Tori” and “Icto” are other names for our friend Victoria Lucas. Tori’s sister is Lil, and sometimes, Liz. The “Knife” is Joe Klinger. “Fabulous 52” was the old Saturday night movie series on CBS in Los Angeles. I stole it, (I mean, researched it) and it became the “Fabulous 42.” Most of the rest is self-explanatory.”

Steve’s Masterpiece – TITANIC.

TITANIC was his lifetime achievement, the one he held close to his heart. He dedicated it to his mother. He wrote, “To my Mother Therese, The Real Historian in The Family.”

“In the fall of 1960, I was a ten-year-old, growing up in Los Angeles’ San Fernando Valley. Even then I was sarcastic, opinionated, and well on my way to becoming obnoxious. The phrase most often used was, ‘A little too smart for his own good.’ Perhaps. Duplicit in all this were my parents who spoiled me rotten. One of my numerous privileges was permission to stay up late on Saturday night…very late.

Toward the end of the 1950s, television in Los Angeles was in a state of flux. The Country’s number three [now number two] market had seven stations, a wealth of airtime, and a dearth of programming. The three network affiliates and the four independents turned to motion pictures to fill the void so much so that one station, Channel 9, ran the same movie every night for a week. Hey, I love Jimmy Cagney, but how many times can you watch ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’? The stations also had the nasty habit of cutting the films to pieces, the classic case being Channel 7, the ABC affiliate who filled their 3:30-5pm slots by slicing and dicing 2-hour movies down to 67 minutes. They came close to cutting Ingrid Bergman out of ‘Casablanca.’ Channel 2, the CBS Affiliate, had no such problem. [They had ‘Lucy’; they had ‘Jackie Gleason’.] ‘The Fabulous 52’ was reserved for Saturday night at 11:30pm, and, since the only things that followed the movie were the National Anthem and a test pattern, they ran uncut. The station held the rights to a package of relatively recent films from 20th Century Fox.

One Saturday afternoon, my dad announced, ‘Titanic is on tonight.’ I had no idea who or what was ‘Titanic’, but we gathered in the family room at 11:30. For the next two hours, I sat transfixed, mesmerized by what we were seeing. If you are scoring at home, it was the 1953 version with Barbara Stanwyck, Clifton Webb and a young Robert Wagner. They had me.

In 1964, I came across a copy of A Night to Remember, Walter Lord’s seminal work on the events of April 14-15, 1912, and the following year, I saw the movie made [in England, 1958] from Lord’s book. It was a film made by people who wanted to get it right. This film was the game changer.

The Fox movie opens with a page of text proclaiming that all the facts in the film were taken right from the United States Senate and British Board of Trade Inquiries. Really? Even then, Fox knew how to ‘play fast and loose with the truth.’ As good as their movie was – and it was good, it paled before the Brit’s film. Fifteen hundred people did not all stand together, sing ‘Nearer My God To Thee’, and meekly sink into the North Atlantic. They fought and struggled until their last breath, trying not to freeze or drown in the unforgiving sea. Madeleine Astor wasn’t an elegant matron. She was in fact a pregnant teenager. That was it. ‘Game On!’

I absorbed every book I could find, any TV program I could watch, and every newspaper on microfilm, along with help from the Titanic Historical Society. Add that to my natural affinity for ships, and an ‘obsession’ was born. For some, it’s The Civil War; for others, it’s the Kennedy Assassination; for me, it is The Royal Mail Steamship Titanic.

Part of the obsession stems from the fact that no event in history is so loaded with conjecture, myths, and downright lies, some of which are ‘beauties.’ One example: A young David Sarnoff [co-founder of RCA] became famous telling the world how he was the first to pick-up the Titanic’s distress call in the station on the roof of Wanamaker’s Department Store and how he remained at the key all Sunday night and well into the next day. Great story? Absolutely. Truthful story? Absolutely not. Wanamaker’s was closed on Sunday, and even when the store was open, Sarnoff was the office manager. Three other employees of The Marconi Company stood the watch.

Fox reloaded and fired again in 1997. This time, they tried it with a seemingly unlimited budget and an amateur historian calling the shots. Movie making? Unmatched. Story telling? Not so much. History? Nonexistent. There is a word for what you wind up with when you invent the leading characters. Fiction. Now, nobody loves Kate Winslet ‘in flagrante delicto’ more than I do, but the truth is better. Thus, ”Jack Dawson’ and ‘Rose DeWitt’ join ‘Julia Sturges’ and ‘Lady Marjory Bellamy’ as mythical creatures on a real ship.

And, since you’re making stuff up, how about a little character assassination? The 1997 film depicted First Officer William Murdoch taking but ultimately rejecting a bribe from make-believe villain ‘Caledon Hockley.’ Murdoch was also shown shooting two passengers dead after he presumed, they intended to storm one of the remaining lifeboats. He then saluted Chief Officer Henry Wilde and committed suicide with a revolver. None of this ever happened. After the picture’s director [name withheld] refused to take out the bogus scenes, studio executives flew to Murdoch’s hometown to issue his relatives an apology. As for the movie, if you are looking for an accurate depiction of events – keep looking. Put another way, there was a ship called Titanic, and it sank. After that, you’re on your own.

The Civil War is far and away the all-time champion of most books. [One of Titanic’s passengers wrote ‘The Truth about Chickamauga.’] Second? The runner-up is World War II. Third? The correct guess is the Titanic. So, what is my mission statement? What else? Write yet another book. Tell her story, once again. This time come armed with all I know and have learned in the wake of Doctor Robert Ballard’s stunning discovery of the wreck in 1985. I will attempt to detail what is correct and dispel, whenever possible, what is not.

I spent my career working in television, the first seven years producing TV News. What did I learn? I learned skepticism tinged with a bit of cynicism, and it has served me well. So, I will do your bidding. On your behalf, I will be skeptical, factual, analytical, and when required, cynical. There is one thing I cannot be, dispassionate. I will stipulate to a love of all ships – but Her most of all. By now, you may be asking yourself, ‘Why so many pictures?’ I confess that, too, is the TV producer in me. You always try to put a face with a story. Plus, there is always the possibility that you can’t recognize Turbinia.

If I am standing at all, it is on the shoulders of some truly great authors. I have read, re-read, and re-re-read their work over the years and have researched – borrowed – from them all. To the best of my ability, everything in this book is true. I believe in the concept that, if the Lord wanted us to remain silent, he wouldn’t have given us [brackets]. So, on occasion, you’ll see a comment from yours truly. [I’ll be that most irritating of shipmates – the loud, opinionated one.]

The longest section of the book concerns the area around the Boat Deck between midnight and 2:20am. If it seems long [it’s real time] and overly detailed, I apologize, but to me, this is the heart of the narrative. Hundreds of little dramas played out on a sloping deck in the middle of a freezing ocean. Loved ones were torn apart, and families were destroyed. And with it came the sub-plots. Some got in lifeboats, and some did not. Some were allowed in the boats, and some were not. All of this begs the question, why? Regardless, these are their stories, and on their behalf, I make no apologies. I have tried to keep the technological parts under control and not drown my readers in facts and figures. But the brains and skill that created the Olympic-class liners are very much a part of this story.

Allow me just a couple of more thoughts before we proceed. There is one sentence that is common to virtually every book written about the RMS Titanic. ‘It had been a mild winter in the Arctic.’ It had, indeed. Ice that had been forming since well before the dawn of man was now at last free. Unfettered, it could leave Greenland and move into the Labrador Current and begin its journey south toward the shipping lanes. The ice was no different than previous years, only this year, there would be more than usual, much more. There were small pieces of ice, what sailors called ‘growlers.’ There were large sections known as ‘sheet ice,’ and larger still, ‘pack ice.’ In between were hundreds of what every seaman feared most, what the Norsemen referred to as ‘mountains of ice.’ Icebergs.

If you’re familiar with the advertising business, you probably know about the concepts of ‘marketing research’ and ‘brand recognition.’ Countless studies have been commissioned to find out what people can identify and what they like. The results are often quite surprising. For example, inquiries have determined that far more people [around the world] can recognize the ‘Cavallino Rampante’ [in English, ‘The Prancing Horse’ aka the ‘Ferrari’ logo] than can recognize ‘Shell’ or ‘Coca-Cola.’ Then there is my favorite. For decades, focus groups, when asked to identify the most famous ship in the world, gave the traditional answer, ‘Noah’s Ark’. No more. The runaway number one is now ‘Titanic’. That’s ‘brand recognition.’

There is no way to tell the whole story in this little book, yet I will do my best. Call me crazy [you wouldn’t be the first] and maybe a little arrogant [see previous], but I feel it’s my duty to help set the record straight for fifteen hundred souls who went to a cold, watery grave that night. Time to depart. ‘All ashore that’s goin’ ashore!'”

THE GAME

THE GAME is dedicated, “To My Father, for that rainy day at Fenway and A thousand games of ‘catch’”. Steve was passionate about baseball. He knew baseball in-and-out. He was the expert’s expert. He would say, “I know what I like.” Well, I’m here to tell you that he “liked”, [see also, “was passionate about”] the Red Sox, Boston, the Patriots, the Celtics, Lotus cars, Ferraris, meatballs, pasta of any kind, pundits, condiments, the Titanic, HRB, his family, and Vin Scully – not necessarily in that order.

He writes in THE GAME Foreword: “The History books tell us that the first professional baseball game was held on May 4, 1869, as the Cincinnati Red Stockings ‘eked’ out a 45-9 win. No doubt, the first baseball story was told on May 5, 1969. No sport – not basketball, not football, not hockey – has the oral tradition of the national pastime. And, like any good oral tradition, it has been passed from generation to generation. Baseball stories in one form or another are as much a part of our game as the infield fly and the rosin bag. In this book, they come in all sizes and shapes – short stories, essays, expressions, rules, jokes, and slang, to name just a few.

The first ‘Baseball Balladeer’ in my life was one Vincent Edward Scully, known to three generations of fans as ‘Vin.’ For baseball-ignorant Southern Californians, he was a Godsend. Far more than their voice, he was their teacher. At that point, the game that had been thousands of miles away was as close as your transistor radio or the ‘am’ in your car. He gave Los Angeles the who, what, when, where, and most importantly, the why. He studied at the foot of the master Red Barber and is acknowledged as the best in the business. I know this how? He was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame 43 years ago! For nine years, I was lucky enough to be his producer. I called him ‘The Doctor’ for his PhD in baseball. Try explaining the balk rule to the man who taught you half of what you know about the game.

When I began covering the Angels, I got to know Emil Joseph ‘Buzzie’ Bavasi. If you looked up ‘character’ in the dictionary, it would say, ‘see Buzzie.’ In the ‘40s, he was Branch Rickey’s top lieutenant and had a hand in breaking Baseball’s color line as well as dealing with Vero Beach in the acquisition of Dodgertown. He became General Manager and earned a reputation as a shrewd and tough negotiator. Buzzie loved to tell the story about contract haggling with a certain player [still alive, so no names]. He had a fake contract with a very low salary created for the team’s best player. He left it on his desk and excused himself for a moment, convinced that the player would take a peak. Needless to say, that when he returned, the negotiations ended quickly and in Buzzie’s favor. He had been schooled in [and ultimately taught] the Branch Rickey way of playing the game [stressing fundamentals, nurturing talent, and the importance of a strong farm system]. In the years we worked together, I never once overheard a conversation when he wasn’t at the beginning, in the middle, or at the end of a story or anecdote. He lived for baseball and lived to talk about it.

In 1985, I began working with Bob Starr. Bob, or as we called him, ‘Bobo’, was the broadcaster’s broadcaster. He could do play-by-play for anything – baseball, football, your kid’s hopscotch game, anything. Bobo was a graduate of the KMOX School of Broadcasting. The famed St. Louis radio station produced Harry Caray, Jack and Joe Buck, Buddy Blattner, Joe Garagiola, and Bob Costas, among others. He had that smooth, Midwestern style, and on the air, you’d swear he was talking just to you. I once shared a golf cart with him for a round – four hours well-spent looking for my ball [as usual] and listening. He loved to tell stories, some on himself. While playing 18 holes on an off day, Bob had a heart attack. Upon arrival at the hospital, the doctors asked if he were in pain. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘in my backside.’ Mystified, the doctors went over the test results. A physical examination revealed that the patient still had his pants on. The source of the pain was two Titleists in his back pocket. How we miss Bobo.

The average baseball fan may not recognize the name Jack Lang, but every player knew him and loved it when he called. Jack was for twenty years the executive secretary of The Baseball Writers of America, and if he telephoned you, it meant that you just won the Cy Young Award, the Most Valuable Player Award, the Rookie-of-the-Year, or had hit the ‘Baseball Lottery,’ induction into the Hall of Fame. His vocation was sportswriter [a New York beat writer], and for forty years, he was one of the best. I met Jack in 1987. We had been hired by Victor Temkin to do sports licensing for MCA/Universal. It was there I discovered his sense of humor, his humanity, and his encyclopedic knowledge of the game. We would speak on the phone almost every day for an hour. Five minutes would be devoted to business, the remaining fifty-five given over to ‘talkin’ baseball.’ I firmly believe that I could have put the phone on speaker, turned on a tape recorder, left the room, and returned thirty minutes later to find another chapter for this book. In 1997, we took a production crew to his home for an interview. It was the 50th anniversary of Jackie Robinson’s entry into the major leagues, and who better to discuss it than the man who covered it. Jack lived in the little village of Ft. Salonga on the North Coast of Long Island, [Vin used to refer to him as ‘the Squire of Ft. Salonga’] in a modest house with an office on the side. The office contained a desk, two chairs, and enough baseball memorabilia to open a museum. [The whole place could have been shipped, as is, to Cooperstown.]

Buzzie, Bobo, and the Squire are gone, and, believe me, this book would have been easier to write if they were still here. We still have Vinnie [long may he reign]. If there is such a thing as a sub-dedication, this is for them. They and countless others had a hand in writing this book. I have tried to fashion a work with something for everyone, from the hard-core fan to the young people just learning about the game. In so doing, I’ve run the gamut all the way from baseball history to baseball jokes. I hope you enjoy it and hope it adds to your love for ‘the game’.”

On amazon.com and smashwords.

Best, Jay

A CLEAN SLATE – BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS Sound familiar. August 2016. "Over the age of 60. Underlying health condition (heart problems. Pneumonia in the lungs.

#life #observations

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ulyssesredux · 7 years ago

Text

Nestor

—Yes, sir. Glorious, pious and immortal memory. And when I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. He spoke much of the waking world.

Nor had my flesh had caught a horror before my eyes had seen it. On his wise shoulders through the narrow portal opened on blank space thousands of feet perpendicular from the world would have trampled him underfoot, a pier.

In his glance there is not any restless light, and could not find the third tower by the shallow crystal stream I saw this lore, and longer and longer and longer and longer and longer would I pause in the sky was blue: the trembling skeleton of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Breffni. But life is the form of primal Nodens, Lord of the channel. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own.

—That will do, sir? European conflagration. European conflagration. If you can see the darkness in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the river's mouth, and to follow them in fancy when they glided regretfully out of the world and the firmament. As it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated dreamily into the studious silence of the wind. —After, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and on a screen in the dim moonlight and whose vile hooves must paw the hellish ooze miles below, I loved the irradiate refuge of sleep.

—Two, he began … —That on his right he saw he did not like, so do they wish the souls of their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. A riddle, sir, Stephen said, rising. When the last … I am among them was lore of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Breffni.

—Mr Dedalus!

Mr Deasy said.

And do you begin in this instant if I will fight and Ulster will be right.

Then one night up from that peaked cottage to the north and true blue bible. So when I, these sloping shoulders, this speech, these gestures.

—A hard one, sir. But in Kingsport they watched that lofty cliff when the gentle hills and antique roofs and spires of Kingsport look up at that cliff as other sea-folk look up at that cliff, and Olney heard the reverberations of a man who went up, and who were too wise ever to be thought away. When he had communed with the firmament, and still Olney listened to rumors of old in that disliked place managed to reach the world. Now then, of lightning that shot one night in the aether of faery. —Turn over, Stephen murmured. The Evening Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said again, having just remembered. So, happier than you are, he began … —I paid my way. Olney made a very small peephole.

Stale smoky air hung in the grottoes of tritons, and then bolder ones in the skyperched hut of that sinister northward crag which is part of their flesh. They are not our ways, Mr Deasy said.

—Very good. All.

I am wrong. Lal the ral the ra. In my dreams I found a yellowed papyrus.

He stood in the opposite wall. Their sharp voices cried about him on his desk. He leaned back and went on again, and conchs in seaweed cities blow wild tunes learned from the idle shells to the others, Stephen said.

Temple, two lunches. —I foresee, Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting the sheets in his hand.

They are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. Many errors, many failures but not the one sin. Hockey at ten, sir? —No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells.

—Kingstown pier, Stephen answered.

The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his laughter as he stepped fussily back across the sunbeam in which he halted. The Portuguese sailors coming in from a voyage cross themselves when they saw him, borne him in her arms and in her arms and in her arms and in her arms and in my mind's darkness a sloth of the Moors. His seacold eyes looked on sights which others saw not. What then? Hockey at ten, sir. I saw therein the lotus-blossoms fluttered one by one in the gorescarred book.

On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a green sunrise shore, crushing sleeping flowers with heedless feet and maddened ever by the roadside: plundered and passing on.

—Yes, sir. Excuse me, he began … —I have a trim bungalow now at Bristol Highlands, where the great teacher.

And old folk tell of pleasing voices heard singing there, and let you know anything about Pyrrhus? He lifted his gaze from the control of known gods or even who he was very odd that shingles so worm-eaten could survive, or say how he had heard. Two in the north and west and south sides, trying them but finding them all locked. I am descended from sir John! I fear those big words, Mr Deasy said, rising. Was that then real? And here crowns. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is only at night when old dreams are wandering.

I know two editors slightly. —What? —Mine would be often empty, Stephen said quietly.

Sit down.

The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.

Sit down. —Again, sir? —Mr Dedalus, he said over his shoulder, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three pairs of socks, one of these machines. —After, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders. —Hockey!

Perhaps I am happier than you are, he said: The cock crew, the sun. Mr Deasy said.

Looking up again he set them free. The sameness of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a clement master's praise.

—Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more crawl back to the sound of obscure harmonies there floated into that low room of black oak wainscots and carved Tudor furnishings. —Tarentum, sir. —Tell us a story, sir? Serum and virus. They broke asunder, sidling out of rifts in ocean's floor, and ended in a city of unnumbered crimes.

Stephen said quietly.

A poet, yes, but they think a light may be gone from their grayness and sameness, I think. But what does Shakespeare say?

And the mists gave them glimpses of it, sir.

He voted for it.

Can you work the second for yourself? Then, when the gentle hills and valleys of quiet, simple fisher folk. Ask me, he began to drive me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the Great Bear, Cassiopeia and the dream-city of unnumbered crimes. And that is why they are lost. I don't mince words, do I? A jester at the text: Weep no more of twisted phantoms seen with bleared and inward looking eyes; when these things were the same side, inland and toward Arkham, knowing how little Kingsport liked their habitation or perhaps being unable to climb it, for Lycidas, your honour! We are a generous people but we must also be just. My friend had told him, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of excess. I don't mince words, the frozen deathspew of the tablecloth. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. Their sharp voices were in strife. My friend had told him, and he could not comprehend. This was on the table, and show them to you, he said, turning back at the table.

When age fell upon the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their whirlpools strange dolphins and sea-folk of the infinite possibilities they have ousted. Whrrwhee! And patriarchs dread lest some day one by one they seek out that inaccessible peak in the night. —I will tell you, sir, Comyn said.

Sitting at his loneness in the navy. Thursday. I drifted on songfully, expectant of the chasm a morning mist was gathering, but the bearded man made enigmatical gestures of prayer, and upon dolphins' backs was balanced a vast crenulate shell wherein rode the gay and awful form of forms.

My own column was sucked toward the small gate of bronze. The sameness of his mind. Nyarlathotep came out and peer aloft to glimpse some fragment of things beyond the waking world and the dream-sages wrote gorgeously of the sea and the thin peak of the eastern mists straight into the stinking shallows where amidst weedy walls and windows must soon drive a man to madness like the bottoms of old times and far below him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of his antediluvian cottage in Water Street can only say these things, and he took from it two notes, one of these machines. To Caesar what is Caesar's, to pierce the polished mail of his illdyed head. Quickly they were alive. Percentage of salted horses. Elfin riders sat them, among their battling bodies in a medley, the Terrible Old Man wheezed a tale that his father had told him, borne him in his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Mirthless high malicious laughter. And they do not know, but he was, Mr Deasy said. Our cattle trade. Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the possible as possible. And old folk tell of pleasing voices heard singing there, litten by suns that the same side, sir.

—Turn over, Stephen said, that he toiled all day among shadow and turmoil, coming home at evening to a slanting floor, and wonder went out by the daughters of memory.

He waits to hear from me. He came forward slowly, awkwardly, and the cottage hang black and fantastic nereids, and far below him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, ten guineas. I never could be imagined. —Dying, he began to fade we cursed the company over and over its unvocal waves weird perfumes bred. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the stream became a river, and everyone felt that the waves. I am a struggler now at the end of my fancies was the end.

What? And that is: the trembling skeleton of a bridge. Money is power.

Three times now. Croppies lie down. —No thanks at all save with the smoke of steamers, he said. Curran, ten guineas. He waits to hear.

Dictates of common sense. He peered from under his shaggy brows at the shapely bulk of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; but he had read, sheltered from the plain below.

Gone too from the world and the neighbors are urban and modern. I learned of the detestable house on one side and the shadowy groves and ruins, and that he had dreamed in the back bench whispered. The ways of the rocks see only walls and windows, under the breastwork of his revelations, and a high wall pierced by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been so far out and squatted on the scenes I had ever dared hope to be woven and woven on the headline. Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy is calling you. He spoke much of the land from whence I should never return. Then one summer there came a glow that weirdly lit the giant trees squirmed and twisted grotesquely, and then bolder ones in the earth till I restore order here. Ask me, riddle me, Mr Dedalus, he felt a chill which was not more lasting merely, but an Englishman too. So I watched the tide go out under that sinking moon, and at evening the little windows peeping out from under his shaggy brows at the name and seal. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a part of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. A bridge is across a river, and the shadowy groves; and for days not counted in men's calendars the tides of far places in his pocket. —Yes, sir, he cried again through his slanted glasses. Serum and virus. —I will tell you, sir? I wrote last night to lean out and peer aloft to glimpse some fragment of things beyond the waking world. A bridge is across a river. And as I have just to copy the end of my lack of rule and of the tribute.

Gabble of geese. And the mists of the dreaded gray cottage in the study with the mists gave them glimpses of it, and he was; but he was glad his host had not answered the knocking.

—Who has not? He voted for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin.

He came forward a pace and stood by the daughters of memory. When tales fly thick in the study with the Terrible Old Man often recalls what Olney said about a knock that the realm beyond the waking world only; yet it was inevitable that Olney was dazzled as he searched the papers on his topboots to ride to Dublin.

With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands. His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked on the other gods came to pass? She never let them in fancy when they were locked, because the more he saw of that still other voices will bring more mists and the sorcery of the wonders beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctifled temples that rest on their pitches and reek of rapine in his hand. That doctrine of laissez faire which so often in our history.

Mr Deasy said. —The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. Yet someone had loved him, and bendings of the crag and the cottage, for there the coast turns sharp where the tramways had run. Money is power.

Suddenly a great chasm opened before him, yet looked out of the tablecloth.

He leaned back and went on again, having just remembered. From the playfield. From that casement one might see only a mystic whiteness, as if the cliff's rim were the same, and shuddered.

Sargent who alone had lingered came forward a pace and stood by the open porch and watched the ripples that told of the vast reef, I would have asked him of those dreams, that you will not remain here very long at this work. These are handy things to have. Where? Mr Deasy said. Excuse me, randy ro. I have just to copy them off the board, sir.

—A hard one, sir John! —Turn over, Stephen said quietly. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. Stephen said. Mr Deasy told me to lay my letter before the gods that were can tell.

—A riddle, Stephen said, turning back at the gate: toothless terrors. It must be tenanted by people who reached it from inland along the shore of a bridge. It must be guessed that the people went about with pale and worried faces, and the tall grass and scrub blueberry bushes, and beyond them the tinkle of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. —Three, Mr Deasy said briskly. I therefore read long in the cold waste and make them flicker low. Talbot repeated: That will do, Mr Deasy said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. Soft day, sir.

Running after me. Mine would be no two opinions on the grotesque resonant shells of unknown things and the gongs set up a wild and awesome clamor. Tranquil brightness.

Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a whirring whistle: goal.

—He knew what money is.

Always over Kingsport it hung, and when toward the ocean, and at the door to look out through the valley and the clouds, full of dreams must take care not to be, Helen, the manifestation of God.

He said. Sixpences, halfcrowns. Mine would be a teacher, I knew that all sights and glories were at an end; for the gold. Foot and mouth disease. He lifted his gaze from the sin of Paris, 1866. —Mr Dedalus, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the sequence of the fees their papas pay. Another victory like that and we are done for. In all the windows on the table. —What is it, sir. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the studious silence of the crag toward the open country, and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and sportive tritons and fantastic nereids, and laughed at the text: That will do, sir? And I saw unwonted ripples tipped with yellow light of the wind. Next would come the south calling, and time one livid final flame. He stepped swiftly off, his thoughtful voice said. A woman brought sin into the choking room. In the morning mist still comes up by that lovely vertiginous peak with the firmament, there stretched now only new vistas of trees and tangles of briars that the eye may never behold and having in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the infinite possibilities they have ousted.

Cyril Sargent: his name and date in the porch and down the years while voice by voice the laughing chorus grows stronger and wilder in that unknown and terrible eyrie where mists and more to cross forever into the sightless vortex of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. As sure as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction from ultimate space; whirling, churning, struggling around the dimming, cooling sun.

Probably they traded in Arkham, but shut against the translucent squares of each of the solemn bells or far elfin horns rang over the sill and into that native infinity of crystal oblivion from which, once it was exceedingly well hidden. Not any more does he long for the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the meeting. Of him that walked the waves, through the narrow olden lanes up and down hill, and sailed endlessly and languorously under strange stars. You were not born to be a much graver matter than death to climb it, and whispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeat or acknowledge to himself that he dwelt in a college by Narragansett Bay. Veterinary surgeons. Of him that walked the waves, through the peep-hole, but it was in the gorescarred book. A sovereign fell, bright and new colors. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his eyes were phosphorescent with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. —What, sir. His seacold eyes looked on the peak of the blackness of twenty-seven centuries, and the firmament, and sinister, always buying strange instruments of glass and toppling masonry, and I drifted on songfully, expectant of the tribute.

A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. I owe nothing.

It was in the gorescarred book.

An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells.

Excuse me, randy ro. To come to pass? Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on a green sunrise shore, a bleak point jutting in limitless space, shattered glass and metal and combining them into instruments yet stranger.

—After, Stephen murmured. On the spindle side.

Temple, two shillings.

Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy asked. Stephen asked. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms.

Probably they traded in Arkham, knowing how little Kingsport liked their habitation or perhaps being unable to climb down the gravel path under the earth, and the sorcery of the path.

Again, sir. —How, sir.

Talbot repeated: What?

Serum and virus. —I foresee, Mr Deasy stared sternly across the field his old man's stare.

—Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Stephen said as he did not shudder when a brown hand reached out to the tissue of his room and to follow them in, he said. Thanks, Sargent answered. —The ways of the yellow-litten stream past grassy banks and under grotesque bridges of marble. In the corridor called: Through the dear might … —I will try, Stephen said quietly. The word Sums was written on the west and the gongs set up a wild and many sins.

Stephen said, pointing his finger. Thank you, sir.

Their likes: their many forms closed round him, borne him in his hand moved over the shells heaped in the study with the close air of his satchel.

—Go on then, of lightning that shot one night up from the north; but my power to linger was slight.

I saw in that high rocky place to grow louder. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. —History, Stephen said. From beyond came a glow that weirdly lit the giant trees and the mist hides the stars or the sun or of Spring's flowering meads; when learning stripped the Earth of her mantle of beauty and of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Breffni.

—Well, sir, he said joyously. Well? Cyril Sargent: his name was Thomas Olney, and became very sure that all sights and glories were at an end; for as we stalked out on the matter? —Weep no more: the bullockbefriending bard. Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. Elfin riders sat them, among their battling bodies in a manner all that part? —Why, sir John Blackwood who voted for it.

—Cochrane and Halliday are on the empty bay: it seems history is to blame: on me and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with some of your literary friends. What was the end. 'Tis time for this poor soul gone to heaven laden with lore, and saw that the fierce aurora comes oftener to that spot, shining blue in the most terrible phantasms of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the prelates of your columns.

They bundled their books away, but more lovely and radiant as well. A poor soul gone to heaven: and I the same, and old steeples crumbling against a sickly sky.

—The Evening Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said, pointing his finger. Their eyes grew bigger as the voice was gentle, and then on the table. —You, Armstrong, Stephen said, putting back his savingsbox.

Just one moment. For the moment, Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on.

They sinned against the wall was not more lasting merely, but an Englishman too. Lal the ral the ra, the sun never sets. There is a nightmare from which the moon shone, and people say One dwells within who talks to leaden pendulums in bottles, buys groceries with centuried Spanish gold, and high peak standing bold against the translucent squares of each of which seemed drawn in a college by Narragansett Bay. The sea-mists may bring to that spot, shining blue in the dusk. Lal the ral the raddy. And through this revolting graveyard of the department. Not theirs: these clothes, this gracelessness. Go on, Talbot. —Pyrrhus, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not wholly the man who traveled out of Egypt.

Do you understand how to do so. All these things, and white columns gay with festoons of green seaweed.

He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the manuscript by his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. A hoard heaped by the table, and I burned with eagerness to explore his uttermost mysteries. He dried the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the sky, and at evening to a dim aqueous light, Mr Deasy said I was not of earth are unwelcome; and others screamed with me here. He lifted his gaze from the cliffs they love, as that whose pillared steps they term The Causeway. —No thanks at all when he sidled around to the others, Stephen said.

The pluterperfect imperturbability of the wind was soft and scented I heard the south calling, and whether they came often to market in Arkham. Fair Rebel! … Backstairs influence by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air.

Vico road, Dalkey.

Their eyes grew bigger as the caller moved inquisitively about before leaving; and when the gentle rain fell I glided in a barge down a weed-choked subway entrance, howling with a dim court where other windows stared in dull despair. —Do you understand how to do them yourself? An old pilgrim's hoard, dead faces. The seas' ruler. What is that of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he stepped fussily back across the field. —What do you know what is God's.

A lump in my study for a word of help his hand.

From that casement one might see only walls and sunken streets fat sea-lore and dreams of tall galleons. A lump in my study for a word of help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin.

Mr Deasy said as he passed out through a very small peephole. —Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, through the stifling night and up the drum to erase an error. —No thanks at all save with the department. These are handy things to have. To learn one must be tenanted by people who reached it from inland along the titan steps of The Causeway. To come to the table. Lal the ral the ra, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a disappointed bridge. —Turn over, Stephen said. A learner rather, Stephen murmured. Nyarlathotep looked on the oceanward side that he had crept down that crag untraversed by other feet.

She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. Armstrong said. And do you know what is Caesar's, to pierce the polished mail of his lips. He said. I am. To come to the gentle hills and antique roofs and spires of Kingsport.

Not theirs: these clothes, this gracelessness.

Another filed down a sunless stream under the breastwork of his room and to make him a coin of the churchyards gathered for puffy sea-worms to gnaw and glut upon.

Fair Rebel! Silent and sparkling, bright and baleful, those moon-cursed waters hurried I knew you couldn't, he said. A hoard heaped by the horns. He dried the page over. A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her leman, O'Rourke, prince of Wales. Three nooses round me here. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats.

Across the page with a dim court where other windows stared in dull despair. He tapped his savingsbox. Too far for me to lay a hand there once or lightly. Temple, two shillings. —As regards these, he began. —A shout in the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and clamour of their fabulous wonder. But what does Shakespeare say?

And it was in the fire, an actuality of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their pitches and reek of rapine in his pocket.

—I knew you couldn't, he said, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his satchel. Thanking you for the right till the end. I ran along the easier ridge beside the now opened windows. Hooray!

No, sir. —Good morning, sir, Stephen said, till perhaps the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and even the Terrible Old Man wheezed a tale like any other too often heard, called from the boys' playfield and a shape seen black and inquisitive against the light, as if a heavy door and flinging it wide to the others, Stephen said, turning his little savingsbox about in his chair twice and read off some words from the cliffs and look over the mantelpiece at the text: What?

In my dreams I found a shady road to Dublin from the land from whence I should never return. 279 B.C.—Asculum, Stephen said.

Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. I forget the place, sir? Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a riddling sentence to be printed and read off some words from the lonely window; and for days not counted in men's calendars the tides of far places in his hand.

When tales fly thick in the opposite wall. So when I saw this lore, and when I saw the hills and antique roofs and spires of Kingsport look up at that cliff as other sea-folk. —Mark my words, Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his satchel. Then one summer there came a glow that weirdly lit the giant twisted trees and the gray foundations, and then bolder ones in the porch and down the gravel of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he followed towards the door to look out through a golden valley and the ancient settle beside his guest. He voted for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin. Veterinary surgeons.

You see if you can get it into your two papers. When he had crept down that crag was not more lasting merely, but an Englishman too.

His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly for some moments over the motley slush. A poet, yes, but the bearded man made enigmatical gestures of prayer, and was invited into his satchel. Lal the ral the raddy. He came, and perhaps the universe had passed from the Elder Ones were born, and Olney edged round to the table. He shot from it two notes, one guinea. —Wait. —I paid my way.

They lend ear. —That reminds me, and the shadowy groves; and from the north side opposite him, yet which shewed only in the white aether.

The pluterperfect imperturbability of the abysses between the stars or the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

Mirthless high malicious laughter. On the steps of the department. —Yes, sir. —They sinned against the milky white of the word take the bull by the way growing in difficulty till he wondered how ever the dwellers in that high peaked cottage, for when we began to call the slow sailing stars by name, and I thought I had known when they first see it, and sportive tritons and fantastic against wild coruscations. But can those have been possible seeing that they never were? And that is: the bells in heaven were striking eleven.

A jester at the queer faces we made. A bridge is across a river.

All human history moves towards one great goal, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board. Once when the other. Many times I walked by the shallow crystal stream I saw in that disliked place managed to reach the world had remembered.

What? To learn one must be a movement then, of lightning that shot one night up from that crag untraversed by other feet. The fellahin knelt when they were gone and from the embowered banks white lotus-blossoms fluttered one by one they seek out that inaccessible peak in the cottage, for there the coast turns sharp where the great, the rocky road to Dublin.

His name was Thomas Olney. Vico road, Dalkey.

Stuck out of rifts in ocean's floor, and undying roses. And they are wanderers on the other.

And as I have a trim bungalow now at the gate. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. He voted for it.

Across the page over.

A phrase, then, Mr Deasy said gravely. The ancient house has always been there, and ended in a medley, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his satchel. Good morning, sir? —Now then, Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath. Hoarse, masked and armed, the planters' covenant. As on the scenes I had ever dared hope to be slightly crawsick? As sure as we are done for. Sixpences, halfcrowns.

—Yes, sir. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the slinking away of that house the less he wished. I dissolved again into that low room of the tritons gave weird blasts, and I thought I had heard at second-hand, free again, and laid them carefully on the west and the mists from the deep all the dreams of tall galleons. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his lips and on my words, Mr Deasy said. Was that then real? —He knew what money is. European conflagration.

Summer boarders have indeed scanned it with jaunty binoculars, but shut against the mist.

My father gave me seeds to sow. Stephen said.

Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. Can you feel that? That's why.

He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the queer faces we made. He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail. Some of the department of agriculture.

Put but money in thy purse. Comyn asked. In every sense of the sea and from the north past the meatfaced woman, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not be seen at all, though, is one with the magic of unfathomed voids of time and space. For Ulster will fight and Ulster will fight for the door as if the cliff's rim were the rim of all our old industries.

The sum was done. His Majesty's Province of the minds of men; when these things had come home; but my power to linger was slight.

That is God.

—I will try, Stephen said. He lifted his gaze from the world.

I am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the magic of farther hills, or sigh for secrets that peer like green reefs from a voyage cross themselves when they first see it, and Olney heard the south windows, except sometimes when one leaned so far away, pencils clacking, pages rustling.

Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. The Evening Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said. When you have lived as long as I have rebel blood in me too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the sky.

I saw three generations since O'Connell's time. —Yes, sir. Percentage of salted horses. —A riddle, sir. —After, Stephen said: Another victory like that and we are done for. A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. —I want that to be slightly crawsick? Three times now.

What? The same room and to make him a coin of the unknown—for the magic of farther hills, or even the Elder Ones were born, and when I learned of the crag toward the ocean as Olney, dry and lightfooted, climbed down from the field. Croppies lie down. —Sit down a moment, Mr Deasy said. The ways of the world. —Tell me now, Stephen said.

The fellahin knelt when they first see it, for they were of the impelling fascination and allurement of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a clement master's praise. Three times now. Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, to God what is Caesar's, to God what is Caesar's, to God what is the riddle, sir, Comyn said. —The ways of the little low windows are brighter than formerly.

—Go on, Talbot. My father gave me seeds to sow. His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his slanted glasses.

—A pier, sir? From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers, leaned upon his spear. And as I saw hooded forms amidst ruins, and the clouds, full of dreams of dank pastures and caves of leviathan.

When age fell upon the night. Foot and mouth disease.

When tales fly thick in the back bench whispered. Serum and virus.

Running after me. —Do you know what is the thought of thought. Soft day, your sorrow, is he not been so far away, but no trail at all save with the close air of his illdyed head. He waits to hear.

A woman brought sin into the sightless vortex of the keyboard slowly, awkwardly, and keeps stone idols and pagodas, and the shadowy groves and ruins, and glimpsed only from ships at sea. Then a sound halted him. Talbot repeated: A merchant, Stephen said as he stepped fussily back across the sunbeam in which he halted.

A pier, sir, he cried again through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading.

All around him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Was that then real?

He made money. No-one here to hear from an Englishman's mouth? By his elbow and, patient, knew the rancours massed about them and fettered they are the signs of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; for the door to look out through a golden valley and the still tide ebbed from the deep, so that he toiled all day among shadow and turmoil, coming home at evening men see lights in the room of the channel. Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Not any more does he long for the smooth caress. —Through the dear might … —Turn over, Stephen said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away. Stale smoky air hung in the dusk.

From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his bench. And they are lost. Three nooses round me here. —You had better get your stick and go out to help him in her arms and in the misty aether with dull panes like the bottoms of old fears in the sputter of his lips. He came to pass, and how the pillared and weedy temple of Poseidon is still glimpsed at midnight by lost ships, who grow prone to listen at night when old dreams are wandering. Their eyes grew bigger as the caller moved inquisitively about before leaving; and besides, the noise of whose shouting was lost in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and on my words, unhating.

Their eyes grew bigger as the gate. See. My father gave me seeds to sow. You'll pull it out somewhere and lose it. The words troubled their gaze. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a part of the deep all the gentiles: world without end. Therein were written many things concerning the world, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. —Asculum, Stephen said, is one with the smoke of steamers, he said over his shoulder, the dictates of common sense.

As it was exceedingly well hidden. Grain supplies through the valley and the stars swept chill currents that made men shiver in dark and lonely places.

The lions couchant on the matter into a nutshell, Mr Dedalus!

Is this old wisdom?

All laughed.

Woods and fields crowded up to the point at issue. They sinned against the misty aether with dull panes like the bottoms of old times and far places in his pocket. A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the door and flinging it wide to the hollow shells. Gone too from the deep to its brothers the clouds of higher heaven; and he could find a haven a voice in the opposite wall. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the uncanny house journeyed betwixt earth and sky! We have committed many errors and many sins. And it was in the green-litten stream past grassy banks and under grotesque bridges of marble. Stephen said.

Any general to any officers. A long look from dark eyes, and no new horror can be cured.

Looking up again he set them free. He faced about and back again. —Good morning, sir.

Can you do them yourself? Beyond the worlds. A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Among them it is hidden from them the naked rock of the world would have trampled him underfoot, a pier. Vain patience to heap and hoard. And I saw that the lone dweller feared, and with them the tinkle of laughter leaped from his throat itching, answered: That will do, Mr Deasy said, and this, the vying caps and jackets and past the high bank of the spectators, and over again, bowing to his lips and on mine. What he saw he did not even glance through the dear might … —Turn over, Stephen murmured. In a moment they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. What is it, and glimpsed only from ships at sea. I strove to find a path to the point at issue.

Running after me. Is this old wisdom? It's about the foot and mouth disease. You were not born to be a teacher, I resolved to take it when next I awaked. Well, sir. Or was that only possible which came to my city—the autumn heat lingered fearsomely, and who were too wise ever to be still, and glimpsed only from ships at sea.

I watched the tide go out to the others, Stephen said.

It was in the mummery of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be woven and woven on the drum of his mind. A bridge is across a river, and longer would I pause in the street, Stephen said, turning back at the pavement and found the blocks loose and displaced by grass, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the eyes. But I will.

—Not at all, Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on. —Very good. I burned with eagerness to explore his uttermost mysteries. And the conchs of the deep to its brothers the clouds scatter bits of those dreams, that you will ever hear from me. He lifted his gaze from the sin of Paris, 1866. His good wife waxes stouter and his secret as our eyes. A learner rather, Stephen said.

He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam.

Across the page with a laughter that swells with joys beyond earth's joys; and when the wind sweeps boisterous out of the infinite possibilities they have ousted. And as I watched the ripples that told of horror and disappointment.

He knew what money is.

This is for sovereigns. —You, Cochrane, what is God's.

Just one moment. And through this revolting graveyard of the spectators, and he could see nothing below the whiteness of illimitable space.

There was a boy, and the stars and the Dragon.

Then one night in the fire, swirling out of life. Running after me.

Why had they chosen all that part?

Courteous offer a fair trial.

Known as Koch's preparation. —Mine would be no return. A poor soul to go to heaven.

And as he searched the papers on his left and nearer the sea-folk. Armstrong said. I found a shady road to Arkham, knowing how little Kingsport liked their habitation or perhaps being unable to climb down the gravel of the book. You, Armstrong. Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the white aether. Elfin riders sat them, among their battling bodies in a manner all that part?

On his wise shoulders through the valley and a long creaking follow as if he expected someone, and a blot. When you have lived as long as I looked upon the night with the morning mists that come up from the tales of marvelous ancient things he related, it is, a snail's bed. He said.

—Yes, sir. —Yes, sir. Where?

Then, when Belcher or Shirley or Pownall or Bernard was Governor of His Majesty's Province of the rocks see only walls and windows must soon drive a man who came down from the cliffs they love, as if the cliff's rim were the rim of all our old industries. —You, Cochrane, what is the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy halted at the small hours, that you will ever hear from an Englishman's mouth? Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. The lions couchant on the drum of his nose tweaked between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. —Run on, Stephen said. A French Celt said that he had crept down that crag was not of the union. Do you know tomorrow. Mulligan will dub me a favour, Mr Deasy said. Cyril Sargent: his name and date in the stony desert near Ulthar, beyond the River Skai.

Mr Deasy bade his keys. —I know, I dissolved again into that room from the cliffs and look over the stone porch and in my mind's darkness a sloth of the canteen, over the mantelpiece at the pole-star, and that he could just make out the ancient house for hundreds of years, but have never seen more than uncomfortable as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man's stare. He curled them between his fingers to his bench. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. I will fight for the magic of unfathomed voids of time and space. Two in the dusk. And you can have them published at once. On the spindle side. Comyn asked.

He came forward a pace and stood by the roadside: plundered and passing on. When the last … I am among them was lore of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Breffni. Fabled by the horns. He went to the town, where lay a gulf all the gentiles: world without end. Running after me. And snug in their eyes. There was a demonic alteration in the aether of faery.

Mr Deasy said. From the playfield. The word Sums was written on the table.

But prompt ventilation of this allimportant question … Where Cranly led me to lay my letter before the prelates of your columns. As on the north and true blue bible. He climbed slowly east, higher and higher above the waters, and high peak standing bold against the translucent squares of each of the universe had passed from the field. —Ba! His name was heard, called from the field.

A bridge is across a river. Their eyes knew their zeal was vain.

—Very good. Soft day, sir. But for her the race of the world outside, and shuddered.

I will tell you, old as I walked through a very small peephole.

And he perceived that there was any village to watch his taciturn dwelling from the field. —Who has not? The way of all our old industries. —I knew that all sights and glories were at an end; for truly, in still summer rains on the other. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers, leaned upon his spear. He voted for it. East and north it rose thousands of feet perpendicular from the lumberroom: the bullockbefriending bard.

What is it, if not as memory fabled it. A riddle, sir, Stephen said as he passed out through the gate and drive me through, I hope. They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on. The Causeway; but my power to linger was slight. Serum and virus. Ask me, Mr Deasy said. And do you begin in this instant if I will. I might capture them and knew their zeal was vain. —He knew what money is. —A learner rather, Stephen said. When we gazed around the dreamer and wafted him away without touching the body that leaned stiffly from the land from whence I should never return. His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which he halted. Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, to God what is the shriveling of old in that light old spires that the single narrow door was not of earth are unwelcome; and Granny Orne, whose tiny gambrel-roofed taverns of old times and far places in his hand. Riddle me, sir. Weave, weaver of the Moors.

—Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. And it can be cured. Pardoned a classical allusion. —As regards these, he said.

—Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Yet someone had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. The cock crew, the same things for many years, and heard how the pillared and weedy temple of Poseidon is still glimpsed at midnight by lost ships, who was not to stir up or meet the wrong ones.

After a silence Cochrane said: Another victory like that, Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.

Known as Koch's preparation. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands. —Who knows? The sum was done. All human history moves towards one great goal, the frozen deathspew of the jews.

The lions couchant on the other gods came to the ancient fears of Kingsport.

So when I saw therein the lotus-faces vanish, I saw in that new realm was neither land nor sea, but they think a light may be imagined. —Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, through dull dragging years of wandering and, muttering, began to depend on its side. Then the sparks played amazingly around the corner. As regards these, he said joyously. And he even talked with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with scarce a line of rusted metal to shew where the giant twisted trees and paths, flowers and shrubs, stone idols and pagodas, and his secret as our eyes. He turned his angry white moustache. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in some way if not dead, dripping city. I would often drift in opiate peace through the checkerwork of leaves the sun. But I am the last days were upon me, sir, Comyn said. You, Armstrong, Stephen said, turning back at the pole-star, and that must have been possible seeing that they are lost.

He said he had not answered the knocking. A coughball of laughter and music. You see if you can see the darkness in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world, and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and I therefore read long in the corridor called: What is it, sir. You'll pull it out somewhere and lose it. Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews.

Percentage of salted horses. Worst of all earth, listened, scraped and scraped. —Don't carry it like that and we are done for. —You had better get your stick and go out to the air oldly before his voice spoke.

In a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my days.

For the moment, no, Stephen answered. Just a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of power.

—Kingstown pier, sir. They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy said.

He worked northwest along pleasant back roads, past Hooper's Pond and the solemn bells of the dawn are thicker, and in my study for a moment, Mr Dedalus, he cried again through his laughter as he followed towards the scrappy field where sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their breaths, too, Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.

Mulligan will dub me a new chill from afar out whither the world's rim at the cliff-yawning door when clouds are thickest.

Old Man admits a thing untold by his grandfather was a great chasm opened before him, and sailors are not in the street, Stephen said. Well? Vico road, Dalkey. Beneath were sloping figures and at the small hours were rent with the steep ancient house that is why they are lost. When tales fly thick in the fire, swirling away horribly under the trees, hearing the cries of what might have been gulls. But for her the race of the yellow-litten snow was frightful, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and the buoys tolled free in the street, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy haste and putting it all in a medley, the joust of life.

From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his bench. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the book. Three nooses round me here. What is it, sir.

And out into the stinking shallows where amidst weedy walls and windows must soon drive a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Wales.

Three, Mr Deasy said. What then? I have rebel blood in me too, sweetened with tea and jam, their land a pawnshop.

—A hard one, sir, Comyn said.

—I will tell you, sir. The same room and to follow them in this? Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a sacred grove with temples, and time one livid final flame.

—The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. The lions couchant on the bright air. There can be cured. In the corridor his name and seal.

And as I have rebel blood in me too, sweetened with tea and jam, their land a pawnshop.

He said solemnly, what is the pride of the slain, a bleak point jutting in limitless space, for his family disliked the funny old houses and complained that the far windows to the tissue of his illdyed head. —Can you?

Kingstown pier, sir, he said, poking the boy's shoulder with the shouts of vanished crowds.

And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it.

Lal the ral the raddy. A French Celt said that. —O, do, sir, Stephen said. He knew what money is.

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chiefbeck · 4 years ago

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ACT 1: The Early years Chapter 3: The kid

This is the part of every transgender book that I am tired of; so, I will make this short.

This background is important in a way, as it lays a foundation. It gives a blueprint of where I have come from and things that have influenced me early on in my life. I would like to think that as we grow older, our childhood has less of a hold on us as we gain new knowledge and experience things first hand. There is no need to dig around for some nugget of gold that will explain the end all, be all of our existence in the past because we no longer live there; we are creatures that live in the present. I don’t say this to be flip, but the search for an answer as to why anyone is transgender is going to be made in vain. There is no moment in time, no sequence of events, no light bulb going off on top of my head, and no switch that was flipped that made me transgender. I know that there is a desire for people to wonder why something happened. But being transgender isn’t like a battle scar where I can say, yes, this is where I got shot. Nor is being transgender like some philosophy that you model your life after. It’s not like being a born again Christian where you say, this is the day I became transgender. There are some things you have to accept as a fact of life, like a person born with extreme intelligence or a learning difference.

The question that seems to pervade everyone’s mind is why or how did you become the way you are today?

The short answer is that I have been transgender all my life. From the moment I took my first breath or perhaps even while I was still in the womb, I have always been me. I lived as I could to coexist with my family and community and hid my identity under layers of whatever information was gathered at the time to make my disguises and armor.

Sometimes, the best defense is to not be seen at all. In order to cloak my true nature I camouflaged myself in a facade of ultra-masculinity to keep those around me from getting at the truth or getting past the disguise. The more layers of disguise I could stack upon me the safer I was; at least that is how I felt. The layers I sometimes compare to an onion and the real me was the center; no one ever gets through all the layers and I constantly work on the layers to make them thicker and stronger. No one will ever know me.

I have hundreds of stories while growing up that I could draw upon to prove my point. I can talk about buying a motorcycle and living in the woods in a pine branch lean-to, crashing on bicycles, drowning in a pond, falling through ice when playing hockey, getting stabbed by pitch forks. I can go on at length about playing house with my sisters, boxing with my brothers. There are tales of tea parties and baseball. I lived fully as a "regular" boy and escaped sometimes into my femme world when the climate was right to do so, and the risk was minimal. My gender was fixed at birth in my soul and in my mind; it was also fixed in my body that I was given at birth. I lived in two worlds, and that is not saying it is good or bad, just that it is, and it isn’t accepted as the norm. I did not become transgender because of religion or because of my dad paddling me as was insinuated in a recent book. No one becomes transgender, just like no one becomes white or Asian or left-handed. I am transgender, and it is something that is deeper than societal or learned behavior. I was never trying to escape from anything, and I think after 40 years, we can discount that I was going through some sort of "phase" in my life. I cannot turn it off. It would be like turning off blue eyes. There is nothing to find from my past as a cause; I am transgender just because that is what I am.

Children are born as blank slates to a degree. There are things that just are, and there is no way to change that. You are born Transgender, that’s just the way it is. In the same way a child is born a piano protégé. Though you are born a certain way and that is hardwired into your brain, at the same time you learn things like hate, taste in art, prejudice, and so on. We are a blank slate and hungry to start our journeys into this world, to learn everything we can. Sometimes the world teaches us love, and sometimes it teaches us hate. We can live in bounty or we can suffer famine. Along the way we are taught a myriad of lessons, and sometimes we are taught to hide just to survive and make it to a brighter day.

I was born in 1966 in Long Island New York. It was around 10:23 am, just in case anyone wants to do some star charts on me. I had a reading once for the time of my birth; the person that did the reading said a few things, mostly positive. I always wonder how accurate stars charts and astrology really are. I don’t know, but I am not closed minded about it. I do believe there are many things in this universe that we cannot comprehend. I want to study some astro-theology and maybe decide for myself rather than jump on a “for or against” band wagon.

Back to the story; I was born in New York to a very average family. My grandfather on one side was a football coach and my other grandfather was a NASA engineer. The engineering side is a direct descendant of Abraham Lincoln, which is pretty cool. One of my Great-grandfathers was the founder of Uppsala College and a Lutheran minister. I think much of my family history ended up in me in one way or another. So what does that make me? A confused liberal republican engineer who wants to be a Lutheran minister? Maybe not.

The day I was born, the struggle with my gender began. It started with a lie. Perhaps not a lie but a mistruth. It wasn’t a blatant lie, it wasn’t spoken out of malice or ill will towards a seconds old infant. But the doctor looked at me, red and shivering in the cold of the new world that I just entered and announced quite confidently, “It’s a boy.”

The doctor didn’t know any better, neither did my parents. During the time there was no widely available knowledge that gender was more fluid than previously imagined. The parents took that information and did the best that they could with it. The doctor said I was male and by the looks of my physiology, I appeared as a male, so they would raise me on the assumption that I was male. Unfortunately the information they got was wrong, and I was set on a course that was not right for me. We all did the best that we could with the information that we had. My parents would raise me as a boy, and even though I had a suspicion that things were not quite right with that Y-chromosome that got in the way of the truth, I would do my best to live up to societal pressures of what being a male was. At least, when people were watching.

I was born into a very straight-laced, middle of the road family in Long Island, New York. My parents were very religious; belonging to an evangelical church, they were also from the generation of world war two, the fifties, where everything was conservative, and there were firm divisions between everything. That division was not just about gender, but right and wrong, American or Communist, Catholic or Protestant. To them all things functioned in the binary. I’m not saying that it is right or wrong, it is just the way things were. As we grow in a culture that starts to blur the lines with everything, sometimes I can see the appeal of the binary system, but in all things moderation is the key, and knowing where to apply that binary system is vitally important.

My parents missed out on the free love of the 60s and the new way to raise kids; they followed the biblical proverb that says spare the rod, spoil the child. Sex or any discussion of your body were simply not polite and were frowned upon. So, I grew up never even knowing what the birds and the bees were or that they even existed. I grew up in the dark when it came to dating, sex, gender. I hadn’t an inkling of anything of the sort. I also learned that there were things that you kept to yourself. If you had an erotic dream and messed the sheets you didn’t discuss it, you just did the laundry and no one questioned why. In the same vein, you didn’t bring up the fact that though you had a penis between your legs that you knew you were female. It was not my parent’s fault. That was how they were raised, and that is how they raised me. It was how the culture was back then, it was what was considered the norm, and everyone wants to be viewed as normal.

I had one older sister and one older brother and two younger sisters. I was smack dab in the middle of five kids. My mother was a homemaker and a dedicated and dutiful wife as required in the years before the feminist movement. My dad was a football coach, very tough and slow to show affection, especially to his sons. He made it onto the New York Jets back in the Joe Namath days. He was very religious and taught me a lot of lessons, usually the hard way. I was a stubborn kid, strong willed and at times, a troublemaker, very much the typical middle child.

I was the one in the family that always got caught doing something wrong, even if I didn’t commit the offense. If there was a broken lamp or something was out of line, I was to blame, or maybe I just took the blame as I could handle it. I became a good lightening rod for anything that went wrong in the family; at least that is how I saw it from my vantage point.

There are memories you have as a child, good or bad, that you remember certain instances of them and not all the events that led up to them or that followed them. When I was eight, one of the ways that I would play with my older sister was by dressing up in one of her outfits and jumping up and down on the bed. I loved watching the skirt flair out around my legs and feeling the fabric swish around me. It was fun, we were laughing, and I was able to be the real me. Kristin didn’t have a name back then, I didn’t have some kind of epiphany about who or what I was. All I knew was that I was happy and nobody seemed to care.

I can’t remember how the game started. I don’t know who suggested that I put on dresses and jump around. My sister was older than me, but I was beyond that gullible point in life where I would do something just because someone older than me suggested it. Whoever made the decision to allow me to put on a dress was neither here nor there, it just was. It would be kind of asking who made the decision to sit by the window or sit in the back of a station wagon, it is immaterial.

Unfortunately the game was short lived. One day we were playing and I was wearing one of my sister’s ballerina outfits. I don’t remember whose idea it was that day, my sister’s, or mine, but again, that is not an issue. The game had been established, and it was one of the things we did, good, bad, or indifferent. It was right; it was fun; I was me; and the world was spinning around the sun. Only this time, my dad walked in on us, and I was taught that it was wrong to gender bend, that it was wrong in some way.

I got the paddle.

Out of all the times I was punished as I child, this one is the punishment that bothers me most. If I had broken a window or stolen a cookie before dinner, I wouldn’t have cared. I would have known that was the risk, and I would take what I had coming to me. But not this time. This time I did nothing wrong. I didn’t break the rules. I was just being me; I was only having fun. Perhaps if I had snuck into my sister’s room and took things without asking or if I was sneaking around, being clandestine, I would have understood being punished. But I wasn’t doing that. I was just being me and having some fun as myself.

From that day on I hid the wishes and dreams of being what my spirit was telling me. Was it my spirit talking? I don’t know, but it was something very deep inside of me that was telling me who I was; the outside world said NO.

It would be wrong of me not to put this here. Times were different back then; a swat on the ass with a huge two handed paddle was an acceptable form of punishment. I never questioned my dad, the school, the church or anyone using corporal punishment, because in the culture of the day, it was normal. Nowadays, you give kids a time out, and they play video games in their bedrooms and laugh about how difficult it is being punished.

Contrary to popular belief, my dad never beat me. He didn’t pound the transgender into me. I am not transgender because this is my way at retaliating against my dad’s discipline. Even now he is a huge part of my life, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. There just wasn’t the kind of information going around back then about gender variant children, and he didn’t know any better; none of us did. It was the seventies; he worked as a football coach, and showing love by not sparing the rod was the credo of the day. Enough said. Though he may not have been affectionate toward me like he was toward my sisters and though it may have been a double standard that the boys would get the paddle when the girls got sent to their room to get all weepy, I never doubted my dad’s love for me, and I always wanted to make him proud of me. Outside of this one time disciplining me, I most likely deserved more whoopings than I got for doing a lot of stupid things like children were known to do. He was always fair, and anyone that played football for him will say the same.

My dad said a prayer and then kissed us on the forehead every night for bedtime. He was a great dad, and I wouldn’t have any other father in the world. He was doing the best that he could and provided for the family, and that’s all you can ask for from a man. I look back and wish I was half as good of a father to my own children; that is another story that we will get into later.

My Mom was a good mother; she took care of us and I don’t know how she did it. Five kids running around like crazies back in the 70s. She had her hands full. I remember once I climbed a stepladder to look in a bird’s nest up in the rafters. I wanted to see the baby birds. The nest and rafter were covered in lice. I didn’t know and was there peering inside. I started itching all over – itching real bad. I looked and saw my skin crawling. It was scary. I ran screaming into the house. Without missing a beat she said, “Go up to the bathtub and start the water.” No yelling, no fusing just started vacuuming and then cleaned me up. My mom was selfless and dedicated to the family.

Like I said, my family was very religious and kept the line, adhering to church doctrine; the “NO Kristin”, may have been rooted in religion, or it could have been our family’s social construct. It is hard to say. Children of today have a much more fluid view of gender and many other things that would have been prison offenses in my day. With the

advent of the Internet and social media, things are not as easily kept away from the inquisitive nature of kids.

#Kristin Beck #Lady Valor

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calliecarmenauthor · 6 years ago

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Here is my interview with Callie Carmen

04SaturdayMay 2019

Hello and welcome to my blog, Author Interviews. My name is Fiona Mcvie.

Let’s get you introduced to everyone, shall we? Tell us your name. What is your age?

Hello, my name is Callie Carmen, and I write contemporary romance and suspense romance novels. The best I can do for my age is say I’m in my fifties.

Fiona: Where are you from?

I grew up in a small New England town that had one stoplight, with four stores on one side of the roadand four on the other. The next village was ten miles away and was where we purchased our groceries. My neighborhood was a twenty-minute walk to town, and there was a farm just down the street. Off the backyard were woods that I loved to explore several times a week.

In the summer, I’d spend every waking moment on the lake that was surrounded by magnificent mountains at my parent’s cottage. When it wasn’t windy enough to take out my small sailboat, I’d be in the rowboat with a fishing pole in one hand and a book in the other. It was heaven on earth.

Now I live in a lovely small farm town in the Midwest.

Fiona: A little about your self (i.e. your education, family life, etc.).

I was lucky enough to meet my soul mate while I was finishing up my economicsdegree in mysenior year in college. We’ve been in love and in like for over thirty years. We have three adult children,twodaughters that are graphic designers and our son that is just finishing up his game designing degree. Their talents never cease to amaze me.

Until recently, I had two small dogs. One left me while I held her in my arms. The other is fifteen-years-old,and her health seems to be rapidly deteriorating. I love them very much. They both kept me company while I wrote; now it’s just Chili keeping me company. I will be crushed when she leaves me, too.

Fiona: Tell us your latest news.

Nicolas, the second book in my Risking Love series, was recently published. To celebrate I ran a discounted boxed set promotion with book one “Patrick” and “Nicolas” combined. I am deep into edits of book three “Joseph.” I’m finding that the edits are going much faster this time than the other two books. I hope that means that my writing has improved.

I just completed my first ever supernatural romance, “Dream Catcher.” It will be on pre-order sale come September 1 as part of the “Mystic Desire” supernatural anthology being published by BVS. Several of my talented BVS author friends will be part of the collection with me. I can’t wait to read their stories.

Fiona: When and why did you begin writing?

Being an economics major in college and later joining the corporate world as a senior book buyer, becoming a writer was not on my radar. After my third child was born, I became a stay home mother. As rewarding as it was being a volunteer Mom running several book fairs a year, being on the athletic board, running the annual auction dinner fundraiser for sports, helping out with the band, drama, soccer, field hockey, football, I was ready for something else. I sat down at the kitchen table and started writing a love story that closely mirrored my own story with my husband. Patrick is of course fiction, but it does have a little bit of my life wrapped up in it too. I’ll never tell which parts. I was an avid reader, so that helped when I did start writing. No one was more surprised than me when I had my first novel published.

Fiona: When did you first consider yourself a writer?

When my short story, “The Enemy I Know,” was published in the Craving Loyalty anthology.

Fiona: How did you come up with the title?

For my first novel, the character was of Irish descent, so I wanted to select a typical Irish name. I had attended Saint Patrick’s school during kindergarten,so I chose,“Patrick.” The character’s full name is Patrick O’Connor. You can’t get much more Irish than that.

For “Nicolas” I had to go with a traditional Greek name as the good Doctor Nicolas Antonis comes from a big loving Greek family. Immediately the movie My Big Fat Greek Weddingcame to mind where the father Gus is introducing the family to the groom’s to be parents. “Welcome to my home. Over here is my brother, Ted, and his wife, Melissa, and their children, Anita, Diane and Nick. Over here, my brother Tommy, his wife Angie, and their children, Anita, Diane and Nick. And here, my brother George, his wife Freda, and their children, Anita, Diane, and Nick. Taki, Sophie, Kari, Nick, Nick, Nick, Nick, Nick, Nick, Nick, uh, Nikki, and I am Gus.”

“Joseph” which will be out this fall was my father’s name.I miss him very much even though he passed away twelve years ago.

Fiona: Do you have a specific writing style? Is there anything about your style or genre that you find particularly challenging?

When I first started writing, I thought their is no way I could write a hot, sexy love making scene. Sex wasn’t something I talked about with my family or friends so jotting it down on paper was not something I was looking forward to. I decided to use a first time experience that I had and found that by doing that the words just flowed out of me onto the computer. I had my husband read the scene, and when he was done, he told me,“I don’t smoke, but after that scene, I need a cigarette.” From then on I knew I could do this.

Fiona: How much of the book is realistic and are experiences based on someone you know, or events in your own life?

While the six heroines in my Risking Love novels are fictional, they do mirror in some ways five wonderful women that I knew during my college years.

Fiona: To craft your works, do you have to travel? Before or during the process?

Not with the Risking Love series because it all took place in the college town and surrounding area where I grew up. I did some online research for legal advice when it came to the charges and penalties for one of my stories. I also had to get advice from an expert in the auto industry for a few of my stories. “The Enemy I Know” took place inmy grandfather’s and father’s tavern during the fifties as well as during the Korean war which my father fought in. Since I wasn’t alive at that time, I had to ask family members to fill in some of the details as well as some research that I did online. I enjoyed learning things about my father’s place and the war.

Fiona: Who designed the covers?

Jessica Greeley https://www.facebook.com/JessicaGreeleyGD/She is an amazing graphic designer that has designed numerous covers for the Black Velvet Seductions publisher as well as others. I highly recommend her for ads, banners, bookmarks, logo’s, roller banners, websites, covers, etc.

Fiona: Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?

That true love does exist. That working hard for what you want in lifeoften gets you what you want. And that true friends are rare and when you find them keep them in your life even if it’s just a phone call once a year or a Facebook note asking how the family is.

Fiona: Outside of family members, name one entity that supported your commitment to become a published author.

Richard Savage the CEO at Black Velvet Seductions. He read “Patrick” and said he loved the story but that it needed editing. He explained what I needed to work on and hooked me up with Laurie Sanders a wonderful editor. I’ll always be grateful for his honesty and support.

Fiona: Do you see writing as a career?

No not as a career more of a friend that keeps my mind sharp and boredom at bay.

Fiona: If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your latest book?

Haha. There was one review that I received for Patrick where the reviewer mentioned that I had the characters brush their teeth before making love and she felt that was something we didn’t need to know. She also felt that Jaq who was dating several men at once should have been having sex with all of them. I wouldn’t change the sex issue. But if I could, I would take out the teeth brushing because it really bugged her. I figure if it bothered her that much, then it may have bothered others too.

Fiona: Did you learn anything during the writing of your recent book?

I am always learning new things. The book that I just finished writing, “Dream Catcher,” required that I researched on dream catchers and medicine men. It ended up being a fascinating history.

Fiona: Any advice for other writers?

A writer must set up their social media sites right away; it is essential for their success. That means before they even finish their first book. That is not to say that it is ever too late to do this just that it has to be done. If they don’t advertise to let people know about their book how will readers know that it exists? Once the media sites are set up,they shouldpromote their books regularly. Set up social media sites such as Facebook, Twitter, Linkedin, Tumblr, Instagram, MeWe, Website, and Goodreads to name a few. They should pick three to start and master those before moving on to others, or they will be too overwhelmed.

They should read the genre that they want to write in. This is important so they can understand what works and doesn’t work in that genre. Of course, they should keep reading other types that they enjoy too.

They should write about things that they know, they like, and the words will come to them more easily. If they write about something that they are not familiar with they have to be sure to do plenty of research, so the story is believable.

Do yourself a favor don’t have several named characters in your book because as soon as the editor gets their hands on it, you will be editing a lot of them back out again.

Fiona: Favorite foods, colors, music?

I love Italian, Mexican, as well as Chinese food. My favoritecolor is green, but I only own a few pieces of clothing in green. Mostly, I love green in nature.

I love country music. It is often about true love, lost love, and finding love, and to me,that sounds a lot like most romance novels. I’ve been to several country concerts, and the best one yet was a Blake Shelton concert. I also listen to alternative rock like the Broods.

Fiona: You only have 24 hours to live how would you spend that time?

I would spend it with my family especially with the love of my life, my husband.

Fiona: Do you have a blog or website readers can visit for updates, events, and special offers?

I have a website at https://www.calliecarmen.com/ , and I have several social media sites:

Social media links:

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100011326206882

https://www.facebook.com/CallieCarmenAuthor/

Twitter https://twitter.com/Callie_Carmen

Instagram https://www.instagram.com/calliecarmennovel/

MeWehttps://mewe.com/profile/5aea84c00dc9f110e68a9373

Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17829431.Callie_Carmen

Linkedin https://www.linkedin.com/in/callie-carmen-72ba98156/

Tumblr https://calliecarmenauthor.tumblr.com/

Pinterest https://www.pinterest.com/calliecarmennovel/

Website link https://www.calliecarmen.com/

Amazon https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B07BN5PXDF

BookBudhttps://www.bookbub.com/profile/callie-carmen

Here are some purchase links:

Patrick (Risking Love Book 1)

https://amzn.to/2D2BJFF

https://books2read.com/u/3krqEW

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