#I think that she would work most closely with Lady Ethel but I also think that would be more LEM’s choice than Danielle’s
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hauntedkeys · 3 months ago
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Honestly an au where BotCo found out about Danielle’s powers and recruited her when she was a teen would be very very interesting to explore
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hotvintagepoll · 1 year ago
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Propaganda
Deborah Kerr (Bonjour Tristesse, An Affair to Remember, The King and I)— For several decades she held the record for most Oscar nominations without a win (6 in total), and she was a prolific leading lady throughout the 40s and 50s. She's best known today for the romance An Affair to Remember with Cary Grant, and as the governess in The King and I. Many people have this erroneous perception of her as extremely prim, proper, and virginal, but this could not be further from the truth. When she first came to Hollywood under MGM she was typecast into boring decorative roles, but broke sexual boundaries for herself and Hollywood generally in From Here to Eternity, when she made out (horizontally!) with Burt Lancaster (on top of him!) in the famous Beach Scene. She went on to play many sexually conflicted women, a character type that would define most of her post- Eternity work. She continued to break Hays Code boundaries with Tea and Sympathy, which addresses homosexuality/homophobia head-on, and even did a topless scene in The Gypsy Moths 1969!! One of the only classic stars to do so. She deserves a more nuanced and frankly a hotter legacy than she currently has!!!
Ethel Merman (Anything Goes, Call Me Madam)— Possessed of a bold, brash voice, and an even bolder and brasher presence, Ethel Merman might be more well known for her stage roles, but she made several movies, and was bold and brash in them as well. Also I think if I don't submit her, she's going to come back and haunt me.
This is round 1 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.
[additional propaganda submitted under the cut]
Ethel Merman:
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You've gotta love any woman who got typecast as lead-MILF
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Deborah Kerr:
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I think she was one of my first crushes before I realised I was bi in The King and I when I watched it as a kid honestly. The kissing scene in From Here to Eternity is iconic for a reason. Actually tried to learn the accents for the characters she was playing if they weren't English which is more than pretty much anyone else was doing then. Played very restrained characters who frequently seemed to be desperate not to be so restrained. Did horror movies without venturing into hagsploitation tropes. Gave Marni Nixon the credit she deserved for her share of the singing in The King and I.
Anne Larsen is a peak late 1950s bisexual with big MILF energy. Have you seen the behind the scenes pics of her wearing a suit?? Have you????? Vote Deb as Anne Larsen.
Nominated for an Oscar six (6) times and never won, but besides her having actual talent (hot), and besides her looking Like That (very hot, also beautiful), she was always playing women who are, like, crazy repressed. Which makes it fun and easy for me to read these characters as queer. Icon!!!! You know what's hot? Playing ambiguously gay in vintage Hollywood.
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Her face and talent and body, yes, ofc, duh. But also!!! Her HANDS!!!! I may be but a simple lesbian, but she is the best hactor (hand actor) that ever lived and that's HOT! For propriety's sake I feel I must redact a large portion of my commentary on this subject. Anyway. She's hot in her most famous roles (mentioned above), and also some of her sexiest hacting is on display in An Affair to Remember (her hand on the bannister when Cary Grant kisses her off-screen??? HELLO???), Tea and Sympathy (when she's trying to persuade Tom not to go out and she keeps flexing her hands like she wants to reach out to him but can't??? ALLY BEHAVIOR! WE STAN!), and The Innocents (which opens and closes with extended shots of her hands bc director Jack Clayton was also an ally and he did that for ME). Much of her appeal also lies in the fact that she often played deeply repressed characters and you know what's hot? When those uptight characters finally unravel. It's sexy. It's cathartic. It's erotic. Plus, she's beautiful to look at in both black & white and technicolor, and the more of her films you see, the more you can't help but fall in love!
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Literally is in thee most famously sexy scene of all time (or maybe just during the hays code era which is what we're talking about HELLO), which is the beach scene with Burt Lancaster in from here to eternity. To quote a tumblr post of a screen capture of a tweet of a video of joy behar on the view: "y'know, there used to be movies where they were kissing on the beach... From Here to Eternity. They're kissing-- Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr are Kissing on the Beach and then the WAVES crash!! You know exactly what they did!"
She might have a reputation of being chaste and virginal or whatever, but we all know it's the quiet ones who are certifiable FREAKS
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darthwheezely · 4 years ago
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grande - g.w.
Summary: George meets a mighty adorable barista in the new cafe on Diagon Alley and the man just can’t help himself... based off the song Coffee Girl by Johnny Socko! Sorry this took me absolute ages (9 days oops) to get out, guys :/
Warnings: DIABETIC FLUFF STUPID AMOUNTS OF CARDIAC ARREST INDUCING FLUFF UWU,mentions of sexism, Fred being Fred, cussing probably, alludes to sex, PG/PG-13
taglist or people that might like this but idk: @theweasleyslut @kitwalker02 @loony-loopy-lupinn @wand3ringr0s3 @gcdric @thehufflepuffwife @monoscandal @lupinsclassroom @whiz-bangs78 @vogueweasley @rogueweasleys @band--psycho @lumosandnoxwriting @oh-for-merlins-sake @amxrtentias @virgohufflepuff @vivianweasley
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George Weasley didn’t sleep. This had long been the habit of his ever since he and his parents had discovered that his elder twin Fred had been an avid sleepwalker by age 4, then became a (minor) party animal in his Hogwarts days, and finally when he became the co-owner of one of the Wizard World’s most successful entrepreneurs and business owners.
The man hadn’t slept in about 18 years give or take. And days like this reminded him of it constantly.
It was a Saturday, the first of the month, and to boot, it was about to be Christmas in a little over a week. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was packed with everyone from couples window shopping, children in desperate need of fun now that school was out, parents trying to keep them in line, and even some old lady named Ethel (who swore she was part Veela, and therefore Fred couldn’t “escape her girlish charm.”)
“Ethel, you have an absolutely ravishing day, and don’t even worry about that moisturizer it’d be a waste of product on a natural beauty like you” Fred winked and kissed the old lady’s hand, George watching from the top of the steps rolling his eyes.
“Oh, Freddie, you know how to keep a lady young, don’t you? Oh - goodbye, Georgie! Have a good rest of your day boys!” She waved majestically to the younger twin on the stairs and he bowed royally in response.
“Bye, Ethel!” They both called as she exited the building, the bells flurrying in her wake.
“Georgie, mate, hate to say it but you are being uncharacteristically quiet and it’s making me uncharacteristically uncomfortable.” Fred said bounding up the stairs to meet him, chuckling briefly.
“Freddie, mate, hate to say it but I’ve had absolutely no sleep as of late and it’s getting to me. But I’ll be back up to my usual antics in no time.” He padded down the stairs, winking at a couple young ladies ogling him, sending them into a fit of giggles. Fred sat down on the middle step eyeing his brother carefully. It didn’t take a genius to see George wasn’t holding on much longer, the dark circles littering his eyes and the way he mussed up his already purposely messy hair just...didn’t comfort his older twin at all.
“George.” Fred sighed, George looking back at him, confused. He took his hands away from the merchandise Wonder Witch he’d been rearranging and gave him full attention.
“Take your lunch break early. And longer if possible.”
“Pffft, why would I do that when I have women to woo and boxes to juggle?”
“George.”
“Fred.”
“Stop, I mean it. You look half dead as it is, just go take a nap or get an espresso from the cafe down the aisle or something that reinforces the idea that yes, you are a human being and no, not a zombie.” Fred crossed his arms feeling suddenly a lot like Molly and dropped the cross. George pretended to ponder this tapping his chin, rather finding the mature brother role reversal funny as hell.
“Oh, alright, but can I still be a zombie when I get back?”
Fred hit him with a folder and sent him on his way.
-•-•-
You had just finished the lunch rush, finally being able to calm down and not have to worry about making one more goddamn Butterbeer Latte for at least another 20 or so minutes...until there’d be another rush. You grabbed a lemon scone, took off your apron and sat against the back counter. You inhaled the citrus scent, it was always something that you loved to savor, and took a bite.
The holidays for the Merlin’s Mochas, the cafe, had been absolutely atrocious so far. All you had for customers were angry businessmen, bratty kids and their upper class parents who let them run around the already small place being rude to everyone, your boss Lionel who had an affinity for calling every woman who worked there a “bitch” (...ok lionel) and to top it all off: you’d been pulling 9 hour days every day except sundays. Needless to say: you kind of super hated your job.
You had just finished your scone when you heard the door chime signal a customer, immediately wiping your hands on your jeans and restrapping your apron.
“Hi how can I-“ oh Jesus this is the hottest man I have ever seen. He was easily no older than 23, fiery red hair, a perfectly tailored striped terracotta suit, green tie, and the most gorgeous doe brown eyes you’d ever seen.
“How can you...?”
“Help you, ohmygod, I am so sorry I’m super-“
“Tired? Yeah me too...interesting how similar we are this early in the game hmm?” He winked at you and your knees felt too weak. No he was just a stupid hot customer that also was really hot and also? Was super hot. No worries, Y/N, just don’t die by 22 okay thanks.
“Very funny...wait are you-“ your finger led from him to the statue outside Wizard Wheezes, realizing a simple oh shit
“Yeah, that would be me. Or my twin Fred but we never really decided, that’s why he kind of looks like both of us mixed. Although we’re twins so we basically look the same anyway. I mean because were identical. Twins, yeah.” George, what the fuck is wrong with you, why are you sweating? She’s just a simply beautiful girl in a simply maddeningly purple coffee shop can you please breathe and not make yourself look stupid-
“Oh, wow! I’ve never met a twin before - not like twins are anomalies or anything it’s just so crazy. Science. Science is crazy” You closed your eyes and took a breath
“We should probably start over shouldn’t we?” You wrinkled your nose.
“That sounds much more redeeming than anything we both were about to say” George breathed out laughing softly, rubbing his hand through his hair.
“I’m George. Weasley. Like I said, I work at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, the shop over there, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen this place before...or you for that matter, I never forget a beautiful young woman.” He said smoothly, his heart steadily subsiding - something about you had the power to not only make him scared out of his mind, but also totally at ease.
You returned the smile, warmly, the blood rushing to your cheeks at his compliment and sticking your tongue to your teeth. “Well, George Weasley, of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes I’m Y/N Y/L/N. And yeah, we’re new around here,” you leaned further onto the counter, realizing, albeit a moment too late that your eye level was directly with his abs now, and although he was wearing a suit...you could definitely tell they were there.
“We erm, just opened three months ago. It’s honestly a bit of a time to work here.”
“Oh and why is that?”
“Well, nothing like a blatant sexist to run an entirely female employed establishment and weird stuffy rich people.” Your eyes widened suddenly, and you felt like you had said far too much far too soon. But he gasp-laughed - laugh that ended as soon as it began and burst into a smile...like you had shared a secret with him.
“What the hell is he doing here then? Got a boy’s club to run in a purple coffee shop?”
“I mean you never really know these days, George, imposters are among us at every moment” you purred and pushed off the counter, meaning it as a joke but George’s heart screamed when he heard your name. As you moved to the other edge of the counter, he followed you.
“What a resourceful and cruel young woman, I am starting to like you, Miss Y/L/N.” He clucked. “And do you think of me like you think of Mr. I-Hate-Women-That’s-Why-I-Hire-Them?” He got inches from your face, smelling the coffee beans and vanilla extract that riddled your skin.
“Hmm...Mr. Weasley, I’m not so sure.” You coyly stepped away from him and took long strides to the far end of the coffee bar by the wall. George immediately felt a pit of flirtatious butterflies and (arousal?) something more in his stomach, jaw dropped, he followed you again. He pressed his hands to the counter in front of you.
“Well, how can I convince you?” He asked rather quickly.
“Hmm...” you leaned forward like he did before and his breath hitched in his throat “...let’s get you a cuppa first.”
-•-
“Wait, okay let me get this straight-“
“Yes?”
“You have 6 other siblings.”
“Yes.”
“...because your mom wanted a girl?”
“That-that would in fact be true, yes.”
You thought for a moment.
“So you’re telling me after she made it through you two-“
“-she still wanted to have more of us, believe me, it races through my mind daily.” He nodded vehemently laughing with you. You two had taken to the empty cafe at a table nestled in the corner, him sitting in a chair across from you on a bench. You had both been cracking each other up with stories from your childhoods, like how you both had managed to never know of the other’s existence until now.
He’d discovered that you had transferred from Hogwarts to Beauxbatons early on in your fourth year. You, a Hufflepuff, loved the quiet and soft landscape of the French school. You both had absolutely no idea the other existed. How? The world may never know.
He was brash. You were careful.
He was already flying when you were just feeling comfortable learning how to walk.
But you sat there with him for the better amount of an hour and a half, laughing and interrupting each other with memories of the school years you had, some weird and strange, and especially during fourth year, hard for George to talk about.
Ginny, his baby sister, had almost died. And as he said to you in a candid and highly vulnerable state: he blamed himself for almost letting her go to this day.
“I...I really do believe it was my fault.”
“George, it couldn’t have been your fault. Hogwarts is a big freaking death trap - you and I both know that,” you had said with an exasperated laugh, eager to make him feel better in any facet.
“Yeah, but...I’m her big brother. Yes, she has five other older brothers but...we were supposed to protect her.” He swallowed and blinked back tears. “It was her first year, for Christ’s sake, and I paid about as much attention to her as a doorknob would.” He had rolled his jaw and taken a gulp of his gingerbread latte (you had said it was your favorite, and he was loathe to try anything else) and you had softly draped your hand on top of his.
“If she’s as kind and loving and funny as you, I’d love to meet her.” You quipped, a small smile growing on your face in effort to soothe. He had smiled back at you, turning your hand over in his and drawing his digits lazily over your palm.
“Funny, because I was thinking the same thing.”
-•-
He had told you to close your eyes, that much had been true.
See, his coffee had started to get cold. So, like if you give a mouse a cookie, he’ll have to have some milk-
If you give a George a latte he will have to not only have another one, but also feel the strenuous need to show off for you and take you to his place of work. Naturally. And it was so lucky that by the time he’d proposed you leave, he even helped you clean and lock up afterwards.
Truthfully, it almost scared you how much he had seemed to care.
“Alright, Y/N, darling, I’m going to release my hands on the count of three, yeah?”
“Perfect, Georgie” you giggled. You’d legitimately only knew him for so long, but you just...you trusted him. He grinned widely, his strong hands only applying a slight amount of pressure as not to hurt you.
“Alright, then. 1. 2-“ he took his hands off your eyes and watched you adjust not only to light, but to your surroundings as well.
“3.” He breathed out taking in the way you smiled like a teenager, face alight with pure inundating wonder. You squealed and started to run around the store.
“Look at these! Pygmy Puffs - ugh they’re so adorable look at this one! Oh, oh - ‘Fizzing Whizbees’ - these look absolutely wicked! And Per- ‘Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder’?” You picked up the glittery stone in your hand, and heard a smooth voice perk up behind you.
“A real money spinner, that one.” You turned around and there was a man that looked absolutely identical to George, although entirely different in the same way.
“Handy if you need to make a quick getaway,” you heard George on the other side of you. He smiled warmly down at you, nodding his head up to look at the twin across from him.
“Y/N, this is my-“
“-older, much more attractive and fiscally responsible brother.” He winked and you blushed almost immediately. “Fred. Weasley.”
“Y/N Y/L/N. Georgie has told me a lot about you and the shop - absolutely marvelous this place is, I cant believe you two created so much in such a short span of time. Brilliant it all is, really!” George had started to flush, rubbing his jaw to seemingly take the red away from his striking face. Fred, upon hearing the genuine warmth from your voice and the unmistakable use of “Georgie” had a small, but highly distinct aha moment:
“Well, we couldn’t have done it all on our own, one of our best friends helped us out a good lot. But thank you, really...it means so much when other people see how much we do and-” he looked directly at George.
“-acknowledge the things we love, right George?”
“Absolutely, Frederick.” Fred had given him the look that seemed to imply: “please, God, make a damn move.”
“Well, Y/N, I’m going to be off and woo some ladies, have a biscuit and do some paperwork” he smiled wide when you giggled, already enjoying your company.
“But I hope to see you again, very soon, yeah? Please stop by whenever you can, we’re alwYs just down the street.”
“Freddie, for your company, I’m not so sure, I’m still deciding.” You quipped. Fred laughed heartily at that and looked at George.
“Georgie, I like this one.” George looked at you and winked.
“Me, too Freddie, me too.” You leaned back on your heels as Fred padded back up the stairs to the flat, now completely alone with George. You threw your arms behind you back and forth and took a long stride to George.
“So...what are you those?” You nodded up to the array of pink bubbles in a clam shape in the corner. He hummed and reached to grab your hand.
“Love potions - c-can I show you?” He raised an eyebrow slightly, but he felt his whole body turn to mush when you accepted his hand and nodded slowly. As he walked with you, you memorized the feeling of his callouses and veins, the way your hand curled deliberately in his.
You wanted to make sure if it was the last time you felt something like that, you had that memory with you for a while.
“Essentially, if you give these to a person they will temporarily have feelings of love and attraction for you. Depending of course on the dosage you use and the weight of the person in question.” He explained. You watched the way his suit jacket pulled taut against his back muscles and instinctively wanted to honestly just take the whole thing off-
“Hmm...I don’t know about these, Georgie.” You hummed mischievously. Your heart was pounding in your chest.
He scoffed placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “Am i being questioned in my own establishment, Miss Y/L/N?”
You rolled your eyes and hit his arm, bowing slightly at him. “Well, do forgive my feminine insolence, Mr. Weasley, it’s not often I meet such bewitching mad scientists like you.” You watched his face grow blank for a moment at your compliment and immediately wanted to throw up.
“George, I’m really sorry, I know we just became friends-“
“Do you mean it?” He took a step towards you. You swallowed finding again his perfect milk chocolate eyes. You nodded.
“Hell yeah I did, you’re smart...and wicked hot” you both laughed at that. He took another step, the distance being unbearably harder to live in as his digits found a piece of hair and wound it behind your ear.
“Well, darling, the feeling is quite mutual.” He said quietly, taking in the whole of your face. He wanted to crash his lips onto every possible nook and crevice of your face, collide with you entirely.
“We’re going to have to do something about that, then, aren’t we?” You gently nudged his nose with yours and wrapped your arms around his neck, his strong and powerful arms pulling you to him gently. He wanted you to feel him not to break under his embrace. He leaned down and brushed his lips up to yours, feeling you whine and let out a minuscule sound.
“Got you making noises for me already and haven’t even kissed you yet, hmm?”
Your eyes fluttered close and one of your legs made it’s way in between his, snapping any chance at loose air between you two out of the way.
“Please, Weasley, pants a bit small for you?”
“Keep talking like that and they might, yeah.” You two laughed softly and with a final look to your lips he closed the last gap.
His mouth was perfect. His lips ghosted over yours one last time before wrapping every part of himself onto your frame, your lips entangled in each other like you’d never be able to taste him again.
But it was loving and slow and sweet. He tasted like gingerbread lattes and pastries and cinnamon and licking into his mouth you could feel the spice. He moaned lightly into your mouth, sending your knees buckling. He dipped you slightly, a hand traveling to your lower back to keep you steady, and his other hand coming up to nestle under the nape of your hair. Your hands caressed his face, his chest, needless to say? You wanted them everywhere. You wanted him everywhere.
The kiss broke and you and George were left breathless in each other’s hold, your foreheads pressed together as he kept you slightly dipped.
“Y/N, I’m feeling a bit tired” he quipped hoarsely, pressing a brief kiss to your lips and onto your neck. You hummed satisfactorily.
“Georgie, you’re gonna need another latte aren’t you?” You set multiple chaste kisses to his lips and cheeks, feeling him rumble with a small giggle. He caught your mouth with his and you moaned slightly.
“I’m gonna need a whole pot, to drink you in, love.”
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petitprincess1 · 5 years ago
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Good Evening Ch13 (Soft and Fragile)
AO3 Link Summary: Before the incident, Alastor has a bit more of a reflection on his "lovers" and it's quite interesting on what he wishes to do to his dolls. Words: 1,738 I AM SO SORRYYYYYY!!! I got super stressed lately and my brain just froze. I really hope this chapter is worth the wait. Once again, very sorry. Warning: Obsessive and possessive thoughts and..."knifeplay" thoughts...kinda. ~~~ Hours earlier before the “oopsie” that happened at Pentious’ house, Alastor made up an excuse to go to the kitchen just so he didn’t end up strangling Vaggie, slice her throat, or say some very mean words. The intense hatred only increased when she mentioned him bringing in gumbo that had Valentino’s body in it. He was going to bury the guy to use as manure, but he was a bit pressed for time and it was rather difficult to stuff the body with aromatic herbs to keep any stench out. Plus, he didn’t feel like draining Val’s blood. Either way, he had to take a moment to breathe before walking into the kitchen.
Al tried to calm down by taking out the tongue that he took from that dead guard. Either no one has gone into the fridge yet or no one questioned the tongue. It wasn’t like it was impossible for him to have bought a cow tongue of sorts from the store. Thankfully, idiots would do anything to justify something that’s so simple.
He meant to chop this up for breakfast in the morning, but no one said that you couldn’t have an omelette in the afternoon. Besides, he still needed to make a small meal for Charlie. Alastor realized that he was going more and more towards Charlie everyday. It was surprising that the girl intrigued him, almost as much as Anthony did. Although, he was interested in them for completely different reasons. Anthony felt the closest to what could be romantic, even if it was a bit more perverse. 
All Alastor wanted to do with Anthony was make him his and only his. Majority of the people that he came into contact with were incorrigible and absolute morons, especially that Pentious. The man had no patience with any of that and wouldn’t miss them the slightest bit if they were dead...possibly not Husker. The much older man was much more hilarious to have alive, especially whenever he was angry. It was so much fun to watch his lip curl into a snarl.
However, unless it was making him pouty, Alastor never wanted to see his ethel angry at him nor did he wish to hurt him that badly. Just the very thought sent a chill up his spine as he listened to the tongue’s muscles and ligaments making a slight squishing sound as the knife sliced through them, making him feel a nice calm about him. All he wanted to do was keep Anthony all locked up for no one else to see him. Yes, the man clearly could help himself, judging the bruising on his knuckles, but he still could have died. Keeping the little minx all tied up would clearly only benefit him.
Plus, Alastor could also easily lure those mongrels to his home and he could serve up some wonderful meat pies or casseroles to his favorite toy that he will keep all snug and cozy in his basement. Oh! That reminded him that he really needed to renovate that place back at his home. Well, temporary home in Eden. Al should also warn Anthony about the constant traveling. Alastor knew that his angel may have slight worry about his proposition, but he knew that the boy would be the one to stay.  Meanwhile with Charlie….the man longed for her struggle.
As annoying as it was to try and get the doll alone, it was also thrilling to actually have someone fight. Not that Anthony didn’t fight with Alastor occasionally, it was different with Charlie. She seemed to wish to deny all attraction towards, but he could easily tell when one has hidden desire. He has felt her heartbeat quicken on her wrist, seen the hidden passion in her eyes lying beneath the disgust, and, most importantly, he can sense the morbid curiosity in her. It won’t be too long til he finally caught her in his grasp.
Alastor scrapped the tongue off of the cutting board into a frying pan that had oil, minced garlic, and chopped onion in it. He breathed in the smell and sighed happily, “Patience is a virtue.”
Niffty came into the kitchen, carrying groceries, and gasped at seeing Alastor, “OH! You didn’t tell me you would be in the kitchen! Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to intrude. I just went to get some extra food and-”
“Don’t worry, my dear! It’s perfectly fine. After all, this is your kitchen and I’m merely intruding in on your space,” Alastor spoke charmingly and humbly. Niffty gasped even more as she placed the groceries on the counter, using a step stool, and quickly replied, “No no no! My kitchen is your kitchen, so stay as long as you wish.”
The man smiled at her and gave a polite nod, “What a sweet lady you are. Also, do you mind helping me out? Just get some eggs and whisk them up. I’m making an omelette for Charlie~”
“Awww, you’re such a sweet man!”
“...I know.” ~~~ Later on into the day, Al had come over to Charlie’s office and knocked on the door. Charlie called from the other side, “Who’s there?”
Alastor thought of a joke for a few seconds and replied, “Adore!”
It went silent for a few seconds before the golden-haired girl asked, “Adore who? I don’t think-”
“Adore is between you and I, so please open up!” Alastor exclaimed, cutting her off on purpose. There was another brief silence before the door suddenly opened up and revealed Charlie looking away from Alastor. She seemed to be annoyed, but the small reddish tint to her pale cheeks showed her keeping a smile back. She mumbled under her breath as she walked away, “That was a terrible joke and you know it was.”
The creole chuckled as he walked into her office and saw that her office was pretty decent and cozy looking, especially with plush carpeting. He leaned up against a bookshelf behind him as he raised an eyebrow at two norwegian dwarf goats that were sleeping within a pet bed that looked like a little house. Charlie sat down on the chair at her desk and asked, “Is there something that you need, Al? Oh! Also, thank you for the omelette, it was very sweet of you to make that for me. Although, I thought we ran out of certain cuts of beef.”
She gestured to the empty plate on her desk that had bits of onion on the surface, as well as some ketchup. Al nodded and replied, “You’re quite welcome, my dear~ Also, I have my resources. Anyway, I was just asking if it was alright if I head off early. Just want to do a bit of hunting, that’s all.”
Al’s grin subtly grew a bit at seeing Charlie’s skin become slightly paler when he mentioned hunting. He could just say that he was just going to go hunt some deer, but it was hilarious to think that the girl thought he was hunting humans. No, not today. She gulped and replied, “Uh, well, I guess if you have nothing else to do, then that’s okay. Just...you know...be back around dark, just so you can have the night shift. I-If you want to, of course!”
The man couldn’t help but reach towards Charlie, making her slightly flinch, and gently caress her cheek. He brushed his thumb against her skin and almost felt aroused at the softness of it. Alastor could only imagine how nice it would be to carve through it. He was sure that he barely needed to add extra pressure to slice the skin open. He hummed and then muttered in a low tone, “Of course, Charlie.Why would I ever say no to you?”
Charlie mumbled under her breath, feeling an odd chill up her spine, “Uh...I’m sure you have, especially when I don’t want you messing with my cheeks.” She slowly lowered Al’s hand from her cheek and moved it back to his side. She then concluded, “Uh, well, if that’s all, the you’re free to go, Al.”
Alastor stared at his hand for a few seconds and then nodded absentmindedly as he walked out of the room. He felt Charlie’s eyes on him as he left out and listened to the door gently creak close before she locked it. However, Al barely cared as he felt many tingles up his hand that Charlie touched. He never liked being touched...but he was definitely craving more from her.
He began walking down the hall and was trying to clear his mind when a woman ended up bumping him from behind. Al turned and saw the woman looked distraught, almost in a daze. Before he could question her, she asked, “I’m sorry, but have you seen Angelo? I...I really need to speak to him….regarding a man that he...worked with.”
Alastor blinked at her and wondered what she could possibly want with Anthony. It made his stomach tie into a knot, but he just said, “Well, Anth- Angelo is on medical leave. He got harmed pretty badly.”
Not even the slightest bit of worry in the woman’s eyes, if anything, Al saw a bit of frustration. She nodded and muttered, “...Right. I forgot...thank you.”
The woman then silently walked away from Alastor, making the man narrow his eyes at her. He’s going to have to follow her, isn’t he? Great! Right...well, maybe Charlie was right about the human thing. He could always buy venison from the butcher. ~~~ In present time, Baxter was helping Sir Pentious roll up Traci’s body in a rug, while Alastor was braiding Anthony’s slightly grown out hair and Cherri was trying to calm down. The spunky girl washed the blood off of her face and pretended the brain bits were just chewed up wads of gum. She pulled her head out from the sink and quickly grabbed some towels, wiping her face off.
Cherri was making very quiet sobs as she kept envisioning the woman getting shot over and over again in her head. It just wouldn’t end. Angelo looked at her and asked, “Hey, ya gonna be alright, Cherri?”
She turned to Angelo and took a deep breath before glaring at Al, “What the hell is wrong with you!? Why did you do that?”
Alastor scoffed, “What? It was just a bit of hunting.”
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this-do-be-therapeutic · 5 years ago
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Fall
Sebastian Stan x Reader
A bunch of fluff that will hopefully make you smile.
Warning: Seb is so good???????????????????
A/N: Just like my last one, this both felt super long and super rushed at the same time???? IDEK anymore, man. I hope you enjoy.
If you have any writing tips (like not writing all of your fan fictions at 1 in the morning), I’m open to any and all of them!!!
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People love Fall for many reasons. The pretty leaves changing colors, the weather getting cooler letting everyone get ready for hot chocolate and cuddling, Thanksgiving, even the leaves when they fall and get to the satisfying crunchy state. However, that was also the worst part of fall, the leaves falling. I always spent over an hour raking up the leaves that fell from my huge maple tree in my huge yard and the two other trees in my yard, it was so much work, every single year.
And that’s exactly where I am right now, raking up the leaves for my parents because they’re both old and always working. My mom recently got kidney stones take out, so it’s understandable that she wouldn’t want to be dealing with these. My dad was always busy working in his store that he owned with a partner and my brother. Why my parents couldn’t ask one of the other boys to do it, I’m not sure, but whatever.
I’m raking up the leaves, with my rake, like every normal person does, when I hear a loud whirring noise. Like someone running a motor, and the sound of leaves rustling after it.
Okay, so someone is cleaning off their sidewalk with a leaf blower, fantastic. I’m glad people care about others walking on the sidewalk.
I turn to glance at the good samaritan and am shocked at what I see. Not only is that man absolutely stunning in his leather jacket, short brown hair that looks way too soft to be real falling in his eyes, his perfect muscular build that is oh so tasty, but he’s not using the leaf blower to clean the sidewalk. Oh no, he’s using it in his freaking yard?! Who on earth does that? That is not morally okay. I take back everything I said about his stunning body.
Okay, fine, it’s not the worst idea. In fact it’s kind of genius, sort of. But you’d think with a body like his, he’d be fine doing a little work, and I definitely would not mind him doing it. But it’s also kind of dumb. First of all, you can’t really aim with a leaf blower, it’s just air, so it goes everywhere, often times making an even bigger mess than you started with. And it doesn’t make satisfying piles that everyone loves to jump in even when it’s not the leaf pile they made in their own yard and it makes a huge mess for the owner of whoever’s house it is has to clean up and it’s so rude and frustrating and freaking trespassing and GET OUT OF MY YARD, YOU CHILDREN.
Anywayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.
I continue to stare at him doing that for a few more minutes, torn between swooning and going over to chop off his head (and maybe keeping it in the freezer with some sunglasses, kinda like Medusa, ya know? Because I’m sure his gaze is just so darn captivating I would freeze up the moment he looks at me, wink wink) when he glances up at me. He turns off his darn leaf blower and sends me a shining smile while walking over to my parents�� yard. And let me say this right now, he gets more and more attractive the closer he gets, HOT DANG.
“Hi neighbor. Couldn’t help but notice you checking my girl out. She’s pretty, right?” Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh my gosh his voice is breathtaking. But who is he talking about? Is this his way of telling me to stop looking at him because he’s off the market without actually having a female around??????
“She? What are you talking about?”
He smiles even wider, as if excited to show me this girl. He lift his leaf blower, using his head to gesture at it a little. “Her name is Ethel. She works real hard and well. Had her for about 5 years now.” First off, that’s a gross name (A/N, I am so sorry if your name is Ethel, I asked my friend for a name and he came up with that and the reader had to think it was gross, love you!), and second, what?
“You... You named your leaf blower?”
“Of course, who doesn’t?”
“Any person with any sort of common sense????”
“I don’t see a problem with it. People name their cars. Anyway, my name is Sebastian Stan.” At least his name isn’t terrible. I kinda like it, actually.
“Huh, well good for you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.” I gesture to the yard and my rake before I begin again, the sound of the leaves getting crushed and moved loud and hopefully ending the conversation.
“Wait, what’s your name?” And he didn’t leave.
“Doesn’t matter, you won’t be seeing me again anytime soon. I don’t live here, and I only come when my parents ask me to.” And that’s when it starts to rain. “Freaking hormonal weather...” I curse the rain because it means I can’t finish my work today.
“Shoot, I should get home, get Ethel in a warm dry place, she gets a little finicky when she’s wet.” He smiles again before walking away.
I sigh and sit on my parents’ porch. I took a cab here, neither of my parents are home so the door’s locked, I don’t have a key, and I can’t call a cab because of course my phone decided to die a little after I started raking. So I just sit there, watching the rain pour down on the pile of leaves I had managed to make.
A few minutes of sitting there by myself and Sebastian comes jogging into my yard with an umbrella. “Locked out?” he asks, as if it’s not obvious.
I roll my eyes and respond, “No, I just love sitting in the freezing cold rain without a jacket watching my hard work get ruined.”
He chuckles a little before walking up to me, offering his hand. “Come to my place. It’s warm and unlocked right now. I also make a mean cup of hot chocolate.”
“Tempting, but how do I know you’re not just luring me into your house so you can murder me?” I glance at his hand. It looks rough and calloused. Probably from lifting weights. Those metal bars aren’t exactly easy on the skin.
“Come on, would I do that? With a face like this?” His smile is literally blinding me.
“Yes.”
He sighs, his smile falling a little, making me sad. “Come on, at least if I’m a murderer you’ll die comfortably and not out in this ice cold rain.”
I nod a little. “I guess you’re right.” I reach up and take his hand, his smile back to its original brightness as he pulls me up.
“So, do I get to know your name yet?” He wraps his incredibly warm arm over my shoulder so I fit under the umbrella with him.
“Not until I’m certain you won’t kill me.” He laughs again and squeezes my shoulders gently in amusement as he leads us back to his house. My hand flies to his chest in that action and I can feel his well defined pectorals, taunting me because I can’t see them.
“I guess I’ll just have to come up with a name on my own. How about... Jessica?”
“Oh gosh, can we end this nonsense right now? I don’t want you calling me any actual names.”
“But you look like a Jessica to me.” I shoot him a glare right as he looks at me. “Fine fine, how about Princess?”
“You’re killing me, Sebastian.”
“I think it fits you.” He squeezes me again as we get to his door.
“And how do you figure that?” He pulls his arms from around me, causing me o shiver from the cold reaching where I was used to his warmth.
“So far you have been nothing but a royal pain.” He opens the door before closing his umbrella and shaking the water.
“Wow, thank you so much. That means a lot to me.” Sebastian looks back at me and we both just stand there, looking at each other, his face no longer having his beautiful smile. Instead, he looks thoughtful and serious.
“That’s exactly why I said it. I couldn’t possibly risk upsetting the princess.” He continues with a straight face for just a few more moments before bursting out laughing and telling me to go inside with his arm. “Please, come inside. Ladies first.”
I scoff, just thinking ‘That’s what she said’ as I walk in. When I first walk in I see the living room. A love seat against one wall across the TV on top of a little dresser thing, most likely full of movies, consoles, games, all the works a stereotypical man would have. Between the TV and couch is a coffee table, a vase of yellow roses in the middle of it. In the corners of the room are lamps and other plants.
“Please, have a seat. I’ll bring you something to drink.” He shuts the door and heads into what I can only assume is the kitchen. I take a seat on the couch, enjoying the softness on my bum.
Sebastian comes back around 5-10 minutes later with 2 cups of a steamy beverage. He takes a seat next to me and hands me one. Hot chocolate, I soon realize. “Thank you, Sebastian.” He nods silently, watching my reaction as I blow on it before taking a small sip. At first, all I can feel is it burning across my tongue and down my throat, but the after taste is magical. It straight up tastes like caramel Lindor chocolate truffles. “Holy heck, that is amazing!”
He sets his own cup down with a smile. “I’m glad you like it. My mom taught me the recipe. She is a magical woman. She would have liked you.”
“Oh? How come she isn’t around to like me?”
“She lives in Romania.”
“Romania? Is that where you’re from?” He nods, his hair that had been tucked away falling back into his face. My hand shoots up to tuck it away so I can see his beautiful eyes better. “Do you miss being there?”
“Of course. My family is there, and many of my old friends.”
“How come you moved here, if you liked it so much?”
“I don’t know, I guess I just felt a pull to move across the globe. Maybe it was your soul telling mine it missed me.” He smiles sheepishly and looks down.
“Do you really believe that stuff?” He nods again. “That is so disgustingly cute.” I smile when he looks up again.
“You have a beautiful smile, you know that?”
‘No, not many people tell me that. I guess I don’t do it that often.” I lean my head against the back of his couch. “Not many people try so hard to get me to smile.”
“Well then it is their loss. Your smile is breathtaking. Thank you for blessing me with your smile, Princess.”
“Y/N.”
“What?”
“Y/N, that’s my name.” He hums softly.
“I think Princess fits you better.”
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dancingsparks · 5 years ago
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The Only Thing Worse Than Spotting A Spider
A silly little Dron fic, inspired by my own incompetence at dealing with spiders. Thank you so much @randoyoyo for beta-reading this!
Also on Ao3
“And bring that lovely man of yours with you next time, you hear me? I get terribly lonely with no visitors all day.” Ron snorts — Ethel is many things, but she is most certainly not lonely. Ethel has a family big enough to rival Ron’s own, everyone coming by regularly, carrying food and bringing stories to entertain the old lady. She is sweet, a little too forward sometimes maybe, but nobody can stay angry at her for long. She is the kind of neighbour who invites you to tea, who sees everything and gives you knowing smirks when you pass her in the hallway. Ethel had realised Draco moved in with him way before Ron did, for example — a fact they both still tease him mercilessly over.
“As if I could keep him away if I tried. You know he is already planning which cake we should bring next time.” Ethel cackles at that, her laugh reverberating in the corridor and up the stairs, filling Ron with warmth. He truly didn’t expect to make such good friends when he moved out, and into a muggle area too! But now, standing here with Ethel after being dragged in for a quick cup of tea on his way up to his and Draco’s flat, Ron can’t imagine anything else.
“Chocolate dear, it’s my favourite.” Ron can already picture Draco, only his curls showing over the heavy books with complicated recipes, scoffing at the mere mention of something as plebeian as chocolate cake. He would whip out something spectacular, fancy and elegant, proudly present it and get awed compliments — but never as good as chocolate cake.
If he’s honest, Ron never understood Draco’s problem with chocolate, why he doesn’t just bake the cake already. He himself loves it, and Draco has a sweet tooth — he loves everything with chocolate. And yet Draco stubbornly refuses, pulling on his apron and setting to work. It’s endearing, and Ron loves watching him, the concentrated little frown, the graceful movements through the kitchen, the faint layer of flour settling on him and giving him a ghostly look, the inevitable dough tasting.
“He knows that, Ethel.” Ron presses a kiss on her cheek, salutes her and dashes up to meet his boyfriend before she can keep him any longer. All this talk of cakes made him hungry. Or maybe it’s the anticipation, the giddy excitement.
Today is his and Draco’s one-year anniversary. No one thought they would make it this long. Hell, Ron didn’t think they would make it this long. When he saw Draco working in the Bakery, following Harry around who insisted he was up to something — poisoning cakes, money laundering, potion smuggling — they quickly became regulars, Ron eating Draco’s delicious cakes and Harry watching him suspiciously.
Ron doesn’t remember how Harry talked him into dating Draco to find out more, to gain his trust and destroy the evil scheme from behind enemy lines. He does remember the gobsmacked expression on his face when Ron told him he wasn’t pretending anymore, hadn’t been for a long time and won’t ever be again. It took a lot of groveling for Draco to forgive him his less than pure intentions at the beginning, but Ron wouldn’t change a thing, not if it meant giving up what they built for themselves.
To celebrate, and spite all those who told them they wouldn’t last a month, Draco chose a fancy dish Ron can’t even pronounce to be prepared by themselves. And with that he meant of course Ron would do the cooking, while he himself does everything in his power to distract him. That is how it always goes when they cook, Draco’s skills limited to an astounding palette of soup — the talent for potions definitely showing — and screwing up the meals Ron would cook. He would season them all wrong, use the worst possible ingredients, nibble on Ron’s neck just so. They ended up with far too many burned meals, ordering take away instead.
This meal would probably be no different. The thought that Draco would restrain himself so they could eat Ron’s first and most likely barely passable attempt at an incredible complicated meal is ludicrous. If Draco wanted a fancy meal, he would have dragged him to a restaurant. Ron can live very well without that though, without being stuffed in in formal dress robes, without being observed by others and forced to behave all stiff and appropriate. He would do it for Draco, though he didn’t want to do it as often as Ron feared, thank Merlin.
Whistling some tune that is stuck in his head through frequent repetitions in the radio, Ron unlocks the door. “Love, I’m home.”
He waits for the shouted reminder Don’t call me that, sweetheart, the ritual a mockery of surgery-sweet pet names they themselves would never admit to using. He frowns when it doesn’t come, closing the door and placing the groceries on the floor, out of the way. He slips out of his shoes, lines them up carefully — Draco wouldn’t shut up about it for a month if he didn’t — and steps on socked and thus silent feet further into the flat.
It’s silent, eerily so, tension in the air, and Ron is gripping his wand, whole body ready to attack, to deflect and defend. Dread pools in Ron’s gut, spreading heavily through his veins, creeping over his skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake. He is wound up tight, ready — needing — to burst.
“Draco?” Keeping the waver, the uncertainty, the fear out his voice is harder than expected, the hold on his wand tightening subconsciously. Ron didn’t expect an answer, and when he hears Draco call from the kitchen he quickly moves towards him, not letting up his guarding but hastening his steps, wanting to help him, to free him — whatever he needs.
The picture that greets him in the kitchen is … not what Ron was expecting. Draco seems unharmed, a little ruffled but not hurt or injured. That’s good. It would be great, but he is also standing on a chair, clutching his arms around himself and looking frightened, eyes frantically searching.
The surge of relief that washed through Ron at seeing Draco not in a puddle of his own blood is quickly crashed in the realisation of just how not alright Draco actually is. Taking measured steps towards him, hands raised to show he doesn’t mean harm, Ron moves farther into the kitchen. Draco eyes flit to him but don’t stay, searching the walls. Ron looks around himself, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.
There is their counter, things already set up for Ron to start cooking; there is the fridge, with their many photographs of themselves, of friends and family; there is their table, Draco standing on one of the chairs. That is not all that unusual, now that he thinks about it: Draco is a drama queen. After having assured himself everything is fine, Ron is pretty confident Draco is exaggerating.
Ron loves these moments, when he can come in and save him, sweep him of his feet like a chivalrous knight rescuing a damsel in distress. Draco, however, did not appreciate the comparison and Ron slept on the couch for a week after foolishly mentioning it to him.
“Where is the monster?” He expected Draco to laugh, indulge him in the game and describe a fearsome beast hiding under their table maybe, glare at him and threaten him for daring to make fun of him.
Draco does none of these things, he keeps looking around, searching.
“You think I would be standing here if I knew?” Ron frowns at him, that’s neither here nor there. But at least Draco doesn’t sound scared, more impatient and annoyed than anything else.
“Okay what is going on here?”
“There was a spider here, climbing on the wall, and now it’s gone.” Draco is looking at him now, raising an eyebrow at him as if Ron is supposed to fix this.
But Ron can’t move, the words hitting him over the head and paralysing him. He can feel them, the spiders, crawling on his skin, legs moving quick and light, ghosting touches creeping up his body and leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Without thinking, trying to escape the sensation, the threat, Ron jumps up onto the chair, clinging to Draco for dear life.
“Let go of me!” Ignoring his protest, Ron looks around, frantically searching, mind running wild with images of spiders emerging from every crack, every corner, coming down the walls and covering every surface.
“Ronald, look at me.” His head is being turned around, slim hands holding him and stroking his face, Draco looking at him with wide grey eyes, concerned. “Now, that is better isn’t it?”
That really is better, yes. Ron can feel himself calming down, the sensation of hairy legs on his back lifting and replaced with the soft touch on his face, Draco taking up his senses.
“There you are, better now?” Ron nods mutely, embarrassment coming over him and making him blush. The worried frown on Draco’s face disappears, replaced with a smirk that rings every alarm bell in Ron’s head. This particular smirk seldom means good for him.
“What kind of Gryffindor are you, fleeing from a little spider?” Against all expectations, they jab doesn’t hurt, doesn’t remind him of his failure in bravery, but instead calms him down further, even makes him laugh. He shoves at Draco in retaliation; wouldn’t do to let him think he can get away with that kind of thing.
Draco sways precariously, letting out a most undignified squeak that he would deny later, not expecting the shove. Ron abruptly remembers they are standing on a chair, that place is limited right now. Not wanting Draco to fall on the floor — he would never let him forget about that, Ron can already hear him complain: that one time Ron tried to feed him to a spider and hoped to flee while it was distracted, gorging on poor, helpless Draco. Ron quickly grabs him, pulling him back in.
“What kind of Slytherin are you, not having come up with an ingenious plan to get us out of here?” Draco glares at him, cross over his near fall, blushing and trying very hard to appear unaffected. It is, despite their circumstances, rather lovely.
“The plan was to make you deal with it, obviously. Don’t blame me for neglecting your duties.” Draco is adorable when he is pouting, not that he takes favourable to being told. Draco has many wonderful traits he doesn’t like pointed out; Ron learnt to appreciate them silently.
“My duty, is it?”
“Of course, why else would I keep you around?” Ron can think of quite many reasons why Draco is keeping him around; like the fact that he is providing food, that Draco makes him carry around the heavy stuff when needed, that he makes him laugh every day.
None of these are worth bringing up now, not when indulging Draco in his antics always proved to be entertaining.
“Yeah? Let me deal with this then.” Casting another look through the room, searching for the spider again and not finding anything, Ron nods to himself. He can do this, he is a Gryffindor, for Godric’s sake!
Determined he steps down from the chair, pulling a startled Draco down with him and carrying him out of the infested kitchen as quickly as possible. It’s neither as easy nor as heroic as expected, Draco struggling in his hold, testing his balance and complaining loudly.
Ron ignores him, taking long steps to bring them into safety.
He only stops once they are in the living room, far away from the kitchen and with the floo close should further escaping be needed.
“Fine, you are a true Gryffindor, foolish and brash and constantly needing to prove your valour. Will you set me down now?” Ron doesn’t want to, now that Draco finally stilled and holds on to him instead, sitting him back down is the last thing he wants to do.
Draco, clever as he is, realises that too. “No! I know this look, there is no way I’m kissing you while our house is —”
He doesn’t continue, instead gesticulating wildly and grimacing in the direction of their kitchen.
Right. The spider.
Ron certainly doesn’t want to go back in, and he knows that letting Draco deal with it would entail the entire house being meticulously cleaned by the exterminators. Which is a totally unnecessary and overly dramatic path of action. All they need is someone to go in there, catch the darn thing and release it in some garden far away from here. Ron still remembers the lecture Harry held about not killing — Harry!
That is the solution! Harry could deal with the spider while he and Draco drink a nice cup of tea to recover from the shock, and as thanks he will invite Harry to stay for dinner sometime. Watching Harry and Draco bicker and pretend not to like each other is hilarious and it has been way too long since Ron got the chance.
“No worries love, I have a plan.” Draco raises an eyebrow at that and opens his mouth to argue, but Ron just drops a quick kiss on his nose, distracting him, and grabs the floo powder.
Ron won’t allow their anniversary to be spoilt by something trifling as this. They both dealt with worse, fate would have to try harder if it wants to ruin their happiness.
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malarkeys-beanie · 5 years ago
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hii can i get a ship? i’m 5’4, black hair and eyes, half brazilian half chinese. i’m pretty introverted, i get stressed very easily (usually calm down by taking hot showers), and i’ve been told i have a resting bitch face. with the person i’m dating i’m pretty much wearing they’re clothes 24/7, and although i’m introverted i don’t mind spending a lot of time with then, doing something or nothing at all. thanks !!
i think you and Donald Malarkey would be absolutely aDORable together!
i’m gonna do another modern au here. let’s do something real cliche like you guys live in the same apartment building and Don gets your mail by accident. so that morning he knocks on your door and is greeted by just about the prettiest lady he’s ever seen. your beautiful eyes and shiny hair positively mesmerize him for a hot second. he catches his bearings and shyly returns your mail. from them on out poor pining Malarkey finds any and every excuse to talk to you. he found some random bracelet on the ground (he bought it himself) and was wondering is maybe it belonged to you. he saw that someone’s window was broken and was wondering if it was yours and if you need help fixing it (he absolutely knows it’s someone else’s window). Don calls up Muck for advise “i just can’t tell if she’s into me”. it’s difficult to tell due to the resting bitch face, but i mean how could you not be into the cute ginger with biceps fit for a superhero? Muck of course encourages him to just shoot his shot. finally he gets sick of all the games and the next time he passes you in the hall he just straight out asks you if you’d like to get coffee sometime. you gladly accept (you had been about at the point where you were just gonna ask him yourself) and you decide on that saturday morning at the place down the street.
saturday morning rolls around and you have some jitters so you have to call one of your friends for reassurance about your date with the cute ginger in your apartment building (oh he finally asked you out did he). little do you know that don is having the same problem. he has called Muck several times and Skip once again gives him a pep talk (after his initial teasing ofc). Malarkey arrives to pick you up and when you answer the door he is thrown off for a second by how pretty you look for your date. the two of you walk down to the coffee shop, and there are plenty of shy smiles and heart eyes on the way. you guys order and start chatting. you ease into conversation really well right off the bat. malarkey initiates most of the conversation at first, but eventually you get comfortable enough that it gets more balanced. you find him really easy to open up to. the typical first date questions are asked: where he’s from (Astoria, Oregon), about his friends (he’s got a group of guys he’s really close with), and his pets (he’s got a bird named Ethel). it’s a smashing success of a first date, and when you look at the clock you realize you’ve been chatting for almost three hours! you agree that you HAVE to do this again sometime soon and Malarkey drops back off at your apartment, in a chivalrous way ofc, but also just because you guys are really enjoying each other’s company and the more time together the better. swoon, am i right?
your 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and dates pass just as successfully and all of a sudden you and Don have been dating for 2 months and are basically sharing apartments. it’s going really well, and you balance each other really well. Malarkey’s super sweet, but he can also be a bit chaotic. he enjoys roller skating around the apartment with Ethel on his shoulder. you are able to control the chaotic-ness when it crosses the line into recklessness, but you still love it. Malarkey’s really understanding of your introverted-ness and he gets you to open up while still respecting your boundaries. the first time he saw you wearing his clothes the poor guy just about passed out. even after it becomes your main at-home attire, Malarkey still thinks it’s simultaneously the cutest and hottest thing he’s ever seen and he never gets totally used to it.
one day you come home from a pretty stressful day and are pretty noticeably distressed. Don gets pretty worried, but you take your shower and then he cuddles you for a while. afterwards you tell him about your stress issues and he is ofc really understanding and sweet about it, and he tells you about the mental health issues he struggles with as well. the longer you guys date the more these things come up and need to be handled, but you two work together as a team and it really helps.
Don really wants you to meet his friends, and the first on that list is ofc Skip Muck. he comes over one friday night and he likes you right away (well you clearly make his best friend so happy, how could he not?) but he can tell how cool you are right away. he acts all disgusted by how head over heels you guys are for each other, but of course he couldn’t be happier for Malarkey. finally you two decide to just move in together (you basically live together anyway, and what’s the point of having two apartments? so Don moves into your apartment. you guys have the best date nights whether you go out to a park or a nice restaurant, go on some spontaneous adventure, or just sit on the couch and binge and cuddle. life is good and you couldn’t be happier that Donald Malarkey got your mail by accident that one morning.
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sorry this took so long, i had some writer’s block issues. i hope it’s ok, have a wonderful day!
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the-star-knight · 5 years ago
Text
Tales of A Star
Tales of A Star
Summary: A retelling of the show through Star’s eyes
Rated: T+
Chapter 1 - Aftermath of Before Ever After (Origins)
Word Count: 2,150
Author’s Note: I’ve tried to put Star’s start in a post series timing but it didn’t feel right, so instead i just jabbed her in the original show. Nothing major changes, think of it as more layers in the story. Also it’s through Star’s perspective so I try not to repeat anything that is unnecessary.  
Next Chapter ▶︎
I often think about how it is to live a normal life. You know, without having death breathing down your neck all the time or having the responsibility of being “the chosen one”. 
Having a normal life sounds nice. Not having that stress about thinking about what crazy thing that will get you almost killed today. I envy people who don't ever have to think that.
Anyways, I awoke really early that morning. The sun barely rose above the horizon. I had to make sure I got back in time before my parents got up.
I went down toward the royal stables. There was a pretty young black mare. She has a white marking on her forehead. 
"Hey there, Luna," I patted her head. I call her Luna because of her white marking. It sort of resembles the shape of the moon. Okay, more like a wobbly moon.
I pulled out an apple from my bag and gave it to her. She quickly ate it and neighed in happiness. I pulled out another apple from my bag and ate it myself. I didn't have time to prepare anything for myself since I planned to go beyond Corona borders.
I saddled Luna up. "Are you ready?"
She neighed and kicked her hooves in the air in delight.
"I'll take that as a yes," I said. I got on her back and we rode off. 
Horseback riding is one of my favorite things in the world. The wind in your hair and the early morning air smelled crisp. We rode through the town square and the bridge, and we passed a village. The buildings slowly disappeared and more and more trees came into view. 
Eventually, we approached the Corona Wall. I looked for a way to cross over. 
I saw an archway in the wall that we could cross. Unfortunately, it was guarded.
"Hold it!" One of the guards said as we approached. "What is your business?"
"Um…" I tried looking for an excuse.
"Quickly!" Another guard soldier came in panting. "We require backup! A fugitive has been spotted!"
“What? I thought they were all captured yesterday,” the soldier grumbled.
"Look like not all of them! Come on, move it!"
"You, um...stay here!" The guard said. "We will be right back!"
And with that they ran off. 
I stood there for a couple of moments to see if they'd come back, but they didn't. Well, that was too convenient.
We continue to pass Corona borders and the wilderness spreads far and wide. It felt like the trees and hills stretched forever. 
Eventually we stopped near a bridge. However, the bridge wasn't fit for crossing. It was simply gone. You can see the remains of where the bridge used to be. There was no way getting to the other side 
 "Weird, I could've sworn the last time we were around here the bridge was still intact,” I said. “Come on, let’s find another way to cross.”
We rode downstream until we hit an easier way to cross. We crossed along a shallow river.
Now, I don't know why but I could feel something was pulling me towards a direction. You can call me crazy all you want but it felt like someone or something was calling me. 
As we approached a cliff, I realized that more of these black rocks were appearing. I've seen them sprout every once in a while but only a couple, but these rocks were everywhere. They were tall and sharp. I looked at my reflection at one of them. My braided hair was a mess, with hair strands sticking out all over the place. This is what I get for being in a rush this morning.
These rocks were taller than me, even though I'm not that tall too begin with, but we won't get to that. 
Then, I saw something I would have never imagined to see in person: the place where the Sundrop flower was found.
There was a stone lying at the edge of the cliff. It had engravings on it and a small picture of the Sundrop flower. 
I couldn't believe it. There it is! The flower that saved the queen and the princess!
Although I was filled with amazement, something else caught my eye. 
Something shined on the ground. A gemstone. It looked like a diamond but it was more shiny than any diamond I've ever seen and it seemed to be almost…glowing? I picked it up and put it away in my pocket.
Luna and I decided to rest here and admire the view. I sat and leaned back. Out there was the vast beautiful, blue sea. I closed my eyes and smelled the salt in the air. I heard the waves crash against the cliffs.
I smiled.
It was nice and peaceful. Unlike back at the castle where everything has been hectic especially for the princesses coronation yesterday. My mom is one of the queen’s handmaidens, so she heard all about the crazy thing that happened. Also, you know the news here travels fast with the handmaidens. 
Lately things have been weirder than ever. My mom told all of my family what happened yesterday at the castle over dinner. Luckily, my mom wasn’t there when Lady Caine tried to take prisoners. My dad was pretty shaken up by what would've happened if Lady Caine did get her way. Seeing my dad get worried is a face that is hard to look at.
"Oh my gosh! We have to get back!!" I quickly got myself up and got on Luna. "Sorry, girl. I know we didn't stay too long, but we have to get back before my dad finds out."
We rode back as quickly as fast we could.
When we reached the stables, I already found my dad there. But before I could hide, he already saw me.
"Star!" My dad didn't sound exactly thrilled. 
"Um...hola, papá!" I said nervously.
"Star, what did we talk about your morning rides with Luna?"
"Um...to not be late for my morning chores?" I try to put on a fake innocent smile.
My dad gave me a look and simply sighed. “You do know that I don’t mind you riding off but you have to at least be on time for your morning chores. It worries me when you are not back on time.”
“Dad, I’m fifteen! I can handle this,” I said. “Plus, the amount of royal guards have practically doubled overnight because of yesterday's incident at that castle.”
"I know," he sighed. "But, it’s still concerning."
I sighed, he was right. It wasn't right for me to get upset over my dad getting worried. "Sorry, dad."
After yesterday, I can only imagine how other Coronans might feel. Corona has been safe for the most part but after yesterday, I'm not so sure how safe Corona is anymore.
"Come on, ojitos, these stables aren't going to clean themselves," my dad said.
Ugh, I always disliked how my dad called me by my eyes. It's shortened for ojitos míos. Yes, I am his only child that has taken after his brown eyes, although having an entire nickname by my eyes is pretty weird since it's basically calling me eyes. Like who would call anyone eyes?
I simply sighed and grabbed a pitchfork and began to unload the hay into the stables.
My dad is the royal stable keeper. Everyone who works in the stables has to listen to him. There are a couple of people that work here, but they are quite a bit older than me. Aside from being the youngest at 15, I’m also pretty much the only girl working here. This makes it a lot harder for me to make friends and my anxiety doesn’t do me any favors either. I’ve always kind of felt out of place, you know?
All throughout the day I couldn’t stop thinking about what I saw and found that morning. The Sundrop flower and that weird gemstone. The gemstone was so unnaturally bright. Maybe I could make a nice piece of jewelry. Oh yes! That's a good idea.
Then I couldn’t stop envisioning how the necklace would look like. It's like an image that was already engraved in my head.
Later that day, I went home and drew the image of the jewelry I had stuck in my head. I pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil. I try to derail from that image to see if I could find a better design I liked. However, whatever ideas I had I seem to go back to that image. It kind of resembles some sort of symbol.
I began to think about what jewelry I should make the gem out of.
Maybe earrings? Nah, there's only one gem. Hm...maybe a bracelet? I like it but not sure if that's what I want. What about…oh! A necklace!
When I was finally done with drawing what the necklace would look like, I went to the one person who could help me out.
"Hey, Xavier!" I greeted him as I entered his workshop. Xavier is Corona's blacksmith. He also knows a bunch of cool magic stuff.
"Ah, hello Star. How may I help you?" Xavier said.
"Um, hi Xavier! I was wondering if you could help me," I pulled out my paper with the necklace design on it, "with making this necklace,"
It was pretty embarrassing showing him my design. I’ve seen Rapunzel’s amazing intricate designs for dresses and pretty much anything you can imagine. My design was pretty simple, nothing too elaborate.
I handed the paper to Xavier. 
“Oh, this is very nice, Star,” Xavier said. “Over here.”
Xavier walked over to a table and Star followed.
“Here,” I pulled out the weird gem from my bag and handed the gem to Xavier. 
“Ah, what an interesting gem,” Xavier observed the gem. “Never seen anything like it.” 
Neither have I, I thought.
“Silver metal would be an excellent choice.”
I let Xavier do all the metal work, since I didn't know a single thing about metalworking.
Xavier put the gem on the charm. "Ah, there we go. It is all yours, Star."
He handed the necklace to me. 
“Thanks, Xavier. Look great!”
“Anytime.”
I put the necklace on and I headed back home.
At the dinner table my mother was still talking about the crazy thing that happened during the princess’s coronation. Apparently she wasn't done talking about it yesterday.
“So, Ethel told me how Lady Caine took prisoners, including the king,” my mom told us as she laid the plates on the table. “Lo puedes creer, Santiago?”
My dad sat down, “Well, it’s definitely hard to believe, Julianna.”
“And then, princess Rapunzel takes off her wig only to see that her long hair is back."
"De verdad?"
"Yes, it's like her hair practically grew overnight!"
"Oh, i wanna see Rapunzel’s long hair!" one of my sisters jumped up in excitement.
"I hear that her hair is like seventy feet long!" My other sister said. "I wonder how long it takes her to brush it."
"Too long probably," I added. I took a bite of my dinner. I wondered how Rapunzel handled the whole magic hair thing coming back. 
"Rapunzel then," my mom continued, "starts fighting Lady Caine and the rest of the criminals. Eugene and Cassandra stepped in to help. Fortunately, everything turned out okay. The criminals were captured and the people that were taken were set free."
Later, I crawled into bed and my mother came in. She kissed my sisters on their forehead. My mom approached me and kissed me on the forehead as well. 
I took off my new and put on the nightstand next to my bed.
"Oh, what is that?" she pointed to my necklace.
"A necklace. I found a gem and I wanted to make a necklace. With the help of Xavier, we made this."
"It looks very pretty."
My mom got up and walked towards the door.
"Buenas noches, mis amores." she closed  the door slowly behind her.
I dreamt. 
I stood in an empty void. There were memories floating in front of me. They were close enough to tell that they weren't mine, but they were far enough where I couldn't quite grasp it. Vague shapes and blurred out faces, I couldn't really make out any of them. Whatever these memories were, they seemed important.
I awoke in confusion.
That hasn't happened to me before, or to anyone, as a matter of fact. I couldn’t help but to feel that those memories were only pieces of something bigger. Something way bigger.
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dayna-scully · 6 years ago
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ncis/tiva s8 lb
season 3  |  season 4   |  season 5  |  season 6  |  season 7  |  season 9  |  season 10  |  etc
8x01
mountain mama
I can assure you, I do not have any tan lines
things that would probably get you arrested
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sharks circling again
this would have been better as the s7 finale
8x02
I am a younger model
I can hear ya McGee, I got ears
8x03
seriously dinozzo
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is this also necessary
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husbands
8x04
why is he trying to break into ziva’s computer
you’ve been flirting with the Miami heat
a walking Israeli love machine
handle with care, contents priceless
he loooves her
8x05
dinozzo? turning down a girl in a bikini? the world must be ending
ooooor he’s in love
tony has every iteration of ziva memorized
Compared to the ziva I shared a bed with five years ago
You were just putting on a show…you were putting on a show, right?
they always put ziva in these father & daughter situations
here again
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I can tell/that’s just my knee
her daddy taught her to play catch 😖
“my father taught me”
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gibbs’ nod is everything
8x06
special Ethel
you’re dating within your age range
why are they always sitting behind each other!! Never at their own desks!!!
if only that shirt fit a little better, tony
it might be slightly less horrifying
are you supposed to be fat Elvis?
8x07
aww ziva’s American passport
wow, you’re in a great mood
ziva is worried
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ziver
I’m a federal agent, dad
I very much doubt that senior does anything but lie by default
oh dad, shut up
oh toe-knee
ziva is a grandma name
ugh all these assholes
she sees her dad all the time, Abby, his name is gibbs and he works upstairs
oh ziva
McGee needs to change his pants
I wish they had spent less time on Eli and more on ziva’s mother
we are calm, you’re yelling
tony can tell when she’s getting squirrelly
8x09
I don’t really care about Leon’s flashbacks…
8x10
looks like tony, doesn’t sound like tony
oh gosh, I’m sorry, are you and he-?
the lady doth protest too much
she’s got the eyes of a killer
you feeling okay, dinozzo?
enough! we’re just friends, there’s nothing different about him
oh really ziva
ziva: ????
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you are not crazy
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and that is why we love you
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oh, we?
this coming from the girl who said she barely had a professional relationship with tony yesterday 🤔
but you love him
yeah, sure, “we”
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ziva’s gonna shoot the confetti
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that was always so hilarious
8x11
duck, call
abbses
that is why it is called a bat nap
May be code for something/yeah, hedonism
men are trash
8x12
McGee noticing tony staring at ziva’s empty desk
tony definitely hasn’t been thinking about her all weekend
I need my inhaler/I want ziva back
I promise you, Ray is a good man
why do you have to reassure tony about him hmm??
8x13
ziva feels bad but not bad enough to get involved
a pool dolphin
late nineties?? That makes you sound so…
ziva was barely a teenie bopper in the late 90s
you know, Tony, you do not wear jealousy well
oh so we’re acknowledging the fact that he is jealous of the guy you might be dating mmhmm okay
I know a bickering couple when I hear one
this reminds Gibbs too much of Shannon and jelly
ziva is endlessly amused by tony
this is all about mcgee but she’s only looking at tony
I like Tony’s maturity around the service people they encounter (usually)
for someone without rank over them, he sure seems to pull it
I’m not sure I wanna open up those wounds, duck
well is she talking about saleem or about Eli
you’re too young to act so old
8x14
I do not want to hear about your threesomes
whyyyyyy do they always have to go back to Kate
which writer was obsessed with her
when confronted with a psychologist, ziva looks to tony
hmm worried about something?
I want something permanent, something that can’t be taken away - is that too much to ask?
oh z bb
I liked Kate but I don’t understand the preoccupation the show has with her
it really rubs me the wrong way, like ziva wasn’t enough even to the writers, she was always just the puppy to kick when they needed drama
8x15
“this new app” it’s the same program you guys have had since season 3 but okay
close your mouth, tony
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I miss my blackberry
ziva’s being the nice big sister and Tony’s being a dick
I could never be that energetic
oh mcgoo
the hydrant didn’t deserve such an undignified death
ziver, get the phone
8x16
sometimes the brains sneak out of the hole
tony and ziva stuck together for hours 👀👀👀👀👀
8x17
I cannot smell you from there
oh the sass
ziva is going to eat ej
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very territorial
mmhmm thank you thank you
why all the touching ziva
no this one’s problem is definitely her bite
ugh
8x18
tony looks kind of ashamed that ziva is noticing he’s talking to ej
8x19
ziva wants gibbs at her wedding he’s her dad
I should stop this
bickering
8x20
oh yes all the flirtatious looks at tony
I don’t have a special anything and it’s none of your business
the last time ziva has a boyfriend in town, you killed him, tony
I suppose this candlelight dinner may have seemed sweet but it just seems cheesy and try-hard
uh ooooh
if you were fine you wouldn’t be here
oh my god tony said thank you to someone
what about you and ej?
oh christ ouch
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the implication being that he…never understood ziva
that is the fakest fucking eyeball I’ve ever seen in my life
8x21
ziva is going to murder ej
dinozzo got some ass and now he thinks he’s hot shit
why don’t you tell him how many sides it has, Tim
I’m pretty sure you don’t like her, z
this stakeout scene is adorable
the writers make very strange choices
why is Tim jealous of the other guy when it’s been three thousand years since he and Abby slept together
like either commit to mcabby or let it go!!!!!
why does ziva look so sad
YOU CANT DO THAT
you can’t make pixels where there are none!!!
stop doin that!!!!
brunch date ft. shared croissant
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same
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the cia you say
8x22
why don’t you just investigate
and again, ziva is always watching tony
Tony’s hair was never that dark but ok
you can’t outrun me, I’m wearin tube socks!
you’re not just any partner, McGee
you’re her little brother
I don’t think that would count as reading him his rights, tony
8x23
most bottom feeding mudsuckers
franks looks more like a corpse than when he’s actually a corpse
tony and ej is unsettling everyone, not just ziva
that wasn’t even that deep???
poor ziva
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there is always another monster
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how does tony reconcile this kind of intimacy with his insistence that they have a totally platonic professional relationship
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like that is undeniably incredibly intimate
he initiates the hug, and that’s a totally different hug from Abby and McGee
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anyways
8x24
gibbs is gonna murder secnav when he finds out
if he wasn’t, I am
Tony’s really wound tight
ej’s patronizing is gonna drive me up the wall
it’s just different for some of us
oh???? Different how, Anthony?????
cause you can’t live without her?????
I hope tony knows ziva’s actually alive post season-whenever
I need to find ziva
supporting each other
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no thank you please don’t come back, ej
ziva needs steady, ciray is not steady
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papermoonloveslucy · 4 years ago
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NEW TV SHOW
August 14, 1962
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HOLLYWOOD (UPI) - There is something ludicrous in the sight of a man trying to do a woman's work. A man looks about as silly wielding a dust mop as a woman does trying to throw a baseball overhand.  
But even funnier, I think is a woman trying to do a man's work. I don't mean in the professions or trades — I mean around the house. Certain household functions like climbing ladders and fixing light switches have a built in logic that is completely foreign to the feminine mind.  (1)
I think this has a universally comedic element in it. It had better have —  because that’s the premise of the new television show I’ll be doing on the CBS Television Network this fall under the title “The Lucille Ball Show.” 
Maybe it should be named “The Lucy Show" (2) — because that's the character I’ll be playing: The same improbable kook I had so much practice at playing on “I Love Lucy." She's a widow with two children trying to be both the lady of the house and the man of the house. As you might suspect, if you knew Lucy, she approaches her problems in a kind of inside-out way. (3)
Like Most Women 
Actually, Lucy is like most women, only more so. 
After 11 years of playing Lucy it may be that I’ve acquired some of her characteristics, or maybe she has acquired some of mine. This question, if it must he answered, will have to be answered by someone else. But whatever the answer, I’d like to say that I love Lucy, too — and whatever changes in her situation, I'm going to do my best to day her the way she’s always been. 
In this, I’m happy to report, I'll have expert assistance. Vivian Vance will be with me for one thing. (4) Bob Carroll Jr., Madelyn Martin, Bob Weiskopf and Bob Schiller will be writing the new show (5) — and they are the ones who as writers of “I Love Lucy" made Lucy what she is as much as I did.  
Desi Is Producer 
And of course, Desi Arnaz will be the executive producer of the new series. (6)
A decade without a vacation can make you pretty tired and when we stopped filming “I Live Lucy” I was just that. But I didn’t take a vacation. I went into Broadway musical '“Wildcat," and by time I'd been in that show for a year (7), I was exhausted. So I took a year off — a sort of sabbatical — from work. It was a wonderful vacation and I finally had time to do a lot id things I'd never had time for before. I enjoyed it so much I didn't get excited about the new series until Vivian and I started getting down to specific discussions with the writers and Elliott Lewis, our producer. 
Then I suddenly realized how much I had missed Lucy.
I just hope everyone else has missed her as much.
#    #    #
FOOTNOTES FROM THE FUTURE
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(1) This opening paragraph seems extremely sexist in the present day. Bear in mind that in 1961, America had not gone through the women’s liberation movement, and the culmination of the Equal Rights Amendment was still more than a decade away.  Lucy’s gender role thoughts reflect a very 1950s ideal. The very first image of Lucy and Ethel in 1951 (above) was of them washing dishes.  As the Lucy character ages, comedy based on these type of domestic stereotypes will wear thin. 
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(2) The working title of the show was “The Lucille Ball Show” but it was eventually changed to “The Lucy Show” before the first broadcast in October 1962.  Lucille is not being entirely truthful with the public.  In reality, when “I Love Lucy” / “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour” ended in April 1960, they were without their iconic star and ratings dipped.  Similarly, Desilu was also facing financial trouble.  The creation of a new show for Lucille was the natural answer to these problems, and Ball agreed to do it for one - possibly two seasons - but no more.  As with “I Love Lucy”, however, syndication is where the real money was - and “The Lucy Show” would need more than two seasons to be successfully syndicated.  So at the end of 1964, Ball re-upped, although the series changed greatly from its original premise.  
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(3) The premise of the show was borrowed from the book “Life Without George” by Irene Kampen, who got screen credit on every episode.  In the book, Viv’s character was also a widow, but for TV was changed to a divorcee. Vivian played the first divorced female leading character on a TV sitcom.    
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(4) Vance agreed to return to Desilu, despite having moved East to live with her new husband. The rigorous schedule and great distance finally proved to much, and she left the series after season 3.  She made guest appearances on “The Lucy Show” and “Here’s Lucy.” 
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(5) Writers Madelyn Martin (formerly Pugh), Bob Carroll Jr., Bob Schiller and Bob Weiskopf stayed with the series through the end of season two in spring 1964.  They still received screen credits for all 156 episodes as ‘creators’.  They left the show after being with Lucille since “My Favorite Husband” in 1948, claiming they were out of ideas! 
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(6) Desi Arnaz stayed as Executive Producer for 13 episodes. He had sold his shares in Desilu to Lucille, and wanted to usher in the new series.  Once the show was on his feet, he resigned, but mutual agreement. 
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(7) Lucille began doing “Wildcat” on October 29, 1960 (out of town tryouts), and had undergone several weeks rehearsal prior to that.  The show opened on Broadway on December 16, 1960.  Eight performances a week singing and dancing proved taxing for the nearly 50 year old star, and she had to withdraw from the show due to exhaustion at the end of May 1961.  Ball’s understudy assumed the role, and the show closed shortly afterwards.  There were plans to bring it back in the fall (with or without Ball, no one knows), but they never materialized. All tolled, Ball was in the show for seven months, a few months shorter than the year she claims here.  Preparations for such an endeavor, however, likely began months earlier than rehearsals, so it was likely close to a year all said and done.  
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itsteaveetime · 7 years ago
Note
Hey, if you're still taking prompts, can I request Mike T. getting his wisdom teeth out, based on the video of Mike W. getting his out on Instagram?
//Send me a prompt, get a drabble/one-shot.  Always accepting prompts.  Hopefully not supplying fics that completely suck.//
Mike Teavee is not cuddly.He never has been. Not even really as a baby, despite Ethel’s tendency to view his pre-walking, talking, and texting years through rosy tinted nostalgic glasses. He had (in Ethel’s biased opinion) been adorable, of course: thick dark hair and huge blue eyes, but he spent a lot more time crying and drooling than cooing sweetly at her than she likes to admit.A little like how he is drooling now, ironically. Of course now there’s more blood.
She presses a towel wrapped around a package of frozen peas to her son’s mouth. His head is propped up by pillows, but he’s still mostly out of it. Tears still cling to his long dark lashes.She secretly enjoys these moments, just a little bit.  Not his pain, of course.  But under normal circumstances he wouldn’t allow her to hover so close. He would be annoyed if she tried to brush the hair off of his forehead. She can look at his face for as long as she likes when he’s like this, without him twisting it up in disgust. At least: until the drugs wear off.Michael has to be sedated for every dental visit. Even for something as simple as a cleaning. That’s been the deal ever since he punched one of the dentists out for ‘lying’ (“He said it wasn’t gonna hurt and it hurt”). Even at 14 they have to dope him up, knock him out, and strap him down.  It’s far from the only place where certain precautions are taken due to her son being…her son. But the dentist’s is the only one that leaves her with such a pliable little boy; one who answers to 'Mikey’, and doesn’t remember that he did so later, and as such doesn’t punish her in any way for upsetting his 'street cred’ (or whatever the kids today call it).  And Mike does need a lot of dental work.  He isn’t very diligent about brushing and he grinds his teeth like a horse, even on an SSRI.But nothing about Mike comes completely without complications. She keeps one eye on her son.  She keeps the other on his phone.She isn’t sure how (particularly because of his temporary loss of fine motor skills), but in the time between when he first comes to, and they allow her to collect him, he always manages to text or tweet at or FaceTime someone. She has, over the years, ended up apologizing on his behalf to a wide variety of people. From local businesses to the presidents of small nations. She’s never able to explain how he manages to get their numbers: he just does. That’s just Mike.Today is unlikely to be an exception.  Today has not been a simple cleaning.  
There is always the chance she will be fielding a complaint from Jerry Jubilee’s publicist shortly, but lately (at least, since regaining his height after visiting Wonka’s factory), Mike tends to limit his drugged contacts to a smaller and more familiar circle.Some time last year he sent a long rambling missive to Mrs. Gloop (specifically Mrs. Gloop, not her son) full of half hysterical sobbing about jello molds (Ethel has no idea what that’s about, her casseroles are just fine), and wildly complimenting her ability to knit. Michael has no idea why he suddenly began receiving regular care packages full of sweaters and scarves from Germany, and Ethel isn’t about to tell him because oddly enough: he actually wears them. Mrs. Gloop knows a boy’s color palate when she sees it, and all of her offerings are acceptably black on black, with maybe a touch of neon.  Ethel had not been previously aware that one could knit an iPad cover, but Mike is particularly pleased with that creation.  Although Ethel privately suspects the device never really has the chance to get cold.Slightly more recently, well…she had rather liked it when Oleg Salt had rung up, even though he had insisted on calling her 'Mrs. Television’. Ethel has and has had her hands too full with Mike to even think about re-entering the dating scene, but she’s not dead: the Russian oligarch is a looker. She’s still not exactly sure what Mike might have said to him or his daughter, but she wouldn’t entirely mind if Mr. Salt had to call again.  A lady can have her dreams on those cold Idaho nights. Whoever Mike has bothered this time is taking their time saying anything about it.  There’s probably some way of finding out who they are, but she couldn’t possibly.  His little computer phone intimidates her: it has no buttons.  Best to just sit and wait and enjoy her son’s heavily drugged company and hope whoever she ends up having to speak to speaks English.
Mike’s head has lolled onto her shoulder, and Ethel is feeling particularly maternal, despite the fact that Mike has definitely already ruined her blouse, when his phone buzzes to life.
“Phooooooooone,” he mumbles into her neck.
“Oh.  I…right,” Ethel says, to the phone mostly.  “I just…”
She manages to retrieve the device without sending him tumbling to the floor, and then to wrangle one of his limp hands into activating the device, by placing his thumb over the little circle at the bottom herself.  The phone is…alive now, but she has missed the call.  She did see that the number was labelled something: Old Man.  Her heart screeches to a stop for a second, like a needle across a record, but it couldn’t possibly be: Mike does not speak to his father.  He would never have the man’s number saved in his phone, would he?
The device begins to vibrate in her hand again.
“Phone,” Mike mumbles.
“…Hello?” Ethel says, dubiously.
“Hello Mrs. T., I have some concerns,” the voice on the other end of the line (although Ethel supposes they don’t really use lines anymore) says.
She doesn’t know how he knows so quickly that it is her: this is Michael’s phone.  Most people are at least a little confused when she answers it (which she does rarely, because when alert Michael does not allow her to touch his phone).  It seems unlikely that he might have recognized her voice, although she recognizes his instantly.  As if she could forget it.
“Mr. Wonka,” Ethel begins.  “…whatever Michael did, I’m so sorry, but it really wasn’t his fault this time.” 
“He’s sent me twenty-seven video messages, and I don’t mean to alarm you, but I suspect he may have gotten into some of your, uh, ‘lemonade’,” Wonka tells her.
“Oh, no,” Ethel protests.  “I would never let him do that.”
Wouldn’t she?  No, she wouldn’t.  Not that Ethel isn’t a cool mom, but she needs that ‘lemonade’ for herself. 
“Tell ‘im he’s old,” Mike tells her hair.  “S’important an’ he needs to know.”
“He’s had his wisdom teeth out,” Ethel says, hoping Wonka cannot hear what Michael is saying.
“…oh,” Wonka replies.  
The man sounds strangely small on the other end of the phone.  Ethel supposes chocolatiers and dentists may be some sort of natural enemies, but she’s not sure that quite accounts for how he sounds.
“Mo-om,” Michael is saying in her ear, over and over.  She can feel drool dripping down her back.  At least, she hopes it is just drool.
“Also tell him he’s my friend.”
Michael is crying softly now, which is just sort of how coming off of meds like these goes.  She knows better than to think it means anything.
“Heeeeeee’s my friend and it’s too late he just is,” Mike sobs.
She would place her hand over the receiver if this was any sort of normal phone, but Mike’s little black box doesn’t have one that she can find.
“It’s just the medication,” Ethel continues, apologetically over her son’s sobs.  “They make him…like this, and he won’t remember it tomorrow, and I’m sure he’d appreciate if you didn’t say anything about it.”
There’s a thoughtful moment of silence from Wonka.
“My lips are sealed,” he finally says, which Ethel considers surprisingly mature of him, until the chocolatier goes on to say:
“I’ll just save these somewhere for future blackmail.”
Ethel rolls her eyes, but that does sound more like the Wonka she knows.  Not that she knows him.  Not, apparently, like Michael knows him.
“I should get back to him,” she says.
Mike is clinging to her waist. 
“Of course,” Wonka says.  And then: “…you know what they say, though: in vino veritas.  Well, good-bye.”
Ethel does know that they say that.  Of course she of all people would.  It’s not something she puts much stock in.
But as her son puts his head in her lap and lets her stroke his hair (something he does secretly like even when he is sober) and mumbles something that sounds very much like ‘I love you’, she cannot help but hope that Wonka has a point.  
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fayewonglibrary · 5 years ago
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Viva the Divas! (1996)
FROM AMERICA TO ASIA, STYLISH WOMEN SINGERS ARE FORCING THE BAD BOYS OF POP MUSIC TO STEP ASIDE
BY: RICHARD CORLISS
There was something feminine about Elvis. His mouth formed the pout of a sullen schoolgirl; his hair was swathed in more chemicals than a starlet’s; his hips churned like a hooker’s in heat. Presley was manly too, in a street-punk way. For him, the electric guitar was less an instrument than a symbolic weapon–an ax or a machine gun aimed at the complacent pop culture of the ‘50s. Performing his pansexual rite to a heavy bass line, Elvis set the primal image for rock: a man and his guitar, the tortured satyr and his magic lute.
He also established the androgyny of the male star. When a guy could provide his own sexual menace, long hair, coquetry and falsetto singing, who needed women? Oh, they were allowed to scream in the audience, or maybe sing backup, but not to rock on, down and dirty, with the big bad boys. Even today girls are no more encouraged to pick up a Stratocaster than to pilot an F-16. They are expected to play only one instrument: the voice.
And do they! After nearly 40 years as second-class citizens, women singers are staging their own revolution, The upheaval may be demure, even ladylike; Miwa Yoshida does not froth on the concert stage, nor is Faye Wong likely to trash a hotel room. But they have stormed the barricades where it counts: on the charts of best-selling CDs and in the hearts of a billion or so fans around the world. They have reconfigured pop music. This is the era of the pop diva.
Diva means goddess. The dictionary definition is more modern: “an operatic prima donna.” Let’s fiddle a little with those words. “Operatic”: note the strenuous, hyperemotional, aria-like feel to many pop ballads. “Prima donna”: remove its suggestion of imperious temperament and translate it literally as “first lady.” Voila! Celine Dion or Gloria Estefan, Whitney or Mariah, Madonna or Enya, Miwa or Faye, Toni Braxton or Tina Arena, Annie Lennox or Alanis Morissette. They come from the U.S., of course, but also from French and English Canada, from Cuba, Ireland, Scotland, France, Germany, Australia, Japan and China. In every country, in any language: la diva.
Like so many other forms of popular culture, the diva genre exists both locally and globally at the same time. Dion, from French Canada, alternates albums in French and English. Estefan, born in Cuba and raised in Miami, records in Spanish and English. Dion was chosen to open the Olympic Games in Atlanta with a pop hymn, The Power of the Dream, backed by a 300-member gospel choir, and Estefan was there on closing night to sing her anthemic Reach. Both singers embodied success stories as potent as any come-from-behind Olympic fairy tale: Dion, the youngest of 14 children who has become this year’s Diva Deluxe; and Estefan, brave survivor of a 1990 bus crash that broke her back, who is now back on top. “So I’ll go the distance this time,” she intones, “seeing more the higher I climb.”
Divas can’t climb much higher. They nestle at or near the top of their country’s music charts. Some, like Dion, Houston and Mariah Carey–not to mention, for the moment, Canada’s crack-voiced outlaw diva Alanis Morissette–have been on the Top 10 lists in Europe, the Americas and the Pacific Rim simultaneously. More important, most are damn fine singers. They are a link between the great voices of the past (think of Ella Fitzgerald, Ethel Merman, Edith Piaf) and the ears of people who can’t get attuned to the howling self-pity of much contemporary rock but aren’t ready to give up on pop music.
Like the Olympic spirit, the divas’ internationalist impulse reflects both a curiosity about other cultures and a nose for smart marketing. To spur Japanese sales of her Colour of My Love album, Dion added a new song, To Love You More, from the Japanese TV mini-series Lover, backed instrumentally by the Japanese ensemble Kryzler & Kompany. Dion sang it in English, but the locals didn’t mind: they bought 1.5 million copies.
A diva needn’t be Western to have the international flair. Nothing forces Yoshida, the soul-jazz sensation who fronts the band Dreams Come True, to go west to increase her Japanese fan base. She still writes and performs songs in her native language. Yet she usually records in Britain, and she cut her first solo set, Beauty and Harmony, in New York City with some top American sidemen. The collaboration produced vocals that were more precise, more regimented, than her past work. But it showed the need for even top regional artists to prove their chops in the U.S., which is still revered as the big leagues for singers.
Some stars of the Pacific, like Tina Arena, have long set their sights on America. An Australian who has sung publicly since she was five, Arena has an easy authority as vocalist and songwriter; her cool-teen voice matches her rock-easy compositions, which are so infectious that six-year-olds would learn them instantly and so familiar that you might think they were big hits a decade ago (they’re all new, all hers). When Arena gets precision and voltage into the songs–Heaven Help My Heart, Greatest Gift, Standing Up–she sounds like a kid sister to Elaine Paige, superb star of London musicals, who introduced such instant standards as Don’t Cry for Me Argentina (from Evita), Memory (from Cats) and a quite different Heaven Help My Heart (from Chess). But England is not Arena’s destination. She’s moved to Los Angeles because, like a lot of divas, she may believe she can’t be a star until she’s an American star.
Wong is too cool to entertain those ambitions. Indeed, she prefers to record in her native Beijing, where she can concentrate on her music, rather than in Hong Kong, where for years she was a formulaic Canto-pop singer known as Shirley Wong. Her striking, angular looks–think of an elongated pixie who moonlights as a sorceress–made her a natural for movies, but her debut made few notice; in Beyond’s Diary she played the girlfriend of a pop musician.
Gradually she found her own style, on records and on film. Her second picture, Wong Kar-wai’s Chungking Express, made her a hip pinup to sophisticated moviegoers on both sides of the Pacific. The film also internationalized her choice of music. She plays a dizzy waitress in a fast-food restaurant who is obsessed with going to California and playing, over and over and over, the 1966 California Dreamin’ by the Mamas and the Papas. Over the end credits she sings a Cantonese cover of the Cranberries hit Dreams. And now, on her Restless CD, she meets the international market on her own terms: five of the songs have no intelligible lyrics at all, and two irresistibly obscurantist cuts were written and produced by Scotland’s Cocteau Twins. Wong remains the spooky gamin of Chinese music, and Restless is a wondrous blend of Canto-pop and lollipop.
Wong’s approach alternates between a blissed-out whisper and bright piping in a register so high only Pekingese pups can hear it. That puts her squarely in one tradition of divadom: the vocal virtuoso. For decades, two Americans defined this style. Patti LaBelle, a gospel-trained ranter, has enthralled the faithful with her mad-woman riffs. Bette Midler, known internationally as the blowsy star of movie comedies, built her career as a throwback singer who could evoke Sophie Tucker’s bawdiness and Bessie Smith’s soul-in-hell emotional exhaustion with equal power and facility. The virtuoso mode can also be heard in the florid, world-weary style of France’s Catherine Ribeiro and, with glances back to the glamour of Piaf and Dietrich, in the bitter brilliance of Germany’s Ute Lemper. Though their styles were unique, all these women kept bright the flame of the traditional torch singer.
But none of them became international superstars or encouraged others to do the same. For that you can thank Houston (and her mentor at Arista Records, Clive Davis). It was an old recipe–great chops, exotic looks and a clever choice of material–that served Lena Horne, Abbey Lincoln, Eartha Kitt, and Houston’s cousin Dionne Warwick. But in the harsh prevailing winds of mid-'80s rap and heavy metal, Houston was a welcome spring breeze. Her delicacy of phrasing made songs like Saving All My Love for You and The Greatest Love of All easy listening in the best sense. Her prom-queen glamour made her an ideal star for the early video era, an antidote to Cyndi Lauper’s goofy-girl atavism and Madonna’s bad-girl sass. Her first album, Whitney Houston, sold 10 million copies.
Houston has retained her eminence, if not pre-eminence, while curtailing her output: she has released less than a single regular album’s worth of songs, only 10, since 1990. But her example and her relative quiescence have spurred a dozen divas-in-waiting. Many noted the structure of Houston’s big hits–a slow-tempo devotional tune that escalates from the foreplay of whispers to the explosive orgasm of wails and whoops–and made the mistake of imitating it. (Houston made that error too.) Dion’s early English-language albums are almost touching in their fidelity to the Whitney formula. It took her a while to realize she could relax on record.
Today’s top Whitneyesque star is Mariah Carey. Like Houston, she’ll mix ballads with synthesized dance music; she’s a handsome woman with a video flair; she has a patron in Tommy Mottola, boss of her record company, who is also her husband. Carey has even outsold Houston in the '90s, because she releases albums at a busier pace.
One big difference: Houston sings straight soprano with some church inflection; Carey is a coloratura. She could even be called a cubist, for she appraises nearly every note in every song from a dozen or more angles. In When I Saw You from her current Daydream CD, Carey breaks the word knew into an amazing 26 separate notes (this is only an estimate: we played these four seconds over and over, and got up to 26 just before we went mad). Her jazzy riffs suggest demon virtuosity, but it could also be musical browsing. Maybe Carey can’t decide which interpretation is the right one, so she tries them all.
Like Carey, many female singers co-write their music. Many others don’t, and are thus handicapped by pop’s 30-year tyranny of singer-songwriters. Hey, if you don’t write, you’re not an artist. “Vocal interpreter” used to be an honorable job description–good enough for Ella, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole. Now the epithet is often an insult. It conjures up images of a Las Vegas lounge singer crooning Feelings.
All right, maybe the top pop songwriters of the day–Babyface and David Foster (who collaborated on Dion’s The Power of the Dream) and Diane Warren (who helped Estefan write Reach) aren’t Gershwin and Stephen Foster and Harry Warren. But they can write good songs for good singers. These three composers all had a hand in Toni Braxton’s fine Secrets CD–dusky, mellow, infectiously commercial, like a grownup Tina Arena.
And there’s plenty of other good music to record. Alison Krauss, a child fiddle prodigy from Illinois and later a world-class bluegrass singer with her band Union Station, became a star with her 1995 compilation Now That I’ve Found You. The set puts Krauss’s mountain-stream soprano on pretty display. She caresses standards from R. and B. (the title song), gospel (the soul-lifting When God Dips His Pen of Love in My Heart) and the Paul McCartney catalog (an elfin I Will). Think of it: a singer with no gimmick but a passionate talent and a great, rangy taste in music.
If there’s a knock on the modern divas–whether pop, like Carey, Houston and Dion, or pure, like Krauss–it’s that their material is just too amiable. Much of their music is not just middle of the road; it tiptoes on the white line in the middle of the middle of the road. Dammit, they sing like girls! And in social norms, the pop diva adheres to the proper side of the gender split in music. She is expected to be a sister before a lover; the operative slur word is “nice.” Pop is the boarding school where the good girls live. Rock is the shooting gallery where the naughty boys hang out.
Somewhere between these extremes there should be an outlaw diva. She can do cool-guy things: write songs about malaise and disorientation, play a harmonica, take herself very seriously, sell 16 million copies of her first big CD. Why, she could be Alanis Morissette–the anti-Whitney, the pariah Mariah, the outre Faye, the mean Celine.
Anyway, that’s how the 22-year-old comes across on a first listen of the Jagged Little Pill album. Morissette’s songs sound aggressive, grudging, desperate. Her alto lurches among the octaves, from growl to shriek. A typical phrase will end in a gasp, as if one of the emotional inferiors in her songs had suddenly retaliated by pressing thumb and forefinger on her windpipe. The voice of Sinead O'Connor, you imagine, in the mind of Patti Smith.
But Morissette is not that simple. A former teen star in her native Canada, she’s smart enough to give her choruses sing-along melodies–the likely contribution of co-writer Glen Ballard, who formerly produced Wilson Phillips, the trio of cool-harmonizing, second-generation pop stars. In the perkier tunes (You Learn, Head over Feet), the singer overdubs tight harmonies that might have come from Wilson Phillips. And that is Morissette’s dirty little secret: inside her edgy plaints are craft and a yen to please. She’s a mainstream diva in spite of herself.
Morissette may soon discover that the rock machismo she approximates is often just an acid flavor of the month: a hit, a burnout, a trivia question. But being a diva is a life’s work. The Scottish Annie Lennox has been at it for 20 years, developing a husky voice and a gift for weaving a dramatic spell that is almost visual. Her 1995 Medusa album has 10 old and new songs written by others. The opening cut, No More “I Love You’s,” relies on Lennox’s evocation of love’s demons–“Desire, despair, desire, so many monsters”–and her conjuring up, in a mid-song monologue, of a little girl for whom these monsters come to life. A woman’s bed of sad passion has telescoped into a child’s bedroom fears at midnight.
The final number on Medusa is Paul Simon’s 1973 Something So Right. In Lennox’s gorgeous reworking, she answers the pessimism of No More “I Love You’s” and completes the album’s circle. “Some people never say the words I love you, / But like a child I’m longing to be told.” Again a girl in a woman’s supple voice, Lennox finds salvation foraging in a child’s garden of cries from the heart. Lennox might be Piaf here–there’s that eerie understanding of a lyric–but with the fever adjusted to room temperature.
Piaf is still an icon, both for her poignant life story and for her ability to hurdle emotion over the language barrier. But in the world market of the '90s, when virtually every album with gigantic global sales is in some form of English, what’s a diva to do? Cultivate her own garden, for the worldwide boom in CD sales means there are more people searching for something different. Morissette’s album is bubble-gum music next to Tori Amos’ Boys for Pele, with its forbiddingly opaque lyrics, a voice that runs amuck over the octaves and the famous inside photo of Amos with a suckling piglet at her breast. Yet the album has sold millions. Moral: You can’t be too weird. You must be you.
That is the message attended to by Wong in her recent take-me-or-leave-me mode, and by Yoshida in her American experiment. It surely applies to singers who harbor nations within themselves. Enya, the Celtic lass whose ethereal soundscapes might have emanated from a very gentle UFO, sings in Gaelic, English and Latin–the languages of family, school and church. Her melodies are so mellow as to seem downright shy, yet they’re so popular that an entire genre of new music is known simply as Enya.
By that standard, the pop brand of Cuban-American music should probably be called Gloria. With time, the Estefan sound has grown full and wise, Latin rhythms accompanying rather than defining the melody. Estefan has also learned to write for her voice and disposition; on her latest album, Destiny, she has taken her own advice. Reach–higher.
And Celine Dion has reached inside. The Falling into You CD, a supercharged superproduction, will yield perhaps half a dozen smasheroo singles, and it’s a treat to hear her belt a song to bits. But a bigger piece of her heart can be found on The French Album. There the girl from Quebec sings in her mother’s language and in a voice so ardent and discreet it reminds you of Elvis in the intimate ballads he recorded in his time off from creating the bad-boy iconography of rock. Murmuring like the heart just before sleeping, Dion’s voice summons the power and the glory of the diva.
–With reporting by Charles P. Alexander/Montreal
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SOURCE: TIME MAGAZINE
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broadwaybydesign · 8 years ago
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Rose’s Turn: Costuming the 2008 “Gypsy” Revival
I’ve been on a bit of a Patti Lupone kick this year, as my reviews of War Paint probably showed, so I decided to take a look at a few of the costumes from her Tony-winning turn as Mama Rose in the 2008 revival of the musical Gypsy: A Musical Fable. I’m focusing on just the Mama Rose costumes this afternoon because I think that they deserve special attention, but in the future, I think I will go back and take a look at the other costumes.
Gypsy’s revival was costumed by the late Martin Pakledinaz, best known for his Tony Award-winning costumes in Thoroughly Modern Millie and the 2000-era revival of Kiss Me, Kate. Mr. Pakledinaz did a fantastic job capturing the original feel of the musical while still managing to infuse the dramatic, overbearing Rose character with rich, beautiful colors.
For those unfamiliar with the musical, Gypsy is the story of Rose Thompson Hovick, the mother to burlesque pioneer Gypsy Rose Lee (from whom the musical takes its title) and the very definition of a stage mother. You think the moms on Dance Moms or other reality shows are a little crazy? They’ve got nothing on Mama Rose. Take a read through Gypsy: A Memoir if you ever have the time or inclination. A dear friend of mine from college did her capstone on the influence of Gypsy Rose Lee on burlesque as an art form, and the story of her is absolutely fascinating, especially the domineering nature of her mother.
The role of Rose was originated on Broadway by a woman whose name is synonymous with theatre stardom, Ethel Merman, and has been since played on stage in New York by Dame Angela Lansbury (who won the 1975 Tony for her performance), Tyne Daly (who won the 1990 Tony for her performance), Bernadette Peters, Patti Lupone (whose revival is the subject of the review, and who won the 2008 Tony for her performance), and will be once again revived by Imelda Staunton in 2018 following a wildly successful West End revival. In other words, this is a role that commands an actress with power and the ability to belt out a melody that will be heard in the rafters. And any role that demanding deserves costumes that match. Let’s take a look:
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The musical as a whole is set in the 1920s and 1930s, and follows a family of vaudevillians as they try and make it big, led by the domineering and overbearing Mama Rose. As a result, the costumes that Mr. Pakledinaz designed tend to be dramatic and showy, a little risqué, and intended to wow the audience without overpowering the character or actress (though, frankly, I’m not sure one can overpower Patti Lupone).
This first number is in a color palate I haven’t looked at much before, which is the golds and browns families. Typically, a designer will not mix two different patterns in fabric, but on occasion there can be a very good reason for doing so. Here, Mama Rose is wearing a brown-and-white checked jacket over a gold, orange, and white blouse and a slightly softer orange skirt. The overall effect that’s given off is one of the character being a bit off, like there’s something that isn’t quite right or expected about who and what they are. But that’s not a flaw in the costume design; it’s a feature in my book given that the musical follows Rose’s journey into losing everything--family included--in her quest for fame-by-proxy.
The color choices add to that overall effect, I think. Later in the musical, the palate Mr. Pakledinaz uses gets a bit darker and more muted, but here, it’s almost manic, clashing just a little bit without being unpleasing to the eye. The clash in the dual geometric patterns draws the eye, especially in comparison to the much plainer designs given to the supporting characters in this scene and in others. Clearly, this is where the attention should be, words or music be darned, and it’s a great effect. And, as I said, it’s not unpleasing to the eye. It’s just unusual.
I find that when I mention Gypsy to a person who isn’t a theatre fan, they don’t necessarily know what I’m talking about. But bring up the manic, show-stopping number “Everything’s Coming Up Roses,” the light of recognition tends to cross their faces. In part, that’s because this is one of those showtunes that managed to get into the public mind because it’s a great phrase, and because of Bette Midler’s performance as Mama Rose in a mid-1990s television version of the musical. For those who might not know it, let me give you a taste of this number and why the costume gets some special attention in this post, with this clip of Patti Lupone performing it at the 2008 Tony Awards ceremony; the dialogue is important, but if you want to skip right to the music, it starts at the 1:12 mark:
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This number closes the first Act of the musical, as Rose’s younger daughter June has eloped and left her stage-obsessed mother behind. The family (including older daughter Louise, the titular Gypsy, and Mama’s fiancé Herbie) believe that this will finally compel Mama Rose to give up her obsession with making it big and let them settle down. Instead, in the blink of an eye, Mama Rose transfers her dreams from one daughter to another in a show-stopping number that is as manic as it is memorable.
For this number, Mr. Pakledinaz has costumed Patti Lupone in a number of layers that can be seen both in the clip above and in this still from the stage production itself; it’s far more somber than the piece which started out this review, and that reflects that despite the new plan to make Louise into Gypsy Rose Lee, the character of Mama Rose is still in a darker place herself and is now clinging to one last hope of stardom. In full, the costume looks like this:
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The coat she wears at the train station in this scene is a rich, deep maroon purple that almost drinks up the shadows while providing a contrast to the Mr Lupone’s skin as it’s illuminated by the stage lights. The fabric is heavy and woolen in a rare exception to the general rule that you avoid heavy fabrics in live theatre (even when the setting requires it), and I think you can read a little metaphor into it: the character is literally being weighed down by keeping out the cold, the way she is figuratively weighed down by her dreams of stardom even if it’s only by proxy.
Beneath that is a gorgeous blue dress with a cream scarf/collar that, unfortunately, has not been photographed much in the right lighting. I was, however, able to find one still that offered a little more perspective on it, however:
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As you can somewhat see, the dress underneath the maroon coat is blue, with a wild and Bohemian paisley and swirled pattern that is alive with color, busy, and designed to catch the eye. As with Mama herself, a simple exterior embodied by the coat gives way to a much more complex interior, as embodied by this dress. The blue manages to not fade into the background thanks to the coat acting as a barrier, and I like the addition of the scarf/collar itself as a way to lighten up the whole ensemble, as well as to draw the eye down to the skirt; in the theatre, I do believe it would be much easier to see the pattern, at least from center orchestra.
The scarf/collar combination itself is a gridded white chiffon, as seen in this closeup which also lets us look at the dress’ hem in a tiny bit more detail:
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More of a cream than a pure white, it’s there to provide covering on the bust as well as to lighten the ensemble, as I stated. It does that job well, and the use of a rougher fabric design as compared to the smoothness of the dress itself is a wise one. It adds just a little bit more contrast when viewed up close, and I like that. We can also see the Bohemian influence in the hem of the dress, with the somewhat funky and rule-less design in blues and oranges.
The final costume that Ms Lupone is outfitted in during the 2008 revival is also her simplest of the production, but that in no way makes it less impressive. As the show winds down, the 11 o’clock number, “Rose’s Turn,” represents Mama Rose coming to grips with the idea that not only will she never make it big, but that she’s lost everyone she might have cared about: June (the daughter who eloped), Louise (Gypsy Rose), and Herbie (Rose’s fiancé). She tries hard in this number to justify everything she’s done, and finally admits that it was all about her in the end. It’s a sad, powerful, memorable number and it has a costume to match:
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The giant ROSE in lights is in fact part of the production; part of the sequence for this number is Rose fantasizing about seeing her own name up in lights and hearing the crowds applauding and cheering her name. But as she fantasized, she’s outfitted pretty plainly. The deep, burnt red that she wears here is far different from the manic pattern of the blue dress from the end of Act I. Instead, it is simple, cleanly cut, and even makes the character seem a bit small on the darkness of the stage. That’s obviously intentional: the designer wants the focus to be on this character, and this character alone, with no design elements to distract. The color has to do the work, not the costume.
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The A-line cut of the dress, interrupted only by a band of satiny or silky fabric at the waste, is classical and believable as simply a dress that a woman in Mama Rose’s station would own and wear. The plainness is once again a feature rather than a bug: there is nothing to distract from the character, from the words, from the music. There is simply the deep red color against the blackness of the character’s fantasy, and the audience is left--in my opinion--a little bit haunted by the overall effect.
Mama Rose is one of the most challenging roles on Broadway, not only because of the need for belting vocals and a powerful voice, but because of the personality of the character. There is a reason, I think, that only the Broadway Greats have been cast in the role throughout the musical’s history; Merman, Lansbury, Lupone, all are the definition of a leading lady, and have been costumed to fit the part. For the 2008 revival, I think the choice of colors and styles was absolutely spot on, and the Tony nomination for Mr. Pakledinaz was well-deserved.
Gypsy is a fantastic musical that drips with classic Broadway style and flair, not to mention costuming. I highly recommend it as an entrée into the world of musical theatre, and especially recommend the 2008 recording of the production. Treat your ears to the show-stopping, powerful, bittersweet melodies and enjoy it for what it is: beautiful theatre.
That wraps up this review of the 2008 revival of Gypsy. As I said, I may come back to look at some more of Mr. Pakledinaz’s designs for this production later on this year; there certainly is a lot to work with. On a personal note, this was the last production that I was able to enjoy before I took my hiatus from the theatre fandom, and it’s one that has always left fond memories in my mind. It’s worth looking into!
Later on this week, I’ll be posting some more full reviews and have a couple mini-reviews queued up. So stay tuned, dear readers!
Edit: A kindly Anon noticed that I had inadvertently reversed the birth order for Louise and June; June is, by a year, the younger of the two daughters, and this post has been updated accordingly!
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starlightafterastorm · 8 years ago
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WHO’S THE MURDERER?
So the big question of Season 1 is “Who killed Lilly Kane Jason Blossom?”
(Forgive me I HAD to put the Veronica Mars reference in there. It makes me laugh every time)
@somebooksmakeusfree and I have been going back and forth and we’ve compiled this list. Which we will probably go back and revise as we get closer to the reveal. My comments are after the “N” and hers are after the “A”
Buckle up, this might turn into some long speculations...
Who we can rule out for SURE:
Betty - N: Was in LA for her internship. Our Hitchcock blonde has a solid alibi.
             A: I know what you’re thinking, “...but what about ‘Dark Betty?’” ‘Dark               Betty’ may have  her secrets, but I don’t think this is one of them.
Veronica - N: Just moved in from New York. She had NO reason to be                                 anywhere near Riverdale/Jason.
                  A: Agreed.
Who we can PROBABLY rule out:
Archie - N: Because it’s fucking Archie and there was so much drama about                     him hearing the gunshot and even if we don’t have a solid alibi for him                 yet on the weekend of the 11th IT’S NOT GONNA BE HIM.
             A: Come on guys, Archie couldn’t keep a secret (or a girlfriend) if his life              depended on it. I know it. You know it. Jughead knows it.
Jughead - N: I’m willing to bet it’s not Juggie even if he doesn’t have an alibi           for the 11th. He’s one of the core four and Cole probably wouldn’t be                 joking about it if it actually was him (or would he? Cole is the trolliest of               trolls). Also they’ve already ruled him out in episode 7. And gave us a                 beautiful Bughead scene to boot. 
         A: Cole even rhymes with “troll.” So far, we haven’t been given a motive              that would explain why Jughead would ever murder Jason, even with                  his father’s entanglements with the Blossoms and the Sneks. (Can we               talk about how sad it is that he doesn’t have an alibi because he was                   probably spending that time alone...living in that shack of a drive-in                     theatre? *cries*)
Fred - N: My god, please don’t have THE ONE GOOD PARENT ON THIS                      SHOW BE THE MURDERER. I doubt it’s Fred.
            A: Fred is too one-dimensional of a character...unless crazy things                       happen when his ex wife returns.
Hal - N: The fact that Hal was shown to break into the Sheriff’s home to steal              the photos probably rules him out. The fact that they placed so much                  suspicion on him early on seems like a fake out. I think HE THINKS Alice            did it and he stole the pictures to protect her.
        A: Or he stole them because he knew the real reason Polly and Jason were         running away and he didn’t want anyone finding out about Polly’s                       condition or putting suspicion on their family in general. Definitely not Hal.
Alice - N: I believe Alice when she says she didn’t do it. I also believe her when        she says she would have done it if given the chance. She told Hal he                  should know what she’s capable of. It’s possible we learn more about                some sort of specific event that might justify that statement OR it might              just be that they’ve been married for close to 20 years and he should                 know her well enough by now. And also if she was a Serpent then HELLS           YEAH she’d be capable. but I doubt she did it in this specific instance. 
       A: Alice has really been redeeming herself lately. Could she have killed                Jason? Absolutely, she disliked him because he was a Blossom and                    because he “ruined” Polly’s life. Did she actually do it? Probably not,                  though Hal may secretly think she did. Anywho, I’m living for brick-                      throwing, Jughead-liking, emotional Alice.
Polly - N: I think the whole Cooper family is… not quite all there, Polly included.        But with the nuns and being locked up and being pregnant and everything I        don’t think Polly did it. Her distress at finding out Jason was dead was too          real. (HER FACE WHEN SHE ASKED BETTY WHEN HE WAS COMING TO          GET HER BROKE MY HEART) But also she was being held captive by                insane nuns. 
           A: Okay, my theory, if Polly did it, is that she had a psychotic break and              doesn’t remember killing him. WHAT IF DARK BETTY ISN’T ABOUT                    BETTY, BUT A HINT ABOUT POLLY? If Polly really does have                             Dissociative Identity Disorder or another mental illness, she may have                 repressed the act of murder. Why would she have killed him? Maybe he             decided he didn’t want to be around for her and their unborn babies, or               decided they couldn’t run away, or tried (like Hal did to Alice) to force her           to have an abortion. Then again, probably not. The details of the murder             seem rather difficult for a pregnant woman to execute, let alone a                       teenager that lives with parents and is locked up in a creepy asylum.
F.P. Jones - N. Nope. Not him. Same thing with Hal, it’s a fakeout with the                  jacket and the Serpents. NO DOUBT HE’S GOING TO GET FRAMED FOR          IT THOUGH
                  A. It’s too easy.  
Kevin Keller - N. Probably not but Kevin’s been acting sort of shady and there            have been weird cuts to him sometimes (though I thought that                            was more due to his hiding the fact he’s dating Joaquin). I don’t                         know. I hope it’s not him. 
       A. I can’t decide if finding the body rules him out or makes him more                  suspicious. I love Kevin so much. I don’t think he did it...and Joaquin better        not hurt him!!!
Cheryl Blossom - N. I had ruled out Cheryl but girl was acting SHADY in                     episode 9. I think her grief is real but… you know she’s got her own                     issues to deal with. And she’s not dealing with them well.
        A. She’s losing it, but I really don’t think she killed her twin.
Hermione - N: Same as Veronica. Even if Hiram was somehow involved and           Hermione is ok with shady dealings on behalf of her husband I think straight       up murder is where she’d cross the line.
       A: If Hiram did put a hit out on Jason, this doesn’t mean Hermione                      didn’t know about it though...
Reggie Mantle - N. Nah. Probably not Reggie.
                             A. I really doubt this too.
Dilton Doiley - N. Probably not but Dilton could have snapped and gone FULL                SURVIVAL mode on Jason.
            A. Not convinced.
Chuck Clayton - N. Maybe some revenge thing having to do with football? I’m      voting no on Chuck. ALTHOUGH HE WAS BEING SO SHADY WITH OUR            SHADY GIRL ETHEL. Was he really just apologizing? 
    A. Chuck is a lot of things, but I don’t think murderer is one of them. Besides,     his only motive would be to take Jason’s captain position, which I’m not            convinced he’d have been in the running for anywho, unless...well, ya                   know...nepotism. ***Edit: After episode 11 I’m starting to get weird vibes            about everyone’s favorite shady girl, Ethel, and Chuck. Are they working              together? Was all of this a big con? What would the reason be for that                anywho? I have no idea, but creepy Ethel creeping on the hot tub scene and      then Chuck and Ethel consulting civilly during lunch does not bode well...
The Pussycats - N. I don’t think it was any of them.
                            A. Nah.
Grundy - N. We haven’t seen her since episode 4. She might have been crazy         enough to do it but my gut says she’s gone for good (or until they bring her        back for drama’s sake in season 2).
     A. GRUNDY IS THE WORST!!! I don’t see why she would have any reason to      kill Jason though.
Viable suspects (BECAUSE WE JUST DON’T KNOW)
Clifford Blossom - N. DUDE DID NOT FLINCH WHEN HE WAS SHOWN HIS           SON’S BODY. We haven’t seen enough of him to really tell but he’s been             less broken up about it than his wife and daughter. And the shame of having       his heir/only son run away with a Cooper might have made him snap. 
      A. Cheryl really is the only Blossom who’s been genuinely upset. Both of the      parents are sketchy. Both of them are super creepy to Archie, the surrogate        Jason, which makes me wonder what they were like to the real Jason.
Penelope Blossom - N. Even if she didn’t pull the trigger, it’s highly possible                  she was complicit in the murder in some way. She’s creepy as hell.
            A. She is one creepy lady. Did she caress Jason like she caresses                       Archie at the funeral? I put nothing past her.
Ethel Muggs - N. Ethel was SUPER shady in episode 3. She enjoyed Dark                Betty and Chuck’s retribution a little too much. And as Jughead’s narration          of how that whole situation would have darker rippling effects no one could        have predicted, Ethel thanks B + V sweetly and Cheryl says                                 #JusticeForEthel. Also… what was the conversation she was having with             Chuck in Episode 11? (Also... that scene with Jughead. Was that                         supposed to come off kind of creepy and lovelorn? Was it just a nod to the         comics or something more?)
       A. Barb Ethel is definitely sketchy. If we hadn’t had the hospital scene, I              would have thought her whole ‘parents fighting’ story was made up.                   Something is off about her….
Hiram Lodge - N. He has been pulling some sneaky shit behind the scenes all         season. Maybe a pointed attack to the Blossom family that had been                 coming for a long time? (I FUCKING CALLED IT BEFORE EPISODE 9). I             want to say it’s not him though because i think he’ll become the big bad             antagonist of season 2. 
       A. He seems the most likely villain, but it’s just so easy. It’s too easy. For all       we know, he’s wrongly behind bars and the real mastermind behind all of           this has been Hermione all along...
Joaquin - N. We just don’t know enough about him to rule him out.
      A. He’s kind of the Snek’s errand boy, but he also clearly has a sense of               morality that seems like it might stop him from committing murder. Also,           #DontHurtKevin.
Sheriff Keller - N. Everything could be a cover up.
        A. He’s a terrible sheriff...
Mayor - N. It’s been mentioned before how hard it was for the mayor to get her           position as an African American woman. Maybe it was a power play                   against the Blossoms?
            A. Murder seems like bad politics, but then again, so does sexual                       assault and habitual lying...
Principal Weatherbee - N. Look we don’t have all the facts. It could be                       Weatherbee. It could not be. We just don’t know.
         A. Definitely don’t know enough about him.
Pop - N. POP. HE HAS A FREEZER. NO ONE KNOWS WHAT HE DOES IN HIS            SPARE TIME. HE COULD HAVE GOTTEN INTO A DISPUTE WITH THE                BLOSSOMS BECAUSE OF MAPLE SYRUP. 
         A This is it guys. This is my crack theory. Pop knows all the town gossip             probably, because...they’re clearly the only restaurant in Riverdale. He also         is the only one that we can confirm probably has a freezer large enough for         a body. What is his motive? No idea, but he’s definitely the most                          unsuspected person in town.
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notafraidofstopping876 · 8 years ago
Text
So for my senior acting recital I’m closing with “Watch What Happens” from Newsies and the scene leading into it.
Part of my homework for it is creating a character bio, and this is what I wrote for Katherine. (It’s my personal interpretation, with as much ties to the real Pulitzer family that I could tie in).
Enjoy!
 Who am I?
My name is Katherine Ethel Pulitzer, and I am seventeen years old. I was born to Joseph and Katherine Pulitzer in 1882.
My father runs New York City newspaper The New York World, and holds monopoly on most major printing presses in New York City, making him one of its most powerful men.
As such, I come from great wealth and luxury. I was raised in a house hold full of servants, and never wanted for anything. However, I was never like my sisters, or the daughters of my father’s wealthy friends in the newspaper business. I always gravitated towards wanting to play with their sons, and wanting to run around outside and be active instead of cooped up inside with needlework or dolls. To this day I’m still friends with several of them, such as Darcy whose father owns the Tribune, and Bill, the son of William Randolph Hearst.
My parents tolerated my “unladylike” behavior when I was small, but the older I get the more they try to mold me into what their idea of a proper young lady is, grooming me to marry well. But no matter how hard I tried to please them, I just couldn’t dampen my sense of adventure and even now I have a growing urge to rebel against them, my father especially.
But despite how much I sometimes resent him for all those years of “Sweetie don’t get your dress dirty” and “Why can’t you be more like your sisters?” I did learn many valuable lessons from him, such as the power of the press. I watched him control the entire city not only with his wealth, but with what was printed in his papers. In recent years my eyes were opened to how he would abuse this power, overworking and underpaying his employees, having people spy on and take down anyone who might threaten his position, and swaying his readership by controlling everything printed in The New York World.
Two years ago, however, a reporter named Nellie Bly made her way into my father’s newspaper, and shocked everyone with her undercover work for a story for the Woman’s Lunatic Asylum on Black Island. It wasn’t long before even my father started taking her seriously as a reporter despite her gender. I finally had the chance to meet her and she became a mentor to me, encouraging me to do my own writing and helping me improve over the last two years.
Earlier this year, I finally decided to follow in her footsteps and try to make it as a reporter myself. While my father wasn’t thrilled with the idea, he didn’t outright forbid me either. I refused to work for his newspaper where everyone knew me as the boss’s daughter. I didn’t want anybody else to look on me any differently because of the family name either, so I took up the pen name Katherine Plummer. Nellie wrote me a letter of recommendation, which helped me land a position at the New York Sun.
So far however, I have yet to write any hard news. I’ve been confined to the social pages, reviewing flower shows and vaudeville performances. It’s very frustrating not getting to write about the issues and topics that really matter, but even Nellie Bly had to write about entertainment and the like until she got her big break, so I’m doing my best to persevere and pay my dues.
It was actually while I was on the job covering a show that I may have stumbled upon my big opportunity. I was at the Bowery Stage, when a scrappy newsboy came into my box. I had bumped into him earlier, strolling with Darcy on my way to work that morning. He and one of his newsie buddies tried to make a pass at me, but I quickly shut him down. Yet somehow we ended up at the same variety show, and he found his way into my private box, and insisted on trying to flirt with me despite my protestations.
He said his name was Jack Kelly, and that he worked for the New York World as a paper boy. I failed to mention that my father owned that paper, as I’ve been trying to keep my anonymity, and because it really wasn’t his business anyway. He eventually left, but not before leaving behind a piece of newspaper he was carrying. Upon picking it up I realized that it was a drawing of me that he had drawn right there. I don’t know what I was expecting him to leave but that certainly wasn’t it. I was stunned that such an exquisite drawing came from this scruffy, cocky and annoying boy. At this point I had very mixed feelings about this Jack Kelly, but didn’t think I’d run into him again, but I would be proven wrong.
I had dropped by my father’s office earlier today, where low and behold I spotted him AGAIN trying to get in to speak with my father. This time he was accompanied by two other newsies, one his age and the other much younger, couldn’t have been any older than ten. One of my father’s security men forcibly threw them out through the front doors, barking at them to stay out. That made my blood boil, partially because as much as I hated to admit it I found myself fascinated by this Jack Kelly, but it especially angered me that they did this to the little boy.
I confronted the guard about it, who insisted he was just doing his job, and that some “ragamuffin boys mumbling about a strike was not worthy of Mr. Pulitzer’s time”. The word strike immediately caught my attention and I sought out Mr. Wiesel, the man hired to distribute and sell the papers to the newsies every morning. As it turns out, my father had made the decision to raise the prices of the newsies’ papers, from fifty cents per hundred to sixty cents. Not only that, they had decided to go on strike, and Jack was leading it.
My gut reaction was one of outrage at my father. I knew his paper sales had been down ever since the Spanish-American war ended, but that was true for all the papers across town, and it certainly wasn’t any skin off of his back in the long run. What business of it was his to make life difficult for those boys? But then I realized just how massive the situation really was. A group of Davids were readying to take on Goliath, the biggest paper in New York City no less, and I was one of the first reporters to know about it. It was then that I knew I had to pick up this story
After deciding that the newsboys’ strike could be my big chance I’ve been waiting for, I spent the afternoon trying to convince my boss to let me run with the story. He wasn’t keen on the idea. He eventually gave me permission to write my story, but that I would have to really impress him for the story to actually run.
Overjoyed and slightly overwhelmed from the pressure I raced back to The World to try to put together the pieces of the story. Wiesel told me I could find the boys at Jacobi’s Deli, the off-hours meeting place for the newsies.
 What time is it?
It’s a little after four P.M.., July 21st, 1899.
 Where am I?
I am outside of Jacobi’s Deli in Lower Manhattan, the watering hole so to speak for the newsies. From there I leave for my office at the New York Sun.
 What surrounds me?
In front of Jacobi’s Deli the streets are about as quiet as New York City ever is, with much of the city still at work. The occasional pedestrian walks by. The roughly paved stone streets sit beneath my shoes. The air is laid with the smell of deli meats from inside as Mister Jacobi gets ready for the dinner shift.
In my office is my typewriter at my small desk where I write all my stories. On the wall is hanging Nellie Bly’s undercover story on the women’s asylum that she did for the New York World. For the most part however my office is simply functional, supplies for my work, such as ink, typewriter ink, a wastebasket, and film for my camera and the like. I purposely don’t keep many personal items at the office, trying not to reveal too much about my wealth or my family name to any of my coworkers, especially my boss.
 What is my fourth wall?
At Jacobi’s is a rundown street in need of repaving, and the summer sun still high in the sky.
At my office is the framed story from Nellie Bly in front of the faded wallpaper. I was given one of the smallest dingiest offices as I am still not considered a serious reporter by anyone at The New York Sun.
 What are my given circumstances?
Hot on the story, I found Jack Kelly and the rest of the newsies at Jacobi’s Deli. When I came in several of the boys were taken aback by my presence and wouldn’t take me seriously at first, Jack included. Finally I admitted that yes, I was just busting out of the social pages, and finally broke through to them that I was there to help them. Jack has agreed to an interview and given me instruction to be at The World first thing in the morning to photograph the strike.
 What is my relationship?
I have only met Jack Kelly yesterday. At first I thought he was just a cheeky imp, and so far the handful of interactions I’ve had with him have proven that true. But beneath that, he is a talented artist and is brave enough to take on a powerful man such as my father for what he believes is right, which I have to commend him for. He has expressed definite interest in me romantically, but I’m not sure how I feel about him in that regard. He is definitely handsome and there are qualities in him I admire, but I have to remain objective so I can do my job.
 What do I want?
I want to interview Jack Kelly and then write my story on the Newsboys’ Strike, both to further myself as a journalist and to help them out with their cause that I sympathize with.
 What is in my way?
Jack is not taking my questions seriously and keeps trying to flirt with me. Also, this is the biggest story I’ve ever written and there’s a lot of pressure on me, to help the boys and to finally prove myself to everyone in my work.
 What do I do to get what I want?
Encourage Jack to open up to me, shut down his attempts to be frisky, maintain my professional composure, keep my identify as his boss’s daughter hidden, give my support for his cause off the record, remind myself why I took on this story, give myself a pep talk for motivation, and quickly sort through the emotions racking my mind.
 What do I expect?
I expect that if I really apply myself and chase after the story, Jack Kelly will eventually come around and I’ll get my story published.
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baredmirror · 7 years ago
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It is scarcely possible to think of a black American actor who has not been misused: not one has ever been seriously challenged to deliver the best that is in him. The most powerful examples of this cowardice and waste are the careers of Paul Robeson and Ethel Waters. If they had ever been allowed really to hit their stride, they might immeasurably have raised the level of cinema and theater in this country. Their effect would have been, at least, to challenge the stultifying predictable tics of such overrated figures as Miss Helen Hayes, for example, and life, as one performer can sometimes elicit from another, might more frequently have illuminated our stage and screen. It is pointless, however, to pursue this, and personally painful: Mr. Robeson is declining, in obscurity, and Miss Waters is singing in Billy Graham's choir. They might have been treated with more respect by the country to which they gave so much. But, then, we had to send telegrams to the Mayor of New York City, asking him to call off the cop's who surrounded Billie's bedside—looking for heroin in her ice cream—and let the Lady die in peace. What the black actor has managed to give are moments—indelible moments, created, miraculously, beyond the confines of the script: hints of reality, smuggled like contraband into a maudlin tale, and with enough force, if unleashed, to shatter the tale to fragments. The face of Ginger Rogers, for example, in Tales of Manhattan, is something to be placed in a dish, and eaten with a spoon—possibly a long one. If the face of Ethel Waters were placed in the same frame, the face of Little Eva would simply melt: to prevent this, the black performer has been sealed off into a vacuum. Inevitably, therefore, and as a direct result, the white performer is also sealed off and can never deliver the best that is in him, either. His plight is less obvious, but the results can be even more devastating. The black performer knows, at least, what the odds are, and knows that he must endure—even though he has done nothing to deserve—his fate. So does the white performer know this, as concerns himself, his possibilities, his merit, his fate, and he knows this on a somewhat less accessible and more chaotic and intimidating level.... The moments given us by black performers exist so far beneath, or beyond, the American apprehensions that it is difficult to describe them. There is the close-up of Sidney Poitier's face, for example, in The Defiant Ones, describing how his wife, 'she say, be nice. Be nice.' Black spectators supply the sub-text—the unspoken—out of their own lives, and the pride and anguish in Sidney's face at that moment strikes deep. I do not know what happens in the breasts of the multitudes who think of themselves as white: but, clearly, they hold this anguish far outside themselves. There is the truth to be found in Ethel Waters's face at the end of Member of the Wedding, the Juano Hernandez of Young Man with a Horn and Intruder in the Dust, Canada Lee, in Body and Soul, the Rochester of The Green Pastures and Tales of Manhattan, and Robeson in everything I saw him do.
James Baldwin, The Devil Finds Work
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