#It's a long story (The. New Cambridge English Course)

[who-do-i-know-this-man-s4]

⚠️Vote for whomever YOU DO NOT KNOW⚠️‼️

[culttvblog]

Blake and/et Mortimer: The Yellow Mark/La Marque Jaune

I see from the Cambridge Dictionary that 'cult' in the sense it is used in the title of this blog is defined as appealing to a particular group of people, and honestly using that definition a TV based on Belgian Francophone comic books about two stiff-upper lipped British men, bizarrely translated into English and turned into a TV series, is probably about as cult as it can get, so of course it had to appear here.

Les Aventures de Blake et Mortimer is a long-running (1946 to the present) series of Belgian comics starring the two eponymous heroes. Professor Philip Mortimer is a leading Scottish scientist who gets into all sorts of adventures because he tends to be a bit impulsive. Captain Francis Blake is one of these people who have definitely been in the armed services but now probably aren't allowed to tell you what they do for a living because of the Official Secrets Act. They live together in London. There's nothing going on, of course, this is the 1950s. Their adventures tend to span traditional detection/security and some much more science fiction subjects. If you haven't come across them the closest comparison I can think of is a cross between Dick Barton and 1930s cinema serials. They are very much of their time, and as such are glorious.

They aren't all set in Britain obviously (one adventure is about Atlantis, for example, and others take place all over the world), but a lot of the point of them is the perceived Britishness of the protagonists. What makes this perception unique to this programme is that the Britishisness isn't seen through the eyes of either Americans or our former colonies. This gives it a distinctively French take on les biftecks.

The series of books was faithfully adapted into an animated series in 1997, with some new adventures added. It is available in both French and dubbed into English. They are exactly the same show with all the titles in French, just with an English soundtrack. In the UK you can buy it on region 2 DVD with just the English soundtrack, but I see from Canadian and French Amazon there is a huge array of different DVD releases in multiple languages, formats, and nary a mention of region, and many of which seem to be priced at huge prices.

Regular readers of the blog will not be surprised in the slightest to know that I think a minority of the reviews online of this particular episode are slightly unfair. Don't quote me on this, but my understanding of Francophone BD culture is that the comic books can be read by the kids (and in my French exchange days the kids would sit on the floor of the hypermarket reading them) but that there isn't any shame in adults reading or collecting them either. Certainly La Marque Jaune first appeared in instalments in 1953 to 1954 in Tintin magazine, which subtitles itself as the magazine for youth from 7 to 77. I think it's not really fair to expect a level of plot that you would get in an adult detective novel. There is an additional adjustment to make, which is that while the show is a faithful adaptation, time constraints necessarily mean that some layers of Jacobs's famous byzantine plotting have had to be omitted. But I just think it's not really fair to criticise thiese things too much.

La Marque Jaune is set in London, which for some time has been terrorised (much of this summary is lifted from the Wikipedia entry) by a mysterious thief who tells the press about the crimes he is going to commit and then commits them, leaving a yellow M behind in a circle. Ultimately he escalates to stealing the Imperial State Crown from the Tower of London and the Home Office asks captain Francis Blake to help Scotland Yard solve these crimes. We are introduced to a selection of the great and the good, one of whom, Vernay, is abducted and a yellow M left behind.

Even though this sounds, and is, predominantly a straightforward detective story, there is a hint of science fiction present, and what I love about it most is that the villain is absolutely deranged. We're talking Avengers villain levels of derangement and the whole plot takes place amongst people who are definitely Our Sort of People. But luckily ultimately the crown is saved. You have no idea how much difficulty I have had stopping myself giving it away, but I suspect this show may not be so well known to cult TV fans, so I will leave the solution for your delectation.

I have a couple of criticisms. One which drives me spare is that the unnamed person who translated the script used to dub the show into English made the decision to translate 'the yellow mark' as 'the yellow brand'. This drives me crazy, and I have even looked it up in a couple of north American dictionaries to see whether it just isn't British English, but no. As far as I can see the verb brand used a sort of mark only means marks made by hot metal, which isn't what is happening. Perhaps they realised that this wasn't the right English translation of La Marque Jaune, since the title of the episode is The Yellow Mark and the English title of the translated book is The Yellow "M", either of which would have been perfectly sensible translations. I may be nit picking if I also point out that in the show the M is described by Professor Mortimer as a Greek mu. Honestly I wish they'd just picked one thing which was actually English and stuck to it.

I'm not convinced I'm being fair, given that this is a fictional work depicting British people as seen (stereotyped?) by outsiders but I'm not convinced any Scottish person has ever exclaimed the thing Mortimer keeps saying, 'By the tartan of Clan MacGregor!' I really hope no Belgian or Canadian kids use this to learn English because the results would be hilarious.

Otherwise, I cannot recommend this show (and the books which inspired it) highly enough and definitely think you should all watch them.

This blog is mirrored at

culttvblog.tumblr.com/archive (from September 2023) and culttvblog.substack.com (from January 2023 and where you can subscribe by email)

Archives from 2013 to September 2023 may be found at culttvblog.blogspot.com and there is an index to the tags used on the Tumblr version at https://www.tumblr.com/culttvblog/729194158177370112/this-blog

[apinchofm]

Books and Looks

Story of:

credit: @gaybridgertonuniverse

"Miss Sheffield."

Edwina knew she was being called by the headmaster and repressed a sigh as she walked into his office. It seemed at St Paul's she had been registered using her grandparents' names, not her actual name.

"My name is Edwina Sharma, sir," Edwina politely corrected when she entered the office and he actually seemed sorry about it.

"Apologies. I knew your grandparents, I completely forgot that your mother married," The headmaster said, then indicated she sit down, which she did, "So, India, Somerset, now London. How are you?"

"I am well. Just excited to start my A-Levels." Edwina said, genuinely ready to start.

Moving around was never an issue for her, but she missed Somerset. The quiet of the countryside. London was busy and loud. It was nice though. She could still see Kate more often than she did when her sister was at Cambridge. Their new old house had a garden for Newton to run around in, but the puppy missed the vast countryside he was able to run in.

Her A Levels were a welcome distraction from any nerves.

"Good," He smiled, "Universities. What are your choices?" He began writing things down in her file.

"Cambridge is my first choice," Edwina said determinedly, "English and Philosophy. After that, Edinburgh, Bristol and Durham." She had decided this

"Okay. We can get you with our Cambridge prep program. More of our lot prefer Oxford. You and another girl." He smiled, "That would be nice."

....

Eloise thought everyone at school was a moron.

Not everyone at school was a moron. Not Penelope - they were good and sociable. She was on the school paper, so she ate lunch whilst writing about the goings ons at school.

Eloise noticed someone was sitting on the bench next to her and was about to tell her to go away.

She had not seen this girl before. She was pretty - really pretty - as one could be in the drab school uniform. Her long dark hair was down and her nose was in a book Eloise couldn't read.

"What are you reading?" Eloise blurted out and instantly regretted it, seeing the startled look on her face, "Sorry, I did not mean to startle you, it's just people don't tend to read at lunch. Aside from me."

"Oh, um, The Gypsy Goddess by Meena Kandasamy. It's written in Sanskrit," She indicated to the cover.

Eloise blinked, "Wow. You read in other languages."

"Yes. I've always been good at Languages. My parents and my sister; we all speak multiple and I grew up with them reading in various languages." Edwina explained, her face warming. She didn't mean to ramble.

"That's impressive," Eloise said, shuffling closer, "I'm Eloise Bridgerton."

"Edwina Sharma." They shook hands, "What are your A-Levels?"

"English Literature, politics and history." Eloise said, "You?"

"I'm also in English Literature!" Edwina was relieved at meeting someone else on the same course, "And Philosophy and Sociology."

...

Edwina joined Eloise and Penelope's little twosome. They had lunch together, talked. Edwina liked Penelope, even if she didn't engage in their conversations as much. But Eloise and Edwina just clicked.

At the weekend, Edwina and Eloise decided to go to Oxford Street to shop for interview outfits for Cambridge.

"What's wrong with liking pink?" Edwina asked. She clutched her pink purse close to her,

Eloise stopped, "I mean, nothing's wrong. I just think that it's a sign of traditional feminity and oppression."

"You are privileged, even being a woman." Edwina frowned.

Eloise scoffed, "Because I have a rich family? I know, but I'm still limited by expectations."

Edwina nodded, "Have you ever been followed around a store by someone who was not a personal shopper? I have, my sister and her friends have. Have you ever been confused with the only other person who is of the same ethnicity as you? I doubt it, considering every girl resembles you. You're not different, you are the norm."

"So, yes. Eloise. You are privileged. You can scorn parts of femininity because it has always been people who look like you who have defined it." Edwina said, "I like pink and flowers and girly things. I like those frilly dresses because my idea of feminity comes from multiple cultures. My elder sister taught me how to ride a horse in a dress because we liked the idea of it. Don't be one of those people who gatekeep feminism," Edwina finished.

"I'm sorry. I did not realise." Eloise said. She had felt rather stupid, "You are a lot smarter than me, I suppose."

"You should expand your reading list," Edwina recommended, "I can lend you some of the feminists my sister and I read?"

"I would like that." Eloise smiled and then, hesitantly asked, "Are we still friends?"

"Of course, we are." Edwina said, slipping her hand in hers, "Come on, let's find cute blazers."

Eloise hates shopping less after that day. Only with Edwina, however.

...

Eloise becomes unnecessarily angry with Benedict when he meets Edwina.

Benedict is Eloise's favourite brother. Her favourite person. He got her.

She wanted to throttle him.

"Hello, Edwina!" Benedict greeted her happily, "Why the sad face?" The girl was a human ray of sunshine, he had never seen her sad.

"I cannot get my head around poetry." Edwina pouted, "I don't want to fail this essay." They were sitting in the drawing-room of their house, working on homework.

"Let me see?" Benedict asked and she handed him her anthology, "Nice, Keats. But the Romantics can be tricky.

"Don't mansplain poetry," Eloise said, a little more edge in her tone than she usually did with him.

"I need him too!" Edwina joked and Eloise hated how her eyes shined with admiration every time Benedict explained something and how her brother laughed and encouraged her.

Yes, fine. She was jealous.

...

Edwina came over, so she and Eloise could go to the cinema. Penelope decided that they should go alone.

"Mum? We're going out." Eloise yelled, when Edwina came, wanting to leave before-

"Edwina!" Benedict smiled, seeing her.

Eloise held back a groan and she hated how Edwina smiled at him. Sure, Edwina smiled at everyone, even the pigeons.

"Thank you for your help with Keats' poems," Edwina said, smiling brightly at the artist.

"No problem. How did the essay go?" Benedict asked, genuinely interested.

"I got an A," Edwina said and she gave him a hug which he returned happily.

....

"Do you like Benedict?" Eloise blurted out when they were sitting on their bench at lunch.

"Yes. Your brother is very nice. I can see why he's your favourite," Edwina replied honestly.

"Well, he's not very good at relationships. He sleeps with someone new every week," Eloise said dismissively, "And he's old."

"That does not sound very healthy." Edwina frowned slightly, "Maybe he should get tested. My mother is always saying that."

But Eloise didn't laugh about that and Edwina frowned when she realised what Eloise was asking. But she also felt a little hope.

"Oh, El. Were you worried that he was trying to seduce me?" Edwina asked, nudging her playfully.

"I-" Eloise stuttered, "A little. I suppose I just am protective."

"You are like Kate in that respect," Edwina said, "But you do not have to worry. May I tell you a secret?"

"Yes,"

"I don't really like boys." Edwina said, quieter, "Um, not like that. I like Benedict, but that's because I would like to have a brother, that's all."

Eloise's heart fluttered and she gave her a small smile, "We can share him, I suppose. He also has a good book collection I steal from."

...

"Amma, how do you know if someone likes you?" Edwina asked over pizza one night. She curled up on the sofa, feeding the sausage to Newton.

Kate and Mary looked at one another. Edwina didn't talk about people she liked.

"Well, usually they say so. But they like spending time with you, say nice things, you share some interests," Mary explained.

"Is there someone you like, Ed?" Kate asked, teasingly.

"No, just...wondering." Then her phone rang and she saw it was Eloise and smiled, taking her plate and running upstairs.

"Do you think she and Eloise...?" Kate asked their mum who nodded.

Mary sighed, "My baby might get her first girlfriend. I'm not ready." She mockingly wiped a tear, making Kate laugh, "Give her time."

...

Eloise kisses Edwina on accident. Well, it's not an accident.

They decided to go for a picnic in the park, to read because the weather is unseasonably warm. But Eloise stopped reading to look at Edwina.

"Eloise?" Edwina called her, noticing her staring.

Eloise leaned in, kissing her quickly before pulling back.

"I'm sorry!" Eloise said, her cheeks red out of embarrassment. She had just ruined it.

Edwina blinked, "Well, I would have liked a warning. Or at least a really sweet way of asking, like in Pride and Prejudice."

"Everyone is straight in Pride and Prejudice?" Eloise frowned.

"El, you are no romantic," Edwina chuckled and leaned over to kiss her properly this time.

...

"If I have to go over every single law the Tudors made," Eloise groaned, lying back on her bed.

"I will kiss you every time you get one right," Edwina promised, holding up the cards.

"That's bribery!"

"It works," She then leaned down and pecked a kiss on her lips. But Eloise pulled her down further to deepen the kiss, the two giggling in between kisses.

"Eloise! Is-" Violet's cheerful voice interrupted and they both looked up at the door as she stuck her head in.

"Mum." Eloise stared back at Edwina and her mother, who had gone pale.

"Oh, um," Violet was hesitating about what to say.

"Edwina, I think it's time you went home, dear." Violet eventually said. The girl nodded and blinked, looking at Eloise sadly but picked up her bag and left the room.

Eloise scoffed and went downstairs after her, "Edwina, you don't have to go!"

"I should," Edwina said, squeezing her hand, "It will be okay. I'll text you later."

"Eloise, you are too young to be-!" Violet began, but her daughter turned to her, upset.

"No! You do not get to dictate this," Eloise argued, "You do not get to tell me that!"

"What's wrong?" Anthony had come out of the office, looking between the two, hearing the yelling.

"Eloise was kissing someone in her room-" Violet tried to explain, "She was kissing Edwina," Anthony raised his eyebrows at that, looking at his younger sister. He had not expected that.

"But Anthony can sleep around? Benedict?" Eloise scoffed, "But I'm too young to know what and who I like?"

"They don't do that in this house!" Violet argued back.

Eloise stormed out, with Violet on her heels, Anthony close behind, "Eloise, come back!"

"No!" Eloise ran down the street, practically sprinting.

...

Benedict was not expecting anyone that afternoon, so hearing the rapid knocking at his door startled him.

He went and was surprised to see Eloise.

"El?" Benedict saw she was sniffling, trying not to cry. Quickly, he pulled her inside and wrapped her in his arms. She just leaned in, crying.

[joannerenaud]

March 2022 Author of the Month-- an interview with Gareth Williams

Happy spring equinox! March 20 was also the day that Napoleon, freshly escaped from Elba, marched into Paris, greeted by cheering crowds. And today, speaking of Napoleon, I’m pleased to introduce Gareth Williams (here on Tumblr at @garethwilliamsauthor​). He’s the talented author of Needing Napoleon, a new time travel/alternate history thriller where the twenty-first century, down-on-his-luck protagonist, Richard Davey, goes back in time to help Napoleon win the battle of Waterloo. Does Richard succeed in changing history? What adventures befall him on the way? And what is his relationship like with his hero, Napoleon? Find out in Needing Napoleon— the first three commenters will win a free PDF copy!

# # #

Hello, Gareth. Thanks for coming here today. How did you become interested in Napoleon?

It is hard to remember a time when I wasn’t captivated. I suppose it started at school but before I knew it, I was teaching about Napoleon to my own students!

I think it is the scale of his achievements, both military and civil, achieved, let’s face it, against the odds. An obscure Corsican becomes Emperor of the French, fighting a series of European coalitions, codifying French law, building infrastructure and defying the dominance of the British Empire. Of course, without the French Revolution opening up the military to men of talent rather than title, he would have remained an obscure Corsican. So, the short answer, is that I was drawn to his against the odds story. Plus the glamour of the Hundred Days, when, like a boxer who can’t stay retired, he steps into the ring for one last fight, and what a fight - Waterloo!

When did you first become interested in writing a novel about him? Specifically, a time travel novel?

It had been a vague idea for a long time. I had written other stories, pretty unsuccessfully, partly because I was reluctant to tackle a subject so close to my heart.

But retiring a couple of years ago presented the opportunity to think and plan a book with Napoleon at its heart. Then the first UK lockdown was introduced in late March 2020 and I was out of excuses! In fact, I wrote the whole thing, once plot notes were complete, in just three months. As to the time travel component, there are two reasons I was drawn to this element of the plot. Firstly, I love time travel stories in general. Secondly, I am like my central character, Richard Davey, in that I too was a history teacher and I too believe Napoleon underperformed at The battle of Waterloo. If only I (or Richard) could whisper in his ear. Surely, then, we would see the Bonaparte of Austerlitz, not the pale shadow whose lacklustre command lost the battle.

Do you have any favorite books or movies about Napoleon?

As a man past his mid-fifties, I was dazzled by the sheer scale of Sergei Bondarchuk’s film Waterloo starring Rod Steiger and produced by Dino de Laurentiis. I recommend Max Gallo’s series of books recounting Bonaparte’s life in the first person. Even translated from French into English, all four books in the series seem to put you right inside Napoleon’s head!

Do you have any favorite books or movies about time travel?

Time and Time Again by Ben Elton is brilliant about the experience of being stranded in the past.

Making History by Stephen Fry tackles the unforeseen consequences of tinkering with the past. When this came out, I was gutted. It was like he had stolen ideas right out of my head and made them better! To add insult to injury he went to Queens’ College, Cambridge University just like me.

I really enjoyed the original Back to the Future movie starring Michael J. Fox from 1985. I was at university, I had just got engaged, my future was bright!

Terminator and Terminator 2 are classics too, you just can’t separate them. They sum up the basic time travel plot in non-stop action movies. And you can’t forget Bill Murray’s arrogant weatherman learning to be a better person in Groundhog Day.

Can you tell me more about your research process? How accurately did you try to depict Napoleon—- and what aspects of his character might you have altered and why?

I read quite a lot of autobiographical material dictated by Napoleon. I was influenced, as I said earlier, by Max Gallo. In truth, I don’t think there is one true Napoleon waiting to be revealed through research. The artillery officer at Toulon morphed into a commander in Italy who became one of three Consuls governing France before having the Pope watch him crown himself Emperor of the French!

Life changed him. He started out as an opportunistic republican and look where he ended up!

If I have altered anything, it is to allow Napoleon to retain a little more of his earlier self, buried, but waiting to be re-ignited. Richard Davey, the time travelling schoolteacher will try to light that fire! As a consequence, Bonaparte emerges a little more open to advice and becomes, perhaps, a little less arrogant than the average emperor.

I’ve seen a number of recent fictional depictions of Napoleon where he’s depicted as a Hitler-like villain trying to conquer the free world. In your book, the hero not only admires Napoleon, but he’s willing to buck his very British upbringing by trying to help his hero win Waterloo. What led you to this characterization?

To be honest, I never buy into cartoonish caricatures. Very few leaders are without redeeming features, especially if judged by the standards of the time. Hitler was a monster. Napoleon was not. How else can we explain the men who rallied to his cause in 1815 when he escaped Elba and returned to France?

The other issue here, is the notion that Napoleon wanted to be a new Alexander the Great, conquering the known world.  Firstly, he was constantly faced with military coalitions determined to oust him as a threat to the notion of hereditary monarchy. What choice did he have but to fight?

Secondly, how was his behaviour different from the British? They claimed to be reluctant to subsume territories into their empire and yet it girdled the globe! All major European powers were prone to acquiring territories to their own benefit. France under Napoleon was no different.

As to Richard Davey’s motivation, his life is empty, he admires the scale of Bonaparte’s achievements and believes his downfall was not inevitable. Dreams of Napoleon fill Richard’s emptiness. After all, I’m British but admire the Founding Fathers of the United States!

Your depiction of Waterloo was particularly memorable. It feels like you were there. Did you travel to Belgium to see the battlefield?

Thank you. That is very rewarding to hear but I have never visited the site of Waterloo.  Most battlefield visits are a disappointment. Usually, you end up looking at farmers’ fields trying to imagine what happened there centuries ago. I have visited many other battle sites without finding them especially informative.  So, I decided to rely on the wealth of published material on the battle from narrative accounts to meteorological reports, from detailed illustrations of uniforms to explanations of early nineteenth century tactics.

What inspired your depiction of your hero’s best friend Emile?

In truth, Emile developed as I wrote. I needed someone on the French side who would listen to Richard. Without that, he would have been shot as a spy in short order.

I know this is not really a good way to develop character, but I got to know him as he interacted with Richard. He had to be open-minded and fairly close to Bonaparte hence his regiment and posting.

I also wanted him to be a contrast to Richard Davey. In a way, he is everything Richard might wish to be. He is confident, charming, sociable, brave and relatively successful. He also gives Richard an anchor in the past that has become his present and in so doing, allows him to start thinking about his nineteenth century future.

Thanks Gareth! Your novel was fast-paced and a lot of fun. As this is the first in a trilogy, I am very excited to read the sequels!

# # #

As an additional treat, I have uploaded Gareth’s interview with Carole Horton of Radio Skye here. And I also have uploaded a playlist, also curated by Gareth, to my Youtube channel. You can listen to it here— there’s also a description of how the tracks inspired him.

Don’t forget, the first three commenters on this post (not reblogs, just comments) will win a free PDF copy of Gareth’s book. Thanks everyone!

More about Gareth: 

If you enjoyed this interview, here’s another interview he did with the Historical Novel Society.

Gareth’s website can be found here— and this is his Goodreads page. If you enjoyed this content, please hit like and subscribe!

Purchase info:

Amazon.com Amazon.co.uk Waterstones Browns Books Book Depository

[dwellordream]

“Doubtless many reigns have begun amidst an atmosphere of jubilant expectation; but this beginning had an especial lustre. For the new king, accession to the throne brought deliverance from a long, probably oppressive subjection to a stern father and grandmother, and released him into the bright, cloudless warmth of gaiety, freedom and power. He stood now on the brink of manhood, suddenly clad with the full panoply of kingship. He ascended a throne which his father had made remarkably secure, he inherited a fortune which probably no English king had ever been bequeathed, he came to a kingdom which was the best governed and most obedient in Christendom. Shortly before his death, his father had granted a general pardon to his people. The new king confirmed this - in ampler form. 

His father left him a body of accomplished ministers, most of whom would continue to serve him. But those two men, Richard Empson and Edmund Dudley, who had served Henry VII's money-gathering and law-enforcement so assiduously, and whose 'unreasonable and extort doing noble men grudged, mean men kicked, poor men lamented, preachers openly at Paul's Cross and other places exclaimed, rebuked and detested' - these would be cast aside. Within a few hours of his accession Henry had been so roused to wrath by tales of their wrong-doing that, even as he came to the Tower amidst the trumpets and rejoicing on that 23 April, the second day of his reign, they were seized and brought thither as prisoners, where they languished until their execution sixteen months later. 

'Heaven and earth rejoices; everything is full of milk and honey and nectar. Avarice has fled the country. Our king is not after gold, or gems, or precious metals, but virtue, glory, immortality.' So wrote Lord Mountjoy to Erasmus in a celebrated, and, as it proved, somewhat inaccurate, outburst of enthusiasm. There had come to the throne the very perfection of Christian kingship - gracious, gifted and enlightened - and with his coming, it seemed, bleak days must give way to bounteous prosperity. The new king quickly married; and, after all, he married Catherine. He himself said that he did so in obedience to his father's dying wish, but it may well be that his story of Henry VII's deathbed change of heart was invented shortly afterwards to placate the Habsburgs whose daughter, Eleanor, had just been jilted. 

Fuensalida believed that it was the young king himself who brought about the change of plan, and this may be the truth. Five days after Henry VII died, the ambassador was still convinced that Catherine's cause was lost and quoted two members of the Council to the effect that the dying king had assured his son that he was free to marry whomsoever he chose. Then the situation changed radically. Fuensalida was suddenly called before the Council and, to his astonishment, not only assured of the king's fervent goodwill towards the princess, but told by the bishop of Durham, Thomas Ruthal, who had at that moment emerged from a meeting with Henry in a nearby room, that such matters as Catherine's dowry were trifles and that the king looked to him to settle quickly all the details concerning the marriage; whereupon he withdrew in some bewilderment and set about recovering the possessions of the princess which he had already begun to transfer to Bruges.' 

Six weeks later, on 11 June, the marriage between Henry and Catherine was solemnized in the Franciscan church at Greenwich. A little while before there had been some talk of a possible scruple about his marrying his dead brother's widow, and many years later Bishop Fox recalled that the archbishop of Canterbury, William Warham, had disapproved of the union, apparently because he doubted the sufficiency or validity of the now six year-old bull of dispensation - though on what ground he did so we are not told. Warham's qualms were to be of consequence nearly two decades hence when the lawfulness of this marriage became a matter of impassioned debate; but for the moment any doubts there may have been were brushed aside as a proud king undid the protest he had made at his father's command three years before and finally (and freely) ratified his union with a princess who, though five years his senior, was probably still beautiful and certainly of a quality of mind and life which few queens have seriously rivalled. 

At least outwardly, her husband was, and had been since childhood, immensely striking. Ten years before, Erasmus had strolled over to Eltham in the company of Thomas More to meet the royal children and been much impressed by the grace and poise of the eight year-old Duke Henry. By the time he came to the throne he had burgeoned into a full-blooded seventeen year-old, upon whom Nature had showered apparently every gift. 'His majesty', wrote a dazzled Venetian shortly after the new reign began, 'is the handsomest potentate I ever set eyes on.' He was tall and splendidly built, with glowing auburn hair 'combed short and straight in the French fashion' and a pink round face so delicately cut 'that it would become a pretty woman'.' 

He was 'extremely handsome. Nature could not have done more for him,' one said a few years later, in 1519. 'He is much handsomer than any sovereign in Christendom; a great deal handsomer than the king of France, very fair and his whole frame admirably proportioned.' His was a superlative body. He was a capital horseman who could stay in the saddle for hour after hour and tire out eight or ten horses; he exulted in hawking, wrestling and dancing; he excelled at tennis, 'at which game it is the prettiest thing in the world to see him play, his fair skin glowing through a shirt of the finest texture'. He could throw a twelve-foot spear many yards, withstand all-comers in mock combat with heavy, two-handed swords, draw the bow with greater strength than any man in England. 

In July 1513, while at Calais on his first campaign, he practised archery with the archers of his guard and 'cleft the mark in the middle and surpassed them all, as he surpasses them in stature and personal graces'. Above all, he delighted in prowess in the ring and at the barrier, the sovereign sport of princes. Through the summer of 1508 the prince of Wales, still only just seventeen, had hurled his keen, tireless body into the fury of the tournament and excelled all his opponents, and his accession to the throne would inaugurate a festival of apparently endless jousting and tilting, at which the king ever carried away the prizes. 

When Erasmus first met him on that day in 1499 - standing with his sisters Margaret and Mary and his infant brother Edmund, soon to die - he 'sent me a little note, while we were at dinner, to challenge something from my pen'; whereupon Erasmus, unable to perform extempore, spent three anxious days composing an ode entitled 'A Description of Britain, King Henry VII and the King's Children' and a eulogy of Skelton (who had doubtless been the true author of the boy's message), to which he added some odds and ends scraped together from the bottom of his trunk to form a literary nosegay worthy of the young duke.' 

Seven years later Erasmus wrote to Henry and received so accomplished a reply that he was convinced that someone else had had a large hand in its composition. But Lord Mountjoy, his patient patron, showed him a number of letters from the prince to various people in which there were so many signs of corrections and additions that Erasmus was forced to abandon his scepticism. Presumably Skelton and Hone pushed Henry's pen to paper, for in later life Henry was never an industrious letter-writer - except during those months twenty years or so later when romantic passion got the better of sluggishness and drew from him some rather heavy sighings for his absent beloved, Anne Boleyn. But Henry was undoubtedly a precocious, nimble-minded pupil. 

He knew Latin and French and some Italian. He is said to have acquired some Spanish, and about 1519 had a sufficient (if passing) interest in Greek to receive instruction in this fashionable language from Richard Croke, a minor English humanist who had hitherto been at Paris, Louvain, Cologne and Leipzig, and was now to teach at Cambridge. His grasp of theology may have been less assured than he supposed, but it was remarkable for a king; he showed himself an apt student of mathematics; and it was his custom to take Thomas More 'into his private room, and there some time in matters of astronomy, geometry, divinity and such other faculties, and some time in his worldly affairs, to sit and confer with him, and other whiles would he in the night have him up into the leads [i.e. the roof] there to consider with him the diversities, courses, motions and operations of the stars and planets'. 

Above all he was a gifted, enthusiastic musician. He had music wherever he went, on progress, on campaign. He scoured England for singing boys and men for the chapels royal, and even stole talent from Wolsey's choir, of which he was evidently jealous. Sacred music in the Renaissance style - the work of Benedict de Opitiis and Richard Sampson, later bishop of Chichester - was introduced into the royal chapel in 1516 and sung by a choir judged by an Italian visitor to be 'more divine than human'; and between 1518 and 1528 the king acquired a collection of French and Netherlandish music. Henry had many foreign musicians at court, like the violist Ambrose Lupo, the lutenist Philip van Wilder from the Netherlands, as well as trumpeters, flautists and two Italian organists, de Opitiis and the famous Dionisio Memo, organist of St Mark's, Venice, who was lured to England in 1516 and would sometimes perform for four hours at a stretch before the king and court. 

There were twenty-six lutes in Henry's collection of instruments, together with trumpets, viols, rebecs, sackbuts, fifes and drums, harpsichords and organs. The king himself played the lute well; he could manage the organ and was skilled on the virginals (which perhaps John Heywood, his virginalist, taught him). He had a strong, sure voice, could sight-read easily, and delighted to sing with a courtier like Sir Peter Carew 'certain songs they called "freeman's songs", as "By the banks as I lay" and "As I walked the wood so wild" '. His court was a generous patron to composers, headed by the great Dr Fairfax, if not Henry himself - for the king wrote at least two five-part Masses, a motet, a large number of instrumental pieces, part songs and rounds. 'Pastime with good company', 'Helas, madam' and perhaps 'Gentle prince' are his work; so too the motet 'O Lord, the maker of all thing' - no mean achievement for a monarch. 

Henry has traditional.ly been seen, alongside James IV of Scotland or the colourful, versatile Emperor Maximilian I, as the archetype of resplendent Renaissance monarchy; and the praise which Erasmus and other humanists heaped upon the zeal for learning and the arts of this king who had been so generously endowed in mind and body seemed to justify this picture of him. But, though Erasmus could speak stern words about monarchy and wealth, he was a shameless flatterer of kings and the wealthy, and we should treat his outpourings with caution. If anything, Henry was the last of the troubadours and the heir of Burgundian chivalry: a youth wholly absorbed in dance and song, courtly love and knight-errantry. 

He was to grow into a rumbustious, noisy, unbuttoned, prodigal man - the 'bluff king Hal' of legend - exulting in his magnificent physique, boisterous animal exercise, orgies of gambling and eating, lavish clothes. 'His fingers were one mass of jewelled rings and around his neck he wore a gold collar from which hung a diamond as big as a walnut', wrote the Venetian ambassador, Giustinian, of him. He loved to dress up and his wardrobe, ablaze with jewels of all description and cloth of gold, rich silks, sarcenets, satins and highly-coloured feathers, constantly astounded beholders. He was a man who lived with huge, extroverted ebullience, at least in the earlier part of his life, revelling in spectacular living, throwing away money amidst his courtiers on cards, tennis and dicing, dazzling his kingdom. 

Many readers will have their chosen picture of him - Henry, cock-sure and truculent, astride one of Holbein's canvases; Henry, dressed in dazzling richness and with a huge gold whistle, crusted with jewels, hanging from a gold chain, dining with his queen aboard Henry Grace a Dieu on the occasion of its launching; Henry walking up and down More's garden at Chelsea for an hour with his arm round More's neck;' Henry showing the Venetian ambassador his fine calf and demanding to know whether it was not a finer one than the French king boasted; Henry, at Hunsdon, over twenty years later, holding his precious son Edward in his arms and bringing him proudly to a window 'to the sight and great comfort of all the people'.

He was a formidable, captivating man who wore regality with splendid conviction. But easily and unpredictably his great charm could turn into anger and shouting. When (as was alleged) he hit Thomas Cromwell round the head and swore at him, or addressed a lord chancellor (Wriothesley) as 'my pig',' his mood may have been amiable enough, but More knew that the master who put his arm lovingly round his neck would have his head if it 'could win him a castle in France'. He was highly-strung and unstable; hypochondriac and possessed of a strong streak of cruelty. Possibly he had an Oedipus complex: and possibly from this derived a desire for, yet horror of, incest, which may have shaped some of his sexual life.”

- J.J. Scarisbrick, “The New King.” in Henry VIII

[ellynneversweet]

Curious English person here. Is republicanism common in Australia? I'm wondering as it sure doesn't feel common where I live. Especially with Labour desperately trying to prove it can do patriotism in order to make its self electable.

‘Lol what’s a political opinion, sounds wanky’ — old Australian proverb.

This gets long, because I can’t leave well enough alone. Short summary of what you probably wanted to know first, and then some history.

Theoretically, a republic of Australia (especially post-Elizabeth II) is generally understood to have the support of the majority of the population. Our last Prime Minister was and is a vocal supporter of a Republic who led the pro-republic campaign in the 1999 referendum, but didn’t bring it up again in the course of his term, and the Prime Minister before him (same party) re-established knighthoods so he could give Prince Phillip an extra title, so there’s a spectrum. In practice a republic of Australia is unlikely to happen in the foreseeable future, because it would take a lot of money and work to bring about, and would be largely a symbolic gesture rather than a practical one. Actually getting rid of the royals would require a referendum and constitutional amendment, and that’s not on the political table for a variety of reasons.

The general Australian opinion of the Windsor family can be summed up as follows: the Queen is a nice old grandma (depends how recently she’s been seen with Andrew), and it would be cruel to fire her in her twilight years; Charles is a useless tosser whom no one likes, although his wife is funny (depends on whether there’s a Diana retrospective trending on Netflix); the Cambridges seem stylish and wholesomely functional and are about as interesting as pro tennis players; ten years ago it was a quasi-serious joke that Harry would make a good Governor General, because he knows How To Drink Beer And Talk Shit Like An Australian, but then someone realised we’d have to pay him a bigger salary than the usual parade of retired lawyers and army officers and now it’s not funny. They get crowds when they do a tour, and the unofficial tourism advertising of having some pint-sized royal maul a wallaby at a petting zoo is considered a fair return on the cost of security when they travel here, which is the only time they cost Australia anything.

To give you some more detail:

The first thing that needs to be clarified is that that Parliament and Monarch of the United Kingdom have no official legislative power over the Commonwealth of Australia, and haven’t since 1986. The Monarch of Australia is, technically, legally seperate from the Monarch of Canada, the Monarch of New Zealand, and the Monarch of that other place off the coast of France, although by some weird coincidence all those seperate executive persons reside in the body of some old English woman. That’s bullshit, I hear you say, and, yeah that’s true, but consider this: she doesn’t actually do all those jobs. Functionally, the Head of State of Australia is an entirely different unelected executive, the Govenor General, and the office of the Governor General is careful to preserve their public position of political neutrality and independence.

There’s a bit of history here. The federation do Australia as a country happened in 1901, but between then and roughly 1930 the Colonial Office of the British government had considerable legal sway if they chose to use it, and the GG was appointed on their advice. The Australian National identity of the pre-WWII period was very much that of proud (white) sons of empire etc etc, but in 1930 the Australian Prime Minister insists on ‘advising’ the king on the next GG, and the next year the Statute of Westminster 1931 is passed, which establishes the legislative independence of, among other countries, Australia (but, because Australia is a federation of states, there is still some doubt about who has the power to do what exactly at which level of government).

Onward to 1975 and The Dismissal. Gough Whitlam of the Labor Party is the Prime Minister, and, the left having been out of power for some time, is moving quickly to institute a bunch of social reforms (RIP, sir, thanks for introducing public health care and treating the aboriginal population with a modicum of decency). The right-leaning Liberal party is seething over this, and, because they control the Senate, block supply for expenditure in an attempt to force an election in the House Of Reps. Whitlam counters with an election for the Senate and goes to the Governor General for his approval, because elections are called by the PM with the authorisation of the GG. The GG informs Whitlam that he has been dismissed as the PM, and the GG has invited the leader of the opposition to be acting PM instead. This is TECHNICALLY something the GG can do as the queen’s representative, but it’s against the spirit of democracy. It becomes a huge scandal the periodically bubbles along for years, and the reason this is relevent to the question of republicanism in Australia is the Palace Letters — correspondence between the GG and the Queen/their various offices and staff. The Queen claimed that these letters were private or personal correspondence, and thus not able to be released as a matter of public record, which caused a lot of speculation as to whether Whitlam had been dismissed on the orders of the Queen. This went on for years, and last year they were released. Long story short, the Queen did not explicitly know or authorise the dismissal, but there’s a lot of ‘theoretically, if’ in the letters, and it certainly seems like the Queen and her office were keeping closer tabs on Australian politics than was thought at the time. There’s also a conspiracy theory that the CIA staged the dismissal because Whitlam was making overtures to China, buuuuut if that’s the case then no evidence has come to light. In any case, no one wants that sort of scandal, and there are efforts made to distance the role of the GG from that of the monarch, and both from any practical power.

Onward again to 1986, the Australia Act 1986 is passed in both Australia and the UK, confirming that Australia is legislatively independent from the UK, and that the Queen of Australia is a legally distinct position from the Queen of the UK (see: James VI and I, etc). This is very similar to the 1931 Statute, but clarified that this independence exists on a state level as well as a federal level, in order to prevent states from appealing to the UK to overrule the federal government (as with Western Australia’s attempted succession in 1933).

Onward again and most recently: the 1999 Republic Referendum, aka my earliest political opinion. Labor proposed a referendum in honour of the centenary of federation. The Prime Minister in power was a Liberal (you may remember them as the party who stole the government in the dismissal). There was A LOT of debate over how, in the event of Australia becoming a republic, we would resolve the issue of the powers of the executive. Would we have an American style presidency (the Clinton impeachment was happening around this this time, FYI) or something more like the supposedly-detached monarchy represented by the GG? The proposal that eventually went to the people was a president appointed by the Prime Minister + 2/3rds of both the Senate and the House of Reps, who could be dismissed by the PM. This was a fairly unpopular take for a bunch of different reasons, not least because it managed to give the Head of State an implied mandate without actually being elected, and it was defeated by 54.4%. So, no Republic, and unfortunately, for those of us who do favour revisiting the question, it’s mostly seen as either unimportant or settled, or both. Whomp-whomp.

For my part, if we’re getting a referendum any time soon, I’d prefer it to be on section 44 of the constitution, which bars people with (potential) foreign allegiances from standing for election, which is frankly ridiculous in a country where nearly 30% of the population was born overseas and something like half the population potentially has at least dual citizenship.

[poptod]

Leeway (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: Sometimes, you just need to feed the person you accidentally embalmed alive a lot of vodka. A LOT.

Notes: so this is a tad strange and i thought it would be fun to write so hello this exists now and im not apologizing for it this time. i do love how easy it is to tell who learned english in cambridge and who learned english from a crazy american though. fluff and humor, gender neutral, only warning is getting sick from drinking too much Word Count: 2.5k

+

Despite the popularity of the Egyptian exhibit in the museum, there was really only one hallway and one room for it. A hallway filled with smaller artifacts, and in the center of it all, Ahkmenrah's tomb. What with being the only ancient Egyptian in the whole of the museum, he was rather lonely – that made up one of the reasons for the new exhibit, but the main reason was a money grab.

Now, the new exhibit wasn't nearly as royal as Ahk's room. No massive guards, no rooms catered specifically to it, no hieroglyphs surrounding it. In fact it was the tomb of a servant – that's what historians categorized you as after seeing your wooden sarcophagus and the poor wrappings of your mummification. There was nothing but you in your tomb; no dolls, no artifacts, not even any pottery offerings. Ahkmenrah didn't know any of this, though – no, he was just excited to have someone who came from the same era. His thrill stemmed mainly from his fear of forgetting how to speak Egyptian. With you on your way, he could rid of that fear.

He was told of your exhibit about a day before you arrived, and throughout the whole of the waking night he thought of you. Who could you be? Maybe your times were a thousand years apart; Egypt did have a rather long rule, after all. There was also the chance you were from exactly his time, and part of him hoped that was to be.

The next evening he awoke giddy, a grin on his face from the moment he opened his eyes. A few minutes and Larry came to help him out, stripping off the remaining linen before standing tall, gold falling from his body as silk.

"Is the new exhibit here?" He asked immediately, eager to meet you.

"Yeah, this way," Larry said, guiding Ahk out of his room with a chuckle.

A bundle of nerves began to ache in his chest, begging him to hurry his step. He tried his best to keep calm, soon standing in front of an open archway, leading into a room filled with the broken down, dusty artifacts of his previous daily life. Shabti dolls came to life in glass cages, and beside all the shields and various weapons lay a rotted, wooden coffin. At the sight he frowned – there were no inscriptions on the coffin, not even a hint that they might've once been there. Without those inscriptions it was terribly hard to navigate the afterlife, but that wasn't his main problem at the moment.

The biggest issue was that you were rattling against the wood, moaning weakly from your first wake of the dead. Your coffin sat in a large, glass box, and as both Ahk and Larry realized that, Larry dug into his pocket for keys to open the box.

The moment the glass door opened, Ahk crammed himself inside, careful not to step on the bits of pottery as he knelt at your side. Gently he raised the lid, helping you sit up. Together you worked out of your wrappings, which fell to the bottom of the coffin, before the last of it came off, revealing your face.

"Wait a -"

"You!" You shouted, brows furrowed in a rage both Larry and Ahk rarely saw. Jabbing him in the chest with your finger, you glared him out of the box, following him as you stumbled onto the linoleum floor. "You're the guy who killed me!"

"Wait, what?" Larry said, his tone suddenly serious.

"I did not kill -"

"You fucking buried me alive, you son of a bitch! Do you know how painful it is to have all your organs removed for a damned embalming?!" You yelled as your face grew red, filled with the pressure of your anger.

"Okay, wait, wait –" Larry stood inbetween you two, but your eyes never left Ahk's rather terrified face. "First thing's first. How do you know English?"

"You think you guys get to be the first people insane enough to bring me to life? I lived in a sorcerer's home for ten years and he treated me better than you ever did," you said, aiming your venom at Ahk. Again. "I felt safer with him and he took off my arm and resewed it back on!"

"In my defense, I didn't know you were alive, alright?" Ahk tried defending himself, but you wouldn't hear it.

"You fucked up big time, buddy," you seethed, shoving your face right up against Ahk's. "I wasn't the goddamn murderer. The other one was."

"Oh. Oh, no," he said as the color drained from his face. "Shit, you were innocent?"

"Okay can someone tell me what the hell is going on here?!" Larry finally interjected, gaining both of your attentions.

"There was this, um, incident, while I was a prince," Ahk began, reluctant to tell. "A few murders had happened in the city, so the soldiers tracked down who they believed the murderer to be, but they were fighting with someone. Like, really bad. I was with them and there was quite a lot of blood."

"I would've won, too, if you let me," you grumbled bitterly.

"One of them claimed to be a famous poet, and the other one was unemployed. Obviously the murderer, but we couldn't tell the difference between the two," he continued, ignoring your remark. "There was this whole trial to figure out who was who. What – what was your penname again?"

"Siamun," you said.

"Right. Unfortunately, I guess we got the wrong one," he said rather blankly, regret plain on his face.

"And then he threw a spear at my chest, proclaimed me dead despite the fact that I was still breathing, and then they tore out all my goddamn organs," you finished for him, telling 'Larry' the rest of the story Ahk hesitated to mention.

"It wasn't a spear," Ahk said as though it mattered.

"Knife. Sharp pointy thing. I'm still pissed at you," you said, crossing your arms with great force.

Larry looked between the two of you for a moment before speaking.

"I think I know how to make you feel better," he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and leading you out of the room.

"I highly doubt that," you said quietly, sending one last seething glare over your shoulder at Ahk before you turned the corner, leaving him alone.

He almost cried – he rarely did, but this time was close. All that excitement for nothing. There was no way you'd be able to hold a conversation with him, which was fair, considering he didn't think he could hold a conversation with someone he wronged so deeply. The worst part was that he was quite the fan of your work, and it had been a long, long time since he'd been able to read or hear your words.

About an hour later he dragged himself to his feet with a weary sigh, slowly shuffling into the main room, where he could already hear music and the shouts of dancers and soccer players (for some reason). At the balcony he overlooked the whole of the crowd, eyes scanning over the jumping crowd till he found you sitting with Larry at the center globe. You had a bottle of some sort in hand, and from what he could tell, you were incredibly intoxicated. A new, sick hope sprouted in his head – maybe you'd be able to tolerate him while drunk. Strange thought, certainly, but not entirely improbable.

So, with that in mind, he headed down the steps, his cape floating down with him till he reached the crowd. Worming through the people, he made his way to stand on the other side of the help center desk.

"What did you do?" Ahk asked Larry, gesturing to you sitting on the office chair, spinning as fast as you could.

"I thought they could use some loosening up," Larry answered with a shrug. Ahk frowned.

"That's... what did you give them?"

"Hmm? Oh, just some vodka the previous night guards stored in Rexy's mouth," he said, nodding pleasantly.

"Isn't vodka ten times more powerful than our beer?"

"I hadn't really thought of that," Larry said with his hands on his hips, looking to you for a moment before returning to Ahk.

Once you stopped propelling yourself, your chair stopped spinning, and your smile quickly dissipated into a pale face as sickness overcame you. With lopsided eyes you tried standing, balancing the bulk of your weight on the desk. You gagged on your own tongue.

"That's no good," Ahk muttered under his breath, circling the desk till he stood beside you, wrapping an arm over your shoulder. "I'll take them to the bathroom."

"I think I'm going to throw up," you slurred, leaning into Ahk.

"Thought so. Let's hurry now," he said as he took you through the crowd, feeling thankful that the bathrooms weren't a floor above you. No, they were just to the side, and soon he was holding your hair as you hurled into the porcelain toilet.

You shivered despite the room being warm, and Ahk recognized it as tremors brought about by pain. He winced when you gagged, nothing but acid coming out as you moaned, white knuckles trying to find purchase on the tile floor.

"You.. what's your name?" You asked weakly, your voice rough from acid staining the back of your throat.

"... Naguib," he said after a moment of thought. He wasn't sure if you would remember his name, but he preferred to stay safe, and took his servant's name.

"You're being.. thank you," you mumbled, immediately gagging again afterwards. Nothing came out.

"Of course," he said softly, moving his hands to rub at your tense shoulders. You hummed, unable to move from your spot without feeling intensely sick.

"You're from Egypt, too, aren't you?" You said, tilting your head onto your arm to meet his eye.

"Yes," he confirmed. "Same time period."

"God, I miss it sometimes. Don't you?" You whispered, barely able to find the energy to keep speaking.

"It can get very lonely. That's why I'm glad you're here," he said with a small smile, making you close your eyes and offer your own soft, barely-there smile. "Do you mind speaking Egyptian with me?"

"Sure," you answered in the language he'd been longing to hear from a mouth other than his own.

"So... what was life like for you back then?" He asked despite knowing of most of your exploits (and accidentally being part of the final one. Death.).

"I was a scribe, didn't work for the King though. Didn't really want to. I liked his son, though. Nice guy except for when he stabbed me," you grumbled, your eyes half lidded. He flinched at your last words.

"What did you write of?"

"The world," you said with a weak smirk. "Poetry. Lots of it."

"Really?" He said, keeping his voice soft to soothe you. "Could you share some?"

"Maybe if I remember what I wrote," you replied with a snort. "Been a whole fuckin' while since then."

Wow, you swear a lot, Ahk found himself thinking blankly, watching you tremble and try to keep yourself even.

"What about the prince?" Ahk asked after a long silence, his words barely there.

"Gods.. um... well, very kind. Got a bit of a stick up his ass, but damn, he was handsome. Pretty scary too, but don't tell him. Any of this," you slurred, once more readying yourself to hurl into the bowl. Ahk quickly moved his hands from your back to your hair, keeping it out of your eyes as you gagged, acid and vodka dripping off your tongue.

Even with you having a rather unpleasant time in the bathroom stall, Ahk felt rather good. You liked him – at least you did at one point, and for him, that meant there was a chance you could forgive him. Yes, embalming you alive was probably not the greatest thing he could've done, but you seemed forgiving enough. With anger formidable and forgiveness imminent, he almost smiled. Almost. And then you hurled again.

In the last hours of the night you started to get better. You could stand with help from Ahk (though you much preferred lying down), and your wits were a little more about you, words still slurred but not quite as unhinged. A few hours previously you stopped throwing up, and Ahk moved you from the bathrooms to McPhee's office. He had a nice couch in there, and Ahk doubted he would mind, considering how McPhee practically revered the living exhibits.

"Feeling better?" He asked, knelt beside you on the cushioned velvet couch.

"A little," you hummed, your voice cracking as you looked to him with tired, baggy eyes.

"We'll have to get you back to your coffin soon. I'll have to go to mine too," he said, stroking your hair. You blinked slowly.

"Why?"

"I'll tell you when you're a bit more coherent," he said with a smile. The edges of your lips turned up, but you were far too weak to form a full smile.

A few minutes later Ahk heard a knock on the closed door, and he excused himself from you with a gentle kiss on your forehead. Opening up the door an inch, he slipped through the gap, coming face to face with Larry.

"They doin' okay?" He asked, hands on his hips.

"Will be, eventually. Don't give them vodka. Ever," Ahk said, earning a hurried agreement.

"Yeah, no, definitely. What's up between you guys though?" He asked with vague hand signals gesturing between the two of them. "Like, you friends? Enemies? I can't tell."

"Currently my name is Naguib and I'm a servant."

"Oh, so not good."

"I didn't say that," Ahk said with a frown. "I asked them about 'the prince' and they actually had a pretty high opinion of me, all things considered, so that's good."

"Honestly I find it hard to believe you actually stabbed them. You don't come across as.. murderous," Larry said, a questioning look on his face.

"You've clearly never seen me watch TV," Ahk said flatly. "I'm a Pharaoh. I'm not sure what you were expecting, but my brother tried to kill me five times and I lost my best friend to banishment. I think I'm allowed a little leeway."

"Yeah, I guess so," Larry said with a sigh, forgetting they were genuinely discussing murder. Murder. "Ready to get them back in the coffin?"

"Right."

The two of them helped you back into your casket, a task that was made infinitely easier by the fact that you passed out while they were conversing. Before placing the wooden lid back on, Ahk leaned in, kissing your forehead one more time. Only then did he reluctantly crawl out of the glass cage, watching Larry lock you up.

"Why do you like them so much?"

"Eh," Ahk shrugged, "they're prolific when they aren't drunk."

"Fair enough."

[jocia92]

(Google translated)

Dan Stevens, who grew up in Wales and south-east England, spent his summer holidays at the National Youth Theater at the age of 15, and he was drawn to the stage while studying English in Cambridge. Since his big breakthrough as Matthew Crawley in the hit series “Downton Abbey”, he has also repeatedly appeared in films such as “Inside Wikileaks - The Fifth Force”, “At Night in the Museum: The Secret Tomb” or “Beauty and the Beast” . Most recently, Stevens played the Russian Schnösel singer Lemtov in the Oscar-nominated comedy “Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga” from Netflix. At the beginning of June, the German film “Ich bin dein Mensch” by Maria Schrader celebrated at the Summer Berlinale Premiere, which starts on 1.7. comes to German cinemas regularly. Stevens plays the role of a love robot in it. Unlike on the screen, however, the 38-year-old prefers to speak English in the zoom-conducted interview. He chose a brick wall with a lion motif as the digital background. No allusion to the song “Lion of Love” from “Eurovision Song Contest”, but a photo of the famous Ishtar Gate in Berlin’s Pergamon Museum, where “I am your human” was filmed last summer.

Mr. Stevens, in your new film “I am your human” you play a humanoid robot that is entirely geared towards fulfilling the romantic needs of a skeptical scientist. You yourself recently described the film as “delightfully German”. How did you mean that?

I wanted to say that here pretty big questions - such as what actually makes a person or how much perfection love can take - are negotiated in a very light-footed, elegant and sometimes humorous way. In my experience that is a very German quality. At least I have often seen with many of my German colleagues and friends that they are very good at not discussing difficult issues exclusively deadly serious and melancholy.

Where does your personal connection to Germany and the German language come from?

My parents had friends who lived in Bielefeld and we used to visit them in North Rhine-Westphalia during the school holidays. Traveled from England by car! That’s how I learned a little German as a child, and later I learned it as a subject at school. I even did a short internship there through our friends in Bielefeld. I really love the language. Funnily enough, I was later able to use my knowledge of German professionally, because my first film was “Hilde”, in which I was next to Heike Makatsch played the British actor and director David Cameron, who was married to Hildegard Knef. After that, I always hoped that there might be another chance to speak German in front of the camera, because playing in a foreign language is an exciting challenge. When the chance arose to shoot “I am your person”, I could hardly believe my luck.

Did you know the director Maria Schrader who gave you this chance?

Funnily enough, when the script for the film landed on my table, I had just watched the Netflix series “Unorthodox”, which she directed. I had also watched a few episodes of “Deutschland 89”. In general, I knew that she was a great German actress, not least because friends who knew their way around the German theater scene often raved about her. Working with her was a joy now. Her understanding of actors is quite instinctive and brilliant. I have seldom seen someone who can help an actor who is having difficulties with a scene with such simple means.

The fact that you had already seen “Unorthodox” shows, of course, how quickly “I am your person” must have been implemented in the past year …

Oh yes, that was really quick. In March I was still in New York and was about to premiere a new play on Broadway. But then the pandemic came, everything was canceled and I flew back to my family in Los Angeles. A few weeks later, Maria and I met each other via Zoom - and shortly afterwards I was sitting outside in a café in the Berlin June sun for the first time in months to discuss the upcoming shoot with her. That was pretty surreal because I hadn’t actually left the house since March.

Is it correct that you oriented yourself to Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart to portray the romantically programmed robot Tom?

In any case, these were role models that Maria and I spoke about. When you think of the game between the two of them, you always see an enormous clarity and directness. Cary Grant, for example, was always quite funny, especially in his romantic roles, but also flawless in an almost artificial way from today’s perspective. I found that very suitable for a robot. Apart from the fact that the ideas that Tom and his algorithm have of romance and love are certainly also shaped by the classic romantic comedies from Hollywood. Oh, the woman is sad, so I’ll bring her flowers! Such automatisms from the stories from back then were very appropriate for Tom now.

Keyword role models: Who shaped you in your career as an actor?

There were of course many. Jimmy Stewart was certainly something of a role model. My mom and I watched a lot of his films when I was little and I was always impressed by the kind of sweet tragedy that went into all of his roles. But maybe Robin Williams’ work influenced me even more. I always found the incredible variety of his films remarkable. He could make his audience laugh hysterically like no other, but also move them to tears in other roles. I always wanted to emulate this range.

In fact, the range of your roles is enormous and ranges from the Disney blockbuster “Beauty and the Beast” to a comic adaptation in series format such as “Legion” to bulky independent films such as “Her Smell” or the horror thriller “The Rental “, Which we just released on DVD. Is there a method behind this diversity?

Not in principle. I like variety, but I’m not just looking for roles that are as different as possible from one another. Rather, there are always similar factors that I use to select my projects. Sometimes there is a certain director that I really want to work with. Or the role itself is irresistible because it presents me with acting challenges. And sometimes a script is just fantastically written and I am interested in the topics it is about. With “I am your person” it was definitely the latter, especially since the timing was just right. In 2020 there were so many societal questions that ultimately touched the core of human existence. Such a script, which deals with something very similar in a light-footed way, was just fitting.

A few years ago you said in a questionnaire from the British Guardians that your greatest weakness was not being able to make up your mind. So every time you are offered a role, do you ponder whether you should accept?

No, no, when a script appeals to me, it actually does it very quickly. It’s such a gut feeling. If I’m unsure and skeptical, that’s a good indicator that this is not the right thing for me. That with the difficulty in making decisions related rather to something else. For example, it takes me forever to order in a restaurant because I can never decide what on the menu appeals to me the most.

You became famous with the role of Matthew Crawley in the series "Downton Abbey”. Did you immediately suspect at the time that something big was going on?

At first we were all pretty clueless. There are really many British history series, and we were one of them. When the first season aired in the US and was a huge success there, it was pretty unexpected. I never expected the impact the series would have on my career.

Barely ten years later, are you still being asked about the role?

Oh yes, regularly. Probably nothing will change about that either. I got out after three seasons!

In the meantime, however, the flamboyant Russian singer Alexander Lemtov from “Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga” should also be a character with whom you will be immediately associated, right?

Right, it has been mentioned more and more recently when people recognize me on the street. This charming, silly film obviously had a nerve with the audience last year in the middle of the corona pandemic. Especially since the real Eurovision Song Contest had been canceled.

The film was the number one topic of conversation on the Internet for a while - and Lemtov GIFs and memes were everywhere. Did you follow that?

It was really hard to avoid it. I wasn’t looking specifically for what people were posting. But of course my friends passed a lot on to me, and there were already some very funny Lemtov things. But he’s also a figure made for GIFs.

Another question every British actor under 40 has to put up with these days: Would you like to become the next James Bond?

Oh, of course, everyone gets to hear this question again and again who meets certain criteria. But it is completely hypothetical. Although a few years ago I read in an audio book by Ian Fleming’s “Casino Royale”.

You mentioned earlier that you and your family have lived in the United States for a long time. How big is your homesickness?

I actually feel very comfortable in Los Angeles. But every now and then I miss the sidewalk culture of European cities. People on foot, street cafes, things like that. Last year the longing for it was particularly great, although it was of course clear to me that there was a state of emergency in Europe too. In any case, I found myself reading books that were set in Europe and made me homesick. Which is why the unexpected trip to Berlin was really a boon.

You are also an avid cricketer. That’s certainly difficult in Los Angeles, isn’t it?

There are quite a few cricket clubs here. The only problem is that the few people who do the sport here are so good at it that I have problems keeping up. That’s why I always lose sight of the matter here a little. Even as a pure TV viewer, it is not easy to stay on the ball, because of course there is no cricket broadcast here at prime time. But as soon as I’m home in England in the summer, I really want to play again!

[perennialessays]

A: Michaelmas Term. The Colonial, the Postcolonial, the World: Literature, Contexts and Approaches (A/Core Course)

The A course comprises 8 1.5 hour seminars and is intended to provide a range of perspectives on some of the core debates, themes and issues shaping the study of world and postcolonial literatures in English. In each case the seminar will be led by a member of the Faculty of English with relevant expertise, in dialogue with one or more short presentations from students on aspects of the week’s topic. There is no assessed A course work, but students are asked to give at least one presentation on the course, and to attend all the seminars. You should read as much in the bibliography over the summer – certainly the primary literary texts listed in the seminar reading for each week. The allocation of presenters will be made at the meeting in week 0.

Week 1

Theories of World Literature I: What Is World Literature?...What Isn’t World Literature? (Graham Riach)

This seminar will consider what we mean when we say ‘world literature’, looking at models proposed by critics as Emily Apter, David Damrosch, the WReC collective, and others. The category of ‘world literature’ has been in constant evolution since Johan Wolfgang von Goethe popularised the term in the early 19th Century, and in this session we will explore some of the key debates in the field.

Primary:

+ David Damrosch, What is World Literature? 2003

+ ------ What Isn't World Literature, lecture https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jfOuOJ6b-qY

+ WReC (Warwick Research Collective), Combined and Uneven Development: Towards a New Theory of World Literature

+ Extracts from Johan Wolfgang von Goethe, Karl Marx and Friechrich Engels, Franco Moretti, Pascale Cassanova, Emily Apter and others.

Secondary:

+ David Damrosch, World Literature in a Postcanonical, Hypercanonical Age in Haun Saussay ed, Comparative Literature in an Age of Globalization 2006 pp.43-53

+ Franco Moretti, Conjectures on World Literature, New Left Review 1 2000 54-68

+ Mariano Siskind, ‘The Globalization of the Novel and The Novelization of the Global: A Critique of World Literature’, Comparative Literature 62 (2010) 4: 336-60

Week 2

English in the world/Language beyond relativity (Peter McDonald)

Primary:

+ The Oxford English Dictionary (especially 1989 print edition and online, 2000-)

+ You should also read Sarah Ogilvie, Words of the World: A Global History of the Oxford English Dictionary (2012)

+ Florian Coulmas, Guardians of the Language (2016)

+ Perry Link’s short essay ‘The Mind: Less Puzzling in Chinese? (New York Review of Books, 30 June 2016), which is available via: https://www.nybooks.com/daily/2016/06/30/the-mind-less-puzzling-in-chinese/?utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=NYR%20Krugman%20on%20King%20Als%20on%20Martin%20Cole%20on%20police&utm_content=NYR%20Krugman%20on%20King%20Als%20on%20Martin%20Cole%20on%20police+CID_9def725d3263b14fe6dce4894ed64907&utm_source=Newsletter&utm_term=The%20Mind%20in%20Chinese

Secondary:

+ Jacques Derrida, Monolingualism of the Other, or The Prosthesis of Origin, trans. Patrick Mensah, 1998 (French edition, 1996)

+ Charles Taylor, The Language Animal (2016)

Preparation

A (2 students: position papers, maximum 1000 words, on ONE of the following. Please ensure both topics are covered. Also bring along a handout with your key quotations—copies for the entire group) 1. Explain the significance of the epigraphs from Glissant and Khatibi for Derrida’s argument and analysis in Monolingualism. 2. Explain Taylor’s distinction between ‘designative-instrumental’ and ‘expressive-constitutive’ theories of language.

B (all remaining students: single-sided A4 handout—copies for the entire group) Browse the OED, especially using the online feature that allows you to group words by origin and/or region, and select ONE loanword from a non-European language. On one side of an A-4 sheet give an account of the word, explaining why you think it has particular significance in the long history of lexical borrowing that constitutes the English language and the shorter history of the linguistic relativity thesis

Week 3

The (Un)translatability of World Literature (Adriana X. Jacobs)

This seminar will examine the role of translation in the development of the category of world literature with a particular focus on the term “translatability.” We will consider how translation into “global” English has shaped contemporary understandings of translatability and how to reconcile these with the more recent turn to “untranslatability” in literary scholarship. To what extent are the parameters of world literature contingent on a translation economy that privileges certain languages, authors and texts over authors? What room is there in current configurations of world literature for works that “do not measure up to certain metrics of translational circulation” (Zaritt)?

Primary:

+ Emily Apter, Against World Literature: On the Politics of Untranslatability (New York: Verso, 2013)

+ “To Translate,” in Dictionary of Untranslatables: A Philosophical Lexicon, Barbara Cassin, ed., ed. and trans. Emily Apter, Jacques Lezra, and Michael Wood (Princeton: Princeton UP, 2014): 1139- 1155. (read introduction online: http://press.princeton.edu/titles/10097.html)

Secondary:

+ Antoine Berman, “Translation and the Trials of the Foreign,” trans. Lawrence Venuti, in The Translation Studies Reader, 3rd edition (New York/Abingdon: Routledge, 2012): 240-253.

+ Johannes Göransson, “‘Transgressive Circulation’: Translation and the Threat of Foreign Influence,” Cordite Poetry Review (November 1, 2016): www.cordite.org.au/essays/transgressive-circulation.

+ Ignacio Infante, “On The (Un)Translatability of Literary Form: Framing Contemporary Translational Literature,” Translation Review 95.1 (2016): 1-7

+ Lydia Liu, “The Problem of Language in Cross-Cultural Studies,” in Translingual Practice:Literature, National Culture, and Translated Modernity—China, 1900-1937 (Stanford: Stanford UP, 1995): 1-42

+ Ronit Ricci, “On the untranslatability of ‘translation’: Considerations from Java, Indonesia,” Translation Studies 3.3 (2010): 287-301.

+ Saul Zaritt, “‘The World Awaits Your Yiddish Word’: Jacob Glatstein and the Problem of World Literature,” Studies in American Jewish Literature (1981-) 34.2 (2015): 175-203.

Week 4

Literature and Performance of the Black Americas (Annie Castro)

In this seminar, we will engage with a variety of writings by Black authors across the Americas that emphasize issues of race, nationality, cultural heritage, and performance. This course will serve as an introduction into critical debates regarding the complex interchange of Afro-diasporic persons, ideas, and discourse across the Western Hemisphere. Please come prepared to share a short (approximately 200 words), informal written review of the assigned readings. This review, which is intended to aid group discussion, should place the assigned texts in conversation with one another, particularly in regards to their conceptualizations of race and culture in artistic expression.

Primary:

+ Erna Brodber, Louisiana (1997)

Secondary:

+ DeFrantz, Thomas and Anita Gonzalez, “Introduction.” In Black Performance Theory (2014)

+ Edwards, Brent Hayes. “Prologue,” “Variations on a Preface.” In The Practice of Diaspora: Literature, Translation, and the Rise of Black Internationalism (2003)

+ Harris, Wilson. “History, Fable, and Myth in the Caribbean and Guianas” (1970). In Caribbean Quarterly: The 60th Anniversary Edition (2008)

Week 5

Theories of World Literature II: Is World Literature Beautiful? (Graham Riach)

Traditional definitions of world literature are heavily based on the idea of universal cultural value. This seminar will consider some of the main issues in universalist conceptions of world literary value, particularly in relation to aesthetics, and the role of interpretive communities in dealing with distances in time, culture and language.

Primary:

+ Simon Gikandi, Slavery and the Culture of Taste (Princeton University Press, 2014)

+ Sianne Ngai, Our Aesthetic Categories: Zany, Cute, Interesting (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2012)

Secondary:

+ Isobel Armstrong, The Radical Aesthetic (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000)

+ Bill Ashcroft, ‘Towards a Postcolonial Aesthetics’, Journal of Postcolonial Writing, 51, 4 (2015), pp. 410-421

+ Elleke Boehmer, ‘A Postcolonial Aesthetic: Repeating Upon the Present’, in Janet Cristina Şandru Wilson and Sarah Lawson Welsh eds., Rerouting the Postcolonial: New Directions for the New Millennium (2010), pp. 170-181

+ Peter de Bolla, Art Matters (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001)

+ Simon Gikandi, ‘Race and the Idea of the Aesthetic’, Michigan Quarterly Review, 40,2 (2001), pp.318–50.

+ Peter J. Kalliney, Commonwealth of Letters: British Literary Culture and the Emergence of Postcolonial Aesthetics (Oxford: OUP, 2013)

+ Catherine Noske, ‘A Postcolonial Aesthetic? An Interview with Robert Young’, Journal of Postcolonial Writing, 50, 5, 609-621 (2014)

+ Rethinking Beauty, special issue of diacritics (32.1, Spring 2002)

Week 6

Cultural Memory and Reconciliation (Catherine Gilbert)

In this seminar, we will explore representations of conflict and its enduring impact in narratives from South Africa and Rwanda. In particular, we will consider questions surrounding the relationship between testimony and literature, how writers work to convey the complex nuances of trauma and memory, and the role of literature in remembrance and reconciliation.

Primary:

+ Achmat Dangor, Bitter Fruit (London: Atlantic Books, 2004 [2001]).

+ Jean Hatzfeld (ed), Into the Quick of Life. The Rwandan Genocide: The Survivors Speak (London: Serpent’s Tail, 2008).

+ Please also listen to: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, ‘The Danger of the Single Story’ (TED talk, 2009): https://www.ted.com/talks/chimamanda_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story?language=en

Secondary:

+ Jean Hatzfeld (ed), Machete Season: The Killers in Rwanda Speak, translated by Linda Coverdale (New York: Picador, 2005). Esp. the chapters ‘In the shade of an acacia’, ‘Remorse and regrets’, ‘Bargaining for forgiveness’, and ‘Pardons’.

+ Madelaine Hron, ‘Gukora and Itsembatsemba: The "Ordinary Killers" in Jean Hatzfeld's Machete Season’, Research in African Literatures, 42.2 (2011), pp. 125-146.

+ Antjie Krog, Country of My Skull (London: Vintage, 1999 [1998]). Esp. Chapter 3, ‘Bereaved and Dumb, the High Southern Air Succumbs’, pp. 38-74.

+ Achille Mbembe, ‘African Modes of Self-Writing’, Public Culture, 14.1 (2002), pp. 239-273.

+ Ana Miller, ‘The Past in the Present: Personal and Collective Trauma in Achmat Dangor’s Bitter Fruit’, Studies in the Novel, 40.1-2 (2008), pp. 146-160.

+ Zoe Norridge, Perceiving Pain in African Literature (London: Palgrave, 2012)

+ Richard Crownshaw, Jane Kilby and Antony Rowland (eds), The Future of Memory (New York: Berghahn Books, 2010). Esp. the introductions to each of the three sections on memory, testimony and trauma.

Week 7

Comics and Conflict: Witness, Testimony and World Literature? (Dominic Davies)

In this seminar we will explore the seemingly prevalent tendency of the use of comics –that is, sequential art that combines juxtaposed drawn and other images with the (hand)written word – to depict conflict zones in geo-historical areas as diverse as Palestine, Bosnia and Afghanistan. Why have comics, a highly mediated form that draws attention to the contingency of its own perspective, been used to document witness testimonies from war zones across the world? How do comics, constructed from a sophisticated architecture of borders and gutters, communicate these testimonies across national borders, perhaps even forging alternative kinds of ‘world literature’?

Primary:

+ Joe Sacco, Safe Area Goražde (2000), Palestine (2001)

+ Emmanuel Guibert, Didier Lefèvre, and Frederic Lemercier, The Photographer: Into War-torn Afghanistan with Doctors Without Borders (2009)

Secondary:

+ Ayaka, Carolene, and Hague, Ian eds., Representing Multiculturalism in Comics and Graphic Novels (2015)

+ Chute, Hillary, ‘Comics as Literature? Reading Graphic Narrative’, PMLA 123.2, 45-65 (2008)

+ ——, Disaster Drawn: Visual Witness, Comics, and Documentary Form (2016)

+ Denson, Shane, Meyer, Christina, and Stein, Daniel eds., Transnational Perspectives on Graphic Narratives: Comics at the Crossroads (2014)

+ Hatfield, Charles, Alternative Comics: An Emerging Literature (2005)

+ Mehta, Benita, and Mukherjee, Pia eds. Postcolonial Comics: Texts, Events, Identities (2015)

+ Mickwitz, Nina, Documentary Comics: Graphic Truth-telling in a Skeptical Age (2015)

+ Worden, Daniel ed. The Comics of Joe Sacco: Journalism in a Visual World (2015)

Week 8

World Poetry: A Case Study from India (Rosinka Chaudhuri)

Here, we will look episodically at the development of modern poetry in India in relation to the world; that is, we shall see how the world entered Indian poetry at the same time as it transformed poetry in the ‘West’. The very word for poet - ‘kavi’ - began to be redefined as the Sanskrit word came in contact with modernity in the nineteenth century, at the end of which we have the phenomenal figure of Tagore, who was perhaps the first ‘World Poet’ recognised as such from East to West. The decades of the 1960s-’80s - when Pablo Neruda was common currency and Arun Kolatkar sat at the Wayside Inn in Bombay - to present-day studies of multilinguality and the role of translation shall be explored to devise a notion of poetry in the world over time as it happened in India.

Primary:

+ Buddhadeva Bose, ‘Comparative Literature in India’, in Jadavpur Journal of Comparative Literature, Vol. 45; see http://jjcl.jdvu.ac.in/jjcl/upload/JJCL 45.pdf

+ Arvind Krishna Mehrotra, ‘The Emperor Has No Clothes,’ in Partial Reccall: Essays on Literature and Literary History (Delhi: Permanent Black, 2012)

+ Amit Chaudhuri, ‘Arun Kolatkar and the Tradition of Loitering,’ in Clearing A Space: Reflections on India, Literature and Culture (Oxford: Peter Lang, 2008).

Secondary:

+ Roland Barthes, ‘Is There Any Poetic Writing?’ in Annette Lavers and Colin Smith translated Writing Degree Zero (1953; New York: Hill and Wang, 1967).

+ Rosinka Chaudhuri, The Literary Thing: History, Poetry, and The Making of a Modern Cultural Sphere (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2014).

+ Bhavya Tiwari, ‘Rabindranath Tagore’s Comparative World Literature,’ in Theo D’haen, David Damrosch and Djelal Kadir ed. The Routledge Companion to World Literature (London: Routledge, 2012).

+ Deborah Baker, A Blue Hand: The Beats in India (New York and Delhi: Penguin, 2008).

+ Laetitia Zechhini, Arun Kolatkar and Literary Modernism in India: Moving Lines (London: Bloomsbury, 2016)

+ Anjali Nerlekar, Bombay Modern: Arun Kolatkar and Bilingual Literary Culture (Northwestern University Press, 2016).

[underthewingsofthblackeagle]

After her marriage with Frank Randall has failed and Claire Beauchamp flees from her violent husband, she finds refuge in the house of the Fraser/Murray family in Berlin-Wilhelmshorst. But then tensions arise between Britain (which has since left the EU) and some EU member states. All holders of an English passport are required to leave EU territory within six weeks ... and suddenly Claire's fate looks more uncertain than ever.

This story was written for the #14DaysofOutlander event, hosted by @scotsmanandsassenach​

Chapter 1: 14 Months

         "No! I can't do this, Janet!"

         Jamie's voice sounded muffled but still audible through the crack of the door leading to the kitchen of the house.

         "Didn't you watch the news, you dumbass?! In the next six weeks, all holders of English passports must leave European Union territory or they'll be deported to the Channel Islands!"

         Janet Murray sighed. Then she went on:

         "Provided that mad Vladimir de Salty Brownson of No. 10 Downing Street does not break the armistice with France, Belgium, and the Netherlands!"

         "I can't do it, Janet!"

         Jamie sounded exhausted and sad.

         For a moment, silence fell.

         "Brother! I don't know if you realize the danger this situation poses! If you won't talk to Claire, I will, and you don't want me to, do you?"

         "No way, Janet!"

         "So, you'll talk to her today?"

“Die Tür” by PhotoMIX-Company

         Claire had just come out of her room on the first floor. She had wanted to ask Janet (called Jenny) if she could help her as she always did. But now that she overheard the conversation by chance, she backed away. Quietly, she walked back up the stairs and the heavyweight that had been placed itself on her chest while listening seemed to get heavier with each step. She had come to this house fourteen months ago. It was her refuge. At least that's what she thought until now.           Claire could not remember ever feeling so safe or so happy before. Sure, she had experienced many happy moments in her youth and sure, she had felt sheltered under the care of her uncle Lamb. But, all those years, mostly in the hours before she fell asleep, doubts and fears crept into her thoughts. Doubts that she would ever really experience lasting happiness. And the fear, the constant fear of what would happen if Uncle Lamb, the last of her relatives, died? The thought of suddenly being all alone in this world filled her with trepidation. When Frank Randall came into her life, she thought she had found an answer to these worries. She was nineteen and head over heels in love, but it did not take long, however, before she realized that she had been more than wrong about this man, her now-husband. Even at an early stage in their marriage (they still lived in Cambridge where Frank taught at the university) he cheated on her. He continued to meet women from the university faculty and students he had met before their marriage regularly without interruption. And of course, he continued this behavior when they moved to America, where Frank took up a position at Harvard.              When she left Boston fourteen months ago after almost ten years of marital martyrdom, she was broken, utterly exhausted - and again frightened. Claire had gripped the outstretched hand of this strange man, who had introduced himself to her under a French name as a German citizen of British origin, like a lifeline. She was too exhausted to even think about where it all would lead her. Claire could only hope that the help he offered her would take her one step further on her path to a life of freedom and peace.           Everything had happened so fast. On the flight to Berlin, she had slept most of the time, only waking up once at Stockholm Arlanda Airport, where they had to change planes. When they arrived at Berlin Schönefeld Airport, he had woken her gently. Picking up her luggage and driving from the airport to his home (as he called it) had passed her by like a fleeting dream.

“Haus” by MichaelGaida

         Then they had finally arrived. The sight of the manor like house and the even bigger park that surrounded it, had an effect on her as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over her head. Claire suddenly felt completely awake. Then the big oak door had opened and Jenny had come out and greeted her with great kindness. A few minutes later they were all sitting in the living room, drinking tea and eating apple pie. An hour later she was lying in a freshly made bed in a room that had been prepared especially for her and was sleeping deeply. When Claire woke, she had slept for almost eighteen hours. To her surprise, a small table with a thermos of tea, a Tupperware box with sandwiches, a bowl of fresh fruits and a little vase with yellow and red tulips stood by her bed. She still remembered how the experienced care had moved her to tears. Since the last days she had spent with Uncle Lamb, nobody had cared for her like this.            With each day that she stayed in Wilhelmshorst, Claire became more and more a part of this family. Jenny had become a good friend for her, almost a sister. After a short phase in which the women had met each other in a distanced way, they opened up to each other and took more and more pleasure in doing the work in the house, going shopping or tending the garden together. Ian had become a good friend too. While Claire appreciated the practical side of Jenny, she loved talking to the man, who seemed so calm and level-headed and therefore the exact opposite of his wife. Ian the younger, Caitlin, Katherine, and Michael, the children of the Murrays, had immediately taken her to their hearts. And the feeling was completely mutual. She was grateful to have some money of her own again when the first Christmas arrived and she was able to give small presents to the children, but also the rest of the family.          And then there was ... James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser called Jamie.          His real name he had revealed to her only after Claire had settled in with the Frasers/Murrays for a few days. He was the one who saved her in ‘a tour de force’ from a last violent attack by her husband and took her with him to Berlin. Unlike Jenny, who carried her heart on her tongue, and Ian, the level-headed thinker, she could not figure him out. He always met her with great kindness, was generous and helpful. But at the same time, he always kept his distance and remained silent most of the time.          And yet Claire felt drawn to him in an inexplicable way. For the first time, she noticed this when Jamie had business appointments in Düsseldorf for a few days. With astonishment, she realized that his absence triggered feelings of emptiness and loss in her. But whenever he returned from such business trips, her heart filled with gratitude and joy. Although there was no real reason for her to be frightened, she always felt safer when he was at home If she was honest with herself, then Claire could not deny that his presence gave her a feeling of security and peace. And then, just over six months ago, while he was on one of these business trips, she had asked herself if he was seeing women in the cities he traveled to regularly. But Claire immediately dismissed the idea. She didn't think he was such a kind of man ... and if so, it was none of her business. However, two months later (Jamie was at a conference in Stuttgart) she caught herself wondering if she was in love with him. But she immediately dismissed that thought as well. For one thing, she hadn't been sure what love was since her marriage to Frank. For another, such a thought was completely hopeless. Jamie showed no sign of a greater interest in her and how would it look if she ... No, she couldn't do that. What would Jenny and Ian think? Wouldn't it look like she was taking advantage of the situation? No, it would be best if things stayed the way they were. Once the inheritance issues were resolved, she could get her own place. She could get a job and... everything would look different. Then maybe ... if Jamie ... yes then maybe there was a chance of happiness? Love? She didn’t know.          But now she'd never find out either. All of her life in Wilhelmshorst would come to an end now, just because some politicians couldn't keep their lust for power in check. Even before she reached her room, she felt tears running down her cheeks.

“Tee” by StockSnap

         Two hours later Jenny's voice echoed loudly but friendly through the hall:

         "Claire, are you coming? Tea is ready!"

         Claire opened her door.

         "I'll be right there."

         A few minutes later, she entered the living room where Jenny had just set the coffee table. Jamie stood, arms crossed over her chest, by one of the big windows, his back turned at her.

         Then Claire's eyes fell on the table.

         "Why did you only set the table for two people?" she asked Jenny.

         "Oh, äh, uhm, Ian invited me and the kids to go to the zoo. We're about to leave..."

         "Ah."

         Claire nodded. She tried to stay calm.

         Jenny left the room and Jamie turned to her. He smiled, at least he was trying to. With his right hand, he pointed to a chair by the coffee table. Claire nodded and sat down. Jamie sat down on the small sofa, so they sat across the corner.          She reached for the teapot and poured the tea first for Jamie, then for herself. When she put the teapot back on the teapot warmer, they heard the front door slam shut and shortly afterward a car drove off the yard.          Jamie emptied his teacup and held it out to Claire, who filled it again. When she too had emptied her cup, he turned to her and said:

         "Claire, I have something very important to discuss with you."

         Although she knew what it was about, and although she had had two hours to prepare herself inwardly for this conversation, her hands began to tremble slightly. She hastily put the cup down.

         "Jamie, I know. I ... I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with Jenny in the kitchen. Please believe me, I didn't mean to eavesdrop, it was just a coincidence."

         He looked at her with his eyes wide open but didn't interrupt.

         "I watched the news on TV, of course... I knew something like that was coming. You don't have to worry. I'll return to England as soon as possible. I don't know yet what will happen or where I can live, but I'm sure I'll find a way..."

         Again Jamie looked at her with great astonishment. Claire's eyes showed the same frightened look he had seen before - fourteen months ago when he first met her. It all started that day - at a small art gallery in Boston.

[ingek73]

The Simon CASE: Throw Your Brother Under The Bus!

By Kristine Welby June 16, 2020 19 Comments

The Simon Case

Pool/Samir Hussein

The Simon CASE: Simon Says…Throw Your Brother Under The Bus!

“When Someone betrays you, it is a reflection of their character not yours.”

Last summer as Harry and Meghan were being slammed by the press literally for every breath they took, came word that they had flown to France on a private jet. They were dubbed hypocrites for taking a private jet after talking about the environment. Harry never told anyone not to fly, and Meghan never spoke about the environment. But they were both excoriated in the press and on social media. Of course, no fake outrage would be complete without fake pundits on various talk shows lambasting Harry and Meghan for the destruction of the environment.

When it was revealed that Sir Elton John had paid for the flight and paid to offset the carbon footprint, the conversation switched to “debunking the myth” of carbon offsets. Harry and Meghan were declared eco-hypocrites, despite the fact that William, in his efforts to outdo Harry, has spoken of the environment as much as Harry, and had even flown by private jet to Davos climate change forum. His attendance seemed nothing but grandstanding, since all he did was interview Sir David Attenborough. An interview which could have been done remotely, since environmental degradation is such a concern for him. This might sound trivial, but underscores the fundamental unfairness of the media’s attitude towards Harry. There is no shortage of perceived “hypocrisy” if one is determined to find it. But I guess it depends on where said hypocrisy needs to be found.

There was also the fact that William and his family had only just returned from their vacation on an exclusive private island, accessible only by private jet. And if that were not enough, we had the Queen’s favorite son flying hither and yon in private jets, in the midst of renewed outcry about his connection to convicted sexual predator Jeffrey Epstein and Prince Andrew’s alleged sexual abuse of a trafficked minor. No private jet outrage there. Instead, when they were not attempting to equate Prince Andrew’s amoral actions to Harry and Meghan flying by private jet, they were ignoring Prince Andrew in favor of berating Harry and Meghan.

Then, just as it seemed the squall was reduced to a drizzle, along came pictures of the Cambridge clan boarding a commercial flight to Balmoral. £73 flight they declared, with pictures of the Cambridge family cosplaying ‘regular’ folks, with father and children carrying their own bags. It was a double whammy! William and Kate were not only heralded as frugal but of course environmentally conscious for flying commercial. That of course ignores the fact that Meghan and Harry’s personal travel is always privately funded and Sir Elton had paid for their trip; you can’t get more frugal than free.

Rebecca English tweet

“Stunt, stunt, stunt,” cried the people. “Obvious,” said the blue check.

William and Kate flight stunt

And it was, but wait there’s more. In the fanfare of the tabloids erecting a statue in honor of William the conqueror of duffel bags, came word from a real reporter with the Scotsman – There were two empty jets. The now defunct airline, Flybe had flown two empty planes, 500 hundred miles so they would be sure to have a commercial jet befitting the man waiting for his father and grandmother to pass…on the scepter. If Harry and Meghan’s small private jet was going to destroy the planet, then two empty commercial jets should spell the end of our galaxy. Harry clarified that flying private was for security reasons, which also apply to the rest of the royal family. Remember, this was not long after two men went to prison for plotting to kill Harry, because according to them, he was a “race traitor”, not to talk about the threats to his wife.

Of course, the people who seem to embrace their role as mouthpiece for KP, came out. Fully recovered from directing their fake outrage at Harry and Meghan taking a private jet, they were ready to switch to fake outrage in defense of William and his obvious stunt.

Emily Andrews and Chris Ship flight pr stunt

As with the jet stunt, we saw the denials for what they were, “fake”.

And then nearly a year later, this happened. An article about Simon Case of Kensington Palace who is now off to support the non-elected ruler of Britain – Dominic Cummings.

The Spectator’s tweet of the article about his departure proudly proclaimed:

“Boris’s new man in No. 10 was behind Will and Kate’s budget flight to Balmoral – when Harry and Meghan were criticised for flying by private jet says Camilla Tominey”

Simon behind Will and Kate’s budget flight

What the tweet should have said was: “It was a stunt.”

And a poorly thought out and executed stunt. By any objective measure, it was a failure. People immediately knew it was a stunt, and treated it with the ridicule it deserved. It did not affect change, except with the people desperate for any excuse to think William and Kate worthy of their privileged position. For those of us who think privilege should be earned not gifted, we saw William as a backstabbing, entitled, duplicitous craven bully. In the middle of a propaganda campaign against his brother and (post-partum) sister-in-law, William decided (or agreed) that it would be an excellent idea to do that, to attempt to embiggen himself.

If, as KP’s press minions originally claimed, the flight had been arranged months in advance, why did Flybe have to scramble( moving empty jets hundreds of miles) at the last minute to position a Flybe-branded plane on a route that was operated by their codeshare partner Loganair (eastern airways) in order to “maximize press coverage for the airline”? Was there a prior expectation that their royal passengers will be pictured on the flight and hence the need to “maximize press coverage”? Had the flights been arranged far in advance as the press mouthpieces insisted it was, the airline could have positioned the planes without costing themselves money by way of 2 EMPTY flights. And why is Camilla Tominey now making special mention of Case’s role in that fiasco? Was he in his role, KP’s reservation specialist? If not normally, why did he take interest in that particular flight?

We do know that the flights arrangements were made on the eve of their departure per the Scotsman. A flight that was obviously positioned to portray William and Kate as “better” and more “responsible” than Harry and Meghan. And why are we now receiving confirmation of what we suspected from the beginning? Is it a coincidence, that revised versions of old rumors (tights-gate, private jet, KP leak) are being trotted out now? Revisions we suspect are closer to, (but still not) the truth. All these revisions still manage to position William and Kate as the victims. Apparently, Kate was justified in claiming to have a temper tantrum because the bride got the final say for her own wedding party; or that the backstabbing of Harry and Meghan via media propaganda was engineered by someone else and William and Kate merely went along? I don’t know why they think either proposition makes them look good.

If Simon Case was the ‘mastermind’ behind the media war waged by the future-future King against his brother and sister-in-law, then Mr. Case is an unfeeling, amoral manipulator. After all it was under his watch that the (pregnant) Duchess of Sussex was subjected to a coordinated campaign of harassment by the British Media. It was under his watch, that Tim Shipman of the times wrote in his famous article, excerpts below.

“This sense of embattlement has been entrenched by William’s decision to reach out to senior figures in the media as he prepares for kingship and by the apparent decision of those same newspapers to side with the palace over Meghan and Harry by peddling the most negative coverage of the duchess’s relationship with her father, Thomas Markle. “Harry sees that as part of the headwinds against him,” a friend said.”

It is Case who was credited with encouraging William to attempt to sideline Harry and his popular wife, which led to rumors of exiling them to Africa.

“…the Duke of Cambridge has been encouraged by his private secretary, Simon Case, who says he believed that a period of separation between the two brothers would help them to define themselves better and also improve relations between them.”

“In some ways it would suit William to get his brother out of the country for a few years and Meghan as far away as possible,” said one friend of the brothers.

Sending the couple to Canada was “mooted, then booted” given that Meghan spent seven years living there and for some it was “too close to the US” and the inevitable tabloid magazine coverage that would ensue. Making Harry governor-general of Australia was discussed and dismissed. The problems were obvious. “The trouble is that you effectively set them up as king and queen of a whole separate country,” according to one source. “And 24-hour media means that Australia is not as far away as it used to be.”

Here we are today, Harry and Meghan have stepped down as working royals, and moved to the United States of America, home to the media capital of the world. The public knew the economy plane trip was a stunt. We knew the leaks were coming from inside the Palace. No one but trolls believed the tights (or is it skirt length?) story. William will be remembered as a twat who on a state visit told the world that the media was hyping up COVID-19, even though at the time, hundreds were dying daily. Yet the apparent architect of the clusterf*ck, Simon Case, is credited with turning William into a statesman(yes) and it was his “success” at KP that lead Britain’s bumbling prime minister to invite him back to No. 10 Downing St.

As it were, the latest Spectator article only seeks to confirm what every rational and logically thinking person suspected was a calculated move by William’s court to hurt is brother. One has to wonder when all these facts became known to Camilla Tominey. Also is she the only reporter who is privy to these facts? Why were some in the royal rota adamant that flight arrangements were made far in advance? Did they question the seeming improbable coincidence(ahem) of the Cambridges and their brood being pictured boarding a domestic flight, whose exact price(£73) they seemed to know even after the fact? Or were they just willing to give William & Kate the benefit of the doubt, which they never extend to Harry and Meghan? So many questions still to be answered. If I were a betting woman, I will bet my last penny that there are more Cases to be unveiled. Stay tuned.

[softestgentlest]

Lily & Harry - high school fanfic

Harry Styles.

Harry fucking Styles.

An egotistical, quick witted asshole with a silver tongue and easy charisma.

He's also irritatingly privileged; not only is he filthy fucking rich, but he's also extraordinarily intelligent, and to top it all off, positively, mercilessly, despicably gorgeous. As if he wasn't already dealt the winning hand, his otherworldly physical attractiveness afforded him the freedom to do whatever the hell he pleased, whenever, and wherever he wanted to do it.

And, of course, in some cruel twist of fate, he most often chose to utilize his influence by victimizing me: Lillian Mercier, a quiet, harmless junior, whose sole desire is to graduate ASAP, so I can move onto Cambridge University by the Fall of next year.

I'm on track to receive my diploma a year early, according to my guidance counselor, but I've got to keep my GPA above a 3.8 at least, if I have any hope of getting admitted into my uni of choice.

My mind is humming, sifting through upcoming exams, assignments, papers that need writing, and a number of other priorities as I open up my locker.

I'm just pulling out my SAT prep book, when a series of excited murmurs echo through the crowded hallway. A girl a few feet away turns, whispering to her friend, "I think my ovaries just exploded, dude. Look at Harry's haircut."

I roll my eyes, swapping the prep book with the AP English text that's currently weighing down my bag. I try to focus on my mental "to do" list, but I'm now annoyingly in-tune with the girl's conversation, unable to block them out.

"I know! How could he have gotten even hotter? And look at his outfit...like, he can literally make anything look good."

"Oh my goooodd dude, he's graduating this year. I honestly think I'll die, like, he's the only thing that makes this school tolerable."

"Shhhh, they're coming over here."

The girls go quiet, and I tense, keeping my eyes trained on the interior of my locker. Harry will be graduating at the end of the year, as he's a senior, and with that knowledge, I feel intensely relieved.

Even if I can't graduate early, he'll be gone, and I'll actually be able to enjoy my senior year.

A smile plays across my lips as I stretch to reach the top shelf of my locker, standing on my tippy toes. I'm 5'3, and these lockers were clearly built by men of average height, with little to no regard for high schoolers of smaller statures.

I know I threw some flash cards up there in the rush to make the bus yesterday, but even when I step up and onto the metal base of my assigned storage space, I still can't seem to-

I gasp, as I lose my footing and fall backwards. Luckily - or, maybe unluckily - my fall is broken by something solid. I hear a soft grunt, and large hands grip my waist, steadying me.

I pant, pressing a hand to my racing heart, when I feel something soft brush against the sensitive shell of my ear, "good morning to you too, clumsy."

I shiver, and pull away, immediately recognizing that deep, accented voice as it burns hotly into my skin.

Do not engage, I mentally remind myself, forcing my trembling hands to occupy themselves with the contents of my backpack.

He tssks, clicking his tongue, "Aren't you going to thank me?"

"Thanks." I concede through gritted teeth.

He chuckles, leaning too close for comfort once again, "it was my pleasure, Lillian." His voice drops an octave on the word 'pleasure,' giving it an unnecessarily sexual undertone, if only to get under my skin.

At the corner of my vision, I see his shadowed silhouette as he leans against the locker beside mine, tall and domineering as ever.

I ignore his presence, slowly zippering up my bag, and securing my lock, before reluctantly turning to face him.

The first thing I notice is the lack of hair. What had once been long, lustrous, chocolaty curls, is now shortened gossamer strands of hair falling over his forehead in a provocative, untidy tumble. The new cut exposes his defined jawline, and those sharp, light catching cheekbones.

As usual, he's dressed to the nines, somehow managing to make his unexpected attire look effortlessly appealing. Today, he's clad in a strange mix of professional, and bohemian pieces: a blue and white checkered wool jacket, a dark pinstriped suit, a red beaded necklace. He's got on bright pink socks, and white loafers, and his signature assortment of rings.

I clear my throat when he catches me checking him out, "Harry, I didn't know you could sew."

He looks perplexed, considering my assumption with furrowed brows, "I can't."

"Oh, then I suppose it was your mother who made that jacket from one of her tablecloths?"

He tilts his head to one side, and runs his fingers roughly through his freshly cut curls, "this," he snarks, smoothing his hands down the woolen fabric, "is a $2,000 jacket, love."

I roll my eyes, hitching my bag over my shoulder, and turn to walk away, only to come face to face with Mitch and Nick, two of Harry's equally asinine friends.

"Excuse me." I prompt. The two boys ignore me, smirking over my head at their scumbag leader.

I huff, turning back around, knowing full well that they aren't going to do anything unless he commands it. "I don't have time for this, Harry." I cross my arms, pursing my lips in annoyance, "I'm gonna be late to class, and so are you."

His mouth curves dangerously, drawing my attention to the pillow-soft push of his lips. "And we wouldn't want that, now would we, Lillian?" he pronounces my name so that it drips from his shapely lips leisurely, provocatively. "What with your big plans to graduate early."

Immediately, I recoil, meeting his expectant stare with wide eyes, "H-how...?"

"Oh, you thought I wouldn't find out?" He pushes off the lockers, Stepping closer, "did you know that you're GPA is just .01 points less than mine?" His voice is honeyed, sickeningly sweet - it sets off warning bells in my head.

I swallow nervously, taking a small step backwards, "I don't see what that has to do with my plan-"

"Oh, but it has everything to do with your plans." Again, he advances, but this time I hold my ground, tilting my head to meet his stare, "you see, we weren't competing before...not really. But, if you graduate ahead of your class and maintain that same GPA, well...Cambridge won't even look at me, regardless of my achievements, because you'll have the edge."

I blink, processing his words, "You want to go to Cambridge...?"

He quirks a dark brow, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

I'm dumbfounded, "But...but I-you...but-that's just ridiculous!" I nearly stomp my foot at the sheer absurdity of the notion, but opt to clench my fists at my sides instead.

He looks utterly amused, and leans a bit closer, a challenge in his eyes: "is that right?"

"Why would you want to go to Cambridge?!" I note how whiny my voice sounds, but I'm too distressed to care.

He's full on grinning now, his emerald eyes dancing with glee. "wouldn't you like to know" He purrs in that slow, sexy drawl, his voice dropping so low that it can only be heard by the two of us.

It is then that the bell rings, shrill and disruptive, tearing me from his trance-like stare.

I realize how close we've gotten, our faces perhaps six inches apart. I can feel the warmth of his body radiating off of him and wrapping around me. Before I can stop myself, I inhale his intoxicating scent: spicy and earthy and masculine, like cigarettes and pine and the leather spines of old books.

For a fraction of a second, my eyes slip shut...he smells so damn good.

Then, just as quickly, I blink, and step back, my heart racing in my chest. I did NOT just...

He straightens, raking his eyes over my trembling frame with an air of affected smugness. Silently, he steps the side, watching me as I collect myself, an embarrassing blush infusing my cheeks.

Slowly, I move down the hallway towards my class, uncharacteristically unconcerned with the possibility of being marked tardy. I can tell that he's following, as students all around turn to stare behind me. We're in the same English class.

My brain seems to have gone into overdrive, conjuring up insane reasons for why I'd smelled him and liked it enough to consider doing it again. Impossible. Harry's a prick. The bane of my existence. Sure, he's wildly attractive, but never have I ever been even remotely interested in him...sexually. So what the hell was that?

Why am I all hot and blushing and trembly? Why?! Especially after he'd dropped the Cambridge bomb! I mean, really? Of all the schools for him to choose, it had to be my dream school. And of the thousands of people I'll be competing with to be admitted, it just had to be him.

Harry's one of the smartest people I've ever met, and he's got the resources and connections to get into any school he wants. The chances of two kids from the same high school getting into Cambridge are absolutely zero, and whether I graduate early or not, Harry's a shoe in for a spot there - he's the ideal student: rich and intelligent and driven, with a shit ton of community service and extracurriculars under his belt, and with a number of published poems and short stories.

He'll take my spot there just by aiming his perfect white grin in the right direction. And if we were both admitted, by some miracle, that would be even worse! 6 more years with him?! I'd die. I couldn't take it. I'd-

"Ah!" I gasp, colliding with a tall boy for the second time today. My books fly out of my arms again, and I fall flat in my ass with a soft yelp of pain.

"Woah! Are you ok?" A voice asks, and I glance up to find a familiar blonde boy looking down at me.

"Um, y-yeah." I say, quickly moving to stand up. Like a gentleman, he reaches down, offering me a hand, and I take it, allowing him to pull me gently to my feet. "Uh, sorry about that. I wasn't paying attention..." I smile sheepishly,

"Oh, no, it's totally fine." He grins back, then kneels down to pick up my books. "As long as your ok."

"Really, I'm fine." I giggle, kneeling down to help. "Your Neil, right? I think we have psych together?"

He hands me my things, standing up, "close! It's Niall, and yeah, 6th period right?"

I nod, "Niall. Yeah, I'm Lily. I'm the one always shouting out the answers and then getting yelled at." I giggle nervously, feeling a little self conscious around this boy with pretty blue eyes and a kind smile.

He laughs, "well, I'm definitely not one to shout out answers. I'm terrible at Psych." He gestures for me to walk with him, and I do, "I'll walk you to your class, just to make sure your alright."

I roll my eyes playfully, but follow, "I already ran into you. Don't let me be the reason that your late to class too."

I lead the way to the English wing, and we joke lightly about our Psych teacher, Mrs. Campbell. By the time we've arrived, the bell has rung, and I know that he's going to be late because of me, but he doesn't seem to care.

"Hey," he calls out, just as I'm about to open the door to my classroom, "maybe you could tutor me sometime? In Psych? You always seem to be yelling the right answers, and I could really use the help..." he rubs the back of his neck nervously, and I can't help but smile at how cute he looks.

"It's the least I can do after running into you." I say, "let's talk in class later?"

"Yeah, sure!" He backs down the hallway, "I'll see you then, Lily!"

When I enter the classroom, there's still a smile on my face, and I quietly make my way to an empty seat in the back. My teacher, Mr. Gray, shoots me an inquisitive look, since I'm not one to show up late to my favorite class, but he doesn't call me out on it.

"Alright guys," he says, "while I was reading you essay submissions from last week, I noticed quite a few spelling errors, so I thought we might have a little bit of a...spelling bee today, just to see where we all stand when it comes to commonly misspelled words." The class groaned collectively, and he laughed, "nothing to worry about. This won't count for a grade, I just want a chance to see where everyone stands. It'll be fun!"

Mr. Gray proceeded to split the class into two groups, and two at a time, he called students up to the board, and in tournament fashion, the winner played the winner from the opposite team. I could tell that he was saving certain students for the end, since they would likely beat out all the competition, thereby depriving their teammates of turns. By the time it got to me, only a few students were left on the opposing team.

"Ok, Kim," he called to my competitor, "your word is Accidentally" Kim correctly spelled two words, and then swapped out with another teammate, Jamie, who only beat me on one word.

"Alright, this is it, guys. Last two. Harry, join Lily up front."

Immediately, my eyes found him, just as the rest of the class turned to watch him rising from his seat. He took a step towards me. Then another. I sort of shivered, watching him move, observing his long legs, slowly closing the space between us with their every measured step. There's something almost feline about it - the way he moves - very masculine...and very...sexual, if that makes any sense at all.

I averted my eyes as he took up the space beside me. Again, the drowsy scent of books and pine with undertones of coffee and tobacco invaded my senses, and I felt my knees threatening to buckle.

"Harry, your word is 'allegiance'"

I felt him smiling, tasted his smooth baritone, skating hotly down my spine: "A-L-L-E-G-I-A-N-C-E. Allegiance."

"Lily, controversy."

I spelled it correctly and held my breath, gazing stubbornly straight ahead.

"Harry, 'immediately.'" He did the same.

"perseverance"

"Accommodate"

"I-N-T-E-L-L-I-G-E-N-C-E, Intelligence." I glanced over at Harry, noting the look of intense boredom on his face as he stared off into the distance. Clearly, this was too easy for both of us.

"Too easy is it, Lillian?"

"Uh, w-what?" I snapped out of my reverie, glancing at Mr. Gray, who looked rather amused.

"If you think it's too easy, we can really put you two to the test. What do you think class?" Mr. Gray looked around, and the class erupted into excited giggles and shouts.

Realizing my mistake, I felt my cheeks flush hot with embarrassment, "oh I-I didn't m-mean to say that um...out loud sir..."

The damage had already been done. Mr. Gray grinned, clearly excited to have piqued the class's interest, "alright then, let's try....sacrilegious."

Harry, looking rather more alert than he had before, turned to look at me, holding my stare even as each honeyed letter fell from his lips "S-A-C-R-I-L-E-G-I-O-U-S" the flecks of gold in his eyes danced, embers crackling, glittering.

"Conscientious, Lily."

"Oh, um..." I quickly averted my gaze, glancing nervously at my trembling fingers, "C-O-N..." my heart wobbled in my chest. What's comes next? "...S-C-I-E-N-T-I-O-U-S, Conscientious." I want this to be over...

Harry chuckled beside me, low and slow. I felt his eyes on me. "bureaucratic." He spelled, quick as a whip, and all eyes were back on me.

"Bourgeoisie." Amidst the nerves and exhaustion, my stubbornness gave way to another correct answer. I won't lose to him. Not this, not Cambridge.

He managed "clairvoyant," "coalescence," and "kaleidoscope." I got through "lachrymose," "mnemonic," and "pharmaceutical," and then, finally, he messed up.

I heard it in his voice first, knew before it happened that I had won. Mr. Gray - once again proving himself to be my favorite teacher- threw "triskaidekaphobia" at Harry, and we both froze.

"T-R-I-S-K....A-D-E-K-A-P-H-O-B-I-A." Harry murmured uncertainly, sounding just as breathless as I felt. The class had gone silent, and I could hear my heart racing.

"Incorrect." Mr. Gray uttered, but before the class could erupt into cheers, he continued, "let me just say, Harry, Lily, that was extraordinary. Really, very good show." He slowly began to clap, and our classmates followed suit, whooping and jeering at Harry good-naturedly.

I turned to glance at him then, not feeling very excited about having won. I couldn't help the little gasp that escaped my throat when I saw his face. He had curved his mouth into a grin, ran a hand through his hair boyishly, a calculated carelessness slackening his features - but I saw it in the way his lips twitched, in the way his eyes glossed over and darkened to muted jade.

He's upset. I realized, moving closer without really thinking about it. He's really, really upset.

"H-Harry?" I heard myself whisper, voice trembling. Everyone had, by now, moved into their own little groups, all talking animatedly about the results of our little duel, so they weren't really paying us any mind.

His smile faltered - just for a moment - "good game." He husked, his voice raw. He held out a hand, quirking a brow, watching me with those expectant eyes.

It was then, in that moment, that I realized, very suddenly, that Harry is...beautiful. Like, proper beautiful, like earth shatteringly, mind numbingly gorgeous.

The realization hit me with such immense force that I had to grab his outstretched hand to keep from crumbling to the ground. "O-oh." My mouth parts on the startled little noise, and suddenly I'm very aware of the gentle press of his cold rings against my fingers, his large hand claiming mine, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he holds me. "Uh-huh." My response catches in my throat and comes out sounding like a strangled hiccup.

Quickly, I pull away, stumbling back a few steps, I tear my eyes from his face, flailing my hands around like a monkey.

What the fuck?

•••••••••

LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT A PART 2 💛

[chan-yolo]

Come Back, Be Here

A/N So here it is, my first ever JK scenario. this makes me hella nervous because i’m typically an EXO writer, but i’m into BTS too, they’re another one of my favourite groups, so I thought I’d give Jungkook a go. 

This one is angsty and based off of Taylor Swift’s song, ‘Come Back, Be Here’ from her Red album. 

I hope you like it. 

lemme know if you want anymore BTS in the future. 

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook/ Reader

Genre: Fluff, ANGST.

Warnings: hints at sex, swearing somewhere. 

Word Count: 5,463

Suggested song: Come Back Be Here- Taylor Swift. 

There are different kinds of relationships.

You have your long-lasting serious relationship. The one everyone hopes for, even when they say they don’t, there’s that longing for one. The one that’s it for you. The one that is the one. The be all and end all of love and happiness.

Then you have your fun casual ones. Sometimes they’re no strings attached, sexy, heated fun. And sometimes they’re all strings attached but in a casual way. The ones where you have no label but you do. You get each other but you don’t always need each other.

Your relationship was supposed to be that. Fun, exciting, passionate. You didn’t have or want to need him. You weren’t his girlfriend and he wasn’t your boyfriend.

But then why did it hurt so much? You didn’t want to need him but you did.

There are different kinds of relationships, and on paper that is true. But in practice it doesn’t always stay in the bracket.

The first time you met him, you didn’t even know who he was. Stupid seeing as he was in one of the biggest boy groups to grace stan twitter since One Direction. But honestly you were just trying to pay your rent and sleep eight hours a day.

Jungkook was someone who was pelted into your life full force. It was as if he was never meant to be there, never originally fated to cross your path. But the universe likes to change things up once in a while, and lord did it want to change your life.

You met Jungkook on a typical English rainy day. You’d finished work, and the way nature greeted you was to open up the heavens and release a downpour, one you wasn’t prepared for. Racing down the street, you dipped into the nearest coffee shop, hoping to wait out the rain until it calmed down. Unfortunately you lived a bus journey away from the office you were working in, and the bus station was a ten-minute walk from that. So hiding away with your book and coffee, waiting for the storm to blow over was your only option.

The little shop was filling quickly, everyone having the same idea. You sat in the back corner, away from the crowded entry way, and closest to the window where you could watch as the raindrops chased each other on the steamy glass. Wrapping your hands around the white ceramic coffee mug, you relished in the feeling of your fingertips numbing from the warmth of the beverage.

Your gaze lethargically flicked over the people sat in the café, watching them shake out umbrellas and shuffle off coats. Though you never expected to make such piercing eye contact with one of those strangers. The boy was looking straight at you, his own coffee mug in hand. His dark hair was slightly wet on the ends, it was long. You noted he definitely needed a haircut, but the length was endearing on him. his clothes were baggy, hanging off of his frame. A black sweater mixed with black cargo pants. You noticed his shoes were Balenciaga. A strange choice, you noted, seeming it was England and rainy. You would never wear such expensive shoes with the thought of them being ruined in the typical English autumn weather.

His eyebrow raised at your gaze, walking towards you, weaving through the tables. As he stopped beside your table for two, he nodded at the chair in front of yours, confidently asking;

“May I sit here?” You raised your own eyebrow at his question. His accent was cute, and his slight lisp was as adorable. So of course you said yes.

You learned a lot about him on that rainy day in London. About how he was from Busan, and how he had come here on part of his holiday from work. What he didn’t tell you was what his work was.

As the rain stopped, so did your conversation. Both needing to be in other places. You said your goodbyes with an exchange of numbers and small smiles. The first of many to come.

You’d texted Jungkook on and off for a few days before he asked if he could see you again. This time it was in the back of a museum, where he listened to you tell him about the 18th century and the civil war of the Georgian era.

“How do you know so much about this?”

“I studied English literature and history at university, The eighteenth century was the only part that stuck the most.” You smiled at him before looking up at another satirical painting.

“So you enjoy reading then?” You nodded at his question, smiling at his interest in your own hobbies.

“It gives you another world to be in when you don’t enjoy the reality of the one you’re currently in.” Jungkook just smiled back at you, taking your hand in his and squeezing it. When he let go of your hand he pointed at the next painting, asking you to tell him about the meaning of that.

When you think back, the little rendezvous the two of you were having was like that. something to distract you from the reality of your own lives. You both gave each other a new world. Your free time was taken up by Jungkook, but you didn’t mind. His upbeat persona and his curiosity always made you want to see him more.

The first time he kissed you, you were in awe. You’d decided to drive back to your home town, taking the boy with you. The trip to Cambridge was long but worth it. Within each back street a picture was taken, his hand was in your own, and you were happy.

As you were explaining the different university buildings to him, he pulled you closer to him by your waist, one hand moving to the back of your head, leading your lips to his own. The kiss was small and slow. But it was something you’d always remember. As he pulled away, he pushed your hair behind you ear, giving you one of his full smiles you loved.

“You have a beautiful mind.” He whispered to you before pecking your lips once again. Everything he did was magical to you. And you worried about how breathless he left you. Yet you never stopped to do anything about the fact you were being swept away by him.

***

 Nights were soon spent either in his rented apartment, or in your own smaller apartment. Sharing kisses and watching movies. Sometimes even reading together. And this night was no different. You were sat in his apartment, facing each other. You were now on your second glass of wine, cheeks aching from how much the boy in front of you was making you laugh.

“Your friends sound chaotic.” You laughed at another one of  his stories.

“No no no, they just like to make us laugh, not chaotic just funny.” He smiled at you. You could see the love he held for his friends in his eyes, and it made your own heart swell.

“I’d like to meet them one day.” You watched as some of the spark in his eyes dimmed, and your own stomach twisted, wondering if you’d gone too far.

“I think it’d be hard to. Our job doesn’t give us much time to have relationships.” He looked at his lap, and you nodded, sipping your wine and looking towards the sky line of the city.

“I also like that I only know you, I don’t have to share you with the Hyung’s, or the fans.” At this you looked back at him, confused.

“Fans?” at your question, Jungkook muttered something in Korean that you didn’t understand .

“Yes, fans. Y/n, aish how do I…” he rubbed the back of his neck, looking for the right words. “I’m in a band, you know BTS?” This time it was your turn to think about It, and when you searched your brain, you realised you did know who he was.

“omg I’m so stupid, you must think I’m an idiot to not notice who you are.” Jungkook laughed at you, taking your hand in his. In fact he thought it was nice that you didn’t know who he was. And when you told him you had listened to a couple of their songs, one of them being Euphoria, his smiled widened and he kissed you, longer and deeper than he had ever kissed you before.

That night you both established your trust as well as the unspoken agreement that this couldn’t get any more serious than it already was. Though when you woke up next to him the following morning, naked, chest filled with purple bruises showing the trail his lips had made, you knew that you would not hesitate to break those rules.

When you went home that day, you rang your mum. Pacing the room you described every moment with Jungkook, every feeling you had and the situation you had found yourself in with a worldwide star.

“Trust you to get into this predicament.” Your mum teased on the other end.

“Mum! You’re not helping.”

“I’m sorry, but you do know you can’t get too attached right?”

“I know, I’m not stupid. It would never work, even if he wasn’t in BTS. He has to leave at some point.”

“Please be careful okay, because when he leaves you’ll be left with the heartbreak.”

“I know mum, I’ll be careful. I promise.”

“As long as you’re sure.” Even as you agreed, deep down you knew you were lying. But you couldn’t let go just yet.

***

 The delicate beginning rush, the feeling you could know so much without really knowing anything at all.

Boyfriend material. That is what Jungkook screamed. Your mind would never stop telling you how perfect he was, and your heart never stopped wanting more from him. but you could never ask him for more.

You’d fallen in love with him. and even though you knew that was selfish of you, you still couldn’t stop falling for the way he cared. The way he cared about you, with his cute texts when you weren’t together, to get you through your day. the way his eyes filled with love when he talked about his fans and the homely feel he had when he talked about the rest of the boys.

You longed to be the reason for the love in his eyes also. But instead you basked in the moment. You took all you could get, being wrapped up in bed with him, speaking about your dreams and his goals for the next year with his bandmates.

“You’re amazing you know that right?” You whispered to him one night, as he talked about his want to compose his own song for the fans. Jungkook smirked at you, moving to hover over you. Moving his head down to graze yours.

“I try.” Connecting his lips to yours, his tongue met your own, his fingers pulling your underwear down, and your heart once again was giving out a piece for him to keep. Soon there would be nothing left for you to keep, and you didn’t even see it happening.

***

You hadn’t heard from Jungkook for weeks. Not even a small text to tell you he was okay. According to social media he was okay, but that wasn’t the Jungkook you knew, that wasn’t your Jungkook.

You’d left him messages, but he just left them on read, and after a while ignored them completely. You knew you shouldn’t be as bothered as you were. But you had given up so many of your nights for him, and he couldn’t even give you a text back.

Pulling out your phone, you sat on your sofa, scrolling through previous messages for signs this was all over. Huffing you decided you were being an idiot, leaving him one last message before you decided to head to bed.

“Text me when you feel like talking to me again I guess.”

The buzzing sounded throughout your apartment in the most annoying way, pulling you out of your sleep. groggily you sat up, looking at the time which read 1am, you pulled on one of Jungkook’s jumpers he had left there, shuffling towards the front door, you asked who it was, just to hear Jungkook’s muffled, “It’s me.” And that certainly woke you up. Buzzing him up, you moved to sit on the sofa, biting at your nails nervously.

Letting himself in, Jungkook sat opposite you, his eyes never met yours, his fingers interlocked, his gaze downcast.

“I just wanted to know you were okay, it doesn’t take you five minutes to tell me you’re safe.” You broke the silence, justifying the texts. The reason why he was here.

“I was busy.” Was his only response, his eyes still refusing to meet your own.

“I know, and I respect that. But Jungkook, it’s been weeks and I know this isn’t a serious relationship or anything like it but I just needed to know.” At this his brown eyes met your blue ones.

“Then what are we Y/N? how can we do what we do and not be together?

“You know we can’t, you know better than anyone else. You set these rules.” You fought back, watching as he stood up, pacing the expanse of your small living room. Stopping he looked at you, shaking his head, he grabbed his bag heading back towards your door.

“Jungkook, please. Please don’t leave. Not tonight please.” Your small hand caught his sleeve, hoping it was enough to stop him.  you watched his shoulders drop, your body full of its own tension.  Turning around, he pulled you into him. his hug was different to the others you had shared. As if it was the end of something.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was quiet, no longer full of the normal essence that was Jungkook.

“Me too.” And you were. Not just to him but to yourself, as you no longer owned any part of yourself, all you knew was Jeon Jungkook.

***

Things were never the same, you both distanced yourselves more. but the odd night you still found yourself wrapped in his sheets as he whispered false promises and sweet words. You wanted to believe him, and somewhere inside you, you did. But your reality woke you up in the morning, and your life continued.

It wasn’t until one Thursday morning when you realised how different your lives were. It was 4am, and Jungkook was leaving delicate kisses on your neck, your breathing evening out as you tried to drift off into sleep.

“Y/n.” His whisper was light, mixed into the kisses that were now left on your shoulder.

“hmm?”

“I need to tell you something.” Your eyes fluttered open to look at his own, waiting for the news he had.

“I’m leaving.” Pulling away, you sat up, wrapping the sheet around your body.

“You’re what?”

“We’re making another album, and we’re filming again.”

“Oh, Gukk, that’s great.” You stood up, pulling on his t-shirt quickly.

“You’re upset.” He sat up himself, watching you as you pulled on underwear.

“It’s your job, it’s what you love to do, I can’t be upset about that.” You looked at him, nibbling on your lip nervously. Crawling across the bed, Jungkook pulled you towards him, settling you on his lap. “When do you leave?” You ran your hands through his hair, leaving a kiss to his hair line.

“In two days.” He whispered into your shoulder, once again leaving kisses there.

You finally had an expiry date, but you never expected it to be so soon.

***

We stumbled through the long goodbyes.

One last kiss then catch your flight,

Right when I was just about to fall.

 The terminal was quiet. You’d never had to wait with someone who was a VIP. So being sat in a room with Just the two of you and some bodyguards was a weird experience. But this was possibly your last time to be with Jungkook, and you weren’t going to stop clinging onto him, no matter how many weird looks you got from his team.

Jungkook was leaving small kisses on your head as you played with his fingers. Neither one of you wanting to break the silence, not knowing what to say to each other. You traced the veins on his hands, each line familiar to you, thinking of how your life will change after this. How everything will go back to normal, as if you’d never met Jungkook. But your heart would never be the same. Jungkook lifted his hand, fingers still intertwined with yours, checking the watch on his wrist for the time. You felt him sigh beside you, his face moving to bury into your hair. Inhaling Jungkook left another kiss before whispering out your name.

“Y/n…” You closed your eyes, knowing just by the tone in his voice that it was time to say goodbye.

“Please…” Your voice was a whimper, a tremble you wished you could hide.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go.” You inhaled a low shaky breath, feeling Jungkook’s hand squeeze in your own. You both stood up, Jungkook pulling the two of you into a tight hug, the embrace making your heart break, and the tears start to stream from your eyes.

You felt Jungkook look up from your shoulder. Addressing the team behind you, he uttered something to them in Korean, and shortly after you heard what must have been them walking away from you.

“y/n I’m sorry I have to go.” Pulling away from the man you had come to love, you rubbed your eyes, trying to get rid of the tears on your face, shaking your head at him.

“No. Jungkook you have to go, we always knew this was going to happen, I’m just emotional that’s all.” You gave him a sad smile trying to lighten the mood of the situation. Jungkook gave you a knowing one back, moving to wipe your tears away for you before pulling you into him once again.

“I have to go.”

“I know.” You snuggled your head into his chest, not making an effort to move away from him. choosing to do it himself, he softly pushed you away from him, his brown eyes looking down at yours. You used to get lost in the cosmos in his eyes, but now it just hurt to think you would probably never see them again. Jungkook’s thumb traced your cheekbone, his own sad smile overtaking your face as his eyes traced your features. Dipping down his lips met yours, delicately and slowly. The kiss was deep and meaningful, and when his tongue met your own, your hands moved to squeeze his biceps, trying to keep him close to you.

The flight attendant announced that Jungkook’s plane was ready to board, and you couldn’t think of anyone you hated more in the world. Pulling away from each other, Jungkook’s hands moved to take your own, squeezing them reassuringly in his grip.

“You’re going to be alright?” The tone of his voice was light, but you could hear the strain in his words.

“Of course I am Gukk.” You sighed heavily. Smiling once again to reassure him .

“we’re alright?” His eyebrow raised, just like the first time you met him.

“yeah, we’re alright.” You nodded at him, squeezing his hands lightly in return to his.

“I have to go.”

“I know.” You sighed for the hundredth time that evening, ready to say what you’ve always wanted to. But before any words could escape your mouth, Jungkook had dipped down to steal one more kiss from you, pulling away quickly to walk towards where his manager was waiting for him at the terminal.

A fresh set of tears streamed down your face as you watched him leave, your breath hitching when he didn’t turn back, just disappearing. Your whole body gave up, slumping down into the seat you were in just mere minutes ago. Sobs were now leaving your mouth as you wiped your eyes on the sleeve of your jumper, his jumper. You whispered the words into your sleeve that you wanted to say to him, knowing they would never meet his ears.

“I love you.”

***

I can’t help but wish you took me with you.

Weeks went by. Each one lacklustre. You’d been moving on auto pilot, getting on with your dull life. Though this was the life you’d always had before Jungkook came along. Each day you busied yourself, trying to get the image of the boy with the bunny teeth out of your mind. But you noticed more and more every day, how popular they were in the world, traces of them popping up all over the place.

It was on your way home from work when you fully felt the ache in your heart. The bus had stopped in front of a billboard. A bright pink billboard. The words ‘Map of the Soul: Persona’, stretched across the top, the seven boys with their bright clothing looking back at you. Though you only saw Jungkook, getting a glimpse of the face you hadn’t seen properly for weeks before the bus went speeding down the road again.

That night, you called your mum. Crying about what wasn’t and what could’ve been. The feeling of a broken heart new to you, you didn’t quite believe it was so.

“It was for the best sweetie.” Your mum tried to be supportive, tried to assure you this was all a part of life that you would learn and grow from.

“I know mum.” Your voice was straining, hoarse from the previous crying.

“He wasn’t the one.” As convincing as your mum was trying to be, you didn’t have the strength to lie or to fight with her. You all knew the truth.

“Yes mum.”

***

This is when the feeling sinks in, I don’t wanna miss you like this.

 A night with friends should be one for relaxing. One where you can catch up with each other. Laugh and just forget about the world outside. Your friends knew you were seeing someone, and that recently there was a sort of break up. They just didn’t know it was Jungkook.

Hiding Jungkook’s job was hard, but they had never heard of BTS, so you never worried. But at this moment in time, you just wanted to sit and tell them every little detail. But tonight was about being together and having a good time. In midst of things, you were. It was nice to see people that weren’t from work. Sat around the booth you smiled at each of your friends as they shared their own gossip from their own lives, keeping you distracted.

Things seemed to be going just the way they planned. You were smiling, laughing even. The most you had in weeks. That was until a surprise turned up. In the shape of your friends’ boyfriends. Now, normally you were not the one to be bitter about these things. You loved the relationships your friends were in. you loved how happy they seemed with their significant other. But tonight you didn’t want to be reminded of how unlucky in love you were. Selfish was never something you pinned yourself as, but tonight that’s what you wanted to be.

Your glare was subtle, but your pout prominent. Watching the love in everyone’s eyes around you. Your new housemate, conveniently sat opposite you, never knew the concept of too much PDA, so for approximately ten minutes, you counted, she was clinging to her boyfriend like she hadn’t seen him in years. She in fact saw him that morning. Okay, maybe you were a little bitter.

Shuffling out of the chair you had moved in so the couples could be closer together, you made your way hastily to the bar. A drink wouldn’t hurt, and you’d be needing one to get you through the night. Though one drink didn’t mean a leisurely pint at the pub, no. it meant a strong whisky mixed with mulled over feelings of what could’ve been. The night turned into thoughts of what Jungkook would be doing right now. Did he miss you? Did he still think of you? That night your mind was cruel to you, and in your bitterness you blamed your friends, when in reality it was your own selfish heart.

***

I guess you’re in New York today, I don’t wanna need you this way.

It didn’t take long for you to spill out everything to your housemate. Who Jungkook was, not just to you but to the world. And bless her, did she try her hardest to help you with your broken heart. Eventually you started feeling a little more human. Daily tasks weren’t hard to do, they were just mundane. Like they were before you met him. Though the ache was still there.

You still found yourself needing him, not just at night, but in the cold mornings. Or needing his laugh, and cute scrunch of his nose when he was happy or amused.

That’s how you found yourself watching one of the bands latest interviews. You were dying to know what he looked like, needing to see if he had changed since you last saw him at the airport that day.

Watching the video you were so immersed in their friendship, each member stating what they liked about New York, the city they were currently in. You had never seen Jungkook with the other boys, your eyes never left his form as you watched the absolute adoration he had for each of the guys with him.

He looked different.

How strange I don’t know you at all.

Your eyes darted across the screen. His hair was different, a little more well-kept. His smile was different too. Different from the one you were used to seeing. This wasn’t the Jungkook you had gotten to know. This was the singer, the idol Jeon Jungkook.

In ways, he was still the same. One thing you definitely knew about him was that even though he was still finding himself, he would never try and intentionally give a false version of himself to anyone, especially his fans. But in the grander schemes of things, you had come to realise you actually didn’t really know Jeon Jungkook at all like you thought you did.

You hadn’t heard from him since a few days after the tour started. He looked happy. Maybe things had changed.

Before you could think about it anymore, your roommate popped her head around the door. Sensing your state of pain and realisation, she gave you a sympathetic smile, leaning against your doorframe.

“Wanna go get food?” Nodding at her, you gave a small smile back.

“Sure, give me a sec.” giving a short nod, she headed off to her room. Leaving you to shut your laptop, wiping away the tears that threatened to fall once again.

 ***

This is falling in love in the cruellest way.

This is falling for you when you are worlds away.

 Crying on your best friend was not how you expected your Tuesday night to go. But here you were. Snotty nose pressed against her shoulder, tear stained cheeks tacky and salty from the amount of crying you had been doing.

“I can’t take it anymore Jade, I can’t do this.” Your voice was hoarse, sore from the sobs. Jade pulled you closer to her, entangling her legs with your own as you lay in your bed. You felt her sigh in your hair as she left a kiss atop it.

“Y/n, I thought you had it handled?”

“I love him.” Closing your eyes you felt a new wave of sadness rush through you again. Hiccupping, you tried to ward off the hurt that wanted to escape you in waves.

“Babe…”

“I know, I know. I’m an idiot. An absolute fucking idiot.” Squeezing your eyes shut, you didn’t want to see your friends face. The pity on it. The tone in her voice was enough.

“You’re human.” Moving apart to finally look at her, you watched as her eyes filled with sadness as she looked at your own heart broken expression. Laying on your back, you let out a huff, cursing your own stupid emotions.

“I thought it’s be easier, he’d move back to Korea, go on tour, live his life. I’d g back to mine. But I can’t, not when he’s everywhere. Everywhere but here.” You whispered to yourself, sinking into the reality of what your situation was.

“You have to let him go y/n, this whole thing is too cruel.”

“I’m trying.” You looked at your friend with watery eyes, neither of you convinced that you were.

***

I break down, cos it’s not fair that you’re not around.

That same night, after your friend had left, you were still sat in your bed. The crying had stopped but you were still snotty nosed and ever so tired. You knew you should stop feeling this way, that you were the only one who could make it all stop.

The familiar sound of your phone ringing ran throughout your room, cutting through the drama you were watching on tv. Reaching to your bedside table, checking the caller ID before dropping your phone as if it had just bitten you.

It was him.

The caller ID “Gukk” lit up your screen. Your breath hitched, heart clenching and eyes watering. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t fair, was the only thing going through your mind.

You wanted to ignore it, you promised you forget. So you waited. Waited for the ringing to top. Closing your eyes to seal in the fresh tears. Finally it stopped, and in its end brought your sobs, strangled and torn.

A buzzing made you open your eyes, hoping that there was no more. looking down at your phone to see a new text, your heart shattered at his message.

“I’m so sorry.”

It wasn’t fair.

***

I don’t want to need you this way.

Message after message was left. It had been a week and you hadn’t answered any of the calls or texts. You were angry, you were sad. yet you were still full of longing. That is what lead to you dialling his number, knowing full well it was late for him, but you didn’t care. Some things couldn’t wait any longer.

The phone rang three times before he picked up. You listened to his breathing on the other side. Pacing up and down your living room floor, you felt slightly overwhelmed.

“Hey.” You breathed out finally, noting in the little hitch in his own breathing.

“Hey.” His voice seemed deeper. Had it always been that deep? Or had you just forgotten the way he sounds. No that definitely wasn’t it.

“I’m sorry.” You came to  stop at the wall opposite your couch, resting your forehead on the white surface.

“Why?”

“I made a mistake.” Your voice trembled, your mind at battle with your heart. Needing to tell him the truth but knowing it would just cause more hurt.

“What mistake?” Jungkook sounded unsure. You could just see that little head tilt and the crease in his eyebrows.

“I need you here too much. I need you Jungkook.” Turning around, you looked out at the London skyline, cursing the distance between you two.

“How is that a mistake jagi?” sinking to the floor, you heart ached at the pet name you hadn’t heard in so long.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t. this wasn’t supposed to happen Jungkook.”

“Then I guess I broke your rule too.” Jungkook chucked on the other end, making the butterflies arise for the first time in months. “I need you too y/n.” Closing your eyes you breathed out at the confession. Your brain couldn’t decipher what exactly the confession was, and if it was the same as your own.

“Jungkook, I love you.” The silence that followed was deafening, and you knew that this wasn’t what he meant.

“You love me?” His voice was weak and that broke your heart even more than the silence.

“Yes. And it hurts.”

“I’m sorry.”

***

It wasn’t fair. It was hopeless. It was devastating.

Why did you have to be the careless one? Did you have to be the one to fall in love with him? You guess you weren’t the only girl in the world who had fallen for the charms of Jeon Jungkook.

Leaving one last text, you curled up on the floor, knowing you had to start the healing process again.

To: Gukk

I miss you.

 Come back

Be here

[omoi-no-hoka]

My Experience Working in Japan

Fear not--it’s not all gloom and doom.

Today I thought I’d talk a bit about what it’s been like working in Japan for half a decade. I imagine that my experience is probably different from someone who lives in a more metropolitan area like Tokyo. 

Why did you choose Hokkaido?

Hokkaido is the northernmost island/prefecture of Japan. It’s the biggest prefecture and plays a huge role in Japan’s agriculture. Since it’s a separate island from Honshu (the island with Tokyo, Osaka, Kyoto, and pretty much everywhere else of note), not too many foreigners choose to live here. However, there is a small but ever-growing community of winter sports lovers who move here long-term. 

I studied abroad in Hokkaido when I was in uni and fell in love with it. What can I say? I grew up on a farm in a county that had a grand total of three traffic lights, and I just hate the hustle and bustle and endless concrete of big cities. I’d go crazy if I had to live somewhere like Tokyo. I need to see green, I need to hear birds instead of sirens. 

What was your first job, and how did you get it?

I knew by about my third or fourth year of uni that I wanted to go to Japan for a while, so I double majored in the two areas that I knew would help get me a decent job there: Japanese, and English with a focus on linguistics, second language acquisition, and English as a Second Language (ESL). I also obtained a CELTA (Certificate in Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages) from Cambridge. There are many different TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) certificates out there, but the CELTA is the most esteemed and recognized worldwide, so that was what I got. 

I ended up looking for teaching jobs in Sapporo, even though it was a much bigger city than I wanted to live in. It has a population of 2 million, and the city I had my eyes on was less than 1/4 of Sapporo’s size. But I couldn’t find any teaching jobs in the smaller city. The job-hunting was difficult, because unless you have a spousal visa or something, the employer has to be able to sponsor a work visa. But sponsoring work visas is very expensive for the company, so many smaller businesses can’t give you a work visa. 

There are many 英会話 (Eikaiwa) English Conversation schools in Japan. Basically, the entire English education curriculum and its implementation in Japanese public schools is...atrocious. Absolutely worthless. The vast majority of students study English for all 6 years of middle and high school and can’t have a simple conversation by the end of it, though they can read and write it somewhat decently. So the Eikaiwa industry was born, and these schools promise parents that their children can have native-like pronunciation and get jobs in fields where English is necessary if they pay outrageous costs for weekly 50-minute lessons. 

There are many big-name Eikaiwas in operation throughout the country, but many of these are so-called ブラック企業 (black kigyou, a.k.a. black businesses) which means that they commit various labor law violations. Most foreigners they hire don’t speak Japanese and aren’t aware of their legal rights, or what they can do when they are violated. A quick google search will show you tons of horror stories from foreigners hired by eikaiwas who didn’t receive pay, were screamed at for calling in sick to work, etc. Basically, most corporate eikaiwas don’t care who is teaching the kids, as long as they are white. You are a piece of meat to them. 

So I avoided all the big-name places and found a small, privately owned Eikaiwa in Sapporo, run by a fellow foreigner. I had a skype interview with her from my living room in America, she hired me, and I moved to Sapporo. I worked there for three years. Despite having a fellow ex-pat as a boss, I was still subjected to the mistreatment of the corporate eikaiwas. No matter how sick I was, despite the fact that we were forbidden from wearing masks (kids need to see our mouths for pronunciation), and despite the fact that I was constantly around infants, I was ordered to “take an aspirin and get to work.” I was under the impression I was enrolled in the Japanese pension, but after two years of working there I learned that we were not, in fact, enrolled in the pension. This is illegal, and I was forced to pay about $4,000 USD in backpay to the pension. My employers refused to provide assistance paying this even though by law the employer is required to pay 50% of an employee’s pension. 

So yeah. Not too fun really. The kids were really cute, though, and I didn’t hate teaching English. But after 3 years, I was ready to move on.

What’s your current job, and how did you get it?

The three years I worked at the Eikaiwa, I studied Japanese at least one hour every night, and at least 8-10 hours on the weekends. I had the conversation and grammar down, but my kanji and vocabulary was lacking so all I did was read, read, read. Thanks to that, I passed the JLPT N1 and my Japanese reached a level that I could survive in a Japanese workplace. 

Fed up with my current job and jaded of teaching, I looked for translation jobs in companies in Hokkaido. But there were absolutely zilch. I realized that (in Hokkaido), there were no jobs for foreigners other than teaching English. The situation was so hopeless that I actually looked for jobs back in the United States and applied for a couple. Moving back home after only 3 years of living abroad felt like defeat and I didn’t want to leave Japan, but I just couldn’t take the eikaiwa industry anymore, and I knew that I would only spiral further into depression in a metropolis like Tokyo. 

In June of 2017, I sent out some applications and applied to headhunting agencies in America. And in August, a friend here in Hokkaido called me with some incredible news. A student of hers was working as a temp translator for a company in the city I had originally wanted to live in. He needed a replacement, and would I be interested?

I couldn’t believe it. Translation was my dream job, and it was in my dream city. I immediately called to find out more, and I looked up how to make a Japanese resume. Did you know that resumes are printed on A3 paper and hand written?! Good lord, I spent about 9 hours writing and re-writing it because I don’t have good handwriting in Japanese. I went in for an interview. They said they would match the pay of my current job and then some, that I would have business trips to Tokyo, that there was a very likely chance I would get to see other parts of Japan due to this job, that I would be able to build experience in multiple fields at once, that they would give me all the benefits that they are legally obligated to give (lol), and they would let me go home to America for extended periods as long as I took my work laptop and didn’t mind doing a bit of work while I was there. It was everything I dreamed of, so of course I accepted the position. 

And the cherry on top? The guy who gave me the interview had a very unusual last name, which I’ll say is K___. At the end of the interview, he asked, “By the way, do you know anyone else named K___?”

Me: “Well, actually I do have a student whose last name is K___.”

And he smiles and says, “Yeah, that’s my daughter.”

In a city of 2 million people, about 700 children aged 0-18 were enrolled in my Eikaiwa. Out of those 700, I taught about 120. And out of all of those kids, one of them turned out to be the daughter of the man who gave me my interview and would become my boss! WHAT ARE THE CHANCES?! It still blows my mind to think about. 

Later, after I was hired and we went for drinks after work, he told me that the moment he had seen my resume and the name of the Eikaiwa, he had gone to his daughter and asked, “Hey, do you know omoi-no-hoka-sensei? What’s she like?” His daughter said a bunch of really nice things about me, and he decided that if his daughter liked me, then I must be a good addition to the company. Before the interview he had already decided to hire me. 

It just goes to show that you should always be your best because you never know who’s watching!

So yeah, I quit my job at the eikaiwa, moved to my dream city, and started my dream job two years ago. My coworkers are all really, really nice. My bosses are all great. I’m the only person in my whole office that speaks English though, so sometimes I get a bit lonely in that regard. But because I’m the only one who speaks English and this is a global company with headquarters in America, I get asked to do a bunch of miscellaneous tasks, so I’m never bored! Sometimes this means I have a lot of overtime, though. It’s not uncommon to have a 12 hour work-day. But in my downtime between translation requests, I make most of these Tumblr posts. 

[lovingsylvia]

!New release in 2020 and something to really look forward to!

Title: Red Comet - The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath

Author: Heather Clark Expected publication date: 6 October 2020 (7 more months!) Pages: 1152 !!!!! Publisher: Knopf Pre-order: here My two cents: I CAN’T WAIT FOR THAT ONE!! THIS WILL BE THE ULIMATIVE SYLVIA PLATH BIOGRAPHY! ♥

Description: “The highly anticipated new biography of Sylvia Plath that focuses on her remarkable literary and intellectual achievements, while restoring the woman behind the long-held myths about her life and art. With a wealth of never-before-accessed materials–including unpublished letters and manuscripts; court, police, and psychiatric records; and new interviews–Heather Clark brings to life the brilliant daughter of Wellesley, Massachusetts. Sylvia Plath had poetic ambition from a very young age and was an accomplished, published writer of poems and stories even before she became the star English student at Smith College in the early 1950s. Determined not to read Plath’s work as if her every act, from childhood on, was a harbinger of her tragic fate, Clark here evokes a culture in transition, in the shadow of the atom bomb and the Holocaust, as she explores Plath’s world: her early relationships and determination not to become a conventional woman and wife; her conflicted ties to her well-meaning, widowed mother; her troubles at the hands of an unenlightened mental-health industry; her Cambridge years and thunderclap meeting with Ted Hughes, a marriage of true minds that would change the course of poetry in English; and much more. Clark’s clear-eyed sympathy for Hughes, his lover Assia Wevill, and the other demonized players in the arena of Plath’s suicide promotes a deeper understanding of her final days, with their outpouring of first-rate poems. Along with illuminating readings of the poems themselves, Clark’s meticulous, compassionate research brings us closer than ever to the spirited woman and visionary artist who blazed a trail that still lights the way for women poets the world over.”

Source: https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/

[simgaroop]

Happy 2020!

I Please pay no attention to the fact that it’s already January 17th.

I hope the Holidays treated all of you well and that you and your loved ones are fine and healthy. 

It’s been a while since I last visited this corner of the Internet, but I guessed it was a good time to say hi again :).

I am still fine and keeping my anxiety in control. The first part of the school year was a bit... bumpy - although to be fair, working in a school feels like a roller coaster most of the time - but I managed it like a champ. I went to my monthly check up with my Psychiatrist and he told me that if everything keeps going well that we will talk about discontinuing the Lexapro in three months. I am a bit apprehensive about that, but I trust my doctor and I know that he will make sure that the process goes as smoothly as possible. 

Thank you so much for all the kind and supportive messages (both as replies and in my inbox). I was very touched by them. I’ve missed you all, but I haven’t really posted here because I don’t know what to do with a Simblr if there’s no Sim content to post :S. 

I’ve been playing a bit of The Sims 4 here and there, mostly because it loads in a flash due to having very little custom content. I admit I have not loaded The Sims 2 since June. I did some recolors for personal use using @dreadpirate‘s Back to Maxis packages around that time to keep myself occupied while I recovered from my injury. But I have not touched the game since then. 

However, I really need to go back to playing and posting. I need to practice my English because, after 25 long years, I finally feel brave enough to tackle a Cambridge English Certification (it is a long story for another time). I am taking the Proficiency exam in May because why the hell not? Go Big or Go Home, I guess. 

I’ve been studying at home, watching TV and listening to podcasts. Although my pronunciation is not great due to my accent, I am used to speak in English because I work in a bilingual school, so I need to communicate with teachers whose first (and in some cases only) language is English. But I am a bit stuck with the writing part. 

I remember that when I really developed my English writing skills was when I wrote tons of Fanfiction two decades ago. People used to tell me “Wow! Your English has improved a lot! What have you been doing?” and of course I would answer that I’d been studying because I am taking my Fanfiction history to the grave (I wrote Digimon and Fairly Odd Parents fanfics, so I guess you’ll understand that it is an extremely embarrassing fact to admit IRL). 

However, I do not belong to any “fandom” at the moment so I don’t have any plot bunnies running inside my head like I used in the past. I’m not even sure if that will ever happen again.  I wrote fanfiction because I loved developing a character’s back story or changing the canon. “What if?” stories were my weakness. I also enjoyed writing sequels and time skips and imagining how a character would change 10 or 20 years later. 

So, I guess in the mean time I can work on a small Legacy or Let’s Play. I’ve been trying to have the Pleasant Twins at TS4 meet and date Darren Dreamer and PewDiePie Dustin Broke with little success because those guys won’t give them the time of day since they are Celebrities. I could give it a try again just for fun and take some screenshots here and there. 

There’s also the convoluted Skip Broke story among Sims Dimensions (TS2/Ts3/TS4) I was developing a while ago, but that is a very overwhelming project. I could write it as a fanfic, though, and add the pictures another time. 

Anyway, I think this is as good as an entry for now. I hope I’ll have something new to post here soon. 

Have a lovely weekend!