#Italy wants to fine the use of English and other foreign words

[reasoningdaily]

Italy wants to fine the use of English and other foreign words

Just over 100 years later, on March 31, 2023, Italy’s far-right Brothers of Italy (Fratelli d’Italia) party, led by prime minister Giorgia Meloni, proposed a law that would dictate the guidelines for the promotion and protection of the Italian language.

Meloni and her party, which displays proudly in its logo a flame in the colors of the Italian flag, once a symbol Italy’s neo-fascist party, insistently reject the label of fascist. Yet this latest proposal loudly carries the echo of the so-called Ventennio, Italy’s two decades of fascist reign.

Most notably, their eight-article proposal includes imposing a fine of up to €100,000 ($108,000) on the use of foresterismi, or foreign words that have Italian translations, in official and public-facing communications. This includes names or acronyms used for professional roles—say, manager, or CEO.

Sounds familiar—or, rather, suona familiare—doesn’t it?

Made in Italy

Although the current Italian government thinks all foreign words presents a threat to Italian, it’s especially concerned about English ones.

According to the proposal, the use of English in Italian professional communication has increased by 773% since 2000 (the methodology doesn’t discuss the raw numbers); words such as “look,” “business,” and “fashion” are used as much as 1% to 2% of the time. Among the roughly 800,000 words in the typical Italian dictionary, there are around 9,000 anglicisms, or 1.1% of the total.

That, says the government, is too many: It’s an Anglomania emergency.

“Whoever speaks only Italian today risks the failing of incommunicability,” reads the proposal. This is demeaning to the Italian language, it adds, especially because the UK is no longer in the European Union

The proposal also establishes a “committee for the safeguard, promotion, and appreciation of Italian language,” although Italy already has such an institution, the Accademia della Crusca (known as La Crusca), which has been the ultimate authority in all matters of Italian language since 1538.

However, Meloni’s government doesn’t seem to have consulted with the body, just like the fascist government of a century ago disempowered La Crusca (link in Italian) by creating a “commission for the ‘Italian-ness’ (italianità) of the language.” The academy thinks the new proposal is so outlandish that it risks making bonafide efforts to preserve Italian look ridiculous, too.

The ministry of silly talks

Indeed, the proposal is ridiculous, especially coming from the very government that created a ministry named “Made in Italy.” In English!

Fascist initiatives to preserve Italian-ness quickly fell into ridiculousness, too. The first 1923 law took the lead from legislation in the late 19th century that double taxed businesses using foreign words, because it assumed they made more money. But the intent was not, as with its precedent, to make money for the government. It was to discourage the use of foreign words, starting with public-facing commercial communication.

With time, however, the bans became more serious, and speaking in foreign languages—particularly English and French—was akin to treason. In 1940, the punishment was up to six months in jail for the use of foreign words.

Nouns were created to replace words including sandwich (tramezzino), cashmere (casimiro), croissant (cornetto), hip-hip hooray (eja eja alalà), and panorama (tuttochesivede). Foreign names were translated into Italian, for instance Buenos Aires (Buonaria), Louis Armstrong (Luigi Braccioforte), and George Washington (Giorgio Vosingtone). Existing Italian words were changed because they sounded foreign, so ananas (pineapple) became ananasso, and the famous entertainer Wanda Osiris became Vanda Osiri.

The foolishness didn’t end there. Insalata Russa (Russian salad), an Italian-style coleslaw, was renamed insalata tricolore (tricolor salad), and the wrench, known in Italian as chiave inglese (English key), became a chiavemorsa.

More than a laughing matter

But if it’s absurd and ridiculous, the approach isn’t funny. Normalizing absurdity, and feeling no embarrassment in taking laughable actions, is a common trait among authoritarians. Fascism showed it well: Italians read in the news that Mussolini was capable of all sorts of superhuman feats, such as swimming faster than boats, or harvesting entire fields alone in a matter of hours.

More recent examples abound (podcast link in Italian). Think of Venezuela’s Nicolas Maduro, hosting a daily salsa dancing show as his country suffered unrest; Belarus’s Alexander Lukashenko, carrying watermelons to meet with Steven Seagal; Ukraine’s Viktor Yanukovych, who would use made-up words; Turkmenistan’s Saparmurat Niyazov, who changed the names of the month; Ecuador’s Abdalá Bucaram, who dressed like Batman to talk to voters; or Muammar Qaddafi, who killed flies with a golden swatter.

Behind the surreal nature of authoritarian idiosyncrasies is the belief that the ruled people will stop having a perception of the ridiculous, trusting the value of their leaders regardless of whether what they do makes any sense.

With its decision, Italy’s government is following fascist footsteps not only in the autarchic belief that the country must protect itself against foreign influence, but also in asking its citizens to follow absurd rules. It isn’t just making itself the laughing stock of the world. It’s trying to tell its citizens that it doesn’t matter what a rational observer might see from outside—their government knows best.

[the-bibrarian]

Italians are you ok?

[primaverea]

bitches get stitches.

trigger warning: domestic violence.

Coppery and salty across his mouth, blood pools and wells in a cut just inside Emilio’s lower lip. The cause; a backhanded slap that had knocked him clean off his feet. It’s not exactly how he’d expected the confrontation of his boyfriend cheating on him to go. If anyone should have been sporting a busted lip, it should have been Stefan, who’d pushed the smaller man outside the hotel room (that Emilio had paid for) with his bag strewn open at his feet.

He'd come to Milan just two days before Stefan was supposed to head back to Dresden, for good. The man’s working visa had finally come to an end after a year of being in and out of Italy, and – well, whatever the hell the two of them had going on.

At first, it’d been sunshine, flowers, secret kisses around corners and stupid pet names like Stefanovski. In the end, black eyes and tears, lots of tears, and derogatory words being thrown around like cunt. The German man wasn’t worth dog food scraps, but he’d been Emilio’s first. His first love, his first boyfriend and someone he had even considered a friend. So, even when he’d been flung into walls and cursed at, he could never find the strength in himself to leave.

Moments before the hit had landed, Emilio had confronted Stefan about him hanging out with a woman that Emilio’s own friends had seen Stefan kissing, in some piazza late one night before he’d arrived in Milan. The news had made him violently ill and even though part of him knew that saying something would end in a brutal screaming match, Emilio wanted to give Stefan the benefit of the doubt. Again, as he always had, without paying mind to his better judgement.

Instead of coming clean, Stefan had decided to settle with ‘if you want to act like a bitch, I’ll treat you like one,’ and dealt one of his harshest blows yet. Not only because the force had rocked his entire body into the ground, but because Emilio finally understood that Stefan had never loved him in the way he so wholly had.

let the light in At your back door yelling 'cause I wanna come in

Sobs wrack his frame as he knocks on the door over and over again, loud and harsh despite the time nearing 2AM. “Please, Stefan, just open the fucking door! It’s so late, just let me in so I can sleep and leave in the fucking morning!” His English is heavily accented but he makes do as his fist comes down on the wood again and again.

turn your light on Look at us, you and I, back at it again

“Qual è il problema? Cos'è tutto questo rumore?” A voice comes from a room the other side of the hall, an Italian woman in a robe pulled tight around her with a frown on her face. Milan was supposedly the city of smiles – you could be fined $100 for frowning –but all Emilio had done since he’d gotten to Milan was cry.

“Sorry, my–” what was he? “…friend won’t open the door and I’ve left some things inside.” He lies, wiping at his face, but he knows how he looks to her. Like a batshit crazy foreigner, with his blonde hair a mess on his head and eyes almost swollen shut from all the crying he’d done.

She takes a contemplative moment before she responds, as if weighing out what scene was unfolding before her, an exasperated sigh coming out as she shoves hair behind her ears. “Cazzo... Call the reception and shut up then, or I’ll call the police.” She huffs, before shutting the door hard behind her.

The slam makes him wince with his shoulders, and the silence that follows is deafening. He’s alone in the hallway again and the tears continue to roll down hot over his cheeks. “Please, Stefan.” He mumbles, trying the doorhandle one last time as the last shred of dignity leaves his body.

Only silence fills the space.

-

“Emilio? Stai bene? Sono le due del mattino...” His mother grumbles through sleep from the other end of the line. Hearing her voice is enough to spark another crying fit as he sits on the curb just outside of the hotel, and he’s suddenly very thankful that it’s a weekday. Not many people are out to witness the lowest point of his life.

He’s silent for a long moment despite the questions on the other end, so his crying can’t be heard, because he doesn’t want to worry her. “I’m okay. I’m sorry for calling so late, but can you…” He swallows down a sob and takes a breath before trying to speak again, “…wake papa and tell him to come and get me? Per favore, mama. Right now. I want to come home.”

-

Emilio loves his parents for many reason but especially because they don’t question him. Not even as his father pulls up to see the bloodied lip and the distraught look on his face some hours later. Not even as his father rubs his back continuously as he cries with his head tucked between his knees for the entire trip back to Monterosso Al Mare.

Pick you up around quarter to two Usually we got nothin' to do

The only thing his dad, Antonio, asks is “Is it over? Whatever it is, is it done, Emilio?”  

A weakened nod is enough to get the message across. It’s over. He doesn’t love me, and he never did. You don’t hurt the people you love. Not like this.

It’s over, it’s over, it’s over.

And the words resonate inside his chest hard enough to make his ribs reverberate to the point he feels like throwing up. There’s no food in his stomach to vomit, so he spends the ride choking around tears that at some point seem to stop coming.

Until they start like clockwork all over again when his mother greets the two of them at the front door, a look of shock settling onto her graceful features as she sees a bruised, bloody mouth. “Emilio, who…” But she doesn’t finish her sentence as her own eyes well with tears, and Antonio gives her a look from over Emilio’s shoulder that translates to something like; ‘I don’t know, he wouldn’t say.’

They expected that much from their son after all; always secretive about the wrong things so not to worry his, supportive, loving parents. This was no exception, seeing as they didn’t know he was gay let alone the fact that he’d had a boyfriend who had been downright abusive for several months.

So, as they normally do, they wait in silence for him to come to them, always kind and encouraging and never overly forceful, yet ready to spring to action. But as the days of being bedridden and force fed slowly out of his heartache, his parents realise he’ll never mention it – and they never ask.

Not even when he’s finally gotten back to being okay, and then suddenly breaks down in the kitchen one morning, a mess of snot and tears. All because Stefan had decided he wanted to get back together, and when Emilio had shut him down – which had taken every ounce of strength he could muster – he’d turned to all of Emilio’s friends and chopped and changed the story to make Emilio the bad guy. The one who’d cheated first.

Look at us, you and me back at it again

He thinks it finally over when he blocks Stefan's number and all the bullshit he’d been spurting, but then a new number texts him. A new email messages him, and no matter how many numbers and email's he churns through, he’s forced to change it time and time again, until he’s almost strangely missing it on the days where Stefan doesn’t message. As though he's been conditioned to expect them, to want them.

They continue to come,

and they never stop.

They won’t stop until I’m dead, Emilio thinks. He won’t stop until he makes me suffer one last time.

[la-principessa-della-squadra]

Hi ! Any HCs for La Squadra dealing with a member who is still learning italian or doesn't know a lot (maybe mispronounces things sometimes, speaks in short sentences or just stares at them while they talk with a blank expression)? owo

HCS- La Squadra with a Reader who's still learning Italian

Tw: curses, blasphemy

OK. I got this idea. Reader is a foreign gangstar working in the 'hitmans' department. Since your team is having some trouble with a rather hostile target who flew to Italy, you've been asked to contact Passione in order to provide some sort of international support, but most importantly, to avoid any misunderstandings .You're the only one who speaks Italian in your team and even you're not fluent, you're a skilled assassin.

Sooooooo...

Gender neutral pronouns aaaand enjoy!

Ghiaccio

He's the first one who welcomes you at the airport. Risotto told him to pick you up cause He has the fastest car and also asked him to be especially polite with a foreign assassin.

He looks like a mix of tired and grumpy, like he doesn't want to be there. After greeting you with a silent nod he Immediately starts speed talking in italian.

"Dovete essere proprio disperati se avete fatto 16 ore di viaggio per un solo pezzo di merda. Ovviamente nessuno ci ha mai mai detto un CAZZO che c'era un gemellaggio con la vostra squadra..."

(You must be really desperate if you've flown 16 hours for one piece of shit. Of course no one ever told us that there was a FUCKING twinning with your team...)

That was fast, too fast. All you could mutter was a 'Ciao' but you quickly understand that He's not really listening and for some reason, while he's leading you to the car, He starts getting angrier...

"Non capisco. Perché si dice GEMELLAGGIO?! NOI NON SIAMO GEMELLI E NON CI ASSOMIGLIAMO AFFATTO. DIO P*RCO!!"

(I don't understand. Why is it called TWINNING?! WE ARE NOT TWINS AND WE DON'T LOOK ANYTHING LIKE EACH OTHER. DIO P*RCO!!!)

This man is bat-shit crazy. He started to punch the stirring wheel while shouting some nonsense...Is he mad at you?! When you try to calm him down by saying 'Scusa, non capisco'.

He immediatly stops screaming and realizes You probably did not understand a single word. He feels quite embarrassed and his cheeks are slightly red. He made a fool of himself in front of such a cute assassin.He looks at you directly at you with piercing eyes, definitely chilling, and with calmest voice he could find he asks in the most broken english: " How was the fly?"

"Tutto bene" (All good) you answer. You can see from his face that he's not pleased with your accent and definitely trying not to curse again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Ghiaccio tries his best to speak english. He's got the grammatical basics but his dumb accent sometimes doesn't help and when you ask 'ripeti, per favore' He gets mad and starts shouting the same words, not quite grasping the fact that your ear works fine, and that He IS the problem. He also gets mad when he has to speak slowly to make you understand. Again,He tries his best tho ..

Formaggio

He's the first one who actually tries to welcome you at the the new base. He immediately tries to speak english to soothe you but He's rather terrible. he finds you extremely cute and He takes advantage of your poor italian knowledge to make rather explicit and sexual comment about your body with his buddy Illuso. He has no problem understanding your broken Italian, however, He's constantly laughing whenever you mispronounce something.

First thing He tries to do is teaching you some blasphemies, which are the REAL italian curses. Illuso would definitely be there, laughing his ass out.

"Come on baby, say 'Cazzo'-No No No- way better, 'Porco Dio' , say 'Porco Dio' ,p-o-r-c-o, D-i-o"

Ghiaccio would definitely burst out saying: "MA PORCA DI QUELLA MAD*NNA, POTRAI INSEGNARE COME PRIMA COSA LE BESTEMMIE?!"

(BUT FOR FUCK'S SAKE, WHY ARE YOU TEACHING THEM THE BLASPHEMIES AS THE FIRST THING?!)

Melone

God bless him and his internet connection. He speaks fluent english and even if He has a thick accent, He does his best working as your interpreter. However, He finds it very cute that you're trying to learn their language. Italian is not easy and He's more than willing to teach you...in a maternal way(?)

Whenever his teammate starts speaking too fast He stealthy approaches you from your back and whispers a basic translation to your ear while holding his uncanny laptop. He seems always to eager to help you, probably because He wants something back for his services. He never speaks to you in italian but he's very pleased if you answer in italian.

" Di Molto! Hai anche usato il congiuntivo!"

(Di Molto! you used the correct subjunctive form!)

Prosciutto

His english is poor even if He pretends that he's not. Always speaks Italian with you cause He's more comfortable using his native language. However, He definitely speaks slowly to help you and when He sees you grasping, He starts speaking english. He's too busy with La Squadra shit to teach you proper Italian. He would have loved too tho. He's the kind of guy who likes to be the teacher ( please note: I said he'd like to be a teacher, not to teach.He would be much stricter than Melone as a teacher).

He would never say this out loud but He finds your accent very charming.

Illuso

This guy does not speak english and He cannot really give a blind fuck if you don't understand him. He likes to talk shit behind your back but as soon as you're near him he starts flirting with the few words He learned in middle school.

Pesci

He is the sweetest. Case in point. He tries SOOOO hard to speak english with you but in the end he just sticks to a "slowed italian" so you can understand him. The fact that you're learning italian it's very impressive to him. All those verbs and conjugations are tricky even for natives.

Risotto

He does NOT speak english. However, the fact that you're trying to communicate in Italian, surprised him. Not many foreigners actually try to speak italian when working with them. Thanks to Melone, he always has a plan B when you're having trouble with communication. However, the tone and the pace of his voice are quite calming, so you don't definitely need an interpreter when He's speaking.

[carryonthroughtheages]

Hello everyone!

Another year of Carry On Through The Ages is over and done! We have emotions and exhaustion, but we're so happy that this year had the hype and excitement that it did.

Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, to all of the AMAZING creators who spent the last several months working away at their historical content!

Thank you also to the hard-working mods: @bazzybelle, @giishu, @palimpsessed, and @xivz . This fest would not have been as successful as it has been without you!

We encourage everyone to look under the page break for all the fics and art. They're all fantastic!

Here is the link to the AO3 Collection: Carry On Through The Ages 2021!

Thank you all, and until next year! 🧡🧡🧡

MONDAY:

1) sun on the sea (T) - @trenchcoat-moth : AO3 // Tumblr

Tensions run high in England, and Malcolm decides it's for the best he sends Baz to live with Fiona, where he'll be safer.

That is, until Baz's ship is attacked.

2) The Words I Long To Say (M) - @bazzybelle : AO3 // Tumblr

Simon Snow was dead.

Baz Pitch was sure of it. Simon had gone away seven years ago to fight a war in the jungle and he hadn't come home.

So, when Simon shows up in Baz's club, investigating a string of brutal murders, all Baz wants to do is hold him close and never let him go.

But these aren't the same boys from 1960 and Baz has a lot of processing to do before he's ready to believe in Simon again.

3) we are slaves to gods, whatever gods are (M) - @wellbelesbian : AO3 // Tumblr

I don’t fully understand what plagues him, but I know it’s bad, and I know it goes deeper than guilt. He didn’t want to kill his father, not really, but we were instructed to do so by Apollo. Cleanse the house of its sins, dispose of a murderer to set things right. It was only right that I join him; he was avenging my mother as much as his. Clearly, Apollo didn’t seem to consider that such an act would make Simon a murderer in his father’s place. It seems I got off fine, but as far as Simon is concerned, the vengeful spirits that once spun and danced on the roof of the palace now hunt him down, determined not to stop until he rids the world of himself.

4) World War II Era Art - @stardustasincocaine : Tumblr

TUESDAY:

1) the art of loving you (E) - @one-more-offbeat-anthem : AO3 // Tumblr

1955. London. Young love.

Forbidden love.

A year ago, starving artist Simon Snow met Baz Pitch, son of a wealthy art patron, at a party, and their days (and nights) together have been a wonderful secret.

But Simon is tired of being a secret and knows it's time for things to end.

(Baz has other ideas.)

2) Reliquary of an Arsonist (T) - @tea-brigade : AO3 // Tumblr

Simon Snow grew up a ward of Watford Abbey, but when his magic manifested in an explosive accident as a child, he became the Abbey’s anchorite—never to leave Watford’s walls, for his own protection. That is, until Abbot David sends him on an important errand…

Basilton Pitch paints portraits for his patron, Lord Grimm. But he’s never forgotten the magic he learned from his mother—nor the men who condemned her to death as a heretic. When Simon arrives and offers Baz a commission from Watford Abbey, he sees his chance to avenge his mother once and for all...and he’s willing to burn down everything in his path to that end.

But it was no coincidence that pulled these two unlikely souls together. Something more sinister is underway at Watford Abbey, and only Simon and Baz can uncover the truth before everything goes up in flames.

3) Westward Son (E) - @aristocratic-otter : AO3 // Tumblr

Simon and Baz have found each other again, but there's nowhere in Brooklyn or Virginia where they can safely be together. So now, they venture the hazards and struggles of the Oregon trail, to perhaps find a little homestead in Oregon of their own.

4) A Way Out (T) - @lying-on-the-sofa : AO3

I frown at him..“You don’t know me.”

He offers his hand. “Simon.”

Simon. I feel the name around in my mind and assign it to his face. Simon. I don’t shake his hand. They’ve still got my arms pinned. “Basilton.”

Simon nods at me. “Now we know each other. Let him go.” Very casually, he takes his other hand from behind his back. A sword, flashing. He leans on it and smiles invitingly. “Let him go.”

This time, they listen.

--

Simon Snow has been trained for years to become a tribute—one of the fighters Athens sends every ninth year into the Minotaur’s labyrinth. He wants to know the way out, if only for Penny’s sake. Luckily for him, Prince Basilton of Crete also wants a way out—off the island, where no one will know he’s the half-brother of the Minotaur.

Unluckily for both of them, they don’t exactly form the most agreeable pair.

WEDNESDAY

1) long is the road the leads me home (G) - @wellbelesbian : AO3 (Version 1) (Version 2) // Tumblr

Baz has a rather unremarkable life, and he's fine with that. Running his late mother's beloved inn with his temperamental aunt, estranged from his father and step-siblings, he's successfully convinced himself that he's better off without attachments.

Then Simon barrels into his life, guns blazing and rapier drawn, and Baz is swept up in dramatic plot he never bargained for.

Worse still, he finds he quite likes the thrill.

2) New Romantics (T) - @ninemagicks : AO3 // Tumblr

Basilton Pitch, twenty-two years old and a famed poet of the Romantic era, has fled to the countryside. In Mummers House, the fabled haunt of literary greats, he sulks himself into oblivion and awaits a sad, disappointing end to his brief years of brilliance. The cause of his downfall? None other than Simon Snow, the so-called “bad boy of English poetry”, breaker of rules and eternal thorn in his side. Baz hopes that Mummers House might mean an escape from London, from Snow and his increasingly virulent popularity... but the rain that comes has other ideas.

3) thnétos (T) - @snowybank : AO3 // Tumblr

thnétos: subject to death, mortal

a retelling of Apollo and Hyacinthus

4) A Medieval AU art piece - @thewriterxj : Tumblr

THURSDAY

1) From Eden (E) - @orange-peony : AO3 // Tumblr

I wonder if his skin is warm or cold to the touch. I tell myself it’s simple curiosity, that I’m an artist and capturing things on paper or canvas is my way to make sense of the world. That drawing him feels so natural, so I should just follow my instincts. Ebb used to say it all the time. Follow your heart. It knows where you’re supposed to go.

I wish I could. I wish I had enough money and freedom to just draw what I want. To paint him in his unattainable beauty. To draw him the way I want to. Naked and vulnerable, raw. Without frills and expensive suits.

Just Baz on paper, my fingers tracing his delicate and beautiful lines with simple charcoal.

2) Slings and Eros (M) - @palimpsessed : AO3 // Tumblr

Young god of love Simonides is tasked by his father, the god of war, to bring about the ruin of a mortal prince to punish his blasphemy. However, once Simonides sees his intended victim, he begins to have misgivings. Prince Tyrannus might have offended the gods with his very existence, but all Simonides can see is how beautiful and lonely he is.

Or, a very loose interpretation of the Eros and Psyche myth.

3) I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire (M) - @knitbelove : AO3 // Tumblr

September 1940: Going back to Watford feels different this year, and not just because England is at the brink of war with Germany and Italy. Penelope seems unsettled by everything, and Agatha is distant, and Baz is … simply not here.

What if Carry On but during the Blitz?? Yeah.

4) A Fool's Oath (M) - @thewriterxj : AO3 // Tumblr

A simple soldier is invited to join the ranks of the royal guard. He and his appointed mage arrive at the royal city to find themselves at the mercy of an unmerciful court. As he struggles to find his place in this foreign environment, he also finds himself entranced by music that only he seems to hear that floats out about the city. He makes an oath to wed whoever makes such beautiful music.

Too bad that person is the crown prince.

FRIDAY

1) Stranger Tides (T) - @tea-brigade & @xivz : AO3 // Tumblr

“If some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep, even so I will endure…” Captain Simon Snow of the Chosen One is many things—cunning, handsome, ruthless. Greedy. It’s no surprise that Snow finds a way to piss off the God of the Sea, he always manages to get himself into some type of trouble. This time, however, he’s not the only one who will suffer the consequences. Poseidon promises to not stop his pursuit until Snow and all of his men are dead.

Enter Basilton Pitch—rich, beautiful, mysterious. Suspicious. He offers the crew of the Chosen One a hefty sum to take him back to Europe from the Caribbean. And who is Captain Snow to refuse so much coin? After all, Greek gods aren’t real.

Right?

2) The wayward heir [comic] (M) - @letraspal : AO3 // Tumblr

Like a folk song, our love will be passed on. Simon Snow wants to be an artist. He used to live in Fiesole where he worked in the wool shop of his good friend Ebeneza Petty. He has now chosen to return to his native Florence in order to participate in an art contest hosted by the Pitch family, the most important bankers in all the three continents and Simon’s last chance for an art patronage. No matter how much he hates them.

But being back in Florence also brings back the memories Simon wanted to leave behind : his days as an orphan, the mystery about his mother, and once more being under the inquisitive eyes of his godfather, the new archbishop Davy. The archbishop is very same man who would never forgive him for dropping out the priesthood and ruining his secret plans against the Pitches.

The last thing Simon needed was an unbearably handsome jerk getting him into trouble on his very first day in Florence. How can focus when this man is the most annoying person he has ever met and yet his major source of inspiration.

3) Prohibition Blues (T) - @heyyyandrea : AO3

Simon Snow is a baker and aspiring playwright in Prohibition Era New York City. When he meets a handsome man at Shepherd's speakeasy who is interested in his work, he can't help but think it feels too good to be true.

4) Earth Below & Sky Above (M) - @phoxphyre : AO3 // Tumblr

In the depth of the palace of King Minos of Crete lurks a creature known as the Minotaur.

Baz, prince of Athens and chosen of the god Poseidon, has heard the stories. And now he’s volunteered to come to Crete as one of the annual tributes—to dance with the king’s bulls and fulfill his destiny. He just wants to survive the bulls, protect his people, and go home.

But what if the Minotaur isn’t a monster—but just a boy? And what if instead of slaying him, Baz fell in love with him?

A Carry On retelling of the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur, set in Bronze Age Crete.

5) A 1980s AU Art piece by @stardustasincocaine : Tumblr // Instagram (Slightly NSFW)

[gladdyator18]

Adorable Shortcake - TickleTober2021 Day 15 (Teasing)

I’m late, so f*cking what? Anyways, this is inspired by this art piece that I made right here!

Summary: While the Golden Hearts toured Italy, Riccardo starts to poke fun at Hiro’s height (both figuratively and literally). Hiro tries to tell off his Italian friend, but Riccardo keeps coming back.

Word Count: 1620

⚠Warning⚠: Mild swearing (in English, Italian, and Japanese)

“Benvenuti a Capri, Italia, amici miei!” Riccardo said happily.

After Riccardo and Natalina joined the Golden Hearts, they offered their new foreign friends to take a trip to Capri, a small island off the coast of Italy.

“Ah~! I haven’t been to Capri in so long!” Natalina cried happily as she twirled.

“You come here often?” Takahara asked.

“Qualche volta,” Riccardo replied, “Before, we would only travel throughout our town because our aunt was very sick.”

“But thanks to my Stand, I was able to make her well!” Natalina said, “Now, she’s out there living her best life, better than what she was living with 30 years ago...”

“That’s wonderful to hear,” Sharena said, “We need more Stand users like you two in this world who use their powers and abilities for good.”

The Beneviento Siblings and nodded at the businesswoman’s statement.

“Avanti! Capri is one of the many tourist attractions here in Italy, and we want to show you why!” Riccardo said excitedly.

The other four nodded to one another and followed the eager Italian siblings. After exploring the Piazzetta and Certosa di San Giacomo, the Beneviento Siblings took their foreign friends to admire the view from Villa di Tiberio.

“It’s breath-taking...” Takahara said in awe.

“I agree.” Baisho said with a small smile.

Riccardo smiled at his friends before his eyes locked on Hiro. The young man was hunched over the railing, the sea breeze making his hair flutter in the wind.

“Hey. You doin’ okay?” Riccardo asked, walked next to Hiro.

The Japanese-American glanced at the Italian and nodded.

“Don’t like the view?” Riccardo asked, leaning next to him.

Hiro shook his head.

“It’s nice.” Hiro said.

Riccardo tilted his head as he stared at the teen.

“You don’t... talk much, do you?” Riccardo asked.

“Less so than you...” Hiro mumbled.

Riccardo couldn’t help but laugh at the young man’s sassiness.

“At least you got a sense of humor, you adorable shortcake.” Riccardo said, poking Hiro’s side.

Hiro flinched and covered his exposed side.

“Don’t call me that, and don’t do that.” Hiro said.

“Don’t what? Poke your side?” Riccardo asked, poking Hiro’s side again, “Or call you an adorable shortcake?”

Hiro glared at the Italian and swatted away his hand.

“Where to now?” Baisho asked, walking up to the pair.

“Oh, oh! Ricky! Why don’t we take them to Monte Solaro?” Natalina suggested, “The view from up there is way better than the view here! Not only can you see the entire island, the Bay of Naples, and Amalfi peninsula, but as far as the mountains of Calabria!”

“Ooh, I’d love to get some pictures up there!” Sharena said excitedly.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Baisho asked with a hint of amusement in his voice, “Let’s go to Monte Solaro!”

The others agreed and followed the energetic Italian girl. Hiro strayed behind, Riccardo keeping him company.

“Hey, Hiro.” Riccardo began.

The young man turned to the Italian, soon locking eyes with him.

“Sorry about calling you an adorable shortcake, even though it’s true,” Riccardo teased with a grin.

“How?” Hiro asked, glaring daggers at Riccardo.

“Well, you are a lot shorter than me, which makes you adorable.”

Hiro scoffed and rolled his eyes. Riccardo raised a brow and jabbed Hiro’s side. Hiro flinched and covered his side.

“Don’t do that!” Hiro hissed quietly.

Riccardo ignored his friend and continued poking and prodding Hiro’s side. Hiro wrapped one of his arms around his middle and covered his mouth with the other. Hiro felt a smile form on his face and small giggles escaped his lips.

“You two okay back there?” Takahara asked, twisting her head around.

“We’re fine, Harashi. Right Hiro...?” Riccardo asked, poking Hiro’s side.

Hiro elbowed Riccardo in the side, causing the Italian to wince and back away.

“We are now.” Hiro sighed.

Takahara raised a brow before shrugging her shoulders. Hiro breathed out a heavy sigh before glaring at Riccardo.

“Test my patience again, and you’ll get it from me and Warlord...” Hiro growled.

Riccardo winced before smiling at Hiro’s face.

“Aw, your nose wrinkles in the cutest way when you’re upset~” Riccardo teased.

Hiro growled and walked ahead of the Italian, soon catching up with the others.

“He’s gonna be fun to mess with...” Riccardo thought.

Once the Golden Hearts arrived at Monte Solaro, the friends took many pictures atop the high hill that overlooked the whole island. Hiro walked over to the guardrail and breathed in the fresh air, spreading his arm out whilst he did that. Hiro felt a smile form on his face as another gust of breeze hit his pale face. The young man soon let out a yelp and brought his arms down, feeling something move around in his armpits.

“You really shouldn’t be doing that while I’m around, shortcake.” said a familiar, smooth voice.

“Get ohohout!” he giggled, “Riccardohohohooo!”

Riccardo chuckled and removed his hands. Hiro breathed out a heavy sigh and glared at the Italian.

"Do you want Warlord to pummel you?" Hiro hissed.

"It'll be worth it~" Riccardo cooed.

Hiro groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Hey, you two, it's getting late," Sharena said, walking up to the boys, "We should start heading back to Naples.”

With a nod, the Golden Hearts retreated to the port and took their rented yacht back to Naples. Hiro leaned over the guardrails, feeling the salty breeze kiss his pale skin. That’s when the young man started giggling uncontrollably.

“Riccardohohoho! I know it’s youhuhuhuhu!” Hiro giggled. “Stohop ihihit!”

“Sorry, shortcake, no can do,” Riccardo said, “Your laugh is way too cute! Almost as cute as Natalina’s!”

“I heard that, il asino!” Natalina called out.

Hiro couldn’t help his giggles escalating in volume when Natalina countered.

“Riccardo, plehehehease!” Hiro cried, “Just stohohohop!”

“And why should I, shortcake?” Riccardo asked, leaning into his ear.

Hiro brought his shoulders up as he squealed.

“Don’t do thahahat! It tihihihickles!” Hiro giggled.

“You don’t think I know, shortcake?” Riccardo asked, “Honestly, who do you think I am?”

“A fuhuhuhucking bastahahahahard!”

Riccardo paused for a moment to process Hiro’s words.

“Sometimes... you just... gotta speak the truth...” Hiro panted, “Thank you... for stopping...”

“Who said I was done...?” Riccardo said in a low voice.

Hiro felt a chill run down his spine as he felt Riccardo’s breath against his neck. That’s when Hiro let out a loud squeal and dissolved into loud laughter.

“RICCARDO, NOHOHOOOO! NOT MY STOMAHAHAHAHACH!” Hiro cried.

Riccardo only grinned as he kneaded at Hiro’s exposed belly. The young man twisted and turned in Riccardo’s tickly grasp, but the Italian faired stronger.

“やめろ！ 行かせて！“ Hiro laughed.

“Translation?” Riccardo asked, turning his head around to see the others watching.

“He said, ‘Don’t stop! Don’t let me go!’” Takahara lied with a grin.

“NO! TAKAHARAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA! YOU TRAHAHAHAHAITOHOHOR!” Hiro cried.

“Well, if that’s what you want, Hiro, who am I to object?” Riccardo asked, wrapping an arm around Hiro’s middle.

The Italian soon proceeded to dig his finger into Hiro’s sides, causing the young man to melt.

“RICCARDO, PLEHEHEHEASE! IT TICKLES TOO MUHUHUHUHAHAHAAA!” Hiro laughed, “GUYS! HELP MEHEHEHEHEEEE!”

“You’re fine, Hiro,” Baisho said with a smug grin, “It’s not like you’re in any kind of trouble or anything.”

“YES, I AHAHAHAHAHAM!”

The others laughed at Hiro’s comment.

“I beg to differ, Hiro,” Sharena said, “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

Hiro couldn’t believe that his friends weren’t going to help him. Riccardo said soon looked back at the others with a grin.

“Should I show mercy, guys?” Riccardo asked.

“Well, you never show me mercy...” Natalina began.

“But Hiro isn’t you.” Takahara commented.

“True!”

“Just... don’t kill him.” Sharena said.

Hiro’s eyes widened, his struggling turning into thrashing.

“SHARENAAAAHAHAHA! NONONOHOHOHOHO!” Hiro cried, “NAAAAAAHAHAHAAA! NOT MY ARMPIHIHIHIHIHITS!”

Riccardo happily laughed along when he heard Hiro squeal. After another minute or so, Riccardo came to a complete stop. Hiro panted as he leaned against Riccardo’s chest for support.

“You okay, Hiro?” Riccardo asked.

“Fuck... you...” Hiro panted.

Riccardo grinned and tweaked Hiro’s sides, causing the green-haired boy to wriggle out of his grasp.

“I hate all of you so much right now, especially you Takahara!” Hiro said, pointing to the redhead.

“Me? What did I do?” Takahara asked, faking innocence with a sly grin.

Hiro glared at his friend with a silly smile on his face. Hiro soon looked back at the Italian and gave him a genuine smile to which Riccardo returned.

“So, if I’m an adorable shortcake, what does that make you?” Hiro asked, “A handsome idiot?”

Natalina let out a hearty laugh before covering her mouth. Riccardo playfully flipped off his sister before glancing back at Hiro.

“You’re right about one of those things.” Riccardo said.

“That you’re an idiot?” Hiro asked.

Baisho laughed at Hiro’s joke, causing the others to laugh as well.

“A handsome one at that!” Riccardo said.

“Damn right, you are.” Natalina said, bumping her brother’s hip.

The Golden Hearts soon walked towards the front of the yacht to see the beautiful setting sun, the sky painted a dark amber and dark red, mixed with pink, purple, and blue.

“So, what are we gonna do tomorrow?” Takahara asked.

“Trip to Venezia?” Riccardo asked.

“Sounds perfect!” Sharena said happily.

While Hiro watched the sky change colors, he felt someone hug him from behind. Hiro smiled when he realized who it was.

“Adorable shortcake.” Riccardo said.

“Handsome idiot.” Hiro countered.

Riccardo chuckled and buried his chin into Hiro’s collarbone, causing Hiro to squeal.

“Ooh, did I find another spot~?” Riccardo asked.

“Please, not again.” Hiro half-whined.

Riccardo only grined before attacking Hiro once more, making the young man squeal and giggle adorably, only proving Riccardo’s point more. Hiro was indeed an adorable shortcake.

[itsallavengers]

gee i don't want to bother you you can 100% ignore me but it's been a shitty week panic attacks are stronger than ever and some of my friends keep making fun of my anxiety (i downplay the whole thing so it's not really their fault) could you please give me some light hearted stevetony with italian!tony? ily so much youre a blessing for this world keep being yourself

Steve was going to be honest here: he didn’t like the sun.

 Bucky and Natasha would kill him for slandering the current Mediterranean summer weather like that, but it was true. He was an Irishman. His skin was pale and unused to anything above mild temperatures. Not to mention the fact that it was just damn uncomfortable to sit and sweat with no way to cool down all day. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d come on this holiday with his two friends at all, actually. He didn’t like the sun, he didn’t really have the money for it, and he was currently acting as the third wheel to what could have just been Bucky & Natasha’s romantic getaway. But Bucky had asked, and said that Steve needed to take a bit of time off, so here he was. 

Sweating. 

It wasn’t so bad, though. While Nat was off looking around in a little local museum and Bucky was trying to sleep off the hangover from last night, Steve was sitting in a quiet cafe, reading his book and sipping on a latte. He was in the shade to prevent burning, and it was early enough in the morning that the heat wasn’t unbearable. It was actually quite nice.

There was also an incredibly beautiful young man sitting on a table a few feet to his right, nibbling a sandwich and working in a scruffy-looking notebook while he shot Steve occasional furtive glances. That was very nice too. 

He looked to be in his early twenties, and clearly native to the town. They hadn’t picked a touristy spot, which was good for the culture, but bad when it came to the language barrier. And the man didn’t sport any of the typical touristy items; instead lounging around in a breezy white cotton shirt with a few buttons undone, tucked into a pair of form-fitting navy slacks and then ending with some expensive-looking loafers. Atop the dark mess of curls were some aviators, and he wore a black ring on his forefinger that contrasted wonderfully against the olive of his skin. The way he held onto his pen made his fingers flex, and occasionally he would run it over his bottom lip in thought, suck it in, frown for a second before he wrote something else down. 

Yes, Steve may have been staring for a long time now. But in his defence, the man was stunning. Steve could admit he was more than a little enthralled. 

He checked his watch briefly, wondering at what point this was going to get weird and he would have to either approach the other man or leave. He could order another coffee, he supposed-- but too much caffeine gave him a headache. Maybe the man was a regular here. Steve might get to see him tomorrow, maybe smile at him or something.

“hai intenzione di stare lì a fissarmi tutto il giorno o vuoi venire qui?”

Steve blinked, watching the man as he pulled the pen from his mouth and then leaned his head backward, apparently speaking to no one in particular. But then his neck rolled, and he looked Steve right in the eye, his mouth curling into a gorgeously cheeky smile. “I take it you do not speak Italian then?”

Oh. Oh, he was talking to Steve. Fuck. Okay. He spluttered a little and then sat up, resisting the urge to push his hair back or smooth out his shirt. He was calm, he was suave. “I...no,” he stumbled, shaking his head, “was that... sorry, were you talking to me?”

The man nodded, slipping sideways on his chair and then leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees and his hands were clasped in front of him. He was slim, but muscular. Steve could see the way his shirt smoothed over strong arms as he hunched. And now he was face on, Steve could truly get a feel for what the man looked like. Sharp jaw. Hair that fell artistically over his perfectly-proportioned face. The most beautiful hazel eyes Steve had ever goddamn seen. 

“I said, are you going to sit there and stare all day or are you planning on coming over?”

Steve realised he was being spoken to only a second after he’d stopped watching the way the man’s mouth formed the words, his accent thick, but his English perfect. Steve should probably respond to that, shouldn’t he. “Well, if it’s all the same with you,” he began, before cracking a smile and then standing up. In a few strides, he was at the man’s table, slipping into the seat opposite. He was in the sun here, but he figured that he could make the sacrifice, just this once. 

There was a second of silence, and then the man turned to face him again. His eyes were alight, shining in the sunlight and mingled with intrigue. “Was that an Irish accent I heard just then?” He asked, and God, even his voice was beautiful. Steve had never thought voices could be beautiful until today. 

He nodded. “It was. Born and raised there ‘til my mam moved us over to America. We don’t fare quite as well in this sun as you though. Hence the shade I was in.”

“Oh. We can move?” The man waved his hand backward, but Steve was quick to shake his head, simply smiling in reassurance. 

“It’s fine. I’m Steve, by the way.”

“Ah. I’m Tony.” He smiled and leaned his head into his hands, looking across the table at Steve with that fiery smile of his. His fingers traced idly over his notepad as he eyed Steve, and the writings he’d done were absolutely foreign- not even because they were written in a different language, but because they were all just complex-looking equations and diagrams and things Steve couldn’t even name. He didn’t dwell on them though. There were much more interesting things to be looking at just then. 

Leaning back in his chair and throwing an arm casually across the backrest-- and no, not to flex his muscles like Bucky tried to say whenever he did that--  he let his eyes walk slowly up and down Tony’s body, before stopping for a second at his mouth. The pen was back again. A brief thought crossed his mind, and he swallowed it down hastily. That was most definitely not appropriate for the first conversation. 

But Tony looked like he knew exactly what Steve was thinking anyway, because the smile widened and he took the pen back out from between his teeth again, spinning it in those agile fingers of his. “So tell me- what is an Irishman who doesn’t like the sun doing in Italy right now?” He asked, one eyebrow rising curiously. 

Steve explained the situation easily, talking of Bucky and Nat, the vacation they’d all planned, Steve’s need for a little break. In turn, Tony explained how he’d ended up here, him having come from America too, but much longer ago, back when he was a child and his parents had divorced. He talked emphatically and used his hands when he spoke, and Steve found himself hanging on to every word, Tony managing to make everyday events seem like film-plots. Their conversation came easily, like one would with a long-time friend, and soon Steve realised that a whole hour had passed since he and Tony had begun talking. He blinked in surprise at his watch and then felt the back of his neck. “God, I’m gonna burn,” he muttered to himself, popping his collar up. 

Tony pulled a face, clearly unimpressed by the weakness of his pale skin, but then it turned into a smile as he jumped from his seat and grabbed for Steve’s hand, tugging him upward. “I know how to cool you down,” he said enthusiastically, and Steve found himself being pulled into standing and guided out of the cafe. “How much time do you have?”

Well, Natasha wanted him to join her in the museum about ten minutes ago, so-- “no plans for the day,” he said easily, letting Tony guide them through the winding streets, their bodies brushing and their hands linked together while they navigated the people and market-stalls. Tony greeted locals as he passed them by, the Italian words rolling off his tongue easily. Steve hung on to every word he said, not knowing what he meant, but willing to listen to Tony talking like that for the rest of the goddamn day if he wanted to. It was like music. 

Eventually, Steve realised Tony was leading them to the coastline, and he frowned. “I haven’t bought any swim-trunks with me,” he said warily, but Tony just laughed, turning around and walking backwards while he looked up at Steve. 

“Just wear your boxers, they’ll dry off quickly once you get out!”

“I... I don’t--” but Tony was already leading them down a rickety set of wooden steps, winding down the cliff edge. It was a secluded place, and when they reached the bottom, Steve looked around in awe at the beautiful cove he’d been brought to. There was a small outcrop which slid off straight into the sea, and a few feet onward, a dusting of sand covered by the shade of a tree.

Tony beamed at him. “I come here to do work sometimes. Come, come. The water is lovely.” Without a moment of hesitation, he toed off his loafers and then skidded over the outcrop, where he then started to untuck his shirt from his pants. Steve could only watch, somewhat shocked at the man’s lack of embarrassment, as Tony quickly stripped down into his underwear, finally ending with chucking his sunglasses on top of the messy pile of his clothes. His eyes shone with knowing amusement as he looked over his shoulder at Steve. “My eyes are up here,” he commented, and in mortification, Steve hurriedly dragged his gaze away from Tony’s ass. 

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t--” but Tony had already turned back around, stepping off the outcrop and then splashing into the water, being submerged immediately. He came up a second later with a gasp, slicking his curls out of his face with one hand while the other clamped around the outcrop. He swam closer to Steve, who was still stood at the sidelines, a little bamboozled by the recent events. 

“You joining me?” Tony asked, his arms folding on the rocks as he cocked his head at Steve. “I might need-- ah, come se dice.... a water-guard?”

“Lifeguard,” Steve said with a small grin, remembering the conversation he’d had earlier about his part-time job as a pool lifeguard when he’d been a kid in order to afford his first ever car. “And you seem to be doing okay right now.”

Tony hummed, and then very dramatically began to flail around, head dipping under the water. “Oh no!” He declared, “my legs have suddenly stopped working! If only I had someone trained to handle a situation like this to come in and save me!” He sunk below the water again, and Steve rolled his eyes and just tried not to laugh as his hands went to his shirt. 

If Tony didn’t seem to think this was strange, then neither did Steve. 

Once he was down to his boxer briefs, he slid in a little more calmly than Tony had done, bracing himself against the rocks and looking at the other man. Water clung to his skin, making crystal trails, pooling at the dip in his collar-bones. His hair was slicked back, but a piece had fallen into his eyes, and he tucked it behind his ear as he tread the water a few feet away. 

He was right though. It really was lovely and cool. 

Steve smiled, sinking under the surface for a moment in order to wet his hair. He could just about touch the surface, but Tony was considerably smaller than him, so he would have to stick to treading the water. Steve came back up with a gasp and then found himself laughing. “This is not how I imagined my day to go,” he admitted, watching Tony’s face soften. 

Then, slowly, he swam forward, cutting through the water and then settling a hand on Steve’s shoulder softly. It slipped across the damp skin, and Tony watched his own fingers as they trailed across Steve’s pale shoulders. “Me neither,” Tony admitted softly, glancing up at Steve through his thick lashes, “but I’m not going to complain. I met a very hot man and got him out of his clothes in under two hours.”

That made Steve laugh. Never in a million years would he have done this back in America. Not like he even could, really. The Hudson hardly counted as a romantic spot for a swim with the person you’d only met once. But everyone said Europeans were very free-spirited. And from what Steve could see, and, uh, feel, that certainly seemed the case. Tony swam a little closer, his other hand finding Steve’s neck, winding around the side of it delicately and pulling himself in until they were chest to chest. Steve curled his own hand around the other man’s waist, taking a small breath. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been quite as affected by someone as he was with Tony. Not in his whole life. 

“I want to kiss you,” Tony said, his words lilted with the accent, his skin glittering in the sunlight, and it was so damn strange for Steve to think of the fact that Tony had almost grown up in New York as the heir to a huge business like he’d spoken of earlier, all slick and hard-lined and American. This just seemed like it was where Tony belonged, far more than that life ever would be. 

Steve smiled, their noses touching. His hand rose from the water, the sound tinkling melodically, and he gently took Tony’s chin in his hand, tilting it up a little more. “I want to kiss you too,” he admitted, “I want to do a lot of things, actually.”

“Hmm?” Tony’s voice was low, warm, suggestive. “You said you have no plans. I don’t either.” He dipped forward, giving Steve the barest brush of lips before pulling away a fraction again.”You can do whatever you want, tesoro.”

Wow. Those words went straight down south, and Steve swallowed, before dipping down and closing the gap between them hastily. The water swirled around them, Tony draping himself onto Steve as they embraced, and vaguely he realised that this wasn’t a private cove and anyone could walk by if they wanted, but it was still difficult to keep his actions even remotely clean when he had a pretty much naked and willing and wet Tony in his arms, sucking on his bottom lip while his hands worked over Steve’s arms. He tasted like coffee and smelled like apples, and his mouth was a devil, licking into him, nipping and sucking and making little noises when Steve touched him in the right places. It was slow, easy, relaxed. The sun shone through the clear blue sky, lighting up Tony’s face as he leaned back against the rock and shut his eyes happily. Steve wanted to work him over. Wanted to find out what his favourite colour was and how he looked spread out on a bed. Just seeing him like this was driving Steve a little mad. God only knew what would happen when they got home.

He was going to have to do a lot of apologising to Bucky and Nat tonight, because he didn’t think they were going to be seeing anything of him for the rest of the day. 

Or the vacation.

-

ao3 / donate to my kofi

[toomanyfamdom]

Many Shades of Green

I have to say some thank yous before I post this.

Thank you to @jane-fucking-seymour , @ichlugebulletsandcornnuts , @millie1536 and @bessie-bass-on-the-bass for being inspirations to me. Without them I wouldn’t have thought of starting to write. They never got mad if I sent them random messages and goodness knows what time for them and have kindly corrected me when necessary. So thank you.

But the person I owe the most to is @the-quiet-winds . I’ve talked most closely with them and they are an incredible writer and the first person to encourage me to basically get myself together and write something for goodness sake. They’ve been incredibly kind, never minding the annoying messages I send them and giving me her permission to write my own interpretations of her stories some co-written with @ichlugebulletsandcornnuts . So for this, I thank you.

This is my first publicized work and I’m open to constructive criticism. This is based on the personal head cannon I mentioned about Anne Boleyn so I decided I would just write about it instead. Please be patient with me. This may seem a little unrealistic but bear with please.

Also, does anyone want a tag list?

Tw: none that I can think of

Word count: 1318

***

All was calm in the queens household.

Which was weird, especially because the ladies-in-waiting were over for the evening for their monthly get together.

It wasn’t the only time the ladies were in the house, they only lived two doors down the road but it was the only scheduled, constant gathering.

They were all gathered in the living room, watching a movie, eating - or in some cases throwing - popcorn when one of the phones began to ring. Catherine, being the closest got to it first.

“Hello?” she answered, face brightening as the other person spoke, “Sasha! Give me one second, I’ll put you on speaker.” Sasha was their manager so if she phoned the house, it was something for everyone.

“Hello?” Sasha’s voice came through the speaker.

“Hiya love, you have all of us here,” Jane told the woman.

“Great, makes my life easier,” they all laughed, “I have some very exciting news for you all.”

“Don’t leave us hanging babes, tell us,” Anna laughed.

“You’ve been invited for a European tour.”

Silence. Then all hell broke loose.

“Are we really going on tour?”

“It would be so nice to go back home.”

“That I agree with, Bess.”

“I’d love to back to France.”

“Same but with Spain.”

“I’d love to go where you grew up Catherine.”

“How cool, we get to travel and still perform. Awesome!”

“Agreed, Kat.”

“That’s a lot of new rigs to learn.”

“You’ll be fine Joey.”

“Where are we going, Sasha?” Jane was the only person with something sensible to say.

“You’ll be starting in Portugal and working your way through Spain, France, Italy, Germany, the Netherlands and ending in Sweden.”

“That’s so many places,” Kat was in awe.

“So many different languages,” Cathy noted.

“We’ll have to see about getting interpreters,” Sasha added.

“Well you have Anna, Catherine, Anne, Maggie and I who can speak German, Spanish and French respectively,” Cathy said, “And Bessie-”

“I can speak Italian,” the bassist confirmed.

“Right,” she nodded, “so it’s just Portuguese, Dutch and Swedish we’ll need help with.”

“I’ll look into interpreters but no promises,” Sasha’s voice was uncertain.

“I’ll learn them.”

Every head turned to the queen who had just spoken.

“Are you sure, Anne? That’s a lot of work,” Maria questioned her friend.

“Well I’m already learning other languages and from what I’ve heard Portugese and Spanish are kind of similar and German, Dutch and Swedish come from the same family of languages so I wouldn’t mind. If it gives us some piece of mind,” Anne scratched her neck and giggle slightly, “I’ve been looking for some new languages to learn anyway so this just made my search so much easier.”

Only if you’re sure sister,“ Maggie looked concerned.

"I’m sure,” the woman in question affirmed, pulling her sister into her arms, “I promise if it gets too much, I’ll stop. Is that okay with everyone?”

Various affirmations were made and Sasha said, “Thank you Anne, that’s one less thing to worry about. Just letting you know, your opening date is in six months. Bye.”

“Thank you Sasha, bye,” Catherine hung up the phone, “well then, let’s get back to our movie, shall we?

***

Four months later and the ladies-in-waiting were over again. Maria, Joan, Jane and Catherine were all in the kitchen making the dinner together, Anna, Kat and Bessie were playing an intense game of Mario Kart and Anne, Maggie and Cathy were in Anne’s room.

"This is incredible,” said Cathy from where she was sitting on the floor by Anne’s desk with the queens many notebooks sat surrounding her, all in different colours and languages ranging from English to German to Swedish, “How many languages did you say?”

“Nine,” Anne said, looking up from where she was lying upside down off the edge of her bed reading some Greek poetry, dangerously close to kicking Maggie in the face from where she was drawing in a random sketch book she found, “and I’m working on a tenth, although it’s a little harder, see that dark blue one behind you? I’m not fluent, that would be impossible in four months but I’ll be able to help in most situations.”

“That’s amazing,” Cathy smiled at her, “now, come help me put these away.”

Anne closed her book and set it gently on the floor putting her hands down and kicking herself off the bed and over onto her feet. She took the books from a laughing Cathy and went round the other side of the divider she had put in her room and came back around to the girls, flopping at Cathy and Maggie’s feet, back to her original position.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself one of these days,” Maggie didn’t even look up from her drawing.

“I know,” Anne winked at Cathy to have the pair laugh at her despairingly.

“You’ll have to teach me some of those languages when we get time,” Cathy said, “Its so nice to see this other side of you and I’m so happy you feel comfortable enough to show me this side.”

Anne sat up, “You two are my nearest and dearest, how could I not be comfortable around you?”

The trio smilled at each other and all of their phones buzzed.

“Did you two get this as well?” asked Maggie.

“From Sasha,” Cathy had already read the message and was looking at it with wide eyes.

“Is it bad or?” Anne’s phone was out of reach.

“The tour’s been cancelled,” Maggie told her.

Anne bolted up straight. “What?! What do you mean?” she asked increadiusly.

“Exactly what she said.”

“What on…” Anne trailed off then jumped off the bed and running downstairs, “Familly meeting in the kitchen!”

Anna jumped when she heard Anne’s shout. The German looked over at her two companions.

“If Anne’s calling a family meeting,” started Kat.

“Something is definitely wrong,” Bessie finished.

“Better not keep the hurricane waiting,” the three went to the kitchen, meeting Maggie and Cathy in the hall and were met with a pacing Anne Boleyn.

“Perfect, we’re all here now,” Anne said, “Have a seat.” She gestured towards the table.

“Anne, what’s wrong?” Jane asked as softly as she could.

“Nothing’s wrong per say, just changes, I don’t like sudden changes so yeah,” Anne muttered to her self. She stopped took a deep breath then said, “Check your phones.”

They all did - except for Maggie and Cathy who tried to calm Anne down a bit. “I have a message from Sasha,” said Kit a bit confused, “why is she messaging me?”

“I have one too,” said Maria

“I think we all do,” Jane said in a grim voice, reading the message.

“Is it bad?” Joan looked over to her former mistress, scared to read it.

Anne took a deep breath, “The tour’s been cancelled.”

“What?!” Katherine almost jumped out of her seat, “But why? All the prep was going so well and we were getting venues just fine.”

“Says here that our sponsor backed out,” Anna said, “If that’s true, there’s no way the tour could be funded babes.”

“You did all that learning for nothing,” Catherine realised the root of Anne’s distress.

Anne visibly deflated, leaning against the counter top, head in her hand. “Its not even that. Well, it is that a little but,” she sighed, “You may not know or remember this from our past lives but I thoroughly enjoy learning. Languages especially, they’re challenging. But I also love learning with a reason. I probably would’ve learnt the languages anyways but the tour gave me a reason. It gave me constancy. And that’s been torn from underneath my feet.”

Suddenly there was a Kitty sized person embracing Anne. “I think its really cool how much you’ve managed to learn Annie. Nine foreign languages? That’s incredible!”

“Well, now I have an excuse to keep learning yeah? Look on the bright side!” Anne returned her cousin’s hug, “Thanks sister.”

[chiseler]

“You Devilish Mummy!”: Mexican Horror in America, 1958-1963

Rosa Arenas

For some people, Cinqo de Mayo means a nacho party platter, a cooler full of Corona, plastic sombreros and a pinata filled with stale butterscotch discs. For a few of us, though, Cinqo de Mayo means one thing and one thing only: Aztec mummies. The sad part of it is that it might actually make much more sense than the nachos.

After Tod Browning and his crew left the set at the end of the shooting day while working on 1931’s Dracula, they were replaced by director George Melford and a Mexican cast and crew. Using the same sets, the same cameras, and a translated version of the script, they worked all night to shoot the Spanish-language version of the film. Those who have seen both tend to agree that the Spanish version is the superior of the two. The cinematography is more vibrant and less stage-bound than the Browning version, the atmosphere is richer (possibly because they were shooting at night), and most important of all, the Mexican Dracula (Carlos Villar) smolders with a sexual energy and menace Bela Lugosi, great as he is, lacks.

Prior to the mid-’50s, most American audiences would probably be surprised to learn that Mexico even had its own film industry. That’s when low-budget producers from Sam Arkoff on down recognized the economic advantages of snapping up the US distribution rights to existing foreign genre pictures. It made perfect sense. You didn’t need to hire any directors or cameramen or gaffers. There were no actor hissy fits to smooth over. All you needed to do was dub in some English dialogue that more or less made sense, fit the action on the screen, and approximately matched the actors’ lip movements. Or maybe not, whatever. Sometimes you might want to bring in an editor to try and rearrange a few scenes so the picture and dialogue’ll make more sense to the kids at the drive-in, but even that wasn’t always necessary. Come up with a snappy English title, Americanize some of the actors’ names, and you’re good to go. The important thing is these films could be picked up for a song, and minus a few minor expenses everything they brought in was gravy.

Suddenly US theaters were full of sci-fi, horror, and westerns from Italy, Japan, Spain, and yes indeed, Mexico. Low-budget distributor K. Gordon Murray quickly established himself as the king of marketing Mexican horror cheapies to American audiences, handling films like The Man and the Monster, The Brainiac, Curse of the Doll People, and a whole lotta movies with “Aztec Mummy” in the title.  It would be nice to say these films have complex and thought-provoking storylines, that the acting is strong and subtle, that the cinematography is dazzling and the special effects on a par with any major American studio at the time, but that would really be pushing it. A lot of the films were just slapdash, flat-footed remakes of popular American films but with cheaper sets. A few of them do stand out, though, in that even the dubbed and edited versions remain uniquely Mexican, even if they do seem to tell the same story over and over again. And some of them are just plain nuts.

Genre director Rafael Portillo and screenwriter Alfredo Salazar were best known for their Aztec Mummy and wrestling pictures, and in 1958 topped even Santo Meets Dracula with La momia azteca contra el robot humano, translated as The Aztec Mummy Against the Humanoid Robot or, more simply, The Robot Meets the Aztec Mummy.

As the opening narration assures us, the film is based on an “actual experiment” conducted by two scientists from “The Los Angeles University” and verified by witnesses who “signed sworn statements with a notary public” so “there is no question about this story’s authenticity.”

Please keep that in mind.

The film is told mostly in flashback and through voiceover, which is generally a sure sign you’re watching a heavy-handed bit of editorial butchery. The same sort of thing was done regularly to the US versions of Toho films, usually with a mind toward simplifying the story.

Okay, a psychiatrist (Ramón Gay) is mocked by his colleagues when he presents a paper about past life regression, so he storms home and hypnotizes his wife Flora (Rosa Arenas). We slip into a low budget flashback within a flashback as we learn Flora was once an Aztec maiden on schedule to be sacrificed when she runs off with a warrior. The village priests find them, bring them back, and bury the warrior alive after placing a curse on him. Then they fit the old Flora with a gold bracelet and breastplate inscribed with directions to the location of “the secret Aztec treasure.” Then they cut out her heart, which may say something about the effectiveness of that breastplate.

Returning to the first flashback, we learn the evil Dr. Krupp had spied on the experiment and now wants in on it. Nevertheless the good doctor decides for some reason that the best way to prove his theory is to find the bracelet and breastplate, so they all go looking. Lucky for them they find a secret passage under the pyramid that I guess is in their backyard. Moments later they find the ancient temple, the skeleton of the old Flora, and the breastplate which they take home with them. The fun doesn’t last long, though, as  the warrior’s mummy shows up at the house, grabs the breastplate, grabs Flora, returns to the temple, and prepares to cut out her heart again. At this point we’re about six minutes into the film.

Then it turns out, see, that Dr. Krupp is really a sinister underworld figure known as The Bat, and...oh screw it. Over the course of the rest of the film we get gangsters, a shootout, hypnotism, a mad scientist, a pit full of rattlesnakes, that mummy again, some Aztec rituals, a few vanishing bodies, a police investigation, a stolen corpse, a stolen brain, and a stolen “machine that uses radium,” together with lines of dialogue like, “oh, you devilish mummy!” and “continuing our search we hurried to the snake pit.” Eventually we even get a robot there near the end (though it’s more of a reanimated corpse wearing a metal suit festooned with some blinking lightbulbs),and it has a brief and slow wrestling match with the mummy.

And all of it, believe it or not, is crammed into a zippy 65 minutes. No, it’s not a particularly good film as the term is traditionally used, but it is a fascinating one. As crazy as it all gets, as big as some of the plot holes and lapses in logic may seem, the craziest thing of all is that you can’t really criticize it for any of that given that it’s, y’know, based on a true story.

Robot Meets the Aztec Mummy is a pretty extreme example of what was coming out of Mexico at the time. Other genre pictures were no less strange, maybe, but a little more sane.

Three years after Bert I. Gordon’s Attack of the Puppet People and 25 years after Tod Browning’s The Devil Doll, Benito Alazraki released his 1961 film Muñecos infernales, better known in the States  as Curse of the Doll People.

An archaeologist interested in ancient rights and such and her physician husband (Ramon Gay again) visit an art collector friend who regales them with the exciting tale of his recent trip to Haiti. While there, see, he and two friends witnessed a secret voodoo ritual that included human sacrifice. For all the crazy goings on though, the art collector couldn’t take his eyes off the idol the voodoo priests were worshipping. He thought it would make a fine addition to his collection, so the next day he went back and stole it.

(Given that the story is not told in flashback, just by some guy sitting in an easy chair, I’m tempted to think the whole Haiti angle was an invention of the screenwriter for the American version. Maybe the producer was a little tired of Aztecs by this point.)

It’s not hard to guess that stealing a revered idol from a voodoo temple is not without its repercussions, and sure enough before you know it the children of all the men on the Haiti trip start receiving new dolls in the mail. Real nice, realistic-looking ones too. None of the parents seem a bit concerned by the arrival of anonymous gifts for their children, merely handing the dolls to the tykes and sending them off to bed. After a few cuts to an oddly Mexican-looking Haitian voodoo priest, well you guessed it. the dolls start coming to life and knocking off the parents in ways that can’t easily be traced back as the work of an evil dolly.

The one surprise here is given the budget, the special effects (midgets in doll clothes on oversized sets) are really, really good. Better than Bert Gordon’s, even. It’s just too bad the story around them doesn’t have a bit more zing to it. It’s a little flabby and obvious. Still, you start to get the sense a pattern is developing.

El baron del terror (released in the States as The Brainiac in 1962), directed by Chano Urueta, marked a bit of a break from the simple revenge plot. Oh wait, no it didn’t. But it was still a break from the standard storyline.

As the film opens it’s 1661, a comet has appeared in the sky, and  an evil baron  (Abel Salazar) is being burned at the stake by Inquisitors for practicing black magic. As evil barons are so wont to do when finding themselves in circumstances like that, he places a curse on all those who condemned him, vowing he would return in 300 years when the comet reappears and kill off all their descendants. The Inquisitors, for some reason, don’t seem terribly concerned by all this and go ahead and burn him anyway.

Cut to three hundred years in the future and true to his word the comet has reappeared and so has the baron, who  starts snuffing people who didn’t even know they were related to Inquisitors. Yes, it’s a plot we’ve seen how many times already? But the Brainiac, as the title might hint, does offer a twist or two. First, before he kills his victims the Baron transforms into a kind of hideous horned demon monster (the doll special effects were better). Then during the murders he sucks out his victims’ brains, which he keeps in a big salad bowl in the kitchen. When he lures someone over to his apartment and confirms their identity, all he needs to do is excuse himself to the kitchen for a moment, have a spoonful of brains, and shazam. No more descendant and more brains for the baron.

A year later  Ueueta returned to more standard form with La cabeza viviente, aka The Living Head. Here again he opens with a long prologue in which he went to some pains to at least give the illusion of historical accuracy. When a great Aztec general dies, not only is he buried, but so are a few of his servants and a high priestess to help him on his way in the afterlife. That those others weren’t quite dead yet doesn’t seem to matter much. It’s all quite a big to-do.

Cut to 450 years in the future, as an incredibly bad archaeologist and two assistants stumble upon the tomb. First they completely destroy the mummy of the high priestess and shrug it off. Then when he finds the invaluable Ring of Death, the archaeologist immediately announces that he’s going to give it to his daughter, “who likes ugly things like that.” Then after reading aloud the very clear curse that will befall anyone who desecrates the tomb, the trio scurry’s off with the general’s mummified head and the mummy of his servant (the one still clutching the knife). Do they then deliver them to the museum where they can be properly cared for and kept in carefully climate-controlled environments? Well, almost: he brings them back to his apartment and keeps them in the living room.

Yeah, it’s not really hard to see where this is headed. The daughter starts wearing the Ring of Death and gets a little kooky in the head . Then the servant and head come to life and all three of them (the daughter carrying the head) go tracking down the desecrators in order to cut out their hearts.

“I know what you’re thinking,” a police inspector says after the first murder. “But I don’t believe in legends. Or in superstitions either. All I know is that this is a very difficult case.”

That’s the real killer in The Living Head. Even more so than most, the dubbing is miserable, with most of the lines either being non-sequiturs, or so plainly obvious and logical they come out sounding like non-sequiturs. I get the feeling sometimes that the voice actors they brought in were never given scripts, simply shown the film and told to make it up as they went along.

Ah, but this is merely a taste of what’s out there in terms of Mexican horror. We haven’t even considered the Santo pictures yet, and there are hundreds of those. I’m not sure if the likes of Robot Meets the Aztec Mummy would really enrich anyone’s  appreciation or understanding of Mexican independence, but there are doubtless lessons to be learned here. Namely, should you happen to find some neat stuff in a sacred temple next time you’re in Mexico, for godsakes just leave it there, no matter how cool it is. Those Aztecs mean business.

by Jim Knipfel

[hellolittleogre]

Dusting off the archives

Since I like a lot of other fanfic writers are spending this time aggressively staring at different WIPs and NOT WRITING I thought I would dust off various WIPs which have stalled through the years. These are to a large extent morgue files, they will probably never be finished fic. I thought I’d share what I have written, plus synopsis or outline if I have it. I feel like they are like rings in the core of a glacier and different trends and tropes can be read in them. Some of them are also incredibly embarrassing.

Under the Cut: Avengers kid fic

Fandom: The Avengers

Paring: Clint Barton/ Phil Coulson 

Working Title: Uhhhhh.....Superspy Daddies  (not brilliant I admit)

Year written: 2012 (god help us all)

Synopsis: Clint meets Tasha when she ‘s a wee spy child and decides to adopt her. After a few years on the run they are caught up by SHIELD and recruited. There is something mysterious going on and they are assigned an alias as a family, with two dads and Natasha. Enter spy shenanigans and fake marriage and falling in love. Yay! Everything is safe and nothing hurts.

                                                       **

Natasha was seven when she met Clint. She can still remember the impact when she hit him, how she had launched herself into his body and sent them both tumbling.  They had ended up on the floor. Natasha with her knife to his throat and Clint with an arrow in his hand the point just pressing against her ribs.

It should have been easy, a clean-cut job of getting into the house, making the target and getting out again but something had been wrong, men positioned in places they shouldn’t and suddenly hostiles everywhere and a blond man with a bow taking out people with unerring accuracy.

She remembers the surprise in his face, how open it was.

“But you are just a child,” he had said in astonished and slightly accented Russian. It made her want to smile because she hadn’t been a child for a long time now.

“I am Black Widow,” she said simply, when she had planned to say nothing at all. The man stared at her.

“Ok, so, I’m going to lower my hand now, nice and easy, like this yeah?” The arrow was slowly removed from her ribs. “We have about ten minutes before my backup gets here so listen. You can kill me and go on doing what you are doing or I can get you out of here, somewhere safe and you can either come with me or go your way, but you don’t have to do this anymore.”

He is, possibly, the first person she can remember who has offered her something without asking anything of her. The idea intrigued her, that somebody could do something for you without wanting anything in return, that there could be actions without purpose or gain.

“You are not a pervert, are you?” She knows about those, they are easy, all soft words and soft hands right up to the point where they are not but then usually it is already too late. He actually laughed at that, a soft huff of air as if she had said something honestly funny.

“No, no perverts here m’am. Nobody but us chickens.” She does not understand that, it had been nobody but them and maybe a handful of dead men, no chickens at all. She frowns at him.

He sighed. “I’m Clint.”

She thought about it, the sharp edge of her knife resting against his throat, but. He has offered to do something for her without asking anything in return. He could have killed her but he didn’t. And he doesn’t want her to kill anyone, he doesn’t seem to want her to do anything. Maybe she can trust him.

“I’m Black Widow,” she says again. She doesn’t have to trust him much, or for long.

In the end they had gotten out through the air ducts. Crawled out a couple of yards behind the perimeter and Clint had then calmly walked her through the tail end of the increasingly panicked ranks of the mission, even snagging his own jacket and bow case from the back of a van. He had draped the jacked around her shoulders and pushed her lightly in the back. “Just keep your head down and walk, nice and easy.”

Natasha had to admire the audacity of it, she is not sure anymore but she believes at one point he even nodded to somebody he knew before getting her into the night. Quietly slipping away.

They go through Europe first, down through Ukraine and Romania to Serbia, Croatia and finally Italy. Clint makes Natasha cut her hair in the bathroom of a gas station. Says that maybe a man and a young boy might draw less attention. Hands her the scissors with an: I ain’t going to touch you, kiddo and closes the door. Her hair is now short and jagged and fiery red and she likes it. It takes her three months before she finally tells Clint her name is actually Natalia Romanova and he grins at her, delighted. “I’m Hawkeye,” he says.

Slowly as Natalia learns to trust him she tells Clint about the Red Room. She has a hard time remembering anything before that but she remembers training, learning and the experiments. 

They had been together for nearly a month when Clint accidentally cuts himself. Its straight across his palm and deep and painful as fuck.  Clint tries to stem the blood flow with a shirt and cursing under his breath. Natasha is strangely unperturbed, as if she can’t understand why he is making a fuss.

“Its not so bad, you just put band aid on it and it’s gone in the morning,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. Clint takes it that she meant, it will be gone in a sort of, it will still be there but at least it wont bother you fashion. As it turns out she means it quite literally.

The next night as they make camp she gives his bandage a suspicious look but says nothing. Clint is cleaning the wound with some water heated on the fire, it stings like a bitch but looks like it will heal nicely, looking up he sees Natasha across the fire, her face is white and her eyes are like saucers. Then she is by his side, prodding and poking at his hand with ungentle fingers.

“You are still hurt, why are you still hurt, why hasn’t it healed? Are you ill, what is wrong with you?” She is as animated as he has ever seen her, shaken up and honestly confused and terrified. It takes a while to calm her down to explain that when ordinary people get hurt it takes weeks and weeks for them to heal, and this is normal and it doesn’t mean that Clint is sick or dying. It is perhaps the first time Natasha lets on that she really cares. It is also the point when Clint realises how truly different she is, and the extent of those experiments. She takes out his knife and makes a shallow cut across the back of her hand and lets him watch as it fades into pink nothingness in a couple of hours.

In Croatia, Dubrovnik, Clint takes her to the beach, all blue water and fishing boats bobbing on the waves. It's the first time she has seen the sea. The water is so clear you can make out all the little fishes darting after each other along the shallows. After only half a day in the sun her skin was so burnt her back broke out in blisters and the heatstroke made her throw up on the bus back to the room they’re renting. Clint pets her hair and nods to the large woman across the aisle, who has been making sympathetic noises and has given them a plastic bag.

“Red hair, can’t stand the sun, any of them. Her mother was just the same, God rest her soul, always so sensitive.” The woman clucks in distress and finds a cough sweet in the horrifying depths of her handbag. Natalia swears she can still feel the taste of it in her nose even after she has thrown up twice.

 All she could do was lie on her stomach in their tiny room with an ice clamp wrapped in a wet towel on her back. She doesn’t cry in pain but she considers it, the possibility. There would be nobody here to punish her for it now. Cling gave her purple and yellow ice lollies, the first she’s ever had, until her mouth was skinned and raw from them. She peels afterwards and sits in the bathroom and gets Clint to peel strips of skin off her back showing her the longest ones. 

“This is so gross,” he tells her after he’s managed to peel a strip of skin all the way from her shoulder down to the small of her back. The new skin underneath the flaking was pink and tender and dotted with tiny freckles. It’s the closest to fun she has had in years.

Clint has never taken care of anyone in his life, not himself and much less anyone else. Things such as regular meals, bedtimes and food which is not pizza is pretty much new and foreign country to him.  It took him about a year to figure out that Natalia needed to go to school, because he could teach her English just fine (except maybe not words like corium and discombobulate) and some maths, as long as it had to do with geometry and seriously, he has been briefed on so many cities that they are probably good for geography for a while, but the rest of it? He has no idea. 

They stayed in Naples for six months, long enough for Clint to work out a way to get into the US and for Natalia to lose her accented English and learn a quite impressive smattering of Italian. Then, they are found. The same car stands parked on their street three days in a row, inconspicuously nestled under a great chestnut tree and Clint calmly tells Natasha to grab the overnight bag in the hall and they walk past is slowly and calmly, looking straight ahead like they were just heading for the park to enjoy the afternoon sunshine. The agents are Russian and in the end it turns ugly, they barely get away and leave corpses on their trail. They get on a plane to America a month ahead of schedule and it is a far too narrow escape. It’s only after this, after their narrow escape to relative safety that Natalia begins to have nightmares.

“Clint?”

“Yeah”

“Can you tell me a story?”

This is the third time the same night Natasha has woken from nightmares and Clint has resigned to sleeping on the floor by her bed instead of going back to his own. He has a lumpy pillow wedged under his head (in fact, he suspects it to be Natasha’s stuffed bear, Phillipov).

“A story, what about?”

There is a silence; it is long enough that he would have suspected that she had dropped off but for her calculated breathing. She is thinking about something, not sure how to phrase it.

“Angela has stories,” she says at last. Angela is Tasha’s friend from school, one of the few she has made. “I mean, her mom tells her stories about her, when she was little, what she said, when she was bad, you know. Could you, could you tell a story about me? When I was little?”

And Clint opens his mouth to say he can’t do that, he never knew her when she was little and lived in a facility where they trained her and filled her blood with god only knows what and then realises that’s not the point. Natasha knows this, but she wants a story. Not a lie, a story, about herself, when she was little, what she might have done. Clint exhales deeply and tries to think.

“Do you remember when we lived in Italy, in Naples? In that tiny apartment and your roll out bed?  Well, a couple of years before that we lived for a while in Rome, but you were so little, only four, you can’t possibly remember. We lived, you and me then, in this small apartment outside of Rome. The kitchen was tiny, but it had this huge fridge-freezer unit, this monster from the fifties in avocado green with a door thick like the safe to a bank vault and the freezer on top of it. It was like a fridge for a large Italian family with a grandma and a fat uncle with a moustache and not just for the two of us. Now it was summer and that apartment was always hot and you wanted gelato but I wouldn’t give you any because it was just before dinner and you couldn’t reach the freezer by yourself. So you had this trick of wedging a kitchen chair against the fridge, on its back legs and then climb up onto the back of the chair so you could open the freezer.”

Clint could actually see it before him, this small, determined version of Natasha, dragging the chair across the room and her bare feet soft against the linoleum floor.

“It used to make me so mad, y’know. You could fall down and split your skull, knock your teeth out, anything. And I caught you this one time, balanced on the chair with your head in the freezer and I got so mad and I yelled at you, and I said: You are driving me nuts, you’ve got to stop doing this. Do you want me to go crazy?”

And you said, without even looking away from the ice cream box: I don’t want you to go crazy. I want ice cream.”

There is silence and then Natasha laughs, it’s just a puff of amusement, there and gone again but its genuine. After a while he reaches up a hand and feels Nat stick her little paw in his. It is soft and slightly sticky, squeezing around his for a moment before she settles down.

“That’s a good story,” she says sleepily and after a while she falls asleep.  Clint is not so lucky but at least there are no more nightmares for tonight. After this she wants a lot of them, Clint tells her about fishing trips, about that time in the Natural History Museum when she thought she was lost in the room with all the gorillas, when Clint was standing right  next to her all the time.

Clint sweats the whole ten hour flight to America. Tasha curls up in her seat and pretends to sleep the whole way, the air hostess giving her a colouring book and nearly subconsciously petting her hair. There is just something about the short curls that people seem helpless to resist.

In the end it is only bad luck that Shield found them. A lot of bad luck at the same time but only chance in the end. Anyway that’s what Clint claims, Agent Coulson maintains that luck had nothing to do with it and it was the result of several years of hard work on his part and if anything it was lucky that Shield found them first and not the Russians. 

They have been living in the US for years now, slowly drifting across the north and the mid west, Clint picking up work where he can find it. They always have emergency bags packed but it was a while since they’ve had to use them. 

It was nearly five years since Clint found Natasha, or she found him, four years of Clint jumping from job to job and Nat from school to school but lately the time between moves become longer and longer. Clint had a job he actually likes, working as a bit of everything in a school for deaf kids. Natasha has friends to sit with her at the lunch table, has started playing soccer, and it turns out she is menace on the grass. They feel safe, five years have gone by and nothing has been seen or heard and maybe it has made them complacent. Maybe its just nice to belong somewhere. Tasha has friends on her soccer team and comes home grass stained and happy. She’s hit a growth spurt and reminds Clint of a foal with long gangly limbs.

It starts with a parent teacher visit, just a stupid mistake. It's Tasha’s homeroom teacher who gives Clint a considering look and remarks that he looks a bit young to have a daughter her age. And that’s all it takes to get the ball rolling, somebody looking just a little extra at the adoption papers and suddenly there is a social worker outside the door. Clint and Tasha are professional liars and it comes to nothing in the end but the notice is already logged into the system, leaving a minute paper trail for people who know where to look. And then Clint had gotten ill with the flu, enough to just not pay attention the nondescript car parked on their street for two days in a row. They are unprepared for it when Clint, kept awake by coughing, spots the stealthy movement on the street and there is no time, no time for anything other than getting out. The rain is pouring down and Tasha is still in her pyjamas, shoes held in one hand. As it turns out the location of their backup storage is compromised and Clint barely makes it out with one bag, containing a change for Natasha and barely enough cash to make it out of town. They don’t try to go to the second one, where Clint’s bow and arrows are stored. It hurts, that bow is as much a part of Clint as his arm, but if it is undetected they can come back for it and if it has been found it is not worth trying to get it back.  They make their way north on foot and hitchhike, avoiding gas stations and bus stops, suddenly nothing feels safe anymore, everywhere is strange and threatening. Clint’s flu had gotten worse and developed into a deep rattling cough that won’t let go and claws at his chest with dull teeth. There was no time to rest and the constant chill of their travel had made it into pneumonia.

They end up in a motel, where everything within the range of the little electric heater is stuffy and fever-hot and everything outside of it cold and damp. Clint lies propped up on the two slim pillows, Natasha is sitting at the foot of the bed, cleaning out her gear, her face cool and efficient. They both know Clint can’t go much further without rest and proper care, they both know they can't turn to a hospital and there is not enough money for any under the table dealings, even if they had the contacts in this part of the country.

It's only logical that she should go on alone, she has a much better chance to get away. How she is going to make it in the long run neither of them mentions.

“You have a quarter?” she asks “I just wanted something from the vending machine.”

Clint nods towards his bags and when she comes back she packs everything in her bag neatly, all her gear cleaned, three knives on her, one in her sleeve, one in her shoe and one at the small of her back. She puts the blankets over Clint. Go to sleep, she tells him. When he wakes up Tasha is curled up next to him and Shield breaks down the door.

They are being debriefed by Hill and Coulson, and a team of junior agents, even Fury is there, scowling behind the eye patch. Howard and Tony Stark is their target, it is just a scouting mission, there has been some untoward suspected HYDRA activity in Stark Industries.

The pale manila folder lands with a dull sound in front of Clint. It contains, in addition to information on the targets, the cover stories for the job.  Natasha squints down at the pages.

“I will be Clint’s adopted daughter and we are living with his brother, my uncle Phil?” Coulson, first name Agent, inclines his head slightly.

 “We felt it was best your handler was with you on site,” he says mildly.

Natasha gives him a slanted eyebrow of disbelief and snorts into her folder “yah, because a grown single man living with his brother and a young girl is not weird, at all,” she says in Russian and rolls her eyes at Clint. He tries not to laugh and hopes not too many at the table can understand. Judging by the twitch in Fury’s eye, he should be so lucky.

Just before the elevator closes Hill shows up and smacks a new folder into his chest.

“Your updated covers,” she explains, “ as I understood there were complaints about the last ones.” She gives Nat a nasty look. Clint opens the folder and starts scanning the content. There are papers, degrees even, official adoption papers and also…

“Hang on, we are married now? How is that better??”

They arrived back at the house at five in the morning, Clint practically carrying a half asleep Natasha and Phil felt so tired as if he was moving through molasses. He managed to change his clothes and brush his teeth before sitting down on the sofa and completely running out of energy. Mechanically turning on the tv and finding antiques roadshow on and just sitting there with the flickering light over him.

After a while Barton came down and slumped beside him, head leaning back and his eyes closed. 

“She’s brushed her teeth and she’s in bed now, I think actually asleep.  I hope to hell there will be no nightmares because I don’t know if I have the energy to even get out of this couch.”

“I’ll get it,”Phil says even though he feels like his spine has been boiled to the consistency of a wet noodle and all he wants to do is sleep for a week. Clint makes an exhausted noise beside him and slumps back against the couch, after a little while his head tips over onto Phil’s shoulder. He can feel the soft hair against his jaw and neck. Clint’s breath skates moist and warm over his neck and collarbone. It’s the best thing he has felt in ages and parts of him wishes he really could lean over and cover Clint’s mouth with his own and pull him close. Instead he leans back, promising himself it will only be for a second and then he promptly falls asleep.

Clint wakes up with the most awful crick in the neck. He is still on the sofa, squashed onto his side and his face plastered to Phil’s shoulder. He might even have drooled a bit on his t-shirt. At some point during the night they had managed to wedge themselves into the sofa, Phil mostly on his back and Clint, well, mostly on top of him. He tries to move his legs and find them stuck under something. Something turns out to be Nattie, curled up like a ball at the end of the sofa and her head pillowed on what might be Phil’s hip. Everything hurts like a motherfucker. Its not the discomfort that’s woken him though, it was the soft sound of the front door. Peeling his face slowly from Phil’s shoulder he raises his head to find Steve, Tony and Pepper awkwardly standing in the doorway staring at their slightly inappropriate family re-enactment of the Gordian Knot.

“Sorry Mr C,” Pepper says “the door was open.”

He really, really hopes he had the sense to take off the leather suit before he fell asleep last night.

[conceptualliteratureblog]

Language Profiles: student agency & multilingualism

This post is relevant either to language A/B teachers or to educators looking at whole school literacy implementation ideas.  

Thank you, Yi Shen (Sandy) for showing me the power of a language profile in our workshop in Hong Kong (Sha Tin College, September 2017)!  This is something any of you can try with your teaching staff or your classrooms to make language a truly dynamic part of the learning process at your school and help people become aware of the power and challenges that come with personal language knowledge.  

Some schools will already have a language profile for each student.  Often, this only lists the home language(s) and level of English (or language of instruction) of the student.  We can do more!  Also, sometimes the level of English listed is from an application filled out by parents trying to impress the school.  Find out where the information comes from to really understand what it means.  Essentially, there are many ways to get more information that can help gain knowledge for the student’s personalised learning strategies, but likely the best person to create this portfolio is the student, at least in secondary schools.

In order to understand how this works for students, try to do it yourself:

Think back to your infant development and schooling: what is your language story?  Where and when did you learn language(s)? What dialects do you speak?  What slang do you know?  Especially if you live away from where you grew up, this dynamic has probably changed over the years.  Even if you only speak English, you have probably had exposure to different kinds of English and use a certain type with friends, family, and students.  You probably also at one point learned a second language in school.  What was this experience of language learning like for you?  What excites you about (other) languages?  What scares you?  How does language give you power?  How does it make you powerless?

There will probably be a wide range of responses to these questions from colleagues and students alike.  Sharing your language story with a colleague or two can help you to express what language is for you and to have empathy for others who may find difficulty with language.

Try drawing a map of the language(s) you use today.  With whom and for what purposes do you speak different languages, dialects, or slang?  Maybe your register simply shifts; that is ok as well. Maybe you speak some languages for fun and others out of a need.  

I was raised an anglophone.  Hailing from Boston, I avoided the accent and local dialect due to the nature of the transplant and immigrant town of Lexington that I grew up in.  My parents came from Minnesota and Texas, and each had lived in Boston since just after their university years.  We had a blended American English at home.

My mom also studied French extensively at school, so when I started lessons at age 7 in our school system, the fit felt natural.  Half of my mom’s family is French and with Québec not that far away, schools in the area at that time all taught French to students as a ‘second’ language.  I took French all through grade school until the AP exam when I feel out of love with the language.  Suddenly, I had teachers who just cared about correctness and memorisation rather than taking us to see the Impressionist exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts or teaching us how to make crepes.  The joy was killed.

So at university, I took Spanish for a year.  It was fun, but I wasn’t quite in love with it the same way.  And then there were all those other courses on the syllabus and I wanted to double major…so…no language B study for a couple of years.  But then, Latin the last year.  I had wanted to take Latin as a first-year but my advisor said it was a dead language.  What was the point?  I found the grammatical structures a fun puzzle and our tiny class of five a fun classical oasis.  

After college, I went straight into my MAT to earn a teaching degree.  I hadn’t studied abroad like so many US students mostly because of sport with the plan to somehow do it later.  My MAT programme allowed you to do your student teaching abroad, but you had to find the school.  It was much of the reason I had chosen the program.  

I had decided I wanted to give French a go again.  After writing to many schools in Switzerland and France, I finally got a positive response from the Lycée International American Section director, just outside of Paris.  Paris!  What a dream.  They wouldn’t pay me, of course, but I could work with several of their teachers and live with one of the school’s families in exchange for some babysitting and tutoring.  

That year was bliss.  But I could digress for ages about my love affair with Paris…back to the language!  I had to take intensive French courses again as part of my visa.  It was also a great way to meet people from other places.  I had very good, slow, correct French, I was told time and again.  But it was slow.  Part of culture is how you speak, and the French, at least the Parisians, don’t like to speak slowly.  I was given the advice to just spit it out and not worry about my mistakes.  So I did that, time and again, until I felt comfortable in French.  I felt like a different part of my personality came out in French.  

Fast forward three years: I had moved back to the states and then to Italy.  My French proved very useful in learning Italian and the locals were even more encouraging about just trying the language out.  Within a few months, I was comfortably having conversations.  Sadly, a lot of that is lost now after more than a decade without much exposure, but I think I could reclaim it in a month or so if given the opportunity.  

Similarly, when I moved to Hong Kong, I took Mandarin Chinese lessons.  But though I loved it, I found it difficult to practice the language in a place that is mostly Cantonese and English.  Cantonese was trickier to learn and ‘not as useful’ once you move away.  I never knew how long I would stay…if I had known it would be eight years, I probably would have learned right away.  In any case, learning some Chinese helped me to at least understand what it’s about and is something I would go back to as well with a longer stay in the mainland or again in Hong Kong.  

I kept up the French, though, with long, frequent stays in France, lots of films, and a long-term French beau along the way.  Now, I have friends with whom I speak French in Vienna, I read in French when I can, and I have that dream of living there….

But most of my life is still lived in English.  I’ve learned some German living in Vienna.  I took a class and did some self study.  But there’s always that time factor, and I decided to have a baby and do some writing instead.  Maybe I’ll go back to it.  Let’s see how things shape up in a year or two.  The little I’ve learned is certainly helpful and shows a sort of respect in trying, I think.  When I travel I also like to learn a few phrases for this reason.  We who speak English are privileged to have the ‘international language’ at our fingertips.  But we are only denying ourselves if we limit the other languages we can learn.  

Now I also have a baby boy who is learning language every day.  We speak American and British English at home.  We try not to swear around him.  I sometimes speak with him in French.  He will attend a mostly German speaking nursery school soon.  It makes more me aware of how and why we learn these languages.

That’s my language story in brief.  I’m sure you can find links with geography, emotions, work, and more to understand even more where it all comes from.  I have students with much more dynamic backgrounds.  Some speak three languages at home with their parents, a different one at school (English), take a foreign language, and speak in some kind of multilingual slang with their friends. When students go through their language journeys, their stories, they find ways to use language for learning.  They acquire agency.  In asking teachers to also go through the process, they can connect with the student’s learning as they make reflections on their own journeys, connected also to emotion, place, people…the list goes on. These associations help us understand the way we use languages as well as our motivations or fears connected to language.  

One of my students studying three language A at school (English, German, Italian) for a trilingual diploma (wow!) conducted her Extended Essay research on the topic of multilingualism and cognition.  She narrowed it to bilingualism since little research has been done beyond this, even though, as she noted, many people speak more than two languages.  She always felt her languages were a hindrance, which really shocked me.  Most of the recent research I had read showed the cognitive power of having more than one language.  This is why so many people try to get their kids in immersion programs if there is only one language at home.  She was aware of this, but sometimes felt like words escaped her or she couldn’t understand something she read.  She realised that even though she reads a lot, the time is divided among these three languages. Her vocabulary development could be limited in that way.  Research supported this, but this was the only area she found to be a hindrance.  The way she uses language can be more creative and the development of her brain allows for code switching that goes beyond language and into experiences.

Are any of you doing research in this area?  I would be interested to hear about any current work with multilingual speakers and happy to post a link to your published work on my blog.  

[echiruinstimetravel]

NA localization: When translation goes wrong

If you think that ‘localization’ is ‘local socializing or something’ and you will not need it when your product goes global… well, you are in for a surprise. And for an unpleasant one.

The importance of delivering information about your product in a target language is very important cannot be overestimated. 

Before trying to win a foreign language market, consider linguistic and cultural differences, dive into the depth of the local slang, and research the dreams and attitudes of your new potential customers in another country. If it sounds a bit complicated, that’s because, in reality, it’s even more entangled and puzzling. And that’s when a localization expert/translator steps in. 

They will make sure your content is properly localized and reformatted to look, sound, read, and smell to the target audience’s liking. It is a key rule of the localizing game, and you should stick to it if you don't want to make part of brands lost between words, comments, and languages.

What goes without saying in one language (for example, English) may be a completely different case in another (Spanish). Even if one word goes wrong, it could have tremendous implications for the text content, the image of your product, your marketing campaign, or even for the entire brand. 

No need to point out what such a translation disaster means for an unthoughtful business - financial losses, time wasted, and the grand prize for becoming the biggest laughingstock of the year.

Let’s take a look at some classic examples of translation and localization gone wrong and how they turned into memes for the old and the young.

No fingers KFC-style

Long ago, in the year 1987 AD, when dinosaurs might still roam the planet because those were the Dark ages without the Internet, American fast-food giant KFC made a big move entering the new, burgeoning Chinese market. 

At that time, China wasn’t the economic powerhouse it is today and looked to the American entrepreneurs like their local chicken farm back in Kentucky. This is the only possible explanation why they hadn’t done a proper translation and localization and hadn't paid attention to the Chinese culture before starting the marketing campaign using the world-famous slogan of ‘Finger lickin’ good’ (which was dropped only in 2020 falling prey to the COVID-19 pandemics). 

For some reason, after being translated from English into Chinese, it sounded something like ‘eat your fingers off’. Huge difference, you know.

The proud target audience of China didn’t appreciate the joke (or was it even a threat?). And if there was a whimsy wordplay, no one wanted to have the picture of severed fingers coming into mind during the meal. 

Luckily for KFC, the company neither went bust nor left the lucrative market, but you don’t have to be a marketing history buff to assume there was some serious rear kicking in the KFC headquarters that year.

Electrolux is not as good as it seems

Here’s an example of a European company lost in the localization jungle.

At the dawn of the 21st century, Electrolux, the Swedish home appliance giant, thought it was the right time to invade America. Marketing-wise, of course.  

They came up with a slogan and translated it into English. Most probably, directly, no localization done, no audience or cultural differences taken into account. Languages - they are all the same. Just write something and post me up when the money comes, right? Well, not in this case, though.

The slogan went ‘Nothing sucks like an Electrolux’. 

Though they advertised vacuum-cleaners, far from everyone could understand what they implied. More than likely, confused customers asked themselves, ‘How bad must be that Electrolux if they are proud that nothing can compare to their suckiness?’ 

History is silent whether that incident was to blame, but Electrolux left America in 4 years just to sell their Hovers under another brand name. 

Mercedes gets to the other side

There was a time when Mercedes-Benz, one of the most famous German automakers, was so eager to win the Chinese market, it was ready to run through a brick wall. At least, this impression a common local buyer could have while reading their slogan that said ‘Bensi’.

Yes, Mercedes Benz wanted clients to call it by a nickname, but this plan backfired. ‘Bensi’ in Chinese means ‘rush to die’, and no one was in such a hurry to get on the other side, especially paying the price of a new luxury car.

The company saw the error in its way and changed the line to ‘Benchi’ which means ‘running as fast as if flying’. The day was saved, some cars were sold, and many giggling clients survived to tell the story.

HSBC, seriously?

HSBC, the British multinational investment bank, was lucky. Not because they were bankers but because they did not need to translate and localize their content for the American market. Why? Because when they had to do some localizing for other countries, it didn’t end up particularly well…

In the US, the British money lads’ slogan said ‘Assume nothing’. A bit cryptic, but it did its job. While going into non-English language markets they didn’t do their homework so the slogan went ‘Do nothing’. 

While lost for words, it threw some local customers for a loop. ‘Do you want our money or what?’ they asked and blinked in amusement.

Long story short, HSBC had to re-print all the marketing material, change the tag line, and pay a few million dollars more to get back on track. It may be the most expensive blunder in the history of translation and localization.

They used a new slogan that ran ‘The world’s private bank’ and it might have worked out just fine, but they say there are still some people who don’t understand what HSBC actually means.

GM tells you not to go

The American car industry giant, General Motors sells its vehicles all over the world. And they have to come up with vivid, unique names for each model they launch. It’s not an easy task in itself, but when you think about foreign markets, it gets close to impossible. 

GM’s marketing team might be very proud of themselves when they thought it was a good idea to call their new car ‘Nova’. It’s something cosmic, bright, it feels good, and the launch would be like an appearance of a new star in the sky.

And it was. At least, in English-speaking countries. But not in Spain or Italy where ‘no va’ means ‘don’t go' or ‘not running’. For obvious reasons, no one wanted to buy a car that is so cautious, lazy, or bad that it literally didn’t want you to drive.

And again, after some extra money had been spent, and some ‘wise guys’ had been reprimanded, the automotive behemoth decided on renaming ‘Nova’ into ‘Corsa’ which means ‘wind sieving through the mane of a running horse’ (just kidding - it means ‘running’ which is the opposite of ‘no va’ - wow, that’s creativity!). 

Croaking Cola

In ancient times, when Coca-Cola didn’t sell its sugary soft drinks at every corner, the American company leaked into the Chinese market. 

For their marketing team, it was a double challenge - they had to translate everything into Mandarin, and make sure it would look good. What they did not consider is how the name of the company would sound like. And that was a mistake.

After Coca-Cola launched its marketing campaign in China, it turned out ‘kekoukela’ - this is how the brand’s name pronounced in Mandarin - means ‘a wax-filled toad’.

 Maybe little kids were excited to try a drink with a hint of a toad - not their parents! - or Coca finally revealed the key ingredient of its main product, but the move was a quacking failure. They had to change the name so it would sound more appropriate - ‘kokoukole’ which means ‘happy feeling in the mouth’.

Though, it was more in line with modern marketing traditions it didn’t rule out a possibility of a waxed frog waiting inside one of the cans. But many customers were thankful they were not being reminded of leaping amphibians, at least. 

The pen that gets a bun is in the oven. Wait… what?

Hide your daughters, hide your wives! Parker goes to Mexico!

When the American pen company made up its mind to sell stationery items to the South of the Rio Grande, its marketing team forgot about localization and any sign of decency. 

Their slogan was translated word-for-word, and though in English it sounded like ‘It won't leak in your pocket and embarrass you’. In Spanish, the verb ‘embarazar’ means ‘to make pregnant’ which may be a weird thing for a pen to do. 

Mexican customers were not happy about it and didn’t exactly rush to buy Parker’s office supplies. Just to be on the safe side.

Coors, you’re drunk, go home

Another American company’s adventure into the land of high mountains and deep canyons went wrong before it even started. 

Coors, the Colorado brewery, has grown a reputation not only for its hoppy beverages but for its stubborn adoration of word-for-word translation - not localized whatsoever - that got them in trouble more than once. Well, at least they hired a translator, didn't they?

Once they launched their campaign in Mexico - oh no! - they translated the slogan ‘Get loose with Coors’ literally. It worked in the US, after all. But it didn’t go so well in a Spanish-speaking country where ‘Suéltate con Coors’ means ‘get diarrhea with Coors’.

There were few customers willing to try the new product and check if it’s true, and even fewer partygoers who planned to get THAT drunk.

In conclusion

While these translations make people smile, these missteps show that any branded content can be affected by translation errors. Furthermore, these marketing translation errors can have disastrous consequences on brand sales, or worse, on a company's brand image. It is therefore essential to use professional translation services and to prefer transcreation to ‘straightforward’ marketing translation of your advertising campaign, website, video games, software, and text or visual content.

There’s nothing wrong with a good laugh, but business is business, and sometimes its efficiency depends on due research and a professional approach to the localization process.

[kingofthewilderwest]

Voltron Paladins’ Native Languages

So, I’m not like 100% sold on the idea, but I guess it would make most sense that Earth has developed a full-blown universal translator by the time VLD events transpire? Not going to get into the linguistics of where universal translators are problematic, but it’s still the most plausible thing I think could be going on in Voltron.

The Galaxy Garrison is likely an international organization. Now, the global lingua franca (ex: English) could be the official language of the school, and the students they accept might have to pass language proficiency tests. That’s a possibility. But it’s sort of odd that all the Voltron characters have American English accents despite their diverse origins. The United States of course does have people of all backgrounds in the country, but I always felt that the writers were intentionally diversifying the Voltron characters to represent the world... and thus they’d actually be BORN in Cuba, BORN in Samoa, BORN in Japan, BORN in Italy. And yet not a single human has a hint of a non-native American English speaker accent on the Voltron team... not even an American dialect with stigmatized regional features can be heard.

Then there’s the talking-to-aliens aspect we need to consider. The Alteans are capable of visually modifying themselves to help interact with different species, but I don’t think that includes suddenly being able to speak other languages. Not to mention every species that the Voltron team meets can be immediately understood. How are they understanding the Galra or the Balmerans? A universal translator again, avoiding scientific problems of this device would be the trick.

It also explains why Pidge can understand anything Allura says but cannot read Altean. It explains why the only words that don’t translate from Coran or Allura are the words which have no direct translation. So. It could be the case that there’s something like a universal translator each Voltron character has that analyzes audio of a species and translates the audio to the Voltron characters. Why they’re always wearing it and why it’s not seen... uh... let’s not get into it.

But anyway! What’s so great about the universal translator idea is that it opens up a world of amusing speculations. There are all sorts of fun headcanon questions to answer like what languages are the Voltron team actually speaking?

My headcanons, more or less:

(I don’t like the idea of everyone having this much English exposure, but the language is currently a global lingua franca and is an L1 or L2 of 20% of the world’s current population. So I did have to rationalize the language into this).

Lance is a full-blown bilingual. He knows English and Spanish completely fluently, grew up speaking both languages, and prattles in both of them with ease. He’d be great at picking up more languages if he had the motivation to do so - he’s a natural!

When he’s hanging out with the Voltron crew, he’s usually speaking English because English was the accepted international language used in the Garrison’s written reports. So since he first meets Keith, Pidge, Lance, and Shiro at the Garrison, that’s the language Lance defaults on with them. Hearing Allura speak in something that sounds like a British dialect is going to subconsciously keep Lance using English too while they’re in space. But there are times he’s switching between both languages. He definitely speaks both around the crew.

Pidge is somewhat monolingual with decent exposure to several other languages. My emotional heart says that Pidge speaks only Italian I really don’t like the idea of the Voltron crew having a common language and I want that to be my headcanon, but I realize that’s not realistic at all. 

She lives close to the Garrison, obvious in that she’s able to just hop in and break their security. Since the Holts live close to the Garrison, this means that the Garrison is either in Italy or she knows the local language where the Garrison is located. Between those two scenarios I’d say it’s more likely the Garrison is not in Italy... especially given as the news report for the Kerberos’ failed mission is in English. And I would imagine her father has been working with the Garrison for a while, so that disproves the idea of her growing up mostly in Italy and then moving close to the Garrison only within the last few years.

So Pidge knows Italian and whatever-local-language-is-around, and if the local language isn’t English, then also a decent amount of English. English would be useful for programming languages, after all! So she’s got no problem programming and reading in English. However, since her exposure to English is mostly text, she’s not competent at all in a conversation, either listening or speaking in English.

If my heartcanon for Pidge being a monolingual Italian speaker had made sense, then I’d love for there to be this moment that her universal translator glitches maybe the idea still slightly works if the Garrison isn’t in an English speaking nation. Suddenly she can’t understand anybody except for sort-of Lance when he speaks Spanish. The two languages are borderline mutually intelligible, after all. So Lance tries to help her out with Spanish while she’s speaking Italian, they’re somewhat making it halfway function (Lance’s slang is not helping), but she breathes this enormous sigh of relief when she gets the tech fixed.

Keith is monolingual. He knows American English and that’s it. Given as his father seems to speak in one of the Southern United States English dialects, I like to headcanon that little boy Keith lived in the South for about eight years and spoke a Southern dialect. Then he and his father moved northwest, Keith dropped that dialect through lack of exposure before adolescence, and picked up an Upper Midwestern American English accent in place (what we hear him speak on screen). Keith could still speak in a Southern accent if he wanted to, but no one’s ever heard him do it. And no one ever will.

Shiro is essentially monolingual. He’s only fluent in Japanese. He was taught Mandarin Chinese and English in school for many years, but despite being a good student, he was always bad at foreign language. The result is he’s highly limited in both. He’s more than alright reading Mandarin but not so good in conversation. Regarding English, Shiro can understand the language just fine when he hears it (since he’s heard it spoken enough), but he’s never been good at returning a response. If Shiro tries to talk in English, he’s got noticeably slow, broken, ungrammatical English and a reaaaally thick Japanese accent. He demonstrates his limited Chinese and English speaking abilities to the team at one time. They think it’s adorable.

Hunk knows Samoan. Again my heartcanon says it’s Samoan alone, but my head points out that Samoan + English makes sense (depending on where he grew up). Those are the two official languages in the country (with more L2 Samoan speakers than L1), and other Samoan populations are in English-speaking countries like New Zealand and Australia. So it’s just likely Hunk has been heavily exposed to both languages since he was young. But! That said... he’s terrible at English spelling. Downright terrible.

As for Allura and Coran... we don’t know anything about Altean languages and dialects outside of the few words Pidge hears in the training (the Alteans have clicks! woot!). My headcanon says that Allura and Coran don’t speak the same dialect (since the voice actors don’t speak the same English dialect) but they do speak the same language. Allura speaks the most sociolinguistically prestigious dialect of Altea. Coran’s dialect is noticeably different but doesn’t have too much negative sociolinguistic status to it. His speech sounds just as ridiculous to Allura as it does to the Paladins because he uses a lot of his regional slang.

So if everyone’s universal translators broke at once... Hunk, Lance, and and Keith would be able to converse just fine. Coran and Allura are able to talk to each other. Lance and Pidge could get some things to work if they speak slowly and avoid slang. With everyone else Pidge would be shrugging. And there’d be poor Shiro stuck, capable of communicating with absolutely no one beyond gestures, pained facial expressions, and the occasional grammatically incorrect English sentence.

And during the event of a Lion/Voltron fight with said translator glitch:

Shiro: Make... [forgets word for “sword” in English] ...stick???

Pidge: Che palle! Merda! Lance: Con esa boca comes? Keith: Wait, what are you saying? Lance: I didn’t catch it all, but I’m not translating! Hunk: Whoa. You saying Pidge has a potty mouth?

Keith: They’ve got the tactical advantage here. If we’re not careful, they’re going to outflank us. We’ve got to outmaneuver them before they outmaneuver us. Pidge: I don’t understand. Can you explain me in simple English? Lance: Explain me? No, no, Pidge, you mean “Explain to me.” Keith: Fewer grammar lessons, more fighting!

Shiro: Etou... robotto? Make-oo? Keith: What?!?!? Lance: Hey Shiro, we need that in English! Shiro: Ro... no... make-oo robotto. Lance: English! Shiro: Make-oo robotto! Pidge: That is his English! Hunk: What is he saying? Keith: “Make... robot?” Everyone else: Ohhhh! “Form Voltron!”

(P.S. I checked with a friend who speaks Italian for Pidge, and I speak a decent amount of Spanish, but I am only a native speaker of English so I apologize if I made mistakes!)

[reneeacaseyfl]

5 Bottles That Will Put You at the Center of Irish Whiskey’s Renaissance

Companies have bad years. Facing serious economic headwinds, entire nations can experience a “lost decade.” But you have to start thinking in terms of bad centuries to get your head around the story of the Irish whiskey industry.

Ireland entered the 19th century as a global spirits powerhouse, with Dublin housing two of the world’s largest distilleries. But the next 200 years unspooled in a series of unmitigated political and economic catastrophes. In the 1830s, an Irish temperance movement began that would eventually prompt half of Ireland’s population to swear off alcohol for life. Later in the century—just as the temperance movement began winding down—the Irish independence movement spun up, leading to civil unrest and political tensions that disrupted the industry. A complete suspension of Irish distilling in 1917 (spurred by food shortages during World War I) was followed promptly by the 1919 Irish War of Independence, which cost Irish whiskey makers their lucrative British export market. Prohibition in the U.S. simultaneously closed another key foreign market for Irish whiskey, though that didn’t stop bootleggers from passing off illicit, low-grade hooch as Irish whiskey, tarnishing its reputation for quality. The 1930s saw a global depression and a trade war with Britain, the 1940s another cataclysmic World War, the late 1960s and 1970s a general decline in demand for whiskey—the litany of disasters goes on.

By 1980, only two distilleries remained in operation in all of Ireland, a fact that makes it all the more significant that with the opening of Roe & Co. distillery in Dublin last month there are now 25, with another 24 slated to come online over the next few years. Dublin, which lacked a single working distillery for more than a century, now has three. Global Irish whiskey sales have doubled in the past decade alone, from 6 million cases in 2010 to a projected 12 million next year. The U.S. buys more than 40% of that product, and data from beverage industry analysis shop IWSR suggests that on its current trajectory, Irish whiskey sales could overtake Scotch whiskey sales in the U.S. by the middle of the next decade, lifting Irish whiskey back to pre-Prohibition prominence.

Irish whiskey, in other words, is in the midst of an incredible rebound, and consumers are taking note. What’s changed? For one, the industry is shaking off those lost decades of bad luck and unfortunate consumer perceptions and leaning hard into a moment in which the global whiskey category is experiencing enviable growth. But many of the new Irish whiskeys coming to market now also offer whiskey lovers something markedly different from the Scotches and bourbons that have dominated the global whiskey conversation in recent years, whiskeys that by rule must conform to certain constraints. Though Irish whiskey certainly has a distinct style, and there are plenty of rules governing its production, Irish distillers have a bit more room to maneuver when it comes to their raw ingredients, which generally include a mix of malted and unsalted barley but often other grains as well.

Moreover, the lean years in which there were only two distilleries producing every drop of raw spirits for all of Ireland’s whiskey makers forced competing brands to get creative, differentiating their products through innovations in blending and aging. As the industry began its rebound in the mid-2000s, a lot of those innovations went into the barrel and are only now coming out and into the bottle—a new generation of Irish whiskeys balancing centuries of tradition with the demands of an increasingly discerning whiskey consumer.

“It’s tough marrying the old and the new, but we’re trying,” says Jack Teeling, cofounder of Teeling Whiskey, the first distillery to open in Dublin in more than a century when it opened its doors in 2015. In these bottles, it’s fair to say Irish distillers are once again succeeding.

Roe & Co.

Roe & Co. ($30)

An homage to George Roe & Co., a historic but long defunct Dublin distiller, this new-from-the-ground-up distillery commenced operations in Dublin just last month. Its flagship whiskey—blended from stocks purchased from an undisclosed Irish distiller until its new spirit has time to mature—is a classic expression of the traits that make Irish whiskey unique. The unmalted barley in the mash bill lends Roe & Co. a distinctly Irish mouthfeel—creamy in texture, on the nose, and on the finish. If that tasting note of “biscuit” never really made sense to you, experience it here.

Slane Irish Whiskey

Slane ($30)

Better known for its legendary outdoor concerts (everyone from Springsteen to U2 to Queen to Bowie has played here), Slane Castle is now carving out a niche in Irish whiskey history via a newly minted distillery on the estate grounds. Its flagship expression is triple-casked—in virgin oak, used bourbon barrels, and Oloroso sherry casks—to nurture a liquid that’s slightly spicy up front, caramel-sweet with dried fruits in the middle, and altogether satisfying in the end. But with distillate from its newly minted distillery only now making its way into the barrel for maturation (its current product is blended from purchased stocks), the best is yet to come from Slane. Watch this space.

Kilbeggan Small Batch Rye

Kilbeggan Small Batch Rye ($35)

Kilbeggan claims ownership of the oldest working copper pot still in the world, a 185-year-old potbellied vessel residing at its restored distillery in the town of the same name. Want to know what that tastes like? Kilbeggan Small Batch Rye is the first whiskey made and matured start to finish at the restored facility, which traces its lineage back to 1757. Made in a style last popular in the 1800s, the blend of malted and unmalted barley with rye imported from the English countryside provides a mouthfeel that screams vanilla cream, rounded out by mellow notes of clove and spice. While Kilbeggan’s Small Batch Rye is available in limited supplies, a new (and very good) single pot still expression from the distillery will hit shelves later this year as well.

Teeling Whiskey Single Grain

Teeling Single Grain ($55)

A shining example of the ways in which Irish whiskeys are providing consumers with something new and altogether different, Teeling Single Grain is distilled largely from corn, then matured in California Cabernet Sauvignon casks—an unconventional finish for a whiskey that would be unique in any case. There simply aren’t a whole lot of single grains—whiskeys made with no more than 30% malted barley in combination with other unmalted grains—on the market. The result is fruity and buttery at the same time, light in texture and long on flavor.

The Tyrconnell 16-Year-Old Oloroso and Moscatel Cask

The Tyrconnell 16-Year-Old Oloroso and Moscatel Cask Finish ($100)

Tyrconnell has turned out quality, cask-finished expressions of Irish whiskey for years, and this newly released 16-year-old provides an excellent (and very drinkable) example of a traditional Irish distillery keeping pace with evolving tastes. Experimentation with various finishing techniques has produced some new additions to Tyrconnell’s core lineup in recent years, as well as some unique limited releases like this one. It spent 16 years in American oak and an additional turn in Andalusian casks seasoned with Oloroso sherry and then Moscatel, imparting notes of honey and caramelized sugar atop Tyrconnell’s characteristic creaminess. It’s not so easy to find, and worth the money if you do.

More must-read stories from Fortune:

—How millennials’ wine preferences differ from boomers’

—This restaurateur traded fine dining for Benjamin Franklin’s favorite milk cocktail

—Canned vs. bottled: Which type of wine is more sustainable?

—Young women winemakers are leading the way in Chablis, France

—Beyond Prosecco: Italy’s other, better bubbles

Follow Fortune on Flipboard to stay up-to-date on the latest news and analysis.

Credit: Source link

The post 5 Bottles That Will Put You at the Center of Irish Whiskey’s Renaissance appeared first on WeeklyReviewer.

from WeeklyReviewer https://weeklyreviewer.com/5-bottles-that-will-put-you-at-the-center-of-irish-whiskeys-renaissance/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=5-bottles-that-will-put-you-at-the-center-of-irish-whiskeys-renaissance from WeeklyReviewer https://weeklyreviewer.tumblr.com/post/186295422222

[velmaemyers88]

5 Bottles That Will Put You at the Center of Irish Whiskey’s Renaissance

Companies have bad years. Facing serious economic headwinds, entire nations can experience a “lost decade.” But you have to start thinking in terms of bad centuries to get your head around the story of the Irish whiskey industry.

Ireland entered the 19th century as a global spirits powerhouse, with Dublin housing two of the world’s largest distilleries. But the next 200 years unspooled in a series of unmitigated political and economic catastrophes. In the 1830s, an Irish temperance movement began that would eventually prompt half of Ireland’s population to swear off alcohol for life. Later in the century—just as the temperance movement began winding down—the Irish independence movement spun up, leading to civil unrest and political tensions that disrupted the industry. A complete suspension of Irish distilling in 1917 (spurred by food shortages during World War I) was followed promptly by the 1919 Irish War of Independence, which cost Irish whiskey makers their lucrative British export market. Prohibition in the U.S. simultaneously closed another key foreign market for Irish whiskey, though that didn’t stop bootleggers from passing off illicit, low-grade hooch as Irish whiskey, tarnishing its reputation for quality. The 1930s saw a global depression and a trade war with Britain, the 1940s another cataclysmic World War, the late 1960s and 1970s a general decline in demand for whiskey—the litany of disasters goes on.

By 1980, only two distilleries remained in operation in all of Ireland, a fact that makes it all the more significant that with the opening of Roe & Co. distillery in Dublin last month there are now 25, with another 24 slated to come online over the next few years. Dublin, which lacked a single working distillery for more than a century, now has three. Global Irish whiskey sales have doubled in the past decade alone, from 6 million cases in 2010 to a projected 12 million next year. The U.S. buys more than 40% of that product, and data from beverage industry analysis shop IWSR suggests that on its current trajectory, Irish whiskey sales could overtake Scotch whiskey sales in the U.S. by the middle of the next decade, lifting Irish whiskey back to pre-Prohibition prominence.

Irish whiskey, in other words, is in the midst of an incredible rebound, and consumers are taking note. What’s changed? For one, the industry is shaking off those lost decades of bad luck and unfortunate consumer perceptions and leaning hard into a moment in which the global whiskey category is experiencing enviable growth. But many of the new Irish whiskeys coming to market now also offer whiskey lovers something markedly different from the Scotches and bourbons that have dominated the global whiskey conversation in recent years, whiskeys that by rule must conform to certain constraints. Though Irish whiskey certainly has a distinct style, and there are plenty of rules governing its production, Irish distillers have a bit more room to maneuver when it comes to their raw ingredients, which generally include a mix of malted and unsalted barley but often other grains as well.

Moreover, the lean years in which there were only two distilleries producing every drop of raw spirits for all of Ireland’s whiskey makers forced competing brands to get creative, differentiating their products through innovations in blending and aging. As the industry began its rebound in the mid-2000s, a lot of those innovations went into the barrel and are only now coming out and into the bottle—a new generation of Irish whiskeys balancing centuries of tradition with the demands of an increasingly discerning whiskey consumer.

“It’s tough marrying the old and the new, but we’re trying,” says Jack Teeling, cofounder of Teeling Whiskey, the first distillery to open in Dublin in more than a century when it opened its doors in 2015. In these bottles, it’s fair to say Irish distillers are once again succeeding.

Roe & Co.

Roe & Co. ($30)

An homage to George Roe & Co., a historic but long defunct Dublin distiller, this new-from-the-ground-up distillery commenced operations in Dublin just last month. Its flagship whiskey—blended from stocks purchased from an undisclosed Irish distiller until its new spirit has time to mature—is a classic expression of the traits that make Irish whiskey unique. The unmalted barley in the mash bill lends Roe & Co. a distinctly Irish mouthfeel—creamy in texture, on the nose, and on the finish. If that tasting note of “biscuit” never really made sense to you, experience it here.

Slane Irish Whiskey

Slane ($30)

Better known for its legendary outdoor concerts (everyone from Springsteen to U2 to Queen to Bowie has played here), Slane Castle is now carving out a niche in Irish whiskey history via a newly minted distillery on the estate grounds. Its flagship expression is triple-casked—in virgin oak, used bourbon barrels, and Oloroso sherry casks—to nurture a liquid that’s slightly spicy up front, caramel-sweet with dried fruits in the middle, and altogether satisfying in the end. But with distillate from its newly minted distillery only now making its way into the barrel for maturation (its current product is blended from purchased stocks), the best is yet to come from Slane. Watch this space.

Kilbeggan Small Batch Rye

Kilbeggan Small Batch Rye ($35)

Kilbeggan claims ownership of the oldest working copper pot still in the world, a 185-year-old potbellied vessel residing at its restored distillery in the town of the same name. Want to know what that tastes like? Kilbeggan Small Batch Rye is the first whiskey made and matured start to finish at the restored facility, which traces its lineage back to 1757. Made in a style last popular in the 1800s, the blend of malted and unmalted barley with rye imported from the English countryside provides a mouthfeel that screams vanilla cream, rounded out by mellow notes of clove and spice. While Kilbeggan’s Small Batch Rye is available in limited supplies, a new (and very good) single pot still expression from the distillery will hit shelves later this year as well.

Teeling Whiskey Single Grain

Teeling Single Grain ($55)

A shining example of the ways in which Irish whiskeys are providing consumers with something new and altogether different, Teeling Single Grain is distilled largely from corn, then matured in California Cabernet Sauvignon casks—an unconventional finish for a whiskey that would be unique in any case. There simply aren’t a whole lot of single grains—whiskeys made with no more than 30% malted barley in combination with other unmalted grains—on the market. The result is fruity and buttery at the same time, light in texture and long on flavor.

The Tyrconnell 16-Year-Old Oloroso and Moscatel Cask

The Tyrconnell 16-Year-Old Oloroso and Moscatel Cask Finish ($100)

Tyrconnell has turned out quality, cask-finished expressions of Irish whiskey for years, and this newly released 16-year-old provides an excellent (and very drinkable) example of a traditional Irish distillery keeping pace with evolving tastes. Experimentation with various finishing techniques has produced some new additions to Tyrconnell’s core lineup in recent years, as well as some unique limited releases like this one. It spent 16 years in American oak and an additional turn in Andalusian casks seasoned with Oloroso sherry and then Moscatel, imparting notes of honey and caramelized sugar atop Tyrconnell’s characteristic creaminess. It’s not so easy to find, and worth the money if you do.

More must-read stories from Fortune:

—How millennials’ wine preferences differ from boomers’

—This restaurateur traded fine dining for Benjamin Franklin’s favorite milk cocktail

—Canned vs. bottled: Which type of wine is more sustainable?

—Young women winemakers are leading the way in Chablis, France

—Beyond Prosecco: Italy’s other, better bubbles

Follow Fortune on Flipboard to stay up-to-date on the latest news and analysis.

Credit: Source link

The post 5 Bottles That Will Put You at the Center of Irish Whiskey’s Renaissance appeared first on WeeklyReviewer.

from WeeklyReviewer https://weeklyreviewer.com/5-bottles-that-will-put-you-at-the-center-of-irish-whiskeys-renaissance/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=5-bottles-that-will-put-you-at-the-center-of-irish-whiskeys-renaissance from WeeklyReviewer https://weeklyreviewer.tumblr.com/post/186295422222

[weeklyreviewer]

5 Bottles That Will Put You at the Center of Irish Whiskey’s Renaissance

Companies have bad years. Facing serious economic headwinds, entire nations can experience a “lost decade.” But you have to start thinking in terms of bad centuries to get your head around the story of the Irish whiskey industry.

Ireland entered the 19th century as a global spirits powerhouse, with Dublin housing two of the world’s largest distilleries. But the next 200 years unspooled in a series of unmitigated political and economic catastrophes. In the 1830s, an Irish temperance movement began that would eventually prompt half of Ireland’s population to swear off alcohol for life. Later in the century—just as the temperance movement began winding down—the Irish independence movement spun up, leading to civil unrest and political tensions that disrupted the industry. A complete suspension of Irish distilling in 1917 (spurred by food shortages during World War I) was followed promptly by the 1919 Irish War of Independence, which cost Irish whiskey makers their lucrative British export market. Prohibition in the U.S. simultaneously closed another key foreign market for Irish whiskey, though that didn’t stop bootleggers from passing off illicit, low-grade hooch as Irish whiskey, tarnishing its reputation for quality. The 1930s saw a global depression and a trade war with Britain, the 1940s another cataclysmic World War, the late 1960s and 1970s a general decline in demand for whiskey—the litany of disasters goes on.

By 1980, only two distilleries remained in operation in all of Ireland, a fact that makes it all the more significant that with the opening of Roe & Co. distillery in Dublin last month there are now 25, with another 24 slated to come online over the next few years. Dublin, which lacked a single working distillery for more than a century, now has three. Global Irish whiskey sales have doubled in the past decade alone, from 6 million cases in 2010 to a projected 12 million next year. The U.S. buys more than 40% of that product, and data from beverage industry analysis shop IWSR suggests that on its current trajectory, Irish whiskey sales could overtake Scotch whiskey sales in the U.S. by the middle of the next decade, lifting Irish whiskey back to pre-Prohibition prominence.

Irish whiskey, in other words, is in the midst of an incredible rebound, and consumers are taking note. What’s changed? For one, the industry is shaking off those lost decades of bad luck and unfortunate consumer perceptions and leaning hard into a moment in which the global whiskey category is experiencing enviable growth. But many of the new Irish whiskeys coming to market now also offer whiskey lovers something markedly different from the Scotches and bourbons that have dominated the global whiskey conversation in recent years, whiskeys that by rule must conform to certain constraints. Though Irish whiskey certainly has a distinct style, and there are plenty of rules governing its production, Irish distillers have a bit more room to maneuver when it comes to their raw ingredients, which generally include a mix of malted and unsalted barley but often other grains as well.

Moreover, the lean years in which there were only two distilleries producing every drop of raw spirits for all of Ireland’s whiskey makers forced competing brands to get creative, differentiating their products through innovations in blending and aging. As the industry began its rebound in the mid-2000s, a lot of those innovations went into the barrel and are only now coming out and into the bottle—a new generation of Irish whiskeys balancing centuries of tradition with the demands of an increasingly discerning whiskey consumer.

“It’s tough marrying the old and the new, but we’re trying,” says Jack Teeling, cofounder of Teeling Whiskey, the first distillery to open in Dublin in more than a century when it opened its doors in 2015. In these bottles, it’s fair to say Irish distillers are once again succeeding.

Roe & Co.

Roe & Co. ($30)

An homage to George Roe & Co., a historic but long defunct Dublin distiller, this new-from-the-ground-up distillery commenced operations in Dublin just last month. Its flagship whiskey—blended from stocks purchased from an undisclosed Irish distiller until its new spirit has time to mature—is a classic expression of the traits that make Irish whiskey unique. The unmalted barley in the mash bill lends Roe & Co. a distinctly Irish mouthfeel—creamy in texture, on the nose, and on the finish. If that tasting note of “biscuit” never really made sense to you, experience it here.

Slane Irish Whiskey

Slane ($30)

Better known for its legendary outdoor concerts (everyone from Springsteen to U2 to Queen to Bowie has played here), Slane Castle is now carving out a niche in Irish whiskey history via a newly minted distillery on the estate grounds. Its flagship expression is triple-casked—in virgin oak, used bourbon barrels, and Oloroso sherry casks—to nurture a liquid that’s slightly spicy up front, caramel-sweet with dried fruits in the middle, and altogether satisfying in the end. But with distillate from its newly minted distillery only now making its way into the barrel for maturation (its current product is blended from purchased stocks), the best is yet to come from Slane. Watch this space.

Kilbeggan Small Batch Rye

Kilbeggan Small Batch Rye ($35)

Kilbeggan claims ownership of the oldest working copper pot still in the world, a 185-year-old potbellied vessel residing at its restored distillery in the town of the same name. Want to know what that tastes like? Kilbeggan Small Batch Rye is the first whiskey made and matured start to finish at the restored facility, which traces its lineage back to 1757. Made in a style last popular in the 1800s, the blend of malted and unmalted barley with rye imported from the English countryside provides a mouthfeel that screams vanilla cream, rounded out by mellow notes of clove and spice. While Kilbeggan’s Small Batch Rye is available in limited supplies, a new (and very good) single pot still expression from the distillery will hit shelves later this year as well.

Teeling Whiskey Single Grain

Teeling Single Grain ($55)

A shining example of the ways in which Irish whiskeys are providing consumers with something new and altogether different, Teeling Single Grain is distilled largely from corn, then matured in California Cabernet Sauvignon casks—an unconventional finish for a whiskey that would be unique in any case. There simply aren’t a whole lot of single grains—whiskeys made with no more than 30% malted barley in combination with other unmalted grains—on the market. The result is fruity and buttery at the same time, light in texture and long on flavor.

The Tyrconnell 16-Year-Old Oloroso and Moscatel Cask

The Tyrconnell 16-Year-Old Oloroso and Moscatel Cask Finish ($100)

Tyrconnell has turned out quality, cask-finished expressions of Irish whiskey for years, and this newly released 16-year-old provides an excellent (and very drinkable) example of a traditional Irish distillery keeping pace with evolving tastes. Experimentation with various finishing techniques has produced some new additions to Tyrconnell’s core lineup in recent years, as well as some unique limited releases like this one. It spent 16 years in American oak and an additional turn in Andalusian casks seasoned with Oloroso sherry and then Moscatel, imparting notes of honey and caramelized sugar atop Tyrconnell’s characteristic creaminess. It’s not so easy to find, and worth the money if you do.

More must-read stories from Fortune:

—How millennials’ wine preferences differ from boomers’

—This restaurateur traded fine dining for Benjamin Franklin’s favorite milk cocktail

—Canned vs. bottled: Which type of wine is more sustainable?

—Young women winemakers are leading the way in Chablis, France

—Beyond Prosecco: Italy’s other, better bubbles

Follow Fortune on Flipboard to stay up-to-date on the latest news and analysis.

Credit: Source link

The post 5 Bottles That Will Put You at the Center of Irish Whiskey’s Renaissance appeared first on WeeklyReviewer.

from WeeklyReviewer https://weeklyreviewer.com/5-bottles-that-will-put-you-at-the-center-of-irish-whiskeys-renaissance/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=5-bottles-that-will-put-you-at-the-center-of-irish-whiskeys-renaissance