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3rdgymbros · 4 years

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𝓐𝓷𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓪 𝓡𝓸𝓶𝓪𝓷𝓸𝓿

𝓑𝓲𝓸𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓹𝓱𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓵 𝓘𝓷𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

Name: Anastasie

Actual Name: Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia ; Anastasia Romanov

Nicknames: Ana

Gender: Female

Birthday: 18 June

Star Sign: Gemini ; Ox

Height: 157 cm

Weight: 50 kg

Eye Colour: Bright blue

Hair Colour: Strawberry blonde

Homeland: Russia

Family: ??

Vampiric Type: Pureblooded Vampire

Quote: “There have always been lines separating me from the rest of the world, whether they were satin ribbons or iron rails.”

𝓕𝓾𝓷 𝓕𝓪𝓬𝓽𝓼

Dominant hand: Right

Favourite Colours: White, silver, gold, pink

Favourite Food: Honey milk tea, anything Sebastian makes, fresh cream, desserts

Least Favourite Food: Anything too bitter

Likes: Animals (Vic especially), cafe-hopping, cold weather, snow, stuffed animals, dolls, being spoiled by Comte, long baths

Dislikes: Loud sounds, guns, knives, violence in general, studying, being cooped up in the house, nightmares

Hobbies: Collecting hair ribbons, sewing clothes for her dolls, knitting, going for long walks, riding, comparing sweets from different cafes and restaurants, star gazing, cloud watching, watching sunrises

Special Skills: Climbing trees, jumping onto rooftops to travel across Paris, dancing

Love Interest: Undecided

𝓟𝓱𝔂𝓼𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓵 𝓕𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓮𝓼

Style: Her casual style is fairly fancy and feminine, with muted or dark tones. She is particularly fond of wearing modest, gothic style outfits, with frills and ruffles and ribbons. She has shown a fondness for white dresses, and most of her wardrobe consists of them. She wears either ballet flats on her feet or low-heeled Mary Janes. During colder weather, she tends to wear furs and coats.

Accessories: A pearl necklace hangs from her neck.

Hair: Her hair is strawberry blonde and falls in soft ringlets to her waist. Her bangs just reach her eyes, and parts of her hair are pulled back in braids, away from her face and secured with a hair ribbon at the back.

Makeup: None.

Body type: Slim and slender as a willow. Small hips, breasts, and thighs. Unnaturally graceful.

𝓥𝓸𝓬𝓪𝓵𝓼

Songs to describe her: Once Upon a December by Liz Callaway ; Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift ; Stay Alive by Rie Takahashi

Voice actress: Horie Yui ( specifically, her role as Kushina Anna in K Project )

𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓪

Personality: The youngest member of the mansion, Ana is an introvert by nature and can come off as being shy and closed off to those unfamiliar with her. Compared to the louder and more eccentric members of the mansion, Ana is conscientious, polite, and quiet, behaving with perfect manners most of the time. She can have a sharp tongue as well, murmuring pointed insults under her breath with a perfectly straight face; of course, in a house full of vampires, her comments do not go unheard. There is a kind side to her as well; Ana is observant and can tell if one of the residents is having a particularly bad day, in which Ana will bring them their favourite food to make them smile again. She blushes easily and stammers when she is complimented.

She is surprisingly insecure about her lack of memory, which troubles her immensely, especially since she cannot remember anything in her past, only vague impressions and fleeting sensations that leave her with a sense of unease, and also, a lingering sadness that haunts her.

Surprisingly, she has a sharp streak of mischief and is prone to causing havoc in the mansion when the mood strikes her; most of the time her pranks are pinned on someone else, much to her delight at having managed to evade punishment. She is also quick to agree when other residents ask her to help in their schemes.

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Strengths: Independent, kind, straightforward, observant, calm, self-controlled, thoughtful, brave

Flaws: Mischievous, seemingly indifferent, non-violent, solemn, rebellious

𝓟𝓪𝓼𝓽

Anastasia Romanov hails from Russia and is the youngest daughter of the Romanov family, a family of pureblooded vampires who once ruled over humans. When the humans rose up against them in rebellion, the family was forced to flee from their castle. In the chaos and confusion, Anastasia was separated from her family and was supposedly shot and bayonetted to her death by the angry mob. However, she would awaken once again, only to find herself staring up into Comte’s golden eyes, and herself void of all her memories. Comte would later bring her to his mansion, where she would spend her days in the company of other famous men in history. However, she still cannot remember any of her past and believes that she was turned by Comte into a lesser vampire, and Comte has not corrected her.

𝓡𝓮𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓱𝓲𝓹𝓼

Comte de Saint-Germain: Comte was the one who found and saved her; Ana was reportedly found by him, bloodied and dazed and refusing to speak for days. As Ana puts it, “The only face I can remember from my past is his.” The normally impassive Ana adores him, visibly brightening up in his presence, and their relationship is similar to one of father and daughter. Comte is equally guilty of spoiling her, bringing her along on his trips and taking her for outings whenever he is free. He has also kept her largely sheltered from her past.

Leonardo Da Vinci: She feels a certain kinship and connectedness to him; this is due in part to both their statuses as pureblooded-vampires. If not found with Comte, Ana can most likely be found with him. Ana likes him almost as much as she loves Comte, and is even willing to climb trees to pluck apples for him to eat.

𝓣𝓻𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓪

She hates doing schoolwork and has climbed trees to avoid her tutor, Isaac. Ana has also reportedly tried to bribe him with apples and Comte’s money so that he’ll raise her grades or let her off the hook for the day.

In terms of speed, she’s the fastest vampire at the mansion.

She can do her own chores and tries to help Sebastian with his work.

Ana has tried making clothes for Vic and King, and has the two dogs model her clothing when she feels bored.

She sometimes calls Vic “Jimmy” by accident, but has no idea why.

Lately, she’s been having trouble sleeping as bad dreams keep her awake.

Like Comte, she can also be protective of the residents in the mansion.

#ikemen vampire oc #ikevamp oc #ikevamp ocs #ikemen vampire ocs #cybird ikemen oc #cybird ikemen ocs #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #GUESS WHO MADE ANOTHER OC #ITS ME

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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The Public Enemy Solidified Gang Rule Under James Cagney for 90 Years

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William Wellman’s The Public Enemy (1931) turns 90 this weekend. When the film first came out, a theater in Times Square showed it nonstop, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. The movie marks the true beginning of gangster movies as a genre. Mervyn LeRoy’s Little Caesar may have hit theaters first, but The Public Enemy set the pattern, and James Cagney nailed the patter. Not just the street talk either; he also understood its machine gun delivery. His Tommy Powers is just a hoodlum, never a boss. He is a button man at best, even if he insisted his suits have six buttons.

The Public Enemy character wasn’t even as high up the ladder as Paul Sorvino’s caporegime Paul Cicero in Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas. But Cagney secured the turf Edward G. Robinson’s Rico Bandello took a bullet to claim in Little Caesar, and for the rest of his career Cagney never let it go.

Some would argue genre films began in 1931. Besides mob movies, the year introduced the newspaper picture with Lewis Milestone’s The Front Page and John Cromwell’s Scandal Sheet; Universal Pictures began an unholy run of horror classics via Tod Browning’s Dracula and James Whale’s Frankenstein, with the two turning Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff into household names; and Howard Hawks’ Scarface would land the knockout for the gangster genre, even if it didn’t get released until 1932.

Sadly, the classic “Gangster Film” run only lasted one production season, from 1930 to 1931, and less than 30 films were made during it. Archie Mayo’s The Doorway to Hell started the ball rolling in 1930, when it became a surprise box office hit. It stars Lew Ayres as the top mug, with Cagney as his sidekick. For fans of pre-Code Hollywood, it is highly recommended. It includes a kidnapping scene which results in the death of a kid on the street. Without a speck of blood or any onscreen evidence, it is cinematically shocking in its impact.

Both Little Caesar and The Public Enemy earned their street cred, defying the then-toothless 1930 Motion Picture Production Code, which preceded the Hays Code. After New York censors cut six scenes from The Public Enemy to clear it for release, the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America (MPPDA) set further guidelines for the proper cinematic depiction of crime.

Public Enemy director Wellman was an expert in multiple genres. He spit out biting satires like Nothing Sacred (1937) and Roxie Hart (1942), and captured gritty, dark realities in The Ox-Bow Incident (1943) and Story of G.I. Joe (1945). He won his only Oscar for A Star Is Born (1937). The Public Enemy is the first example of what would be his trademark: stylish cinematography and clever camera-work. The dark suspense he captures is completely different from the look of German expressionism. It captured the overcast shadows of urban reality and would influence the look of later noir films. His main character would inspire generations of actors.

“That’s just like you, Tom Powers. You’re the meanest boy in town.”

Orson Welles lauded James Cagney as “maybe the greatest actor who ever appeared in front of a camera.” Will Rogers said watching Cagney perform was “like a bunch of firecrackers going off all at once.” The New York City born performer explodes in this movie. Even in black and white, Cagney’s red hair flares through the air like sulfur on a match. It turns out to be a slow burn, which will reach its ultimate climax in 1949’s White Heat. The Public Enemy is loaded with top talent, but you can’t take your eyes off Cagney. Not even for a second. You might miss some tiny detail, like the flash of a grin, a wink, or a barely perceptible glare.

Cagney had a simple rule to acting: All you had to do was to look the other person straight in the eyes and say your lines. “But mean them.” In The Public Enemy, the characters communicate without lines. When Tom and Matt Doyle (Edward Woods) sneak a peek into Larry the Limp’s casket, we understand this is the first time the two young thugs lost someone their own age. The scene barely implies how fortunate they are not to be in that box, but their curiosity is as palpable as the loss of their last shred of innocence.

Cagney was originally cast as Matt, and scenes were shot with him in the role. The parts were switched mid-production, but they didn’t reshoot the flashback scenes, making it look like the pair swapped bodies between 1909 and 1915. It’s a shame because Frankie Darro, who plays the young Matt, made a career out of playing baby face Cagney, and later joined the East Side Kids franchise.

Former “Our Gang” actor Frank Coghlan Jr. took on the role of young Tom. He takes the lashes from his cop father’s belt, backtalking him the whole time. Tom Powers is reprehensible. He never says thank you and doesn’t shake hands. He delights in the violence and sadism. Powers doesn’t go into crime because of poverty; he just can’t be contained. Cagney’s mobster mangles, manhandles, maims and murders, and still needs more room in his inseam.

Dames, Molls, and Grapefruits

Besides defying the ban on romanticizing criminals, both The Public Enemy and Little Caesar broke sexual codes. There are explicit signs that Rico Bandello represses his sexuality in Caesar. Scenes between him and his friend Joe, and his gunman Otera, thinly veil homoerotic overtones. Public Enemy’s Powers, by contrast, subtly encourages the gay tailor who is openly hitting on him.

There are strong indications Putty Nose (Murray Kinnell) is grooming Tommy and Matt for more than just fenced goods. Look at the way Putty sticks his ass in Powers’ face while he is shooting pool. Putty Nose’s execution at the piano is creepily informed by the unspoken sins between the men. Tommy relishes the kill.

However, Tommy doesn’t relish being manhandled when he’s too drunk to notice. While the gang goes to the mattresses in the movie’s gang war, Tommy is raped by Jane (Mia Marvin), his boss Paddy’s girl. Powers protests the best he can, but the camera angles leave no doubt. Tommy wakes up hungover, horrified, and feeling impotent. Matt, however, has no trouble getting “busy” with his girlfriend Mamie, played by Joan Blondell, in one of the scenes trimmed by the censors. Blondell, Jean Harlow, and Mae Clarke, who plays Tommy’s girlfriend Kitty, represent a glitzy cross-section of white Roaring Twenties glamour. In the opening credits, when Harlow and Blondell smile at the camera, male audience members of the time blushed.

Harlow was Hollywood’s original “Blonde Bombshell,” starring in the movie that coined the term. Her earthy comic performances would make her a major star at MGM, but she was a dud to critics of The Public Enemy. Hers was the only part which was criticized, and the reviewers were brutal, declaring her voice untrained and her presence boring.

Harlow’s greatest asset had to be contained within the Pre-Code era. Straddled with a wordy part as a slumming society dame, she is directed to slow her lines to counter the quick patter of the rest of the cast. Yet Harlow uses that to her benefit in the film’s best moment of sexual innuendo. While telling Tommy about “the men I’ve known,” she pauses, and appears to be calculating them in her head before she says, “And I’ve known dozens of them.” When an evening alone with Tommy is cut short, Gwen’s exasperation over the coitus interruptus is palpable. Members of the Catholic Legion of Decency probably had to go to confession after viewing the film for slicing.

Most people know The Public Enemy for the famous grapefruit scene where Powers pushes a grapefruit into his girlfriend’s face. “I wish you was a wishing well,” he warns, “so that I could tie a bucket to you and sink ya.” Tommy treats women like property. They are status symbols, the same as clothes or cars. Kitty’s passive-aggressive hints at commitment get on Tom’s nerves. He can only express himself through violence. There are rumors Cagney, who would go on to rough up Virginia Mayo in White Heat and brutalize Doris Day in Love Me or Leave Me, didn’t warn Clarke he was going to use her face as a juicer. According to the autobiography Cagney by Cagney, Clarke’s ex-husband Lew Brice loved the scene so much he watched it a few times a day, timing his entrance into the theater to catch it and leave.

Both actors have said it was staged as a practical joke to see how the film crew would react. It wasn’t meant to make the final cut. Wellman told TCM he added it because he always wanted to do that to his wife. The writer reportedly wrote the scene as a kind of wish-fulfilling fantasy.

The screenplay was written by Harvey F. Thew. It was based on Beer and Blood by John Bright and Kubec Glasmon. The unpublished novel fleshed out press accounts of the bootlegging Northside gang leaders, Charles Dion “Deanie” O’Banion, Earl “Hymie” Weiss, and Louis “Two-Gun” Alterie. Cagney based his Tommy Powers character on O’Banion and Altiere. Edward Woods was doing his take on Weiss. The book reflected the headlines in the Chicago papers, which reported Weiss smashed an omelet into his girlfriend’s face.

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The Public Enemy borrowed from the day’s headlines in other ways too. Hymie Weiss was assassinated in October 1926. It was the first reported “machine-gun nest” murder. It is recreated in the killing of Matt Doyle. While shooting the sequence, Cagney ducked real machine gun fire to bring authenticity to the scene. Also taken from real life is the fact that after O’Banion was killed in ‘24, Alterie’s first reaction was to do public battle with the killers. This is similar to Tommy’s final shootout at Schemer Burns’ nightclub headquarters.

Leslie Fenton’s dashing mob captain Nails Nathan (“born Samuel”) flashes the greatest grin in mob movie history. He is based on Samuel “Nails” Morton, a member of O’Banion’s mob. Both “Nails” were driven to their coffins the way it is depicted in The Public Enemy. The real Morton died in a riding accident in 1923, and “Two-Gun” Alterie and some of the other gang members went back to the stables, rented the horse which kicked Nails in the head, and shot the animal. Mario Puzo may have been inspired by this scene when he wrote The Godfather. It is not only tie to the Francis Ford Coppola movie. Oranges have as much vitamin C as grapefruits. Another similarity between the two films is the threat of being kidnapped from the hospital by a rival gang.

The Powers brothers’ relationship vaguely echoes the one between war hero Michael and Sonny Corleone, who believes, as his father does, soldiers were “saps” to risk their lives for strangers. Donald Cook, who played Mike Powers, didn’t pull any punches on the set. In the scene where he knocks Tom into the table before going off to war, he really connects. Wellman told Cook to do it without warning so he could get that look of surprise. Cook broke one of Cagney’s teeth, but Cagney stayed in character and finished the scene.

“It is a wicked business.”

After the stock market crash, get-rich-quick schemes seemed the only way through the Great Depression. The gangster was an acceptable headline hero during Prohibition because the law was unpopular with the press. But after 1929, the gangster became the scapegoat villain. The Public Enemy was the ninth highest grossing film of 1931. But the genre lost its appeal after April of that year, as studios pumped out pale imitations and audiences got tired of the saturation, according to the book Violence and American Cinema, edited by J. David Slocum. Religious and civic groups accused Hollywood of romanticizing crime and glamorizing gangsters.

The Public Enemy opens with a dire warning: Don’t be a gangster. Hoodlums and terrorists of the underworld should not be glamorized. The only MPAA rule the film didn’t break was portraying an alliance between organized crime and politics. The studios passed the films off as cautionary tales which were meant to deflate the gangster’s appeal by ridiculing their false heroism.

Through this hand-wringing, however, Cagney turns false heroics on its head with the comic brilliance of a Mack Sennett short. Stuck without a gun, he robs a gun store armed with nothing but moxie. Powers never rises in the organization. He takes orders and whatever the boss says is a good cut, only asking for more money once from Putty Nose. Unlike Rico, who rose to be boss among bosses, Powers has no power to lose. This is just the first gig he landed since he was a regular “ding ding” driving a streetcar, and it connected with audiences like a sock on the button. They identified with the scrappy killer, and it surprised them.

Even Gwen notices Tommy is “very different, and it isn’t only a difference in manner and outward appearances. It’s a difference in basic character.” Strict Freudians might lay this on his mother (Beryl Mercer), the greatest enabler Cagney will see until White Heat. Ma Powers’ little boy is a budding psychopath knocking off half the North Side, but look at the head on his beer. For audiences at the time, Tom was the smiling, fresh-scrubbed face of evil. He is consistently unsympathetic but likable from the moment he hits the opening credits.

Like Malcom McDowell’s Alex in A Clockwork Orange, he is the fiend’s best friend. Even if it is Tommy’s fault his best pal Matt gets killed. While Cagney spent his career ducking his “you dirty, double-crossing, rat” line from Taxi, the actor wasn’t afraid to play one in Powers. He’s not a rat in the sense he’d snitch on anyone. He’s the last of the pack who sticks it out for his pals when his back is up against the wall.

A Hail of Bullets

Tommy Powers goes by this credo: live fast, die young, and leave a corpse so riddled with bullets, not even his mother can look at his body when he’s done. But then, no one can end a film like Cagney. He’s danced down the White House stairs in Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942), been rolled across the concrete steps of a city church in The Roaring Twenties (1939), and was blown to kingdom come in White Heat. He gets two death scenes in The Public Enemy, a rain-soaked climax, and a denouement as scary as The Mummy. Tommy only brings one gun to the gang fight, and by the time he hits the pavement, he’s got more holes in him than the city sewage system.

“I ain’t so tough,” Tommy says on his final roll into the gutter. Cagney’s first professional job was in a musical drag act on the Vaudeville circuit, and he called himself a “song and dance man” long after retirement. For The Public Enemy, conductor David Mendoza led the Vitaphone Orchestra through such period hits as “Toot Toot Tootsie (Goodbye),” “Smiles,” and “I Surrender Dear.” But the song “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles” is the one which lingers in the memory. Martin Scorsese has cited it as a reason his films are so filled with recognizable music.

Street violence comes with a natural soundtrack. Transistor radios accompany takedowns. Boom boxes blast during shakedowns. Car stereos boost the bass during drive-by shootings. In The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight, mobsters feed quarters into a jukebox to cover up sounds of a beating.

In The Godfather, Part II, a street band plays traditional Italian songs while Vito Corleone puts bullets in the neighborhood Black Hand, Don Fanucci. The last thing we hear in the abrupt close to the mob series The Sopranos is a Journey song. The first thing Tommy’s mother does when she hears her boy is coming home from the hospital is drop a needle on a record.

The ending leaves us with two questions: Who killed Tommy, and what’s his brother going to do about it? We figure whoever did the job on Powers was probably a low-level button man from Schemer’s rival outfit. Probably even lower down the ladder than Tommy, and on his way up, until another Tommy comes along. Crime only pays in the movies, Edward G. Robinson often joked.

Mike’s reaction to the bandaged corpse is ambiguous. He’s already shown outward signs of the trauma following the horrors of war. Is he clenching his fists in anguish or anger? Is he broken by the battlefield or marching off in vengeance, a soldier on one last duty? Cook’s exit can go either way.

After 90 years, The Public Enemy is still fresh. It’s aged better than Little Caesar or Scarface. Cagney wouldn’t play a gangster again until 1938, but the image is etched so deeply in the persona, audiences forget the vagaries of villainy Hollywood could spin, and the range of characters Cagney could play. He and the film continue to influence filmmakers, inform culture, and surprise audiences. Tommy Powers was just a mug, but those streets are still his.

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shiveringpinkala · 4 years

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Movie Rec List 1/?

My cousin and I were talking about reccing things the other day and she was angry about no one ever giving her good recs? So, I - of course - couldn’t let that stand, so here’s the first of 6? 7? (A Lot) movie rec lists I’ve decided to make both for her and anyone else looking for something new. (Or in this case, new-old).

Classic Movies (1920-1949) - Let me preface this by saying that it’s entirely probable, considering the time these movies were made in, that there are things in these movies that someone might find a offensive. I can’t remember the intricate details of each one to make sure. Watch at your own discretion.

The Thin Man & After the Thin Man (1934/1936) - William Powell, Myrna Loy - It’s a mystery series, but it’s also charming and funny and I adore Powell and Loy’s relationship.

The Philadelphia Story (1940) - Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, Ruth Hussey - It’s one of the classics of all classics. All-star Golden Age cast; hilarious zingers everywhere. Ruth Hussey’s character Liz has the driest sense of humor ever.(I love her lots). (Also there’s a line in there that proves that even in the 1940′s men were aware that drunk = taking advantage, so you can get out of here w/ that bullshit modern guys).

Arsenic and Old Lace (1944) - Cary Grant, Raymond Massey, Peter Lorre - One of the funniest movies I’ve ever seen. (To be fair here, I am not a big fan of 90% of modern comedies, especially American ones, so that statement is maybe moot). It’s a madcap comedy about murder; you cannot go wrong.

It Happened One Night (1934) - Clark Gable, Claudette Colbert - The first movie that won all of the Big Four Oscars (Best Picture, Director, Actor and Actress) and believe me, there’s a reason for that. Also a comedy, strangely enough. I did not think I would be reccing this many comedies.

Casablanca (1942) - Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, Claude Raines - I know, I know; but it’s a Classic because it damn well deserves to be. There’s something very universal and almost modern about it. And the quotes, dear god. (Also, I’m forever salty about Claude Rains not winning an Oscar for this; Louie is so two-faced and terrible and yet, you’re kind of reluctantly charmed anyway?)

Nosferatu (1922) - Max Schreck - It’s the best retelling of Dracula ever made. I’m dead (no pun intended) serious. It’s a silent film, so if that’s not something you can handle, give it a pass, but it’s worth it if you can deal. It’s got a great atmosphere and Count Orlok is creepy as fuck.

It’s A Wonderful Life (1946) - Jimmy Stewart, Donna Reed - You’ve probably seen it and if you haven’t you definitely know the premise. It’s basically a trope at this point. Still, it’s my favorite Christmas movie and everyone should see it at least once.

The Best Years of Our Lives (1946) - Frederic March, Dana Andrews, Harold Russell - Post WWII film about three serviceman in various stages of life dealing with coming back home. It’s poignant, heartbreaking and hopeful all at the same time. And Russell, a real life disabled veteran, won an Oscar for it.

White Heat (1949) - James Cagney, Virginia Mayo, Edmond O’Brien - Cagney is known for his tough guy, mob/gangster roles, but this one (done when he was a little older) is amazing. Cody Jarrett clearly has issues; mental health problems and a controlling mother being the most prevalent, and it makes him volatile and a bit tragic.

The Grapes of Wrath (1939) - Henry Fonda, Jane Darwell - It’s a good introduction to the Great Depression and Dust Bowl that was still fresh in everyone’s consciousness at the time it was made. It’s a sad movie, okay? It’s really sad. So, beware of that.

The Maltese Falcon (1942) - Humphrey Bogart, Mary Astor - It’s kind of the beginning of the classic film noir genre, so for that alone it’s a classic. It’s also the movie that made Bogart a star.

Dark Victory (1939) - Bette Davis, George Brent - I literally could not do a classic 30′s and 40′s list without a Davis film and this is the one that has stuck with me the longest. The ending is one of those scenes that’s been burned into my mind.

Honorable Mentions: The Ox-Bow Incident (this is a tough one to watch; read about the subject matter beforehand), Stagecoach, Phantom of the Opera (also a silent film), Angels With Dirty Faces, Gaslight.

If you have any recs for me, feel free to throw them in the comments/notes. Or if you watch any of these, tell me what you think.

#movie rec lists #classic movies #recs

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d20owlbear-deactivated · 5 years

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We Defy Augury

My Good Omens Holiday Swap gift for i-swear-this-is-my-last-rename! Special thanks to Clover the Grand for suggesting the “sparrow” line from Hamlet that I ended up using in a scene!

Summary: Aziraphale is maudlin after the Flopocalypse. Things haven’t really seemed to change even though it felt like it should have. Was he right to fret? Crowley had become even more secretive and suddenly disappeared from his life! Did that mean something? Of course it did, but what was the question…

Aziraphale drinks some, Crowley pops in then leaves just as quickly, so Aziraphale follows him and finds something out, and is pleased to be the one doing the saving this time.

Aziraphale was fretting. This wasn’t out of the ordinary, of course, Aziraphale was constantly fretting. Usually about little things like keeping humans from purchasing his books or choosing between dining establishments or making sure his taxes were in order. The Larger Things that were more the proper dominion of an angel, he rarely fretted about. [1]

And therein lie the rub. Crowley was a creature that could easily fall on either list. To fret or not to fret, that is the question. The question indeed. Ought he fuss to himself about things he didn’t know, to sit and suffer the bolts and darts of his dreary misfortune of not knowing? Or was he beholden to himself to push it from his mind? Was he meant to oppose this, to arm himself with his books and knowledges, hence to push back at this sea of troubles, his ocean of anxieties?

On one hand, Aziraphale knew Crowley very well; 6,000 years of knowing someone certainly lent itself to familiarity. And so, there was rarely anything Crowley kept hidden from Aziraphale which he might fret about. [2] On the other hand, Aziraphale knew Crowley well enough that he could tell something was being hidden from him. The demon rarely lied, at least to Aziraphale, and certainly not to his face. Not when Aziraphale would know.

** [1] This list of Larger Things included, but was not limited to: watching over humanity in general, keeping demons (except for one) out of London, protecting his shop from gangsters and the mob, and reheating his cocoa after it had gone cold because he’d forgotten it while reading.

[2] Aziraphale was certainly inclined to worry about the unknown far more than the known. The known could be planned for, and Aziraphale was nothing if not a protector and guardian, the sort who had been made in Her holy image of the tactician. He, of course, wasn’t all-knowing, but he gave it a fair shake when making his plans. **

He was a cherub, taxonomically, at least. One of the highest orders of angels, on par with Thrones and Archangels, and he retained quite a few of those characteristics and power from when he’d been placed at the Eastern Gate of Eden. There was a reason he’d been tasked there. In part because of his wounded leg [3] and also in part because he was a member of the Circle directly beholden to Her, who spoke with Her and was allowed to bask in Her presence at Her side.

He wasn’t any longer, he’d been demoted. To Principality, specifically, to watch over the Humans directly.

Removed from Her presence to watch Her creations. Aziraphale honestly wasn’t sure if She knew he would be happier like this or not. There was a place to worship Her in each shady glen and desert oasis, he saw Her glory in every ray of early morning sunshine through dewy spiders’ webs, Her majesty was in the distant stars themselves and the stories Her creations made for them, and Aziraphale found exultation in himself in the laughter of Her people and the keening cries of babes breathing in life for the first time.

But all of that was unimportant, at least currently. Right now he was fretting for a reason. A Crowley-shaped reason. The demon had been skulking about [4] and slipping through doorways behind Aziraphale’s back, leaving conversations with a shifty look and disappearing around corners whenever Aziraphale went to look for him! Rude indeed. He’d fretted, wringing his hands as he did so, to one of the girls who made coffee and tea in the café a few blocks away when they were slow in the afternoon. They rarely minded, ever since he'd dressed down a rude customer a while back. The girl just gave him a sad sort of look, fury visible behind her eyes as she wiped down a table nearby while he spoke, and she scampered behind the counter, whispering furiously with the other one on shift.

** [3] Or, what lined up to be a “leg” when confined into a human-type corporeal form. Angels didn’t have, generally, things like legs so much as they had an overabundance of eyes and souls in the form of wheels and fire and wings and in the shapes of animal heads. Of these, Aziraphale had four heads; one was relatively similar to the face he wore in his human form and the others were an ox, a lioness, and an eagle. They were all rather terrifying, and covered in eyes and fire, but he had three pairs of large wings to cover himself up with, so it was alright.

[4] Crowley rarely skulked or lurked like other demons did. He preferred to slither or, Heaven forbid, loom about, clogging up dark corners up high and frightening poor, unsuspecting people (and angels!) by suddenly appearing behind them with the sort of magnetic presence that made one feel they really ought to have realized he was so close.

[5] Aziraphale had rather enjoyed the opportunity to forcefully escort the customer from the shop upon seeing him attempt to physically intimidate one of the baristas and he certainly couldn’t have stood there and done nothing while the girls who made his hot cocoa and tea so well were being influenced in such an unsavory way via threatening body language. They conspired together for some time and, just as Aziraphale was preparing to leave, the girls came up to him, arms akimbo, and demanded to be kept in the loop. **

“If your boy won’t treat you right, let us know. We’ll set him straight!” The older of the two, Jerica, frowned, her eyes narrowed at the angel. Aziraphale smiled and placed a hand over his heart, touched.

“Thank you, my dear, but truly, that will not be necessary.”

The younger girl sniffed at Aziraphale’s brush off and grumbled. “Shows what you know. ‘S a tosser and doesn’t deserve you. Knows it too.”

“Bethany!” The older snapped. “That’s Mr. Fell’s decision!” Aziraphale blinked, not sure if they were talking about the same thing anymore.

“My decision? About Crowley?” Aziraphale muttered, half to himself, puzzled.

“Yeah!” Bethany blurt out, “If’n he’s cheatin’ on you, you deserve better!” Aziraphale froze. Cheating? They weren’t together, not like that, not like humans thought of such things so there was nothing to cheat on, surely. But. If there was someone Crowley was trying to hide from him… that would make sense, wouldn’t it? Aziraphale went white, paler than normal as any hint of jolly, rosy-cheeked flush fell from his face and his skin turned ashen in a rather spot-on mimicry of human shock.

“Bethany!” Jerica scolded, snapping Aziraphale out of his thoughts.

“Oh, sorry, my dear girls, but it seems I ought to– well, go.” Aziraphale stammered and rushed out of the café, down a few blocks, and to his shop. Which he locked up tightly and determinedly didn’t change the sign to Open. This required something a bit stronger than tea to think about.

Hours later, Aziraphale had worked his way through half a bottle of rum.

[Entire Fic]

#good omens holiday swap #gomens holiday swap #Aziraphale and Crowley #BAMF Aziraphale #Damsel in Distress Crowley #Miscommunications #My writing #help i'm lost in good omens and can't get out #good omens fanfic #good omens fic #crowley #Crowley and Aziraphale #aziraphale/crowley #crowley good omens #Aziraphale #Find On AO3 #Read in Full on AO3

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she-wolf-of-highgarden · 5 years

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Every time Arya mentions songs

“Despite the hour, Harrenhal stirred with fitful life. Vargo Hoat's arrival had thrown off all the routines. Ox carts, oxen, and horses had all vanished from the yard, but the bear cage was still there. It had been hung from the arched span of the bridge that divided the outer and middle wards, suspended on heavy chains, a few feet off the ground. A ring of torches bathed the area in light. Some of the boys from the stables were tossing stones to make the bear roar and grumble. Across the ward, light spilled through the door of the Barracks Hall, accompanied by the clatter of tankards and men calling for more wine. A dozen voices took up a song in a guttural tongue strange to Arya's ears.” - Arya IX, ACoK

“The song came drifting up the river from somewhere beyond the little rise to the east. "Off to Gulltown to see the fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho . . .” - Arya II, ASoS

“I'll make her my love and we'll rest in the shade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho." The song swelled louder with every word.” - Arya II, ASoS

“Lightfoot, she moved to the big old willow that grew beside the bend in the road and went to one knee in the grass and mud, within the veil of trailing branches. You old gods, she prayed as the singer's voice grew louder, you tree gods, hide me, and make him go past. Then a horse whickered, and the song broke off suddenly. He's heard, she knew, but maybe he's alone, or if he's not, maybe they'll be as scared of us as we are of them.” - Arya II, ASoS

“For once he did not argue. They set off as she had wanted, walking their horses slowly down the rutted road a dozen paces behind the three on foot. But before very long, somehow they were riding right on top of them. Tom Sevenstrings walked slowly, and liked to strum his woodharp as he went. "Do you know any songs?" he asked them. "I'd dearly love someone to sing with, that I would. Lem can't carry a tune, and our longbow lad only knows marcher ballads, every one of them a hundred verses long." "We sing real songs in the marches," Anguy said mildly."Singing is stupid," said Arya. "Singing makes noise. We heard you a long way off. We could have killed you. Tom's smile said he did not think so. "There are worse things than dying with a song on your lips.” - Arya II, ASoS

“ Hot Pie shifted his seat. "I know the song about the bear," he said. "Some of it, anyhow.” - Arya II, ASoS

“ Tom and Hot Pie resumed their song on the other side of the brook, with the duck hanging from Lem's belt beneath his yellow cloak. Somehow the singing made the miles seem shorter. It was not very long at all until the inn appeared before them, rising from the riverbank where the Trident made a great bend to the north. Arya squinted at it suspiciously as they neared. It did not look like an outlaws' lair, she had to admit; it looked friendly, even homey, with its whitewashed upper story and slate roof and the smoke curling up lazy from its chimney. Stables and other outbuildings surrounded it, and there was an arbor in back, and apple trees, a small garden. The inn even had its own dock, thrusting out into the river, and . . .” - Arya II, ASoS

“What, with only the boy here? I told you twice, the old woman was up to Lambswold helping that Fern birth her babe. And like as not it was one o' you planted the bastard in the poor girl's belly." He gave Tom a sour look. "You, I'd wager, with that harp o' yours, singing all them sad songs just to get poor Fern out of her smallclothes.""If a song makes a maid want to slip off her clothes and feel the good warm sun kiss her skin, why, is that the singer's fault?" asked Tom. "And 'twas Anguy she fancied, besides. 'Can I touch your bow?' I heard her ask him. 'Ooohh, it feels so smooth and hard. Could I give it a little pull, do you think?” - Arya II, ASoS

“There was laughter all around. Then Tom drew his fingers across the strings of his woodharp and broke into soft song.” - Arya III, ASoS

“You'd know for certain if there was a song," said Tom Sevenstrings. "One good song, and we'd know who Ser Maynard used to be and why he wanted to cross this bridge so bad. Poor old Lychester might be as far famed as the Dragonknight if he'd only had sense enough to keep a singer." - Arya IV, ASoS

“Lem and Gendry played tiles with their hosts that night, while Tom Sevenstrings sang a silly song about Big Belly Ben and the High Septon's goose. Anguy let Arya try his longbow, but no matter how hard she bit her lip she could not draw it. "You need a lighter bow, milady," the freckled bowman said. "If there's seasoned wood at Riverrun, might be I'll make you one." Tom overheard him, and broke off his song. "You're a young fool, Archer. If we go to Riverrun it will only be to collect her ransom, won't be no time for you to sit about making bows. Be thankful if you get out with your hide. Lord Hoster was hanging outlaws before you were shaving. And that son of his . . . a man who hates music can't be trusted, I always say.” - Arya IV, ASoS

“Lem snorted through his broken nose. "Was it you who made a song of it, or some other bloody arse in love with his own voice?" "I only sang it the once," Tom complained. "And who's to say the song was about him? 'Twas a song about a fish.” Arya didn't care what Tom's stupid songs were about. She turned to Harwin. "What did he mean about ransom?” - Arya IV, ASoS

“The wench is dead," the woman hissed. "Only worms may kiss her now." And then to Tom Sevenstrings she said, "I'll have my song or I'll have you gone."So the singer played for her, so soft and sad that Arya only heard snatches of the words, though the tune was half-familiar. Sansa would know it, I bet. Her sister had known all the songs, and she could even play a little, and sing so sweetly. All I could ever do was shout the words.The next morning the little white woman was nowhere to be seen. As they saddled their horses, Arya asked Tom Sevenstrings if the children of the forest still dwelled on High Heart. The singer chuckled. "Saw her, did you?" - Arya IV, ASoS

“The singer laughed. "The sound of me, at least. She always makes me sing the same bloody song, though. Not a bad song, mind you, but I know others just as good." He shook his head. "What matters is, we have the scent now. You'll soon be seeing Thoros and the lightning lord, I'll wager.” - Arya IV, ASoS

“Someone could make a rare fine song of that.” Tom plucked a string on his woodharp.” - Arya IV, ASoS

“Now when did you ever say no to anything, Tom?" the woman hooted. "I'll roast some mutton for your friends, and an old dry rat for you. It's more than you deserve, but if you gargle me a song or three, might be I'll weaken. I always pity the afflicted. Come on, come on. Cass, Lanna, put some kettles on. Jyzene, help me get the clothes off them, we'll need to boil those too." - Arya V, ASoS

“Finally Tom ran out of rain songs and put away his harp. Then there was only the sound of the rain itself beating down on the slate roof of the brewhouse. The dice game ended, and Arya stood on one leg and then the other listening to Merrit complain about his horse throwing a shoe.” - Arya VII, ASoS

“You must be a lackwit, boy," said Lem. "We're outlaws. Lowborn scum, most of us, excepting his lordship. Don't think it'll be like Tom's fool songs neither. You won't be stealing no kisses from a princess, nor riding in no tourneys in stolen armor. You join us, you'll end with your neck in a noose, or your head mounted up above some castle gate.” - Arya VII, ASoS

“Anguy drew an arrow. "We're outlaws. Outlaws steal. It's in the songs, if you ask nice Tom may sing you one. Be thankful we didn't kill you." - Arya VII, ASoS

“My hair comes out in handfuls and no one has kissed me for a thousand years. It is hard to be so old. Well, I will have a song then. A song from Tom o' Sevens, for my news." "You will have your song from Tom," Lord Beric promised. He gave her the wineskin himself.” - Arya VIII, ASoS

“Nay," said the dwarf. "You're not. The black fish holds the rivers now. If it's the mother you want, seek her at the Twins. For there's to be a wedding." She cackled again. "Look in your fires, pink priest, and you will see. Not now, though, not here, you'll see nothing here. This place belongs to the old gods still . . . they linger here as I do, shrunken and feeble but not yet dead. Nor do they love the flames. For the oak recalls the acorn, the acorn dreams the oak, the stump lives in them both. And they remember when the First Men came with fire in their fists." She drank the last of the wine in four long swallows, flung the skin aside, and pointed her stick at Lord Beric. "I'll have my payment now. I'll have the song you promised me And so Lem woke Tom Sevenstrings beneath his furs, and brought him yawning to the fireside with his woodharp in hand. "The same song as before?" he asked."Oh, aye. My Jenny's song. Is there another?"And so he sang, and the dwarf woman closed her eyes and rocked slowly back and forth, murmuring the words and crying. Thoros took Arya firmly by the hand and drew her aside. "Let her savor her song in peace," he said. "It is all she has left.” - Arya VIII, ASoS

“Because I hacked your little friend in two? I've killed a lot more than him, I promise you. You think that makes me some monster. Well, maybe it does, but I saved your sister's life too. The day the mob pulled her off her horse, I cut through them and brought her back to the castle, else she would have gotten what Lollys Stokeworth got. And she sang for me. You didn't know that, did you? Your sister sang me a sweet little song.” - Arya IX, ASoS

“The music from the castles was louder here. The sound of the drums and horns rolled across the camp. The musicians in the nearer castle were playing a different song than the ones in the castle on the far bank, though, so it sounded more like a battle than a song. "They're not very good," Arya observed.” - Arya X, ASoS

“Firepits had been dug outside the feast tents, sheltered beneath rude canopies of woven wood and hides that kept the rain out, so long as it fell straight down. The wind was blowing off the river, though, so the drizzle came in anyway, enough to make the fires hiss and swirl. Serving men were turning joints of meat on spits above the flames. The smells made Arya's mouth water. "Shouldn't we stop?" she asked Sandor Clegane. "There's northmen in the tents." She knew them by their beards, by their faces, by their cloaks of bearskin and sealskin, by their half-heard toasts and the songs they sang; Karstarks and Umbers and men of the mountain clans. "I bet there are Winterfell men too." Her father's men, the Young Wolf's men, the direwolves of Stark.” - Arya X, ASoS

“She had no more time to watch the tents then. With the river overflowing its banks, the dark swirling waters at the end of the drawbridge reached as high as a horse's belly, but the riders splashed through them all the same, spurred on by the music. For once the same song was coming from both castles. I know this song, Arya realized suddenly. Tom o' Sevens had sung it for them, that rainy night the outlaws had sheltered in the brewhouse with the brothers. And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?” - Arya XI, ASoS

“Come with me." Sandor Clegane reached down a hand. "We have to get away from here, and now." Stranger tossed his head impatiently, his nostrils flaring at the scent of blood. The song was done. There was only one solitary drum, its slow monotonous beats echoing across the river like the pounding of some monstrous heart. The black sky wept, the river grumbled, men cursed and died. Arya had mud in her teeth and her face was wet. Rain. It's only rain. That's all it is. "We're here," she shouted. Her voice sounded thin and scared, a little girl's voice. "Robb's just in the castle, and my mother. The gate's even open." There were no more Freys riding out. I came so far. "We have to go get my mother.” - Arya XI, ASoS

“The Hound no longer watched her as closely as he had. Sometimes he did not seem to care whether she stayed or went, and he no longer bound her up in a cloak at night. One night I'll kill him in his sleep, she told herself, but she never did. One day I'll ride away on Craven, and he won't be able to catch me, she thought, but she never did that either. Where would she go? Winterfell was gone. Her grandfather's brother was at Riverrun, but he didn't know her, no more than she knew him. Maybe Lady Smallwood would take her in at Acorn Hall, but maybe she wouldn't. Besides, Arya wasn't even sure she could find Acorn Hall again. Sometimes she thought she might go back to Sharna's inn, if the floods hadn't washed it away. She could stay with Hot Pie, or maybe Lord Beric would find her there. Anguy would teach her to use a bow, and she could ride with Gendry and be an outlaw, like Wenda the White Fawn in the songs.” -Arya XII, ASoS

“You'd be dead if I had. You ought to thank me. You ought to sing me a pretty little song, the way your sister did.” - Arya XII, ASoS

“I thought your sister was the one with a head full of songs," the Hound growled. "Frey might have kept your mother alive to ransom, that's true. But there's no way in seven hells I'm going to pluck her out of his castle all by my bloody self." - Arya XII, ASoS

“That's stupid, Arya thought. Sansa only knows songs, not spells, and she'd never marry the Imp.” - Arya XIII, ASoS

“Arya took a step backward as the long steel song began. The Tickler came off the bench with a shortsword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Even the chunky brown-haired squire was up, fumbling for his swordhilt. She snatched her wine cup off the table and threw it at his face. Her aim was better than it had been at the Twins. The cup hit him right on his big white pimple and he went down hard on his tail.” - Arya XIII, ASoS

“Don't lie," he growled. "I hate liars. I hate gutless frauds even worse. Go on, do it." When Arya did not move, he said, "I killed your butcher's boy. I cut him near in half, and laughed about it after." He made a queer sound, and it took her a moment to realize he was sobbing. "And the little bird, your pretty sister, I stood there in my white cloak and let them beat her. I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf." A spasm of pain twisted his face. "Do you mean to make me beg, bitch? Do it! The gift of mercy . . . avenge your little Michael . . .” - Arya XIII, ASoS

“Worshipers came to the House of Black and White every day. Most came alone and sat alone; they lit candles at one altar or another, prayed beside the pool, and sometimes wept. A few drank from the black cup and went to sleep; more did not drink. There were no services, no songs, no paeans of praise to please the god. The temple was never full. From time to time, a worshiper would ask to see a priest, and the kindly man or the waif would take him down into the sanctum, but that did not happen often.” - Arya II, AFfC

“You believe this is the only place for you." It was as if he'd heard her thoughts. "You are wrong in that. You would find softer service in the household of some merchant. Or would you sooner be a courtesan, and have songs sung of your beauty? Speak the word, and we will send you to the Black Pearl or the Daughter of the Dusk. You will sleep on rose petals and wear silken skirts that rustle when you walk, and great lords will beggar themselves for your maiden's blood. Or if it is marriage and children you desire, tell me, and we shall find a husband for you. Some honest apprentice boy, a rich old man, a seafarer, whatever you desire." - Arya II, AFfC

“Cat had made friends along the wharves; porters and mummers, ropemakers and sailmenders, taverners, brewers and bakers and beggars and whores. They bought clams and cockles from her, told her true tales of Braavos and lies about their lives, and laughed at the way she talked when she tried to speak Braavosi. She never let that trouble her. Instead, she showed them all the fig, and told them they were camel cunts, which made them roar with laughter. Gyloro Dothare taught her filthy songs, and his brother Gyleno told her the best places to catch eels. The mummers off the Ship showed her how a hero stands, and taught her speeches from The Song of the Rhoyne, The Conqueror's Two Wives, and The Merchant's Lusty Lady. Quill, the sad-eyed little man who made up all the bawdy farces for the Ship, offered to teach her how a woman kisses, but Tagganaro smacked him with a codfish and put an end to that. Cossomo the Conjurer instructed her in sleight of hand. He could swallow mice and pull them from her ears. "It's magic," he'd say. "It's not," Cat said. "The mouse was up your sleeve the whole time. I could see it moving." - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

“When Cat slipped inside the brothel, though, she found Merry sitting in the common room with her eyes shut, listening to Dareon play his woodharp. Yna was there too, braiding Lanna's fine long golden hair. Another stupid love song. Lanna was always begging the singer to play her stupid love songs. She was the youngest of the whores, only ten-and-four. Merry asked three times as much for her as for any of the other girls, Cat knew.” - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

“Cat was thinking about the fat boy, remembering how she had saved him from Terro and Orbelo, when the Sailor's Wife appeared beside her. "He sings a pretty song," she murmured softly, in the Common Tongue of Westeros. "The gods must have loved him to give him such a voice, and that fair face as well." - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

“Dareon's song was finally ending. As the last notes faded in the air, Lanna gave a sigh and the singer put his harp aside and pulled her up into his lap. He had just started to tickle her when Cat said loudly, "There's oysters, if anyone is wanting some," and Merry's eyes popped open. "Good," the woman said. "Bring them in, child. Yna, fetch some bread and vinegar." - Cat of the Canals, AFfC

“Not for me. Her nights were bathed in moonlight and filled with the songs of her pack, with the taste of red meat torn off the bone, with the warm familiar smells of her grey cousins. Only during the days was she alone and blind.” - the Blind Girl, ADwD

#Arya Stark #quote dump #A Song of Ice and Fire #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls

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cultml · 6 years

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Who is the greatest victim of them all? Leave it to the mob to pick the ‘winner.’

From The Ox-Bow Incident to To Kill a Mockingbird, novelists warned of the American propensity to become mob-like and often lethally so. Our Puritan roots, when coupled to elements of Athenian-style democracy, can on occasion vary wildly between dangerous bias and equally mindless self-righteousness.

Update those traditions within the modern bane of electronically charged instantaneous social media, identity politics, the decline of journalism, and vicarious virtue-signaling, and we increasingly suffer psychodramas like the Virginia fraternity mess, the Duke Lacrosse fiasco, the Kavanaugh hearings, and the Covington nightmare.

In such cases, predictable constructs often set afire the new mob.

...Once a society establishes a system of rewards and punishments that favor accusation and force-multiply it through enhancements of race and gender, then fairness and truth become secondary considerations. Much less valued are notions of human frailty and atonement. Truth becomes a narrative of a particular class of victim, to be adjudicated in mob-like and often electronic arenas, without much attention to testimony, evidence, or witnesses.

Intersectional progressives strangely had assumed that in these sensational cases they would always have Manichean scenarios: white boys bad, a Native American “elder” good. In the Covington case, they never quite anticipated, as they discarded due process, that the supposed victims could be gross and conniving victimizing predators.

Yet duplicity, careerism, and self-interest are human pathologies, not restricted to only one gender or certain races.

#victor davis hanson

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thedarkgodmogar · 6 years

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IM BACK WITH A FANFIC

Suprise bitch, bet you thought you’ve seen the last of me.

Anyways. I realize it’s been 3 years. Life happens, I had no ideas or motivation. But then suddenly i got a random idea for a stingue gang au fic and I actually wrote some of it! I decided to go ahead and share the first chapter, see if anyone likes it, and try to keep my motivation going. (it’s also just been years and i miss this soo) I promise I’ll try my best to keep up with this one.

First chapter of the stingue gang AU under the read more. Title TBD, but basically Sting’s an idiot and flirts too much.

When Sting walked into his boss’ office, he fully expected a beating.

He doesn’t know why, his last job had been flawless. He’d shot the boss of Titan Nose through the head before anyone even knew he had a gun, left the Sabertooth emblem on the wall to mark his work, and then took out half the gang on his way out. He didn’t know exactly why the boss wanted them gone, they seemed pretty small and insignificant. (Sting half suspected it was because they named themselves something stupid like Titan Nose.) But usually when one walked into Master Jiemma’s office, they leave with a black eye at the very least.

Sting’s never been one for fear. He’s lived on the streets his whole life, can shot someone through the eyes with a pistol fifty feet away, a rifle a hundred, and the last time someone got the better of him in a fight was Natsu Dragneel about three years ago- but that’s a story Sting would rather forget. Even with his aversion to fear, he has to stand outside the big mahogany door for several seconds, steeling himself for whatever the hell awaits him inside.

Come on, Eucliffe, stop being a little bitch and just get it over with.

With a resigned sigh, Sting pushes open the door. The air inside the office is heavy despite the rooms size and various windows; Sting’s never once seen a single window open to let in a cool breeze. His eyes scan the right side of the room, where large bookshelves are stacked against the wall, filled with all kinds of official ‘legal’ stuff Sting could never hope to understand. The left side is empty except for a door half hidden behind a curtain; despite his best efforts, Sting’s never been able to find out where that door leads. The walls are just bare concrete with what looks like old blood stains splattered at various spots, mostly along the bottom, and the wooden floorboards creak under his feet. No one can sneak around in here

Sting steps into the middle of the room, facing the desk in the very back. If Sting had any eye for interior design, he would call the piece of furniture pretty, with its large slab of redwood held up by two growling tigers. But he doesn’t have a sense of interior design, nor is he concerned about the desk. He’s more concerned about the man sitting behind it.

Even sitting down, Jiemma Orland is a hulking figure, easily over seven feet tall, and with muscles that are barely contained under his leather-looking skin. With beady eyes and long white beard, he looks like an ox on steroids.

“Master-”

“Do not speak unless spoken to,” Jiemma says in that booming, commanding voice that always makes Sting feel like an insect waiting to get stepped on. Sting promptly snaps his mouth shut.

Jiemma turns his beady red eyes on Sting. “You’ve completed the job.”

Sting knows it’s not a question, but he answers anyways, “Yes, Master. The Titan Nose boss is dead and his men scattered. They won’t-” “And the emblem?” Sting swallows hard. You haven’t done anything wrong. He has no reason to be mad… hopefully. “On the wall right over the boss’ head.”

Jiemma nods, and Sting lets himself breathe a sigh of relief. He watches as Jiemma pulls a file out of a drawer before quickly snapping it shut. He puts it on the far edge of the desk. Sting’s curiosity soars, but he remains still until given permission to move. “Another job, sir?”

Jiemma grunts in acknowledgment as Sting picks up the file, then nearly drops it when he sees the name scribbled across the top.

Cheney, Rogue. Fairy Tail.

Both infamous names in Fiore, one more so than the other. Fairy Tail is the strongest gang in the whole city, having taken over half the town, most of the ports (including Hargeon, the biggest port in the city), and import trades. The only gang keeping them from owning the entire city is Sabertooth, and it has been a long, long war. When Sting joined Sabertooth at age twelve, the fighting had already started. It’s said Fairy Tail had tried to resolve things peacefully a couple years before that by giving a few things, taking a few things, charging less for port usage, and sharing a little information. But Jiemma wanted only pure domination.

Everyone knows the story of Fairy Tail. It’s the other name on the file that holds his interest. Rogue Cheney, also known as the Shadow. It’s said they joined Fairy Tail around the same time Sting joined Sabertooth. If a suspect or political figure disappeared, or a bank robbery where the cameras didn’t even see who did it, The Shadow was the one behind it. Rogue Cheney has made quite the reputation for themselves.

“The maggot has been slinking around our territory,” Jiemma growls, dragging Sting out of his thoughts. “More weaklings have gone missing. The fairies need to be reminded who they’re dealing with. Do not fail me, Sting.”

Sting nods, tucking the folder under his arm and bowing. “They will see the true might of Sabertooth. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Good.” Jiemma waves his hand in dismissal. Sting quickly makes his way out of the office, an actual bounce in his step. He got out of there without getting his ass kicked! And he got a new job! Not just any job, he gets to fuck with Fairy Tail! Either there’s a glitch in the matrix, or luck is finally on his side.

As far as Sting is concerned, there are two main Fairy Tail teams: Team Natsu, and Team Target. Team Natsu was to be avoided at all costs until further notice. Unless he could manage to get Natsu alone, then maybe he’d have some fun. But, as loathe Sting was to admit it, the other members of that team were Fairy Tail’s main force, and too strong to take on all at once.

Team Target was exactly as the name said: his target (he’s never been the most creative with names). Consisting of Yukino Agria, Rufus Lore, Gajeel Redfox, and Rogue Cheney, they were a pretty formidable team of their own right. Yukino is known for being a master at hand-to-hand combat, specializing in martial arts, as well as picking any lock you put in front of her. Rufus is their main intelligence, with a mind like a snake and a memory like a steel trap, almost nothing gets by him. Next to Rogue, Gajeel Redfox is their main firepower. Sting’s heard stories of Gajeel ripping iron with his bare hands and using the ripped off piece to stab a man through his heart. Sting isn’t sure if he believes those stories, but all rumors come from some truth.

Sting’s spent several long days trying to figure out how to deal with them. There was no way he was getting to Rogue without going through them, but taking them on all at once would be stupid. Ugh, why do groups have to be so together all the time?

Whatever. He was done thinking about it. Now, Orga had agreed to go with him to one of the best clubs in the city, where he one hundred percent planned to get blackout drunk and find some hot dude to spend the night with.

The music was loud enough Sting could feel it shaking the floor under his feet, feel the heavy bass in his chest. The flashing strobe lights made the mob of people dancing almost look like a horror film. They also made his eyes hurt. He made his way to the separate, slightly more subdued bar area in the adjacent room, where he sat and ordered one of the strongest drinks they have.

“Goin’ out strong tonight, ya?” Orga laughed and clapped him on the back as he sat on the stool next to Sting.

Sting wouldn’t really say he has friends, but Orga Nanagear would be the next closest thing. Orga had a presence in a room that was just too hard to ignore, and not just because he’s nearly seven feet tall. He laughs a lot, and even though Sting suspects it’s because he’s high ninety-eight percent of the time, Sting still likes the sound. Not many people are seen laughing in Sabertooth. It doesn’t hurt that the big guy will go drinking with him anytime he asks.

“You know me. The worst part of not being drunk is being sober.” Sting raises his glass, then takes a long drink, the alcohol burning his throat.

“Ha!” Orga guffaws. “Well, ya better watch it tonight. Yer not gonna believe what a little birdie told me.” He looks at Sting expectantly, who just grunts in acknowledgment.

Orga leans in real close. Sting can smell the weed on his clothes. “Word is some punks from Fairy Tail are gonna be showin’ up tonight. Some birthday or somethin’. The Shadow was even seen with the lot of ‘em.”

Sting nearly drops his glass.

No. Fucking. Way.

Sting does his very best at pretending he didn’t almost have a heart attack. “How many fairies?”

The look Orga gives him shows his efforts are useless. “Dunno exactly. Think only about seven? Maybe ten? It’s a small party.” The grin on his face makes Sting want to punch him. “That Natsu kid is with ‘em. You lookin’ to get yer ass handed to ya again?”

Sting ignores that. Ten Fairies, all within striking distance. And Rogue is one of them. Maybe this is the chance he’s been looking for. He’ll have to be careful, especially with Natsu; he’s the only one likely to remember Sting’s face.

No, ten Fairies is too much. He just needs the one. If he dodges Natsu, he can get to Rogue. Slip in close when they’re not looking. He’s heard how Fairy Tail parties, even crashed a few when he was younger, before Jiemma found out and broke his ribs. They’ll be drunk within the hour. All of them except Rogue, who’s hatred for alcohol is a weird abnormality in these parts.

He can do this. After all, he’s a master at seduction.

Time to snare him a Shadow.

#stingue #sting x rogue #sting eucliffe #rogue cheney #sabertooth #fairy tail #fairy tail fanfiction #my fic #my post #future orfus #future yukinerva #gang au #wip #ftlgbtfics

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heartslogos · 6 years

Text

newfragile yellows [400]

“What the fuck, Dalish?” Bull says, waving his gun in he general direction, “What part of no survivors did you miss?”

Dalish looks very unimpressed. The flashing red and white alarms and blaring sirens somehow emphasize how deeply unimpressed she is by Bull’s confusion and mild irritation.

“Now I’ve got to take care of this.”

He reaches around his back for another magazine and finds nothing.

“Nope,” She says, folding her arms across her chest and quirking a pale brow at him.

There's a sharp whistle to his left and when Bull turns he sees Skinner waving his missing magazine at him before rounding a corner.

Bull turns back to Dalish incredulously, “Did you fucking calculate my shots in order to get to this exact moment?”

“Yup,” She says.

“Why?” Bull says, “Dalish, this isn’t the fucking time for you to try and leverage for a pay raise. I told you, it’s a percent per contract. Did you not hear the entire fucking speech I gave all of you before we started this op about how we need to get the Inquisition to trust us and to believe that we can do any job they give us? Did you skip the entire part where it was expressly stressed that we can’t let there be any survivors?”

“No. I did not.”

“Then explain to me what the fuck you’re doing bringing me a Vint.”

“Does the Ox-man know that the Vint can hear him?” The man behind Dalish says.

He’s armed, whether he knows how to use said weapon is completely up in the air.

“This is an exception,” Dalish says, “The Inquisition will want this one, trust me.”

“You can’t just say yes to whatever pretty face looks at you nice,” Bull says, “That’s how we got stuck with Rocky and, listen, I love the guy, but the amount of times I’ve had to bail him out this year has been ridiculous and we’re only a month and a half in.”

Dalish rolls her eyes, stepping forward and jabbing him in the chest with her bony, bony finger.

“Listen, this man? He’s a scientist. Not only that, but he’s an Altus, and if you’ve ever listened to anything Krem has ever said or even remembered any of your past intelligence work you’ll know that’s high ranking government official. And with the way Tevinter is run that also means high ranking mafioso. He’s got valuable intelligence on the enemy and he’s a bona fide turncoat, he’s going to help us. And Lavellan? Is going to love you for this.”

“Why would Lavellan be happy about me letting a high ranking mob boss from Tevinter live when we’re fighting high ranking mob bosses from Tevinter?”

“Because,” the man says, stepping forward and glaring up at him, “I am literally here to give away secrets for free. And while I’m at it, strategize ways to take down these…these shams of Tevinter society. Now are you going to move out of the way of progress or not?”

Bull glares down at the man who just tilts his chin up defiantly.

Bull swears that he never thought he’d live to see the day when he’d take orders from someone in velvet pants.

“I,” Bull says, grudgingly stepping aside to let Dalish and the man pass, “Am going to dock your pay.”

Dalish flips him off, “The Inquisition will comp me.”

“Do you work for me or for the Inquisition?” Bull yells after her. “It’s my name on the front of it.”

“This is organized crime, we’re chaotic good at best and neutral evil at worst,” Ellana says, “You can’t be telling me that we’re seriously being bothered by some punks with a chemistry set in their parent’s basement. Tell me we have some plan to manage this and solve this annoyance.”

“Murder.”

“A plan that isn’t murdering some stupid teenagers.”

“Strange disappearances.”

“No. Murder.”

“They’d come back after a few days slightly rough around the edges,” Bull says. “We couldn’t actually kill them.”

Ellana ignores him.

“Recruitment.”

Ellana points her pen at Rylen, “Better. But most things are better than murder. Come on, people, anything else?”

“Scare them straight program.”

Ellana turns to Josephine, the tip of her pen dropping and tapping on the table, “We have one of those?”

“We have connections to prisons, jails, and police departments that run them,” Josephine replies, shrugging. “We’ve just…never used it.”

“To be fair, until now, most of our enemies probably would not have qualified for juvenile corrections,” Cullen says, “Murder has been a valid and often encouraged solution.”

“No murdering stupid teenagers.”

“We could frame them and get them in jail and then bust them out with some bullshit good behavior,” Rylen says.

“Why is Rylen the only one here with good ideas?” Ellana says, “And Josephine, but mostly Rylen because Josephine is busy taking coded notes?”

“Since Rylen is doing so well, may I leave?” Cullen asks.

“No.”

“You let Bull take Leliana’s place.”

“I don’t know why you’d want to leave,” Ellana says, “It’s not like you have anything better to do.”

“And Leliana does?”

“I have no doubt in my mind that at any given moment Leliana is handling more plot-lines in her head than I will ever handle in a decade. Can anyone explain to me how we got upstart punks causing us problems and it’s gotten to the point where you all think murder was a viable first choice?”

“We were occupied elsewhere,” Bull says, “Who knew that they’d create a drug racket so damn fast?”

“Have Malika take care of it,” Cullen says. “She’s about the right age, maybe a bit older but she’d fit in. And it would be good practice. Didn’t her mother say that she’d like for us to start easing Malika into our operations a little more?”

“The Inquisition is the only place I know where other families send their kids to be groomed as organized crime members,” Rylen says. “This didn’t even happen in Kirkwall.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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mp100secretsanta2017-blog · 7 years

Text

Part-Time Bonding

From: Cheese

To: Chushi

Message: Hi there! I had so much fun with this prompt; thanks for all your cool ideas! I would’ve tried drawing it out instead, but my tablet’s ben out of commission these past few weeks, so I had to make a fic of it instead. I hope you can enjoy it anyway, and happy holidays!

___________________________________________________________________

Wear something you don’t mind getting messy in, the text had said.

Well, thought Ritsu, cheeks flushed in a way that had nothing to do with the frosty December winds nipping at his face, if it stops at just “messy,” I’m setting them on fire myself. His brother meant well; he knew that. Just like he knew that if he met anyone even remotely acquainted with him while dressed like this, he would combust on the spot.

Ritsu shivered, rubbing his mittened hands — who the hell even sells sock puppet mittens? — together. If he were being honest, though, the mittens were the least mortifying part of the whole ensemble. Beneath an eye-bleedingly orange scarf was a truly revolting watermelon-themed turtleneck, hidden from the light of day by a puffy jacket covered in cartoon rodents of some sort. Even his socks couldn’t be spared from creepy-looking strawberries crawling up their sides. The only salvageable parts were the pants, which, save for a patch of bright yellow fabric on the left knee, were an unremarkable gray, and an out-of-order rainbow beanie.

A gust of cold wind stung his face. Grumbling, Ritsu pulled the scarf over his nose, nuzzling into the soft fabric. His brother’s fashion sense may have been corrupted beyond repair, but at least the clothes were warm. Shifting from foot to foot, Ritsu checked his watch. 5:07. He growled deep in his throat; he’d been waiting outside this ice cream parlor over fifteen minutes. If he had to spend even one more mortifying minute in public like this, he would —

“Ah, there you are!” As if summoned by his mutinous thoughts, his brother’s employer came jogging into view. “Sorry about that, the last client took longer than expect … erm, what happened to your clothes?”

“They’re not mine,” muttered Ritsu, shrinking further into the borrowed clothes. “They’re my brother’s.” Reigen raised an eyebrow. “He said my clothes weren’t warm enough, so me made me take the clothes he got when he and Teru went to the mall last month.”

“Ah,” said Reigen, as though that explained everything. Which it did. Hanazawa Teruki was a walking fashion disaster, and the more people realized it the better. If only his brother were one such person.

“Well, it’s not like you can talk!” Ritsu snapped, the flush of his ears hidden by the beanie. “What’s with those earmuffs anyway?”

“What, these?” Reigen touched the hot pink balls of fluff covering his ears. “A gift from a client. I couldn’t think of a polite way to decline, so I figured I’d give them an honorable death in the line of duty. Besides, they’re warm.”

Ritsu grunted. “So what are we here for, anyway? You said an exorcism?”

“That’s right.” Reigen dug around his pocket and pulled out a tattered slip of paper. A sudden burst of frigid air nearly yanked it from his grip, but he held on tight. “Apparently one of their machines started malfunctioning last Friday. When they tried to fix it, it started started spewing hot chocolate everywhere, and no one’s been able to go near it since.”

Ritsu waited. Reigen didn’t offer anything else. “That’s it?” he said, after several long moments. “We’re here to fight a broken hot chocolate machine? Why did I have to come, then? You don’t need me or my brother for that sort of crap.”

“Language, Ritsu.”

“What? All I said was —”

“It might be a cruddy job, but we can’t speak about our clients’ problems that way. It’s unprofessional.”

“Whatever.”

“Also, they don’t sell hot chocolate.”

“What do you mean they don’t —? Oh.” Well, that would certainly explain why they thought it was haunted. But still, what sort of ice cream parlor didn’t sell hot beverages in this weather? At the very least, it seemed like a wasted business opportunity, especially when one considered how prolific dessert cafés were now.

Reigen led the way to the back entrance, where the owner was waiting. After introducing themselves, the owner keyed in the code to the door. The locked beeped and turned green, and Reigen made his way inside. Ritsu followed close behind. “Just — just let me know when you’re done, yeah?” said the owner. She gave them one last nervous smile before shutting the door.

Inside the building was somehow even colder. Ritsu shivered as he watched his breath cloud in front of him, a stark white against the dark backdrop of the unlit corridor. Ahead of him, Reigen fumbled around a bit, searching for the light switch. “So, Ritsu,” he said, feeling the wall next to them, “how’s school going?”

“Fine, I guess.” As they made their way to the main service area, the two split off in separate directions, Ritsu towards the pastry displays and Reigen toward the service counter.

Reigen searched the wall behind the counter. “Mob was telling me you had a math test today; how’d that go?”

“All right.”

A loud clang echoed through the store. Reigen hissed, rubbing his elbow where he’d hit it against a soda machine by the sink. “Just ‘all right’?” he said through clenched teeth.

Ritsu shrugged. “I mean, I got full marks if that’s what you’re asking, but that’s not news or anything.”

“Hey now, full marks is nothing to sneeze at — aha!” With a triumphant grin, Reigen flicked a switch next to the sink. Bright fluorescent ceiling rods bathed the room in an artificial light before sputtering out and drenching them in darkness again. “What the —?” muttered Reigen, flicking the switch off and on and off again.

“Nice, you broke it,” scoffed Ritsu, making his way over.

Reigen’s eyes flicked nervously to Ritsu’s and back to the switch. “That — that couldn’t have been me, though, right? The lights were probably busted anyway. And frankly, I think it’s better that we know now so we can tell the owner before she opens for business again. Yeah, now that I think about it, this is actually a good thing.” Impatiently, he pressed the switch again. “If they only just broke, shouldn’t the lights at least flicker?”

Just as Ritsu opened his mouth to offer to help, the machine next to them sputtered to life, emitting a strange blue glow. A quiet bubbling sound came from within it, getting drastically louder with each passing moment. “Should we … do something?” asked Ritsu, leaning away from the now rattling machine.

“Ah.” Reigen looked at the machine, then his elbow, then back at the machine. “It seems we’ve awakened the spirit.”

“We? I’m not the one walking around this shop breaking things like a blind ox.”

“All right, that’s fair, I awakened the spirit, but the point remains —” Whatever else Reigen had been about to say was interrupted by an explosion of turquoise light and scalding hot chocolate. Ritsu yelped, barely managing to dodge a jet of hot liquid aimed in his direction. Reigen wasn’t quite as fortunate; he moved his arm fast enough to protect most of his face, but his earmuffs got hit square on.

Ritsu’s eyes widened in concern. Above the din, he shouted, “Are you okay?”

“Just fine!” Reigen yelled back. He scrubbed furiously at his face, wincing. “Wow, that’s hot. Ritsu, think you can take care of this one?”

A silent sigh of relief escaped his lips unbidden; getting hurt on an assignment like this, and on Ritsu’s watch no less, would have been so avoidably stupid. Ritsu rolled his neck, grinning wickedly. “With pleasure.”

From the soda machine rose a whirling cloud of purple and red energy. Two enraged, iridescent glowered at them from its center, and a thunderous voice bellowed, “WHO DARES —”

Ritsu snapped his fingers.

___________________________________________________________________

“I’m so sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you, but thank you again for all you help!” The owner bowed hastily before digging through her purse. Pulling out a checkbook and a pen, she said, “You said it was your standard fare?”

Reigen sighed, scratching his head with one hand while the other clutched his now ruined earmuffs. “Well, normally yes,” he said, “but because it’s the holiday season, we actually have a special discount going on now, so all consultations, exorcisms, and counseling sessions are thirty percent off.” He smiled, then, and offered her a gloved hand. “I’m glad my disciple and I could be of help.”

“I’m not your disciple,” Ritsu muttered. His comment went unheard.

The owner shook his hand enthusiastically. “No, no, thank you!” She pressed something into his hand, saying, “I know it isn’t much, but I hope you’ll accept these as a token of my appreciation. Consider it a holiday gift, if you will.” Stepping back, she bowed again and headed off towards her parked car.

Ritsu peered over Reigen’s arm. In his hand were two coupons for the ice cream parlor they had just freed. “I guess it’s a chain,” Ritsu commented. “Wait a minute …” He frowned, eyebrows pinched. “These expire today.”

Reigen huffed a laugh, throwing his arm around Ritsu’s shoulder. “Well then, Ritsu my boy,” he said, smiling, “what do you say to dessert for dinner?”

He could feel his eyes widen in amazement. “Really?” His brother never let him have sweets before dinner.

Grinning, Reigen ruffled his hair and began walking them toward the main road. “Really. It’s on me.”

Wear something you don’t mind getting messy in, the text had said.

“Well, it’s not like you can talk!” Ritsu snapped, the flush of his ears hidden by the beanie. “What’s with those earmuffs anyway?”

Ritsu grunted. “So what are we here for, anyway? You said an exorcism?”

“Language, Ritsu.”

“What? All I said was —”

“It might be a cruddy job, but we can’t speak about our clients’ problems that way. It’s unprofessional.”

“Whatever.”

“Also, they don’t sell hot chocolate.”

“Fine, I guess.” As they made their way to the main service area, the two split off in separate directions, Ritsu towards the pastry displays and Reigen toward the service counter.

Reigen searched the wall behind the counter. “Mob was telling me you had a math test today; how’d that go?”

“All right.”

A loud clang echoed through the store. Reigen hissed, rubbing his elbow where he’d hit it against a soda machine by the sink. “Just ‘all right’?” he said through clenched teeth.

Ritsu shrugged. “I mean, I got full marks if that’s what you’re asking, but that’s not news or anything.”

“Nice, you broke it,” scoffed Ritsu, making his way over.

“Ah.” Reigen looked at the machine, then his elbow, then back at the machine. “It seems we’ve awakened the spirit.”

“We? I’m not the one walking around this shop breaking things like a blind ox.”

Ritsu’s eyes widened in concern. Above the din, he shouted, “Are you okay?”

“Just fine!” Reigen yelled back. He scrubbed furiously at his face, wincing. “Wow, that’s hot. Ritsu, think you can take care of this one?”

From the soda machine rose a whirling cloud of purple and red energy. Two enraged, iridescent glowered at them from its center, and a thunderous voice bellowed, “WHO DARES —”

Ritsu snapped his fingers.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

“I’m not your disciple,” Ritsu muttered. His comment went unheard.

Reigen huffed a laugh, throwing his arm around Ritsu’s shoulder. “Well then, Ritsu my boy,” he said, smiling, “what do you say to dessert for dinner?”

He could feel his eyes widen in amazement. “Really?”

Grinning, Reigen ruffled his hair and began walking them toward the main road. “Really. It’s on me.”

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themorpheusdevice · 5 years

Photo

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lynesonline · 5 years

Text

The Great Escape.

By William Lynes

11/15/2019

The man with the bald head sat on the rumbling gray motorcycle, tension filling his eyes, one brown one green, their colors highlighted in the disappearing sun. He was dressed in a tattered gray German army uniform with a silver Doppellitze, double braid insignia, accenting his collar. His eyes searched the rolling field covered with moist green grass; fright apparently on his strained face. He strapped the Nazi steel helmet on his head, the enemy always present. Checking the gas tank between his legs for petrol, he revved the World War II BMW engine and raced off, dirt flying from a spinning rear tire.

The man raced through the occupied hamlet blasting over the dirty cobblestone streets. The checkpoint was manned and its gate down as he exploded through the wooden postern, scattering the Nazi jack-booted soldiers. A highspeed chase began, with shots ringing out and side-car motorcycles pursuing the fleeing man through winding roads and across open fields.

Before him stood a low razor wire fence, obstructing his escape to the cloud covered horizon. The man skidded to a broadside stop and looked to the dogging stalkers behind. Far ahead lay freedom, arrival blocked by a gentle grass-covered berm flanking the obstructing fence.

Shots struck the ground, ricocheting dirt up around the man. Yelling and roaring motor-bikes could be heard and would soon be upon him. He debated, his escape versus capture tormenting him.

With a blast of the motorbike, exhaust billowed from the pipes, tires spun, and the bike twisted ahead in a spray of dirt. The cycle climbed the berm, the man stopped and visualized the barricaded fence. Breathing heavily now, he unlatched and tossed his helmet in the direction of the gathering mob. Turning around he raced his motorcycle down to the foot of the knoll. With his pursuers gathering around him he blasted away up the berm, taking flight and at the vertex, clearing the fence in a beautiful crest.

He crashed down on the rear-tire, the bike zig-zagging crazily as the rider attempted to control the mechanical beast. Shots rang out from the military group now stopping their pursuit at the fence. The man lifted his front tire off of the dirt road in victory and sped away to safety.

The group of white-coated physicians and nurses stood around the foot of the hospital bed like a menagerie of pale birds of prey. It was morning rounds, the collection gathering to manage patients.

The intern presented the case for the assembly. He was a man with roughly tossed straw-colored hair and three-day facial growth. Mike Nelson, MD was dressed in a green surgical scrub suit, wrinkled white coat, and red, loafer type tennis shoes. He looked to a note-card and began presenting.

“Maurice . . . or Maury . . . Latinsky is a 37-year-old white male with GRID.”

“AIDS, or at least HIV, let’s use the correct term, Michael.” The urologic surgeon chief resident, Tara Patel, spoke up correcting the intern. She was a tallish woman dressed in the uniform of the day, white coat and scrubs. Black piercing eyes and a short cut black head of hair stylized the leader of the group. GRID, or Gay-Related Immune Disease, was the first term given to the HIV/AIDS disease in the early 1980s. It was 1983 and the modern term of HIV/AIDS was beginning to be used.

Mike continued. “He’s now a week after a left nephrectomy and drainage of a tuberculous renal and perinephric abscess.” The patient had a kidney tuberculosis abscess, related to his AIDS condition, treated with surgical removal of the kidney.

Maurice lay in his bed, soaked white sheets scattered around his feet. He began thrashing about the bed in the midst of a fever-induced rigor. Tara spoke up. “Does he have a fever, Michael?”

The intern snapped up the bedside clipboard hanging on the foot of the bed. “His temp is recorded as 103? Let’s see what it was after I saw him this morning, just fifteen minutes ago. He was afebrile.” Mike took his presentation seriously, upset that he missed the man’s fever. He looked at Tara with an embarrassed look.

“These AIDS fevers spike like that Michael,” referring to the tendency of AIDS patients to have sudden fevers.

Mike seemed relieved. As an intern his job was to know everything on the urology service before anyone else. He was a good, solid, hardworking fellow who graduated from USC school of medicine, now a surgery intern at the University Medical Center.

“Look at the perspiration on his forehead, that shaking, it’s a rigor, a shaking chill from fever. Some Tylenol, he definitely needs some Tylenol!” Tara stepped to the bedside. She gently wiped the man’s bald head with a tissue.

Maurice was awake suddenly, snarling a loud growl. He opened just his left eye, revealing a green suspicious eyeball, glaring at the woman. The group stepped back in fear, as the man jumped up, standing on the siderail of the hospital bed and barking like a hound. He eventually began to speak. “Krauts . . . goons. They’re everywhere, Freddie!”

The intern grabbed the man’s waving arm. He moved to his side and gently led him to sit back on the bed. “Freddie’s not here Mr. Latinsky.” He turned to the group and quietly said: “Freddie’s his partner.”

“He’s been drinking his urine Dr. Patel. I took away his urinal this morning. I think he is really thirsty!” Sarah was a neatly dressed attractive nurse. She had stepped forward that morning with this disturbing piece of information.

“You’re kidding Sarah? He has been NPO for a week now.” Realizing the truth before the nurse could answer, NPO being nothing per oral, Tara went on. “Can we feed him?” She questioned the group. “Are you thirsty, Mr. Latinsky? She moved to the patient, examined his abdomen and left flank incision. Using her stethoscope, she listed to the man’s belly. “He has adequate bowel sounds. Michael, let’s start him on full liquids.” Mike made a quick note on his clipboard.

Maury seemed more awake; his rigor now passed. He smiled a sly smile and lay back in his bed. “I thought the goons were after me, Dr. Tara.”

“Goons? Whatever do you mean, Mr. Latinsky?”

“You know, Goons . . . krauts. They were after me. I got away.” The man smiled a knowing smile, his mouth full of red swollen gums. He was quite wasted; his AM weight listed on the bedside clipboard as a dwindling 87 pounds. He seemed, however, proud of an imaginary escape, apparently from the German army.

The group made its way to the hallway on their way to the next patient. They stopped for a moment to finish up with Mr. Latinsky.

“You should note his heterochromatic eyes, students. His irises are green and brown, the different colors are called heterochromatic.” Tara washed her hands quickly, drying them on a paper towel as she walked to the center of the group.

Jackson Cooper was the junior resident on the urology service. “Tara, the fact that Latinsky had TB in the left kidney, doesn’t that imply that he has TB throughout his urinary tract?”

“You know I have been researching that subject, Jackson. Stay tuned to grand rounds on Saturday. It is on urologic tuberculosis. Anyway, TB gets into the urinary tract through blood seeding. If it is in the left kidney, yes, it is theoretically in the right. The only thing that we can do is treat him with anti-tuberculosis drugs. We need infectious disease to see him.” She turned to the intern. “Michael, call ID. Describe his case. I think he should be on triple TB drugs but see what they say.” With that, the group moved on to the next patient on the busy urology service.

The man marched robustly down the hallway, dressed in a neatly tailored beige velour coat and a big green hand-tied velour bowtie. His black slacks were meticulously pressed, their black cuffs touching the shiny ox-blood polished penny loafer shoes complete with vintage coinage. He was carrying a bundle of red and pink flowers; roses, carnations and chrysanthemums. As he passed the group of physicians, he nodded quietly to the assembly and continued into Maurice Latinsky’s room.

“Why is it so dark in here, dear?” The man moved to the window, drew the curtain away waking up the room. He tossed the old wilted flowers into the trash and placed the new bundle in the glass vase. He moved to the patient and embraced the man. “Maury, why your sheets are completely soaked.”

Maury sat up on the bedside, his stick-like legs hanging out under his gown. “Freddie, I am so glad you’re here. I had that dream again.”

“The Great Escape? Are you Steve McQueen, dear?”

“Captain Virgil Hilts, the Cooler King." Maury looked down and sighed. He coughed up a wad of blood-tinged sputum and deposited it with a spit into the yellow emesis basin. Looking up at Freddie, he looked like he was about to cry. “It was so real Freddie! The goons, they almost had me this time!”

“Did you jump the fence?”

Maury coughed a rumbling cough. He stood gingerly and hugged his friend. “Yes, I was almost flying. I cleared the fence by a mile. Almost lost it on the landing, though. But I was truly flying at the end. I wish I could fly out of this place.”

“You’re so awake today, dear. You really look marvelous. Yesterday you were mumbling to yourself so much. You were in your shell and didn’t seem to know that I was here. I brought you this polaroid of your baby, Maury. Suzette just had her hair styled. She misses her daddy!” Freddie handed a small picture to the man.

Maury took the photo. He seemed unsure of who it was, a cute curly black-haired miniature poodle. A smile slowly came over his face as he realized the dog’s identity. He lay back down in bed, clutching the photograph to his chest. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment. With a struggle, he turned on his side and faced Freddie. “My mind, it’s going, Freddie! It comes and goes, sometimes I have no idea where I am.”

“It’s okay, dear. You’ll be going home very soon.”

0 notes

coffinboard · 7 years

Text

↣ musical artist meme

Put 💕 by artists you like Put ✔️ by artists you dont mind Put ❌ by artists you don’t like Put ❓ by artists you’ve never listened to

Run the Jewels - ❓ Tyga - ❓ The Submarines - ❓ Saint Motel - ❓ Tupac - ✔ Deuce - ✔ Tyler, the creator- ✔ Chance the Rapper - ❓ Aminé- ❓ G-Eazy - ✔️ Kanye West - ❌ XXXtentacion - ✔️ Wifisfuneral - ❓ $uicideboy$ - ❓ Odd Future - ❓ Kehlani - ❓ Logic - ❓ Kodak Black - ❓ Yo Gotti - ❓ Wiz Khalifa - ✔ Creature Feature - 💕 Mindless Self Indulgence - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Rabbit Junk - ✔ La Roux - ❓ Eels - ❓ Future - ❓ Gucci Mane -❓ Denzel Curry - ❓ Drake - ✔️ Eminem - ❌ The Weeknd - ✔ 50 Cent - ✔ Lil Yachty - ❓ 21 Savage -❓ Chief Keef - ❓ Kendrick Lamar - ❓ Rae Sremmurd - ❓ Migos - ❓ Big Sean - ✔ A$AP Rocky - ✔ Schoolboy Q - ❓ Kodie Shane- ❓ Miley Cyrus- ✔ Travi$ Scott - ❓ Kid Cudi - ❓ Young Thug - ❓ Justin Bieber - ✔ Dej loaf -❓ J. Cole - ❓ Jay-Z - ❓ Lil B - ❓ Meek Mill - ❓ Snoop Dogg - 💕 Nicki Minaj - ✔ Lil Wayne - ❌ Lupe Fiasco - ❓ 2 Chainz - ❓ Outkast - 💕 Macklemore - ✔ Ghostface Killah - ❓ Lil Uzi Vert - ❓ Childish Gambino - 💕 The Chainsmokers - ✔ KYLE - ❓ Quavo - ❓ Soulja Boy - ✔ Chris Brown - ✔ Rihanna - ✔ Beyonce - ✔ Fetty Wap - ❓ Lorde - ✔️ One Direction - ✔ 5 Seconds Of Summer - ✔ Melanie Martinez - ✔️ Ariana Grande - 💕 Iggy Azalea - ❓ Taylor Swift - ✔ Bebe Rexha - ❓ Twenty One Pilots - ✔️ Lady Gaga - ✔ Desiigner - ❓ Ace Hood - ❓ ReyCooper - ❓ Nas - ❓ Whitney Houston - ✔ Birdman - ❓ Ice JJ fish - ❓ Shatta Wale - ❓ Eazy-E - ❓ Blackbear - ❓ Imagine Dragons - ✔ Jason Derulo - ✔ Snakehips - ❓ Galantis - ❓ Pitbull - ❓ Kygo - ❓ Skrillex - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Major Lazer - ✔ Flume - ✔ Troye Sivan - ✔ The 1975 - ✔ The Neighbourhood - ✔ Marshmello - 💕 EDEN - ❓ Bryson Tiller - ❓ Ty Dolla $ign - ❓ Khalid - ❓ Post Malone - ❓ Dreezy - ❓ Jeremih - ❓ D.R.A.M. - ❓ A$AP Mob - ❓ Justin Timberlake - 💕 Skepta - ❓ Dr. Dre - ✔ Pouya - ❓ Coldplay - ✔ Ed Sheeran - ✔ gnash - ❓ Glass Animals - 💕 David Guetta - ✔ Avicii - ❓ BØRNS - ❓ Panic! At The Disco - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Frank Ocean -✔ Calvin Harris - ❓ DJ Snake - ❓ Oh Wonder - ❓ OneRepublic - ✔ LIGHTS - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Lily Allen - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Alessia Cara - ❓ Meghan Trainor - ✔ Flo Rida - ❓ Arctic Monkeys - ✔️ Sia - 💕 Lana Del Rey - ✔ Little Mix - ❓ Passenger - ✔ will.i.am -✔ Halsey - ✔️ MØ - ❓ Hozier - ✔ Maroon 5 - 💕 Mac Miller - ❓ Earl Sweatshirt - ❓ Knowmads - ❓ Adele - ❌ Bruno Mars - ✔ The Notorious B.I.G - ❓ The Game - ❓ A$AP Ferg - ❓ System of a down - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Puddle Of Mud - ✔ Drowning Pool - ✔ Wheatus - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Metallica - 💕 The Strokes - ✔ Megadeth - 💕 Nirvana - 💕 💕 💕 💕 The unicorns - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Linda Ronstad - ❓ David Bowie - ❓ Pink Floyd - ✔ Disney songs - ✔ Queen - 💕 The Scorpions - 💕 Rammstein - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Slipknot - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Disturbed - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Salvia - ✔️ Korn - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Rob Zombie - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Jet - ❓ Paramore - ✔️ Billy Talent - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Stabilo - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Shawn Mendes -✔ Selena Gomez - ✔️ Katy Perry - ✔ Gorillaz - 💕 DNCE - ✔ Demi Lovato - ✔ M.A.G.S. - ❓ T.A.T.U. - ❓ The Veronicas - 💕 Oasis - ❓ Modest Mouse - ✔ Martin Garrix - ❓ NerdOut -❓ Lifehouse - ❓ Thirty Seconds To Mars - 💕 Three Doors Down - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Allstar Weekend -❓ Royal Deluxe -❓ Johnny Cash - ✔ Train - ✔ Us The Duo -❓ In Love With A Ghost - 💕 Lindsey Sterling - ❓ Vanessa Mae - ❓ AJR - ❓ MAX - ❓ Dwayne Johnson - ❓ Dan Bull - ❓ Jon Bellion - ❓ Hollywood Undead - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Erutan -❓ Eurielle - ❓ Secondhand Serenade - 💕 Simple Plan - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Boys Like Girls -✔ Razihel - ❓ Rootkit - ❓ Stonebank - ❓ Pegboard Nerds -❓ Taku Matsushiba - ❓ Breaking Benjamin - ✔ Aero Chord - ❓ Jhameel - ❓ Adam Lambert - 💕 Skillet - 💕 Oliver Boyd And The Remembrals - ❓ Thousand Foot Krutch - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Within Temptation - ❓ Three Days Grace - 💕 💕 💕 💕 My Darkest Days - 💕 💕 💕 💕 The Script - ✔ My Chemical Romance - 💕 💕 💕 💕 The Used - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Issues - ❓ Starset - ❓ Parachute - ❓ Five Finger Death Punch - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Shinedown - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Seether - ✔️ Two Steps To Hell - ❓ Audiomachine - ❓ The Living Tombstone - 💕 Nate Wants To Battle - ❓ Corrine Bailey Rae - ❓ Jason Mraz - ❓ Fall Out Boy - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Bullet For My Valentine - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Red Hot Chili Peppers - ✔️ Green Day - ✔️ Blink 182 - 💕 💕 💕 💕 +44 -❓ 311 -❓ Audioslave -❓ Staind - 💕 Incubus - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Marilyn Manson - 💕 💕 💕 💕 The Smashing Pumpkins - 💕 Halestorm -❓ Bring Me The Horizon - ✔️ All Time Low - ✔ Pierce The Veil - ✔️ Sleeping With Sirens - ❓ The Killers - ✔ Goo Goo Dolls - ✔ Judas Priest - ✔ Kansas - ❓ Def Leppard -✔ Fit for Rivals -❓ Falling in Reverse - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Set It Off - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Get Scared - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Escape the Fate - ✔ Motionless in White - ❓ Neck Deep - ✔️ I Prevail - ❓ Waterparks -❓ Black Veil Brides - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Jeffree Star - 💕 💕 💕 💕 BOTDF - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Slayer - 💕 The Clash -✔ Ghost Town - 💕 Clean Bandit - 💕 Area 11 - ❓ Iamjakehill -❓ Bastille - ✔ Homesafe - ❓ Front Porch Step -❓ Son Little - ❓ The Fray - ✔️ Amber Run -❓ Days N Daze -❓ Lund - ❓ Never Shout Never - ✔ Dashboard Confessional - ❓ Sam Smith - ❓ Hotel Books ❓ Emarosa - ❓ Have Mercy - ❓ Two Inch Astronaut -❓ Nothing - ❓ mansionz - ❓ The Wombats - ✔ Asking Alexandria - ✔ The All-American Rejects - 💕 The Front Bottoms - ✔ Fitz & The Tantrums - ✔ Florence + The Machine - ✔ dad. the band -❓ Birdy - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Gregory and the Hawk - ✔ Lenka - 💕 💕 💕 💕 alt-J - ✔ Alex Clare -❓ AWOLNATION - ✔ Bishop Briggs -❓ Daughter - ✔️ Marina and The Diamonds - ✔ McCafferty - ❓ Neon Trees - ✔️ Banks - ❓ Bad Suns - ❓ RHODES - ❓ Cruel Youth -❓ Robb Bank$ -❓ Bones - ❓ Beamon - ❓ Black Sabbath - ✔ Bexey - ❓ Lil peep - ❓ Ramirez -❓ Wu-Tang Clan - ✔ NF - ❓ Bone Thugs n Harmony ❓ Frank Sinatra - ❓ Tomppabeats - ❓ Saib. - ❓ Limes -❓ Muse - ❓ Daniel Caeser - ❓ Gallant -❓ Tom Misch - ❓ Sabrina Claudio - ❓ Brasstracks -❓ Summer Salt -❓ The Walters - ❓ Snails House - ❓ Jeff Bernat -❓ Jeffrey Lewis - ✔ Max Frost -❓ Caravan Palace - 💕 Daft Punk - 💕 MGMT - 💕 Animal Collective - 💕 Osamuraisan- ❓ Mother Mother - 💕 💕 💕 💕 The Decemberists - 💕 💕 💕 💕 The Postal Service - 💕 💕 💕 💕 AJJ - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Band Of Horses - ✔ Foot Ox - 💕 Metric - ✔ Jukebox The Ghost - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Cornell - ❓ Young the Giant - ✔ Hue - ❓ Summer Heart -❓ Honne -❓ Willa - ❓ William Wild - ❓ The Antlers - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Cigarettes after sex - 💕 Turnover - ❓ Champs - ❓ Moose Blood -❓ Paradise Fears - ❓ Citizen - ❓ The History of Apple Pie - ❓ Alina Baraz & Galimatias -❓ Zedd - 💕 Mystery Skulls - ✔ Michl - ❓ Khai -❓ Little Joy -❓ Vanic - ❓ Phoenix - ❓ Witt Lowry - ❓ Grieves - ❓ Mac Demarco - ❓ Sloan -❓ Jason Reeves -❓ 2am Club - ❓ We Hold Hands And We Jump - ❓ Against Me - ✔ Boys - ❓ The Cure - ✔ Ke$ha - ✔ Stromae - ❓ Weezer - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Vampire Weekend - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Studio Killers - ✔ Foo Fighters -✔ Queens Of The Stone Age - ❓ Rage Against The Machine - ✔ The Hives - ❓ The Offspring - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Linkin Park - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Zomboy - ❓ Highly Suspect -❓ Keane - ❓ Royal Blood - ❓ In This Moment - ❓ Chevelle - ❓ Ghost - ❓ The Beatles - ✔ Depeche Mode - 💕 Duran Duran - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Franz Ferdinand - ✔ R.E.M. - ❓ U2 - ❓ HIM - ❓ Radiohead - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Modern Baseball - ❓ Aphex Twin - 💕 Grimes - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Phantogram - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Purity Ring - 💕 💕 💕 💕 FKA twigs - ❓ Wolf Alice - ❓ Teen Suicide - 💕 💕 💕 💕 The Cribs - ✔️ mewithoutyou - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Say Anything - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Salvia Palth - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Panucci’s Pizza - ❓ Manchester Orchestra - ❓ Neon Indian -❓ Unknown Mortal Orchestra -❓ Joywave -❓ Blur -❓ Catfish & The Bottlemen - ❓ Bon Iver - ✔ The Smiths - 💕 Led Zeppelin - 💕 Ocean colour scene - ❓ The Temper Trap - ❓ Blossoms - ❓ Kings Of Leon - 💕 George Ezra - ❓ Tom Odell - ❓ Jake Bugg - ❓ The Kooks - ❓ Nothing but Thieves - ❓ Mac - ❓ Keaton Henson - ❓ Noah Gunderson - ❓ Jimi Hendrix - ✔ Stevie Ray Vaughan - ❓ Michael Jackson - 💕 The Maccabees - ❓ Billy Joel - ✔ Little Comets - ❓ Milky Chance - ❓ Amy Winehouse -💕 Gabrielle Aplin - ❓ The Verve - ❓ London Grammar - ❓ The Who - ✔ The Vaccines - ❓ Joy Division - ❓ Arcade Fire -❓ Jamie T - ❓ The Coral - ❓ Tame Impala - ❓ Stereophonics - ❓ Blaenavon - ❓ Sundara Karma - ❓ Two Door Cinema Club - 💕 The Japanese HouseGromz - ❓ Cage the Elephant - 💕 The Black Keys - ✔ Mumford and Sons - ✔️ Paolo Nutini - ❓ Carole King - ❓ Van Morrison - ❓ Vance Joy - ❓ Ben Howard - ❓ The Hunna - ❓ Alicia Keys - ✔ Jack Garratt -❓ First Aid Kit -❓ Viola Beach -❓ Circa Waves -❓ Foster the People - 💕 Foals - ❓ The Velvet Underground - ❓ The Runaways - ❓ Patti Smith - ❓ X-Ray Spex - ❓ Vince Staples - ❓ Hodgy -❓ Ugly God - ❓ The Doors- ❓ Angerfist - ❓ S3RL - 💕 Dausuke tanabe -❓ sweet trip - ❓ kid606 - ❓ moeshoppost Malone- ❓ Joey bada$$ - ❓ toro y moi - ❓ tally hall - 💕 💕 💕 💕 Portugal. The Man - ❓ Lullatone - 💕 💕 💕 💕 sublime - ✔ grateful dead - ✔ king crimson - ❓ rush - ❓ frank iero andthe patience/celebration -❓ flatsound - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 Nothing, nowhere -❓ elvis depressedly - ✔ Cloud nothings - ❓ kimya dawson -💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 guns n’ roses -💕 social repose ❓ Arkells - ❓ July Talk - ❓ Jank - ❓ Father John Misty - ❓ Sky Ferreira - ❓ HAIM - ❓ Declan McKenna - ❓ Sean Bolton- ❓ Beach House - ❓ The xx - 💕 Transit - ❓ Knuckle puck- ❓ Trophy Eyes - ❓ Joyce manor- ❓ Boston manor - ❓ Sum 41 - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 Godsmack - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 Papa Roach - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 Dope - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 P.O.D - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 Trapt - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 Limp Bizkit - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 The Pretty Reckless - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 The wonder years - ❓ Basement - ❓ American Football - ❓ La dispute - ❓ Surf Curse - ❓ Title fight - ❓ Brand New - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 The Mountain Goats - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 The story so far - ❓ Real Friends - ❓ Balance and composure - ❓ A day to Remember - 💕 Elliot Smith - ✔ With Confidence - ❓ Our last night - ❓ AS IT IS - ❓ Senses Fail - ❓ Ween - ❓ Away days - ❓ Sorority Noise - ❓ Broken bells - ❓ Beartooth - ❓ Delta spirit - ❓ DREAMERS - ❓ The strumbellas - ❓ Neutral Milk Hotel - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 National Parks - ❓ Daughtry - ❓ Handsome ghost - ❓ Cold War Kids - ❓ Colony House - ❓ Dance Gavin Dance - ❓ Kodaline - ❓ Sweatshop Union - ❓ The lumineers - ❓ Of Monsters and Men - ❓ Waterparks- ❓ Foxing - ❓ Cyrberbully Mom Club - 💕 daisyhead - ✔️ The Mowgli’s - ❓ Banners - ❓ Billie Eilish - ❓ Switch Foot - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 Culture Club - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 Eurythmics - ✔️ Tears For Fears - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 Simple Minds - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 A-Ha - 💕 The Bangles - ✔️ Cyndi Lauper - ✔️ Twisted Sister - 💕 Punch Brothers - ✔️ Nickel Creek - 💕 💕 💕 💕 💕 Poets Of The Fall - 💕

Tagging: anyone !!j

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ratherhavetheblues · 5 years

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Claire Denis’ ’35 Shots of Rum’ “I feel like…I have wings…”

These days, an old black and white film about God will find few takers. However, there is a still-practicing filmmaker, namely, Claire Denis, who pulls out all the stops to revisit such a vehicle. Is she a nun? Nope. Is she a God-fearing militant in favor of aid to the distressed? Nope. Is she a social scientist, tracking religious consequences through the ages? No, no, no. What Denis’ excitement pertains to, is the work of that mostly shunned movie, called, The Seventh Seal (1957), created by notable-no-longer filmmaker, Ingmar Bergman (1918-2007), whose output engages the intrinsic disaster of piety and smarts. (The word, “intrinsic,” is crucial here. And as such, her perspective is problematic, not formulaic.) In addition to piety and smarts, that film spotlights a young couple of itinerant circus performers in the 12th century, the husband, Jof, agog with the possibility that their baby boy could become a dazzling acrobat, or a juggler, pulling off an “impossible” trick, the kind of trick only an oracle would imagine.

Intrinsic in the travelling folks’ itinerary, is the sentence of being left out of the lives who, if not making the world go round, making the world theirs. 35 Shots of Rum (2008) contemplates the hopes of Jof, almost a millennium shot forward. As such, our film today carries the special bonus of catching up to, once again, the bittersweet world of Jacques Demy and the musical muse of Demy’s soulmate, Michel Legrand (setting out the latter master’s magical transcendence by way of those deft swallows, the Tindersticks).

Diminutive Jof comes a cropper with the salt of the earth in a medieval beer hall, and, by way of putting a less embarrassing story in the mix, he tells a gathering at his caravan that he “roared like a lion” against the mob. Our protagonist today, Lionel, a Paris commuter train driver (far from Jof’s open road), is an African immigrant-widower who dotes on his adult daughter, Josephine, still living with him. The action here is pensive in a puzzling way. Whereas Jof and Marie are on the hook to circumvent various substantial evils (the plague, for instance), Lionel and Jo seem to lead a rather uneventful, mundane existence. Their reticence to speak (a less extreme strategy of the vow to silence, in Bergman’s, Persona [1966]), counting upon face and body language, becomes a form of poetry you could study for years.

Such a peculiar, elusive narrative presents a daunting task of identifying and structuring the artistry being given to us. One readily manageable gift, however, in this connection, is the opening scene and its riches of rail lines and bustle and a high-pitched, low-textured accordion motif, keening for something misplaced and yet with an abundance of lift, rather like the music of a carousel. The first visual incident involves a set of shining rail tracks plunging forward from the driver’s smudged window. Soon we’re presented with multiplicity of tracks near a railroad station, resolving to one line describing a gentle curve as against the standard fast forward, a departure redolent of both poetry and prose. Even more palpable, however, is the jumble of wiring (a sort of Black Forest or snowstorm) and its masts maintaining electrical power and its dynamics, along with mechanical devices being a force of stasis. Constituting a form of synthesis with those visuals, there is the musical motif, filling out the progressions in such a way that we are transformed as part of the doing of a sorcerer’s apprentice. That formidable protagonist, Lionel, comes into view in close-up profile at twilight with his shift nearly over. Lighting a cigarette and gazing at a more substantial and impressive long-distance train passing by, the set of his face is far from easy. Tindersticks add a flute component, lightening the load somewhat. We see the back of the last coach, touching the black void with two sharp red stoplights near the wheels, and a more diffuse green field of action near the structure’s top. An elicitation to accentuate the positive.

Then we see Josephine (the play of her two forms of name being a bit like the red/ green just mentioned) patient in a Metro car squashed like livestock. She stops at a kitchen store to consider a presser cooker/ rice preparer; and, presto, Lionel comes home to the flat with one, scarlet and shiny, making a statement. What with her doing the laundry and his carefully undressing and having a shower before dinner from that new appliance—she smiling on hearing him come in, and he pleased to be the bearer of good tidings—all the connection involves their silence within a sanctuary of their own perceptual making. This low-key activity allows us to salute the savvy with which they have designed their little nest—choosing paneling in very effective blacks and greys, with subtle yellow floor tiles, and with uncluttered spaces. When they’re close enough for a welcome little kiss, she tells him, “You smell of cigarettes,” a case of maintaining a pristine society. (Another of the audacious compositional touches is the virtual disappearance of Caucasians in the City of Light—Josephine’s subway, for instance, entirely filled with blacks—as if this enclave represents the best hope of clear thinking.) Seated quietly, they eat with gusto. She puts on some lively music—far less lively than what we heard along the tracks—and Lionel picks up two apples for their continued health. Sanguine, for sure; but not successfully addressing those minutes, probably frequent, in the dark engine.

Upping the ante, the only black in sight not serene, namely, Rene, an old friend of Lionel, has come to his retirement day at the commuter system. Lionel watches the man of the hour about to clean out his locker, and he is apprehensive that his friend has dangerously lost the company grip. (At his suicide, our protagonist being confronted with the horror of Rene having chosen a place on the rails where the calm one would encounter him, the latter holds a difficult silence, culminating in, “Fuck, Rene!” [you’ve overreached].) Certainly, our careful one, would never place on his locker wall a photo of a pretty sharp acrobat, spinning many plates by way of a multiplicity of long sticks. To ponder such sensuous acuity is to be on the hook to see and feel things in a very different light. Lionel, on that special, presumably happy day, comes upon that aficionado as he trembles. And being a rock of some endurance, urges, “You can’t fall apart now. Not in front of everyone…” On to the retirement party, and Rene can’t manage a smile. From the girls, there is a beautifully designed, rather rakish, leather jacket. From the “brothers,” a scepter (ravishing in its mosaic details), the likes of which a jungle king would have close-by when presiding. Still glum, Rene manages a brief speech: “My friends, thank you for being here. I’ve waited so long for this. It’s a deliverance, you know. [His troubled manner has all of them on edge.] Tonight I feel like… I have wings…” On the Metro, with Lionel, his scepter wildly incongruous, he tells his friend, “Surrendering… Surrendering to this condition, is what’s so hard. I’d liked to have died young. But I’m at the age I’m at. And healthy as an ox. I’ll die at 100 at this rate… I don’t have this life in me. The subway and all that. It hit me unarmed and unprepared…” A few days later, they meet coincidentally in a bar. Lionel asks, “Got any plans?”/ “Tons,” Rene ironically replies. (Another gift, during the festivities where the lucky man spends most of the time with head bowed, is an iPod. Someone tells him, “All your music at your fingertips!” Music, again, but bulk; and Rene, the acrobat manqué, feels the pain without a plan to beat it. Lionel had for years been staging special events, dear to his heart, in the form of a drinking binge of 35 shots of rum in quick succession—his sense, for what it’s worth, of regal acrobatics. “Down the hatch,” a woman in the company [all black, of course] is cheered on. She ends her run at 16. The natural follow-up would be for Lionel to run a row of slam-dunks. But, to the surprise of all, he says, “Not tonight…” The vision of Rene’s horror has induced that current of self-criticism in our protagonist, rarely elicited; and soon it’s back to the tune of, “Fuck, Rene!” Oodles of charm, a go-to friend, to many. But.)

Jo, within the aura of Marie (a 12th century pragmatist), is enrolled in a college program of Economics, where she can practice utopian possibilities. The first sustained action in the world at large where we see her is to go jogging with a young mulatto man, Noe, who occupies the penthouse of their building; and joins Rene in distraction—not due to lack of understanding but lack of devouring. (That would introduce, though, the third member of Jof’s troupe, namely, Scat, who sleeps in a hammock near the ceiling of their caravan, and sleeps with as many women as he can.) They’re in cool apparel as they cruise along the industrial service road where their building stands. She begins to outpace him, and, true to form, he jumps into the Seine (far from the Seine of tourists and billionaires). “You’re crazy!” she laughs, when he regains the service road and the upper hand. (The little acrobatic, of the jog which suits her, being eclipsed by jagged face-saving and latent hostility.)

While Josephine wends her way to oblivion, there is a woman, Gabrielle, the unofficial manager of the easily managed centre, who shows to us, if not the virtues of wide variety of mood, their capacity to put into play juggling initiatives, come what may. One thing she does have up her sleeve, however operative, is the tangled history of films about taxi drivers (she being one), particularly, Jim Jarmusch’s film, Night on Earth (1991) and Abbas Kiarostami’s Ten (2002). She begins her tenure on the pavement with the complaint, “This is not my day…” A young dude, needing to move only a few blocks, counsels her to practice “flexibility;” but, in fact she’s already on the case. She maintains that she knows very well how fortunate she is, in finding every day to be unique. And, “No boss breathing down my neck.” In addition to her being a queen of the road, she’s frequently sitting in the dark, on her balcony or even in the stairwells of her home. Jo, rather obtuse for a closet mystic, teases her that she’s still carrying a torch for Lionel, who lived with her for some time before and after Jo’s German mother died, necessitating the young girl to come to Paris and her bemusing father. Despite the misalliance, all the players in this relationship have generally found ways to pleasurably intermingle. But the ways of volatile Gabrielle are not the ways of muted Lionel and Josephine. She also visits that bar where Rene needs the alcohol, and gives him a sunny smile (during the interregnum of Lionel’s patriarchy Rene would have been a frequent guest). After a quick espresso, she’s out the door to get back to work. And from the suicidal one’s perspective, and its remarkably dirty windows, she’s been transformed from incandescence to a blizzard of grey deadness. Such a fate dogs her to the end, a veritable sentence of solitary confinement. But it is her resilience, notwithstanding (like the taxi/Mom in Ten), which matters. (A “Fuck, Rene!” [and all the other cripples]; but in being disappointed for him and the rest, not pissed off that a lame clique had been abandoned.) She undertakes posting a thankless note about the by-law there, about someone leaving a bike in the hall. (Noe trips over it in a dark passage; and all he does is yell, “Shit!”) More thankless care comprises how often she invites Josephine to her suite and is given excuses that her studies come first. The four of them are excited to have tickets for a popular band. Off they go in Gabrielle’s car in a rainstorm—she, knowing Lionel only too well, asks, “Got your wallet?”—and the car breaks down (Gabrielle, as so often, no doubt, succumbs to, “I can’t believe this!) due to transmission problems. The concert never happens for them, how could it? But they’re within walking distance to a Jamaican restaurant they know, insisting, “We didn’t feel like going home like this.” (Remarkably, though, the place had already closed; but, in the current of the fantasy easiness here, the woman-proprietor welcomes them, and happily prepares suppers on her own. On the other hand, that generosity and sanguinity is something else.) The sound system comes to life, and Lionel and Gabrielle enjoy dancing together. Jo smiles at this, and soon she and Noe are the night’s special event, the passion of their embrace becoming a concern for her dad and a reflection for Gabrielle. The food arrives, and the host’s black and white dress is like a bit of outer space, a bit of a silent concert. Noe, while dancing with Jo, exclaims, “You’re something else!” He got the wrong girl. (During the inevitable wedding, Jo tells Gabrielle, “You’re not going to cry?” When the latter tries to help with the bride’s outfit, Lionel tells her, “Jo can do it herself.” We last see her sitting alone in a shadowy stairwell.)

The sequel of that calypso meal finds three of the four at Noe’s apartment. His cat has died, and he disposes of it with not a moment of care. Dumping the body into a garbage bag, he brags, “No frills, he’s dead and gone for.” This finds Josephine covering her nose and mouth, and saying nothing. Gabrielle’s asking for an aspirin at least reflects being distraught. (Here the axiom, stemming from Jarmusch, of abusing a pet, means the abuser has metaphorically become roadkill.) With this he announces his interest in moving to Gabon (“pays well”); and Jo goes through the motions of dissolving what was supposed to be elevated performance. Wouldn’t you know he’d couch his departure with, “Now that my cat’s dead, I’ll like it” [the offer]—more fake acrobatics. But this shake-up involves depths and shallows, to savor, racing back to the lyrical and ambiguous curve of the tracks in the first scene.

Jo protests, “You’ll ditch us and go away?”/ “Why not?” the TV poker gamer bluffs. “You always tell me how it’s ugly and old here” [a list of her surprising immaturity including being unmindful of the historical and advanced possibilities of Paris]. In this context, a cut to Lionel, who for various reasons might have preferred sleeping to remaining in that company, finds him walking along a sidewalk eating a croissant—to him a non-ugly factor. On arriving home, he finds Jo in a frenzy to clean their flat. (While still on the sidewalk he notices her putting finishing touches to cleaning Noe’s balcony window—forcing her to stretch in a precarious way. [Acrobatic, sort of.]) Lionel’s confusion about the cleaning blitz extending to his place displaces his placing out more croissants, and messes up his reading the newspaper designed for flat-earth fanatics. “Why are you doing housework?” the sort of poet asks. “Isn’t it clean enough?” When Noe yelled, “Shit!” was he in error? Does Gabrielle’s client/stranger’s demand for “flexibility” start biting here? Jo moves on to rifling through old photos, including one showing her German mother and Josephine as a baby, and proposes throwing all of them out. Lionel is far from happy about this frenzy, so foreign to his learning. She counters that, “It’s filthy here! We need to empty it all out.” Her recruitment by Noe has no heart for a mosaic on the wall, traces of her father’s rather pathetic poetry. In the confusion he calls out, “This makes no sense! Think of yourself.” To which she counters, “Noe’s leaving!… I’m leaving, too” [the clean-up in the service of giving her father a clean home to be alone with]. “Don’t be silly. We’ll do as we please. As we always have. Nothing will change…” is the desperate hope. Jo yells to him, “Yes! Everything will!” Finding among those keepsakes a letter written by her mother to Lionel living in Paris and living with Gabrielle, we are taken up by a facsimile of one of those enthralling dramatic dialogues which Bergman had become a master in delivering, to deepen our understanding of the principal’s dilemma. “Lionel, I miss you. I miss you so much. Josephine finally fell asleep. She looks like you when she sleeps. It makes me love her even more. Please let me live by your side every day. She’ll be my daughter, too. My love, my rascal…” On the heels of that discovery, Josephine knocks on Noe’s door. When he opens it, she finds his arrogance: “You have something to tell me?”

Coinciding with that Road to Gabon, Lionel, “the rascal,” has lost Rene, but in the course of a rhapsody/daydream on the job, he conjures a horse and a wagon on the tracks as far back as the heights of Jof and Marie. Somehow the image of Jo also appears, for a fraction of a second—this being an apparition for the ages, regardless of stiffs like Noe. And thereby they take off the tarp from their long-dormant Volkswagen van in the underground of the facility (close to where Gabrielle parks, with the little touch of pedantry masking her roof-light to offset rascals), to play one last (confused) victory lap, to Germany (where Jo learned to speak German before reaching Paris after her mother’s early demise). In a cast generally mustering understated performance from blacks and their secret hideaway to transcend a terminally polluted mainstream presumptuously claiming to be viable, the home stretch unveils an elderly German lady (Jo’s grandmother), who takes over—a bit of a scandal in an era of race obsession—as a Bergman oracle, typically smothered by a roster of fakes. “We don’t see you enough. That’s the way it is now. We all live such withdrawn lives [Jo, if only she were alert enough to grasp the outrage being alluded to]. Everyone in his corner. Every man for himself. Would you like some coffee?” (Jo’s capitulation coming across subliminally, as in, “Yes, I would Ma’am.” The hostess retorts, “You don’t have to be so formal” [largely mundane, Jo, having succumbed to formulaic piety and smarts]. You must have been driving all night [as with Jof and Marie, on that long night when “formal” Death commanded nearly everything in sight]. You can stay for lunch, or even spend the night.” Jo replies, in German, “Thanks, but we want to get back on the road [brave words, but here the usual subterfuge; and masking, I’ve got a wedding to bring off, with a fake acrobat]. Maybe some other time” [when hell freezes over]. Does this obtuse connectivity derive from Denis’ background in Africa?) The old gal, disappointed with her prim relative, subtly mocks, “Some other time…” She swings past this transmission problem, however, by recalling a (very) brief joy. “Your mother said she fell in love with a guy in Paris. I asked her, ‘Is he cute?’ [oracles not likely to pose such questions in a straightforward way]. She looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘You’re going to like him’” [the speaker has a troubled face and she looks downward]. Rallying once again, in face of this semi-invasion, or Death, she finds something lively. “I taught her to swim. She was scared of the water. We’re all scared of it. I’m also scared of that [nearby, North] Sea. So vast, so wide. And when you scream, no one hears you… Lionel, do you remember that time when we all went swimming together? We basked in the sun. Lost in the dunes [ring a bell?]… Good wine [she smiles]. Not always that good” [when Lionel was buying; the volatility raining down, and needing to be met]. Though he would not follow the verbal language, there was, in the body language of this transaction a delivery of that day. A delivery the steady and gentle “cute” “rascal” chooses to ignore. “You don’t remember?” she asks him. Her hurt, from this lie, is short lived. “Why don’t we drink some wine? A little glass of wine, now. Why not?” (There is a cut to a wall in that room, showing Jo as a baby held in her mother’s arms; and a dark print of a nude woman seen from behind, treading into the sea at night with a moon casting moonlight on the sea. Iconic matter, to someone, anyway.) “A little glass,” she perseveres. Then they are all drinking that wine. Lionel silent, in a dilemma, unsheltered by his usual comrades. The oracle has more to say. “Sometimes it seems the whole world is scared of suffering. Everyone wants either total stress or some peace in their happy little lives. But not us, not us! We’re strong, aren’t we? Aren’t we Lionel?” The latter minor poet, gracing so many rigors, comes up empty here, very well understanding that he is hated. “I’m glad Josephine gets by in German. It makes me happy” [dipping into the “happy little, prosaic lives” so potent in Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander]. “Just like your dad” [to be a stiff], the lady, clearly fluent in French, skewers a surprising target.

After a short stop to the grave, pouring some water on the flowers, while golden leaves waft down in lieu of almost total neglect, the van reaches the shore, recalling the embarkation of buttoned-down Block and his squire (the aristocrat who fails, and the salt of the earth, who also fails), coming ashore from a crusade centuries ago. It’s All Saints Night, and a group of children, carrying lights and singing, goes by their caravan, etched vividly in the twilight as they negotiate a ridge. Peering out of their home away from home, they fail to pierce the urgency of that full-hearted dash for the sake of a lively life, so long ago and remaining to be fulfilled.

How dare, then, Lionel’s wedding gift of a rice-cooker (“Living Tech” brand), snow-white with a few sissy images at the base—as if to look down upon Jo’s retreat? The slight fails to register with Jo, but it had better register with us. There are many enclaves on this planet sworn to never hear a discouraging word; and some—like that of the club we’ve just taken the depths of—actually being overachievers. But thanks to that oracle, our love affair of the sweet (musical) suite and the sweet apprehensions (as in the small handful of great Demy films) must unequivocally demand more. As the wedding reception rolls on, with a pianist a bit less sweet and a bit more bitter, Lionel climbs the rum shots game, to perhaps reach something to quieten his malaise. “A moment like this only happens once,” he overstates. Neither a consummate acrobat with his rum, nor a consummate juggler with cronies, Lionel—harkening to that siren call having endowed those falling short in Demy films remaining lovable (and a lovable longshot for reaching the strictures Jof had in mind a thousand years ago)—settles in to enjoy the party. But his miasma (far more potent than the ton of rum he’s feeling as we leave him while never forgetting him) is the real concern of this masterful film.

As if a divided homage to this rather secret society—and especially the secret society that was Lionel and Josephine—Denis has planted several factors in her film which amount to a possible blossoming of a long-overdue being “strong,” and not being “scared of suffering.” Some we have already encountered—for instance, Lionel and Jo on a long-ago horse, implying proof against the fear of the likes of Rene. And yet a mark of shame, due to that shining, though flawed, accomplishment of Rene, so more honest. This touches upon the pedantry of Josephine, in action during her college preparations, to become what many others insist she settle for. She mouths, like so many others before her, that “the Global South has not been handed the credits to thrive. “It is neither right nor wrong. Rules, used to manage international debt-loads, impose trouble upon countries in debt. I don’t think we can ignore (Joseph) Stiglitz” [American Nobel Prize winner, in the field of “Economic Sciences”]. (The Prof notes, “You say it as if it’s totally self-evident. It’s a little pedantic…” [pedantry eliciting fear, as in Wild Strawberries]. Another student—coinciding with flawed but somewhat cogent, Rene—argues, “When we revolt, it’s not for a particular culture. We revolt simply because, for many sources, we can no longer breathe…” More bookishness surfaces during Rene’s finally returning a book he borrowed from Lionel. The latter admits that he had forgotten all about it. The subject was about the evils of being “educated to death,” which, it transpires, had become a joke amidst the cognoscenti. The title was Mars [War]. We can well understand why he, so scared of suffering, forgot about it. But that he touched it at all, is a revelation!) On Noe’s wall is a poster, titled, ODISSEA 2001. Flashy optics. No Mars. Their marriage won’t last a year. Then, what?

Many viewers, with a didactic bent, have inferred that 35 Shots of Rum is patterned on the Yasujiro Ozu classic, Late Spring (1949). They claim to have strong evidence by way of the Denis documentary, Talking with Ozu (1993). A few narrative steps do coincide; and the rather precious disinterestedness of the Japanese protagonist does (vaguely) show that area of musicality here. Could the contrasts between the films be urgent here—Denis’ film being modern cool, while Romantic Ozu fumes about the cruel frozenness of Japanese action? Another aspect of Talking with Ozu, is her warning that she “dislikes auteurism and the cult of cinephilia.” The pros read this, and proceed nevertheless—a move like stepping off the observation deck of the Empire State Building. The bona fide involvements here, with Bergman and Demy/Legrand, have very little to do with the movie industry, as it has chosen to fool with.

#claire denis

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