#and frankly i stand by him in his decision to listen to william

[agentplutonium]

Small Porter scene/character study because I find him very interesting. Depicts Porter coming home to Treasure after the Summit. I’m also blorbo-fying Porter here. Just a lil bit.

Porter, in an attempt to destress from the night's events, found himself at Treasure's doorstep. He wasn't sure why this was his first instinct. They technically shouldn't even have known about him. However, there was just-

The door opened, and Treasure was standing in front of him. "Are you going to keep standing there? Someone's gonna call the police thinking you're a serial killer or something."

"Maybe they'd be right," Porter said, ignoring how ironic it was to say, "You're the one that decided to stick around a Vampire."

"Get in here," Treasure said, suppressing a giggle while they reached out for him.

Porter let himself be dragged inside, the smallest of smiles stretching at his lips. Once the door closed behind him his lips were on Treasure's, causing the smallest of gasps to hitch in their chest. Their arms snaked around his neck, pulling him closer.

A sigh slipped past their lips when he pulled away, a grin on their face. "How was that family thing?" "As boring as I expected," Porter drawled. "I missed you."

"Missed me?" Traesure repeated, sounding smug.

"Or something like that," Porter teased. Treasure pushed themselves up to meet his lips again. Porter let himself sink into the feeling of it. revelled the warmth against him, how soft their lips felt, how willingly they let themselves be moulded by him.

Treasure's hands slid over his shoulders, down his chest to the buttons on his shirt, slowly unbuttoning it.

The king didn't get a chance to react to the stab before his head skidded across the floor. There was a rush of air before he was picking a fight with Vincent. All eyes were on them. Or at least enough.

'That's right,' Porter would think, 'keep looking.'

Vincent, looking distraught, almost in tears. He shouldn't have had to hear this. William should have told him something more than what he knew. William was his friend, but this seemed cruel.

"He sees me as a friend, and you as a child. His child."

Porter was taking Treasure's hands away before they could get too far. "As much as I love being able to take you," he said, "I can't tonight. It wouldn't be fair to you if I tried."

"That's okay," Treasure said genuinely, smiling at him. "Do you want to watch my show with me? I'd still love to have your company."

"Of course I would, Treasure."

It wasn't long before Treasure was curled up against him, the two of them watching whatever they had on. Porter wasn't paying attention. Not after what he's done. Treasure was oblivious to his distracted state.

He'd do anything for William. He would stand by him until the end of time. It is what Porter owed him, after everything that William did for him. After picking him off of the streets and taking him in like a feral cat. But this murder was having more of an effect on him than he thought. He wasn't sorry. He doesn't think he'd ever be sorry, but the point remained the same. Seeing Vincent react the way he did made him squirm.

'Vincent just didn't understand,' he'd tell himself. 'He hasn't been alive long enough to.'

He wasn't sure how much he believed himself.

Treasure shifted beside him, drawing his focus back to them.

"I don't know if I'll make you happy," Porter had warned them when they started whatever this was. "I'll try. For you, I will try."

"That's all I need," They had replied, that smile he loved so much showing itself again.

He doesn't understand why they did it. They were this... this force. It pulled him in, locking him in place, and he just couldn't get enough of them. This hasn't happened to him before. This amount of devotion that he felt. Was it natural? To feel this way about someone so soon? Were his feelings fake? Surely they weren't. He did use Treasure's existence to fuck with Vincent a bit, but that didn't mean they were ever part of the ruse he had going for himself. He wouldn't let them be that close. Not yet. They were still so new to the whole magic concept as it was, it was dangerous for them.

Porter held them closer, resting his head atop theirs. He can figure this out later. Right now, his job was to protect them. To take care of them.

And, by the gods, was he prepared to worship them.

[fandomwritingbit]

Could you do one with William afton's wife walks in on him putting the bead boy in the Freddy suit and he knows she would tell but he doesn't really want to kill her but she would try to take they're daughter away from him

Hiya, finally got around to doing this one lol. I broke two of my fingers at work so this was a mare to type lmao. Hope you enjoy!

Red-handed. 

William x wife reader 

Warnings: child murder, threat, violence, reader makes a bad decision.

Something felt off the second you entered the building. The air is heavy with knowledge you don't have a clue about, but it still chills you, making you pull your cardigan tighter around your shoulders. Your husband should be here somewhere, no doubt sorting something out that happened earlier in the day; he often made use of late hours for work, leaving you home alone and frankly bored. But tonight was different, call it a sixth sense, but sat at home watching it get later and later you just knew something was wrong. So here you are, looking for your partner and silently begging for him to be alright.

If something happened to him you don't know what you'd do.

This place is full of potential accidents, those mascot death traps being at the top of the list. Since you met William all those years ago, the thought of his creations being his downfall nestled in the back of your mind. You thank the stars every day that your children aren't as scared of the animatronics as you are.

Your footsteps are the only thing you can hear in the building, the usually lively corridors hushed with the silence of after hours. It's creepy as all Hell, but the knowledge of your husband being here somewhere was a great comfort. You try ringing him. Again. Your phone is ringing but his is deadly quiet. It must have run out of battery because you can't hear it in the building.

Eventually you've made your way to the back offices, calling for William as you peek in his office, then Henry's, both are empty. But a coat hook proves to you he's here, his jacket hung up on it from the end of the hallway looking almost like a figure standing there.

You're starting to feel a little bit pointless, looking from room to room, including the showroom for William, each coming to no avail. There's only one place you haven't been, and his words replay in your mind as you recall a previous conversation. "Don't come in here without me. It's not safe." You asked him why at the time and he frowned. "It's full of endoskeletons and unfinished characters." He answered bluntly, before adding, "Not to mention it's practically made of asbestos." 

And you listened. Until now. It's a push come to shove situation, you have no choice but to look in there, though you still feel a tingle of guilt as you approach the door. The ‘parts and service’ sign amplifies your apprehension. Reaching out for the handle, you hesitate as your fingertips brush against it, thinking about how William was going to react when he found out you've gone in here. But you push through, the worry of his well being outweighing any doubt.

The very second you open the door you’re greeted with the overwhelming stench of iron, familiar enough to you that you gasp. Blood, undoubtedly, the metallic smell invading your mind and stimulating an animalistic impulse to bolt, to get as far away from this scene as possible. You carry on, entering the room but unable to see anything due to large shelves blocking your view. 

“William?” You speak, hardly audible. “William?!” You manage more firmly this time. There’s no response, but a sudden metal clanking sound rang out, making you flinch. It's enough to see you turn the corner in a panic, spurred by fear that your husband could be hurt. When you do you freeze, as if life was taken from your body and you suddenly became inanimate. It is subconscious, forcing you to look at the gruesome scene in front of you. You would look away if you could, you don't want to see the blood on the floor leading up his leg, coating his hands and the small, unmoving body within them. It’s like your mind needs you to know exactly how real this is. And you resent it. 

A hoarse breathy sound leaves you as your husband glares at you, a cruel expression warping his features that you’ve never seen before. You want to ask what happened, but you don’t need to. Your eyes flicking around the room reveals it all. A knife dripping with red, the child dead and suspended above the open mascot suit. 

“W-what…?” You start shakily. William grunts with the effort of lifting the corpse, steadying the suit with one hand as the other slowly drops the child inside, letting you watch in horror as he lowers them until it’s secure enough for him to let go. You continue staring, no legitimate train of thought in your mind, before he sighs, finally turning his attention to you. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks, the question sharp, tinted with accusation like you had done something equal to him just by being here. 

“I-I came to ch-check on you. I thought something had hap- something has happened. What is this, William?” As your speaking the gravity of this catches up to you, your husband has hurt- killed this child. And there’s no remorse in his face, just a cold realism. In the pit of your stomach you know that this wasn’t an accident and it terrifies you. 

An almost amused expression crosses his face as he scoffs, but it’s still mean. “What have you done?” You’re suddenly incensed, a rage like you’ve never felt coursing through your veins. “What have you done?” You ask again, scowling. You’ve known this man for what felt like your whole life and now you hate him, he fucking disgusts you. 

“Easy.” He raises his hands like he’s trying to defend himself, trying to justify the unjustifiable.  “We can-” He steps towards you slightly and you immediately recoil. 

He stiffened, his expression completely changing, as the grave and serious feeling finally reached him. He looks at you with an unnameable emotion, “Don’t you fucking dare flinch away from me.” It’s said so harshly, so venomously that a pang of fear spreads through your chest. All of a sudden you’re aware of what William is capable of and whilst it still repels you, the violent reality chills your blood. You’re alone, with him. With that. 

He watches the cogs turn in your head. He always knew you’d find out who he is eventually. It's inevitable, if not exactly like this then through a firm knock on the door concealing two uniformed officers. What’s the saying? ‘All things done in darkness will come to light.’ Well, here’s the fucking light, and it’s looking at him like he’s a monster. And it equally pisses him off and excites him.

 “Come here.” It’s an order. 

“No, William… I…” There are tears in your eyes at the emotional whiplash you’re experiencing. When he again steps towards you, you jump back, bumping into the shelving behind you, odd objects clattering on the floor. “Dont! Don’t touch me.” You hiss, panic making you raise your hands to strike at him, him touching you seems like the worst thing imaginable. You hit him in the chest, then again in the face before he stops you, grabbing your wrists and banging them above your head. The force of it again shakes the shelves, proving your terror right. 

“Don’t be fucking scared of me. I’ve never hurt you before, have I? Why would I start now?” He speaks through his teeth and it’s soberingly firm. 

“Get off me.” You struggle against him, thrashing as much as his brutal grip will allow. 

“You,” He lowers his head so he’s speaking directly in your face. “You are the mother of my children, I’m not going to lay a finger on you… Unless you make me.” 

Instantly you go still, his threat thinly veiled but clear as crystal in the damp and bloody room. There’s a man you recognise. A man who likes to bargain. Only this isn’t business, it’s life or death, his life for yours. 

“There you go. You need to get your head on straight, this is nothing to you.” And despite the poisonous hatred you feel you find yourself nodding, you have more than yourself to worry about and you’re as obligated to him as he is for you. For better or worse. 

[natsubeatsrock]

Top 7 Things I Enjoyed in 2024: Number 4

Originally, I took too many words to say something simple for this intro: the Presidential election cycle was a joke from start to finish. The only good thing was that it ended. Forget the results or the fallout. We don't have another presidential election for four more years. That's reason enough to celebrate.

The worst of it might have been the near assassinations of Trump. Somehow, two or three different people decided to try and kill him. People on and off this website were disappointed he almost died. Some even suggested that it was a stunt.

Regardless of where you stand, this is disgusting. We shouldn't rejoice in the death of our political enemies. I mean, really. What kind of society would we be to encourage and celebrate the downfall of a public figure?

Number 4: Drake vs. the World

Well, it might be okay if someone is probably a pedophile.

Honestly, I've never been a huge fan of Drake. There just aren't too many songs he's made that I like. I'm not going to act like he can't make good music, but he's not close to my favorite. Even now, I don't hate him. I'll even listen to some of his songs now and again. It's just hilarious to clown on him for this terrible year.

Of course, the big draw has been his utter destruction by Kendrick Lamar. It's not just that he easily lost every round of their beef. Frankly, that's a given battling against one of the best rappers of this generation. 

Kendrick Lamar has changed the way people understand hatred. Drake managed to draw out five unique diss tracks out of his opponent. Two might be among the best diss tracks ever. Not Like Us is the biggest rap hit on the Billboard charts. Period. I've seen kids who know the lyrics to this song. Kendrick rode his win to a surprise album drop and a Super Bowl performance next year. He's already a favorite to win Grammys over this whole thing.

It's hard to know how much of this is true, but the evidence seems to rest with Kendrick. If that's the case, we've learned Drake is a pedophile, sex trafficker, horrible business man, and has been hiding another child from the public. The court of public opinion has already made its decision.

That just happens to be the biggest part of this. Plenty of others have dissed him. Rick Ross dissed him. Kanye dissed him. Metro made a beat and challenge to diss him. People are coming from around the world to take shots at Drake in different languages.

Let's put it this way. Pharrell Williams was mentioned in the beef by both Drake and Kendrick. A few months later, his new song with Despicable Me 4 dropped. People are making the argument the song is a sneak diss at Drake. Right or wrong, the conversation is proof enough that Drake was cooked. He can't go to a kid's movie in peace.

Then again, it might be better for him to watch it at home.

[popwasabi]

“Westworld III” takes several steps forward...and several steps back (REVIEW)

Created by Jonathan Nolan and Lisa Joy

Starring: Evan Rachel Wood, Jeffrey Wright, Aaron Paul, Ed Harris, Vincent Cassel, Tessa Thompson, Thandie Newton

(SPOILERS AHEAD)

Season three of HBO’s “Westworld” cleans up many of the issues season two had but ultimately falls short of season one’s loftier thematic ideas.

It’s cinematically sharper, it’s about as well paced and fun as the show has ever been and that on it’s own makes it worth watching and certainly worth continuing the series going forward but for fans hoping it might have something new to say in the vein of its hyper meta-textual and thematic commentary of the first season it may leave you disappointed.

Season three may have raised the stakes of the series with its pending (and frankly, all too timely) apocalyptic vibes going on in the story but it lowers the bar on its cerebral nature opting more for fast paced thrills over anything more profound or hadn’t said already.

That said, I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it anyways for better…and worse.

“Westworld” season three picks up not too long after the events of season two as Dolores has infiltrated human society and begun working on her master plan to bring it all down. She has spared Bernard, who now spends his life as butcher outside the major cities but he often wonders where she is and when this apocalypse will begin. Meanwhile a veteran named Caleb spends his life doing the same mundane tasks and mercenary work everyday to make ends meet pondering his existence as he deals with his PTSD. He decides to break the cycle however when one day he finds Dolores shot in an alleyway and joins her on her quest to start a revolution.

“Westworld” is one of the few series that hooked me immediately with its first episode.

Where some series take their time to gain momentum before going into overdrive in their season finale, season one’s “The Original” grabbed my attention from the start with a combination of mystery, action, stellar acting, and the kind of cerebral humanist story-telling I expect and want from the cyberpunk genre.

As someone with a father who talked extensively about myth, theme, and got me to listen to old Joseph Campbell essays on CD  growing up, a series that explored story-telling on a meta level with a high octane LARP concept setting was everything someone like me could ask for in a science fiction series.

(Seriously, there was some compelling analytical story-telling dialogue in this series.)

So invested I was in this tale of synthetics gaining agency and humans exploring their own personal myth-making and what it said about themselves made me a huge fan early on, proudly proclaiming it to be the best show on HBO several years ago.

I was so certain this series was creatively the best thing on television at the time that I strongly considered getting a maze tattoo like that in the show to proclaim my brand-new fandom.

But knowing there was still more seasons on the horizon, I held off thinking I should probably see this through before doing anything that brash.

Well, a few years later I feel pretty good about that decision…

(Imagine how fans who named their newborns Daenerys or Khalessi feel right now...)

I remember thinking at the end of season one “Where can they possibly go from here still? Other LARP destinations in this cyberpunk world? A robot vs human war? How can the world expand?”

The problem is these thoughts did not really ask the most important question following that first season; “What more does it actually have to say?”

The first season is, in my opinion, a perfect season of television. It’s a brilliant take on the stories we tell ourselves, the choices we make that define us in our personal myths, and the exploration of our nature and how that relates to choice all while playing out this synthetic mystery plot. The entire first season pulls all these arcs and ideas together through characters like Bernard/Arnold, William/The Man in Black, and of course Dolores. They all, more or less, complete their arcs in that first season and there’s not really much needed to be said beyond that when you really think about it. If the series ended on Dolores murdering Ford and the Delos guests in the season finale that honestly would have been a perfect ambiguous ending to send the story off on.

(Kind of itss own meta commentary on the journey of a fan and an ever-increasingly cynical series...)

But because this is HBO, and “Game of Thrones” is no longer the driving force of premium TV, Westworld MUST continue because it’s the new cash cow for the channel. Whether or not writer/producers Lisa Joy and Jonathan Nolan really knew what they wanted to do following that first season is anybody’s guess but it’s hard not to see that they have struggled a bit since that point.

Season two is a mixed bag, where the characters literally feel like they’re going in circles. Plotlines get muddled, characters become hyper versions of themselves, and while certain ideas and episodes reached similar levels of brilliance that the first season had it still lacked the narrative sharpness of the first season and that has a lot to do with the characters having mostly no other driving force besides survival and simply getting to the next physical plot point.

It just didn’t have much more to say and frankly in a story about stories that’s pretty damn important.

(This episode from season 2 is still one of its best.)

To their credit, Joy and Nolan appear to rectify quite a few issues season two had with season three. Again, it’s faster, better paced, there’s a clearer destination at the end for its characters and not to mention a pretty compelling villain for this season’s plot in Serac played by the brilliant Vincent Cassell.

But it suffers ultimately the same problem; it has nothing truly new to say.

This is not to say the season is without any meaningful messages or metaphors. It’s quite critical of our hyper surveillance and information gathering state, might even be the best depiction to date on the broader implications and consequences of a world where we all have our personal information readily online to mined and plundered by big businesses and government. Caleb, played by the always great Aaron Paul, is a good avatar for the everyman who has grown jaded and disenfranchised by this system. Though he spends most of the season looking overly shocked and gape-jawed at just about everything, it’s hard not to feel empathy and a connection to this character as we are quite literally living in a bit of a cyberpunk hell as it is these days and treated just as much as expendable commodities right now.

(You fucking jackasses are arguing for the wrong things! You’re all being swindled and cheated for nothing! *photo “unrelated”*)

The season is generally best when the focus is on him, as the first episode delivers a strong start in the same way season one did.

Where the season begins to fall apart though is when quite literally the world “Westworld” inhabits begins to do so itself. Serac’s Rehobaum, which reminded me just a little too much of “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’s” Deep Thought, releasing all its data to the world and everyone discovering they’re basically all dangerous assholes is almost hilarious to me. 

Though the idea of hyper data controlling our every move is a good cyberpunk metaphor to jump off of, the way this bit is executed is a little over exaggerated and clumsy.

(Though it does deliver a pretty powerful scene regardless.)

This isn’t actually a tremendous problem with season three, but it doesn’t do much to add to what we already understand about the story; which is how narrative controls us and how important choices and free will is to that. All this is already told and expanded on in the first season through Dolores, all season three does it bring it to a macro level and put that onus on the humans instead of the hosts. The hosts were already a metaphor for humanity anyways so again the story in some ways hasn’t changed much since season one.

It's interesting to have the narrative of the hosts turned on the humans but thematically it feels redundant.

I’ll add that this isn’t the worst idea they could’ve gone with, it works in moving the physical aspect of the story forward for sure, and I wouldn’t even classify it as a bad one, but again the problem is the story has largely run out of new things to tell us.

We like stories because we want to learn some truth about ourselves, whether we want it to or not, and Anthony Hopkins’ Ford makes a great point of this in season one. This has been the purpose of myths and legends since the dawn of time and it’ll be no different even when the 37th Fast & Furious comes out in 40 years. You could argue that the message of Westworld deserves repeating or that it’s not important to the entertainment value it still provides, and you might be right. But for a series like this, that is so invested in what stories mean I don’t think it’s wrong to think there should be more to it than this.

(Maybe, I should’ve...)

Of course, there’s still plenty more to see out of “Westworld” for the foreseeable future as HBO won’t be canceling it anytime soon and certainly it’ll have its chance to still tackle more ideas and themes in the future but, at this point at least, it’s been less meaningful that its first season.

There are other problems too, namely Dolores constantly changing and unclear revolution plans and arcs resolved offscreen, certain side plots with other characters ultimately going nowhere, and a fairly predictable twist with Caleb, but this is the crux of the problem with the series as it stands now and the one worth mentioning the most.

(And Maeve, *sigh* oh Maeve...)

That said, season three really is a lot of fun despite my issues with the narrative. The pacing, as mentioned, is great from start to finish. I was never bored or disinterested during this season, despite its flaws, and the action bits are frankly better than they’ve ever been as the series goes full cyberpunk in parts with great robot on human and robot on robot action.

The cinematography is sharp and striking too as Jonathan Nolan shows he’s definitely Christopher’s brother with some beautiful, haunting shots of the future Los Angeles city Gotham-esque skyline set to Ramin Djawadi’s excellent cyberpunk score that gives the new season a more noire-ish feel that would make Vangelis and Hans Zimmer proud.

(In the future Los Angeles will be Singapore!)

The acting is still stellar of course. Though Jeffrey Wright’s Bernard is largely wasted in this season and his plot goes nowhere, his scene with Gina Torres in the finale is touching. Luke Hemsworth is dry as hell in a good way as Chief of Security turned personal buddy bodyguard to Bernard as Ashley Stubbs. Ed Harris is wicked and dastardly as always as William and of course Evan Rachel Wood is solid as the driving force of the series as Dolores.

(Out of context season 3 spoiler.)

The finale doesn’t leave much to say beyond a pending machine vs human war though which has been building up since the first season anyways. While I can see some possibilities for an interesting direction here, I can’t say I’m as intrigued as even the finale to season two left me.

In some ways, season one left me not too much unlike William going into season’s two and three; looking for additional meaning in something that wasn’t looking to tell me anything deeper, at least right now. Perhaps the maze just isn’t for me anymore but moving forward I’ll be lowering my expectations.

(Oh my God! Meta commentary on meta commentary! It’s meta-ception! I’m beginning to question the nature of my reality!!!)

“Westworld” remains a fun cyberpunk action series that can hold your attention span for an hour, and I think it’ll maintain that energy consistently going forward, but it might’ve been best left where it was when Dolores put a bullet in Ford’s brain.

I do hope it can regain some of its original spark at some point but until then…it doesn’t look like anything (deep) to me.

VERDICT:

3.5 out of 5

You said it, Marshawn...

[johnnysdrums]

Kinds of Messes

Description: Wayne has finally returned home from the war just to have his life turned upside down. His wife and kids hardly recognize him and he has yet to get a letter back from an old high school friend. Rather, he’s gotten a very important telegram.

———————————————————————

“I know a guy. He’s kind of a mess. He made it back home in one piece, more or less. A genius on drums but on brain matter, shy.”

Wayne paused before responding to Donny’s question. He knew the answer to the question almost immediately but part of him didn’t want to utter the words out loud.

Wayne returned from war a changed man, to say the least. He ran his house like the Marine he trained to be. Unfortunately, children do not make good Marines. His wife tried to keep up with his antics but frankly, she was scared. What happened to the fun-loving Wayne Wright she fell in love with?

“He fought a war,” he’d reply, walk-in out the front door to check the mailbox at exactly 3 pm. He’d open the mailbox. Still no letter. Now Wayne was getting anxious.

Wayne and Johnny had promised to write each other weekly after having enlisted and they had done a pretty damn good job. Wayne kept up his end of the bargain more than he did to his wife. Johnny did as well for a bit until the letters just stopped coming. It didn’t get better when Wayne returned. Still no letter. At this point, Wayne would just have to accept the fact that the childhood friend to whom he confided all secrets to had been killed in action.

***

Wayne was watching the second hand on his watch tick past the 9 and towards the 10. When it hit the 12 along with the minute hand and the hour hand hit the 3, he got up and walked to mailbox. He expected nothing but bills and letters not addressed to him. What he didn’t expect was a telegram sent from the war office. He was going to wait to read it inside where he could use his reading glasses but he was too nervous and began to read, his eyes squinting and his hands trembling.

Wayne read the telegram three, four, five times over to make sure the words were real pen and ink and that they weren’t going to disappear on him. Johnny was ok-ish. Alive. Not dead. Wayne immediately rushed inside and called out to his wife.

“I’m stepping out for a bit. I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?”

“To see an old friend. He’s... in the hospital and... Look, I’ve got to go see him. It’s important.”

“Fine but you better be home by dinner.”

Wayne flung himself out the door, hopping into his car and heading straight towards the hospital. The thirty minute drive gave him a lot of time to think. Am I really the closest thing he has to family? Does he not have any cousins or other relatives? Wayne knew all too well about what had happened to Johnny’s family. In fact, had experienced it alongside him. The years of constant abuse and pain. The abuse so terrible that Johnny had to run towards war just to get away. How horrible are his injuries? They said it was an emergency... No, he’s alive. He’ll be fine. I’m sure of it. I hope.

Wayne arrived at the hospital and went up to the front desk to explain his situation. The secretary nodded and took him down the hall to the doctor standing right outside Johnny’s room.

“Mr. Wright, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah, wonderful. Have a seat, will you?” The doctor gestured to the chair outside the door with the metal back and Wayne sat down. The doctor sat in the wooden one. “So, Mr. Wright. How aware are you of Mr. Simpson’s... condition?”

Wayne tensed at the pause. “Just that it was pretty terrible and that I was his only contact. Do you know why?”

The doctor sighed. “I’m afraid Mr. Simpson does not have family that can take care of him. You appear to be the closest thing he has.”

“Oh.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “Now about Mr. Simpson’s condition. Mr. Simpson was in a vehicle accident. His Jeep flipped three times. He was the only one out of the three men in the car to survive but unfortunately that came with some costs. Mr. Simpson has had three operations on his back so far and hopefully we won’t have to do anymore. Of course, our work isn’t perfect and it appears that Mr. Simpson will be suffering from chronic pain for the rest of his life, not just in his back but in other joints as well.” The doctor paused to let Wayne absorb all of the information.

Wayne stood up having heard enough. “I’m going in,” he said and pushed past the doctor and into the room where a pale Johnny covered in cuts and bandages sat staring at the wall in a puzzled daze, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the blanket. Wayne didn’t hear the doctor stammering behind him about how their talk hadn’t finished yet and that it would be best if Wayne listened to all he had to say.

“Johnny?” he exclaimed quietly so as not to frighten him. Johnny perked up at his name and stared at Wayne for a few seconds before breaking out into a large grin.

“Hiya, there! Nice to meet ya! I’m Johnny Simpson but you can call me Johnny,” he giggled, stretching his hand out to shake. “And who are you? Do I know you? I feel like I should know you. You see, my Jeep flipped three times. Three times, I’m telling ya! The best decision I ever made was holding on to that steering wheel, I’ll tell you that much. And I just had three operations on my back! Can you imagine? The doc says I have a TBI which is a traumatic brain injury, I think. I can’t remember things. That’s because my Jeep flipped three times. Three times, I’m telling ya! So who are you?”

Wayne stood there in shock, unsure how to respond. He didn’t shake Johnny’s hand. Rather, he stared at the man who had become a shell of himself. A shell, how fitting.

“Wayne Wright. We were friends in high school,” he replied in the most formal manner. Johnny didn’t seem to notice.

“High school? Wow that musta been a long time ago. Anyway nice to meet you... William?”

“Wayne.”

“Oh yeah, Wayne! See I forget things because during the war my Jeep flipped three times. Three times, I’m telling ya! So now I forget things. The doctor said I’m outta here though on Sunday. What day of the week is Sunday, again? I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

Wayne felt like he was going to throw up. His best friend may be alive but he sure as hell wasn’t living. He had forgotten everything. And that made Wayne’s head explode into a throbbing headache. “Sunday is in two days.”

“Ah, swell! Say, you got any idea as to when my parents are coming to see me? I don’t remember their names but I’m pretty sure I have ‘em. Parents, ya know.”

Wayne rushed immediately out of the room before Johnny could see the tears beginning to fall down his face.

***

“So, who was the friend?” his wife asked as the family sat around the table eating their lasagna. Wayne was ready to answer but he couldn’t get over the small action that was bothering him.

“Grady, I don’t want to hear you eating,” he said sternly causing his wife to eye him. Grady continued to smack his lips and slurp his pasta.

“Grady, that is enough. Stop it.” Grady just giggled as a response. He grabbed his forkful of food and shot it at his father, hitting him square in the chest. The tomato mess ran down into the pocket of his shirt.

“Grady, what is your problem? You want to do fifty push ups because we can make that happen.”

“Wayne.”

“You need to grow up and get some manners.”

“Wayne.”

“The Marines ain’t gonna coddle you forever.” Wayne froze once he realized what he just said. He left the kitchen and went back to the bathroom to wash the stain out of his shirt.

The stain was just about out when he heard a knock on the bathroom door.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.” Wayne’s wife opened the door and walked in, quickly closing it behind her.

“Wayne, what happened at the hospital?” she asked, her face plagued with worry.

Wayne took a moment to compose himself before talking. “It was Johnny Simpson. Remember, he went with us on that double date to prom?” She nodded. “He isn’t doing too good. Jeep flipped three times. Three surgeries on his back. A TBI. Can’t remember anything. Didn’t know who I was, didn’t know the days of the week practically, didn’t remember what his parents... did. It was awful, I,” his voice trailed off.

She leaned forward and gave Wayne a tight hug and then moved her hand down his shoulder towards his own hand.

“The doctor says he doesn’t have any other family. That I was the only person they could find that was close enough to him. They’re releasing him on Sunday. The doctor suggested he live with us. That we help him acclimate. I don’t even know if he’d be able to survive on his own,” Wayne croaked as tears began to pour out of his eyes.

Wayne’s wife sighed. “You know we can’t do that,” she said softly.

“He needs us.”

“Wayne, the kids hardly even recognize you anymore. I don’t even recognize you anymore! And I want to fix this. He’ll just get in the way. I’m already stressed enough as it is taking care of you and the kids. We can’t just let some man you haven’t talked to in 5 years come live with us. Especially someone who can, I don’t know, hardly remember his own name! Wayne, you need to be realistic. We can’t take care of him. We gotta take care of you first. I want this to all work out and for that it just needs to be you. No buts. That’s it and you know it,” she stared into his eyes, a frown upon her face.

Wayne wiped a final tear and nodded. “I hope he doesn’t hurt himself out there. Already bad enough the way some of these men are going. I’d hate to lose one who already survived so much as it is.”

“I know, I know.”

***

“So, do you know anyone?” Donny Novitski asked Wayne who clutched his trombone as if it were a lifesaver.

Wayne did know someone. He knew someone who played drums with him in high school. He knew someone who had the most infectious laugh and goofiest grin and was downright the nicest person you’d ever meet. He also had abandoned this someone when he needed him most. But maybe this would give him another chance at life, joy. Maybe it would put his fingers to good use. Maybe it would stir up old memories of the two of them in high school. Maybe it would get him to remember. It was worth a shot.

“I know a guy. He’s kind of a mess. He made it back home in one piece, more or less. A genius on drums but on brain matter, shy.”

***

They were finally having their first practice. The air in the room was already tense as the band members slowly unpacked their instruments, questions about each other’s service experience floating through their minds. Wayne had just put his mute in when the door flung open.

“Gee, is this the right place? I think it is. So glad I made it. I’m Johnny, by the way. I play drums. I think I’m here to be in a band. I don’t quite remember. See, my Jeep flipped three times. Three times, I’m telling ya! And I had three operations on my back. And now I can’t remember stuff. Glad I remembered this, though. Wouldn’t miss it for the world! I have a pencil and paper to thank for that!” he chuckled, scanning the room of unfamiliar faces. Well, mostly unfamiliar.

“Wayne Wright, right? Wayne? Yeah, I had a feeling that was you. I remember you coming to visit me in the hospital. My only visitor. You see, I was in there because my Jeep flipped three times. Three times, I’m telling ya! And I had to have three operations on my back. You were my friend in high school, didn’t you say? Gee, it’s great that I already know someone here. Well, sort of know them. I forget things easily. I should go set up. Nice meeting ya, Wayne!” Johnny smiled as he walked past the stunned man.

When Johnny was turned around and focused on his drums, a wide grin crept upon Wayne’s face. Maybe you didn’t abandon him after all.

[duchesscambridges]

'I can feel the hugs she used to give us': Prince Harry remembers Diana

The Duke of Cambridge and Prince Harry have spoken as never before about Diana, Princess of Wales, in an interview designed to teach a new generation about their mother.

The brothers, now aged 35 and 32, have given the most intimate insight yet into their childhood, as they opened their family photo album for the nation. In a 90-minute documentary, featuring the Princess's closest family and friends, the Duke and Prince will bring their mother's memory to life, detailing her efforts to give them a normal childhood, her final letters and phone call, and her love of pranks.

They share her own photograph album, found earlier this year and containing pictures of the brothers as children, as the Duke speaks of how he felt her presence as a source of comfort before his 2011 wedding to Catherine Middleton. It will reveal how their parents' divorce left them constantly travelling between houses, that their mother's death was like an "earthquake", and how the Queen was at one point so concerned she took friends aside to check on the Princess.

Introducing the film at a Kensington Palace screening, the Duke said he and his younger brother had never spoken so frankly in public before, explaining that the 20th anniversary of the Princess's death in August felt like an "appropriate time to open up a bit more".

"We won't be doing this again," he said. "We won't speak as openly and publicly about her again, because we feel that hopefully this film will provide the other side: from her closest family and friends, that you might not have heard before, from those who knew her best, and those who want to protect her memory and want to remind people of the person she was; the warmth, the humour, and what she was like as a mother.

"Harry and I feel very strongly that we want to celebrate her life, and this is a tribute from her sons to her."

Sitting with Prince Harry to look at photographs and talk about memories had been "cathartic", he added.

As well as her sons, the film also features the Princess's brother, Earl Spencer, who speaks frankly about how the bitter divorce of their parents affected her; Sir Elton John, who sang at her funeral, and a host of friends. The Duke and Prince have also taken part in a BBC documentary, due out later this year and focusing specifically on the week following the car crash that killed the Princess in Paris in 1997. They marked what would have been her 56th birthday last month by rededicating her grave at Althorp, the Spencer family home, and will commemorate the anniversary of her death in August.

"We want her legacy to live on in our work, and we feel this is an appropriate way of doing that," said the Duke.

The ITV film opens with the Duke and Prince leafing though the Princess's photograph album. Prince Harry tells his brother: "Part of me never really wanted to look at them and part of me was waiting to find the right time where we could sit down and look at them together." One shows him on his first day of school, while another captures a beach holiday, where he is hugged tightly by his mother.

"She would just engulf you and squeeze you as tight as possible," he recalls, speaking to camera. "And being as short as I was then, there was no escape, you were there and you were there for as long as she wanted to hold you. Even talking about it now I can feel the hugs that she used to give us and I miss that. I miss that feeling, I miss that part of a family, I miss having that mother to be able to give you those hugs and give you that compassion that I think everybody needs."

The Queen was so concerned about the Princess in her low points that she took a friend aside quietly at Balmoral to talk about her.

Harry Herbert, whose father was the 7th Earl of Carnarvon and racing manager to the Queen, says: "After a lunch at Balmoral and going [on a walk] up high and looking down on to this beautiful setting of heather and castle, [we had] an incredibly important chat. A very personal chat. And the Queen wanted to know how was Diana feeling, and was it as bad as it was? It was a sad discussion, a sad moment really because that was everything at its worst."

But he said he had visited the Princess when she was struggling, and even then her face would "light up" when her sons came "thundering" into her room.

Before the trauma of the Princess's death, Prince William and Prince Harry endured the fall-out from their parents' divorce, finalised in 1996 after a long and public battle.

"The two of us were bouncing between the two of them... we never saw our mother enough or we never saw our father enough," Prince Harry says.

"There was a lot of travelling and a lot of fights on the back seat with my brother, which I would win. So there was all of that to contend with. And I don't pretend that we're the only people to have to deal with that, but it was an interesting way of growing up."

Exploring the Princess's main causes, from HIV awareness to homelessness, the film also reveals her final, incomplete challenge: landmines.

Prince Harry tells how he found a "whole series" of letters around a month ago; dated Aug 31, 1997 and waiting for her signature.

"She knew exactly what needed to be done," her youngest son says. "And it's only recently over the years that I've actually really understood the effect that she was having in those areas and on an international scale as well."

In the film, he speaks with two young victims of landmines in Bosnia, telling them they had seen his mother more recently than he had, as she had made the visit before going on holiday to Paris just a few weeks later.

In a light-hearted moment, Prince Harry speaks with mock fury about the outfits he was compelled to wear as a child. The two young boys were photographed regularly in an array of elaborate and old-fashioned clothes.

"I genuinely think that she got satisfaction out of dressing myself and William up in the most bizarre outfits," he says. "Normally matching. It was weird shorts and, like, little sorts of shiny shoes with the old clip on. I just think, 'how could you do that to us?'"

Eventually, the princes began to rebel, with William first refusing to match his brother and then Harry taking a stand. "I like to think that she had great fun in dressing us up," Prince Harry says. "I'm sure that wasn't it, but I sure as hell am going to dress my kids up the same way."

The Princess, her sons say, tried valiantly to teach them about a normal life, despite their privileges.

"She made the decision that no matter what, despite all the difficulties of growing up in that limelight and on that stage, she was going to ensure that both of us had as normal a life as possible," says Prince Harry.

"And if that means taking us for a burger every now and then, or sneaking us into the cinema, or driving through the country lanes with the roof down of her old-school BMW listening to Enya, I think it was... all of that was part of her being a mum."

Described as a "total kid through and through" by Prince Harry, the Princess attempted to embarrass her sons at every opportunity, from sending rude cards to them at school to roping in models to help her.

Prince William tells how he once returned home, aged 12 or 13, to find Cindy Crawford, Christy Turlington and Naomi Campbell, the fashion models, waiting at the top of the stairs.

"I went red and didn't quite know what to say and sort of fumbled, and I think I pretty much fell down the stairs on the way up," he says. "I was completely and utterly sort of awestruck. But that was a very funny memory."

At other times, he says she would post him "the rudest cards you can imagine" to boarding school, leaving him in fear of being spotted by a teacher.

Prince Harry recalls how she would smuggle sweets into their socks when she came to watch them playing football. He says: "One of her mottos to me was 'you can be as naughty as you want, just don't get caught'."

If she excelled as a mother, the Princess would have been an "absolute nightmare" as a grandmother, the Duke jokes. Saying he is "constantly" mentioning "Granny Diana" at home, he has also mounted photographs so Prince George and Princess Charlotte learn about her. "It's hard because obviously Catherine didn't know her, so she cannot really provide that level of detail," he says. "So I do regularly put George or Charlotte to bed, talk about her and just try and remind them that there are two grandmothers - there were two grandmothers - in their lives."

He adds: "She'd love the children to bits, but she'd be an absolute nightmare. She'd come and go and she'd come in probably at bath time, cause an amazing amount of scene."

The Princess's death, the Duke says, was like an "earthquake". "There's not many days that go by that I don't think of her, you know - sometimes sad, sometimes very positively," he notes.

"You know, I have a smile every now and again when someone says something and I think, that's exactly what she would have said, or she would have enjoyed that comment. So they always live with you, people you lose like that. My mother lives with me every day."

Prince Harry says: "There's not a day that William and I don't wish that she was still around."

He concludes: "You know, and of course as a son I would say this, she was the best mum in the world."

Source

[rebeccaheyman]

reading + listening 08.10.20

When I say that my book consumption this week swung from the best 2020 has to offer so far to the absolute worst, I am not exaggerating in the least. Another wild ride from start to finish...

Love is a Rogue (Lenora Bell), ebook, ARC. Full review on NetGalley. LOVE IS A ROGUE was my first Lenora Bell book -- but clocking in at a solid B, it won't be my last. Beatrice is an able-enough heroine, distinguished by her love for etymology, books, and the etymological dictionary she's planning to write once she achieves full spinster status. All she needs to do is fail one more season with the ton to circumvent her mother's plan's to make an advantageous marriage. Ford, our dashing hero, enters the scene as a carpenter whose role overseeing the renovation of the duke's estate brings him into Beatrice's path. They collide with flirtatious results, and the fun continues when Beatrice hires Ford to renovate a bookshop she just-so-happens to have inherited from a dead aunt. Unbeknownst to Beatrice, the property brings Ford's past directly in-line with her present, and they unite to overcome the challenges posed by society, their personal demons, and Ford's dastardly grandfather. 

For me, Beatrice's status as the duke's sister undermined the urgency of her final season in society; she doesn't have to marry to save the family fortune or escape a cruel family situation, and in fact, Beatrice quickly decides to play along and appease her mother, all the while knowing she'll reject any proposals and retire to the country in due course. So the stakes are not especially high from a cultural perspective, which deflated the conflict somewhat. Likewise, Ford's inner demons don't hold the same power over him that might seriously impact his actions; he's set to return to the Royal Navy any day now, but decides with zero fanfare that actually no, he'll decline another tour and stay land-locked, tyvm. How realistic would it have been to back out of military service? I can't say -- but it seems like this would have been a serviceable point of separation for Ford and Beatrice, that would have prolonged the third act and provided valuable tension. Because it's the third act that keeps LOVE IS A ROGUE from ascending higher in my estimation. 

The Midnight Bargain (C.L. Polk), ebook, ARC. Full four-star review on NetGalley.

I unequivocally adored THE MIDNIGHT BARGAIN, the first I've read from author C.L. Polk. It's a little tricky to categorize this standalone fantasy romance, which takes place in a decidedly other world, but still calls on the culture of Regency-era England -- so to call it "historical" is misleading, but readers who enjoy historical romance will surely find the cultural mores in THE MIDNIGHT BARGAIN both familiar and compelling. Beatrice Clayborn is in town for her last Bargaining season -- a time for male sorcerers to find powerful wives whose magic will serve them once the marriage is sealed. Because in this world, women aren't allowed magic and marriage simultaneously; the danger of a spirit taking over an unborn child is too great, so women are collared, literally and figuratively, to keep this atrocity from happening. Beatrice has plans to study magic in secret and become a full-fledged Mage, which would render her ineligible for marriage and destroy her family's social and economic standing, but secure her rights to her own power and body for the rest of her life. All she needs are the secrets hidden in one particular grimoire -- that's stolen right from her hands by the Lavan siblings. Powerful, and with ambitions and secrets of their own, the Ianthe and Ysbeta and Ianthe complicate Beatrice's plans by drawing her into their lives; Ysbeta as accomplice, confidante and friend, and Ianthe as all those things plus potential lover and love.

Polk's writing is fluid and charming, with careful attention to detail. Her evocative world-building and subtle magic system is never forgotten, but it also never overwhelms the distinctly human motivations that move our characters through time and space. THE MIDNIGHT BARGAIN was compulsively readable, full of lovely language and delightfully unassuming turns of phrase. Beatrice is intrepid and brave; Ysbeta is fierce and loyal; Ianthe is the profoundly romantic, feminist hero we all need. A delight from the first page to the last, THE MIDNIGHT BARGAIN is a tightly-woven, beautifully-rendered fantasy romance that will make you a C.L. Polk fan if you aren't one already.

Midnight Sun (Stephanie Meyer). eBook + aBook. Perhaps like me, you thought a little nostalgia and escapism would revive the dregs of this terrible, pandemic summer. Maybe you thought a throwback to simpler times -- the year 2005 to be exact -- would make you feel young and carefree again. Bella and Edward’s angsty bullshit would be fun to revisit, and maybe Edward’s POV would reveal something interesting about a story we might not all have loved, but definitely loved to hate. Well, 2020 is here to set you straight again: this year absolutely blows, and no amount of sparkly vampires can save it. I can say with perfect clarity that MIDNIGHT SUN is the worst novel I (or anyone) will read this year. The degree to which MIDNIGHT SUN fails as a novel is so extreme, it’s actually hard to qualify which aspect of the book is worst: the writing, the narrative development, the unadulterated laziness of retelling a story from a POV that adds literally nothing to our understanding of that first narrative. Fail, fail, fail. In no particular order, here are my thoughts:

The writing is as bad as you think it’s going to be. I don’t know what Stephanie Meyer has been doing for the past 15 years, but it’s not working on her craft. Purple prose takes on newly virulent shades in this trash heap of lazy language. 

While I understand that the story itself was restricted by an established plot, there was an opportunity to leave behind some of the language that simply hasn’t aged well. “...[M]y own personal brand of heroine” was cringe-inducing the first time, and no effort was made to allay a scene that is frankly embarrassing to read. Perhaps worst of all, though, is that language on the same plane of egregiousness is introduced to the narrative with no precedent from the original text. Bella’s claim that she’s “so clumsy that I’m almost disabled” (245) doesn’t feel like something that should have passed muster in 2020. Did no one flag this for blatant insensitivity? Yeesh.

The original TWILIGHT was just shy of 500 pages. MIDNIGHT SUN is 675 pages. Six! Hundred! Seventy! Five! How does a story that was overlong at 500 pages stretch almost 200 MORE pages, you ask? Easy, when you commit to narrating every scene in painstakingly slow detail. The infamous baseball game you remember? It takes nearly fifty pages for it to unfold in Edward’s slow, tedious narration. At one point, when Ed & Co. are trying to throw James off Bella’s scent, Edward starts articulating individual footsteps. It’s... stunning, how god-awful boring this book is. 

Dear Reader, you know -- have always known -- that Edward is an obsessive sociopath with stalker tendencies and a serious control problem. Your conscious mind has elected to allay your concerns about the health of Bella and Edward’s relationship because it’s fun to watch two kids being dramatic and self-centered, yearning for each other with the kind of intensity that only comes with the blinders of young love. Dear Reader, you will STRUGGLE to maintain this elan for toxicity if you read MIDNIGHT SUN. Edward’s murder-fantasies, which extend to all the kids in Bella’s science class and later, to the school secretary too busy salivating over a child to recognize how unhinged he is, are difficult to stomach. The constant litany of “it hurts but I like it” is incredibly off-putting and, again, boring as dry toast. 

I can’t keep going. It was just so, so bad. It wasn’t fun or nostalgic or even funny. Just pathetic. I know this was a cash-cow slam-dunk for Meyer and her publisher, which is all the proof we’ll ever need that money is the root of all evil. Rarely have I ever felt this way but here it is: I wish this book didn’t exist. Don’t buy it. 

The Poet X (Elizabeth Acevedo), eBook. I admit, I started THE POET X months and months ago, and had 50 pages to finish that I just didn’t get to until this week. I was floundering after M*dnight S*n, and knew the only remedy short of bona fide brain bleach would be an infusion of thoughtful, beautiful, elegant language. Finishing this novel-in-verse started the process of reviving my faith in the written word. Acevedo never trades pathos for angst, and allows Xiomara’s complex emotions and experiences to shine with subtlety and heart. THE POET X occupies that top-tier of novels-in-verse that, for me, has since been limited to BLOOD WATER PAINT (Joy McCullough).

These Ghosts are Family (Maisy Card), aBook narrated by Karl O’Brian Williams. I love a multi-generational narrative, especially when a well-earned comp to one of my favorite novels, HOMEGOING (Gyasi), indicates a globe-spanning, culturally complex, deeply human story that hinges around one decision that ripples through time and space. When Abel Paisley assumes his dead friend’s identity, the consequences of his choice reverberate through the family he left behind in Jamaica and the one(s) he forms in New York. With Abel’s life fast coming to an end, his desire for closure brings the truth of his deception to light, and that decision, too, has far-reaching consequences. This is a beautiful debut from Card, and the narration from Williams is exemplary. If you read and adored ALL ADULTS HERE (Emma Straub), dive into THESE GHOSTS ARE FAMILY for an even more poignant family portrait that still capitalizes on a strongly-braided narrative and multiple POVs.

Migrations (Charlotte McConaghy), eBook. If M*dnight S*n is the worst book 2020 has to offer (and it is!), MIGRATIONS is undeniably the finest. I’m calling it right here: This is the best book you’ll read this year, full stop. As of this writing, on Monday morning, I’ve already gifted MIGRATIONS twice -- and I only started reading it on Saturday night. That’s how quickly it drew me in and wove itself around my heart. 

Franny Lynch is on a mission to follow the last of the world’s Arctic terns on their epic annual migration. For all that she’s following the birds, Franny is also running from her past, and speeding toward her own planned end. In a narrative that moves through time as fluidly as a dorsal fin cutting through the water, McConaghy slips in and out of the present to multiple eras of the past -- each as compelling as the next. How Franny came to be on her mission is a story of love and passion and wandering and heartbreak, and how a girl who has always belonged to the sea manages to make her way through the world on land. Like STATION ELEVEN (Emily St John Mandel), MIGRATIONS paints into being a future that is eerily possible and terrifyingly probable, but never sacrifices the propulsive character study at the center of the work in favor of grand-standing about issues. And the language... oh my soul, the language. I was spoiled for choice when it comes to excerpts, but here’s one that slayed me in Act III:

“And I am done with the universe between us. It is so perilous, this love, but he’s right, and I will have no cowardice in my life, not anymore, and I will be no small thing, and I will have no small life, and so I find his mouth with mine and we are awake at last, returned to a land long abandoned, the land of each other’s bodies.” (275)

Give yourself the gift of this novel, and then give the gift of this novel to someone you care about. Then find me on Twitter so we can talk endlessly about how wonderful it is.

Okay, on the docket this week:

The Ten Thousand Doors of January (Alix Harrow)

Sweet Sorrow (David Nicholls)

The Garden of Small Beginnings (Abbi Waxman)

Perfect Little World (Kevin Wilson)

The Vanishing Half (Brit Bennett)