#and then i think about how its obvious sparrow learned from his mistakes and is actively working to be better

[kaseyskat]

sharing this here too! because i am still ~on my bullshit~

[promethes]

dumping the horrendous unconventional short story I wrote for my midterm under the cut to get it off my mind bc I do not like it.

ENTRY 1

I think I will make my life’s motif a bird. It shouldn’t be too hard. They’re everywhere and pop out at the most opportune moments. I’ll find a way to tie them in.

ENTRY 2

Stood in line for way too long at the cafe. Can you believe the girl in front of me didn’t even look up to plan her order until she was physically at the front of the line? I knew what I wanted to order before I even stepped foot into the place. They need to change that. I’m on the lookout for some kind of online suggestion box to submit to since they decided to forgo an in-house one for some God forsaken reason. There’s not a lick of common sense in anyone these days. Saw a robin on my way out and flicked it a sesame seed from my bagel.

ENTRY 3

Would you listen to this garbage? They’re planning on tearing down my favorite bowling alley. “Didn’t pass inspection” my ass. It’s an important cultural landmark of our city and I’m marching down to the mayor to set him straight. I can’t stage important life moments around the cardinal themed bowling alley if there is no bowling alley to have a cardinal theme!

ENTRY 4

Mom’s in the hospital. Driving over now, she said it has something to do with her cholesterol. It either spiked or dropped real low, but I can’t be sure. Either way, she’s in the hospital. I don’t know why she chose the one that’s so far away though. The vending machines in the other one have way better stock.

ENTRY 5

Forgot to say. I didn’t run over any birds on the way there.

ENTRY 6

I don’t think I’m spiraling yet but I’m close to it. Mom’s fine, she’s just staying overnight in case anything acts up again. I, on the other hand, am NOT. Car won’t start and I’ve been sitting here in the parking lot for almost four hours now. Embarrassed beyond belief. A weird old man with a huge shiny truck offered to help and he’s been good on his word lending me his car to jump-start mine, but his bumper stickers make me nervous. His truck has custom lettering too. I’m a big guy, so not too worried, but a little concerned. 

Anyway, it didn’t work and I’m calling a tow truck now. I tried to thank the guy and offered to buy him coffee, but he just said “No way, Jose” which was weird. He smacked the top of my car before he left and said I need to “dress this little lady up.” Maybe I’ll get a sparrow bumper sticker online. Everything’s online these days.

ENTRY 7

Starting to rethink the bird motif thing. Not much goes on in my life anyway, and there’s only so much material I can get out of waking up early to chirping. Maybe I should aim lower. I could choose a color instead. Red would be a cop-out, it’s too obvious. Blood! I need something that’s at least a little challenging. We’ll see. I’ll sleep on it.

ENTRY 8

GREAT NEWS! Sister got a BIRD. A real-life living breathing chirping flying bird. It’s a sign and I’m not going to ignore it. My life’s motif is a bird and it’s not going to be one of those unbearably hidden motifs from English class required readings either.

(Although I did like some of them. That spoon in Middlesex…… I want my bird to be his spoon. To take up space in an almost eerie way. I’ll find a way to make it work.)

ENTRY 9

Laying the groundwork. These things don’t come easy, so I’m sowing the seeds (birds do that, right?) Told everyone at work that my great great great grandfather’s name was Starling. Drilled up a lot of curious questions and I even got to know some of the people I always just miss talking to. They were all VERY interested. Tomorrow I’ll bring in a picture of an actual starling. I don’t think Andrew quite knows that it’s a kind of bird.

ENTRY 10

Don’t remember the name my sister chose and I couldn’t remember if I tried even if I squeezed my eyes shut before blinking really fast like I usually do because this bird (Polly I’m going to call it Polly because an annoying bird deserves an annoying name) is so incessantly annoyingly unbearably loud. I can’t believe this thing is my sign.

My sign is chirping me into the basement and into a frenzy. At least I have my old sleeping bag handy until I can figure out how to shut it up. Why must my motif be so unbearably annoying?

ENTRY 11

Update on the car: starter wires snapped. Haven’t seen any birds around lately (except for a crow but I hate crows and I won’t be counting them) so I was hopeful and asked the mechanic if there’s any chance a bird could’ve pecked at the wires until they got so worn down that they snapped in the hospital parking lot.

He looked at me like I was crazy. I know that was what the look meant because he said, “Are you f****ing crazy man? The wires are deep in your car under the hood.” (I’m censoring the language. I don’t want language taking away from my story. If this is to be read in a future child’s English class to teach a lesson about motifs, I can’t be including foul language.)

I’m not f***ing crazy but I am extremely ticked off. Does he not realize how little birds come out in the cold weather? I need whatever I can get.

I’ll just tell people a bird got stuck under the hood of my car. I’ll change this entry later. Mechanic man doesn’t deserve a spot in a child’s English class; he didn’t even have the decency to watch his language for them.

ENTRY 12

People at work are finally starting to catch on! Got called “bird guy” by Kathleen (Catherine? Kristy? Whatever.) when she saw my shirt. I knew it’d be a good move when I saw it on sale at Walmart. I’m thinking of making the cover of my book Hawaiian print, but I’ll tell my future publisher I’m not married to the idea. Can’t be too picky on my first book! I’ll leave that for the second.

ENTRY 13

I will enjoy my day today I will enjoy my day today I will enjoy my day. Sister needs to get control of Polly. I’ve moved down my whole mattress now. I will enjoy my day I will enjoy my day I will enjoy 

ENTRY 14

Can’t believe I overlooked eagles and hawks. Of course sparrows and starlings weren’t doing the trick! Classic oversight, focusing too much on the mundane. I won’t be making that mistake. I blame it all on that incessant chirping. Mom says it’s not too bad but I’m fairly certain that cholesterol has gotten to her ears. She must be going deaf. She’s lucky she’s ill or else I’d be very extremely sore at her for making that face at me. I know it’s a bad face because it’s the same face that f***ing mechanic made and I don’t think he’s ever made a good face in his life so if my mom made that same face then I really don’t like that. She gets a pass for the cholesterol. 

ENTRY 15

I feel amazing. Bought an eagle bumper sticker at a roadside gas station and after a few strategic snips, it’ll be ready to go on the car. I’m dressing this little lady up! The red, white, and blue has got to go first though. Decided a while ago not to let colors mess with my motif, and I’m not going to slip up on that again! Snip snip.

I’m considering this a debt paid. Dressed the little lady up. Two birds, one stone! I’m making that my new catchphrase.

ENTRY 16

Should I make this a love story? I’m thinking about making it a romance. Doves are right there, really just waiting for me to weave them in. On the other hand, I don’t think that’d work to create much of a conducive learning environment for the kids. I think I’ll stick to a Mark Twain type story instead. 

Reread the beginning and don’t think it’s working. I’ll be cutting all that out. I spoke too much about mom’s cholesterol. Too many side characters and not enough focus. Where was I going with this again? 

ENTRY 17

Writer’s block. It’s ok, I still had that major breakthrough with the hawk/eagle thought. Put in my two weeks to dedicate all my time. I’ve found a bird-watching site that I hope will bring me more peace than f***ing Polly.

ENTRY 18

These birds are really working to stay in my New York Times best-selling children’s novel. Knew this would be a challenge, but they really do never stop conversing. If only they could read, I’d write them a best-selling manual on the best ways to speak inwards rather than outwards. Chirp chirp chirp needs to turn into ______ ________ ________.

ENTRY 19

Sister’s going to be f***ing pissed but it was the only thing to do.

ENTRY 20

Honestly, it was just a bird! If it was really part of our family, you’d think that I’d know its name by now.

ENTRY 21

I said that Polly’s in a better place now, but set her off with the “Polly”. Maybe this was a mistake. She said I “begged” her to get the bird but she shouldn’t say that when she’s the one reacting like this.

ENTRY 22

Books should come with suggestion boxes. No more birds. Story’s six feet under just like Gladys. See, I can finally remember it now that I can hear myself think. 

[flourchildwrites]

Be Somebody

Picture Prompt Day 5 of @royaiweek 2019

Read Full Text on AO3 / FFN

Length:  1,633 words

Rated:  T

Status:  Complete

Summary:  "How am I ever supposed to be somebody if I don't have something special to set me apart?”

“You already are somebody,” she answered. The corners of her eyes crinkled, matching her small, withered grin. “You’re a good person and the best student he’s ever had. You’ll be a great alchemist someday if that’s what you want. I believe it.”

The young girl on the cusp of womanhood was enthralled, drawn to him by the same peculiar magnetism first felt when she was nine to his eleven. Five years later, at the age of fourteen, she thought she was old enough to know she loved him.

Special thanks to @ruikosakuragi for the much-needed encouragement. 

A boy of sixteen tore down the dirt road.  With lanky limbs and a bag slung across his body, he ran, kicking up dust as his feet pounded against the packed earth.  His breath came hard and ragged against the dry heat of the Eastern countryside, and the heavy breathing in the boy's mind was a sickening countermelody opposite his rapidly beating heart.  The scene set itself precariously against the waning light where the parched land met the isolated country backdrop.

But he wasn’t alone.

She chased behind him, quick and silent like a spry sparrow, unflinching as her sweater twisted loosely around her body and her skirt ruffled in the wind.  The girl’s rich amber eyes were alight. Her feet followed light and swift in her counterpart’s footsteps. He was angry, but she was fast and determined to catch him before he went too far.

His safety net.  Their safety net.  One half of a matching set.

This wasn’t the first time her father’s apprentice had lashed out.  Understanding the men in her life as best she could, the young woman suspected it wouldn’t be the last.

“Stop following me, Hawkeye!” he panted.  The boy's lungs protested against his exertions.  As if his body didn’t know the rigors of farm chores.  As if city life had soaked into his soul.

“Then stop running,” she stated calmly, barely phased by the sprint.  The lean muscles of her lithe body hid untapped reserves of strength.

Still, the boy surged forward but faltered, stumbling on a pebble in his path.  Scrawny legs tangled in a jumbled mess, and the boy kicked at nothing to stir up dust.  He ran a hand through his unkempt hair and turned, silhouetted against the harsh horizon.

“He’s never going to teach me,” he raged, a note of defeat evident in his pitchy voice.  “That old man will take flame alchemy to his grave!”

The girl’s head tilted as she also came to a stop, and her thin lips stretched into a familiar smirk.  She only looked like that when he knew she was right.

And she was always right.  He knew it, even if he was years from admitting it.

“He does teach you.  Every day. All day sometimes.  Just not flame alchemy.”

“Stupid fundamentals,” he spat, throwing his bag to the ground.  Out spilled rumpled clothes and haphazard notes that caught the breeze and blew down the dirt road.  “Stupid theory. I didn’t come here to learn the easy stuff. How am I ever supposed to be somebody if I don't have something special to set me apart?”

“You already are somebody,” she answered.  The corners of her eyes crinkled, matching her small, withered grin.  “You’re a good person and the best student he’s ever had. You’ll be a great alchemist someday if that’s what you want.  I believe it.”

He smiled in spite of himself.  So predictable. On this account, he’d do his damnedest to prove her right.

“You are special.  To me, at least. Because you’re my friend.  So, please don’t leave just yet.”

He started to say that he hadn’t been serious about leaving.  That he knew what it was like for her at school, and he remembered the promises they made.  When finally the young apprentice kicked the dust of this small town off his hand-me-down boots, Hawkeye would go with him.  Someday, they’d both be somebody. More than legacies. More than the names they were given - as well as the ones they weren’t.

With or without flame alchemy.

His demeanor shifted suddenly, and the dwindling sunlight softened around his features, catching the light ends of his hair.  He flashed her a cockeyed smile that was as awkward as it was disarming. The young girl on the cusp of womanhood was enthralled, drawn to him by the same peculiar magnetism first felt when she was nine to his eleven.  Five years later, at the age of fourteen, she thought she was old enough to know she loved him.

“You know I won’t go.  Not unless you are ready to leave.”

Maybe, he felt the same.

She reached for his hand, and their fingers intertwined.  Threads of fate wound round and round. Their strings were stained with an alchemist’s chalk and a markswoman’s gunpowder.

“Wait for me just a little while longer?” she asked coyly.

Her eyes darted back to the three-story house, whitewashed and encrusted in green tendrils of ivy.  A small figure crouched near the open window of the sitting room, and though her mother’s sharp eyes were hidden under the wide brim of a gardening hat, Mae didn’t dare push her luck.  Smart like her father, but wise like her mother, the raven-haired beauty simply squeezed Yuriy’s hand.

Life at Hawkeye Manor was a master class in nonverbal communication.  They didn’t need words. He would wait, and when the time was right, Yuriy Elric and Mae Hawkeye would put the past behind them, together.

...

The tools of her profession had changed - again, and it was all because of him.  From garden tools and overalls to sniper rifles and salutes.  Then, back again. Her life had come full circle, resting in the precise location where it had begun, but the garden was prettier now.  That was no surprise as it was tended by wrinkled hands that had traded wisdom for the succor of youth.

And yet, in his opinion, she was radiant.  Her flaxen hair had grown dusty, stained by starlight and sun.  The deep lines under her amber eyes were likewise weatherworn, having borne the burden of many exceptional sights, good and bad alike.

Life had changed her, but Riza Hawkeye was as constant as the northern star.  Eternal reassurance. Indispensable guidance. Ever watchful.

“Hey, you.”

He chuckled as she turned to greet him with her pruning shears at the ready.  Even after all these years together, it was difficult to catch her off-guard. She had always filled the shoes laid out before her and trudged through each walk of life by his side.  Friend. Lover. Sniper. Subordinate. Outcast.

And, quite unexpectedly, parent.  

She knew the sound of his footsteps and the cadence of his breath better than her own heartbeat.

“Thought I might have chased Yuriy off this time,” the man mused.  He reflexively rubbed his fingers together as he spoke and grinned wryly as if he could still feel the flinty material of his ignition gloves.  It would be illegal for the convicted war criminal and disgraced ex-führer to possess such a thing, naturally. But, ever wary, his keeper stashed a pair or two away for a not-so-rainy day.  Just in case. “I must be losing my touch.”

“If you wanted Yuriy gone, he wouldn’t be here,” she shot back.  “But you like him, Roy, and you like butting heads with him just as much as you enjoyed bickering with his father.  Three peas in a pod.” She plucked a stray weed from her flowerbed and tossed it aside.

The smirk on his face was practically criminal.  “And what a trio we make. A petulant apprentice who knows nothing of life.  The child prodigy who can no longer perform and me, a fallen star, ostracized from all respectable circles of alchemical practice.”

He scoffed and scratched at the salt and pepper scruff on his chin.  “I’ll never know why Fullmetal asked me to teach his son.”

“Isn’t the reason obvious?”

“Yes, I suppose Alphonse was too busy,” he offered humorously.

She rose, then, turning her hands to dust the earth from her digits.  Never one for gloves, she was used to getting her hands dirty.  As was he.

“They’re so alike,” the woman observed.  “Yuriy and Ed, I mean. Yuriy’s just the kind of boy who might rebel against his father and get in trouble while stubbornly pursuing his goals.  Sound familiar?”

The man’s rueful smile matched his partner’s knowing expression, and the woman took a moment to consider their journey’s end - such as it was.  His rise had been meteoric, and his fall seemed just as glamorous from the outside looking in. Theirs was a cautionary tale authored equally by destiny and decision.  Yet, the ending still hung in the balance courtesy of a happy accident: their daughter, Mae - a girl who would do well in life if they all continued to play their parts.

“Then I’ll continue to be the bad guy,” the man said, shrugging his shoulders.  He took the woman’s hand and stared down the dusty road, replaying old memories in his mind’s eye.  A girl chased a boy as he bounded hopefully toward the horizon, longing desperately for a future that turned out to be fool’s gold.

“Maybe he won’t make the same mistakes I did.  Not today at least.”

The woman nodded in agreement as she watched the boy and girl stroll toward Hawkeye Manor, hand in hand.  “Yuriy will make different mistakes and so will Mae, but I think they’ll make them together.”

And though the implication remained unspoken, the sentiment hung heavily between the older couple.  This storied place, an isolated manor situated on the outskirts of a one road town, was simultaneously a safe harbor for tired exiles and a lockup for young dreamers.  It was a vacuum where history could repeat itself. Yet, this time, ambition took a backseat to something short of the fame and fortune that young Roy Mustang had coveted.

Position.  Prominence.   Title.   He now knew these things to be hollow placeholders.  Names and roles were transient, shifting capriciously with time like the parts of a popular play.  Hero to villain.  Apprentice to master.  Orphan to father.  But in this moment, there was love in all its forms, and with love, surely they would all be somebody to someone.

The man smiled.  “That’s all that really matters.”

A/N:   I know; I'm sorry. It's been a minute. I'm still on hiatus for several very good reasons, but I couldn't let this favorite week of mine pass without paying homage to the temple of all things Royai. I look forward to reading and reviewing all the offerings when I get my shit together.  All likes, reblogs, kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks and comments are greatly appreciated, especially during times like these.  I especially love reading the tags!

[magistershmagister]

The air is frosty and biting when Adrian makes his way into the Tiber Septim Inn. He was traveling from the Market district to his home in the Temple district and had taken a wrong turn in Green Emporer’s Way, placing him in the Talos Plaza. The lights coming from the Inn took a soft golden hue, promising warmth, and if the raucous voices inside were any indication, the drink was good and the patrons lively. He caught a faint whif of fresh bread and made his mind up to stop there, if only for one drink. He could berate himself in the morning.

The minute he enters he is bombarded by cacophonous voices and heat coming from not only the fireplace lit on the far side of the room, but also the bodies packed in as tightly as a bundle of milk thistle in an alchemist’s satchel. Mud caked boots stomp all over freshly polished floor boards, and amber liquid sloshes out of many a mug; making the night look like a lively time indeed.

It is in this crowded tavern that he first sees her. She is beautiful; her fingers are lithe and graceful and her voice is lilting and melodic, breaching hypnotizing. Most of all, he cannot look away from her hair, which is a color he can scarce describe.

He somehow finds his way to the bar despite not looking away from her for even a moment, and leans over the counter to whisper to the barkeep, “Who is that woman? Is she your bard? I’ve never seen her here before.” Not that he often allowed himself to indulge in the drink.

The barkeep doesn’t look up from the mug she’s wiping down as she responds, “Who, Síf? She’s the daughter of some friends of mine over in Skingraad. Been traveling around Cyrodiil selling her voice before she heads home and settles down. We’re her last stop.”

“Her last stop you say?” He murmurs, a frown finding its way onto his face.

“Looks like I have some work to do. How about more ale before I head over eh, Ysolde? Liquid courage they call it.”

Ysolde laughs, her Nordic roots making an appearance as her booming voice fills the air around her with mirth.

“Aye Adrian, I’ll sell you that ale, but no honeyed words from a drunk man are going to sweeten stubborn Síf’s pot. A good lass with standards that one is.”

He pays no attention, only slides his septims across the table and accepts his ale almost absentmindedly. All of his attention is focused on Síf and the way her fingers move as she strums her lute.

And if you could have seen her there

Boys if you’d have just been there

The swan, was in her movement and the mornin’ in her smile

All the roses, in the garden

Would bow and ask her pardon

For not one, could match the beauty of

The queen of all Elsweyr.

It was a song he’d heard before, a popular ode to Euraxia Tharn, queen of the city of Rimmen. But never before had the song entranced him such as it did now.

Eventually, when the patrons of the Inn grew too drunk to stay awake and the strain in Síf’s voice became evident, people began to meander back to their homes and discontented wives.

Adrian stayed seated at the bar and nursed his drink, all while watching the bard pack her instruments tenderly into their cases. Through the night he had begun to notice other unusual things about her, though none of them struck him as odd enough to deter his interest.

She had freckles, quite a few. It was, quite frankly, the first time he’d seen so many freckles on one person’s face. He also noted they did not take away from her beauty at all. In fact, they might have made her that much more striking.

Her eyes did not match. One was the Forrest green he was accustomed to seeing on red heads, and the other was a murky brown that reminded him much of the Nibenay River. Her eyelashes were thick and just as red as her hair.

She was by far the smallest nord woman he’d ever seen. Perhaps small wasn’t the right word. She was still thick, her shoulders were at least as wide as her hips, and she was lightly muscled as most nord women are. No, she wasn’t small, but incredibly short. She stood at least a foot or so below him, at 5’0 even he’d estimate. As an Imperial he was quite used to Nordic women matching him in height if not surpassing him.

When he saw she was ready to retire to her room, he forced his anxiety to the bottom of his gut and made his way to to stand in front of her, fearing that an approach from behind would startle her - women had to be careful these days.

“A fine voice you have there. Where does a girl learn to sing like that?” he started cheerily.

Despite her obvious exhaustion, her smile reached her weary eyes, making his heart pump faster. He forced down the instinct to grab at his chest in fear that she could somehow hear it.

“I appreciate that you think so. My pa used to take me on walks in the mornings and ask me to sing back to the sparrows that chirped in the trees,” she answered, her smile turning to one of melancholy.

“A song in the morning leads to traveling the land with nought but a lute on your back?” Adrian inquired.

She laughs. Adrian happens to think it sounds just like a song bird.

“Aye, I suppose it does. If you’ll excuse me now good sir, I’ve got to rest this voice if I’m to earn tomorrow’s supper.” She moves to excuse herself but Adrian side steps. As soon as her eyes meet his, he knows this was a mistake. There’s a question in her mismatched eyes. Do you know where this path leads? They ask. He swallows nervously.

“Wait! Ah, that is- um, my name is Adrian. Adrian Draconis. And I was wondering if perhaps I could see you tomorrow?” He takes a small step away from her as he speaks, willing her to see he is no threat.

Her posture relaxes and she smiles wryly. “Sure,” she says, and his heart leaps into his throat, “I’ll be playing here every night for the next month. Feel free to stop by the Inn.” And with that, she turns and makes her way to the second floor.

Adrian releases a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. Vaguely, he can hear Ysolde’s thunderous laughter in the background.

“That wasn’t naivety just so you know, my boy! That was a rejection.”

He composes himself quickly and turned himself to keep from staring after her.

“As I’m sure you’ve heard, I’m a persistent man. You don’t succeed in a business like mine, with all the competition, if you can’t play the long game. One month is more time than I need.” With that, he left the Inn, Ysolde’s laughter still echoing behind him.

[aion-rsa]

The Good Lord Bird Episode 2 Review: The Wicked Plot

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

This The Good Lord Bird review contains spoilers.

The Good Lord Bird Episode 2

During several moments of tonight’s The Good Lord Bird, my mind was whisked back to thoughts of My Fair Lady—or at least George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion. In those texts, two confirmed old bachelors in Edwardian England think it is their privilege, if not duty, to remake a poor flower girl into their perfect image. It’s a tale of possessive manipulation and outright obliviousness. And it’s given a distinctly American flavor in the first few hours of Ethan Hawke’s Good Lord Bird.

Like those earlier plays, here is a story where privileged white men, even well-intentioned Old John Brown, think it their right to remake Onion into the type of lady they see fit, all too blind by even their rosy colored racism to ask “her” opinion, or realize that she’s actually a boy. The element was pervasive last week when Onion was under Brown’s alleged care, and it’s even more apparent this week when he is absent from it. For like Eliza Doolittle, Onion can only realize a sense of self without the overbearing male presence in “her” life. But the problem is that as soon as John’s gone, another white man seeks to take his place for even more racially uncomfortable implications.

Thus how we meet Steve Zahn’s Chase. Played by the ever welcome character actor, Zahn brings his typical good humor to this redshirted Kansas shit-kicker. However, there’s an obvious menace when he prances into the episode riding a pony with a leering gaze at the self-claimed mulatto young woman by Bob’s side.

See, when the Brown boys left them alone, Bob had the clarity of mind to try to high tail it to Lawrence where they might be treated as actually free, as opposed to indentured appendages to John Brown’s overinflated sense of virtue. As Bob deduces, Brown’s sons are on “white man’s business,” and it won’t directly benefit these two Black men’s well-being. Unfortunately, the dress draws the scuzzy attention of Chase, a man who proudly will wear the uniform of Pro-Slavery Bushwhacker, even if I doubt he’s ever actually fought their battles. After all, his biggest boasted accomplishments are lies about having gunned down Old John Brown.

Yet despite being a proponent of slavery, or perhaps because of it, he lusts for Onion as another lighter skinned, apparent young woman he can immediately slide into the physical ownership of. She presents herself as another’s property, but Black women’s bodies are viewed as virgin territory for many a white racist to claim.

Chase attempts this, even as he spins tales to Onion about how he also one day might marry the Black prostitute with a supposed heart of gold named Pie. A white racist—or almost any 19th century white American, really—marrying a Woman of Color is as dishonest as the picture Chase paints of Pie.

Played intelligently by Natasha Marc as the sweet mistress of Pikesville, Pie is a Black woman who has survived as well as she has in part because of luck of her beauty and also because of her utilitarian cunning. Literally named after her sexual appeal in the small town, Pie understands how white men view her and she uses that against them—and those she deems untrustworthy around her.

When we first meet her, it’s in a vignette of The Good Lord Bird’s unique blend of folksy and deconstructive humor. There is an irony to Jacob, the real lad beneath Onion’s bonnet, being forced to apprentice at a brothel with the first woman he fancies. But there’s also a knowing eye roll that Pie is the first person to figure out inside of five minutes with Onion that she is not what she appears. Pie seems to take Onion under her wing in return for tutelage—all the better for him since, as she points out, white devils like Chase would castrate him before a lynching due to his lying about his gender, and thereby seeing white women in various states of undress, as well as white men as fools. But as Pie’s first inclination was betrayal, Onion’s initial smittenness, and our amusement at the comedy of manners unspooling inside that brothel, shouldn’t blind any to what was really going on.

Last week Onion was asked to figure out how to survive in a precarious situation by going along with white people and playing whatever role they imagined for him; this week among other People of Color, and slaves at that, Onion is asked to find his own voice and be more forthright in the choices he makes.

As just a child, he understandably fails miserably when he’s asked to use his letter-writing ability to help Sibonia (Crystal Lee Brown), a slave itching to start a revolution; it also brings him to unthinkingly reveal her planning to Pie, who in turn sells Sibonia out to the white clients of Pikesville. And why not? From her vantage, Pie can continue to use the nominal power her namesake provides her to live in a boudoir, as opposed to a cage outside. But it is also condemning others to be free.

The ambiguity The Good Lord Bird so comfortably flirts with is refreshing in the age of black and white morality in our television and pop culture. While the morality of slavery is urgently black and white, which is to say good and evil, the decisions and inner-motivations of individuals is messy, sometimes contradictory, and often ruefully shortsighted. The murkiness of human nature cannot be reduced to a tweet, a third act good deed, or in the case of Onion one naively bad mistake.

In the best scene of the episode, Sibonia is interrogated by the local judge who offers his jurisprudence by threatening to have her teeth pulled out one by one if she doesn’t implicate more names than the already nine Black faces they’ve gathered up for the slaughter. Brown’s acting against that malevolence is good, but what she brings next to the local milquetoast preacher (Alex Sharp), who asks why she would raise a hand against him and his wife when they were so good to her, is extraordinary.

Her delivery of Sibonia’s cold assessment that she’d kill Sharp’s minister first, if for no other reason than to encourage others to be merciless with far more explicitly cruel members of this Pro-slavery community, is poignant and, if from my own white vantage, initially unsettling. But it can’t be judged; not when the good minister acknowledges the wickedness of slavery, if only tacitly, yet sits by in a community that would sell her husband and children, one by one, and would see her hanged for wanting to be free. The ambiguity in her choices, perhaps even a little bit like Old John Brown’s, do not have an easy moral reading. But they ring true when she asserts, “Sometimes a sparrow got to fly wild for it to be set free.”

In this context, Onion learns some hard lessons the way Huck Finn might’ve when he came across the feuding Grangerfords and Shepardsons. In the previous episode, I worried we didn’t really get to know Onion, just what he’d do to survive. This week we met the boy, who still is forced to play the games of white folk like Chase, but also as the even less surefooted lad who might know his letters, but not how to be honest with Black folks who want to use them. His indecisiveness leads to Pie having the ability to betray Sibonia; but also gives him the temperament to go back and save Bob when the shooting starts.

The actual climax of the episode is arguably when Sibonia and her failed conspirators are hanged. The scene certainly pauses long enough for Onion to consider all the faces around him, those laughing and jeering, and those maybe guilty or regretful, like weak mealy-mouthed Chase. But the ones that matter are those up on the gallows with their leader, about to follow her up one last hill.

It makes the actual denouement where Ethan Hawke’s swaggering John Brown finally returns to the screen guns-blazing oh, so satisfying. Like an immense wave of giddy relief, we have Hawke’s sweltering performance once again take center stage. It was the highlight of last week, but its absence gave needed dimensionality to Onion, and depth to The Good Lord Bird. So its late return at the eleventh hour plays almost like a just dessert: Here’s wacky and wild Hawke stopping to interrogate Onion on whether she’s been violated, or sold her virginity to a devil of a man.

How happy it is to hear him debate scripture while firing off bullets, and driving even a coward like Chase crazy enough to run headlong into Old John Brown’s cannon.

“In that moment, just like the rest of the country, Chase was the body in half,” muses Onion’s devastating voiceover narration. That it was, Onion. That it was. And that type of precise use of sardonic dialogue and line-delivery, as well as the grace of looking beneath America’s Better Angels in this crazy moment in history, is what made “The Wicked Plot” a wicked delight.

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[paintedimagining]

Top 10 favourite characters 

Thank you so much to @whimsicalseasonal for tagging me!

Rules: List ten of your favorite people from ten different fandoms and then tag ten people! 

1. d'Artagnan- The Musketeers: Yeah, no that was an obvious choice right? But look at this adorable little badass. He wears his heart on his sleeve and isn’t afraid to show his emotions and he’ll end you if you so much a think wrongly of his wife, but he has a tender heart. He’s a total badass but not your usual a-typical macho or one dimensional or an infallible Disney Prince™ .  He can be immature and ruthless and spiteful and hotheaded, but he learns and he grows and he loves fiercely. Plus he’s a total puppy and a dorky charmer and insecure all in one.

2. Thor Odinson- MCU: and not just because of those many pretty pretty half-nakey scenes. But because he is biggest, strongest, most intelligent of them all, yet he’s still a humble puppy, and is nearly always trying to broker for peace. Well done on your character arc sir.

3. Eowyn- LOTR (Books/Movies): I honestly don’t know what I can say to express how much I love Eowyn. She became and instant favourite when I read the books. She’s a badass, and a sword-wielding Macbeth-esque wraith killing badass, but its her silent forbearance and support over the long the years caring for her enchanted Uncle that really shows off her strength and fortitude. 

4. Captain Edward Pellew - Hornblower (Book/TV Series): The original Captain Dad. My favourite thing is that at the end of nearly every episode he’s like: ‘You just fucked everything up you little shit….but it was freaking awesome.’ lol Oh and you can’t forget that one episode were he practically said he loved Horatio (Hornblower) like a son actually out loud- I quote: “It is very hard for a father to watch his children grown up” I mean COME ON NOW, and of course Horatio didn’t get it.  Or how many times he smirks with shameless smug pride at something his adopted problematic navy duckling has done to piss off the Admiralty YET AGAIN. Plus, he’s total snarky sass-master. 

5. Evelyn Carnahan O’Connell- The Mummy 1&2 (we don’t speak of the travesty that was 3): Probably one of my first female role-models.  Plus I was totally obsessed with Egyptology at the time this move came out, so you know…but she’s a badass yet doesn’t have to compromise her femininity or her intelligence. She saves the world through books and cunning.

6. Lizzy Bennet- Pride and Prejudice (book/movie): Who doesn’t love Lizzy Bennet? Feisty and independent, witty and stubborn and wants more than just to be married to some respectable man of good fortune that she hates.  She’s a total sassy missy, but isn’t perfect and shown to so with her prejudiced opinions and all too quick judgements.  She makes mistakes but learns from them. 

7: Scarlet O’Hara- Gone with the Wind (Book/Movie): Not gonna lie she is a total and uncompromising Queen Bitch and she’s more of an anti-heroine than a heroine, being as she is vicious and selfish and spiteful, vindictive, cunning and conniving, and cruel etc and yet she’s so inspiring. Yes, she’s an utter bitch, but she is one exceptionally strong woman and if she wasn’t that sort, she and her family would not have survived the war.  She doesn’t care what anyone else thinks about her, is fiercely independent, uses her charm and beauty, and goes out and gets what she wants and never backs down and does whatever she has to do survive.  She’ll steal her sisters fiances and marry one out of spite and to get into the family of the man she's in love with who's marrying someone else, and then one for money sure, but she’ll know how to put that money to better use to save them all from destitution and even raise their fortunes.  She’s amazing really and a survivor, and proof of what any woman can actually accomplish if they have that ‘fuck you I do want I want’ attitude and a perfect (literal) murder face. 

8: Jack Sparrow- Pirates of the Caribbean: Come on who doesn’t love Cpt’ Jack? Need I say more?

9: ‘Doc’ (Eugene) Roe- Band of Brothers: My precious Cajun baby. He volunteered to join the army and was assigned as a medic even though he had no medical experience. He’s a badass racing out into hail of bullets to save lives, (the real ‘Doc’ Roe if you read the book was even more of a hero and a total dork- there was one story about the medics practising their training in the US and they anaesthetised their much hated Captain Sobel and actually cut into him in a mock appendix operation just for laughs) and he is the only one would can actually yell and tell off his superior officers without getting his arse courtmarshalled. What he goes through is harrowing, and through him you see the cost of this war and the effects on the men, including himself in the episode focuses that on him, highlighting ptsd and the true horror of war.

10. Jamie & Claire Fraser (shhhhh they come as a pair)- Outlander (books/series): I don’t know even where to begin with how much I love these two. They are the epitome of *relationship goals* and the most epically badass power couple to ever epic. They are soulmates who love and support each  other so fiercely. She’s a badass from the future who accidentally travels back in time to the 1700′s, and he’s an 18th century feminist that just LOVES HIS WIFE SO MUCH OMFG and not your a-typical macho hero. I mean don’t get me wrong he is macho- but he’s also a giant freaking puppy omg and so much more than just your usual hero sort…I mean the guy keeps tracks of his wife’s periods in the middle of a bloody war…he’s too precious 

I tag @hacash @neon-green-bra @iamanathemadevice @i-own-loki @cowboyaddie @silvertyger and anyone else that want to do it