#bastille day is coming up........maybe we should like........storm some things............ | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dfcfanfics · 4 years

Text

The Day of Revelation (Miraculous Prompt of the Day)

“This is insane. What could have HAPPENED to her?”

Tom Dupain put his arm around his sobbing wife, doing his best to sound at all convincing. “Sabine,” he murmured, “we cannot think the worst about this situation. There are many, many explanations for where Marinette has disappeared to that aren’t disastrous, are there not?” Sighing, he added, “And when she returns, she had better have a fine one ready.”

When she didn’t answer, Tom continued, “Marinette is a very... moral young woman. She’s not the type to, you know, run off with some boy and shack up with him for a while! I couldn’t imagine whom the boy would be, anyway. The only ones I’ve seen her mooning over are Luka and Adrien, both of whom have been right here asking about her every day.”

“That doesn’t help much,” sobbed Sabine.

“And she is remarkably resourceful. If someone had... grabbed her, do you think that she wouldn’t have found some way to reach out and seek help by now?” Tom theorized, unhappily. “I do not think that the Bastille could hold her for very long.”

“But what else is there?” Sabine argued, wiping her eyes. “We have checked with every one of her school friends; none of them have seen her in a week. The police have been no help. Even Chat Noir keeps coming by, hoping to find that she’d returned, and looking shattered each time that she hasn’t. If even the superheroes are helpless...”

Sabine shook her head, hoping to wipe away this new reality. “Marinette doesn’t do this kind of thing. She was happy here! I know she was. She didn’t... run away,” she insisted. “So where could she be? Who could have taken her? And why?”

The television blared away behind her, unheard and unwatched. The chyron scrolling along the bottom of its screen -- AKUMA CRISIS: DAY 7 --- LADYBUG STILL MISSING --- STAY-AT-HOME ORDER STILL IN PLACE -- answered more of their anguished questions than either parent could possibly have guessed.

~---~

Later in the day, a loud *THUMP* outside the back door of the Dupain-Cheng residence announced an arrival.

“Please, come in,” Sabine called out. “It’s not locked.”

Tentatively, a young man wearing a black mask poked his head around the door... looking hopeful, but not expectant.

Sabine shook her head as she motioned him inside. “Nothing yet, Chat,” she told him. “Not a single word.”

Chat Noir walked into the kitchen where Sabine was sitting, his face falling, his body language screaming out defeat.

“I’m at a loss,” Chat murmured. “I have searched every square inch of this city, hoping for a footprint, a note, a charm bracelet, a pigtail holder, anything that would give me a clue where she’s gone.”

“Ah. Hullo, Chat,” Tom greeted him, as he entered the kitchen. He rested a large hand on the young hero’s shoulder and noted, “We know that you’re doing everything you can.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sabine noted. “Chat... I know that you and Marinette were good friends... are good friends! And you will be again. I know it. But you have other people to look out for, as well, and you’ll need to get some rest.”

“That’s just it,” said Chat. “I don’t know that I do! Ladybug is still missing, as well... but I haven’t heard of widespread disappearances. The villain isn’t targeting just anyone.”

“I saw the video of what happened to Ladybug on television,” Tom mused. “It was like... some kind of teleporter?”

“I hope that is all that it was, yes,” Chat sighed. “The villain caught her in some kind of glowing golden bubble. She screamed something out to me, but the bubble muffled the sound... and then, POP! she was gone. I’ve been back to the spot where it happened dozens of times, and I can’t find any trace of what happened.”

“...It’s almost as if Marinette got... captured, the same way,” he lamented. “But why would a villain go after her?”

“I... know that she’s helped you in the past,” Sabine suggested, grimly, “figuring out what some of these villains’ weaknesses are. Could she have... maybe... found the villain and been spying on him, perhaps, but he caught her and warped her away, too?”

“That’s as good a theory as any that I have,” Chat replied. “Which is to say... I’ve got nothing.”

Without another word, Chat slumped down into a chair and began crying his eyes out. Instinctively, Sabine motioned to him, then stepped forward and hugged him, fighting off her own tears as she did.

Two large arms wrapped themselves around both of them. “You can let it out, Chat,” Tom soothed him. “We’ve got you.”

Once the immediate emotional storm passed, Sabine smiled at Chat as best she could. “Marinette would feel wonderful knowing that someone like you cares this much about her,” she said. “I know that she had feelings for you once, and things didn’t line up quite as she’d hoped, but...”

“Mrs. Cheng?” a wide-eyed Chat replied. “Things... have changed since then, a bit. I kind of think that I’m the one pursuing her now. And when we find her... there are things that I need to say to her.”

“We will find her. That’s certain,” Tom declared.

Sabine wiped her eyes once more, then faced the young man in her arms. “I hate to ask this of you,” she ventured, “but... Tom and I have been over her room a dozen times already, looking for some clue as to where she’d gone, or why. We’ve come up empty... but could you come look with us for a few minutes? Maybe something will jump out at you that we’ve missed.”

Chat forced a smile. “I’d be happy to,” he replied.

~---~

The three went upstairs, where Chat applied wannabe-amateur-detective’s eyes to their surroundings.

“I’m not seeing anything... terribly new since the last time I was here,” Chat mused. “Her bed was made, her schoolbooks, her makeup, her clothes... all match what I’ve seen here before.”

He noted, without comment, that a picture of him was still up on Marinette’s wall by her bed... not as many pictures as he’d seen once before, but he was still a presence there.

“And all of her clothes are still here, other than what she was wearing,” remarked Tom, rummaging through Marinette’s dresser for the tenth time. “It’s not as if she packed a suitcase and took off. Even her suitcase is still here.”

“That’s good,” said Chat. “I agree with you; Marinette really isn’t the kind of person who’d just... run off, impulsively. The last time that I spoke with her, she didn’t give me any signs that she was anything but content.”

“When was that?” asked Sabine, from just inside the bathroom door.

“About ten days ago,” Chat replied. “I stopped by, we made light conversation, nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Hmmph,” grumbled Tom. “I almost wish there had been something odd then. It’s driving me insane having no idea what happened.”

“I wish that I could be of more help,” apologized Chat. “But nothing’s jumping out at me. Is there anything here that either of you don’t recognize?”

“There was some kind of... box in the back of her closet,” Sabine noted. “I couldn’t open it. Kind of an odd shape; I’m not sure where she got it from.”

“A box?” Chat wondered. “May I take a look?”

“Please do! That’s why you’re here,” Tom gestured. “You don’t have to ask.”

As he started moving things around in the closet, Chat turned and grinned at Sabine. “I can only imagine what Marinette would say if she knew I was doing this,” he quipped. “’MAMA! There’s a strange boy rifling through my clothes!’”

“Just this once, I think that I won’t complain about that,” Sabine said, managing a small chuckle.

Chat lifted out a box of shoes and another with some folded-up winter wear, setting them aside. “Still,” he remarked, “I don’t think that I’ll... I’ll...”

Abruptly... his voice cut off.

Tom and Sabine turned his way. The alarm in his tone got their immediate attention... as did his falling backwards, scooting away from the closet as if he’d been stung.

“No,” Chat gasped. “No, no, no, no, nonononononono!”

“Chat?” bellowed Tom, rushing to his side. “Chat, what have you found?”

Chat’s eyes were riveted on a rounded red container, covered in spots, sitting on the floor of the closet.

“...The answer,” Chat whispered.

~---~

In the center of the room, the Miracle Box sat on Marinette’s desk, where Chat Noir had placed it gingerly. The three of them stared at it, two more in confusion than in wonder.

“...What is this?” Tom asked. “Obviously, you recognize it.”

“I’ve only seen it once,” a hushed Chat answered. “And it shouldn’t be here. There is absolutely no way that it should be here right now.”

“Is it dangerous?” worried Sabine.

“No... it’s not dangerous. Not in and of itself,” Chat remarked. “It might be the answer to our prayers, even... but I... I just... I don’t understand. Why would it be HERE?”

“Can you explain?” Tom wondered aloud, spooked by Chat’s change in demeanor.

“I... I suspected her once. Just for a little while,” Chat said to himself. “But I was so sure that I was wrong. But if this is true... everything makes sense now...”

“For God’s sake, Chat, what does this mean? And what is it?” Sabine shouted, more loudly than she’d meant to. “Can you open it?”

“No, I can’t.”

Chat turned to Marinette’s parents with an odd expression on his face. “But I do know the one thing that can. Claws in!”

A white flash filled Marinette’s bedroom, not for the first time. Those who were present, who stood revealed, and the looks on the faces of Tom and Sabine... those, however, were all firsts.

Plagg blinked a few times, hovering in mid-air by Adrien’s side, then took in the situation with a startled look on his own face. “Uh... hi there,” he blurted out.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Tom gasped.

“...Adrien?” asked Sabine, in a weak voice. “If... you are Chat Noir...”

Adrien nodded, silently.

“Then... is Marinette...?”

Adrien turned to Plagg, with an expression screaming out HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME and WHAT THE FLYING HELL and PLEASE HELP ME all at once.

“That’s... what we’re going to find out,” Adrien declared. “Plagg... open the Box. And then we’re going to open as many boxes as are in there.”

“Calling in the cavalry, huh?” Plagg remarked. “Good. Lemme go figure this out.”

He disappeared into the Box, phasing through the top of it.

As Adrien turned to the Dupain-Chengs... the body language of Chat Noir returned, even though his costume hadn’t.

“We’re going to find my Lady,” he told them. “We’re all going to find her.”

#miraculous #miraculous ladybug #fanfic #prompt #post-season 3 #all hands on deck #villain one - guardian zero #a new era begins

33 notes · View notes

officialleotolstoy · 3 years

Text

Oh Natasha/Andrei brainrot we’re really in it now, aka Natasha/Andrei playlist annotations!

Honestly the age gap is so inherently uncomfortable it’s difficult for me to really ship this but I think in terms of the REALLY low bar of W&P marriages/almost-marriages, it’s one of the better ones because they at least mutually care about each other. It’s also just devastating on principle!

There are several distinct sections of song on here, this is one of the few I’ve actually put in a significant order, so I’m going to break it down into that.

Part 1: Initial Meeting/Falling In Love The First Time/General

Absolutely Smitten - dodie

“She wants to dance around the room, kiss you until her lips turn blue”

This song really reminds me of their first meeting when they’re both like 👀 at each other. I like how it captures the excitement but also nerves of the girl, which I feel like is an important feature of Natasha’s part of the relationship.

Helpless - Philippa Soo

“Tryin' to catch your eye from the side of the ballroom”

Sorry to all the ex-Hamilton stans I jumpscared with this, but it’s about the Philippa Soo Singing About Falling In Love vibe. Also the quoted lyric reminds me of their iconic dance scene, or at least the bits leading up to that.

To Noise Making (Sing) - Hozier

“Honey, the look of it was as sweet as the sound; Your head tilt back, your funny mouth to the clouds”

This reminds me of the scene where she sings for him and he’s like WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH im in love! I paraphrase, but you get the idea.

Golden Years - David Bowie

“Look at that sky, life's begun”

This is objectively the stupidest song on here. It’s here because I think it’s funny to imagine the iconic Natasha/Andrei dance just being the Golden Years dance from A Knight’s Tale, HOWEVER the quoted lyric is in fact Andreicore.

Stop The World I Wanna Get Off With You - The Arctic Monkeys

“And I know we got places to go, we got people to see/Think we both oughta put 'em on hold”

‘Wren there are several songs that are on this playlist AND your Andrei/Pierre playlist’ Thank you for noticing it’s because if Tolstoy can recycle the same lines of dialogue for these relationships I can recycle the same songs! This song is just. I Hate Everyone Except You :) which is deeply Andrei @ both of them. But also like wanting life to stop so you can just hang out with Your People.

Strawberry Blond - Mitski

“I love everybody because I love you”

I’m pretty sure someone once pointed out how this lyric fit Andrei/Natasha once in a post and I cannot for the life of me remember who but that made an impression on me. Mystery person, thanks <3 Also I forgot this was a Mitski song??

The Anchor - Bastille

“Bring me some hope by wandering into my mind”

One of Thee things about their relationship that sticks out to me is how Natasha is so lifelike and her very existence gives Andrei hope for the world. It’s so. It’s so much!

Something After All - Starry

“You’ve turned my world around”

Like I said above, falling in love with Natasha really changes Andrei’s entire worldview! I also think “I've spent years building up walls” is very Andrei, and Natasha kind of brought them down, like what happens in the song.

Cosmic Love - Florence + The Machine

“A falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes”

IT’S ABOUT THE SPACE METAPHORS FOR LOVE. THIS IS NO ONE ELSE FROM GREAT COMET’S FAULT.

Cold Cold Man - Saint Motel

“I know I am a cold cold man: quite slow to pay you compliments or public displayed affections”

It’s about being generally not very emotional or expressive but being devoted to the person anyway...very Andrei-ish.

Ophelia - The Lumineers

“I don't feel nothing at all and you can't feel nothing small”

The quoted lyric just seems like a really good summary of their dynamic, but I also think “Heaven help a fool who falls in love” works well for bitter post-elopement vibes, so this song was difficult to place.

Part 2: Andrei Leaving For Abroad

Misbehavin’ - Pentatonix

For some reason this is on both the Nat/Andrei and Natasha playlists and I’m too lazy to change it. Just go look at those annotations.

No One Else - Great Comet

Duh

To a Poet - First Aid Kit

“I got on a plane and flew far away from you, though unwillingly I left”

This song makes me think of Andrei abroad missing Natasha :( Honey you’ve got a big storm coming

Part 3: Post-Elopement Breakup Songs

I Hope Your Husband Dies - Amigo The Devil

“All the distance that we've spent apart will never have to mean a thing”

This song is VERY much Andrei about Anatole. “Now you're with this asshole, you expect me to believe it's going to last” really works because her relationship with Anatole was never going to last, whether or not she knew that. And “I'm not so much afraid of being alone, just kind of feel I've had enough/And time and time again, time reminds me you'll never be my own/We'll never have a house to decorate, a place that we can call our home” as an Andrei thing makes me very sad!!!

Ruins - First Aid Kit

“Ruins, all the things we built assured that they would last”

I think you can safely say their relationship was in ruins after the elopement attempt. I also think “I lost you, didn't I? First I think I lost myself” is something Natasha would think about the whole scenario

Half of My Heart - John Mayer

“Half of my heart's got the right mind to tell you that I can't keep loving you with half of my heart”

I think this is supposed to be more of an “I don’t love you anymore and that’s on me” song, but I like to mentally frame it in the context of Andrei after the elopement refusing to take back Natasha. I also think all the bits about the singer’s love interest changing the singer’s outlook on life before really fits, like “Lonely was the song I sang 'til the day you came, showing me another way”

Love Like Ghosts - Lord Huron

“You don't want me baby please don't lie/Oh but if you're leaving, I gotta know why”

It’s all about the singer being haunted by a love that doesn’t necessarily reciprocate on the same level, and I think that really fits Andrei’s mindset. It breaks my heart to think about him trying to figure out what he did wrong, why he wasn’t enough for Natasha, and so that quoted lyric really makes me just. :(

Cold Day In Heaven - Delta Rae

“Keep thinking bout when we started, so innocent/Your heart was a mess and I was lost in it”

This whole song is so good for them, it’s essentially just a couple being disappointed that their relationship didn’t work out well. The quoted lyric is so. AAAAHHH. because both of their hearts were messes but for different reasons, Andrei was so hopeless and bleak but Natasha was so naive and not ready for it and it’s so. It’s so Much. Also “We watched, the stars fell, and oh you know we let them/We said it’ll never happen, we said it’ll never happen to us/But it’s a cold day in heaven my love” gets me because 1) star/sky references :( and 2) Natasha especially did say it’d never happen to them, she was adamant that she’d love Andrei forever and that uh. I think we all know how well that worked out!

2 Months. - Zach Adkins

Someone You Loved - Lewis Capaldi

“I let my guard down and then you pulled the rug”

This is kind of a generic betrayal/breakup/I-miss-you song, but I think it works. Especially with “I kinda liked the way you numbed all the pain” and the focus on the singer’s lover getting them through difficult times and then abandoning them.

The Night We Met - Lord Huron

“Take me back to the night we met”

I think people are legally obligated to have this song on any playlist for a couple that doesn’t end well. It’s generic but it’s good! The entire Strange Trails album my BELOVED!

Careless Whisper - George Michael

“I should have known better than to cheat a friend and waste a chance that I'd been given, so I'm never gonna dance again the way I danced with you”

UNIRONICALLY THIS SONG. I think it’s the focus on dancing as like a significant marker of the relationship for me, especially given how heavily adaptations focus on their dance at that ball. The quoted lyric reminds me of Natasha’s mindset after all of this. Also “We could have been so good together, we could have lived this dance forever, but now, who's gonna dance with me? Please stay” reminds me of Natasha asking him to forgive her. Not to actually get sad over Careless Whisper but. :,(

With Or Without You - U2

“And you give yourself away”

The quoted lyric is in reference to the elopement in my head, and “I can’t live with or without you” is like. Andrei can’t continue on and let her back into his life, he admits that he can’t forgive her, but he also has no real will to live after she betrays him and goes off to die in war.

Atlantis - Seafret

“We've built this town on shaky ground”

“This town” is in reference to their relationship, and I like the acknowledgment that there was never a great foundation to begin with. And “maybe I’m not built for love” as an Andrei lyric is a little heartbreaking! Other than that it’s just a Breakup Song.

I Don’t Wanna See You Cryin’ Anymore - Adam Melchor

“I don't wanna be the reason you can't trust me like before/My head's in my hands as I'm shaking on the bathroom floor”

This reminds me of Natasha’s deep guilt over her betrayal of Andrei. The implication that Andrei would ever let anyone see him cry is a bit much for me, just ignore that HFJAHDHSH

Part 4: Reconciling While Andrei ✨Dies✨

Fake It - Bastille

“We can never go back, we can only do our best to recreate”

This whole is song is about trying to move forward from bad things in the past with your lover which is the whole vibe! But I also think it shows some reluctance on the part of the singer to forget, and a bit of a desperation to be able to leave the mistakes in the past. “Help me turn a blind eye” really captures that. I like this as the early stages of them reconnecting, because I think it’s realistic to have Andrei especially be wary but wanting it to get better.

Bad Blood - Bastille

“All this bad blood here, won’t you let it dry?”

Letting go of a grudge and trying to move on vibes!

Let It All Go - Birdy, Alvaro Soler

“We’re strong enough to let it go”

All their hurt surrounding the elopement is the Thing they’re letting go of in this case.

Flaws - Bastille

“You have always worn your flaws upon your sleeve and I have always buried them deep beneath the ground”

The quoted lyric just feels like their general dynamic to me. Natasha is so open about everything and does indeed wear her heart on her sleeve whereas Andrei represses every emotion he’s ever felt. I think this is a post-elopement song because of “Dig them up; let’s finish what we started”. That feels like them reexamining their relationship and what went wrong and trying again.

Moscow - Autoheart

“All I need’s a fraction of your happy heart”

This song is so 🥺. “We both know what we’ve got to do: head back to where the magic grew” reminds me of them accepting their reconnection and moving on and trying to rekindle whatever was between them. And “Let’s get a dog, an Irish red setter, it’s all we need to get better” feels emblematic of them looking forward to domestic happiness as the solution. And the quoted lyric screams Andrei about Natasha.

The Heart Is A Muscle - Gang of Youths

“I will look at love as more than just an instrument of pain”

Not to be off topic but this whole album is so good every single song makes me feel SHRIMP EMOTIONS god. Also the whole thing is very Andreicore and I had to stop myself from adding every song to his playlist. But I digress. This song is all about having been hurt by love in the past (“I let bad love betray me once”) but deciding to open your heart again which is very them! “I haven't had enough and I wanna love someone” AAAAHHHH. “I am human now and terrified, but want it all the same” Mr. GangOfYouths im going INSANE! “I just ask you to be patient if you’ll have me still” HELLO? Not to quote the whole song but “I wanna be loved, I wanna be whole again, so tuck my hair behind my ears and touch my soul again” as an Andrei/Natasha lyric...I need to sit down. Can you all tell this song makes me go all kinds of crazy. And this isn’t even my favorite song off the album!

Shrike - Hozier

“I couldn’t utter my love when it counted, ah but I’m flying like a bird to you now”

This song feels very “we tried to have a relationship a while ago and it didn’t work out that well but I still love you we could try again” to me which fits this time very well!

Part 5: Andrei Goes Splat :( [And The Aftermath]

Work Song - Hozier

“No grave can hold my body down, I’ll crawl home to her”

I can’t say what it is exactly, but something about persistent love framed around the death motif works for me here.

Dancing After Death - Matt Maeson

“As the sun waits to eclipse and the taste teases my lips, I'm too tired to wrestle with it”

The quoted lyric reminds me of Andrei giving up and shutting down when he realizes he’s gonna die :( oh ALSO my brain always mentally fills in “and no one else” after the “you and I” that ends the chorus which does NOT help with my depression!

One Last Time - Jaymes Young

“Could I feel your skin on mine before I have to say goodbye?”

SCREAMS SO LOUDLY. The whole song is like. Someone dying and wanting to see their person one last time and AAAAAAAAAAA. I am a little incoherent maybe. “I'm leavin' this cold world of mine, no pleadin' is gonna turn back time” really Gets Me in the context of Andrei accepting his own death and withdrawing and it’s so. Anyway.

Oblivion - Bastille

“When oblivion is calling out your name, you always take it further than I ever can”

I don’t think this is exactly what the song is talking about, but the quoted lyric in the context of Andrei dying and Natasha watching him fade and withdraw...good Lord. I need emotional support.

Haunt - Bastille

“I’ll come back to haunt you/Memories will taunt you”

Natasha being haunted by the memory of Andrei!!! Help me!!!! Also “I will try to love you/It’s not like I’m above you” as a callback to Andrei’s feelings for Natasha when they start to reconnect is so mental illness inducing. OOOH and “Questioning why as you look to the sky that is cloudless up above our heads and thoughts come to mind that our short little lives haven't left the path that they will tread” any lyric ever about looking at the sky is Andrei’s now.

Without You - for KING & COUNTRY

“What do you do when you don't get better/Strong arms get too, get too weak to hold her”

:( :( :( :( :( Also “I’m not ready to live without you” I am so sad.

Good Grief - Bastille

“Every minute and every hour I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more”

Pain! Agony, even!

I made myself SO sad writing the entire last half of these annotations geez

#im so sad im so sad im so sad!#war and peace #great comet #natasha rostova #andrei bolkonksy #uhhh whats their ship name?#w&p playlists #my post #figured out how to do a read more bc this post is so LONG

14 notes · View notes

writing-the-end · 4 years

Text

Feral Friendship- Part 3

Masterpost

Haha I really love putting these right when the angst is at it’s peak- makes us all have to wait a little longer to see the resolution, and a break from all the sadness. I really do love Feral Friendship, and this is one of my favorite parts.

Ecto belongs to @cooler-cactus-block

Red belongs to @theguardiansofredland

The remaining infiltrators scuffle their heels against the jungle wood in Cub’s base. False holds the red banner out, but it feels like a hollow victory. Not even a victory- they just evened out the score. Cub looks at the bruised and rattled hermits before him. They’re covered in sand and leaves, looking like they’ve been camping for weeks. The sun is just starting to set on the first day of the game. “Where’s TFC’s entire team? And Scar?”

Xisuma shrugs. “We just know they haven’t returned.”

“Who knows? Maybe they have the second flag and are just being cautious, Sheshwammy.” Keralis offers, but the others seem less optimistic.

“And Scar?” Cub raises an eyebrow, taking the banner that False holds out. The wool fabric feels so good on his fingers. Such a hard fought item, finally in the hermits’ hands. He hands it off for Cleo to hang for scoring above the base.

“Unfortunately, reports indicate that he was captured after hiding that flag. Etho saw Avon flying back to their side with him. Though he didn’t seem that concerned.” Doc reports, scratching his chin with his reattached arm.

“As aggressive as they have been in their tactics, they’re still our friends. I don’t think they’ll harm Scar.” Joe adds.

“We aren’t going to let Scar’s sacrifice go to waste. We need to strike while the iron’s hot. I want everyone to rush for Ecto’s flag.” Cub clenches his fist as he swipes up the red scrap that symbolized Avon’s flag on the map. “Everyone that isn’t Cleo, Joe, or me should go in and fight through the minefield. If we just throw all we have at them, they can’t stop all of us.”

“Ah, the good old french revolution tactic.” Cleo hums.

Joe shrugs. “I mean, it worked in that case. At least our bastille doesn’t have muskets. Just cacti.”

Cub hushes them, and points towards the door. “You guys go, get to the border and storm for the flag. Us three will stay behind and keep watch for Avon.”

Stress flags down the patrols behind the headquarters, waving for the three pairs to follow the remaining infiltration teams. Together, they march to the border between lands. The defense team seems surprised by the new order, though all just as excited about getting to charge into the mysterious land beyond the cactus wall. Night has fallen over the land, and monsters creep and crawl in the desert. They can outrun the husks and spiders, and most are well armored against the creepers and skeletons. It’s the other team that they have to worry about.

It’s been a long time since Grian has seen a united hermit front, almost everyone here to tackle the wanderers. He admits it feels badass, like some superhero movie to have the crew lined up. Some of them have wings to fly over, others will run through and tackle what is on the ground. “For Scar! For the Dig team!”

The hermits charge into unknown territory, breaking down more of Ecto’s cactus wall and running across the desert like calvary on horses. In fact, some of them are on horses. Jevin and Beef speed ahead, weapons drawn and cutting a path through the monsters ahead of them.

But a horse can only take them so far. Jevin’s horse rears as he snaps the reins back, nearly falling into a sandpit that has opened up beneath them. The sand cascades into the cavern, followed by a single arrow shuttling after the blocks it disturbed. Ren spots Ecto, standing upright on a cactus tower about at the height he’s flying. She has a bow and a quiver full of arrows, snickering as the hermits on foot are forced into her minefield. They’re trapped in her land, of shifting sands and sharp spines.

Ren charges to knock her off, but the air is empty by the time he reaches her. Ecto has jumped, falling to the ground below in an elegant flip. And as her rotation turns her upward, a coy grin appears on her face towards Ren, and she salutes to her hermit friend. Ecto tucks up a moment later, rolling across the sand and taking off after the other hermits.

Ren’s about to dive after her, but it pulled back into the sky by Grian. He hadn’t seen Grian since they crossed into the desert, and his friend looks like he’s been running a marathon. Or at least flying one. “Avon’s over the border. She’s going after our flag.”

Ren turns to look back at the jungle, then to his fellow hermits below. “Go after her. You’re the best flyer on this whole server. If anyone has a chance to beat Avon in an air, it’s you my dude.”

“What about the others?” Grian looks at the desert, watching Mumbo squeeze through the cacti that Ecto has grown everywhere. Only to fall into a pit of sand. Ecto must’ve somehow built all those, but how is completely beyond Grian.

“I’ll round them up and tell them to get back and try to stop her.” Ren let’s go of his aloft ally, and the two part. While Ren relays the news to the others, Grian returns to chase after Avon. Cub had seen her flying in, and tried to take a few shots to keep her at bay, but none of the strategists are equipped for fighting. They shouldn’t have left their base so defenseless. Lucky for Grian, he can see Avon circling the canopy as he nears. It doesn’t look like she’s found any of the other flags.

Until she does. Like a phantom diving towards it’s weary prey, it’s an elegant dive. At least it is before she hits the tree while landing. A branch smacks her right in the face, knocking the angelic descent into a demonic crash. Even Grian winces at the hit, spiraling down to see the damage.

Avon’s on her feet before Grian lands, shaking the dizziness from her mind and sprinting towards the blue flag fluttering. It’s tucked in the leaves of an oak tree, where even the wind struggles to find it. By the time Grian has landed, she’s ripped it from it’s stake. “We’re playing this again, huh? Let’s see how good a flyer you really are.”

Grian sighs as Avon launches back into the air, daring for him to follow her. He’s not going to let her score again. This time, he plans to fight her midair as well. While she’s still rising above the treetops vertically, Grian takes off at an angle into the sky. Trying to intercept her midair, he pulls out his sword and spins it. The sign of a fight catches Avon’s attention. She pauses, wings opening wide to halt her ascent. For just a moment, She’s floating in the air, wings fully extended. She’s shadowed from behind by the full moon in the night, but Grian can clearly see purple irises sparkle with challenge, and a crooked grin like the chesire cat. “You aren’t going anywhere with that flag.”

Avon watches the moonlight glint off Grian’s diamond enchanted sword. It’s freeing to have her flag already captured, allowing her to focus on nabbing theirs. Toying with them. Ecto and Avon have been having a blast watching the hermits struggle against surviving in the wild. Surviving in their natural habitat. And they still haven’t seen the worst. She ties the banner to her belt and retrieves her trident.

And she dives. Closing her wings to drop beneath Grian, she opens again when she’s under him. Turning on her back, Avon throws her trident. Grian rockets away before it can hit him, and goes into chase after Avon and the flag. She flies low, weaving through the tallest trees of the jungle. He needs to gain on her, slow her down. She’s faster, more agile. But he’s clever.

Avon turns sharp around a tree, but Grian stays straight, shooting through a tiny gap between neighboring trees. Catching up with her. He lights off rockets, the wind whipping his blonde hair against his face. Grian gets close enough to strike, and doesn’t waste a moment.

The trident and the sword clash, a midair dogfight between the two commencing. It’s one thing to have a battle on land, but the sky is a whole different world. Head to head, metal clangs against crystal, sparks flaring in the night sky. Stars in their own right, pinpricks of light alive for an infinitesimal second before fading away.

Avon takes a pass at Grian, getting around him and gunning for the border. He grabs her foot before she can get away. She kicks her feet up, sending Grian flying into the air. He closes his elytra wings, and lets gravity drop him back down. Straight down towards Avon. Towards the flag tied to her waist. On his way down, his fingers wind into the blue banner and tears it free of her belt. Avon’s stunned as he reopens his wings and takes off back to the jungle. He only grins, sticking his tongue out and winking. “Pesky bird.”

Grian straps the flag to the halter of his elytra, freeing his hands for the attack he knows is coming. Avon won’t give up that easy. He’s seen her pass out before giving up. He was right, because when he looks over his shoulder she’s hot on his rockets. He lights off more, but it only takes a couple more strokes of Avon’s wings to catch up to him. Grian turns over, blocking her reach with his sword.

Avon just pushes the flat of his blade, vaulting herself over him. Suddenly he’s chasing her again, seemingly for no reason. Except that the jungle is this direction. “What are you even doing?”

“A surprise.” Avon chuckles, before vaulting into the sky. She stalls at the peak of her backflip, beginning to fall as he flies beneath her. Feet to the sky and arms reaching for him.

And retrieving the flag from his back. She snatches it mid backflip, creasing off and back to her teams side. Grian can’t even turn around fast enough to catch her. She’s beyond his vision before they reach the border. “Oh, Cub is not going to be happy about that.”

-----------------------------------------------------

Cleo glances over at Joe at her side, then back to Cub. He’s shifting around the iron nuggets at a feverish pace, mumbling to himself. Is this the loss of Scar, his fellow convex, finally taking a toll on him? Or is it because they’re losing again. “Cub, love, are you doing okay?”

“I don’t understand their tactics. It’s almost like they have none. But they’re winning.” Cub grips at what is left of his hair, moving the three golden nuggets around. Avon scored their second flag. He has two patrols watching the last flag. If it so much as moves, he wants to know. Ren and Grian are patrolling the skies, and the defense is back watching for Ecto or Avon. This entire time, it’s just been those two. Red must be their strategist. But that makes no sense. Red is a lot of things, but she definitely isn’t a strategist. She hardly thinks about her next move before doing it.

Cleo is tired of standing here, trapped in this dark room pouring over her maps and listening to mistakes. She needs to take matters into her own hands, and she knows exactly who else is itching to get into the fight again. Cleo grabs her rapier, busting through the door of the headquarters. Joe can at least calm Cub. Maybe a good poem will keep Cub from having a meltdown.

Meanwhile, Cleo saunters through the forest to find the other girls. Stress and False are patching up their wounds from the rush for the desert flag. Brush burns, bruises, and bandages all over them. “I think we all know what needs to be done.”

False grins as she sees Cleo rest her sword on her shoulder, green sutured skin chill against the metal blade. “Finally, we’re doing things the right way.”

“These guys have no clue what they’re messin’ with.” Stress hums, tugging on her bowstring to test it’s load.

“They see a loss. I see a challenge.” Cleo adds. “We’re going to get that flag, bring it back and even the odds for us. It’ll really raise spirits as well.”

“We know you’ve got a plan, so what is it?” False stands, stretching her arms with a relaxed smile. A bandage crinkles at her cheek, but she’s hardly bothered.

“We’re going to take TFC’s tunnel. They got the closest, even though it’s obvious now they’ve been trapped. If we continue to use it we can get right under Ecto’s flag. Us three have faster reflexes than them. We just need to be cautious.” Cleo starts off through the forest, tapping her blade against the trees as the other two girls follow. The moon is beginning to set, but there’s still more night ahead of them. Won’t matter much when they’re underground.

“If Stress stays back while we continue to dig, she can fish us out of any sand traps.” Stress picks through the potions that she’s been brewing while they waiting for the next attack. This is much more manageable than rushing the other side. She feels she can do so much more with just False and Cleo. Less ducks to keep in a row.

The three descend down the ladder, deep into the mines that the dig team left behind. False picks a torch off the wall, holding it up to see further. Firelight glistens off her goggles and cascades down her blonde hair. The three follow the straight mine. “This is definitely a lot more fun than I thought it was going to be.”

“I was sure we were gonna finish before noon, in all honesty. Those wanderers really can hold their own.” Stress chuckles.

Cleo giggles alongside her friends, before thoughts infiltrate. Back to the battle. “We’ve seen Avon and Ecto...has anyone mentioned Red?”

The other two both shake their heads. “No one’s seen him since the game started.”

“Let’s think about this.” Cleo states, continuing to walk through the tunnel. “We found Avon’s flag in the sky, and Ecto’s flag among the desert. So let’s put on our critical thinking caps on and deduce where Red likely is.”

“The ocean.” Stress whispers. It makes sense now. They were playing to their advantages. Using what they knew best.

“How will we get to the ocean when we can hardly even get across this desert?” False questions. It’s not even a big desert, more just a glorified beach with cacti.

“None of us are right fit for the sea either. Not like Red is, that’s for sure.” Stress looks through the potions she has. She may need to go fishing with this new information.

“It can’t be that bad. Red isn’t a fighter like Avon and Ecto. They probably put her at the back so we’d have to go through them first.” False points out.

“I don’t know...you see the way she got at the meeting? Even I was a little scared.” Doc must really have no fear, or didn’t notice the way Red’s entire body language shifted. If anything, the lack of sightings with Red is more terrifying. Like knowing a phantom is hovering over you, but not being able to see where it’s coming from.

False holds her arm out, stopping the other two before any can fall into the chasm. It’s not deep, and is mostly filled with sand that fell from above. A pit trap, just like what they saw in their invasion. Ecto’s signature, apart from cacti. “Not even BDubs would be stupid enough to get stuck in this.”

“But maybe they would get stuck in that.” Stress points over False’s shoulder, across the stone bridge and a bit deeper in the mine. Another hole. The girls creep across, holding their breath at the precarious sand stacked around them. “Iskall?”

“Stress? Is that you? Oh thank goodness someone finally found us.” Iskall jumps to try and see out of the cactus hole he’s trapped in. Even if he could climb out, there was nowhere for any of them to run, except into more cacti.

“Is this where you idiots have been?” Cleo snorts.

“Hey, hey, hey! We were trapped! Duped! Deceived!” BDubs clambers up a cacti, just enough to see the new team before releasing. And back to pulling needles from his arm.

“Why didn’t you guys dig out?” False tilts her head.

“No can do. It’s empty beneath this layer of sand. If any one of us dug through, we’d all go fallin’ even further.” TFC kicks sand in his little corner, watching it drizzle down the cacti roots like an hourglass. “We’ve been right trapped.”

“Are you guys here to save us?” BDubs croons. Stress bites her lip, looking at the supplies she brought. Definitely no rescue supplies.

“After we get the flag, we’ll come back to help. I promise boys. We’re losin’ something fierce, we really need to get this flag.” Stress looks to Cleo, who begins to build a path across the cactus pitfall.

“We’re actually losing? How?” Iskall questions, but none of the free hermits answer. They build past them, resuming the mining that they left. “You guys should be right under it soon. Be careful of cacti.”

Stress takes a step back, allowing False to dig a narrow staircase up. Cleo’s face lights up as a scrap of red becomes visible over the other hermit’s shoulder. They’ve done it.

#wandering stars #ecto #avon #red #hermitblr #hermitcraft #grianmc #zombiecleo #stressmonster101 #cubfan135 #falsesymmetry #xisuma #keralis #writing #minesona #mcsona #minecraft persona

19 notes · View notes

ahmeddocuments · 4 years

Text

Day 6, (Paris: Downtown; Place de la République, Place de la Bastille, Palais-Royal, Pont Alexandre III, Eiffel Tower, Gare de Lyon), 30-9-2019

Written by Ahmed Hassan, edited and corrected by Aya Ashraf.

I just woke up and it’s my last day in Paris. That feeling is always aching my soul yet I always plan to have all of the new places right after Paris just to feel less pain leaving this city behind. Today I’m doing nothing except visit some new places I haven’t visited before, meet a friend from Brazil and then start preparing for my departure to Italy.

I started moving from home at around 7:30 AM, It was that early because I wanted to say a fine goodbye to the city. For a change, I wanted to try taking the bus to the City, discover how it feels going through the suburbs of Paris to reach the city. Took a bus near the Aulnay-sous-Bois train station and switched for another bus till I reached my first destination; Place de la République.

At the center of the square is a bronze statue of Marianne, the personification of the French Republic. The square is well known for being a protesting spot as it can contain large numbers without severely affecting traffic.

I proceeded to Place de la Bastille, another spot I wanted to visit, the place is another square centered by July column, topped by a gold Génie de la Liberté.

The Bastille square in Paris is where the Bastille prison stood until the storming of the Bastille and its destruction during the French Revolution, and with no remains in sight at the moment.

I started moving by bus to Gare du Nord. A very interesting benefit of having a free day without itinerary is how free it feels to switch to buses or walking instead of quicker transportation methods like trains and metros. It gives you that feeling of being a resident for a while, even if it was only for a couple of minutes. One of the priceless benefits of travelling is remaining silent, observing and actually listening to nothing but street noises. I can’t remember that I’ve put headphones and listened to a song during the 33 days I’ve been outside Egypt. You don’t need to escape anything anymore, you’re just there to feel and enjoy the moment, and be proud of the present that’s happening and achieving everything you’ve ever planned and dreamed of.

Trying to waste time before meeting a Brazilian friend of mine, I had another walk from Gare du Nord. I passed by Église Saint-Vincent-de-Paul, the scene looked cinematic; people were sitting on the stairs leading to the building entrance in the middle of a Parisian street, and behind them a very symmetrical building of the church itself.

I continued my long walk and passed by the Opera again, nothing looks the same when you’re saying goodbye. I mean, I still remember how it felt leaving Paris the year before. The feeling is indescribable when you’re looking at anything knowing it’s the last time to do so. The image below might seem like a regular picture of a street in Paris, but it was me observing that golden statues, street noises and beautiful buildings for the last time for a long time.

In realization that I’m closer to visiting Palais-Royal, I started moving to the Palace to check another place I’ve never visited. Palais-Royal is a former French royal palace, and now it’s the headquarter of Ministry of Culture, the Conseil d'État and the Constitutional Council.

The Palace is famous for tourists for Les Deux Plateaux, which are rows of columns with different heights put in an old parking lot. The columns were put in this place between 1986 and 1985, and it’s been a touristic spot since then.

I mean come on, this looks like fun!

The palace also features very fine gardens, which I like to describe as gardens inside a building inside a city.

And like Versailles, the gardens had this set of trees aligned in a very symmetrical scene.

I was about to leave the palace, but couldn’t do it before stealing another symmetrical shot. (Okay it’s not very symmetrical and i’m personally hurt the lanterns aren’t perfectly aligned lol)

Moving on, the Palace’s exit was right in front of the Louvre’s side entrance. And no matter how stunning and breathtaking the main entrance with the pyramid looks, the side entrance fits the authenticity and classic side of the Louvre.

I started walking along the Seine, Moving towards Châtelet. I passed by Pont Neuf, Notre Dame, Fountain Saint-Michel, Hôtel de Ville, Centre Pompidou and ending my long walk at Les halls, the famous mall in Châtelet. I had a fast meal at a Burger King nearby, then started moving again to the Louvre.

The sky was very colorful and a bit clear that day, I had an amazing time sitting near the fountain of Jardin des tuileries. A fountain, ducks, fine architecture, good sky view, all in an indescribable harmony creating a scene I’ll never forget.

I finally received a notification of the arrival of Samuel, that Brazilian friend i’m meeting. We’ve met on Couchsurfing and agreed to tour the city together. He had just arrived from Madrid to Paris so he depended on me to show him around. In one trip, I showed the city to two people who briefly described me as a “local” because of the way I fully memorized city information like the landmarks and the streets.

We met and started to introduce each others, he started complementing my Instagram posts and telling me he’s been dying to see Paris the way I show it in my pictures. I was extremely happy because I’m someone who’s very proud of his Instagram account, I count it as one of my strongest assets of memory preservation. When I introduce or share this account with people, I always tend to mention that it’s like a museum for Ahmed Hassan, as my photographs capture my timeline for the past few years, showing the development of tastes and interests, also what i’ve lived, witnessed and documented during this time.

Continuing our conversation about pictures, Samuel asked me to photograph him near the Louvre. He was amazed of how he pays no effort in explaining what exactly he needs to see in the captured photos. We started discussing various topics like cultural difference, travelling and photography. Samuel wanted to visit the Eiffel tower so bad and start posing for photos next to it. He asked me for good shots for it, I suggested we take a walk along the Seine, crossing Pont Alexandre lll, passing by Les Invalides till hitting Champs de Mars right behind Eiffel Tower.

The below photo was the last photo I took for the Louvre, It was me saying goodbye to on of my favorite places on earth.

Moving from the Louvre, we walked and talked along the Seine, capturing some fine scenery for the landmarks, showing it all like a postcards you wanna receive so bad.

Below is Musée d'Orsay

Pont de la Concorde

And finally one of the best -and saddest- pictures ever, a sunset in Paris. Why saddest? It’s my last sunset there. It looks like an oil painting that has a presence that never fades, or even fails to remind you of what you’ve felt taking such picture.

We passed by Pont Alexandre lll, and the bridge never fails to be impressive at any time of the day. The timing was perfect because we got to capture a golden bridge under golden weather.

It’s my favorite bridge in Paris, and It never fails to remind me of the first time I recognized it in Adele’s “Someone like you” music video. I’m no drama queen, or maybe sometimes I am haha, but I slightly felt the same that day walking there, and yeah, nothing is the same when you’re saying goodbye. I’m intending to describe more on that matter, you feel like you’re aching in a way that doesn’t show a physical pain, everything you’re hearing sounds the same, yet you feel it’s distorted. It’s complicated, Anyway, here’s another picture of the bridge capturing Les Invalides.

Moving forward, He asked for amazing places to capture the Eiffel tower inside the city itself, so I suggested the below location I initially used for my Trip in 2018.

We continued walking towards Champs de Mars and when we arrived, Samuel was astonished of how the tower looks marvelous the closer you get closer, we arrived there a few minutes before it got all lit so we captured both moments.

And same way with the lights starting to glow

We got closer for a better shot, and captured one of my finest Eiffel tower photos ever!

We again moved to the Seine to pass to Trocadéro to capture my last photo of the tower, which started to light in purple in solidarity with Breast Cancer Awareness Month that occurs annually in October.

So, That was it. I said goodbye to Samuel as I had to move to prepare my luggage and head towards Gare de Lyon for my 6 AM train, which was pretty early to be there almost 7 hours before the train, but me and Mohamed thought it should be better for him not to pay another night for a few hours, and it was risky to depend on getting there on time less than one hour after the public transportation starts the next day.

On my way to Islem’s home though, I was stopped in the metro station and got fined 35 Euros for violating the Metro’s rules of having an image and a name on my transportation Card, the whole situation didn’t make my Paris ending any prettier, It was scary and worrying being stopped by metro officials, yet I gotta admit it was my fault as I was notified I should update both the photo and the name 5 days earlier.

Arriving at Islem’s, My luggage was Pre-Packed, I just showered and collected my belongings and started moving, I thanked Islem for his GREAT hospitality for the second year in a row! It was almost 11 PM when I started moving, I stopped and took a last look at the house before for my last RER ride to Gare de Lyon.

I arrived at Gare de Lyon, Mohamed arrived a couple of minutes after. We were ready for our more than 6 hours time of waiting. We tried to discover the station, discovering that, obviously, every single shop or store is closed. The only available items to purchase are the snacks of the vending machines. The only thing that broke the silence that night is a man playing piano closer to midnight.

We stayed and talked about what we’ve progressed so far in the trip, which is completely nothing to what’s coming up a head, before we were ordered by station security to exit the station as the station is “Closing” till the morning. That was another bullet to my head that night. We roamed the scary streets surrounding the station at night searching for any café or restaurant that might be working after midnight with no luck, we even tried our luck with fancy hotels like Holiday Inn to try and stay for a drink or something in the lobby which was refused as well. It was a scary couple of minutes before we decided to head up to the Station’s door and try our luck again, The security asked us to come back in and wait for the train as he’s been searching for us for a while to tell us to get back inside. We were a bit relieved knowing that we’ll be in a safer situation, we faced another hazard of creepy Algerians who were roaming the station searching for a cigarette or a lighter to smoke weed. We ran into a Brazilian guy and his dad. They only spoke Portuguese so I used google translate to communicate. They were both heading to another French city and they were terrified by the creepy Algerians roaming the station. We stayed together for an hour or two, talked for a while. I gave him a souvenir of an Egyptian coin which he was crazy about given the fact that he was a coin collector.

It was finally around 5 AM when we noticed that our train was already in the station since before midnight, not ready to be entered though but we were finally that close. The doors are finally opened near 6 AM and we got on, in separate cars unfortunately but still, safer than ever.

Before the train moves, I wanted to take a moment to appreciate the Paris effect it has on me for the second year in a row now. The city attracts my senses and brings out the best of me, I’m thankful for it as it captured my first experience as a tourist the year before, and it’s the only city I visited twice, and intending to include in every Europe trip I’m intending to pursue. The city also confirmed and enriched my passion for architecture and art. Unlike most Egyptians, I don’t find it an ordinary “overrated” city, I find the streets talking with history and beauty, the bakeries are running and keeping history of recipes, preserving a significant European cuisine. The fact that I remember leaving the city in the two years I visited leaves me speechless. In both trips, Paris was the start of my tour, and even though it was followed by GREAT cities and countries after, It still doesn’t feel the same.

The train started moving and I finally felt safe and calm enough to sleep, The ride takes around 7 hours to Milan. I tried to ditch the previous night away and think about the amazing Italy adventure coming up ahead, the first country I’ve ever wanted to visit. I napped for an hour or two before the Police officers started passing and checking our passports, it’s a normal procedure for intercountry trains or transportation in general. Everything is going well and smooth now, Let’s hit Italy!

Self reflection:

I’m finalizing this blog post on October 9th from Egypt’s North Coast, nearly after three months of not blogging because of the heavy work load I have. And even though it’s all still packed with no time to take a proper break, I found a way to return and preserve moments like this because it’s all still there. Once I started writing, it took me less than a day to finalize the whole post.

So, hmm, a self reflection. I’m currently unaware of my feelings towards anything, I feel better than the last time I blogged, but I currently have a general understanding that everything isn’t worth the effort of thinking anymore. That doesn’t mean I’m not thinking anymore, Haha -I wish though-. by going through 2020, I’m developing weird facts about how everything should be understood and acted upon. Starting from relationships, work, personal spaces, caring, and everything. I feel like I’m still discovering these things for the first time, like a kid learning to walk in his first year. Nobody told me getting ready to turn into a 30 year old has a reset button of your whole belief system. You go through the same things you go through on daily basis, but with growing mind and easier letting go abilities. You go and evaluate friendships, actions, hobbies and whole life style, you check how responding differently can leave your mind in peace, how going an extra mile doesn’t always bring what you’ve been missing or expecting, how being a selfish person is not as bad as it’s been showed to us growing up.

Now we’re less than three months away from the end of 2020, I gotta say it’s still hurting me revealing all my scars at once to myself in one single year, and at the same time I’ve never been more thankful for such an evolution of thoughts in the same year. If I’m allowed to say a piece of non-cliché advice, I’d say go selfish to liberate yourself from the restrictions that keep you from discovering who you really am. Instead of unrolling yourself as a carpet for others to grow with whoever they wanna be, be your own red carpet.

Be your own superstar.

#Paris #France #Tourism #Travel #Travelling #Love #Adele #Someonelikeyou #Reflection #Louvre #Art #Tour #Eiffel #Tower #Bridge #Pont

2 notes · View notes

stoplookingupforheaven · 4 years

Text

Glory

a piece inspired by bastille’s glory music video. the italicized dialogue is taken from that video and is not mine.

special thanks to everyone who helped me figure out how the hell to format this and how the “keep reading” function works on tumblr. i love you lot.

If tonight had a soundtrack, she decides, it would have to include a cello. Cello tones, hovering under the industrial sounds of the airport. Cello tones, long, low, and slow, to balance out the quick, bright flashes of silver and red and blue on the planes that take off overhead.

The whole scene feels like exhaling a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Sunday night. Airport grounds. A sky bruising purple-brown. The heat of the car’s hood. Passing the paper bag back and forth. The tiny, musical crash of the drops inside the bottle as it moves between them.

“What about when you were driving?”

“Yeah, you lost your phone.”

It had been in a fit of daring, an instant when Friday overtook his mostly-rational mind, and he’d dropped his phone out the passenger window. The sky was steel-gray and heavy with thunderclouds, the air oddly still despite the pre-storm breeze that rippled across the fields they were driving past. She hadn’t heard the smack of plastic on asphalt. She didn’t see how the screen cracked on impact, a spiderweb of lines criss-crossing it as they shot down the road. They’d laughed about it, said no one could find them now.

“And that weird dive bar we found…”

It was tiny, dark inside. He played pool with strangers. She danced alone. The atmosphere faded from pale blue to glowing red, as night fell outside and all thoughts of tomorrow were wiped from her brain.

“When you were dancing on the table, with that blonde wig-”

“It was pink!”

She snickers, knocking her leg lightly against his, relishing the slow buzz that runs through her body when he reciprocates the gesture. Cello tones, she thinks.

“You nicked that car.”

“I borrowed that car.”

They hadn’t bothered to stick around and find out whose it was, driving through the night instead to God knows where. They talked about nothing and everything - water, winter, warmth, how the world felt so wild, like it had gone mad and there wasn’t really a whole lot they could do about it. She let the breeze slip around her arm as she reached out, watching the lights play on the back of her hand, lonely orange and inky-blue.

“You ran into that lake with your clothes on.”

“It was someone’s pool, and you were supposed to come with me!”

It was a summery kind of cold, and he’d engulfed her in a bear hug afterwards, water streaming off of him and onto her, raising goosebumps on her arms. They were stuck in a bubble where time didn’t quite exist, where minutes stretched into hours and days collapsed into seconds. Where you were conscious of the world moving around you but you couldn’t - or maybe didn’t want to - move out to join it. Where gray skies meant warmth and not sadness, and green hills covered in flowers felt old and not new.

But there’s a glitch in the scene, and she can’t quite put her finger on it. There’s a disconnect in their narrative, something that should overlap but doesn’t. Some small detail, just a word or two-

She ignores it, because this is memory, and therefore the story is shaped by the person telling it. The cello melody is back, twisting around her head.

“What about those two guys that wanted a fight?”

“Oh they were fine, they just wanted to dance…”

How small she’d felt! But despite their unsmiling expressions, they really had just wanted to dance. And so she danced. It was an odd dance, but it was dancing. The tips of her shoes had moved over the concrete floor. Dancing with strangers was not something she normally did, but then again, nothing about anything felt normal anymore.

“You dared me to run through that couple’s house…”

The recklessness of youth is always easier to bear when someone else is made to suffer with you, she’d decided. It eased the thrill, spread the high out just enough so that the body did not completely succumb to the rush of adrenaline, so the mind was not overwhelmed by fear and bliss all at once. The house was aggressively mundane - beige walls, landscape paintings, area rugs over hardwood floors - and it felt hostile, like it didn’t want to accept the misfit of a young adult that she was. Like little kids, she’d dragged him through the living room, hand in hand, barely registering the shock on the couple’s face so much as-

“And the old guy had a gun!”

“What?”

He laughs, and she does too, and she misses the same feeling of a mismatch in the back of her mind. It fades away before she realizes anything’s out of place. Another red-and-chrome body soars over their heads. She thinks yet again of the sound of a cello.

“You didn’t want to dance in that class.”

“What are you on about? I totally outdanced you.”

They’d stopped in a town somewhere between the Midwest and the West, the kind of place where it was perpetually mid-afternoon and no one dared disturb the feeling. It looked like every place she’d ever been, and nothing like anything she’d ever seen. It was unique, and it was stereotypical, and it was too perfect, as though someone had set it up with the perfect small-town main street in mind and hit the mark a little too well. She’d laughed as he did toe taps and flailed his arms in time with the rest of the class. She’d danced away the memories of signs on the edge of town, signs that called for glory and heaven, two things that she felt were better left not chased.

“You slept through all the good bits.”

She’ll never know if that’s true, but she does know that she propped her feet up on the dash of the car, and dreamed. She dreamed of golden hours, Ferris wheels, old cars, kidnappings, and oceans. Rain pattered on the windshield. Inside the car it was dark, and the dim interior wrapped around her like a blanket, the evening stretching on into perpetuity. Was it evening? She didn’t know. But the old car held her and she sank into its embrace.

“Why steal such a shit car?”

“It’s a classic!”

She’d leapt in regardless. He’d adjusted his baseball cap (was that there before?) and they left, chasing the sun. Or maybe the night.

Whatever the car was, it had held up every mile, against all odds, past farms and fields and trees, the gray exterior blurring with the road beneath and the sky above until the car - and its occupants - were a part of the landscape, instead of simply passing through. And they’d stopped it as the sun set, sitting on the curb at a rest stop and watching-

“That weird sky was full of pinks.”

It was unreal. There was no adjective in any language she knew that could begin to capture what that sky was like. The clouds were a child’s Photoshop project, purple and yellow and even green, dancing across a sky that darkened from pale salmon to something resembling wisteria - if wisteria could feel haunting and cozy all at the same time.

“I remember it being all yellow.”

There it is again - that flashing instant where something is not quite right, where there’s some odd catch in the world’s fabric. She tries to catch hold of the feeling, to make sense of it, because she wants to fix it. She wants to correct the mistake - for surely it is only a simple mistake - and mend the perfect seam she’s been stitching out of pictures and sounds. But it’s too fleeting, too fragile, and the feeling slips away like water through her fingers, melting into the perfect scenes she’s remembering. In her head, the cello plays on, the music writing itself without her aid.

“I beat you to the top of that mountain.”

“Pretty sure you didn’t.”

It was the only time she could clearly remember something and definitively call it pain: the burning in her lungs as she scrambled towards the top, the aching in her limbs as they stumbled back down. It hadn’t even been that much of a mountain. She wasn’t sure why she’d called it that. It was a mound of woodchips in a lot somewhere. But the only word that her lips could form to describe it was “mountain,” as if the world was telling her that she had to make it fit this narrative, which was feeling increasingly as if it didn’t fully belong to her, because who really recalled details like these? Vivid colors, but not complete pictures. Trains of thought inspired by a journey, but not the trip itself.

But he’d wrapped an arm around her shoulders as they walked away, and she’d forgotten the pain.

The rest of it is just flashes. Stoplights glowing through the rain and the windshield wipers. His fingers running through his hair. The young man dancing in a parking lot. Roads that wound through mounds of rocks. A burned road sign of overlapping triangles. She’d mentioned that it felt ominous, but he’d told her it was probably her imagination. The smile on his face when he spun her on the dance floor.

And this corner of the night. The middle of this airport service road she’s not sure how they got onto. Planes overhead, and lights in the sky, and his arm thrown around her shoulders.

It feels right, and that’s what makes it feel wrong.

“You tell it differently every time.”

“Well, I like my version better.”

She wants to look him in the eye as he says this, but her head won’t turn. She wonders why she said “every time.” They’ve never spoken about these memories before - have they?

She considers thinking about it, but chooses instead to watch the planes leave them behind. After all, it feels right, so she doesn’t worry about it.

In the morning she wakes in her own bed. There is no dive bar, no burned road signs, no weird pink sky. No airplanes. No strange memories. No one but her.

There’s a cello melody in the back of her head, and she’s not sure where it came from.

#rain writes #glory #glory music video #bastille-inspired #help what do i tag this

7 notes · View notes

andyquhyn · 5 years

Text

prompt list #4 (spotify version)

(based on my top 2019 songs from spotify, can be used as dialogue or just as ideas! also please don’t roast be about my songs rip)

Make It Alright by WILD: “Whatever we can get through is what makes us survive.”

Good Nights (feat. Mascolo) by Whethan: “We were perfect as fuck, making dreams about our lives up in the stars.”

Burn The House Down by AJR: “Way up, way up, oh no, we gon’ burn the whole house down.”

Only Got Eyes For Her by Ezra Jordan: “I’m going out my mind, thinking ’bout the one I should’ve never left behind.”

Passenget Seat (feat. Kora) by Clueless Kit: “You know this is who we are, this is what we do, driving in circles til’ we find something new, the only person I enjoy sitting in the car with is you.”

seasonal depression by mxmtoon: “We’re all just trying to get by, searching desperately for bits of blue in the sky.”

There’s Still A Light In The House by Valley: “When she crash, she brings a storm in, I kinda like the way it pours.”

RUNAWAY by half·alive: “I find that everything I am is everything I should be, I don't need to run away.”

Choke by I DON’T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME: “If I could burn this town, I wouldn’t hesitate, to smile while you suffocate and die.”

Almost (Sweet Music) by Hozier: “Be still my foolish heart, don’t ruin this on me.”

Happy Man by Jungle: “It all could be different, time to do something new, I’ve given everything, I want to be a happy man too.”

Not What I Meant (feat. Lewis Watson) by dodie: “Will I have grown a little empire, or made a fucking mess?”

Be Mine by Ofenbach: “And if you wanna fight, let’s start the show, ’cause I want you to be mine.”

Sanctuary by Joji: “Not anyone, you’re the one, more than fun, you’re the sanctuary.”

Casio by Jungle: “When all your dreams are gone, and you’re still holding on, you waited far too long.”

Wildflower by Dutchkid: “I never knew that I could love like this.”

Arms Unfolding by dodie: “But here I am with arms unfolding, I guess it isn‘t quite the end, oh, partner in crime, I’m going to try to fall in love with you again.”

Preacher Man by The Driver Era: “I’m ashamed of the dark places I have been, fix my soul so I don’t lose a love again.”

prom dress by mxmtoon: “I keep collections of masks upon my wall, to try and stop myself from revealing it all.”

Blame It on Me by George Ezra: “When I dance alone, and the sun’s bleeding down, blame it on me.”

Surround Me by LÉON: “Baby take me outside, kiss me in the moonlight.”

Work by Charlotte Day Wilson: “’Cause people come and go, but I think you should know, that I think this will work.”

Glory by The Score: “I’ll be written in the stars.”

Take Me With You by Wingtip: “Our hearts don’t break, they just rearrange.”

Cold Cold Man by Saint Motel: “You're the only one worth seeing, the only place worth being.”

Runaway Kids by HARBOUR: “We’re the runaway kids, let’s escape, we’ll get there some day.”

Monster by dodie: “Two ugly creatures, two sinister preachers, blind to the past, like a couple of monsters.”

Runaway Goliath by Mantaraybryn: “Are you just gonna stay in the shade when you were made for light?”

HandClap by Fitz and The Tantrums: “You’re like a drug to me, a luxury, my sugar and gold, I want the good life, every good night, you’re a hard one to hold.”

Swim by Valley: “Swim with me, get to someplace better, I’ll be waiting on you forever.”

home ft WALK THE MOON by morgxn: “I’m going back home to the place where I belong, there’s nothing like it.”

arrow by half·alive: “I know that I can’t run forever, but I can’t stand still for too long, this heart is afraid to beat slowly.”

NASA’S Fake by Raffaella: “Jesus Christ, gimme a break, is there a pill I can take?”

Better Not (with Wafia) by Louis The Child: “You know it in your gut you’re healing, from every time that you’ve been hurt before.”

Side Effects by The Chainsmokers: “It’s 4AM, I don’t know where to go, everywhere is closed, I should just go home, my feet are taking me to your front door, I know I shouldn’t though, heaven only knows.”

All My Friends (feat. Tinashe & Chance the Rapper) by Snakehips: “My eyes are black and red, I’m crawling back to your bed.”

So Close by NOTD, Felix Jaehn & Captain Cuts feat. Georgia Ku: “Have you ever wondered if you loved me harder, where we’d be now?”

I’m Good by Wafia: “Finally got back everything I gave to you, every part of me that I left in your room, now I really don’t care what you do, or who you do it with, I really don't care, I think I just quit.”

dream of you by mxmtoon: “I had a dream about you last night, and you said your last goodbye, I woke up to wipe my tears, although I said I’d never cry.”

Colder Shoulders by Gabe Fleck: “I can’t hide from what is destined for me.”

Last Dance by Rhys: “Oh if all we ever had was an illusion, and if we gave it every chance.”

Send Them Off! - Whethan Remix by Bastille & Whethan: “I’ve got demons running round in my head, and they feed on insecurities I have.”

Bad Days by Chance Peña: “All I know is the weight on my shoulder won’t hold me down.”

Crimes by Gallant: “And honestly I can’t keep overlookin' all your crimes.”

Check It Out by Oh The Larceny: “I’m gonna light it up.”

It Ain’t Wrong Loving You by HONNE: “Don’t care what they say, I will have my way, ’cause it ain't wrong loving you.”

wish you were gay by Billie Eilish: “I can’t tell you how much I wish I didn’t wanna stay.”

my ted talk by mxmtoon: “I’m fooling myself over something I don't know.”

Never Been In Love by Will Jay: “I’ve never been in love, and it’s all good.”

I Believe in Us by WILD: “Don’t think about the fear that much, we’re gonna be alright.”

Pure Gold by half·alive: “Wait, for the tides of change will come.”

blame game by mxmtoon: “I put my heart into us, and I was the one to crack it in two.”

Genesis by Daniela Andrade: “But first I gotta let go of the things I tried to be.”

Save Me From Myself (with NoMBe & Big Gigantic) by Louis The Child: “So won’t you save me from myself right now, right now, ’cause I feel like someone else, somehow.”

You And I by LÉON: “But in my head, oh, you say, say you still want it, that you’re done with being lonely now.”

Blue Hundreds by Holy Mattress Money: “What’s electric more than two lovers?”

I Like (the idea of) You by Tessa Violet: “I like the idea of you, wonder how it’d be to love you.”

Green by Cavetown: “I hope you feel happy, that’s all I want.”

Superlove (feat. Oh Wonder) by Whethan: “I’ve been looking at your face, it’s dangerous, making me so goddamn crazy.”

She by dodie: “I;d never tell, no, I’d never say a word, and oh, it aches, but it feels oddly good to hurt.”

Debbie by Your Smith: “What did you get me into? This always happens when I listen to you.”

Prophet by King Princess: “I can only think about you, and what it’s like to walk around you.”

Tell Me by Spencer Sutherland: “Tell me where your heart lies, and I know where your heart lies.”

Juice by Lizzo: “It ain’t my fault that I'm out here makin’ news.”

If I’m Being Honest by dodie: “Could you love this? Will this one be right?”

mime by Isaac Dunbar: “And now all I’ve got is broken bones and cheap skin to hold me.”

Maybe by half·alive: “Realize I’m at war in my own mind.”

Alps by Novo Amor & Ed Tullett: “I would break every inch of my love.”

Waiting for You by The Aces: “It’s getting frustrating waiting for you, I think you know what I want.”

Your Voice by Moira & Claire: “Your voice keeps playing inside my head like a song I can't get out.”

From Eden by Hozier: “Babe, there’s something tragic about you.”

Beige by Yoke Lore: “Let me go under your skin, and let me find the demon that drives those heavenly limbs.”

still feel. by half·alive: “Trying to recognize myself when I feel I’ve been replaced.”

Someone That Loves You by HONNE & Izzy Bizu: “Whoever said it was easy must have had it pretty good.”

Find Someone by A R I Z O N A: “Picking wings off of angels has always been my religion.”

Do It All The Time by I DON’T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME: “We’re taking over the world, a little victimless crime.”

Sick in the Head by Jackson Penn: “My love for you is deeper than the ocean.”

Boys by Lizzo: “Baby, I don’t need you, I just wanna freak you.”

bad guy by Billie Eilish: “Bruises, on both my knees for you.”

CAN’T GET OVER YOU (feat. Clams Casino) by Joji: I can’t get over you, and before I die I pray that I could be the one.”

Rather Be (feat. Jess Glynne) by Clean Bandit: “But as long as you are with me, there's no place I’d rather be.”

Chateau - Acoustic by Angus & Julia Stone: “Don't be scared of what you don't already know.”

Blue by Samuel Larson: “We swear that this is love, but we keep feeling smaller.”

Boys Like You by dodie: “You thought you could charm me, and, damn it, you’re right.”

Cherry Wine by Hozier: “Open hand or closed fist would be fine, the blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine.”

Wait by NoMBe: “Let’s make it last forever, ’cause the night’s still young.”

Rivers and Roads by The Head and the Heart: “Been talking about the way things change.”

Human by dodie: “Will you share your soul with me?”

Dinner & Diatribes by Hozier: “That’s the kind of love I’ve been dreaming of.”

Show Me The Way by Penguin Prison: “I’ve never been anyone that I want.”

The Fall by half·alive: “I’d jump off and into your arms, but if I can’t trust the fall.”

I Wanna Get Better by Bleachers: “So now I’m standing on the overpass screaming at the cars, hey, I wanna get better!”

Work Song by Hozier: “No grave can hold my body down, I’ll crawl home to her.”

Talk Too Much by COIN: “Honey, come put your lips on mine and shut me up.”

Low by JR JR: “All the looks are saying, nothing in life is free.”

What You Know by Two Door Cinema Club: “I can tell just what you want, you don’t want to be alone.”

Burned Out by dodie: “I am burnt out, I smell of smoke.”

California by The Lagoons: “I’ve been on the run, just to get a moment with you.”

Radar (feat. HONNE) by Whethan: “Tight on my grip and I won’t let you slip away.”

ok ok? by half·alive: “Felt it rippin’ me apart, to find my place among the stars.”

#prompt list #prompts #writing prompt #writing tools #prompt #writing #drabble list #tools #mine #pls dont send me requests this is just for future use and for others to use too!!!

35 notes · View notes

europeansdomusicalsbetter · 5 years

Text

Beauty and the Beast is styled to the 1800′s not the 1700′s no I will not shut up

Today’s the day I’m finally salty enough to do this. It’s taken quite some time but finally the time has come. Now, general disclaimer - I have my degree in art history, not fashion history or military history, so I am aware there will be some mistakes. I own up to this, however.

All of this is under the cut

Everyone who does a “historically accurate” Belle always always styles her much like this painting of the Madame du Pompadour by Francois Bouchet painted in 1759 (on display in the Wallace Collection in London):

If you’ve ever seen one of those redrawings, you’ve seen this or something like it. Now, the Madame du Pompadour was at the height of fashion and witticism and learning etc (don’t come at me, I wrote a 10 page paper about how she chose her own codes of representation for herself to style herself that way) as she was King Louis XV’s mistress. So if you’re going to style a princess after the 1760′s, yes this is a good choice. But alas, Belle’s yellow gown looks nothing like it:

You put the two side by side and there’s really nothing there to insinuate Belle’s wearing a gown fit for a 1760′s princess (or mistress of the King as the case may be). Instead, it looks an awful lot more like this fashion plate published in Le Follet in 1863:

Oooh check out that bell shaped skirt, those bare shoulders and arms, and that hair styled down rather than up. That’s not a dress shape you’re gonna see in an era that uses panniers. To illustrate how wildly different skirt shapes are - here’s a 1859 illustration from Punch magazine:

and an actual pannier in LACMA’s collection:

So really, if Belle’s dress doesn’t go flying out at the sides like this, it’s not 1700′s.

But you may be saying, “You can’t base everything on Belle’s ballgown! That’s not fair!” Which is a very fair thing to say. So let’s move on to Beast’s outfit in the same scene, shall we?

Beast sure cuts a nice figure in his best clothes, doesn’t he? He would be wearing the latest fashions as well, if he wants to be on par with Belle, who he loves, and is trying to show that to, wouldn’t he? Great, now that we’re in agreement, let’s look at this.

Notice how his coat cuts back to the side? That doesn’t look at all like a 1700′s greatcoat. For reference, here is a 3 piece court suit in LACMA’s collection from about 1760, on par with the stylizing people usually give to Belle’s dress by way of the Madame du Pompadour:

Notice how this coat doesn’t cut back at all but just slides down on the same plane the whole way? Notice how highly decorated it can be? We have what’s called “The Great Male Renunciation” to thank for that, which came from French rejections of bourgeoisie dress styles of the Ancien Regime. In short, men’s fashion largely did away with all decoration as seen on the court suit from above (I say largely because of course we have the dandies who rejected that, bless them). Look at Beast’s clothes again, and now let’s look at tailcoats.

Dress styles from The Great Male Renunciation haven’t really changed much, if you go digging. There’s a little fussing about pants hems - should we stay with breeches at the knee or go full length? - but for the most part the lines are the same. Case in point, the tailcoat.

The tailcoat is what one wears for White Tie - which is the highest form of elegant dress. Black Tie is under that, now think about what a Black Tie event looks like. So, fine dress in the 1800′s, what does that look like? Well, here’s an 1805 illustration for the very beginnings:

And here’s an image of George W. and Laura Bush with Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh from 2007:

Notice how the tailcoat is still there? How it cuts back rather than slides down the same plane? Let’s look at Beast again, keeping this in mind:

Yup. That’s a tailcoat. In fact, look at those pants too. What do those look like?

Oh, right, tuxedo pants with a side stripe. Which did not exist before The Great Male Renunciation.

But again you may be saying “You can’t base everything on evening dress! What about the others?! What about Lumiere and Cogsworth?!” Okay, let’s look at them. Human form, of course.

Firstly, I don’t exactly know what Lumiere is wearing there, why does he think an open vest (let’s not even try to call that a waistcoat) over shirtsleeves is going to fly at a royal party, but hey, let’s give him the benefit of the doubt of being an inanimate object for ten years, he’s still not totally up on sartorial codes.

So, his breeches and cuffs, those don’t look 19th OR 18th century. In fact, those breeches don’t look like breeches at all, they look like trunk hose, seen here on King James VI and I of Scotland and England (r. 1567/1603-1625) attributed to John de Critz circa 1605 (on display in the Museo del Prado in Madrid):

The cuffs also look 17th century as well, in fact if that’s supposed to be lace, it looks like the cuffs on van Dyck’s painting of Henri II of Lorraine painted 1634 (on display in the National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C):

Why does Lumiere look so antique, even next to the theoretical timing of the 1760′s? Probably the same reason this member of staff at Buckingham Palace is dressed for the 1700′s (excepting the hat) while helping Kate Middleton with her wedding dress in 2011:

Servants of royal households (especially footmen) don’t exactly dress for the times, as it were. They get their livery and they wear it. You’ll see footmen dressed for the 1700′s as much as for the 1800′s nowadays, but in the 1800′s? Your footmen were livered for the previous century no doubt about it.

Cogsworth, as Head of the Household, has a bit more laxity about livery than Lumiere who is...never given a title. He’s just Lumiere. Cogsworth is Head of the Household, rather like a butler, Mrs. Potts is Housekeeper, and Lumiere is...well he’s Lumiere. For arguments sake let’s make him First Footman to be approaching equal status as the others and leave it at that.

Now you may be saying again, “But! Servants maybe aren’t great indicators, sure, but what about the town?! What about Gaston?!” Well, okay.

No one looks like a weird 19th century re-imagining of medieval eras like Gaston, I guess. Look at that tunic and hose. Looks more like Phillippe le Bon, Duke of Burgundy than a 1700′s man:

(Granted, Phillippe here is wearing poulaines, a popular long-toed shoe from the 15th c. rather than boots)

19th century re-imaginings of the medieval era were very common (looking at you, Viollet-le-Duc re-imagining what Notre Dame de Paris should have looked like). Dressing like it, maybe not. But nothing about Gaston says “1700′s” to me.

(Though, neither do these two kids with a turtle outside the bookshop during “Belle” so maybe this is a weird medieval town?)

Let’s take a look at when he’s dressed up to the nines for his “wedding” shall we? Just to keep it fair. Maybe he’s having an off day, sartorially during “Belle.”

What’s that line in that wedding coat? It seems to move back into being tails like a tailcoat again. Let’s investigate further.

Yup. Sure looks like that diverts into being tails in this silhouette shot.

So Beast and Gaston are both dressed for the 19th century and Great Male Renunciation with those tailcoats, even if Gaston absolutely must keep to his color palette.

For the sake of covering all our bases, let’s talk about his gun for a second, too. Again, I am an art historian, not a military historian, so I’m not claiming to have full knowledge about all this, mind. But this gun looks like a blunderbuss to me.

Gaston’s gun

Ottoman Blunderbuss gun, Circa 1820 (private collection (Knohl Collection))

Notice the barrel shapes? You might even say Gaston’s is exaggerated for visual interest, but there was a very special gun auctioned off in 2016 by Woolley and Wallis, Auctioneers:

This is a “Fitzgerald patent flintlock signal trumpet, converted musket” that was “sold by appointment to Thomas Clio Rickman” by Willam Fitzgerald in the early 19th century and was patented in 1799.

Granted, this is not a common gun, it was patented, after all, but it does exist. And note the year of 1799, on the cusp of the 19th century, and certainly not the 1760′s.

Now you may be saying “But the Beast is a Prince! So it must be the 1700′s or the Revolution would have happened!”

The French Revolution of 1789 was a big deal, of course, and yes it did execute plenty “aristos.” Let’s not forget, however, that no one knew the Beast’s castle was there, so the Jacobins probably weren’t beating down the door of the castle anyway and planting liberty trees in the middle of Belle’s “poor provincial town” (unless that weird medieval kid was actually wearing a Phrygian Cap........)

But here’s something to keep in mind. Well, quite a few things.

When can a man have the title “Prince” in France? Well, the Ancien Regime, of course, and even further back than that. Let’s say Frankia as a starting point c.800 for clarity’s sake, all the way through 1792.

“Why not 1789? That’s the Revolution!” Well, it was the start of it, yes. And it was the storming of the Bastille. But the Revolution began with a period of a Constitutional Monarchy. It wasn’t officially a Republic until 1792, once Louis XVI’s head was in a wicker basket.

Moving on, you could be a Prince as well under Napoleon’s Empire, under the Restoration and the July Monarchy, and Napoleon III’s Second Empire. And even when those fell, people kept their titles. They weren’t getting murdered for them, after all.

Beast being a Prince does not necessitate him to have been alive before 1789. There’s a reason the 1800′s are called the Long Nineteenth Century, a lot of stuff happened really fast all the time. This list doesn’t even cover that time that the city of Paris became an anarchistic commune and so the National Guard was sent out to murder between 10,000 and 20,000 people for it.

All in all, “Beauty and the Beast” is styled to the 1800′s. It’s just obvious once you start looking at it and comparing it to the supposed time it’s equated to. Disney making it into the 1700′s in the live action remake is buying into incorrect readings of it, just like how they made the egg seller sing “That’s too expensive” during “Belle” when the original line is sung by this guy buying a jug.

#Beauty and the Beast #Disney #disney's beauty and the beast

38 notes · View notes

toddlazarski · 5 years

Text

The Best Bites of 2019

Shepherd Express

2019. The year before, hopefully. The prologue to 2020’s change, maybe. God or Kali or whomever you wish to charge with these sorts of responsibilities, willing. The end of the beginning of the end of discord, the endless fire, the storms and dread, the corruption of soul we’ve all learned to live with over the past few years that feel like a lifetime.

In Milwaukee, 2019 was the year we were rewarded the Democratic National Convention, and the year we immediately tried to grapple with how we would handle hosting the Democratic National Convention. It was the year, as if we were Austin, as if we were Portland, as if we were ourselves a plucky place of progressivism and forward-thinking, our very own food truck park opened. And, at the same time, it was the year it became impossible to log onto any social media without being inundated by hems and haws and shouting-at-cloud mewls that the city suddenly had legal electric scooters on the street. It was the year Syrian civil war refugees opened a Mitchell Street gem of kefta and baba ghanoush and good nature at the most destination-worthy restaurant in town. And it was the year a racially-charged acid attack occurred against a Latino man entering a southside taqueria. It was the year Sherman Phoenix rose, literally, out of the ashes of the 2016 Sherman Park riots. An opening that barely preceded Milwaukee becoming the first city to name racism a public health crisis.

For me, calorically, it was also a calendar stretch of one step up and one back. It was a time of too many fancy burgers, of swearing off fancy burgers, and then reading about The Diplomat’s Diplomac, and then the Birch & Butcher happy hour special, and then the other one with the ampersand (Glass & Griddle). It was the time of swearing off meat entirely, tempering that to limiting meat, trying to go “Impossible” meat, then realizing my daughter had never been to Sobelman’s. A frigid Monday, empty dining room, impossibly cheery waitress and a jalapeno and three cheese-smashed double patty was all that it took to fall back off the wagon. Or is it on the wagon? Either way, it was also the summer that felt like I spent half of, at least, inside a car with intermittently functioning AC, pit-sweating, contemplating which tiny to-go plastic container of bright green or dark red or burnt orange sauce to douse on yet another pastor taco. I ate at every taco truck in the city in ‘19, or tried, or got close, maybe. Out of curiosity. Out of assignment. But as much so out of moral obligation, as some kind of personal corrector to the current tenor of division, of strife, of unease. And as a reminder of comfort, of the spicy, dangerous, gaseous whiff of hope.

Here are some of the other ways I’ll remember ‘19.

13. Italian Beef - Rosati’s

I grew up in the hyper-regionally-specific sandwich heaven of Buffalo, NY. There a “beef on weck” order from near any corner bar or grocer or butcher will yield a horseradish-spiked roast beef stack piled within a crusty German baker concoction known as a kimmelweck—a roll topped with caraway seeds and coarse salt grains of the likes you might use on your sidewalk in February. Whether it’s a little bit drippy or dry, it will likely singe sinuses, bloviate with beefiness, finish with unnecessary and addictively enjoyable sodium-ness. Everywhere that isn’t there, you can find Western New York ex-pats gathered in some corner of some bar, Bills hatted, commiserating, whispering of favorites from places with foreign-sounding names like Schwabl’s, bemoaning the wonder of why it’s so hard. But there’s a difference between hard and unknown.

Here, Chicago’s Italian beef is another simple, but under-served regional sandwich delicacy. Offering even an apt representation of the au-jus-dripping bombs that can be found on every other corner in our big city neighbor to the south would be itself somehow singular. Rosati’s is a Chicago chain that serves just such a purpose.

Of course, aesthetically or on paper, there’s not much list-worthy about a soaked Italian hoagie roll, barely holding it’s earthy contents, leaking greasy debris all over wax paper like it was an old Saab who’s main attribute was character. But then you get closer: it’s a living sandwich form of a closeup on an Arby’s commercial, with infinite folds of beef wedged like an overfull linen closet, so bursting with folded towels you’re afraid to open the door. The thin rug of plasticky, half-melted mozz is optional. Though the glossy, shimmering hot giardiniera should be mandatory, with its oil-slickening and bright, peppy pickled punch.

But this is still a package of lizard brain enjoyment, of Ditka-esque machismo, with an essence and soul that is all two-fisted, garclicky pigout. It’s the perfect brown meal when you’ve had too many, when it’s too cold, when football is on, when it is followed by a slice of either thin or deep dish—both also apt Chicago representations here. Enjoy life and don’t be ashamed. You can love an Italian beef and still, later, after you swallow, sing along to “the Bears still suck.”

12. Sloppy Johnny - Boo Boo’s

A 6-buck price tag and a name that harkens cafeteria appetites and Adam Sandler jams doesn’t really inspire notions of much other than a nostalgic budget lunch.

But then you see one on the table in front of you, alongside the inspired rotating roster of obscure hot sauce bottles, and ideally next to a steaming bowl of creamy onion-cheddar soup. The sandwich, which derives from a New York City bodega specialty known as a chopped cheese, comes in a fresh-baked, beautiful baguette—crusty outside, pillowy inside—which houses barely visible meat, all the scrags seductively tucked under blankety rivulets of piping white cheddar and pickled peppers and rumors of mushrooms. While I used to come to this address for whiz-spattered ribeye, the Johnny is a bit perplexing in its polish. It is fat guy food all cleaned up, as button-down and put-together a presentation of chopped beef indulgence as might exist in town.

Giving the flat-topped package a second to cool off is the only challenge. Along with the lack of alcohol to wash it down, or assuage said wait. But there seems to be no other shortcomings to the lunch, or anything about the quirky, aggressively friendly spot that replaced and immediately made us all forget the Walker’s Point Philly Way. The sister biz of nextdoor Soup Brothers, Boo Boo’s shows the Milwaukee Soup Nazi’s comfort food flavor rigor and peculiar touch extends neatly to the realm of sandwiches.

11. Carbonara - Zarletti

It’s hard to balance summer in Milwaukee. There’s an at-once need to makeup for six months of living in a place where it hurts your lungs to breath natural air with an overwhelming roster of stuff to do. Of stuff to do outside. One solution might be doing something of calendar noteworthiness with a level of relaxed removal. For me I’ve found an annual tradition of attending Bastille Days’ nighttime 5K. Yet instead of stretching and putting on too-short shorts, I park myself at a table on Milwaukee Street, sip a Negroni, spoon roasted lamb and perperonata onto charry bread, and await a big, hearty pasta while watching the more ambitious sweatily charge toward a finish line and away from their true appetites.

Zarletti’s sidewalk cafe on a summer night can feel very European, very sophisticated, well-heeled. But the carbonara is at it’s core quite basic. Yes, it is the embodiment of those aspects of Roman food anyone recently back from the Old Country will annoy listeners with: simplicity, freshness. Egg, Pecorino Romano, garlic, onion. Here too there is a vomitorium-like abundance of sauteed pancetta. And a reminder of how that perfect deep bowl of al dente can somehow hit all the comfort points of all the different life epochs: childhood mac n’ cheesiness, first apartment spaghetti nights, that trip to Italy. And now, in the night’s growing darkness and fanfare, it’s a special new tradition to feel apart from the race, and part of a different one—finishing every last salty morsel of piggy meat before my stomach says to stop.

10. Tacos de carbon, desebrada, chorizo, pescado - El Tsunami

I’m not entirely sure the silky, sour creamy, Serrano-based light green emulsified salsa found about so many southside taquerias is homemade—such is the ubiquity. And, at this point in our relationship, I’ve gone too far to ask. So, I will continue to happily, ignorantly, scoop and spurt over every possible meatstuff served between National and the Airport, from 35th to the Lake.

Of these, the fare at El Tsunami holds a special sort of siren song sway, pulling me past La Canoa, away from my beloved Chicken Palace. In fact, of the two locations of Tsunami, this is the one without alcohol. And the fact it is still somehow preferred should be all the endorsement necessary. The petite counter-focused diner always feels like a happier, spicier Edward Hopper vision, especially with snow falling and cozy smoke plumes billowing about from the flattop that seems to be always full of approaching-happy meat.

In taco form, an order of carbon yields smoky, charcoal-forward, tiny-diced and juice-spurting nodules. The desebrada is a chocolatey, shreddy deep-stewed beef, with the depth and earthiness of the kind of thing grandma might cook when it’s cold out, when she hasn’t seen you in a while, when she got up real early, even by her standards, to start. The chorizo balances salty, greasy, satisfying pork bombast with foodie subtlety—what is that? Cinnamon? The pescado makes fish fries seem benign, lacking abundantly in tortillas and salsa.

There are other routes—the diablo sauce, a color only seen in dangerously fast and tiny sports cars, is a special coat for any fish dish. But it is the tacos, cilantro-y and satisfying, that remain the supreme vessel for green salsa dousing. And, either way, I’m leaving with some to go: a few containers of verde, just enough to carry a little Tsunami with me back home, to the fridge, enough to pull me through the far too many non-taqueria meals of life.

9. Any pizza - San Giorgio

Maybe it’s because I’m not a car guy, and get no thrill from “peeking under the hood,” and not enough of a cook to have much interest in “seeing how the sausage is made,” but I’ve never cared a great deal about the concept of “open kitchen.” They wear aprons, can handle industrial-grade pans, are comfortable working close to a flame—I get it.

But then I found myself for the first time at San Giorgio’s “pizza bar,” contemplating how beautiful a concept, how perfect a term, when I heard one pizzaiolo, upset about peel placement or arugula quantity or something or another say to the other, “I’ll kill you.” Huh, I thought. They really care.

While few inside the scene seem to put any stock in the VPN certification (the official delegation delineating true Neopolitan style pizza, regulating everything from oven type, to temp, to how much your dough balls must weigh—yes, it’s a bit ridiculous, and, yes, it’s a cost), all aspects of the pizza pedigree of San Giorgio show just such immense, aggressive, sure, threatening, pursuit of craft. In the Sopranos sense of the word, all ingredients, all dishes, seem to be worthy of respect.

Try the Quattro Formaggi, a delightfully oily meld of mozz, provola, fontina, and gorgonzola. Or the San Giorgio, bright with arugula and fennel, salty with crispy pancetta, topped, almost unnecessarily, somehow cohesively, with a sunny side egg. Pay plenty of appropriate focus on anything featuring San Marzano tomato carnage. As a gravy it goes well with anything from basil to spicy soppersata. As Instagrammable goopage, it is bright and popping, with no need of a filter, reminiscent of all things you picture of Italy in your mind.

It all still ties back to the beating heart. And by that, I mean the 900 degree Stefano Ferraro oven, hand-crafted, of course, in Italy. It is a muscular, room-dominating hulk, a ravishing blue-tiled beauty, fire-kissing, turning doughiness halfway to toast, letting the Maillard Effect do its enzyme action work, warming, blackening, making a messy marriage of tomato and cheese. Airy corpuscles form around the crust edge, yielding heartening bites of carb char. It is quick cooking, piping hot delivery for all satisfaction points. What pizza was for us as children, pizza can be for us again, here, downtown on a classy wine-soaked date night or pre-Giannis show.

On subsequent visits I’ve found myself, while pulling away the first slice, lifting the edge and checking the undercarriage to admire the cooking and note the sweet char. Each pizza pattern is unique from the last, like the spots on a Jaguar. So, maybe I am into looking under the hood afterall.

8. Burger - Foxfire

The last thing anyone needs from the internet is another burger list. Or even a list with burgers on them, ranked, in some kind of personal application of rules and regulations that strives toward objectivity, scientific method, a justification of juiciness pontificating.

Yet, in 2019 arriving on a listicle is the only validation. And the burger at Foxfire, served Thursday’s out of the back of Hawthorne Coffee, deserves to make listicles that aren’t even covering burgers. So, while Palomino griddles the best sit-down double-digit-dollar burger in town, and Kopp’s remains the heavyweight of gluttonous eat-in-your-car, American Graffitti old-school comfort and mouthfeel joy, Foxfire strikes the perfect balance between craft and simple. The double patty package is reasonably affordable, is cooked basically to temp, is coated with unfussy American cheese. But the availability is limited, enticingly so. It is topped with only pickle and onion. But the counter is suggestively stacked with esoteric hot sauces. It is what to have for workday lunch, generally, in a coffee shop. But the meat crust and luscious give are worthy of foodie discourse, elevated terms like elevated. The duality in a microcosm: the fries here are reminiscent of the stringy, crispy spuds found at McDonald’s; but they can be topped with little-seen Aleppo pepper.

My grandfather used to say that it is impossible to declare a “best,” that such distinction has to be qualified. He lived in the innocent era before internet lists. And, unfortunately, before being able to try the burger at Foxfire.

7. Chicken 65 and Garlic Naan - Cafe India

My wife often jokes that I only want to eat food in taco form. And they say all good jokes are based in truth. So it came in handy that my natural instinct for bread-as-vessel kicked in when, aggressively, irresponsibly, I ordered my Chicken 65 “extra hot” at the Bay View Cafe India. Within two fork bites it became clear something, anything, more than water, was needed to extinguish, to buffer, to assuage boiling buds. Garlic naan was handy, was originally used like a starchy tongue sponge, and then, somehow inspired, I packaged all subsequent chicken bites within the cozy, garlicky, craggy confines of the bendable bread. Thus my version of Indian tacos was born. Built out of necessity, maintained out of deliciousness.

The Chicken 65 has long been my Indian deep-menu go-to. Huge-bite, deep-fried chunks of tender boneless chicken, bathing in fiery, oily, red-orange stew chocked with hunks of pepper and onion and curry leaf. With its shimmering finish and intense afterburn, it’s a dish that often feels like a turmeric-laced Southern Indian version of Nashville chicken.

Apparently nobody really knows where the dish name came from—some claim the number just refers to the birth year. Others, to either the number of chile peppers or the number of pieces of chicken. It doesn’t matter, historians likely have just had too difficult a time stopping eating, or slurping water, or fanning the mouth. But now at least we all have documentation of the dawn of the Chicken 65 taco.

6. Chicken Shawarma, Kufta Kabob Sandwich - Pita Palace

Sometimes go-to’s are made by convenience, sometime laziness, maybe it's economics, every now and then it just comes from plain exceptional, ceaseless taste, of the kind you never tire of, week after week, appetite after appetite. When I became Iucky enough to stumble into a house purchase a pita toss from this sprawling Layton Ave chateau of Mediterranean comfort food, the “go-to” calculus began to spin endlessly, like a slowly turning vertical rotisserie.

From hummus to arayes to lentil soup, all of the counter service spot’s dishes ring true. But it’s the sandwich section that brings me back, never wears out, with cheap, voluminous meat torpedos nestled inside tender, stretchy shrak bread. They are made of tight, but ambitious construction, braced by pickle buttons, onion and tomato wedges. The chicken yields variable cubes and scrags of spitted meat, some crisp, some soft, velvety garlic sauce making the bundle swim, sing. Or there is the kufta kabob, two skewers-worth of beefy, grainy-textured links, slicked with creamy tahini, the whole deal rife with mint, parsley, sumac, and the kind of otherworldliness that you watch Bourdain for a taste of. Kick either up with a side of the piercing, pungent Thai chile garlic sauce, a sauce with a confrontationally acidic spice profile, a flavor reminiscent of little else at all, just this side of a manageable amount of mother-in-law spleen.

It’s the kind of place you spot from the air on approaches back to General Mitchell, a giant red neon glow of ‘Welcome Home;’ the kind of place your realtor might not mention, but you find it and know your property values will sustain, that it will also salve rote Mondays of yawns and kitchen ennui for years to come. It’s the kind of place you are endlessly happy to live near by, for when you don’t know what to cook, or, really, even when you do.

5. Xiao Long Bao Dumplings - Momo Mee

“Eat with care” the menu warns, an enticing challenge, like something you might find on a waiver from a restaurant you learned of from “Man vs. Food.” To me it reminds of an internet-learning wormhole of food blogs and Youtubes on where to find the Shanghai delicacy in a back alley shop in Chicago’s Chinatown. And then, more challengingly, more importantly, how to actually eat a dumpling filled with soup. As an experienced Xiao Long Bao taster—twice—I can state the process is mostly so: Put a drop of soy sauce in your soup spoon, lift the dumpling from the top, place in the spoon, nibble a tiny hole in the top as a steam valve, slurp some broth out, and then, when the temp feels right, shoot it like an oyster. Then you sit back and feel worldly, self-satisfied, sated.

But as long as you don’t puncture and spurt, or, really, as long as you “eat with care,” you are bound to end up happy, letting umami zest and warm salty pork wedges in hand-crafted dough baste the tongue. The disparity of eating this, here, in the base level of a building seemingly still warm from the factory, hits with the arrival of the steaming bamboo basket. Or, really, with the Schezuan wontons, or the Cantonese claypots—anything you can order amidst the plasticizing Walker’s Point condo sprawl. As the neighborhood loses its soul, it’s character, one more hastily constructed Millennial molehill at a time, Momo Mee more than holds the line.

4. Alambre - La Flamita

Certainly one of the buzziest events in town this winter would have to be a recent Ash Kitchen takeover, featuring James Beard-nominated Minnesota chef Jorge Guzman. The spot, an open hearth concept from Dan Jacobs and Dan Van Rite, is the new restaurant of the Iron Horse Hotel. The event spotlighted Mexican street food. Yes, at one of the priciest hotels in town. Black beans were $6; rice, a cool $5. And while probably delicious, probably well-intentioned, it sounds a bit like paying Fiserv prices to see a really great high school team: gimmicky at best, condescending at worst, and to any that spend time contemplating what and how we eat, a bit puzzling. If you want taco truck fare, why don’t you go to an actual taco truck?

That very same Sunday night anyone with the hankering could have taken a short cruise west, on National, and subjected their appetites to La Flamita’s weekly special of one-buck pastor tacos. Cut by a big man with a large knife, direct from the trompo—one of the few of the Lebanese-rooted vertical spits in town—greasy, salty, piggy turns of earthiness are spiked by pineapple hunks, upped by arbol salsa that pokes through each bite like it has something to prove. Or, even better, it being Sunday and a day of fun after all, you could have an alambre. Mix your pastor with asada and with chorizo and with gooping, melting queso, the whole thing congealing into a warm, grandmotherly embrace of a taco mix mash, everything punctuated by peppers and onions. Plopped on top is a steaming baked potato, because they want you to be happy, full.

It is the ideal meal for someone who can’t decide, yes, but also who wants it all, who won’t settle, who wants to soar, like Costanza on the wings of Pastrami, to an Epicurean taste fete of grease and meat sweat pleasure. But you can also stay comfortably on the street, barely 12 bucks in the hole, with leftovers certainly, alone in the car, beyond judging eyes or the formalities of waiters, to ponder life and appetite decisions, and wonder how many more you have room for.

3. Tlayuda - La Costena

If you have little kids you probably go to the Domes 300 times or so per year, or so it seems; and because it’s there, you probably go to Honeydip Donuts across the street maybe just a few times less. Heading south then, passing La Costena and it’s beckoning redness, the HGTV optics of an A-frame mini house-cum-taco truck is refreshing, promising in its cutesiness, alluring if only for the hope of something different.

And different it is. Start with a pastor, my personal barometer of a taqueria’s worth. So often simple scraps of salted pink pork do the trick, but here it is decidedly less piggy, moister, deeper, somehow more seasoned and cheffy. Or try the asada, a 100-level taco order, but here redolent of butcher freshness, liberal salt, flattop love. Really you can tell from “hola,” by the friendliness, by the slowness, by the perfectly-quoted wait times from the counter man: Costena may well be the premier taco truck in town.

Then, working your way through the menu, you get here, to a Mexican pizza, a NYC-slice-consistency, corn-shelled ship of salty flavor. The tlayuda is basically begging for you to take a picture, posturing with the bright allure of the flag of our neighbors to the south, popping with the reds of tomato and chipotle salsa, the greens of lettuce, avocado, the whites of queso, svelty sour cream, it all kept grounded by a swab of creamy refrieds, topped by a generous smattering of your carne of choice. Objectively, that choice should be chorizo, the grease-running ground sausage bits so rife with garlic, so equally charry and wet, that it makes any other kind of meat cover seem a bit tepid, a bit too-healthy.

And sometimes this is how traditions are born, out of a need to get a little person out of the house, out of a desire to let them sleep off dreams of cacti and sausage fruit trees from Namibia in the backseat while dad sates creeping hunger and insoluble curiosity. Such is the joy of family, when you realize even proximity to Sobelman’s, to Oscar’s, can be beat, by this, a whole new world of car-meal, of pizza-esque joy, of something different. Long live the Domes.

2. Brisket Burger, Hot Chicken Sandwich, Pimento Cheese, Cheese Curds - Palomino

It’s hard to keep track: Where are we all now on Palomino? Are we still mad they raised prices? Disappointed that it’s less bar and more restaurant? Stuck in a provincial mode that makes us yearn for cheap frozen tots and Bingo? Are we upset that they took a look in the mirror, didn’t coast, made an effort, and made their food much, much, much better? Or have we all just kind of forgotten it?

Maybe I shouldn’t question. Just appreciate the fact I can walk in on a Friday night at 8, find whatever table I want, or a spot at the bar, and order any one or combo of my favorite things to eat in Milwaukee.

There’s no better way to ruin an appetite and a doctor’s wishes than starting a feast with the curds. Elongated oblong bricks of a battered, sheeny shell, barely housing liquefying magma ooze, seem to get almost transported from fryer to wherever I’m sitting and leaning forward. Such is the temperature, the still oil-shimmering, post-bath promise. Stretchy and rich, airy and crispy, endlessly goopy, it’s a snack only matched in Southern-leaning decadence by the pimento cheese. This is piquant-popped velvetiness, the dream of what grown-up grilled cheese can embody, when plopped atop the accompanying charred toast.

It takes will, recklessness, irresponsibility to keep going at this point. The hot chicken thigh, barely saddled inside a buttery brioche, is helped by two things: greasy slicks of mayo and house hot sauce aid gullet passage; also the heft is constructed so that if you put it down, it might fall apart. One must push forth, in delicious punishment. Then there is the brisket burger. No other burger in town is so good at avoiding overtopping, overhyping, overpricing, a balance of kitchen art and pleasure. Like it is no big deal: fresh ground meat, American cheese, onion, pickle, silky mayo-y special sauce. Here is what it would feel like if you could sit down at a Bay View bar and eat a Kopp’s masterpiece sided by an IPA on a chill Friday night, where you can also remember your growth-spurt 16-year-old appetite, even while pushing 40.

If there were ever a case to be made for it being OK to find a rut, to never stray or explore, to find your caloric Cheers and never think about going anywhere else, Palomino would lead my argument.

1. Bahn Mi - Pho Hai Tuyet

There’s rarely a person that borrows my phone that doesn’t make the comment, the note: “You have a Pho Hai Tuyet app?” It’s there, near the front, proudly prominent, a bit out of place near Lyft and Instagram because it’s a by-the-airport dive in a converted fast food shack with endless out-of-commission fish tanks, and, for some reason, a stage. It is also known, has garnered a bit of a cult following for a fat guy sandwich of near-perfection. Or, it was, actually.

Pho hai shuttered quietly, but inevitably, to anyone who’s been recently, sometime between this past spring and the future of our discontent. Still there was shock to those of us who thought the sandwich would always be there: the big French baguette bed, crispy, succulent pork scrags, garlicky mayo, heaps of cilantro, crispy jalapeno punches.

To write about it hurts, like a eulogy, where you need to remember the bad and mix it with the strange to paint a picture. As it happens I have a friend who informed me that, once, while eating inside, he could hear something audibly scampering in the ceiling panels. Out of loyalty, out of sandwich-love, I practiced willful ignorance. I have another friend, a writer sort, who sports a Pho Hai polo shirt in his author bio pic. It seems like some sort of hipster ironicism, unless you know how much he loves—loved—the sandwich. And, really, what are we but not physical manifestations of our past meals and meal memories? A collection of those calories and reminisces.

Even as we look ahead, to more eating, to big city, big event pedigree, to maybe ending the national embarrassment, to 2020, to a promise of new vision, as we yearn for responsibility and reason, to, well, to... who knows? Whatever happens, whatever is next, I will never delete my Pho Hai Tuyet app.

2 notes · View notes

scintillating-galaxias · 5 years

Text

i’ll be the wind beneath your wings (ch. 2)

chapter two of my swap gift for @peppervl! if you don’t want me tagging you every day when a new chapter gets posted here, let me know :D all chapters will be available to read beneath the tag ‘ibtwbyw’ and it is also available on ao3.

(read it on ao3!)

Rain lashed against the panes of the windows, demanding entrance through the cracks in the glass. It was not used to being wholly barred access from any building in London. There were always tiny holes in roofs, ever a misfitted window to trickle through. But not this building.

Aziraphale huffed as he pushed a massive cherry bookshelf across the floor. It did not occur to him that this would scuff the flooring, so it didn’t. He would have liked to use a miracle or two to arrange everything correctly, but given he had to be rescued from the Bastille because he wasn’t able to perform more ‘frivolous miracles’ (just the thought made him roll his eyes), he probably shouldn’t.

He dusted his hands off and stepped back to examine his work. His heel collided with a chest, and he only just managed to catch himself on a large wooden crate. When he nudged it out of the way, it caught on a loosened rotting bit of flooring. Perhaps he should have made the proprietor stay just a little while longer so they could at least get some base remodeling done.

Moving into his new shop was thrilling, but he was sure his mouth was going to fall right off after all of the smiling and talking and agreeing he’d had to do to move things along. And he still had to deal with the vast amount of books, scrolls, tablets, art pieces, and other assorted trinkets he’d acquired over the centuries. Presently, they were all carefully wrapped and stored away. Inventory was going to be a nightmare, especially after learning the ship coming from France to England carrying the last of his items had gotten caught in this storm. It would be fine, hopefully ( probably Aziraphale insisted), but for now, all he could do was wait.

As he surveyed the scene, he could not help but feel that the shop was paradoxically cluttered and empty. The floor space was open enough right now, but there were pillars of books sprouting from partially unloaded crates all over the place, and even more shoved against the walls. Corners glinted with cobwebs hanging over planks of unassembled shelves. Furniture, some purchased new, some not, was shoved into one such corner for the time being, covered in brown paper to protect them from the wax drippings from the dull candle holders just barely clinging to the barren walls. Aziraphale watched as a draft of wind finally succeeded in sneaking through the space to blow out one of the candles with an acrid puff of smoke.

At that moment, a dull thud sounded from his door.

“Goodness,” said Aziraphale. Someone must be seeking refuge from the storm. Of course, as a host of humble Heavenly virtues, he would oblige—so long as they did not touch the books. He bustled over to the door, fussing with the rusting lock for a brief moment before wind tore it from his hands and slammed the heavy doors open with a startling bang, revealing a huge, hunchbacked figure.

“Come in!” he exclaimed. “It’s positively dreadful out there.” A flash of lightning illuminated a familiar sharp face. “Crowley? What are you doing out here?”

“Hey, angel.” Crowley looked, to put it in the gentlest terms possible, terrible.

His hair, usually so meticulously styled, hung in lank, dripping strands around his shoulders. His sunglasses were missing, and his eyes were entirely yellow—a sharp contrast to the black and blue bruises sprawling all across his jaw and his cheeks. The hunchbacked shape could be sourced to his wings, which were out and held awkwardly.

Aziraphale gasped. “What happened to you? How—?” He reached out, but Crowley harshly smacked his hand away even as he leaned towards him. Unbalanced, he careened into the doorway and swore loudly.

“‘M sorry,” he hissed, clutching his shoulder. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

Crowley’s eyes rolled up and he pitched forward. Aziraphale rushed to catch him, stumbling as Crowley collapsed into him. He grunted and lowered them both as gently as he could to the floor, a task hindered immensely by Crowley’s massive wings.

“Oh, my goodness, alright—down we go, that’s it, dear boy…”

God in Heaven, what had happened to him? Aziraphale’s hand went to his mouth as he knelt beside Crowley’s crumpled form. For the longest time, he could only stare in mute horror at the still-bleeding cuts littering Crowley’s body, the blooming black bruises, and his wings, oh, his wings. He had to look away.

“What happened,” he mouthed again uselessly. His hands hovered fearfully over Crowley’s body, desperately wanting to do something, but equally resenting the possibility of causing harm instead. Even as he sat, Crowley moaned dismally into the floorboards and curled in on himself a little more.

“S’rry,” he slurred, more breath than a distinct syllable. “Gimme—gimme a sec—hah, fuck… ”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale said. “You’re in hardly any shape to talk, let alone do something foolish.” A low rumble of thunder shook the floor. “You’re in my care now. Let me help you.”

“S’not… you don’t have to help, I know you don’t want to.”

“Just what is that supposed to mean? Of course I do.”

A tremor went through Crowley’s body, and Aziraphale realized he was laughing. “‘Cause yer ‘n angel. Tha’s it.” He paused. “Maybe if I was something else. Wasn’t a demon, you’d want to. I get it.”

“That just isn’t true!” Aziraphale snapped, hurt, though he did not know why. It was not as though Crowley was wrong; he did want to help, and yes, it was likely a result of his angelic nature. But was that truly all? It mustn't be if it stung this much. “I’m moving you to the back of the shop. Someone could see you. Hold still.” As if anyone else would be out in this storm when the rain was as hard and cold as blades, and the wind struck as hard as a whip against the creaking walls of his shop.

He spent a moment figuring out how to best move Crowley without aggravating him. Or rather, aggravating him the least, because it seemed not one square inch of flesh had been spared from some grievance. Aziraphale very badly wanted to snap his fingers and transport Crowley’s body the twenty or so feet he needed, but again, Heaven was closely watching him. Forget moving a shelf. If they caught him using miracles on a demon to heal him instead of outright killing him while he was at his most vulnerable, the consequences would be far worse than a letter of condemnation.

He said he knew you wouldn’t want to help him, and he came anyway. He said he had nowhere else to go, and he came to you. Answer him; will you let him die? Will you let him die because you are afraid to do what you know is the right thing?

Aziraphale uttered an unsavory phrase under his breath and deemed Crowley’s right shoulder to be in the best condition to be handled. “I’m picking you up now,” he told Crowley, who did not react to his voice or the hand he placed on her shoulder. He pulled Crowley up, draped one arm over his shoulders, and stood slowly, waiting for a whimper of pain, a gasp, or a curse. All he got was a faint, “M’ugh.”

Aziraphale slowly dragged him towards the back of the shop, skin crawling as the limp ends of Crowley’s listless wings left streaks of blood on the floorboards so dark they almost looked black. All of the clutter moved aside under his glare, creating a path to what would eventually become his nook. In it sat a new sofa, a desk whose surface was hidden beneath haphazardly stacked piles of books, and a few more unassembled shelves. He snapped his fingers as he approached. The sofa stretched to become much broader and longer, probably more so than necessary, but there was no time to be picky. Another snap and an array of squashy pillows appeared at one end.

“I’m going to try to patch you up,” Aziraphale said as he carefully sat Crowley down into a slouched seating position. Crowley’s eyelids blearily twitched open. Aziraphale sucked a breath in through his teeth. “They roughed you up, my dear, but that won’t be a problem. You’ll be raring to go quicker than you can say ‘crêpes!’”

Crowley groaned again at that. “You and your bloody crêpes. S’why I got caught up in the first place.”

A horrible chill shocked his body. “What?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. It’s—Shit, ow — Don’t worry your pretty head about it, angel.”

“Pardon me, but why the hell should I not worry?”

“Later.” Crowley slumped sideways against the pillows, carefully keeping his wings out of the way. “Just—if you’re serious about helping, talking’s only going to make me die quicker.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “We’re talking about this later,” he warned. “But for now…” A fluffy white rag appeared in his hand. “You’re probably going to want to bite this.”

Aziraphale collapsed into his armchair, shoulders, neck, and hands aching something fierce. Exhaustion pricked his eyes, a sensation he had been more than happy to leave behind in the chaos that was the European Renaissance. His discomfort was likely nothing compared to that of Crowley, who was fast asleep on the sofa and bandaged and cleaned up to the best of Aziraphale’s ability. The bruising and swelling faded with minimal trouble at least, but the same could not be said for the rest of Crowley’s more grievous injuries.

When it came to cleaning and closing of the lacerations, Aziraphale had almost wept at the sheer amount of cuts and gashes littering poor Crowley’s body. It’d taken hours to close all of them; Crowley’s flesh heavily disagreed with his holy touch, flaring up angrily if he sustained it for more than a minute. It had taken them well into the night, possibly into the early morning, to heal all of the cuts he could find. Most of them would leave scars. Aziraphale prayed—no, that would probably worsen the process— hoped they would fade with time.

Setting the broken bones of his fingers and wings was easily the most taxing portion. He’d healed the fingers alright but had only gone so far as to splinting Crowley’s wings. Coaxing the wayward shards of bone scattered in the lean muscle of Crowley’s wing to return to their places had taken everything he had. By the time he finished, he was too exhausted to deal with detailed, meticulous work like rearranging Crowley’s feathers back into their usual sleek uniformness, so they were still bent and broken in huge patches, stiff with blood.

Despite that, he felt he’d done what he could. He wished, gaze lingering on the colorful strips of bruises peeking between the bandages, he could do more. But his reserves of medical supplies were already woefully low before Crowley had stumbled inside, plus he had started running on fumes of miracle energy about four hours ago. He felt scraped empty and raw. But Crowley was not in danger of dying in his sleep and that was going to have to be good enough for the time being.

Crowley’s face pinched as he mumbled into his pillow in his sleep. Aziraphale bit his lip.

Maybe one more miracle.

He wearily held up his hand and murmured, “May you dream of whatever you like best,” and snapped his fingers. An unpleasant zing went down his arm, but he could forgive it as Crowley sighed contentedly and seemed to fall into a deeper sleep. “I’ll be here. Rest well, my dear,” he sighed.

Satisfied, Aziraphale slumped back down in the chair and settled his chin on his chest, absently rubbing his thumbs. His gaze lazily roamed about Crowley’s body for any cuts he may have missed or had been reopened. Crowley had set his progress back a couple of times when he’d awoken with Aziraphale’s hands on him. Evidently distressed, he reacted the way anyone would expect a scared and injured person to react: thrashing, yelling, hitting, hard, wild unrecognition blazing in his bruise yellow eyes. It made Aziraphale ache in a peculiar way. You’re with me, he wanted to tell him as he shushed and consoled him, you’re with me, you’re safe here, what’s the matter with you?

Eventually, Crowley passed out a final time. He had not awoken since, but the feeling still had not settled. It prickled Aziraphale even now, prodding and persistent like the loose threads of missed stitches in his clothes. But as insistent it was, it could not push through the rubbery numbness of exhaustion. Introspection could happen later. He needed some rest.

A cracking yawn forced its way out of his chest. Crowley had lauded the glories of sleep on a few occasions. Perhaps now would be the time to see what the fuss was all about. Just a few minutes, and he’d be ready to go.

He took one final glance at his unfinished packing job, at the scattered books, the trail of blood, and then, at last, at Crowley.

“Be right here,” Aziraphale said quietly as he finally let his leadened eyelids slip shut. “Right… here…”

#peppervl #goholidayswap #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #hurt/comfort #wing grooming #swearing #drugging #happy ending #queerplatonic relationship #changing pov #canon divergent #my writing #ibtwbyw #fanfiction #good omens fanfiction

2 notes · View notes

ladyhawknell · 5 years

Text

The INTRO of epic love...

Okay so I have been analyzing the hell out of the beginning of the episode. Here's a few bits of fun to make you believe they are in fact in love of you are not yet of that persuasion.

The defining shift happens when they are in the globe theatre.

Aziraphale gets overly involved in the "to be or not to be" bit. Crowley offhandedly mutters a few lines of poetry. This is the point right here, that the line is drawn.

Crowley - Age does not wither, nor custom stale his infinite variety.

Enobarbus - Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale. Her infinite variety.

The line is from Antony and Cleopatra by none other than Shakespeare. Enobarbus is saying that Antony cannot get enough of Cleopatra, he is overwhelmingly attracted to her not because of her beauty but because her fascinating unpredictability and range of moods.

Crowley changed the poets genders, yes he is looking at the stage but he has no connection/affiliation with the man on stage only the one next to him.

(Sidebar- another great writer used a similar phrase.

“I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite variety,”

It was one Sherlock Holmes, in the Return of Sherlock Holmes, but it was said by Sherlock in reference to a bust he had made of himself. To fool someone into believing he was at home in 221b while he was in fact not. )

After the line is delivered, Crowley walks behind and to the other side of Azeriphail, and their normal banter resumes. But what I found interesting is after Crowley delivers that line he's got ants in his pants. Pacing. For me this is the moment that Crowley realizes he has an 'attachment'. Feelings. Those things which as a demon he should most probably not have...

Still unbelieving?

Okay, move forward a few lines, when Crowley is trying to convince Azeriphail to use their 'arrangement' Azeriphail's main concern is not about getting into trouble himself. His worry is completely for Crowley.

"But if Hell finds out, they won't just be angry, they'll destroy you." Let's just say, "because he's an angel he cares more about people" fine look at his face. Therein lies naked fear. Eventually Azeriphail gives in and they honor their agreement.

Azeriphail is deemed to be the one to ride off to Scotland. Shakespeare makes the statement "It'd take a miracle to get anyone to come and see Hamlet."

With a raise of his eyebrows Azeriphail get Crowley, to make it bappen. Not a word and Crowley gives in, beyond gives in, more like gifts him. 'My treat'.

The look of elation on Azeriphail's face sends Crowley scampering off.

Want the final nail in the coffin? It is after this that Crowley begins referring to Azeriphail as Angel.

Still not enough? I have more.

Paris 1793 - The Bastille

So before they both had kind of just happened to run into one another, except when Crowley wanted Azeriphail to take the Scotland job. In Paris, Azeriphail is in Trouble. With a capital T. Funny thing is Crowley has no reason to be there. The beheadings are not his doing (he says so) he's not looking for Azeriphail to make use of their agreement. But by pure chance, he is lucky enough to be there, just in the nick of time... I don't think so.

So for the naysayers we could say that by watching out for a Azeriphail, Crowley is watching out for his own investments… which maybe. But. I'd lean more towards watching out for something he has… well doesn't hate. (wink)

Crowley's first appearance in the cell he is, langid. Slouching. Disinterested.

Azeriphail's reaction is excitement. Happiness. Then a quick once over of Crowley and a feigned indifference.

Other than Crowley using Angel for the first time. Crowley saving the Angel from the French and the guillotine, which for his side is all but a sin. Not a lot happens to move them forward but lunch, and us learning about Azeriphail's love for food.

No one of the Oh. damn. Someone has F.E.E.L.S. bits is the St James Park, London 1862. (By the by is about 70 years later)

BIG things are afoot in this snippet.

First Crowley seems worried. Wary. Distracted. He's usually so fluid. He's rigid.

Crowley asks for a favor. Which he knows is not.part of their agreement. An agreement that is finally made known to us.

But the BIG thing is when Azeriphail reads his note. The look on his face. Afriad. Then Pleading. His face stays along those same lines while Crowley's is detached and distant.

Until.

Until the word fraternizing. Crowley's face goes feral. He all but hisses the word in question.

Yes he's upset that Azeriphail will not get him the holy water, but it's fraternizing that sets him off. Like being introduced as 'just a friend' when you thought it was something more.

Azeriphail's response of "Well, whatever you wish to call it." Only intensifies Crowley's rage.

(Sidebar- fraternize - associate or form a friendship with someone, especially when one is not supposed to.) Cough. Cough.

So. There's that. If they were just friends why would that word elcite such a scathing comment as "I have lots of other people to fraternize with, Angel."

Azeriphail's response of "of course you do."

Is shot back with Crowley's biting "I don't need you."

Followed by Azeriphail's "well, and the feeling is mutual, obviously."

Followed by a mocking "obviously" from Crowley.

Written word cannot carry the feelings that the auditory tones invoke. Anger. Hurt. Confusion. Self righteousness. Spite. Azeriphail storms off in a huff.

Moving onto the air raid in the church bit … which by the by. Of there is any question about how much they care about one another… I do t.know what to tell you. Because Crowley goes into a church. A Demon willingly goes across consecrated ground to save his 'friend'. Yes Azeriphail has to handle the big guns of saving them from the bomb strike. But Crowley is kind of at a disadvantage here.

I mean.

Demon.

In.

Church.

But the part that strikes feelings. Is that Crowley goes into a church. (To save him. AGAIN. cough. cough. He depends on Azeriphail to save them from the bomb strike. And knowing the other man so well hel thinks of something that Azeriphail does not. Of Saving something that he loves. His books.

The look on Azeriphail's face. You'd have to be deaf (not hearing the romantic trill playing) dumb (willfully obtuse of all previously presented facts) and blind (His. FACE.) Azeriphail's heart is not on his sleeve… it's on his face, his lit up like a Christmas tree face.

We are now at the SoHo snippet.

After his little sneaky sneaky meeting he climbs into his Bentley. And there he is, Azeriphail.

He knew that against his worst fears (Crowley getting zapped into nothingness by the holy water, by accident or suicide) he would have to help his friend.

The music playing is sad.

But by far the saddest bit of possibly the entire series is when Azeriphail talks about someday.

"Perhaps one day we could, I don't know. Go for for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz."

And then heartbreakingly and confusingly, "you go too fast for me Crowley."

Okay. I have tried to find some hidden meaning some link to some poem, song, ode, piece of literature. And I cannot REMEMBER wherein I've heard it before. (yes it's a simple phrase. But it strikes a chord.)

In flat black and white: all inflection, music, prior conversation wiped away, the line could be taken quite literally.

After all Azeriphail is actually terrified of Crowley's driving… but.

But…

His tone is not chiding.

His face is not amused.

Maybe he's talking about something else.

Maybe.

- and that's just from the 20ish minute history lesson.

#goodomens #ineffible husbands #demon and a angel #that intro tho

9 notes · View notes

humble-wayside-flower · 6 years

Photo

“Sometimes things that are the most beautiful are the things that can hurt you the worst.”

“Watching, Potential, Learn, Grow, Provoke, Consume, Reward, Patience”

“Adapt”

Part 1 | Spotify

Episodes 31 - 48

Mostly- Vian Izak (Fjord puts on a lot of fronts, but at his core he’s just trying to hold on through it all.)

I'm mostly scared I am mostly unprepared I'm a mess I've lost most of myself as the waves came crashing down I'm a wreck I've bought up all my dreams and sold off most my heart I'd been lying to myself just to bury all my thoughts

Journey of the Sorcerer- Eagles (The Mighty Nein are finally at rest for a week, so Fjord takes the opportunity to do some personal exploration. A song for walkabouts and dead ends.)

Instrumental

Where’s My Bow?- The Goat Rodeo Sessions (The Mighty Nein journey to Nicodranas. It feels good to be back on the coast, and even more so to see Jester so happy with her mother.)

Instrumental

Man or a Monster- Sam Tinnesz feat. Zayde Wolf (He’s growing stronger, but his powers grow darker, and what was supposed to be a simple mission goes too far too quick. The Djinn, Algar, and Drowned Spirits.)

When you close your eyes, what do you see? Do you hold the light or is darkness underneath? In your hands, there’s a touch that can heal But in those same hands, is the power to kill Are you a man or a monster?

Is This Thing Cursed?- Alkaline Trio (The first of many Mistakes. A song for using brawn when brains would do better.)

Is this thing cursed? This goddamn thing's the worst Now one look in that direction And everything starts to hurt Is this thing cursed? It's been around for years And every time my boat's about tits up That goddamn thing is near

Waves- Dean Lewis (Difficult conversations are always easier at night. A swarm of Jellyfish light up the ocean, and Jester is illuminated in a way that Fjord hasn’t experienced before. They talk of sadness. One moment really can change everything.)

But there is a light in the dark And I feel its warmth In my hands, in my heart But why can’t I hold on? 'Cause it comes and goes in waves It always does

Eat You Alive- The Oh Hellos (Fjord is not a brave man, a daring one perhaps, a reckless one often. Flirting with danger both figuratively and literally. The Mighty Nein meet Captain Avantika.)

She'll string you along and she'll sell you a lie But there's nothing but pain on the edge of a knife There is no courage in flirting with fear To prove you're alive

Madness- Ruelle (Dream #4. How many must come to their end to meet these goals? Kill your darlings, control the ocean.)

Feel the fury closing in All resistance wearing thin Nowhere to run from all of this havoc Nowhere to hide From all of this madness, madness, madness Madness, madness, madness

The Pirate that Should Not Be- Rodrigo y Gabriela (The Yuan-Ti Temple, Uk’otoa illuminated, an orb freely given, and the subsequent escape.)

Instrumental

Way Down We Go- Kaleo (Bedding down with monsters is never a good idea. Fjord makes a lot of mistakes. Usually he learns from them. Sometimes he just keeps making them.)

Oh, 'cause they will run you down, down 'til the dark Yes, and they will run you down, down 'til you fall And they will run you down, down 'til you go Yeah, 'til you can't crawl no more And way down we go-o-o-o-o

Bottom of the Deep Blue Sea (Stripped)- MISSIO (Dream #5. He swims down further and further, following Avantika into a dark, deep hole. Shooting stars, initiates, orbs, and betrayer gods. They say bad things come in threes.)

The berth surrounding my body crushing every bit of bone The salt, it seeps in through the pores of my open skin I wait on you inside the bottom of the deep blue sea I wait on you inside the bottom of the deep blue

Giants- Lael (Sometimes the things you love can hurt you worst. Fjord, and Vandran, and the realization that sometimes the people you think you know best are the people with the most to hide.)

You greeted me with your warm eyes And extended out your hand Somehow I knew that I could trust you To teach me how to be a man Then we grew up together I studied the world as you studied me We built an empire fit for two but I only saw what you let me see

Swimming Pool- The Front Bottoms (Do what you have to do. A distraction his friend’s lives depend on. Fjord and Avantika, and also a little Fjord and Jester, but mostly about being in over your head but not wanting to or being able to back out of the deep end.)

There's comfort in the bottom of a swimming pool I'm holding my breath for you There's no doubt in my mind that if you could then you would try To crack my ribcage open and pull my heart right through How low is your self esteem And how low could it possibly be? I know, I know you're in love with me And I've been ignoring you

Legends are Made- Sam Tinnesz (A line is drawn in fire. The battle on the docks of Darktow.)

I've got that lightnin' inside me Son of a God I'm like a titan that's risin' Oh just you watch I'm steppin' into fate There is no time to waste I've got that lightnin' inside me This is how legends are made

Waking Up the Giants- Grizfolk (Fuck you Avantika. Like David fighting Goliath, the Mighty Nein make it out of Darktow, alive and together. Onwards to the site of Fjord’s shipwreck.)

We're the rhythm of the darkest nights We're the truth that's been left unspoken We're the shadows far beyond the lights We're waking, waking, waking up the giants Sail away, the water's rising Leaving all regrets behind us Right before we fail, we'll find it Right behind the storm it was hiding

Somewhere to Belong- Rationale (Vandran gave him a family, a purpose, a place to call his own. It’s why he uses his voice, and ultimately why he’s here now. Being on his old ship again is not as overwhelming as he expected, but it feels strange, nonetheless. It was his home for so long, and then it just wasn’t, taken from him just like that.)

I'm just a dreamer Just waiting for a hand to lead the way I should be stronger Deep down I'm a child still trying to find a way I can hide away Somewhere to belong (All I really want is somewhere to belong)

Grip- Bastille, Seeb (The second orb is located, its powers absorbed, but his curiosity is still hungry. Uk’otoa commands provocation, and provoke he does. He bleeds and bleeds, and at the last moment he pulls back, thank the gods for that. A song for two people feeding each other’s worse impulses.)

We don’t know what’s good for us Cause if we did, we might not do it Who knows where our limits lie? We won’t discover ‘til we push it Cause the devil’s got my arms And it pulls me back into the dark But I should just walk away Walk away, oh it grips me

h d w g h- Stop Light Observations (The Happy Fun Ball…happens. Fjord finally learns his lesson about touching things just because he can and comes to terms with how close he came to losing his best friend.)

How did we Get here?

Canary- The Ballroom Thieves (A rift has formed between them, but all is not lost. Fjord and Jester. A song for Rebuilding.)

When did my tongue begin to slow me Let me take my time while keeping pace We break it down, the right and wrong The thorns and roots I grew before I knew you Witness all these pretty colors Learning to behave, this ain't no race Hear me through this dying day And all the words that were not meant for you

Celestial Police- Worrytrain (It is a close call, but the curiosity is finally sated. He can put this down now. The third orb and the escape from the temple.)

Instrumental

New River- The Oh Hellos (The return to Nicodranas is bittersweet. Sweet because Jester can see her mother again and they can regroup after this harrowing journey. Bitter because of the news the empire brings of war, war that has touched his friend’s homes. He feels guilt for keeping them away for so long, but also determination to get them home.)

Let it come down, let it come down Let it make in you a new river I know the winds from the south have the waves riled up like a hungry mouth And your stomach goes hollow at the thought that it could swallow you whole Well, it'll rain for forty days and nights, and nothing you do can slow the rising tides But the river takes her shape from every tempest she abides And like her, you'll be made new again

Finally- James Arthur (After all is said in done, Vandran is alive and making amends. There are other things to accomplish right now, but just knowing that he’s out there is incredible.)

If only it ain't been like this Now I can hold my heart in a fist And all the voices leave I can finally put it on my sleeve Oh, if only they'd really seen it Maybe they would finally believe me When I say I've won And my father gets to see his son That he can feel proud of

#fjord #captain avantika #critical role #Jester #the mighty nein #cr2 #critical role spoilers #my playlists #vandran

23 notes · View notes

lemon-writings · 6 years

Text

Playlist: Hamish

The atmosphere of Hamish is best described as “sad, vaguely religious, and dark”, and this playlist conveys that pretty well, in my opinion.

Happy Pills - Weathers

We can go to my house if you wanna / Hang out in my bedroom, lose your honor / Even if they find us, we're apathetic / And they can't take that away

The voices in my right brain are kinda funny / They tell me "take a deep breath, it's always sunny" / But where I leave the lights on / It's so obvious that my life's pretty plain

Choke - I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME

Now shut your dirty mouth / If I could burn this town / I wouldn't hesitate / To smile while you suffocate and die / And that would be just fine / And what a lovely time / That it would surely be / So bite your tongue / And choke yourself to sleep

You get everything you want / And money always talks / To the idiot savants

Daddy Issues - The Neighborhood

I know how much it matters to you / I know that you got daddy issues / And if you were my little girl / I'd do whatever I could do / I'd run away and hide with you / I love that you got daddy issues / And I do too

I keep on trying to let you go / Not even let you know / How I'm getting on / I didn't cry when you left at first / But now that you're dead it hurts / This time I gotta know / Where did my daddy go?

Go ahead and cry little boy / You know that your daddy did too / You know what your mama went through / You gotta let it out soon, just let it out

“From Now On We Are Enemies” - Fall Out Boy

What good comes of something when I'm just the ghost of nothing?

I'm just the man on the balcony singing: / "Nobody will ever remember me, " / Rejoice, rejoice and fall to your knees

Lunatic of a god or a god of a lunatic? / Oh, their faces are dancing / They're dancing til / Til they can't stand it / A composer but never composed / Singing the symphonies of the overdosed / A composer but never composed / Singing: / "I only want what I can't have"

Heralded as a king before I had a birthday / With double digits / Fit the crown to my head but I was only a kid

After the Storm (feat. Tyler, the Creator) - Kali Uchis, Tyler, the Creator, Bootsy Collins

Whatever goes around eventually comes back to you / So you gotta be careful, baby / And look both ways before you cross my mind

So if you need a hero (if you need a hero) / Just look in the mirror (just look in the mirror) / No one's gonna save you now / So you better save yourself

I know it's hard / But do you even really try? / Maybe you could understand / When all you had to do was ask / And just open your mind / When everything is passing by / And all you had to do was try / Yeah, all you had to was try

Garbage Bin - Tiny Little Houses

I don't want to go back home / I don't want to see my folks / Just gonna hold my breath and maybe with some time I'll learn to float

I need a little bit of money and a little bit more time / I keep on losing my friends to suicide / And it don't get much better than this / I hate to break it, but, the longer that you try / The less likely that you will make it / I don't want to be alone / I don't want to die at home

I think I’m getting depressed / It’s always me against the world / I’m well aware I’m egocentric / And it’s going to hell

Relapse - Divided By Friday

I don’t wanna be somebody falling into relapse / Every time I see that smile again / I just think of when you said “I love you, / But I don’t think I can be the one.” / And, the truth is, we could’ve been happy, / But you would not believe in me

And, no, I can’t pretend I’m fine / With the life you left behind / Or keep on hoping that you change your mind.

Happy Little Pill - Troye Sivan

I’ll take a dip into the / Unknown, unknown

Oh, glazed eyes, empty hearts / Buying happy from shopping carts / Nothing but time to kill / Sipping life from bottles / Tight skin, bodyguards / Gucci down the boulevard / Cocaine, dollar bills / And / My happy little pill / Take me away / Dry my eyes / Bring color to my skies / My sweet little pill / Tame my hunger / Lie within / Numb my skin

Bad Blood - Bastille

We were young and drinking in the park / There was nowhere else to go / And you said you always had my back / Oh but how were we to know / That these are the days that bind you together, forever / And these little things define you forever, forever / All this bad blood here, won't you let it dry?

If we're only ever looking back / We will drive ourselves insane / As the friendship goes resentment grows / We will walk our different ways

Mama’s Gun - Glass Animals

Dirty Dustin, said he saw him / Playing ball with Dizzy Jim / Dizzy Jim had never spoken / Whispered back, "You murdered him" / My heart strings broke and it was me / I pull, they stretch infinitely

Play with me, my love, in the summer sun / I'll be waiting in your favorite Cheshire grin / Lay with me, my dear, in the evening clear / I'll be dreaming in my paper-pale skin

Wires - The Neighborhood

Mr. Know-it-all had his reign and his fall / At least that's what his brain is telling all

If he said "help me kill the president" / I'd say he needs medicine / Sick of screaming "let us in" / The wires got the best of him / All that he invested in goes / Straight to hell, straight to hell

He tells me to be raw / Admits to every little flaw / That never let him sit upon the top / Won't tell me to stop / Thinks that I should be a little cautious / Well, I can tell the wires pulled

I'm having trouble in believing / And I just started seeing / Light at the beginning of the tunnel / But he tells me that I'm dreaming / When he talks I hear his ghosts / Every word they say to me / I just pray the wires aren't coming

Dirty Laundry - Bitter:Sweet

I'm just a bad girl, that's why we get along / Won't make excuses for anything I'm doing wrong / I'll pull the trigger in a flash / Watch out honey, step back

What's the fun in playing it safe? / Think I'd rather misbehave / We're simply mad / Simply mad

DeMarcus Cousins & Ashley - Hobo Johnson

I love breathing, pizza, Santa Claus and Jesus and other things that feel real nice to believe in / I love drinking, but not enough to ever have to go to all those stupid meetings (Let's go)

I love you like the stars love lonely eyes, ah / On seven consecutive Friday nights / I- I love you like the dog hates the leash / And the leash loves the dog, like I love nothing else at all

Father - Hobo Johnson

He told me son beware, of the monsters / That roam the depths of your head / Sometimes they'll make you real sad or / Or real real mad, or real real jealous and / That's real real bad, boy breathe / Nicotine until you fall asleep like all of our family

My father's married to a shape shifting monster / Who can sometimes take the form / Of a really really really nice woman

Evil Woman - Electric Light Orchestra

There's a hole in my head where the rain comes in / You took my body and played to win / Ha, ha, woman, it's a cryin' shame / But you ain't got nobody else to blame

Ha, ha, woman, what you gonna do / You destroyed all the virtues that the Lord gave you

Ha, ha, funny how you broke me up / You made the wine, now you drink the cup / I came runnin' every time you cried / Thought I saw love smilin' in your eyes

The evil woman (you're an evil woman) / The evil woman

Bang The Doldrums - Fall Out Boy

This city says / Come hell or high water / Well, I'm feeling hot and wet / I can't commit to a thing / Be it heart or hospital

Best friends, ex-friends 'til the end / Better off as lovers and not the other way around / Racing through the city, windows down / In the back of yellow checkered cars

The tombstones were waiting / They were half-engraved / They knew it was over / Just didn't know the date

Tap Water Drinking - Lewis Del Mar

The night’s getting wobbly / It's seven in the morning / And I should leave you probably / But everything else is boring

I want to drink your water / A tap from the Caribbean / Forbidden fruit's in season / Cherry lips and fresh peaches

Sex in the City - Hobo Johnson

Beautiful people only live in downtown / And midtown and not around where I stay / Is it their brain that really matters / Or their character that flatters / Or dependent on their beautiful face

Wait for It - Leslie Odom Jr.

Death doesn’t discriminate / Between the sinners / And the saints / It takes and it takes and it takes / And we keep living anyway / We rise and we fall / And we break / And we make our mistakes / And if there’s a reason I’m still alive / When everyone who loves me has died / I’m willing to wait for it

I am the one thing in life I can control

Hamilton doesn’t hesitate / He exhibits no restraint / He takes and he takes and he takes / And he keeps winning anyway / He changes the game / He plays and he raises the stakes / And if there’s a reason / He seems to thrive when so few survive, then Goddamnit—

Grave Digger - Matt Maeson

I can't run to you, father / I need love / I can't talk to you, mother / I know it's got you caught up

But tell me if I run away, how long will I bleed? / So, tell me if I run away, how long will I bleed?

I'll be tryna suck all of the liquid out the dirt / Tryna catch a curve, digging my own grave! / Ooh, mama

Archive - Mal Blum

And the hotel where I slept that night / Was surely haunted, then / Because every hour, I woke up feeling / So watched and wanted and / I think I remember that from when we met / Which feels so insignificant / Or maybe odd now to admit / It's all in retrospect, oh

Pretending I was sane / And giving up / The things I love the most / Because they felt like pain

We don't believe in ghosts and such / We watch the hunt incredulous / But cannot look away

We're gonna die and maybe it's gonna be alone / We're gonna die and maybe it's gonna be alone / And no one will find the things we left behind

Do It All The Time - I DON’T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME

No need to cry / I'm only doing anything I want to do / Because I do it all the time / (Do it all the time)

Now we're so young / But we're probably gonna die / It's so fun / We're so good at selling lies / We look so good / And we never even try / Get your money from a trust fund / Do it all the time

Pretty Little Head - Eliza Rickman

Hook, line, and sinker / Drop it down to the bottom / Butterfly float, flicker, soar to the top / Kill for the thrill / Cut it, stick it where you got him / Circle Rolling Under, running red to the stop

Boy, where's your mother? / Fall down dead / Dirty mind, dirty mouth, pretty little head / I wish you were here, I wish you'd make my bed / Dirty mind, dirty mouth, pretty little head

Take a breath, my heart, and hold your tongue / It's just a cog in the year of all my love

Peach Scone - Hobo Johnson

They're just really good friends, and that's fine / He understands, it's rational

Hi, what's your name? How are you? How’s your life? / Oh, you got a man? Are you in love? If so, what type? / Is it just platonic, strictly just as friends / Or the type that ties you two together 'til tomorrow’s end? / If it is, disregard every time I call you pretty / Though it’s meant sincerely, it’s just my imagination drifting

And I love the thought of being with you / Or maybe it’s the thought of not being so alone! / Hey, the second one’s way sadder than the first one / But I don’t know

Shit, I love being—I love being loved, but / Don't like crying on the phone

Wait - The Dear Hunter

I lost my faith when I was young / I clenched my fist to bite my tongue

Then I said wait / Are our bodies really piles of dirt? / And is the soul just a metaphor? / I keep my eyes from looking too far up / I fear that there is a heaven above

I stood in lines to bow my head / I'd fold my hands and speak in tongues / To whisper worries to the dead / But I could tell no apparition heard a single word I said / But I'd still call my fear in to the air

Is my body really part of the earth / And is there blood running through my veins? / I'll know when I turn to dust / But I fear the answer isn't enough / So, will I never know heaven or hell? / Or is eternity something worse?

I hope there's not a heaven above

bury a friend - Billie Eilish

What do you want from me? Why don't you run from me? / What are you wondering? What do you know? / Why aren't you scared of me? Why do you care for me? / When we all fall asleep, where do we go?

Today, I'm thinkin' about the things that are deadly / The way I'm drinkin' you down / Like I wanna drown, like I wanna end me

Step on the glass, staple your tongue (Ahh) / Bury a friend, try to wake up (Ah-ahh) / Cannibal class, killing the son (Ahh) / Bury a friend, I wanna end me

It's probably somethin' that shouldn't be said out loud / Honestly, I thought that I would be dead by now (Wow) / Calling security, keepin' my head held down / Bury the hatchet or bury a friend right now

Killer - The Hoosiers

I hate my work, but I'm in control / I'm fearless now, but it cost my soul

Blood red lips, they shake like leaves / You're flesh and blood, but what's underneath?

It's alright to scream, I'm screaming too / Why do you think I do these things I do? / For shadows haunted me like ghosts / So I became what I feared the most / I conduct fear like electricity / A man made monstrosity

This Is Home - Cavetown

Often I am upset that I cannot fall in love but I guess / This avoids the stress of falling out of it / Are you tired of me yet? I'm a little sick right now but I swear / When I'm ready I will fly us out of here

Are you dead? Sometimes I think I'm dead / Cause I can feel ghosts and ghouls wrapping my head / But I don't wanna fall asleep just yet

Exit Music (For a Film) - Radiohead

Wake from your sleep / The drying of your tears / Today we escape, we escape / Pack and get dressed / Before your father hears us / Before all hell breaks loose

Breathe, keep breathing / Don't lose your nerve / Breathe, keep breathing / I can't do this alone

And you can laugh a spineless laugh / We hope your rules and wisdom choke you / Now we are one in everlasting peace / We hope that you choke, that you choke

Human - Jon Bellion

There's someone gorgeous in my bed tonight / Yet I'm still petrified that I'll die alone

I'm just so sick of being human

I got no guts to tell the one I love / That she's the reason that I wrote this song / And that's some coward shit, I know it's sus / But Lauren call me when you hear this song

Shrike - Hozier

Words hung above, but never would form / Like a cry at the final breath that is drawn / Remember me, love, when I'm reborn / As a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn I'd no idea on what ground I was founded / All of that goodness is going with you now / Then when I met you, my virtues uncounted / All of my goodness is going with you now

Jesus Christ - Hobo Johnson

I've been on the wrong side of a bunch of arguments lately / Momma, I may never come home again / Momma said, "There's nothing wrong with being happy" / Happy trails, but Momma, I'm just feeling so alone / Momma said she's busy working, spending time with that other guy / But Momma, I just wanna come home / "But home is where your heart is, boy, at least you've got a phone"

Jesus Christ, you're super nice / But don't expect much from me, I / Would kneel down, but I'm afraid that I would just feel nothing Praise God / And other things that don't make sense to puny minds / Like ours, designing roller coasters that almost always seem to fall apart / Ain't it fun, ain't it fun, ain't it fun

Jesus Christ, you're super nice / I'm sure that you could love me / Even if I don't go to church every Sunday / Jesus Christ, you're super nice / How could you let me burn? / If I'm not murdering people, then smashing their fucking urn

#playlist #spotify playlist #hamish #hamish playlist #novel playlist

5 notes · View notes

softandfruity · 6 years

Note

hey! do you have any advice for a level history? and a levels in general? organisation, friends, just anything like that? thanks! (i'm taking all humanities btw)

Oh boy oh boy, let me tell you. A level history is tricky, there’s a heck load of content but honestly I find it to be kind of the opposite to a subject like English Literature. See for history, yes it may take you a while to understand/ place the content into context, but once you understand how to write essays, you’re prepared for any question. So here’s my tips for how to get to that point:

- CONDENSE NOTES Okay so when it comes to lesson time, i just scribble down notes, usually use one coloured pen for titles/ important information, and try to understand what’s going on. After lesson, I write up these and add any information from textbooks that i didn’t get down. Now we start condensing, this doesn’t have to be right after lesson - it’s usually on weekends or when I have free time during half term. We go from notes, to mind maps and timelines, to flashcards. This way you get all the vital information summarised in the mind map and timeline and then get to see everything in context. The flash cards I place on small cards, on one side I have for example “year of the storm on the Bastille” and then I’ll put “1789” on the other side. It’s also good to get the vital statistics and small widgets of info down that are good to use in essays like number of lynchings in 1915 etc.

- ESSAY WRITING I’m going do a more extensive post on this at some point but it all comes down to the mark scheme. I went from getting 13/20 in one essay to 19/20 by just learning how to game the mark scheme. Learn a bank of words that allow you to evaluate the importance of events, such as consequently, similarly. The phrase that you will develop a love-hate relationship is “this was significant/ important because”. Keep a look out and I’ll try to upload the post some time in the next week ;)

-REVISION If you have done the first step, you should be all set for revision. I only did History for three months before finals (I switched subjects half way through a year) and I came out with a high B through going through flash cards the couple of weeks leading up to the exams. I like to sort them into three piles: those I know after the first try, those that take me two rounds to get right, and those I just need more time to study. I’d then go through the “know” pile every week or so and the rest everyday - it’s a good method to learn those facts that get you “good knowledge” written in the margins.

- A LEVELSAs for other humanities subjects, I do English Literature and to be honest I find it very different. However, with any essay subject it’s always a good idea to look at the mark scheme and learn what it wants. For subjects like History it’s a game changer, less so for English because you never can really know what question you get but knowing the mark scheme and knowing how to write essays is crucial.

As for A Level life in general, one of the best advice I can give you is just use your frees and make your revision resources as you go. During the week I usually revise maybe two or three nights after college and then dedicate one of Saturday/ Sunday to revise. If you make your flashcards now, you will thank yourself a million times over when it comes to any sort of exam. It’s this element of organisation that really makes your life so much easier - get yourself a planner (or a bullet journal if you’re into that) to write all deadlines, work experience, or exams - even if it’s a little notebook that you then copy onto a calendar at home.

Friends wise, friendship groups do change but it’s definitely not a bad thing - I met some great people during my first year. But also make time for yourself and hobbies. As my frees worked out, I had Monday mornings off so I would go swimming in that time, Wednesday afternoons we also had off so I would go out with friends or see my boyfriend, and the one day on a weekend I just spend chilling with friends and recuperating. Just take it easy, it’ll be okay. Good luck!

#studyblr #a levels #a level history

30 notes · View notes

chaotic-theatrical-weaver · 2 years

Text

i was the match and you were the rock (maybe we started this fire)

A 6,590-word exploration of the fraught relationship between Elena and Izzy, which rewrites and expands upon incidents of Izzy’s childhood that received only brief allusions. Yes, some segments are copy-pasted between perspectives; call it lazy writing if you will, but I call it deliberate parallels. The title comes from the official Elena/Izzy dynamic song, “Things We Lost in the Fire” by Bastille. Enjoy (or suffer through, as I certainly did).

This story is dedicated to my beloved mom, whose seemingly endless wisdom regarding parenting has done me immeasurable good both in the world and in writing this character study. Having never been a mother myself, I felt a bit doubtful initially as I began to write this piece, but her unending encouragement and support kept me writing it in spite of my doubt.

In the aftermath of the fire, Elena’s mind was a racing, restless storm.

First of all, she was enraged at her daughter’s lack of gratitude. She should have known in the end that such a child would cross the final line that way and do something that could very well have gotten them all killed. Goodness, what she wouldn’t do to have that girl thoroughly punished upon her return: some far-off, distant school, perhaps; a convent; maybe even jail time once the police found her–and they would find her, she told herself in spite of the beginnings of doubt taking hold, they had to eventually.

Didn’t they?

Her worry set in along with the gravity of the situation, a deep, heavy weight sitting on her chest. For the next few days, she would work tirelessly, making desperate but ultimately fruitless attempts at reaching Izzy’s friends and putting up posters and flyers and anything, anything to keep Elena’s hope of finding her from crackling out, dying, ceasing to be.

She felt that candle flicker and found herself faced by a new, unsettling darkness, a void whose unbearable possibility had haunted her from well before day one. Since Izzy had entered the picture, the idea of losing her was not simply an idea, a terrifying worst-case hypothetical that was unlikely to ever come to pass, but a genuine threat that loomed over their heads, casting shadows that they were never able to truly understand or come to terms with. It was not only about losing her to death, but to any number of an endless list of morbidities and ailments the doctors had warned could befall her. Who was to keep her from being mistreated by the other children, by the adults who were meant to protect her, if she were disabled or otherwise in poor health? Would they all just take from her a normal childhood if that were the case, purely for reasons out of her control? Who was to make sure she was able to live independently as she matured–worst of all, if she could not, who was to take care of her once Elena and her husband were too old and feeble to do so?

And so Elena worried. Her philosophy was always about order ensuring the world would be perfect, but now, it was no longer about the world at large; it was about her world, which was somehow larger and more all-encompassing than she ever could have imagined. The order she had so trusted in and abided by had suddenly failed her, but rather than turn from the only guiding principles she had ever known and leave herself defenseless against the world, she doubled down on the only defense she had. Order would not fail her this time, she vowed; if she could have everything laid out and prepared and go exactly according to plan from now on, she would not fail her daughter. She observed Izzy and her every move like a hawk, watching for signs that order would fail her again, signs that she needed to redirect before it happened.

Izzy, age sixteen months, was on the floor, playing with stacking rings Elena had recently bought for her. Was her hand fumbling the beginning of a tremor? she wondered, only to quickly chastise herself for vaguely entertaining the thought. I don’t know, perhaps she’s only a child beginning to learn her way around her fingers and it’s not reasonable to expect her to get it right all the time! Why can’t I just be happy for her when this is an important milestone and she’s three months behind? As guilty as she felt for her concern, it continued to linger in the back of her mind and sat there, unspoken but ever-present.

Izzy, age four, kept from swimming, from burning, from drowning. “But, Mom, I don’t get it! It isn’t fair! It isn’t fair! Lexie and Trip and Moody get to swim in the shallow end! I could stay with them, I promise!” she had shouted from her position, shaded by an umbrella and covered in sunscreen while sitting in the security of a sunchair. Elena, in spite of these protests, rationalized her unwillingness to concede. I’m just keeping her safe, though it was really herself she was protecting.

“You may not, and that is final. If you spend your time whining about it, we are going home and your siblings’ fun will be ruined. Do you want that?”

“I don’t care! You’re so mean!”

“Izzy, calm down,” she ordered, beginning to lose her patience. Lose her patience–they were at a public pool! Other parents are patient enough to put up with this–what is wrong with me that I can’t? But she remembered her duty and would not let herself bend. I can’t let her break me when I’m the adult here. She’ll survive in the shade regardless of what she says, and I shouldn’t be made to feel guilty for protecting her. A week from then, Izzy dove into the deep end and needed rescue by the lifeguard. After flying into a panicked, outraged tirade, Elena concluded that Izzy’s impulsivity was precisely the reason she needed that kind of protection. “Don’t you understand, Izzy? You could have drowned!”

Izzy, the following winter, her first time sledding down the hill. She had been looking forward to the snow for days and woke in pure bliss to find a blanket of powdery white around her home. Eagerly, she gobbled her breakfast and dressed in the somewhat uncomfortable winter bundles without complaining. Her siblings gleefully sledded down the hill in multiple different configurations–backwards, bellies down, all three at once, and at one point, Trip even stood up–to much applause and cheering from Elena.

Then it was Izzy’s turn. She packed her little body into the sled tightly, deciding to go down belly first. “Whee!” she exclaimed, feeling the thrill of racing downwards with increasing speed. She was a free, weightless bird, and nothing could stop her! She could hear her siblings cheering her on, and everything was right–

until she tipped over halfway down. She was unharmed, if a little dazed for a few seconds, and began to proceed back up the hill as if nothing had happened. There was Elena, speeding down the hill to check on her, ensure she hadn’t broken any bones hadn’t hit her head hadn’t hadn’t hadn’t–of course, none of what she imagined was true, but she was faster and taller than Izzy, who was, for all her determination, still a small child weighed down by layers and layers of warm winter clothing. Amidst cries of “I don’t want to leave!” that increased in volume and intensity, Elena scooped her up and brought her home. That evening, Izzy snuck out of the house, unencumbered by layers and out on her own dangerously freezing terms, and dragged Moody’s sled across the street. She sledded down the bank of the duck pond and landed on top of its frozen waters four times, only stopping after she attracted the notice of a neighbor, who then called her parents. After examining for signs of injury or hypothermia and warming her back up, Elena had her grounded for the next week and kept her under close, anxious guard. “You never let me do anything!” Izzy yelled between sobs, feet stamping. “You never let me do anything and I hate you!”

“After all the trouble you’ve caused, Izzy–what is wrong with you?” Hit by immediate regret, but unable to act on it, she retreated. What kind of mother thinks that about her own child, let alone allows the words to leave her mouth? And yet she did not know how to make the apology she so desperately longed to. Those words were penned in her throat behind a dam, and how was she to begin to explain herself? Why even try when she knew it would not excuse her, it would not keep Izzy from realizing that as much as she presented herself as a woman who had everything, behind closed doors, she was out of control, unequipped to cope, and hardly the good mother she wanted the world to think she was? What kind of mother would find it easier to cut than to heal? As much as she found herself in need of help, who would help her upon realizing who she truly was? Perhaps she just didn’t deserve any.

And so she remained silent.

Izzy, age seven, making a timeline of her life for a school project. “Do I have any baby pictures, Mom?”

Elena was taken aback. There were pictures, yes, but none of them were developed. Too painful to remember that time of fragile, precarious beginnings. Had they ever really left that time? Sure, Izzy was older now and had grown into a strong, healthy child with no signs of any of the problems the doctors had warned about, but if anything, that fear had only increased with all the incidents she had managed to tangle herself in. Where does anyone begin with that story? It’s not just about me–would there be classmates taunting her for being “weak” if she presented this, when in fact she is anything but? Children are cruel and the world in general does not take kindly to differences. The simplest answer: nothing. She would just have to start her timeline from a less heated point and avoid getting burned that way.

“Why don’t you start from when you were a bit older? You have so many happy memories from when you were a little kid…”

Izzy, ever trusting of her mother, had accepted this. Until she realized one day going through Lexie’s room for some clandestine baked goods that Lexie’s own timeline made under the same teacher had a picture of her coming home from the hospital at three days old. That was the day her suspicions fell into place: Lexie had been wanted, as had Trip, as had Moody. Izzy was just…Izzy, a particular disappointment without reason, whose faults were more noticed than her triumphs. While all the Richardson children felt this, given a few more years, Lexie and Trip would begin to use it against her, and Elena would default to what was easiest, even as the words that had been building behind the dam were threatening to drown her. What kind of mother doesn’t take every opportunity to assure her children they are loved? At the same time, she wondered whether Izzy would even believe her, wondered what kind of mother sets up such a dynamic in which her own love could be taken for lies in the first place. Perhaps it was better to avoid seeming false–and still her heart ached with a longing to speak that Izzy was never aware of.

Izzy, age ten, a suddenly picky eater for reasons unknown to Elena. Upon being asked about it, Izzy’s only response was, “I’m sorry you can’t see that those poor, poor animals are being mistreated and killed so we can have food to eat!”

“Well, I’m sorry that I care more about your nutrition and that I don’t want you becoming anemic! Izzy, what is this? Some kind of fad going around your class?”

“It’s not a fad–”

“Have you even done all your research? You’re only ten!”

“I will have you know that I am old enough to see the injustice of the world, including that which you are now inflicting upon me–”

“You do know that my work writing means I really only have time to cook one meal for everyone, right?”

“Oh, don’t go pulling your work into this if you truly care–”

“Isabelle Marie Richardson, you ungrateful child, I will have you know that I care more than you realize with you sitting on that high horse of yours and fancying yourself the pinnacle of morality. Do you not understand that my job writing is a necessity to provide for you and your siblings? I help with your school functions, I employ our housekeeper, I pay for our vacations. So if you really think it’s that easy, I’d like to see you cook your own meals without suddenly refusing to eat them because you don’t think they taste good enough for your impossibly high standards!”

“But, Mom–” Izzy pleaded, terrified that she was in fact ruining their family, a fear Elena only recognized in hindsight.

“I’ll have none of that. You will cook for yourself if you really care as much as you claim.” Elena left with the final word, but she regretted what she had made it. She shouldn’t have guilt-tripped Izzy, she should have been more open-minded, she should have acted on her knowledge that Izzy feared she was ruining the family and been gentle about that. Why did she have to be so sharp and cutting and harmful towards them both all the time?

Surprisingly, Izzy rose to the challenge and learned how to cook for herself, but on one occasion, she had too much homework for cooking her own lunch to be feasible, and so she went without. Elena received notice from a concerned teacher, and upon being asked about it, Izzy conceded, swallowing her pain at turning from her principles because of a single error.

Izzy, continuing to prove that she did care about the animals’ suffering, had attempted to sneak into the Humane Society shortly thereafter in an attempt to free all the stray cats. Elena had only caught wind of this after the fact and came to the scene quickly, scolding her for getting herself into a situation where she could very well have been kidnapped or injured, not to mention the possibility of disease transmission. “They’re like prisoners on death row!” Izzy protested.

“Do you care more about these animals than your own family?” Elena asked. “You had us all worried, Lexie will be late to her volunteer work with the soup kitchen because I had to drive here to come find you, and this is your only excuse? This isn’t cutting it, Izzy. I am very disappointed in you.”

Izzy was promptly banned from sleepovers for her misbehavior. “If you can’t behave at home, Izzy, we can’t trust you to behave at someone else’s house.” She began sneaking out at night and returning with little items collected from nature, then feigning ignorance as to where they came from in the mornings.

Izzy, age eleven, her teachers reporting that she often sat alone at recess. Elena, concerned her daughter was being bullied, inquired as to why. “Well, Mom, it’s not that deep! You don’t have to worry! It’s just that volleyball is hard. Sometimes the ball is inches away from my hand and I just flat-out miss. And honestly? It’s not like I’m missing anything if I don’t play volleyball anyway. I’m protecting myself from everyone else! They send the ball going out of control and, you know, I need to keep my head attached to my body somehow!”

“But don’t your best friends play volleyball?”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t matter to me, I promise.”

Elena, still wondering if Izzy was hiding something, decided she would fix her daughter’s clumsiness by signing her up for ballet class. “Why do I need to do this stupid dancing anyway?”

“It’s not stupid, Izzy. It’s going to improve your coordination!”

“What does my coordination matter to you? Is this about me not playing volleyball? ‘Cause I can guarantee you, I’m not covering for anyone, no one’s being mean to me because I’m ‘just decent,’ and therefore, I don’t need to do this!”

“Look, you’re ‘just decent,’ as you just said yourself. So there’s room for improvement! Don’t you want to be able to play with your friends?”

“Mom, for the last time, I get to talk to my friends and do things with them outside of volleyball! It’s not like it’s my ‘only social outlet’ or like I’m a weird, friendless loner because I don’t play!”

“Izzy, we’ve already paid for your classes,” Bill interjected. “All we want is for you to try it for one term. Just one term, and then you can quit.”

“Oh, yeah, right. ‘Just one term.’ The way that ‘one more spoonful’ is just ‘one more spoonful’ to a small child. It’s all a giant lie. You’ve turned the promise of freedom into a carrot dangling from a stick and expect me to be the dumb donkey who will do whatever you want to take it. Why didn’t you ask me first if it’s supposed to improve my life?”

“Isabelle Marie Richardson–”

“Perhaps you’re the one who’s embarrassed that your daughter is clumsy and that she brings dishonor to the family for being only merely decent at sports–”

“Calm down, Izzy–”

“Trip set the bar high, didn’t he?”

“Izzy, that is not what we’re asking and we’re not comparing you to Trip. Can you please stop that–”

“I am not going to stand by while you push this garbage sport on me to make yourself feel better about my existence–”

“This conversation is over.”

“But–”

“Now.”

Elena had won the battle and made sure that Izzy attended all her classes. However, she sat down on the floor each time, refusing to move, and for the recital, she had written the words NOT YOUR PUPPET on her face in the biggest, boldest block letters that a hand mirror could aid her with, standing still and stiff as a board at center stage.

Izzy, age thirteen, a wearer of black clothing. Probably too much of it. Was she perhaps becoming depressed or falling into the wrong crowd? Elena had heard too many stories of such teenagers. Aiming to prevent that from happening to Izzy, she had encouraged her to “lighten up” by purchasing an array of brightly-colored dresses for her and privately telling her that she could open up to her at any time–”I don’t want you becoming like those kids who lose their way.” Izzy had rejected both suggestions and taken the bus downtown to give the dresses to a random homeless person on the street. She was grounded for a month; Elena considered sending Izzy to counseling but decided against it, fearing that her daughter would struggle socially if word got out.

Izzy, age fourteen, suspended from school for attacking Mrs. Peters with the halves of her own violin bow, growing closer to Mia because sure, she knew by then she shouldn’t have done that, but no one tried to see her motive was simply loyalty to Deja, who had always been one of the few orchestra members who had shown her kindness. No one but Mia, that is, who carried the same spark she did and was willing to help nurture it. Izzy, growing closer in their mentorship because she had felt that Mia loved her in ways her own mother did not, as Elena was realizing all too late, staring it in the face as it sat on Mia’s table, reading her pictures, her art, her insight into the world. Izzy’s portrait: a rose made from her beloved leather boots. Only an inverse, a flipping on its head, a turning inside-out. A small, delicate flower being swallowed by the darkness surrounding it.

What kind of mother remained silent this long and allowed this to happen? She and her insistence on order had driven Izzy away, separated her enough from society to see its hypocrisy. Of course she had it torched to the ground at one of its deepest roots. Hadn’t Elena been the same long ago, when her idealism had been the kind that let its sparks fly and bore the flame proudly, questioning the rules that seemed unjust? When did she learn to tamp it down and follow the rules blindly until she became part of the injustice instead? And now her daughter was lost and alone in her efforts to find the one who had made her feel like a free, active participant in her own story–all her worst fears had now come true, and she had only herself to blame. Letting out a wail that was an expression of everything she had left unsaid all these years, she vowed to spend the rest of her life aiming to right this wrong, searching for Izzy, that lost part of her soul in more ways than one, until they were reunited, until the burning in her longing, incomplete self was quenched.

------------

In the aftermath of the fire, Izzy burned.

She burned with sorrow and yearning, yearning for Mia and for the life she had opened her to, sorrow that it had been taken away, that the Warrens had been taken away.

She burned with anger at her family, her family of hypocrites and liars. They had all played their roles in taking them away in the first place. Lexie, for using Pearl’s name, her reputation, her identity to save herself; Trip and Moody, for using and betraying Pearl; her father, for helping the McCulloughs steal Bebe’s child; and her mother most of all, for…

For ruining all of them a million little times by her lack of love.

“You may not, and that is final. If you spend your time whining about it, we are going home and your siblings’ fun will be ruined. Do you want that?”

“I don’t care! You’re so mean!” Why was it always about the suffering she supposedly inflicted on others? Why was it never about the quiet injustice she suffered?

“Izzy, calm down,” her mother ordered, beginning to lose her patience.

A week from then, Izzy took matters into her own hands, dove into the deep end, and needed rescue by a lifeguard. Her mother flew into an outraged tirade. “Why can’t you listen to me?”

until she tipped over halfway down. She was unharmed, if a little dazed for a few seconds, and began to proceed back up the hill as if nothing had happened. There was her mother, racing down the hill after her, promptly scooping her up and carrying her home, even as she cried, “I don’t want to leave!”

That evening, Izzy snuck out of the house, unencumbered by layers and out on her own dangerously freezing terms, and dragged Moody’s sled across the street. She sledded down the bank of the duck pond and landed on top of its frozen waters four times, only stopping after she attracted the notice of a neighbor, who then called her parents.

Her mother had her grounded for the next week and kept her tightly under lock and key. “You never let me do anything!” Izzy yelled between sobs, feet stamping. “You never let me do anything and I hate you!”

“After all the trouble you’ve caused, Izzy–what is wrong with you?” Those icy words did more to harm her than the cold ever would. What was wrong with her? She didn’t quite know why her mother was never pleased with her. Perhaps she was just an embarrassment. Maybe her mother didn’t want anyone knowing her daughter wasn’t good at things like sledding or other sports. Maybe that’s why her mother didn’t want her doing anything–she was slightly but noticeably smaller than the other children, after all.

Izzy, age seven, making a timeline of her life for a school project. “Do I have any baby pictures, Mom?”

Her mother paused for several seconds, and, as Izzy now realized, deflected her question. “Why don’t you start from when you were a bit older? You have so many happy memories from when you were a little kid…”

Izzy, ever trusting of her mother, had accepted this. Until she realized one day going through Lexie’s room for some clandestine baked goods that Lexie’s own timeline made under the same teacher had a picture of her coming home from the hospital at three days old. That was the day her suspicions fell into place: Lexie had been wanted, as had Trip, as had Moody. Izzy was just…Izzy, a particular disappointment without reason, whose faults were more noticed than her triumphs. That was why her mother was never pleased with her. While all the Richardson children felt this, given a few more years, Lexie and Trip would begin to use it against her. All the while, her mother kept silent and her father halfheartedly interjected with false “Let her be”s, platitudes to keep himself safe from engaging with the thing that was ruining their lives.

Izzy, age ten, deciding she’d become a vegetarian upon learning of the mistreatment of the animals people ate for food. She empathized with their plight; she, too, felt as if she were being used for another’s purposes without consultation. When her mother confronted her about it, she defended her position. “I’m sorry you can’t see that those poor, poor animals are being mistreated and killed so we can have food to eat!”

“Well, I’m sorry that I care more about your nutrition and that I don’t want you becoming anemic! Izzy, what is this? Some kind of fad going around your class?” Oh, great. Her mother was really pulling the “fad” card to discredit her now?

“It’s not a fad–”

“Have you even done all your research? You’re only ten!” It was the age card now. What a way to make her look dumb.

“I will have you know that I am old enough to see the injustice of the world, including that which you are now inflicting upon me–”

“You do know that my work writing means I really only have time to cook one meal for everyone, right?”

“Oh, don’t go pulling your work into this if you truly care–”

Izzy could put up with and rebut her mother’s other two points, as insulting to her intelligence as they were, but the ungratefulness card reduced her to the edge of tears. She didn’t want to be a drain on her family, whom she loved dearly in spite of her rebellious tendencies. Did her mother not recognize that?

“But, Mom–”

“I’ll have none of that. You will cook for yourself if you really care as much as you claim.”

Izzy cried for a long time after that, with only Moody to console her. He helped her find her own recipes and she learned to cook them, but the first time she missed her chance to cook lunch because of too much homework, she had chosen to obey her heart over her gut and went hungry. Once she came home from school tired, she was forced to make another choice after her mother found out. Afraid to ask for another chance and afraid to be a burden, she chose to revert to her old diet. Her heart was heavy at betraying her principles, but in the end, she loved her family more, and she could not bear the alternative weight she would carry if she turned from them instead.

She decided that she would make up for her decision to turn by freeing the stray cats from the Humane Society and went behind her mother’s back. Unfortunately, being only ten, she had not thought this through completely and was apprehended. Her mother entered the scene and reprimanded her for getting herself into a situation where she could very well have been kidnapped or injured, not to mention the possibility of disease transmission. “They’re like prisoners on death row!” Izzy protested.

“Izzy, no, are you insane? Do you care more about these animals than you care for your own family?” her mother asked. “You had us all worried, Lexie will be late to her volunteer work with the soup kitchen because I had to drive here to come find you, and this is your only excuse? This isn��t cutting it. I am very disappointed in you.”

Izzy was promptly banned from sleepovers for her misbehavior. “If you can’t behave at home, Izzy, we can’t trust you to behave at someone else’s house.” She began sneaking out at night and returning with little items collected from nature, then proclaiming she had no idea where they came from in the mornings.

Izzy, age eleven, her mother asking her why her teachers had reported she was sitting alone at recess.

“Well, Mom, it’s not that deep! You don’t have to worry! It’s just that volleyball is hard. Sometimes the ball is inches away from my hand and I just flat-out miss. And honestly? It’s not like I’m missing anything if I don’t play volleyball anyway. I’m protecting myself from everyone else! They send the ball going out of control and, you know, I need to keep my head attached to my body somehow!”

“But don’t your best friends play volleyball?”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t matter to me, I promise.”

In spite of this, her mother remained convinced that there was some sort of problem with her coordination that needed fixing lest she become a social outcast for the shocking slight that was not playing volleyball. “Why do I need to do this stupid dancing anyway?” Izzy asked when her mother announced she was enrolling her in ballet lessons.

“It’s not stupid, Izzy. It’s going to improve your coordination!”

“Look, you’re ‘just decent,’ as you just said yourself. So there’s room for improvement! Don’t you want to be able to play with your friends?”

“Izzy, we’ve already paid for your classes,” her father interjected. “All we want is for you to try it for one term. Just one term, and then you can quit.”

“Oh, yeah, right. ‘Just one term.’ The way that ‘one more spoonful’ is just ‘one more spoonful’ to a small child. It’s a lie. You’ve turned the promise of freedom into a carrot dangling from a stick and expect me to be the dumb donkey who will do whatever you want to take it. Why didn’t you ask me first if it’s supposed to improve my life?”

“Isabelle Marie Richardson–”

“Perhaps you’re the one who’s embarrassed that your daughter is clumsy and that she brings dishonor to the family for being only merely decent at sports–”

“Calm down, Izzy–” They wanted her to calm down? She had every reason not to be calm when they were using her as some kind of pawn in their game of social chess, as a puppet in their perfect, colorful, scripted show.

“Trip set the bar high, didn’t he?”

“Izzy, that is not what we’re asking and we’re not comparing you to Trip. Can you please stop that–” Well, they wanted Trip, not her. They just had to pretend for the sake of the world that was watching them that they at least tolerated her.

“I am not going to stand by while you push this garbage sport on me to make yourself feel better about my existence–”

“This conversation is over.” See, she wasn’t truly wanted if her complaints were shut down!

“But–”

“Now.”

Izzy would rather spend her one hour per week of dance classes at home, playing her violin, but rather than protest on her way to the studio, she accepted her fate and just sat on the floor, unmoving. The wasted time infuriated her more and more. Since it was common knowledge that Izzy Richardson refused to dance, why wouldn’t her parents just pull her out of classes to save their precious reputations? She figured that she would force their hands so that they wouldn’t call her out for not trying and make her dance a second term. For the recital, she wrote the words NOT YOUR PUPPET on her face in the biggest, boldest block letters that a hand mirror could aid her with, standing still and stiff as a board at center stage.

Izzy, age thirteen, with a newfound interest in experimenting with her style. She began dressing in black, much to her mother’s chagrin. Not even two weeks into this experiment, her mother had come to her and told her to “lighten up before you become like one of those kids who lose their way.” Black clothing does not a juvenile delinquent make, Izzy had thought to herself, and in perfect honesty, she already felt like she had lost her way and didn’t understand why her mother drew the line at black clothing. Possibly it was an attempt at salvaging her reputation, but Izzy’s mere existence already ruined it and she didn’t see why her mother tried anymore. Her mother continued on with some false platitudes about how Izzy could “open up at any time.” Yeah, right. As if she hadn’t been shut down every time she tried. When her mother bought her some brightly-colored dresses, Izzy took a bus downtown to give them to a sad-looking homeless person who seemed in need of color more than she did. Her reward for this generosity was grounding for a month. Go figure. Her mother was always about helping those who were less fortunate, but when Izzy did it, it was a disgrace. Then again, Izzy doing anything was a disgrace–she shouldn’t have been surprised.

Izzy, age fourteen, suspended from school for attacking Mrs. Peters with the halves of her own violin bow, growing closer to Mia because sure, she knew by then she shouldn’t have done that–her parents’ shouts of “Izzy, behave yourself” rang in her ears seconds after the attack, already knowing what would happen to her–but no one tried to see her motive was simply loyalty to Deja, who had always been one of the few orchestra members who had shown her kindness. No one but Mia, that is, who carried the same spark she did and was willing to help nurture it. Izzy, growing closer in their mentorship because she had felt that Mia loved her in ways her own mother did not.

“I don’t really have a plan, I’m afraid,” Mia told her when asked how she organized her creative visions. “But then, no one really does, no matter what they say.”

“My mother does. She thinks she has a plan for everything.” And I was never part of it.

“I’m sure that makes her feel better.” Making a box for a child makes her feel better? How could she?

“She hates me.” Too wild and out of control, something to be managed like weeds in a garden. A particular weed that her mother couldn’t uproot, and so settled for minimizing.

“Oh, Izzy, I’m sure that’s not true.” How Izzy wished she could believe that.

“No, she does. She hates me. That’s why she picks on me and not any of the others.”

“Izzy,” Mia assured her, “I’ll tell you a secret. A lot of times, parents are not the best at seeing their children clearly. There’s so much wonderful about you.” Mia saw the good in everyone. Perhaps she could hope that there was some left in her.

The custody case had shed even more light on all the worst Izzy knew of her mother, if that was even possible. She had bred hypocrisy in all of them, enabling her father in helping the McCulloughs steal Bebe’s child, justifying it in saying that the McCulloughs did everything right and deserved this (as if people deserved no forgiveness!), making Lexie feel unable to admit to her own mistakes and driving her to use and ruin Pearl’s name, driving the Warrens, the kindest people Izzy knew, out of their home after somehow discovering how Pearl had sacrificed her reputation like a lamb to the slaughter on the altar of Lexie’s so-called friendship. Izzy’s day had come, and she knew fearfully refusing to wake the world up to the fire burning around it would only leave her burning in the end, along with the others who witnessed the world burning but did nothing to wake it. She remembered Mia’s words as she lit the flame: After the burning the soil is richer, and new things can grow. People are like that, too, you know. They start over. They find a way. And now after Izzy had taken off and boarded a bus for Pittsburgh, she sat there with her photograph in her hands: her beloved boots that had given her a sense of protection and toughness, that her mother had thrown away, turned into a blooming rose. She, too, was growing, growing to understand a little.

She missed her mom. In spite of her newfound freedom and agency, control over how her story played out, she couldn’t help it. Would her mom actually care or be stricken, or would she pretend for the sake of her reputation, as futile as that act would be? Izzy, in spite of herself and her general attitude of no longer caring for acceptance, found that Mia had awakened that softness in her. She cared now, and it frightened her. Suddenly, she wanted to know. She wanted to return to her mom and say I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for everything, I can change for you, I promise, I never meant to ruin your life, please, please, I don’t know what I’m doing thinking I can be forgiven, but I just want to believe it, just this once.

But it was too late now. Izzy was already long gone, accompanied only by her longing.

#celeste ng #little fires everywhere #lfe #lfe-is-life #elena richardson #izzy richardson #fanfiction #character study

0 notes