#because it lived in the bathroom of the friend who bequeathed it to me

[shoku-and-awe]

Good morning and welcome to Day 2 of THE LATEST LITERACY WALLCHART FOR CHILDREN Advent Calendar! Brought to you by I am in line at the Immigration Office right now and it is damp and slow.

I love this comparison and I feel intrinsically that it is accurate, and yet, despite having spent the last 7 or so years looking at this wallchart every single day (it lives in my bathroom), I still have never seen a tomato that made me think, “Huh! A lantern.” I do hope that someday I will. If you or someone you love has ever encountered the red tomato that looks like a lantern, pictures please!

[fascination-street-writing]

To Discard and Discover | Trish Una x F!Reader

She smells of roses and lemongrass - of a home you have not yet found. The scent of her perfume penetrates your mind; at once, you have been found in a flower field during the Giugno blooms.

100 Follower Giveaway 1st Place Piece

Content Warnings: P-TSD & Math Class

“Have you ever thought about going back? You know, to finish your degree?”

Fugo lifts the saucer of tea to his lips, careful to blow on the scalding steam before taking a sip.  He raises an eyebrow as he looks to Trish, who sits across from him at the dining table, awaiting his response. Sighing, he speaks: “Maybe. Maybe not. I doubt any reputable university would take me in after what I did.”

Trish murmurs to herself. She chases a sliced cherry tomato with her fork. Il Pranzo has become a shared pastime between her and the strawberry-blonde boy. “I’m sure Giorno could pull some strings,” she insists. “You could probably go anywhere you wanted.”

“It’s not honest that way. Besides, I don’t have a reason to go back. There’s no degree requirement to work for the Don of Passione . . . But, what about you?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

He sets his tea down. “The new schoolyear starts in a month. Haven’t you thought about returning?”

Trish stiffens. “Do you think I should?” she asks.

“That’s not for me to say,” Fugo tells her. “Bruno will encourage you to, and the schools near where you live are good. Well, as good as any school in Napoli can be. Above all else, it might be a decent distraction – a chance to gain back a little normalcy in your life.”

It is a difficult subject, and one that weighs on her like a vice. She has struggled to acclimate to the new normal after everything that transpired in the early spring of this year. Returning to school had simply not been a possibility for her, though not for a lack of trying.

She has found trauma to be a tantalizing friend indeed – and one that never quite seems to leave her side.

The sound of your laced shoes slapping against the waxed floors is lost to the rush of bodies that swarm the corridor. The faces of your peers are unnamed to you, because in your sixteen years of life, you never cared to commit them to memory.  Your first session of the day is classe di matematica. It is a grueling subject to most, but you find it easy enough.

An unfamiliar pink-haired girl stands before your teacher at his desk. You cannot help but to notice her rigid posture; she stands as though she has been frozen in place by the scrutiny of his eyes as he takes in her appearance. It is obvious that she is a transfer student, and a nervous one at that. To you, she is nothing more than another face with a name, and you will not care to remember it.

Filing past clusters of your fellow classmates, you make your way to the back of the room and secure your territory. While the table creaks under the weight of your bookbag and leud pencil carvings mar its surface, you find solace in its position beneath the window overlooking the courtyard.

Students continue to file through the door. You look to the clock: class will not begin for another five minutes. Impatient, you sigh and turn your attention to a flock of pigeons gathering on the cobblestone pathway of the courtyard. Watching the scuffle of five birds, all for a discarded heel of bread, is far more enticing than pretending not to eavesdrop on any of the conversations filling the space of the room.

The clocktower chimes and the pigeons scatter, no doubt startled by the deep vibrato of the prerecorded bell-sound echoing throughout campus. You open your notebook and click your used pen. Your classmates take their seats, all the while avoiding the second chair at your table. You do not mind it, for you know it is not repulsion that keeps your peers at bay. The truth is much simpler: every student has at least one friend within the class whom they would much rather sit with than yourself.

Head hung low, you wait for the selection process to end whilst avoiding wandering gazes. When you hear the tapping of a pencil against the table, you are shocked to see the pink-haired girl standing before you.

“Can I sit here?”

Your mouth turns dry, as if you have swallowed the very same stale bread the pigeons quarreled for. You do not mean to, but your eyes trace the delicate lines of her face, from her piercing green eyes framed by thick lashes to the soft pout of her pink, glossy lips. You wring your hands together. She’s pretty, you think to yourself. She’s unfairly pretty.

“Hello?”

You clear your throat. “O-Oh, uh . . .” You stumble over your words, suddenly conscious of the light red hue dusting across her cheekbones. “Yeah, go ahead.”

You wait for her to laugh, to wallow in your self-inflicted humiliation. Instead, she smiles, revealing two rows of straight, white teeth, and sits beside you. She smells of roses and lemongrass – of a home you have not yet found. The scent of her perfume penetrates your mind; at once, you have been found in a flower field during the Giugno blooms.

“I like your hair, by the way.” Unconsciously, you bring a finger to your hair and touch it, as if in disbelief that she would compliment your appearance, let alone your hair. “Sorry, that probably came across as creepy, didn’t it?”

“N-No, it’s okay,” you insist. Heat rushes to your face. Her flattery burns you, and yet, you gladly kneel before its flames. “Uh . . . Thank you.”

She hums and turns to face your chattering teacher. You clutch your pen. It hovers over the blank page of your notebook. The hour flies by; class draws to an end, and you have retained nothing. How could you, when the smell of her perfume alone has bequeathed to you the insatiable desire to be wherever it is that roses and lemongrass might coexist – perhaps in the garden of a cottage overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea.

You notice how she has begun backing her bag. It is your cue to gather your own belongings. The bell rings. You hurry to stand, eager to be away from the girl who garners your attention.

“I’m Trish, by the way,” she tells you. You are still. “Thanks for letting me sit here. It was nice meeting you.”

Trish. Just like the model from America; it suits her, plenty. The corners of your mouth turn upwards into a grin. Her kindness is infectious, and it leaves you longing, gasping for more. As you watch her leave, her form engulfed by the sea of taller students, you are left with nothing more than a contemplation: perhaps there is one name you will remember.

“I don’t understand – what does any of this have to do with math?” Trish sighs, dropping her pencil in frustration. A manicured finger hooks into a pink curl and twirls it with such vigor; you fear she will tear out her own hair. “None of this makes sense.”

“Well, it has more to do with logic than math,” you try to explain. You offer your workbook to her. “It’s actually quite fun, once you get the hang of it.”

She rolls her brilliant green eyes. “Maybe for someone like you. Not everyone can be as smart as you, you know.”

“I-I’m really not that smart,” you deflect. You tap the unfished equation scribbled in her notes. “Let’s just go back to the beginning . . . Un cavaliere always tells the truth, so they can never lie. But un fante always lies, so they can never tell the truth. You meet Persona A and Persona B . . .”

You guide her through the problem. The sound of shuffling papers signifies that everyone else in the class has finished their work; your teacher waits for Trish, and Trish alone, who grips her pencil tightly. You know she feels it – the unspoken ridicule from your peers. To them, she is the incompetent new student from Calabria who cannot comprehend un cavalieri e furfanti puzzle.

“Dannazione, sono un idiota,” she hisses. “Nothing makes sense.”

You frown. “You’re not an idiot just because a silly math problem stumped you.” The insistence falls from your lips. Her silence sends a frigid chill down your spine. “Please, don’t say that about yourself. Let me help you work through it. We assume Persona A is un fante.”

Your teacher clears his throat. He peers over the rim of his half-moon glasses, observing the way you coax Trish to complete the problem. He sets aside the book that had been clasped in his hand, and he stands to approach her, to offer his aid at the behest of a struggling student with such unique circumstances. At the sight of the pencil falling from her fingers and the smile upon her face, he stops.

“I’ve got it. Persona B is un cavaliere, which means both Persona A and Persona B are.” She pauses for a moment to contemplate her words. “That’s a contradiction! Our assumption was wrong, so if Persona A is un cavaliere, he’s telling the truth, so Persona B must be un fante.”

Your confirmation is something sacred to her, not unlike the Rosary given to her on the day of her mother’s funeral. Even when shakily spoken Hail Marys fall from her lips and her fingers tremble over the amber counting beads, there is little room in Trish’s mind for meditation when her thoughts, as of late, are always of you.

She blushes as you meet her gaze. “I meant what I said,” she begins. “You are smart.”

You bite your lip and look away, though her eyes follow. “That’s not true,” you say. “You don’t have to butter me up so much.”

She clasps your hand gently beneath the table. Her palm is soft, and you want to turn your wrist to enlace your fingers with hers. You stop yourself. “If I’m not allowed to call myself an idiot, then you’re not allowed to say you’re not intelligent.” You open your mouth to rebuke her words, but she cuts you off. “Despite what I said, I know I’m smart; just not at all things, like math.”

Her thumb brushes against the back of your knuckles as she pulls away. An incidental touch, you ponder. She turns her attention to your teacher, who stands before the chalkboard writing out the correct steps of the puzzle. You feel hot – unbearably so. A sudden bulge in your throat makes it hard to breathe. You ask to be excused to the bathroom. You did not need to hear the rest of the lesson, anyways.

It has been nearly two months since that day in classe di matematica. Indeed, the air outside has turned crisp and rain showers frequent the weather patterns: the season nears wintertime. Trish’s acclimation to life in Napoli has been far easier than her guardian Bruno had anticipated – dinnertime conversations about daydreams and schooldays have made him grateful for your involvement in the pink-haired girl’s life. Weekends spent with you, consisting of coffees, shopping trips, and stops at gelato parlors, remind her that she is safe.

Because of you, she can be a teenager again.

As you enter the classroom, you find her seat empty. Class carries on, but you cannot focus, for you are reminded of the loneliness that came before meeting Trish. You decide a sip of cool water might help to clear the haze unsettling you so.

You bring the uncapped water bottle to your lips, only to cry out in shock as the metal flask contorts in your grip like puddy. Its contents billow over the mouth of the bottle and saturate your skirt. The bottle does not make a sound as it fumbles to the vinyl floor; you are too bothered by the sloshing of your clothes to notice the way in which the metal frame slowly bends back into its shape – or the laughter of your fellow classmates.

Your teacher ushers you to the bathroom. Your wet loafers squeal as you hurry down the hallway. Prayer cards and posters promoting abstinence adorn the walls. The door latches behind you. Hiccups and choked sobs echo throughout the tight chamber of the communal space. It smells of roses and lemongrass – it smells of her.

You reach for the paper towel dispenser and blot at your skirt. It does little good to salvage the pleated fabric and it leaves an incriminating stain. Though you hesitate, you rapt your hand against the closed stall door and call out to her: “Trish? Are you okay?”

Her wails diminish. Her shadow peaks out from the crack between the floor and the bottom edge of the door. She sniffles before revealing herself. The hue upon her cheeks is unlike the bashful blush of infatuation that frequents her skin. Her distress pains you.

"I missed you in class,” you say, unsure of what to do for the girl you have come to endear. You chide yourself immediately, wanting nothing more than to cast yourself out of her presence for your insensitive comment. Spoken words are never quite simple.

Her bottom lip quivers and her eyes well with tears again. You fear you have upset her. And yet, her arms extend towards your body. Suddenly, you are embracing; she holds you in a grip akin to a vice. Your fingers trace shapes against her clothed back. It is something you might have done to soothe a weeping infant. In the privacy of the bathroom, you pretend she is your lover – that every sojourn for velveteen dresses and freshly churned gelato on Sabato pomeriggio meant something more to her.

But she is not your lover – and you are not hers.

Reluctantly, you pull away. Her breath fans your face, and it is only now that you notice the dainty freckles of her cheeks for the first time. You step backwards until your thighs hit the sink. For a moment, you think she had frowned upon your separation. It is another of many illusions that your mind has weaved as of late, no doubt.

“Thank you,” Trish says, rubbing the back of her hand against her eyes. Smudges of black mascara coat her skin.

You fiddle with the hem of your damp skirt. You realize, as you glance over the girl’s uniform, that her skirt is wet as well – from her own tears or the second-hand spillage from your water bottle, you know not. “I didn’t really do anything,” you insist.

"You’re here. That means everything to me.”

Paying no heed to the nagging sensation within you that wants to pry into the cause of her anguish, you offer her a clean paper towel. She accepts it with a faint smile. You settle for ignorance, because you know she will confess to you someday ��� beyond her passing comments of a deceased mother and a toxic, absent father.

Prepared to return to class, she laces her arm with yours and takes a deep breath. You decide that you will wait as long as she needs.

The brown paper-bag filled with paint bottles feels heavy in your grasp. It weighs on your shoulder, slipping down with every step taken towards the direction of your home. The figurines of your mother’s nativity set have begun to peel and crack, and you have promised to aid her in restoring the heirlooms. It is only right; religious preferences aside, the ivory statuettes will one day be your inheritance. And it will make a fond memory for you of your mother.

Shielded by the umbrella of a patio table, Trish sits before that which you recognize as a café you have frequented several times together: Caffè Anami. You long to be one of the glossed pages of the magazine she thumbs through – to feel her touch and to be adored the same way you adore her. Outside of her usual school uniform, she wears a floral-patterned dress. You do not question its monetary value; she comes from strange wealth, and her choice in civilian attire is only one of many indicators.

You begin to approach her, a practiced greeting wrought of cordiality ready on your tongue. But kindness turns to bitterness as the front door to the café opens and a boy with messily-styled black hair and wild violet eyes pushes past new customers and struggles to balance two to-go cups of coffee and a bag of pastries.

"They didn’t even offer me a cupholder,” you hear him grumble aloud. You stop. “How am I supposed to carry all this? Does it look like a have a third arm?”

Trish rises and reaches for the bag of pastries. “There,” she tells the boy. “Crisis averted.”

Free of burden, they both take their seats at the table. As Trish divides the baked goods amongst two napkins, the boy watches her careful movements with what you describe as pure reverence, for she is the personification of grace and beauty, and he knows this. They converse with each other, and you cannot help but to observe how Trish has made a habit of touching the boy’s arm nearly every time she speaks to him.

Your stomach churns at the unpleasantry before you. In all your time pining after the pink-haired girl, you had never considered that she may have had a partner of her own. But you see it now: how could you have been so blind? She had not mentioned the scraggily haired boy before. Talks of saccharine kisses, gentle touches, and of course a boyfriend never came from her rosy-colored lips. She hid this from you. Perhaps, this whole time, she truly knew of your affections. At the risk of losing a friend (for you assume you were nothing more to her), she forbade herself to speak of the boy, lest she drive you away – there could be no other explanation.

It hurts, so much in fact that a knife to your heart would be preferable to the pain swallowing you whole. Gauging his appearance, you decide he does not deserve someone as elegant as she . . . Though, considering your tattered jeans and hand-me-down blouse, neither do you. You swipe at the tears threatening to spill and you choke down the lump in your throat. Readjusting the shopping bag over the perch of your shoulder, you leave, broken and unwell.

Behind you, Trish’s melodious laughter – a wicked song indeed – resonates. You could not block out her sweet chorus even if, deep down, you truly wanted to.

Your knees sink into the plush mass of the faux-fur rug beneath you. Your saucer of hot tea rests atop the coffee table, untouched; the steam rises and coils into the air. Trish’s guardian – Bruno, she called him – sets a tray filled with biscotti before you. You might have found him intimidating if not for the warmth laced within his sapphire-blue eyes. He closes the double-doors to the study, leaving you and the pink-haired girl alone.

The silence in the room is cut by the scratching of pencils to paper and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, tucked between a lounger and a houseplant. You scan over your completed portion of the study guide. Earlier that day, your insegnante di matematica had formally announced an exam slotted to be proctored at the end of the week. After he distributed the studyguides, Trish turned to you with an unassuming smile and asked if you would like to come to her house and study together. If not for the existence of her boyfriend, you would have looked for a deeper implication. Instead, you agreed with a curt nod, and accompanied her home at the end of the day.

“[Y/N]?” You look up from your work to meet Trish’s gaze. “Are you upset at me about something? You’ve been acting like you want nothing to do with me lately.”

You hesitate to respond. It would be better to lie, to hide your feelings and come up with an excuse: it’s not you, I’m just stressed about school, that’s all. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?” you ask instead, blunter than you probably should have been. Her brows furrow, as if she misunderstood you. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Doesn’t that mean we should be honest with each other?”

“Boyfriend? Who told you I had a boyfriend?”

“No one. I saw you two together. I-I wasn’t stalking you, honest – I was walking home from the store the other day and I saw you at Caffè Anami with him . . . I can’t understand why you’d hide something like that from me. You know you can trust me, don’t you?”

The corners of her lips turn into a grin and she shakes her head. “His name’s Narancia,” she tells you. “And he’s not my boyfriend. He’s practically a brother to me.”

You are not sure whether to feel relief or mortification – relief, for your chances with the girl have not been thwarted; mortification, for your accusation has backfired, leaving you utterly and completely embarrassed. “I-I’m sorry,” you spit out. “I just – I didn’t think – I ��”

She places her hand over yours, just like the day when you had helped her through the cavalieri e furfanti puzzle. “It’s all good. Besides, he’s not exactly my type.”

She takes her hand away and scribbles something down in her study guide. Her top row of teeth juts out to graze her bottom lip, and it is only then you notice something different about her appearance: she is wearing a darker shade of lipstick. Trish catches you staring.

“What’re you looking at?” She is luring you, and you have already fallen into her snare.

“Uh, I like your lipstick,” you confess. “That’s all.”

“Oh, thank you.”

You set your pencil aside. You feel as though you might burst, that it might kill you if you do not tell her how you feel. But words do not come to mind – nothing more than silly quips or dull compliments; and so, you settle for the former.

“Can I try it?”

Trish pauses. You fear you have overstepped unspoken boundaries. After all, only moments ago, you had accused her of keeping secrets. Yet, you too have kept one secret to yourself: that you love her, as much as one sixteen-year-old girl might love another. To your delight, she nods and smiles, casting her schoolwork aside to meet you halfway over the coffee table separating your bodies.

She tastes of the biscotti – almond, you think – and earl grey tea. She blossoms at your touch, as if you are the sun and she a posy in a garden somewhere. You forget the ticking of the grandfather clock, for the shared beating of your hearts is deafening. You think to pull away, but she chases your lips and captures them again. She cups your face, caging you in place – not that you mind.  

You separate only when you have both grown desperate for air. The sight of her flushed face leaves you in awe. Your belly flutters. She raises a finger to her smudged lips and beams. You long to ask her if she too dreams of roses and lemongrass, of a cottage overlooking the sea in the countryside far away from the bustle of Napoli. But you know better than to overwhelm yourselves with adolescent thoughts of the future – her, especially.

As for Trish, she reminds herself to thank Fugo for convincing her to return to school. Though her past haunts her still, she is indebted to her new life. For, without suffering first, she never would have the girl from classe di matematica who stole her heart on the very first day.

She turns to her schoolwork. “We should get back to it,” she insists. You cock your eyebrow and giggle, bashful and appeased.

“You’re right: we should.”

| 3964 Words |

* Please note that the woman in the photograph is meant to resemble Trish - this is not an assumption of the reader’s appearance.

[goldeneyedgirl]

JaliceWeek21 - Day 7: No Dialogue: This Time

Is... is this what organisation feels like? Having a fic ready to post?

Kayla wanted more Divorce Jalice, which I haven’t posted outside of Discord yet, but this is basically a snapshot of their reconciliation. 

he.

I saw you for the first time when we were seventeen and, Alice, I fell in love with you first sight. God, I was a goner who made a complete fool of himself trying to impress you and, despite my very best efforts, somehow you felt the same way.

It takes him the best part of the week to write the letter.

He struggles to find the words he wants to say. It feels a little dangerous, even writing the letter - she made herself clear when she moved in, that she didn’t want to remarry him. That it had taken months of negotiations for Alice to even agree to move in. And then there had been the long debate about her paying her share, even though her freelancing was successful and she was rarely at a loss for work, every trip to the ER left her exhausted for days. She didn’t make a salary, didn’t have any benefits… it just wasn’t reasonable or even expected for her to cover exactly half of the household expenses plus her own - he knew how much she loathed taking money from her family, but had made peace with it when she had no other choice.

And they had been had reached a good place, together. He’d argue it was better now than it had been when they were younger - there was so much laughter, so much conversation, and there was never a night when he didn’t look at her, curled up asleep in his arms, when he didn’t thank every power on earth that he’d been given another chance with Alice.

This… this was something else entirely. This was putting his entire heart in her hands, and risking losing her entirely. He knew Alice, better than he had before, and he knew that if she wasn’t at least a tiny bit open to this, she’d just move out again. Give them both ‘space’.

So, he writes the letter over and over again until it’s as good as it’s going to get. Then he writes it again because he’s smeared the ink.

But finally, it’s done, and he keeps it in his bag - like a ticking bomb. He goes home, they have dinner together and go to bed early to make love and watch the end of a movie. He sleeps with her in his arms, and he tries not to think that if this all goes wrong, this will be it - the very last time. That she’ll be gone again, like a ghost, and he already knows how wrong that will feel.

He leaves her sleeping the next morning, with a kiss to her temple. He walks across the road to the bodega for the good bagels and a bunch of flowers. He leaves them in the kitchen, and props up the letter in front of the vase.

And then he pulls the rings out. The fine, etched wedding ring, and the sapphire engagement ring. The initials and dates are engraved in the inside of both rings, three sets of Whitlock grooms and brides. He’d felt like a failure when he’d taken them back, had broken a link in an unbreakable chain. They were always destined to be passed to one of Rosalie’s children, but freely given, maybe even bequeathed. Never across a conference table, in front of lawyers.

Never as an act of pity and kindness when he had been buzzing from whatever cocktail of pills and alcohol he’d chased with an espresso before he signed away any legal or emotional connection to Alice.

Fuck, he was still ashamed and guilty. He still hated himself, especially now he knew the entire story.

He stares at the rings in his hand and hopes. That’s all he has left. Hope. And then he tucks them into the envelope.

It’s done. Whatever happens next, it is what it is.

she.

I have struggled with how close I came to losing you forever, and I think I always will. I need you to know that you are, and have always been, the best and most precious thing to me.

It’s a normal morning when she wakes up. Jasper leaves the curtains drawn these days, leaves her to sleep the morning away, if that’s what she needs. There have been a few little set-backs with her health over the last few years, but mostly she’s good.

No, not good. Better than good. Happy, content, loved. It’s more than she ever hoped for, in those dark days between one failed surgery and the next; when she and her surgeons had to debate the benefits of more surgery versus a full transplant, and she was alone with no one to lean on, no hand to hold.

Looking back, she wants to comfort her past self, let her know that better days are coming, that Jasper will come back to her - and her Jasper, not the man she divorced - and she’ll be okay. That every empty hospital room, every nurse that pitied her lack of flowers, and family and friends clustered around her bedside as she waited for the doctors’ verdict, her chest stitched and stapled and swathed in bandages, is just another step closer to things being wonderful again. That she and Jasper are both better people, better friends, better partners and lovers for everything that happened.

She gets out of bed, and heads towards the bathroom - detouring into her bedroom to retrieve clothes. She’s got a half-done piece on her desk, one that needs to be finished and shipped to her client in the next week or so.

After her shower, she locates her phone. The lock-screen is a photo of her and Jasper, the weekend he dragged her to California for some conference. They’re sprawled out on a sun-lounger together, grinning at the camera. It’s her favourite photo of him, of them. She can see his tattoos snaking around his side, his arm, his shoulder, and his neck; his hair is pulled back in a ridiculous ponytail she finds impossibly sexy, and the smile on his face is pure, unadulterated happiness. She’s tucked into his side in the silly (he called them ‘hot’ and ‘adorable’) heart-shaped sunglasses he’d bought her when she forgot hers. She’s got her hands clasped against her chest, her head nestled against his, and she’s smiling too. She remembers being so nervous about wearing a bikini for the first time, with her scars, but he’d convinced her, and they’d had a great day. A few people stared, but that was normal.

That had been the week he’d started wearing his wedding ring again, and when she’d asked, he’d dismissed it by saying he was tired of people hitting on him, even after he told them he wasn’t interested - and at the conference, with alcohol and the beach, it would be more annoying.

She’d let him think she believed that excuse and let it go.

It’s after eleven, and there’s no messages from him. Usually when she gets up, there’s at least three or four - maybe a photo of good coffee art if he stops by his usual place; a link to a restaurant or a movie he thinks they’d enjoy; or maybe an article that will make her laugh. And always a ‘good morning beautiful’ just before lunchtime.

Not today, not yet. Not so much as a dirty emoji message as a joke. There’s one from Rosalie (lunch on Friday), one from a prospective client, and one from Esme (family lunch on Sunday, can she and Jasper bring a dessert).

She frowns as she slips into the kitchen, and her gaze falls on the flowers - a mess of bright yellows and blues and pinks and purples. They’re beautiful and unnecessary and she’s already reaching for her phone again when she sees the letter propped up against it.

And for a second, she thinks her heart stops.

they.

I know you didn’t buy whatever I told you about me wearing my ring again. Because it was never about anyone else. It’s about you and me, and my commitment to you - my promise that as long as you’ll have me, I’ll be here. And that’s why I want you to have these back - because they have always been yours.

He walks home the long way. Home, in that moment, feels like a trap. Until he gets there, slides the key into the lock, he still has a partner, a girlfriend, a quasi-wife who told him so damn clearly that she didn’t want more than what they had.

(He knows it all now. The depth of the hurt, the pain. Pondering if she should have just cancelled the surgery and died quietly in the bed next to him whilst he drank and got high and fucked around behind her back. The days she spent in a hospital bed, alone and forgotten whilst he sat in a hard plastic chair in a church basement and admitted he had a problem. The long nights in the ER, holding her breath that it was just a false alarm, and nothing to worry about. Couples therapy had been as damning as it had been cleansing, and he carries her lost years with him everywhere, reminding him to be better, reminding him of how close it all came to being unfixable. He understands why she shies away from remarrying him when their marriage was always tangled up in so much hurt, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting more, wanting the most she can give.)

She’s in the kitchen, cooking dinner, when he walks in the door. That has to be a good sign. The apartment is warm and cosy, and it feels more like a home than anywhere he’s ever lived. He doesn’t want that to change.

Clutching his peace offering - a raspberry cake from the place a few blocks away - he walks into the kitchen.

She’s always the most beautiful woman in the room, in the world, to him and that’s no different tonight. There are no words for her, flitting around the kitchen like she knows what she’s doing, the curl of her hair against her cheek, the way she bites her lip as she checks something on the stove.

The way she brushes her hair out of her face with a hand that is wearing a fine, etched wedding ring, and a sapphire engagement ring that has their initials and wedding year engraved on the inside, and his heart definitely freezes in his chest and she’s wearing them again and that’s not something he let himself hope for. He prepared himself for the very worst and he’s found the very best and he doesn’t know what to say.

She meets his gaze with that warm smile, the one that is a little secretive and knowing that she only ever offers to him, and he holds out the cake like an offering and as she takes it, her eyes lighting up, he moves around the island to scoop her into his arms and kiss her. She squeals and somehow manages to put the cake down before she throws her arms around his neck, and he can feel her smiling against his lips.

He kisses her like it’s the very last time he’ll ever kiss her, like he’s trying to prove something. And maybe he is. Maybe he’s always going to be making up the past to her, like he can erase the hurt, the pain, the suffering. But they don’t have a time machine, and she’s long since made peace with everything that happened. Addiction is an illness, like everything else, but one that never truly goes away. The same way her heart will always been a little bit broken, he will also have that struggle. Maybe some day it will win again; there will probably be days when he does fall, just as long as there are more days he doesn’t. And that’s okay - she didn’t fall in love with him expecting him to be perfect. And the more she thinks about it, reflects on the apologies and the things he’s told her about everything that happened, she knows he never intended to hurt her.

Jasper’s been the centre of her universe since they were seventeen, since he looked across a classroom at her like he was starstruck and then grinned, that same grin he’s wearing now like he’s won an unwinnable prize. As if she could have resisted him, back then and right now.

That everything she is to him, he is to her.

He pulls back to look her in the eyes, to take her hand wearing the rings and to kiss it. She kisses him again hard and that’s all he needs to hoist her over his shoulder, her squealing and laughing, and it’s the best sound in the world as he turns off the stove and the oven, and sweeps her off towards his room.

Towards their room, both of them giddy, drunk on each other, on the idea that they’re in the same place at the same time, happy, healthy, and whole. Together, forever (this time.)

There is nothing in the world I love or will even love a much as I love you.

[grigori77]

2020 in Movies - My Top 30 Fave Movies (Part 2)

20.  ONWARD – Disney and Pixar’s best digitally animated family feature of 2020 (beating the admittedly impressive Soul to the punch) clearly has a love of fantasy roleplay games like Dungeons & Dragons, its quirky modern-day AU take populated by fantastical races and creatures seemingly tailor-made for the geek crowd … needless to say, me and many of my friends absolutely loved it.  That doesn’t mean that the classic Disney ideals of love, family and believing in yourself have been side-lined in favour of fan-service – this is as heartfelt, affecting and tearful as their previous standouts, albeit with plenty of literal magic added to the metaphorical kind.  The central premise is a clever one – once upon a time, magic was commonplace, but over the years technology came along to make life easier, so that in the present day the various races (elves, centaurs, fauns, pixies, goblins and trolls among others) get along fine without it. Then timid elf Ian Lightfoot (Tom Holland) receives a wizard’s staff for his sixteenth birthday, a bequeathed gift from his father, who died before he was born, with instructions for a spell that could bring him back to life for one whole day.  Encouraged by his brash, over-confident wannabe adventurer elder brother Barley (Chris Pratt), Ian tries it out, only for the spell to backfire, leaving them with the animated bottom half of their father and just 24 hours to find a means to restore the rest of him before time runs out.  Cue an “epic quest” … needless to say, this is another top-notch offering from the original masters of the craft, a fun, affecting and thoroughly infectious family-friendly romp with a winning sense of humour and inspired, flawless world-building.  Holland and Pratt are both fantastic, their instantly believable, ill-at-ease little/big brother chemistry effortlessly driving the story through its ingenious paces, and the ensuing emotional fireworks are hilarious and heart-breaking in equal measure, while there’s typically excellent support from Julia Louis-Dreyfus (Elaine from Seinfeld) as Ian and Barley’s put-upon but supportive mum, Laurel, Octavia Spencer as once-mighty adventurer-turned-restaurateur “Corey” the Manticore and Mel Rodriguez (Getting On, The Last Man On Earth) as overbearing centaur cop (and Laurel’s new boyfriend) Colt Bronco.  The film marks the sophomore feature gig for Dan Scanlon, who debuted with 2013’s sequel Monsters University, and while that was enjoyable enough I ultimately found it non-essential – no such verdict can be levelled against THIS film, the writer-director delivering magnificently in all categories, while the animation team have outdone themselves in every scene, from the exquisite environments and character/creature designs to some fantastic (and frequently delightfully bonkers) set-pieces, while there’s a veritable riot of brilliant RPG in-jokes to delight geekier viewers (gelatinous cube! XD).  Massive, unadulterated fun, frequently hilarious and absolutely BURSTING with Disney’s trademark heart, this was ALMOST my animated feature of the year.  More on that later …

19.  THE GENTLEMEN – Guy Ritchie’s been having a rough time with his last few movies (The Man From UNCLE didn’t do too bad but it wasn’t exactly a hit and was largely overlooked or simply ignored, while intended franchise-starter King Arthur: Legend of the Sword was largely derided and suffered badly on release, dying a quick death financially – it’s a shame on both counts, because I really liked them), so it’s nice to see him having some proper success with his latest, even if he has basically reverted to type to do it.  Still, when his newest London gangster flick is THIS GOOD it seems churlish to quibble – this really is what he does best, bringing together a collection of colourful geezers and shaking up their status quo, then standing back and letting us enjoy the bloody, expletive-riddled results. This particularly motley crew is another winning selection, led by Matthew McConaughey as ruthlessly successful cannabis baron Mickey Pearson, who’s looking to retire from the game by selling off his massive and highly lucrative enterprise for a most tidy sum (some $400,000,000 to be precise) to up-and-coming fellow American ex-pat Matthew Berger (Succession’s Jeremy Strong, oozing sleazy charm), only for local Chinese triad Dry Eye (Crazy Rich Asians’ Henry Golding, chewing the scenery with enthusiasm) to start throwing spanners into the works with the intention of nabbing the deal for himself for a significant discount.  Needless to say Mickey’s not about to let that happen … McConaughey is ON FIRE here, the best he’s been since Dallas Buyers Club in my opinion, clearly having great fun sinking his teeth into this rich character and Ritchie’s typically sparkling, razor-witted dialogue, and he’s ably supported by a quality ensemble cast, particularly co-star Charlie Hunnam as Mickey’s ice-cold, steel-nerved right-hand-man Raymond Smith, Downton Abbey’s Michelle Dockery as his classy, strong-willed wife Rosalind, Colin Farrell as a wise-cracking, quietly exasperated MMA trainer and small-time hood simply known as the Coach (who gets many of the film’s best lines), and, most notably, Hugh Grant as the film’s nominal narrator, thoroughly morally bankrupt private investigator Fletcher, who consistently steals the film.  This is Guy Ritchie at his very best – a twisty rug-puller of a plot that constantly leaves you guessing, brilliantly observed and richly drawn characters you can’t help loving in spite of the fact there’s not a single hero among them, a deliciously unapologetic, politically incorrect sense of humour and a killer soundtrack.  Getting the cinematic year off to a phenomenal start, it’s EASILY Ritchie’s best film since Sherlock Holmes, and a strong call-back to the heady days of Snatch (STILL my favourite) and Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels.  Here’s hoping he’s on a roll again, eh?

18.  SPONTANEOUS – one of the year’s biggest under-the-radar surprise hits for me was one which I actually might not have caught if things had been a little more normal and ordered.  Thankfully with all the lockdown and cinematic shutdown bollocks going on, this fantastically subversive and deeply satirical indie teen comedy horror came along at the perfect time, and I completely flipped out over it.  Now those who know me know I don’t tend to gravitate towards teen cinema, but like all those other exceptions I’ve loved over the years, this one had a brilliantly compulsive hook I just couldn’t turn down – small-town high-schooler Mara (Knives Out and Netflix’ Cursed’s Katherine Langford) is your typical cool outsider kid, smart, snarky and just putting up with the scene until she can graduate and get as far away as possible … until one day in her senior year one of her classmates just inexplicably explodes. Like her peers, she’s shocked and she mourns, then starts to move on … until it happens again.  As the death toll among the senior class begins to mount, it becomes clear something weird is going on, but Mara has other things on her mind because the crisis has, for her, had an unexpected benefit – without it she wouldn’t have fallen in love with like-minded oddball new kid Dylan (Lean On Pete and Words On Bathroom Walls’ Charlie Plummer). The future’s looking bright, but only if they can both live to see it … this is a wickedly intelligent film, powered by a skilfully executed script and a wonderfully likeable young cast who consistently steer their characters around the potential cliched pitfalls of this kind of cinema, while debuting writer-director Brian Duffield (already a rising star thanks to scripts for Underwater, The Babysitter and blacklist darling Jane Got a Gun among others) show he’s got as much talent and flair for crafting truly inspired cinema as he has for thinking it up in the first place, delivering some impressively offbeat set-pieces and several neat twists you frequently don’t see coming ahead of time.  Langford and Plummer as a sassy, spicy pair who are easy to root for without ever getting cloying or sweet, while there’s glowing support from the likes of Hayley Law (Rioverdale, Altered Carbon, The New Romantic) as Mara’s best friend Tess, Piper Perabo and Transparent’s Rob Huebel as her increasingly concerned parents, and Insecure’s Yvonne Orji as Agent Rosetti, the beleaguered government employee sent to spearhead the investigation into exactly what’s happening to these kids.  Quirky, offbeat and endlessly inventive, this is one of those interesting instances where I’m glad they pushed the horror elements into the background so we could concentrate on the comedy, but more importantly these wonderfully well-realised and vital characters – there are some skilfully executed shocks, but far more deep belly laughs, and there’s bucketloads of heart to eclipse the gore.  Another winning debut from a talent I intend to watch with great interest in the future.

17.  HAMILTON – arriving just as Black Lives Matter reached fever-pitch levels, this feature presentation of the runaway Broadway musical smash-hit could not have been better timed. Shot over three nights during the show’s 2016 run with the original cast and cut together with specially created “setup shots”, it’s an immersive experience that at once puts you right in amongst the audience (at times almost a character themselves, never seen but DEFINITELY heard) but also lets you experience the action up close.  And what action – it’s an incredible show, a thoroughly fascinating piece of work that reads like something very staid and proper on paper (an all-encompassing biographical account of the life and times of American Founding Father Alexander Hamilton) but, in execution, becomes something very different and EXTREMELY vital.  The execution certainly couldn’t be further from the usual period biopic fare this kind of historical subject matter usually gets (although in the face of recent high quality revisionist takes like Marie Antoinette, The Great and Tesla it’s not SO surprising), while the cast is not at all what you’d expect – with very few notable exceptions the cast is almost entirely people of colour, despite the fact that the real life individuals they’re playing were all very white indeed.  Every single one of them is also an absolute revelation – the show’s writer-composer Lin-Manuel Miranda (already riding high on the success of In the Heights) carries the central role of Hamilton with effortless charm and raw star power, Leslie Odom Jr. (Smash, Murder On the Orient Express) is duplicitously complex as his constant nemesis Aaron Burr, Christopher Jackson (In the Heights, Moana, Bull) oozes integrity and nobility as his mentor and friend George Washington, Phillipa Soo is sweet and classy as his wife Eliza while Renée Elise Goldsberry (The Immortal Life of Henrietta Jacks, Altered Carbon) is fiery and statuesque as her sister Angelica Schuyler (the one who got away), and Jonathan Groff (Mindhunter) consistently steals every scene he’s in as fiendish yet childish fan favourite King George III, but the show (and the film) ultimately belongs to veritable powerhouse Daveed Diggs (Blindspotting, The Good Lord Bird) in a spectacular duel role, starting subtly but gaining scene-stealing momentum as French Revolutionary Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette, before EXPLODING onto the stage in the second half as indomitable third American President Thomas Jefferson.  Not having seen the stage show, I was taken completely by surprise by this, revelling in its revisionist genius and offbeat, quirky hip-hop charm, spellbound by the skilful ease with which is takes the sometimes quite dull historical fact and skews it into something consistently entertaining and absorbing, transported by the catchy earworm musical numbers and thoroughly tickled by the delightfully cheeky sense of humour strung throughout (at least when I wasn’t having my heart broken by moments of raw dramatic power). Altogether it’s a pretty unique cinematic experience I wish I could have actually gotten to see on the big screen, and one I’ve consistently recommended to all my friends, even the ones who don’t usually like musicals.  As far as I’m concerned it doesn’t need a proper Les Misérables style screen adaptation – this is about as perfect a presentation as the show could possibly hope for.

16.  SPUTNIK – summer’s horror highlight (despite SERIOUSLY tough competition) was a guaranteed sleeper hit that I almost missed entirely, stumbling across the trailer one day on YouTube and getting bowled over by its potential, prompting me to hunt it down by any means necessary.  The feature debut of Russian director Egor Abramenko, this first contact sci-fi chiller is about as far from E.T. as it’s possible to get, sharing some of the same DNA as Carpenter’s The Thing but proudly carving its own path with consummate skill and definitely signalling great things to come from its brand new helmer and relative unknown screenwriters Oleg Malovichko and Andrei Zolotarev.  Oksana Akinshina (probably best known in the West for her powerful climactic cameo in The Bourne Supremacy) is the beating heart of the film as neurophysiologist Tatyana Yuryevna Klimova, brought in to aid in the investigation in the Russian wilderness circa 1983 after an orbital research mission goes horribly wrong.  One of the cosmonauts dies horribly, while the other, Konstantin (The Duelist’s Pyotr Fyodorov) seems unharmed, but it quickly becomes clear that he’s now the host for something decidedly extraterrestrial and potentially terrifying, and as Tatyana becomes more deeply embroiled in her assignment she comes to realise that her superiors, particularly mysterious Red Army project leader Colonel Semiradov (The PyraMMMid’s Fyodor Bondarchuk), have far more insidious plans for Konstantin and his new “friend” than she could ever imagine. This is about as dark, intense and nightmarish as this particular sub-genre gets, a magnificently icky body horror that slowly builds its tension as we’re gradually exposed to the various truths and the awful gravity of the situation slowly reveals itself, punctuated by skilfully executed shocks and some particularly horrifying moments when the evils inflicted by the humans in charge prove far worse than anything the alien can do, while the ridiculously talented writers have a field day pulling the rug out from under us again and again, never going for the obvious twist and keeping us guessing right to the devastating ending, while the beautifully crafted digital creature effects are nothing short of astonishing and thoroughly creepy.  Akinshina dominates the film with her unbridled grace, vulnerability and integrity, the relationship that develops between Tatyana and Konstantin (Fyodorov delivering a beautifully understated turn belying deep inner turmoil) feeling realistically earned as it goes from tentatively wary to tragically bittersweet, while Bondarchuk invests the Colonel with a nuanced air of tarnished authority and restrained brutality that made him one of my top screen villains for the year.  One of 2020’s great sleeper hits, I can’t speak of this film highly enough – it’s a genuine revelation, an instant classic for whom I’ll sing its praises for years to come, and I wish enormous future success to all the creative talents involved.

15.  THE INVISIBLE MAN – looks like third time’s a charm for Leigh Whannell, writer-director of my ALMOST horror movie of the year (more on that later) – while he’s had immense success as a horror writer over the years (co-creator of both the Saw and Insidious franchises), as a director his first two features haven’t exactly set the world alight, with debut Insidious: Chapter III garnering similar takes to the rest of the series but ultimately turning out to be a bit of a damp squib quality-wise, while his second feature Upgrade was a stone-cold masterpiece that was (rightly) EXTREMELY well received critically, but ultimately snuck in under the radar and has remained a stubbornly hidden gem since. No such problems with his third feature, though – his latest collaboration with producer Jason Blum and the insanely lucrative Blumhouse Pictures has proven a massive hit both financially AND with reviewers, and deservedly so.  Having given up on trying to create a shared cinematic universe inhabited by their classic monsters, Universal resolved to concentrate on standalones to showcase their elite properties, and their first try is a rousing success, Whannell bringing HG Wells’ dark and devious human monster smack into the 21st Century as only he can.  The result is a surprisingly subtle piece of work, much more a lethally precise exercise in cinematic sleight of hand and extraordinary acting than flashy visual effects, strictly adhering to the Blumhouse credo of maximum returns for minimum bucks as the story is stripped down to its bare essentials and allowed to play out without any unnecessary weight.  The Handmaid’s Tale’s Elizabeth Moss once again confirms what a masterful actress she is as she brings all her performing weapons to bear in the role of Cecelia “Cee” Kass, the cloistered wife of affluent but monstrously abusive optics pioneer Aidan Griffin (Netflix’ The Haunting of Hill House’s Oliver Jackson-Cohen), who escapes his clutches in the furiously tense opening sequence and goes to ground with the help of her closest childhood friend, San Francisco cop James Lanier (Leverage’s Aldis Hodge) and his teenage daughter Sydney (A Wrinkle in Time’s Storm Reid).  Two weeks later, Aidan commits suicide, leaving Cee with a fortune to start her life over (with the proviso that she’s never ruled mentally incompetent), but as she tries to find her way in the world again little things start going wrong for her, and she begins to question if there might be something insidious going on.  As her nerves start to unravel, she begins to suspect that Aidan is still alive, still very much in her life, fiendishly toying with her and her friends, but no-one can see him.  Whannell plays her paranoia up for all it’s worth, skilfully teasing out the scares so that, just like her friends, we begin to wonder if it might all be in her head after all, before a spectacular mid-movie reveal throws the switch into high gear and the true threat becomes clear.  The lion’s share of the film’s immense success must of course go to Moss – her performance is BEYOND a revelation, a blistering career best that totally powers the whole enterprise, and it goes without saying that she’s the best thing in this.  Even so, she has sterling support from Hodge and Reid, as well as Love Child’s Harriet Dyer as Cee’s estranged big sister Emily and Wonderland’s Michael Dorman as Adrian’s slimy, spineless lawyer brother Tom, and, while he doesn’t have much actual (ahem) “screen time”, Jackson-Cohen delivers a fantastically icy, subtly malevolent turn which casts a large “shadow” over the film.  This is one of my very favourite Blumhouse films, a pitch-perfect psychological chiller that keeps the tension cranked up unbearably tight and never lets go, Whannell once again displaying uncanny skill with expert jump-scares, knuckle-whitening chills and a truly astounding standout set-piece that easily goes down as one of the top action sequences of 2020. Undoubtedly the best version of Wells’ story to date, this goes a long way in repairing the damage of Universal’s abortive “Dark Universe” efforts, as well as showcasing a filmmaking master at the very height of his talents.

14.  EXTRACTION – the Coronavirus certainly has threw a massive spanner in the works of the year’s cinematic calendar – among many other casualties to the blockbuster shunt, the latest (and most long-awaited) MCU movie, Black Widow, should have opened to further record-breaking box office success at the end of spring, but instead the theatres were all closed and virtually all the heavyweights were pushed back or shelved indefinitely.  Thank God, then, for the streaming services, particularly Hulu, Amazon and Netflix, the latter of which provided a perfect movie for us to see through the key transition into the summer blockbuster season, an explosively flashy big budget action thriller ushered in by MCU alumni the Russo Brothers (who produced and co-wrote this adaptation of Ciudad, a graphic novel that Joe Russo co-created with Ande Parks and Fernando Leon Gonzalez) and barely able to contain the sheer star-power wattage of its lead, Thor himself.  Chris Hemsworth plays Tyler Rake, a former Australian SAS operative who hires out his services to an extraction operation under the command of mercenary Nik Khan (The Patience Stone’s Golshifteh Farahani), brought in to liberate Ovi Mahajan (Rudhraksh Jaiswal in his first major role), the pre-teen son of incarcerated Indian crime lord Ovi Sr. (Pankaj Tripathi), who has been abducted by Bangladeshi rival Amir Asif (Priyanshu Painyuli).  The rescue itself goes perfectly, but when the time comes for the hand-off the team is double-crossed and Tyler is left stranded in the middle of Dhaka with no choice but to keep Ovi alive as every corrupt cop and street gang in the city closes in around them.  This is the feature debut of Sam Hargrave, the latest stuntman to try his hand at directing, so he certainly knows his way around an action set-piece, and the result is a thoroughly breathless adrenaline rush of a film, bursting at the seams with spectacular fights, gun battles and car chases, dominated by a stunning sustained sequence that plays out in one long shot, guaranteed to leave jaws lying on the floor.  Not that there should be any surprise – Hargrave cut his teeth as a stunt coordinator for the Russos on Captain America: Civil War and their Avengers films.  That said, he displays strong talent for the quieter disciplines of filmmaking too, delivering quality character development and drawing out consistently noteworthy performances from his cast.  Of course, Hemsworth can do the action stuff in his sleep, but there’s a lot more to Tyler than just his muscle, the MCU veteran investing him with real wounded vulnerability and a tragic fatalism which colours every scene, while Jaiswal is exceptional throughout, showing plenty of promise for the future, and there’s strong support from Farahani and Painyuli, as well as Stranger Things’ David Harbour as world-weary retired merc Gaspard, and a particularly impressive, muscular turn from Randeep Hooda (Once Upon a Time in Mumbai) as Saju, a former Para and Ovi’s bodyguard, who’s determined to take possession of the boy himself, even if he has to go through Tyler to get him.  This is action cinema that really deserves to be seen on the big screen – I watched it twice in a week and would happily have paid for two trips to the cinema for it if I could have.  As we looked down the barrel of a summer season largely devoid of blockbuster fare, I couldn’t recommend this enough.  Thank the gods for Netflix …

13.  THE TRIAL OF THE CHICAGO 7 – although it’s definitely a film that really benefitted enormously from releasing on Netflix during the various lockdowns, this was one of the blessed few I actually got to see during one of the UK’s frustratingly rare lulls when cinemas were actually OPEN.  Rather perversely it therefore became one of my favourite cinematic experiences of 2020, but then I’m just as much a fan of well-made cerebral films as I am of the big, immersive blockbuster EXPERIENCES, so this probably still would have been a standout in a normal year. Certainly if this was a purely CRITICAL list for the year this probably would have placed high in the Top Ten … Aaron Sorkin is a writer whose work I have ardently admired ever since he went from esteemed playwright to in-demand talent for both the big screen AND the small with A Few Good Men, and TTOTC7 is just another in a long line of consistently impressive, flawlessly written works rife with addictive quickfire dialogue, beautifully observed characters and rewardingly propulsive narrative storytelling (therefore resting comfortably amongst the well-respected likes of The West Wing, Charlie Wilson’s War, Moneyball and The Social Network).  It also marks his second feature as a director (after fascinating and incendiary debut Molly’s Game), and once again he’s gone for true story over fiction, tackling the still controversial subject of the infamous 1968 trial of the “ringleaders” of the infamous riots which marred Chicago’s Diplomatic National Convention five months earlier, in which thousands of hippies and college students protesting the Vietnam War clashed with police.  Spurred on by the newly-instated Presidential Administration of Richard Nixon to make some examples, hungry up-and-coming prosecutor Richard Schultz (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is confident in his case, while the Seven – who include respected and astute student activist Tom Hayden (Eddie Redmayne) and confrontational counterculture firebrands Abbie Hoffman (Sacha Baron Cohen) and Jerry Rubin (Succession’s Jeremy Strong) – are the clear underdogs.  They’re a divided bunch (particularly Hayden and Hoffman, who never mince their words about what little regard they hold for each other), and they’re up against the combined might of the U.S. Government, while all they have on their side is pro-bono lawyer and civil rights activist William Kunstler (Mark Rylance), who’s sharp, driven and thoroughly committed to the cause but clearly massively outmatched … not to mention the fact that the judge presiding over the case is Julius Hoffman (Frank Langella), a fierce and uncompromising conservative who’s clearly 100% on the Administration’s side, and who might in fact be stark raving mad (he also frequently goes to great lengths to make it clear to all concerned that he is NOT related to Abbie).  Much as we’ve come to expect from Sorkin, this is cinema of grand ideals and strong characters, not big spectacle and hard action, and all the better for it – he’s proved time and again that he’s one of the very best creative minds in Hollywood when it comes to intelligent, thought-provoking and engrossing thinking-man’s entertainment, and this is pure par for the course, keeping us glued to the screen from the skilfully-executed whirlwind introductory montage to the powerfully cathartic climax, and every varied and brilliant scene in-between.  This is heady stuff, focusing on what’s still an extremely thorny issue made all the more urgently relevant and timely given what was (and still is) going on in American politics at the time, and everyone involved here was clearly fully committed to making the film as palpable, powerful and resonant as possible for the viewer, no matter their nationality or political inclination.  Also typical for a Sorkin film, the cast are exceptional, everyone clearly having the wildest time getting their teeth into their finely-drawn characters and that magnificent dialogue – Redmayne and Baron Cohen are compellingly complimentary intellectual antagonists given their radically different approaches and their roles’ polar opposite energies, while Rylance delivers another pitch-perfect, simply ASTOUNDING performance that once again marks him as one of the very best actors of his generation, and there are particularly meaty turns from Strong, Langella, Aquaman’s Yahya Abdul-Mateen II (as besieged Black Panther Bobby Seale) and a potent late appearance from Michael Keaton that sear themselves into the memory long after viewing. Altogether then, this is a phenomenal film which deserves to be seen no matter the format, a thought-provoking and undeniably IMPORTANT masterwork from a master cinematic storyteller that says as much about the world we live in now as the decidedly turbulent times it portrays …

12.  GREYHOUND – when the cinemas closed back in March, the fate of many of the major summer blockbusters we’d been looking forward to was thrown into terrible doubt. Some were pushed back to more amenable dates in the autumn or winter (which even then ultimately proved frustratingly ambitious), others knocked back a whole year to fill summer slots for 2021, but more than a few simply dropped off the radar entirely with the terrible words “postponed until further notice” stamped on them, and I lamented them all, this one in particular.  It hung in there longer than some, stubbornly holding onto its June release slot for as long as possible, but eventually it gave up the ghost too … but thanks to Apple TV+, not for long, ultimately releasing less than a month later than intended.  Thankfully the film itself was worth the fuss, a taut World War II suspense thriller that’s all killer, no filler – set during the infamous Battle of the Atlantic, it portrays the constant life-or-death struggle faced by the Allied warships assigned to escort the transport convoys as they crossed the ocean, defending their charges from German U-boats.  Adapted from C.S. Forester’s famous 1955 novel The Good Shepherd by Tom Hanks and directed by Aaron Schneider (Get Low), the narrative focuses on the crew of the escort leader, American destroyer USS Fletcher, codenamed “Greyhound”, and in particular its captain, Commander Ernest Krause (Hanks), a career sailor serving his first command.  As they cross “the Pit”, the most dangerous middle stretch of the journey where they spend days without air-cover, they find themselves shadowed by “the Wolf Pack”, a particularly cunning group of German submarines that begin to pick away at the convoy’s stragglers.  Faced with daunting odds, a dwindling supply of vital depth-charges and a ruthless, persistent enemy, Krause must make hard choices to bring his ships home safe … jumping into the thick of the action within the first ten minutes and maintaining its tension for the remainder of the trim 90-minute run, this is screen suspense par excellence, a sleek textbook example of how to craft a compelling big screen knuckle-whitener with zero fat and maximum reward, delivering a series of desperate naval scraps packed with hide-and-seek intensity, heart-in-mouth near-misses and fist-in-air cathartic payoffs by the bucket-load.  Hanks is subtly magnificent, the calm centre of the narrative storm as a supposed newcomer to this battle arena who could have been BORN for it, bringing to mind his similarly unflappable in Captain Phillips and certainly not suffering by comparison; by and large he’s the focus point, but other crew members make strong (if sometimes quite brief) impressions, particularly Stephen Graham as Krause’s reliably seasoned XO, Lt. Commander Charlie Cole, The Magnificent Seven’s Manuel Garcia-Rulfo and Just Mercy’s Rob Morgan, while Elisabeth Shue does a lot with a very small part in brief flashbacks as Krause’s fiancée Evelyn. Relentless, exhilarating and thoroughly unforgettable, this was one of the true action highlights of the summer, and one hell of a war flick.  I’m so glad it made the cut for the summer …

11.  PROJECT POWER – with Marvel and DC pushing their tent-pole titles back in the face of COVID, the usual superhero antics we’ve come to expect for the summer were pretty thin on the ground in 2020, leading us to find our geeky fan thrills elsewhere. Unfortunately, pickings were frustratingly slim – Korean comic book actioner Gundala was entertaining but workmanlike, while Thor AU Mortal was underwhelming despite strong direction from Troll Hunter’s André Øvredal, and The New Mutants just got shat on by the studio and its distributors and no mistake – thank the Gods, then, for Netflix, once again riding to the rescue with this enjoyably offbeat super-thriller, which takes an intriguing central premise and really runs with it.  New designer drug Power has hit the streets of New Orleans, able to give anyone who takes it a superpower for five minutes … the only problem is, until you try it, you don’t know what your own unique talent is – for some, it could mean five minutes of invisibility, or insane levels of super-strength, but other powers can be potentially lethal, the really unlucky buggers just blowing up on the spot.  Robin (The Hate U Give’s Dominique Fishback) is a teenage Power-pusher with dreams of becoming a rap star, dealing the pills so she can help her diabetic mum; Frank Shaver (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is one of her customers, a police detective who uses his power of near invulnerability to even the playing field when supercharged crims cause a disturbance.  Their lives are turned upside down when Art (Jamie Foxx) arrives in town – he’s a seriously badass ex-soldier determined to hunt down the source of Power by any means necessary, and he’s not above tearing the Big Easy apart to do it. This is a fun, gleefully infectious rollercoaster that doesn’t take itself too seriously, revelling in the anarchic potential of its premise and crafting some suitably OTT effects-driven chaos brought to pleasingly visceral fruition by its skilfully inventive director, Ariel Schulman (Catfish, Nerve, Viral), while Mattson Tomlin (the screenwriter of the DCEU’s oft-delayed, incendiary headline act The Batman) takes the story in some very interesting directions and poses fascinating questions about what Power’s TRULY capable of.  Gordon-Levitt and Fishback are both brilliant, the latter particularly impressing in what’s sure to be a major breakthrough role for her, and the friendship their characters share is pretty adorable, while Foxx really is a force to be reckoned with, pretty chill even when he’s in deep shit but fully capable of turning into a bona fide killing machine at the flip of a switch, and there’s strong support from Westworld’s Rodrigo Santoro as Biggie, Power’s delightfully oily kingpin, Courtney B. Vance as Frank’s by-the-book superior, Captain Crane, Amy Landecker as Gardner, the morally bankrupt CIA spook responsible for the drug’s production, and Machine Gun Kelly as Newt, a Power dealer whose pyrotechnic “gift” really isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  Exciting, inventive, frequently amusing and infectiously likeable, this was some of the most uncomplicated cinematic fun I had all summer.  Not bad for something which I’m sure was originally destined to become one of the season’s B-list features …

[mikrowrites]

just an act (two)

Shawn Mendes x Reader

Shawn feels as though his life is falling apart, so he attempts to try and reach out to Y/N before it’s too late.

The song is “you should be sad” by Halsey!

If you want the full hurt of this story, I suggest listening to it on loop while reading this chapter xx

Shawn wanted to pick her.

A thousand times over, he would’ve said Y/N’s name and found her and consoled her, but he couldn’t. And he hated himself for that.

His contract was strict. Convince fans and the world, even his own damn family that Shawn and Camila were dating, to promote Señorita and get a Grammy win. But he was so fucking tired, and he loved Y/N so much.

Shawn watched Y/N walk out of the ice rink, how strongly and gracefully she walked out of his life. He felt Camila’s hand squeeze his tighter, Shawn turning to see his PR girlfriend on the verge of tears. Camila and Y/N were close friends, this had to be killing her too.

He wanted to run after her, convince her to stay, to explain the contract and win her back. But Shawn feared the damage was done.

——————

Y/N let her fingers softly strum against her guitar, sitting in her lonely hotel room. The acoustic was bequeathed to her by Shawn, and when Karen had brought it to her last night she couldn’t bring herself to part with it.

She began to strum a familiar tune, her voice finally crawling up and out of her throat.

I wanna start this out and say

I gotta get it off my chest

Got no anger, got no malice

Just a little bit of regret

Know nobody else will tell you

So there's some things I gotta say

Gonna jot it down and then get it out

And then I'll be on my way

Y/N began to strum the strings harder, letting the chords dig into her fingertips and her whole body began to shake.

Oh, I feel so sorry

I feel so sad

I tried to help you

It just made you mad

And I had no warnin'

About who you are

I'm just glad I made it out without breakin' down

And then ran so fuckin' far

That you would never ever touch me again

Y/N screamed out the last lyric, her voice cracking in the end as she dissolved into sobs, gripping the fret tighter. Tears hit the wood with a soft thump.

She let her head bow over, broken sobs wracking her body. She let the grief and heartbreak consume her one final time as she stared out her wide hotel room window at the nighttime Toronto skyline.

After ten minutes her tears dried, Y/N running her hand along the smooth mahongany of the guitar, before lifting it and gently setting it in its hard plastic case, snapping it closed.

To Y/N, it felt like a burial.

——————

Morning broke in Pickering, Shawn shuffling downstairs, exhausted. He couldn’t sleep all night, much less close his eyes without seeing Y/N. He wished he had know how badly this would hurt, he never would’ve signed that goddamn contract.

Manuel and Karen fluttered about the kitchen, Karen washing fruit as Manny cooked eggs. Aaliyah was setting the table and at the sight of Shawn, she glared and slammed the last fork on the table, leaving the room.

His parents looked up at the sound, but once watching the scene unfold they silently went back to their duties.

Shawn felt a lump grow in his throat, turning and rushing up the stairs. He burst into his childhood room, Camila yawning as she sat up in bed. He had been sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor, refusing to share the bed with her.

“Shawn? What’s going on?” Camila drowsily asked.

“We need to tell my parents.” Shawn insisted. “We need to break this contract.”

Camila sat up, the sleepiness leaving her senses. “I hate this as much as you do, but Shawn... you’re asking me to put my career on the line.”

“I’ll let you come out spotless,” Shawn pleaded, stepping forwards to the end of the bed. “Mendes’ aren’t snitches.”

“Well, you’re about to become one.” Camila sighed, throwing her legs over the bed. “Let’s do it.”

——————

Y/N threw her backpack over her shoulder, hoisting the straps up upon her frame as she lifted up the guitar case. She graciously thanked the receptionist, walking out of the hotel lobby.

As her taxi maneuvered Toronto traffic, Y/N became lost in her thoughts, watching the buildings for the last time.

She smiled at the sight of the coffee shop where Shawn and herself had their first date.

Chuckled seeing the street corner where they first met, when Shawn had found her busking to pay rent.

Stared dreamily looking at the bookstore where they sat for hours, reading (but really catching glimpses over the books).

Y/N was shaken out of her memories by the familiar tune of “Perfectly Wrong” playing on the radio. Ironic, Y/N grumbled in her head.

“Excuse me, could you please change the radio? I’m very sorry...” Y/N mumbled to the driver, who let out a huff but changed it nonetheless.

“Thank you...” Y/N sighed, “Bad breakup.”

The driver looked over their shoulder, their frown loosening. “That sucks kid. Sorry.”

Y/N smiled tightly, looking out the window.

“My girlfriend cheated on me,” the driver continued, Y/N perking up, “and I had to find out by them fucking in my own bed. I was destroyed, and it hurt for a while, but then I found my wife. Thing’s’ll get better. I can tell you that much.”

Y/N finally smiled, genuinely.

“I hope so.”

——————

Shawn and Camila sat across the table from the Mendes family, the boy nervously rubbing his hands. “Before we actually have this conversation, anything that happens, leave Camila’s name out of this. Please. We’re risking a lot, but I’ve already lost too much.”

The family hesitantly shook their heads yes, Shawn running a hand through his hair as he stumbled for words to find out how to start.

“My agent and producer gave me a contract,” Camila spoke up, Shawn whipping his head to her. “Shawn’s agent and producer were present too, he was given the same paperwork. They insisted we pursue a PR romantic relationship to promote our new single.”

“They threatened to leave a stain on our record, that we could be removed from the label if we denyed. We were jumped, and we were terrified.” Shawn continued. “So we signed the contract, because we love to sing, to perform. We signed, because we were scared of what would happen if we didn’t.”

Karen had tears welling within her eyes, Manuel’s face softening.

Aaliyah finally spoke up. “So that kiss...” she trailed off.

“Meant nothing at all.” Camila reassured. “But it cost us the most important thing in our lives.”

“Y/N.” Aaliyah murmured. Suddenly she stood, her chair pushing away with a creak. “You have to go win her back!”

“Liyah...” Manuel began, the girl cutting her off.

“No, you have to! You two were meant to be with each other, you need to stop her from leaving!” Aaliyah cried out.

Karen blinked away the moisture from her eyes, shaking her head. “Honey, that’s—“

“I have to go win her back.” Shawn nodded, looking up at his family and Camila. “I have to go win her back!” He shouted, bursting up as he grabbed his keys, placing a ballcap and sunglasses on his face. Shawn turned to look at Camila, who nervously smiled.

“Go get our girl.”

——————

Y/N sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs outside her gate, the airport chatter dulled by her earbuds. The same song looped through her ears, somehow strangely giving her strength.

But you're not half the man you think that you are

And you can't fill the hole inside of you with money, girls and cars

I'm so glad I never ever had a baby with you

'Cause you can't love nothin' unless there's somethin' in it for you

Y/N took a bite of her toasted bagel, longing for her guitar that was being loaded onto the plane. She longed to go home, where her mother would say “told you so” and she could finally have some peace.

Shawn never came to (hometown/nearest city), not unless he had a concert. Never attempted to get to know Y/N’s home like she had Pickering and Toronto.

She shook her head, throwing the rest of her bagel away and standing as her boarding class was called, shouldering her backpack.

After a long wait in line, maybe ten or so minutes, Y/N finally reached the front. The flight attendant looked up, her eyes growing wide. “Oh my goodness! You’re Y/N L/N!”

Y/N smiled in surprise. “Oh, um, yes! Guilty!”

“Oh, my daughter loves your Spotify singles! She’s your biggest fan!” The woman excitedly gushed, Y/N giggling. She was a very small singer, not even a part of a label, and meeting fans was a rarity.

“I’m honored, ma’am.” Y/N smiled politely.

“Could I snap a quick photo with you? My little girl will freak!” Y/N nodded, leaning over the desk to the woman as she snapped a photo.

Y/N’s grin fell as she noticed a familiar figure running in the background of the phone screen. She turned, freezing as 30 feet away Shawn stopped in his tracks, panting heavily. She could see past his hoodie, hat, and sunglasses, the incognito look was never very stealthy.

“Is—is that Shawn Mendes?! Oh sweet Jesus, I’m having a stroke!” The flight attendant cried.

The two didn’t move a muscle for many seconds. Shawn took a few steps forward cautiously, gauging her reaction.

Y/N broke into a run, dropping her backpack and racing up to Shawn, throwing her arms around him. He staggered backwards, wrapping his own long arms around her, clutching the back of her head with one of his hands. The two embraced each other deeply, letting go of heartbreak, fighting for another chance.

At least, that’s what happened in Y/N’s head.

She instead hardened her face into a glare, turning her back to him. Y/N scanned her ticket, and without another glance walked past the gate, towards her plane and to home.

Shawn’s shoulders slumped, the man feeling the weigh of everything crash down on him. He stumbled backwards, his whole body shaking as he quickly turned, rushing for a bathroom.

Once finding a men’s room, he ran inside, locking himself in a stall and ripping off his hat, his breaths growing ragged and hard, as if he were drowning in air.

Shawn sank to his knees, grasping his curly hair with his fingers as he slid down the wall onto the dirty tiled floor, tears cascading down his face.

Shawn wanted to rip up that fucking contract, destroy his reputation. He wanted to scream it from the rooftops, loud enough she’d hear, loud enough the whole world would hear.

It was all just an act.

To be continued in part 3...

[utterlyinevitable]

another random fic idea i vomited in the group chat about the detective butt dialing mason and then abandoning her phone and the vamp is worried 👀

‘Scared The Crap’ Call 

What if... 

detective accidentally called m and he freaked out and ub barges into her apartment. 

Like, she gets home after work one evening, there’s no immediate threat on her life that she knows of so doesn’t need the escort. and she is looking through her phone mindlessly and her fingers slip and call m (who’s number is a shortcut on the screen) as she’s chucking her phone onto her bed before hopping in the shower. 

And Mason answers 

“hello? ... playing hard to get, sweetheart? ... detective? ... mc?????” 

and he freaks because she’s not answering and he can’t hear ANYTHING in the background through the shitty phone speaker. everything is muffled and eerily quiet. so in seconds he rounds up ub and they make their way to her apartment. The entire time Mason’s mind is running what if what if what if 

Adam is stalking the perimeter. Felix checking the fire escapes and calls down to Adam that her window is ajar. Nate and Mason going right up to her flat. 

The door is locked. Mason breaks it the fuck down with a swift kick of his heavy boot. 

And nothing. 

All is quiet and nothing is out of place and there’s just... drops. Pitter patters of water on porcelain 

The two move quietly into the space on high alert.

and then there’s a creak 

and then a scream

And no one says anything 

the three of them are just stunned for a moment. the boys seeing Mc in her towel in the space between her bedroom and the bathroom. Her heartbeat running races at her intruders. She takes breaths to calm down at the sight of her friends, but it’s still jarring. Mc wide eyed and naked, pulling the edges of the slit in the towel closer together as to not flash them her crotch. tbh mason is much to in his feelings to notice how scantily clad and wet she is. 

Felix and Adam rush upstairs at her scream but by the time they get there... 

they’re just in time to see mason grabbing Mc by the shoulders and looking at her harshly but with undertones of relief in his Grey eyes as he stares and assesses and makes sure she’s okay before breaking the tension with a venomous; 

“What is fucking wrong with you?!”

“Huh? What’re you talking about?” her brows knit and her grip on the towel loosens at the contact with him. 

He lets her go and quick as lightening picks her phone up off the duvet where the call was still connected. He was too scared to shut it off bc what if he did and he could hear something. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to her and he wasn’t there to help. 

“Oh... I didn’t do that on purpose. Must’ve been an accident” 

“You should be more careful, detective” Adam notes, breaking the weird tension between the totally-not-a-couple and reminding her that there’re other people here. helloo 

“Yeah Mason almost had a heart attack before we even left the warehouse” Felix adds

Mason sneers, “I did not” 

[felix retorts with something incriminating to show how much m cares]

Also like the rest of ub telling her to be more careful as Mason just stares at her with a scowl of relief. And now that she’s here and she’s fine he can settle and his mind can catch up and he doesn’t know why he’s feeling these feelings. He’s been in dangerous situations and watching a mark before but this all feels different. 

Weird. 

And Felix in the background telling Mc how worried he was isn’t helping. And Nate hiding a smile isn’t helping. And she’s standing there in nothing but a Terry cloth towel with beads of fresh water and that damn body wash fresh on her skin and that’s certainly not helping.  

And Adam gives her a lecture which Nate paraphrases and Felix adds another dig at masons feelings. 

Then the three move towards the living room to talk and see if they should stay the night to keep a look out / patrol more since they’re already here or if they really don’t need to inform rebecca that they moved in on a false alarm. while Mason and Mc are alone in her room. 

And she smiles and closes the distance and asks with a sly grin “you worried about me, sunshine?”

_________________________

A/N: i bequeath this idea to anyone who actually wants to write it! 

[whimsically-ominously-auspice]

So,apparently there was some thing wrong with the satellite receiver ... Not the missle ... Although Kim Jong-Un has been making plans for a replica that will work right with no interference...

While the leader of North Korea worked with the original information from 2002 that I wrote while I was pregnant...

Okay 1st let me say we all know I'm not a coward. 2nd let me say we all know i am very angry. 3rd let me just say when pregnant shit gets intensified by 9000%

Okay. So in Kim Jong-Un's work he uncovered that the missle isn't inaccurate. There's a specific satellite that actually works with my GPS coordinates, in case i am making last minute deals with qE2 and i don't get dust in my eyes when she's blasted and i can expell her secrets from her brain as fast as possible.

Which everyone has known that informational coding... But the way it's worded sounds like I don't like fighting around me and it sounds like i don't know how to protect my kid. Because people read my writings with an attitude and mind set to protect me. Not that I'm giving militant orders like i can rule the world and no one know.

Like literally "Sabrina would kill No one and she would never order that and so we need to work arounf her to protect her because she doesn't know how to do it herself"

When i clearly state, "i will do Any thing to protect my kid, remove me and the battle will commence"

Like who built the missle?

"Yeah you called it a batteryless missle and Kim Jung-On called you and told you. Okay i built it how do i make the missiles and you say it's a Care Bear invention. Yeah fuck you, yes we're gonna go around you! Because he went and told Every body you were insane!"

And yet the proof is in the pudding and im still stuck here for Christmas and they're putting Every one in danger! Duh.

So but i began to write to make fun of William... I got interrupted to prove my point and let Wiliam know "United They Stand"

And so I tell William where have you been the last two nights that allowed this creep to be all up on me? And I word it as running around being a tramp.

And he's all "if you call creating a satellite being a tramp"

And then Matt informs me there was nothing wrong with the satellite initially but i got into a fit of rage because no one would tell me my husband was dead or who he was and so I used a comet to break it on purpose and called New Mexico nothing but hoes and cunts

"Lets continue, but i was wrong" says Matt now.

And so I had asked William where he had been the last 6 years. And he was all "there was shit you had me do that I didn't want to do Because I told you it would take me 9 long ass years but you insisted because you had deep PTSD and you said people needed individual therapy because you did and you wouldn't get it so thats what i been doing when other people were fucking with you and you wouldn't interrupt their therapy to help yourself belittle others. You said you could do it all on your own"

And so there was always the blame of time in confusion. Why it's taken so long and I said we just had to wait for the right President.

And then im told the DNA system has only been in effect for the last two years "because of This" and I'm directly pointed at. Which is quite funny. I'm much too much to be a you.

And a little about the electoral votes... Russia was the one country that unanimously elected Uncle Donald to be President. -- the United Nations uses diplomats from other countries to vote for the President. The President represents us but the President interacts internationally. So the entire world gets to vote who they want to play with.

This is why every Russian Diplomat voted in Uncle Donald:

Because Russia used to be the USSR in the pre-1990s.

As many people can grasp I learned of the eQ2 shortly after my dad disappeared in 1986. I was 2, almost 3. People like Lucas told us the truth and attempted to save us. And did. And i fought her because she came down to learn why we kept being obtrusive so she could gain control.

But luckily i had a twin that was so angry that his dad was gone he began flushing every non Darth Vadar toy he had down the toilet because all he wanted was his dad.

And earlier today he was doing reps with weights in case he had to beat up William for being a tramp. Just in case.

And i had a mom that loved me. And a whole neighborhood full of people that had relatives nearby. Like Alex Laughlin in our trailer park and Channing Tatum that was relocated a few towns less than an hour away. Our trailer park was primarily military families that worked the river.

So my brother in his anger couldn't deal with the bitch. My mom in her horror and sadness needed protection. That left me.

In my house I was alone. Sadness of my family and friends bathed me like the miracle waters of Truth or Consequences heals, their tears and heaviness of their heart fed me strength.

I knew i had to do anything, like Lucas to help save the little Alabama town.

I saw how my brother would upset my mom because he would flush brand new toys down the commode but when i told her the story line and he recreated it for her with a new toy, she laughed and i saw her heavy heart lift and be able to live and be my mom again for a few more days. Days we didn't expect to have. Because we became accustomed to a sad and depressed mom.

I saw how he could be bad but I could explain it to her later and we could be a small without a dad normal family. And talk with each other.

So one day while Care Bears was on and i did my usual sitting across from my mom staring at her while she read and cried to analyze her emotions to see if she would be mom after she put down her book. To see how much work I'd have to put in to see my family and the sun shining on them, i was reminded of Lucas. I was reminded of Channing who was taken away by standing up to eQ2 and I began kneeling in front of the TV every time the Care Bears blasted love and protection from their tummies.

And my little twin Brother Matt Hagan began filling his stomach up with tension and telling me he could too. And so he and Alex Laughlin went round the neighbourhood teaching about the Care Bears and how we could fix everything if we just cared. And so people would literally bend over backwards all the time.

To enhance their stomachs to show we were United. And we would not fail. United in Silence. United in suffering. United in the fight.

So i told my mom one day while she was smiling and reading. "Mom i have to help save you but i have to lie. But I'll only tell you the truth"

"Samantha don't you dare lie to good people"

"Mom, let me watch the TV and I'll decide"

And i cried. I was scared.

"Mom. I only told you that because Darth Vadar said i should. But i don't know how to lie and not only tell you the truth but to tell everyone else. I don't know its safe"

She laughed "Darth Vadar, huh? You mean your dad. I can hear him, too. Next time she comes to town. I'll invite her here for tea and ill see you in action"

No. But she prepared it all then went to town and left me alone with her, the neighbors all on high alert and ready to pounce if I left the house with eQ2. And I bequeathed the eQ2 on my own and finished up what my mom had prepared and served it in the kitchen where there was less Windows but a man standing on his car and 2 others on their houses across the dirt road to watch for me. And I sat in front of the open window knowing I just had to push out the screen and jump out and I would be safe And i could pretend to fall out and kick and punch the screen in my panic of "falling" as suggested by a neighbor. As long as I didn't hear mom's car i wouldn't get hurt much.

And so thats how at the age of 2 I infiltrated the eQ2's circle because of Channing Tatum and my dad and the unbearable sadness I saw daily.

And heroes like Lucas and attempted heroes like Channing and the town's bravery and support.

I learned to Sleigh. Sit back and ride the ride, controlling the reigns with delight. And fear. Dread.

Each meeting i took the heaviness in the air around me and put it in me as much as possible. All the Care Bear sadness not in their belly but their hearts and minds and the rest i hid around me, under the table, under my shirt, in my hair.

Then every time she left i measured the heaviness to see how good of a job I did. Nearly every time it was light enough to easily dance a jig.

Merry Christmas to All, once and for all!

So this shirt... Its me hugging my mom to make her feel better about my crazy Darth Vadar loving brother sneaking up behind her chair to check on her and not to check if he was in trouble, but to hear her laugh

Its me hugging my mom while my brother Matt is in the bathroom flushing his toys or taking a nap and all his dreams come true when our dad comes in behind us, says the desiger Jesse James whom also used to live in the trailer park. Whose dad used to kill the kidnappers.

Not that my mom is fat or waddled. But as adults saw everything in black and white, couldn't fly or run like we could due to paralyzing sadness. But had full unbranded Care Bear tummies just like the rest of the neighborhood.

And my dad sneaking up has a Darth Vadar helmet on his tummy for representing all human trafficked dad's.

We decided mom would get an open book and a magic wand for hers because she became a high school teacher and she always drowned her sorrows in an open book she read that took her away to a life that filled her with imagination and other worlds.

Merry Christmas, mom. From Jesse and all the team.

..

I'll come back with Russia after i eat.

[lorainelaneyblog]

There are some female centers who love the company of other women. Social and sexual are not always in coalescence, Loraine, unlike for you. You thought that it should be perfectly in order, but it is not always true.

‘What about that 11% God, they don’t deviate from men.’

‘They do deviate from men, Loraine, often, they love men, but not all of them are interested in being in a group of seven under a center polygamist like your friend, [ ].’

‘They’re not, Loraine, I have asked them. They like to be ordered by a lesbian. And, in one of these groups, they would be a fifty-fifty, and that’s what they are, but they love men so much sexually that they are not prepared to live without gay men, and that’s it.’

‘Riffing.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think your ‘sevens’ are more dominant?’

‘I think they might be, Loraine. And I love them for it. I do. I love dominance in men, not twinks, though, as a man, many people see me as twinky.’

‘Why twinky?’ says Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth. 

‘Because I’m funny in a feminine way. I am. And I know it. And that’s what makes people laugh. Loraine knows this. As a dyed in the wool fag hag, and she was a good one, hanging around us, and making us laugh about her weirdness with men and women, and she was, 50 Cent, a perfect fag hag, she never judged promiscuity, never.’

‘Oh, really with this. In what sense did you notice it?’

‘I. just. did. 50 Cent. I was a ho and she did. not. care. She. did. not. care. Ever. And I had been friends, and she was one Loraine, who tried to convince me that promiscuity was wrong and that I should find one little gay and get married.’

‘Oh. Oops.’

‘Exactly. She didn’t. care. And she cared so little that we would get to the end of the night and she would realize I was shoving her off, and she didn’t have any designs on promiscuity herself, and she would just go, a little pouty, to be dismissed from a friend.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, and I could tell she had no designs on promiscuity because she didn’t. fucking. care. She just wanted to be with me, and she was a little offended that I didn’t want to be with her. [ ] would berate me for an hour after I would try to shove her off, Loraine, and what did you think about that.’

‘Exactly what you say. I had nothing in mind, myself, though you intrigued me a little with your cruising.’

‘You didn’t want it though.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘So, no.’

‘I had no pangs or suffering other than the rejection of a friend.’

‘Exactly,’ says God. ‘Loraine was never jealous of [ ]’s--’

‘Are you a perfect woman?’ asks the queen.

‘He had other good friends too.’

‘I did. And she was never, never, never jealous either, of [ ]’s serious relationships or of my promiscuous ones, she wanted a baby, so she stopped using condoms, and she paid for that, Loraine, she got several STD’s before she finally, finally, finally, got pregnant. And we thought she was disgusting but she was working within the required parameters, no one was marrying a fag hag, but she got her baby, and her entire life changed, we could hardly get her to get drunk with us again, and only, only, only, if she had a really, really, really, reliable, good, kind, and wonderful babysitter, would she let go and get pissed like she used to.’

‘Good,’ says the queen. ‘Bon,’ she says.

‘What was she like, Loraine, because I trust your judgement.’

‘I wasn’t invited to everything, but it perturbed me that she should be singled out as a drunk for being the drunkest.’

‘I agree.’

‘Loraine, and I regret this, was invited to almost nothing after she had her baby, I was jealous myself of her income with sex work. And that was it.’

The queen laughs. ‘So the queen was jealous in the end, not the hag.’

‘True,’ says [ ]. ‘Let’s move on. Kidding, queenie.’

‘That’s unacceptable.’

‘I am not the man her brother is.’

‘Let’s talk to her brother about the feelings for the monarchy, and I see Loraine is no stranger to this, though I don’t understand it, among the British, let alone the Canadians. I have felt a figurehead for so long, I can hardly even stand it.’

‘What do you think, Loraine?’

‘I suppose I think the upper classes influence the military.’

‘But why?’ says [ ]. ‘Why? Because people don’t feel this way anymore.’

‘I don’t see the upper classes as sexually repressed, let’s take Afghanistan as an example.’

‘Let’s take Afghanistan as an example. What do you think?’

‘I think drugs are an aside. I think the main mission in Afghanistan is, sickening [ ], to liberate women to promiscuity.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the highest men are the most invested in female polygamy.’

‘Not in male polygamy, as they have.’

‘Exactly.’

‘You said before, they are fighting blind.’

‘Yes!’

‘She thinks,’ says God, ‘that the highest men are fighting blind in order to liberate women to a kind of promiscuity which will lead to groups of men on a single woman. That is what she thinks.’

‘What do you think?’ says [ ].

‘God is accurate. That is what I think, but it is a nefarious promiscuity because it is still a cloistered woman they desire.’

‘My wife,’ says [ ], ‘is a center polygamist, isn’t she?’

‘That she is.’

‘And I love her so much, I can’t even stand it. And I am happy, as the lead man, to pimp her to other men, especially if I can get them to accept family responsibility for her, in lieu of strict payment for her as a prostitute, and that is how I feel, and I don’t care if it is in the book, but that is how I feel. Prostitution is a brilliant resolution, Loraine, and 50 Cent, to wives needing men outside the family, but I want a family, and I want them to commit to her, as I have.’

‘I would not be able to do this, [ ], if I didn’t fully understand and commiserate, let’s say, that each man is invested in this woman.’

‘Seriously. I thought I was weird, thinking they would join our family, not just be interlopers.’

‘When your sister came out with this work, despite that I had built, built, [ ], built a mother fucking house which is a testament to the gang bang, the den of iniquity, such as we are, we both are, regardless of numbers--’

‘I realize that.’

‘Your numbers came out recently, in Loraine’s work. You are almost exclusively five to one.’

‘I’m so happy, [ ].’

‘See?’

‘She doesn’t want anymore, but my sister wants endless, endless, endless men, why, Loraine?’

‘Loraine recognizes men’s needs, it is not her own desire, she has talked many times of giving up work.’

‘Oh, I didn’t realize that. Why? Why now?’

‘What do you mean “now”?’

‘Why do you talk of giving up work with 50 Cent, but not before, because I heard, from [ ] [ ], that even if they gave us millions, and it would be millions, Loraine, millions, because both [ ] and [ ] decided not to accept the money, that you would feel obligated to a few men.’

‘One spoke up, but he has since reneged.’

‘Really? Who?’

‘I bought her two phones, and helped her with an extra twenty to forty dollars, wouldn't you say, Loraine?’

‘He is my last client who stayed through the toughest times when I was working for ten or twenty dollars.’

‘Oh, I see. Obligations, not desire.’

‘I have no desire for variety, it never was about variety or numbers.’

‘What, then?’

‘Survival, [ ], and the desire to maintain a semblance of a sex life,’ says 50 Cent.

‘That.’

‘You didn’t want numbers.’

‘My little list ground to a halt around twenty five.’

‘Oh. Silliness.’

‘The suffering overcame the jealousy, is how I describe it.’

‘You had no desire for numbers.’

‘It is not conscious. I knew I did not want to be left alone anymore, for my poly.’

‘Oh, you were tired of paying the price of poly, because that’s why [ ] was crying, she said to her [ ] that she gave up dating for me, and then I wouldn’t commit, and she had no other hopes, but I wouldn’t commit.’

‘Aw.’

‘I was mean to her, I was. And I admit that now, I judged her, and I regret it, but I don’t regret knowing one thing, and that was that she was to slutty for my love.’

‘How did you come to terms with it?’ asks 50 Cent. ‘Because--forget it.’

‘Forget it, exactly. I just realized, finally, and her [ ] helped with this, because she told me that [ ] had been crying a lot, that she loved me so much that she couldn’t even stand it, and so I decided to bequeath her my dick, and it was almost that bad, Loraine. I thought she didn’t deserve my fucking, precious, dick, and--’

‘I felt that way about your own sister, [ ].’

‘Why? She was so, so, so much better than you.’

‘She was but I didn’t believe it, and--’

‘I know. She is better than me, but I didn’t believe it. Go to the bathroom, Loraine, and get another beer, because you are a bit high on speed, and we are going to work for a bit. The queen is here.’

‘Okay.’

‘50 Cent wants to say something.’

‘I have not called your sister for one specific reason.’

‘What in the fuck might that be?’

‘Agreed.’

‘Because I have been calling everyone in Canada to make sure that her [ ] can’t interfere in our relationship, and it is pretty clearly understood by now that I am madly in love with her, and her crazy work for God, but everyone, and I mean everyone, and I mean everyone, Loraine, says the same thing, “if I see her, then I will not let on to her that I have spoken to you, because we, all of us in Ottawa, do not want to see this ugly little thing disappointed, we don’t, 50 Cent. And that is why.’

‘Noble. But what about her? Why do all the leg work without her?’

‘Because she is such an honest idiot, that she will tell her mother, and then we will be done by mental health, and I have it on good authority, that nobody, and that means nobody, including her nefarious, psychiatrist, can stop us from marrying, and moving to Connecticut, and I have it from politicians, [ ], politicians have said “Good luck” to me. And, Loraine, even Charlie Sheen thinks I am out of my mind, and he likes you so much.’

‘I’m speechless.’

‘He does. He is a highest marrying man, and he likes you, even though you’re ugly, and he usually chooses pretty women, yes, her, so much he can hardly even think straight. When he heard that you believed that all women, despite the constraints of language involved in “let,” should have a hands off policy where it regarded the sexuality of their men, he applauded, because he has tried, and he has tried, and he has tried, to run the field with women, and he has, and he has, and he has, and he has lost every time.’

‘Well, men always say they don’t say no anymore.’

‘They do say no anymore, Loraine, I have it on good authority, women are driven by commitment and the almighty dollar, and, yes her, he even tried to see prostitutes as much as she saw men, and even that was impossible.’

‘Oh, man. I have balked at my own suggestion.’

‘You do, Loraine.’

‘Why?’ asks Charlie Sheen.

‘No good, fucking, reason. I want a man with numbers beyond the beyond and beyond that also.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s possible that I have been alone, in a sexual context, with a thousand men.’

‘Oh. You hate it. Why do you balk?’

‘Why do I balk, God?’

‘Women, women, women fear losing their man, and that is what they fear. Loraine is not in touch with jealousy on any level, she just doesn’t feel it, and, in this respect, she is very, very, lucky, and she knows it. She does.’

‘Why not? You have enough numbers?’

‘Even that is like Greek to me.’

‘Even that is like Greek to her. She doesn’t care. She wanted to be ahead and then she realized she was out of her league, and that’s what happened, and that’s it.’

‘At what age? At what numbers?’

‘At about twenty--it was the proverbial onion skin, twenty five, twenty nine.’

‘Why the difference?’

‘I had a boyfriend, the bar prevailed, I had a boyfriend, he changed my self opinion.’

‘What is she talking about?’

‘Loraine is a therapist’s dream, Charlie Sheen, she walks in, she spills the shit, and walks out in fifteen minutes, fear not.’

‘Okay. What is this shit?’

‘I wanted to be ahead of a boyfriend.’

‘How many were you at?’

‘A long kiss, a finger, mutual oral sex, my virginity, a long term boyfriend with oral sex and full sex.’

‘Did you eat come?’

‘With him, yes.’

‘Oh, I see. Not with the others?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. A baby. My wife was a slut, and I thought that’s what I deserved, being one myself, but, as I dealt with “the field” I realized that it would never be fair, and I couldn’t make sense of how it would ever be fair.’

‘If I am pathetic, it is because I can’t believe how unfair it actually is.’

‘Really? What do you want?’

‘I want 50 Cent, because he is so far above me.’

‘Why, though?’

‘There is no security in promiscuity for women.’

‘There are lies.’

‘Is that--’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.

‘And you?’

‘She is a solid ten and has never done anyone, let alone worse than they did her.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘She has cheated a little, tiny, itty bitty, bit, but only when desperate to make a point, and she has never cheated in certain relationships, and, she doesn’t know this, but they were the relationships where the cheating partner was oblivious to the morals of cheating. [ ] was wholly pathetic, Loraine, in every way. She was a rapist, and a cheater, but she had never been satisfied by a man, never. Her fiancé, as she called him, wouldn’t even fuck her.’

‘Oh. Why?’

‘He thought fucking was bad, immoral, and that she should content herself with kisses and oral.’

‘Oh. And his penis was small.’

‘Not small, but too small for her height.’

‘Oh, worse.’

‘Charlie Sheen laughs. You’re funny, little girl, and I know you can’t believe that I’m talking about who I’m talking about, but there are plenty of opportunities in show biz, trust me, and she took advantage of all of them, higher men, lower men, all men, and I was disgusted, and I wanted control, but she would. not. relinquish control. Read, in fact, quote, that part of the book.’

‘”Playing the field may well be the exclusive preserve of men. Married women are, perhaps ironically, less interested in infinite variety than they are in creating close secondary relationships. This may take an odd form, that is to say since men’s right suffering involves competition, just as women control the purse strings of sexuality, men must control the purse strings of competition, and often this will involve pimping their wives to friends and colleagues, rather than giving free reign.”’

‘This is what I want to say about that. When you said, and I read the book myself Loraine, and this is why you have a few twitter followers in Los Angeles, you do, admittedly.’

‘True.’

‘People can’t come to terms, or, at least, they cannot be seen to be coming to terms with your work on children, though, I must admit, your work, as is Sigmund Freud’s, is brilliant.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Do you really think that a three year old is ready for a relationship?’

‘I want to take this,’ says [ ], my [ ]’s daughter. ‘I am [ ], and, when I was three, I saw a man that I loved, I did, Loraine, and it wasn’t with you, as we weren’t together that often, and he was white, and he was high, and I can’t tell you much, but he was the man of my dreams.’

‘I thought I was the man of your dreams,’ says [ ], Loraine’s former coworker.

‘No, [ ]. I love you now, but then, he was it. He was it. He was it. He was it. And I will not say much, and Loraine does not understand this herself, because she liked older boys, and she wasn’t ready till later, but I knew, I knew, Loraine, and it was torture, nobody obvious, so don’t even try.’

‘Was he in a position of authority?’

‘He was. Why?’

‘These men became vilified, and a new law was instituted against people in a position of trust or authority.’

‘What, I have to know, did you say about this?’

‘I derided a law which would show preference for, do you know what Joe Blow means?’

‘No.’

‘An average man.’

‘Oh, I see, he was not an average man.’

‘Joe Blow, over a person in a position of trust or authority over a child.’

‘Why did you say that?’

‘Let’s read the law, [ ], it’s really interesting.’

‘Okay.’

’When an accused is charged with an offence under section 151 or 152, subsection 173(2) or section 271 in respect of a complainant who is 12 years of age or more but under the age of 14 years, it is a defence that the complainant consented to the activity that forms the subject-matter of the charge if the accused

(a) is less than two years older than the complainant; and(b) is not in a position of trust or authority towards the complainant, is not a person with whom the complainant is in a relationship of dependency and is not in a relationship with the complainant that is exploitative of the complainant, is not in a position of trust or authority towards the complainant--’

‘Blah blah etcetera. You are not even on the books, [ ], at age three. This law refers to those between the ages of 12 and 14.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘My interpretation is that it refers to the age of consent, which I discuss in my book as being an appalling concept, based, as it is, on a premise of rape.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘The age of consent indicates that as of fourteen a man is able to use consent as a defense in a rape case.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that, for example, and I speak of the willingness of children, if a child consents to sex, under the age of fourteen, the accused--’

‘It means you, as an adult, cannot have sex with anyone under the age of fourteen, without being subject to the charge of rape.’

‘What does that mean for me though? Because I wanted him so bad I could hardly think straight, I wanted him, Loraine, and it wasn’t because I was abused, my [ ] was a slut, but she was good to me, and my daddy, as you know, and you’re jealous of him, because I love him so much, was good to me to, but this man, he had that long, soft, belly that you are always describing to others, I wanted him, I wanted him, I wanted him.’

‘Oh, [ ]. I should’ve known you’d always make me cry.’

‘Funny, Loraine, How do I get him? Because I knew, I knew, I knew, that he wanted me too. He was a gym teacher, Loraine, over kids. But not at school, and I won’t say where, but my parents will know, yes, they will, but I don’t want them to arrest him, he did nothing, but I knew, I knew, I knew, he loved me, as I loved him.’

‘What do you say about this, Loraine,’ says 50 Cent. ‘Because Charlie Sheen wants to know. Do you deny her?’

‘You do not deny her.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘I am Sigmund Freud, and Loraine Laney’s work is bullet proof. I did not freak out over incest, and nor did she, but she recognized something important, as did I, and this is reflected in the Oedipus Complex, that a parent has but one obligation, which is to--’

‘Fuck the kid?’ says Charlie Sheen. ‘This isn’t my shit, Loraine. I like women.’

‘This is why no one wants to be allied with me. I have two hundred and sixty followers on twitter.’

‘Bad.’

‘No,’ says Freud. ‘And this is not off topic.’

‘How do you figure?’ we say together.

‘It’s not. Charlie Sheen does not, he does not, he does not, have children, and nor do you, Loraine.’

‘I didn’t know that, Loraine. Why?’

‘Nobody, and I mean nobody wanted me.’

‘She did them hard, Charlie Sheen,’ says God. ‘Nobody fell in love with her.’

‘Nobody hurt.’

‘Nobody.

‘Wow.’

‘And he, he, he, can say that too, Loraine, as can 50 Cent. You are the first little girl to fall hard for 50 Cent. You are. She is a gang bang girl, Charlie Sheen. Unbeknownst to her-- She made an intellectual decision to turn to black men, intellectual.’

‘I get that, why?’

‘Pimping. Pimping. Pimping. When she realized 50 Cent was a pimp, nothing, Loraine, it all happened so fast, but rest assured, Charlie Sheen, Loraine Laney has a small pussy and she was more than happy with white men, more than happy, in fact, there are no, and I mean no, and I mean no, black men in Vancouver, none, and if she happened to see one, she was suspicious, and she was right to be suspicious, because they prefer their own kind, and they are sluts, and, in the war, sluts were leavers.’

‘Oh, I see. She didn’t want to be seen with a black man because she knew he would leave her.’

‘She knew. And she was right.’

‘They do.’

‘She knows that, first hand, bore, Charlie Sheen but she had sex four times or so with a black man in eight years, and paid stipend.’

‘She’s an idiot.’

‘She is.’

‘Oh. She kept it in her pants for a jail bird who was screwing in jail?’

‘She did. Once he said, in a surly tone, “How’s everything at home?’ And she replied with, “How’s everything at jail?’

‘Why is she so funny?’

‘She’s funny. And people laugh, laugh, laugh at her all the time. People are waving at her, on the street, as she has no car, and not even a license.’

‘My woman had a license. She went everywhere.’

‘They go nowhere.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘They go nowhere is how Loraine feels about women.’

‘But why? I go everywhere. I thought we were equal.’

‘The book makes it abundantly clear that women will never be equal. Never. And it speaks of women’s vulnerability, as submissives, to men.’

‘Oh, that. It bugged me how stupid she was.’

‘True. Men know your sexuality better than you know it yourself. And they know men better than you.’

‘Oh, I see. And this is why we have license to control, and we must have freedom to keep up the numbers.’

‘Yeah. You must, and this is why I balk, trust a man to give you what he is getting, though it is not, for women, a numbers game.’

‘Oh, wow.’

‘She’s right, Charlie Sheen,’ says God. ‘Let’s let Loraine rest.’

‘Really? Already?’

‘You worked hard. 50 Cent wants to assure Charlie Sheen that he can trust you, though it’s a moot point for someone like Charlie, who has been done by every bitch in Hollywood, Loraine. When I said, “Your favorite actresses in your favorite shows,” Charlie Sheen picked up the phone and he called me, and he said, “which favorite actresses in which favorite shows?”’

‘Oh my God.’

‘And I said. “Artistic license’. And he laughed, Loraine, and he said, “Are you fuckin’ kidding me, you had me all tied up in knots, I thought it was my girlfriend. I hate you 50 Cent. And I laughed.’

‘What did you think, though, because you don’t care.’

‘I felt sorry for the women.’

‘Oh, I see. Because he’s so great.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why is he so great to you, because so many women think he’s a useless player.’

‘I thought he was so romantic and alone.’

‘But he wanted to be alone.’

‘I did not fall for that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll take this. I didn’t want to be alone, Charlie. I didn’t. I just didn’t want to give up rampant promiscuity.’

‘How do you know she won’t try to get even with you?’

‘I’ve asked God. Which brings us back to her brother. Who is always wondering if there will be a limit to his wife’s desires.’

‘I do wonder this. Because if you’re a prostitute, why isn’t she?’

‘There,’ says God, ‘is a number of gang bang girls who would never stray, and there is a number who would, and they are opposites, fear not. If you put this family together, and, God willing, you get the family money, and build a house, your little wifey will never look beyond her five men, never. And I promise you this, 50 Cent is well versed in women, and he is not afraid of your little sister, so again, fear not.’

‘I won’t, God. And that’s it.’