#because they tried to drum up interest for it on Netflix and it got its faced caved in by Hajime no Ippo

[bribe-the-door]

the things that we’ll never know [001]

the one where best friend!harry apologizes 

a/n: hi friends :) it’s been a minute... hasn’t it? i’ve been going a bit stir crazy waiting for quarantine to end and the world to feel normal. so, to deal with the angst i have toward the current state of the world, I give you: fine line era angst. 

let me know if you’re interested in seeing more from me! i sure miss writing and i think it might be something i get back into these days :) xoxo h 

***

Are you still watching?

A banner pops up on your laptop screen, pausing the credits of yet another episode of Grey’s Anatomy. You scroll to the corner, click “yes”, and settle back into your spot; the corner of a well-worn grey sofa. A small grey cat, lovingly named Bean, readjusts her head and falls back asleep against you. The familiar two-beat drum sounds and Netflix shines in its red glory, the only light to illuminate your small space.

It is probably better this way, the darkness.

Having remained almost completely stationary for the past three days, the apartment is showing signs of abandonment and disarray. The space, normally light and airy despite its tiny size, feels cramped and stuffy. Plants droop in their pots as the sun sinks deeper into the sky and you’re too bothered to turn on the string lights. Instead you stay put, wilting, too.

Your laptop is wedged between a plate and bowl from a long-since concluded meal. A lone coffee mug sits cold, the dregs of drip coffee stagnant in the bottom of the cup. It will leave a ring of discoloration when you try to scrub it clean. There is a mess of cords under your legs; a charger, heating pad, headphones.

You’ll untangle them later, you tell yourself.

A sudden rush of action on-screen catches your attention, diverting your thoughts for a few minutes. An ambulance rushes to the hospital and interrupts a love triangle moment. Someone is caught in a longing gaze across the emergency department. Chaos ensues and there’s a dramatic cut to the next scene of hands furiously moving through surgery.

Your phone buzzes next to you and you glance at its screen, blue light casting a gastly glow over your face. It’s nothing important and you swipe to close the app.

A glaring red “1” catches your eye.

Your thumb hovers over the message app, knowing exactly what this text says. It’s remained unread, untouched, for three days now. An internal battle heats up in your brain, and, avoiding the turmoil altogether, you shake your head and lock your phone. It’s tossed aside as you push off of the couch. Netflix continues to play in the background.

You make your way into the kitchen (Bean following, curious) and scour the cabinets for something else to add to your pile of dishes on the coffee table. They’re bare except for a stale, half-eaten loaf of bread, some peanut butter, a box of elbow macaroni, and a can of peaches. A stray protein bar is likely hiding out somewhere in there, too, but you close the cupboard in defeat.

Since when were you so easily shaken by a simple “hi”?

A single laugh floats from your lungs. It happens again, this time out of disbelief.

And then it turns to a sob.

There is nothing simple about this greeting.

[three days earlier]

“Y/n,” Harry sighs. His hand rakes through his curls and leaves them disheveled. “It’s not that difficult of a concept.”

You feel your heart lurch into your throat, the second time this evening. The silence leaves only another opportunity for Harry to drive the wedge deeper between the both of you. He seldom leaves an argument without having the final word.

His eyes find yours amidst the tension. It’s uncomfortable and feels similar to the way your father scolded you as a child. His gaze locks you in place; cold.

“You’re acting as if you can’t see what I see,” he says, voice hardly a whisper. It grows in volume as the emotions well up within his chest. “Feel what I feel… It’s not /there/ anymore, y/n.”

Your lips part in attempts to interject, but are closed just as quickly.

“You’re not here anymore.” Harry’s head shakes and his eyes continue their grip on yours. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried and tried and nothing seems to stick. Not a single goddamn thing! I can’t figure you out, y/n. I’m going crazy trying to understand where I went so wrong.”

An angry fist pounds the table beside him and you stand in your place; fear paralyzes you and you are one with the cold kitchen tile. It’s a standoff now and neither of you move. You can’t move.

“Do you not have anything to say?” he spits, disbelief tinting the outburst. His eyes pity you, searching your face for any semblance of attention. Emotion. Something.

“I…” you begin, swallowing back the lump that’d made its presence known minutes ago. Your mind draws blank as his eyes bore into yours. This feels completely out of left field.

“Nothing?!”

“Harry, please.”

His hands fall to his sides in a final defeat. “No… No. No, y/n.” He’s talking to himself, muttering under his breath. He begins to turn away from the table, phone in hand. The counter is his next pursuit, likely in search of his keys, you presume.

“Where are you going? You ask, snapping to attention when you realize the familiar path he’s taking. He’s done this before. Many people in your life have taken this path, actually.

It’s the one ending in a slammed front door, an empty foyer. You don’t shake those feelings easily.

Harry laughs, “I’m not sure. But I’m not staying here.”

You take a step toward him and try to form a coherent sentence, but your tongue trips in the process. You don’t come up with much, but it’s an attempt.

“But, what about us, Harry? I love you!”

His body turns slowly to face you. He’s got his belongings in hand—the weathered notebook he keeps with him at all times, his keys (in a loop around his fingers)—and a sweater drapes itself over the crook of his elbow. Harry’s hands are full, but his eyes fail to show any sign of life.

“How do you know what love is, y/n?” He asks, tone dripping with doubt. “How do you know what that could possibly mean when you show yourself no love?”

His accusation holds the same comfort as burning your tongue on coffee. Stubbing your toe on the doorframe. A paper cut washed with soap.

When you fail to answer, Harry earns his final word in this argument.

“I can’t stay with someone who doesn’t love herself. I can’t fix you, y/n.”

Instantly, your chest floods cold. It’s an interesting sensation, as your cheeks run warm from anger while the rest of you ceases to function. You’re confident your heart fails to beat any longer; your lungs constrict like a snake around its prey.

“I’m done trying.”

Harry leaves you in the kitchen, the sounds of his boots echoing further and further away from where you stand. The front door shuts with a firm slam and serves as his ‘goodbye’.

You’re left standing in your spot, frozen as your thoughts race silently through your head. It feels like TV static buzzing in your ears and you can’t turn down the volume.

How is silence so deafening?

***

The phone sits in your hand as another /ping!/ sounds. It burns in your hand as you realize whose name sits above the few words on your screen.

Harry (7:54 PM): Y/n… Can we talk?

Your mouth tastes of pennies and you relax your jaw, grimacing at the now-sore part of your lip imprinted by your teeth. The red “2” shines angrily from its spot at the bottom of your phone. With a sigh, you tap on the square and reveal a text-thread you wish you never have to read again.

The blue and grey boxes hold words and emotions from days ago and, in your separation from them, you’re unprepared for the visceral reaction deep within your chest. Your heart drums underneath the cage of your ribs, constant, but worried. Like it knows something you don’t.

Feelings are pushed to the wayside and you begin to type back a response.

You (7:58 PM): Sure.

The grey “typing” bubble appears almost instantly after yours delivers. /He’s been waiting for you to respond/ you realize.

Harry (7:58 PM): It’s such a relief to hear from you, y/n.

Harry (7:59 PM): I miss you.

Grey’s Anatomy plays across the room from you, another heated argument on-screen, but it is drowned out by the thudding of your heart. It’s working in overdrive now.

For days, you did nothing but attempt to forget Harry’s existence: his clothes sat in a pile at the bottom of your closet (despite the overwhelming urge to pull that grey jumper over your shoulders at this moment); your mirror sits bare now that the polaroids of you both are nowhere to be found; his favorite coffee mug, along with his small collection of shot glasses and a teacup with the matching spoon, have been packed away and sit in a small cardboard box beside your kitchen counter.

Your apartment has been picked apart, day by day, to rid Harry of the space. It feels impossible, though, with how much time he spends (spent?) here.

Another text pops up:

Harry (8:07 PM): Y/n, are you there? I really want to make this right.

“Ugh!” you groan, loud enough to make Bean stir from her spot. “Sorry, baby, I’m just…”

Just what? you think to yourself. Just… Frustrated? Confused? Hurt?

Bean nudges your elbow with her tiny head, rubbing against your arm to try and earn some affection. You reach behind her ears and scratch small circles until she begins to purr. It’s hard to focus on anything present right now; you find yourself mulling over things from weeks ago. Swept up in memories once sweet now stab at your heart with a vengeance reserved for the most heinous of crimes.

There was the date at sunset in the park, complete with a chilled bottle of prosecco to celebrate your graduation and a slice of pie from the bakery down the road. The time he surprised you at work with balloons, a bouquet of peonies and eucalyptus (your favorites), and a stupid grin of his face “Just Because”. Remember when Harry decided to decorate your entire apartment for Valentine’s Day because you’d mentioned in passing no one had ever done anything for that holiday growing up, and it was your favorite? There were roses everywhere; Bean had a pink bow on her head, and Harry insisted on baking a heart-shaped cake.

Why did something so seemingly perfect cut even deeper on second thought?

You sigh again, shaking your head at the phone.

“What do I do, Bean?” She chirps in response and you let out a single laugh. “You have it so much easier, you know? No boys to break your heart, no job to take up all of your time.”

You pick her up and hold her in front of you, leaning forward to rest your forehead against hers. Her sandpaper-tongue brushes over your nose and she meows again.

“Okay, sorry.” You put her down and she curls up in your lap, purring against your stomach.

Things move in slow-motion as you think, and you’re not entirely sure how much time has passed. Phone in hand, your fingers anxiously hover over the screen and anticipate a string of words. Each time, though, they feel wrong, and you delete the entire thing.

”I just want to make things right.”

It feels like an internal battle to decipher what Harry means with this pleading. There’s a part of you who wants nothing to do with him, another who desperately wants him back, and the most confusing part, who feels like you were the one in the wrong here. Love is a tumultuous thing; intense, passionate. It feels utterly terrifying in the simplest of ways. Was your lack of self-love really what caused such an uproar in the first place? Had you been blind to your own hatred this whole time?

A knock at the door interrupts your ponderings.

Bean looks up suddenly, ears flickering at the noises from the hall. She jumps from your lap and runs to the dining table, hiding behind its oak legs. You can hardly see her, only the glimmering green of her eyes as they move to survey the apartment.

It takes minimal thought to figure out who stands on the other side of the door and you aren’t sure if it’s wishful thinking or fear of confrontation.

You stand and cautiously approach the hall, legs more like jell-o than limbs. Another knock sounds and the hair on your arms stands on end. This feels like a scene from a horror film; ominous. In attempts to steady your breathing, you don’t reach for the door at first, knowing full-well who stands on the other side.

The floor creaks underneath your right foot, and you swear under your breath. A quick “shit!” before you remember why you’re being so timid in the first place. A grimace crosses your face in wait.

Harry sighs from outside the door. “Y/n, I know you’re right there.”

You don’t say anything and instead look through the peep-hole. His face looks defeated, eyes searching the door for you as if he knows your every move.

“Can we please talk?”

The doorknob seemingly glows in response to his suggestion, simply begging for your touch. It feels entirely wrong to refuse conversation with the boy who, for the past few years, so gingerly held your heart and cared for you more than any family member could have.

He just wants to talk, you remind yourself. A quick talk.

You twist the lock on the knob, a metallic “yes” answering him instead of your own words. Next is the deadbolt, then the chain. The knob feels heavy in your hand as you turn it, but there isn’t any going back now.

Light floods into your apartment from the common hall, accompanied by the stale smell of cigarette smoke. Harry moves only his gaze to meet yours.

“Hi.”

You swallow before answering and realize how tightly you’d been holding your jaw the entire time. “Hi.”

His hands are in his pockets, and, illuminated by the harsh fluorescents of the hallway, he should have looked intimidating. But his shoulders hung low and his eyes were unsure.

Clearly neither of you were ready for this.

“Can I…” Harry starts.

You gesture forward, backing up against the door and allow him to enter.

He hesitates slightly before moving into the entryway, hovering for just a moment. The stiffness in Harry’s shoulders fades slightly as the door shuts behind you but the tension in his presence only increases.

Harry turns to face you, and, against your best interests, seconds pass as minutes. Slowly enough to study over his eyes; shadowy in the dim lighting of your hallway but ever still green. They invite you in like a warm mug of coffee after a chilling walk home from work and you find yourself biting back a grin. It all feels wrong, having him so close.

But, the heart wants what the heart wants, right?

“Can I?” He asks, more succinctly this time.

You nod a single nod, stepping a single step closer. He reaches forward to cup your chin in his hand, tipping your gaze up at his for just a second. That same emerald draws you in just like moments before, a safe embrace. 

A welcome home. 

Harry stays like this for just a moment more before dropping his hand, a sigh leaves his lips. You’re disheartened at the buildup leaving just as quickly as it’d come on. 

“So about that text...” you laugh. He shares a laugh, too, but there’s a hint of pain in his tone. 

You anticipate they’ll be a lot more hurt tonight.

***

feel free to let me know what you thought! this is just a little piece and it’s been fun to work back into the writing scene <3 

[x--daughters-of-darkness--x]

A Conversation with Delain’s Charlotte & Martijn on ‘Apocalypse & Chill’

Apocalypse & Chill seem a lot darker and heavier than some of your prior works, what led you guys go into this direction?

Martijn: I think a lot of interviewers ask us, “Do you have a goal or like an aim before you started?” We always say no, but there’s also always one exception. We always say, “We want it more heavy, hard, or loud.” And so we always aim for that part and then let me start with just go, literally go with the flow, so to say. And it really worked out well with this album. What also helped is that our guitar player, Timo [Somers}, he normally always arranges what we write. So when we were done writing, we gave it to Timo and he tweaked it and then we recorded it. But this time, he also really contributed some material himself. And that also helped very much in the heaviness. And then there’s of course, how you mix and produce it. And yeah, we’ve always tried to make that as heavy as possible.

I enjoyed the contrast in the album artwork, which represents the title very well. Can you talk more about how the title and concept came together?

Charlotte: Sure. We started exploring album titles when we were about six, seven songs in, that’s usually when I feel like there’s enough flesh to the bone in terms of the music and the lyrics to discover whether there’s some kind of theme or a thread going through the album. And in this case I noticed that there were some songs that had a strong dystopian, apocalyptic. And then the other part is calmer, there’s love songs, there’s nostalgic themes, and that kind of worked as a mirror for the time that the album was written because for the last few years it’s been really striking how if you open a newspaper or you look at the news, then you see the world quite literally being on fire. And then if you look at your socials, you see everybody living their perfect lives and it’s hard to grasp that those worlds exist at the same time or are actually the same world. So that topic and that contrast, was really interesting. And then apocalypse kind of came up as a play on words on Netflix & Chill.

I really like the theme and the contrast as you described. What was the overall recording process for this record? Was it any different from your prior efforts?

Martijn: Yeah, it was. I was kind of thinking that this time it would be better to do everything fragmented. So normally the old fashioned way of doing it, so to say, is that you write everything first and then you record and mix everything. And this time we kind of wrote a couple songs then recorded and mixed those and then went back and wrote more songs and recorded and mixed those. And an advantage of that is you are way more flexible. You can go back to your song, which is already mixed and tweaked things even, while in the old way of working, when everything is mixed, it’s done and there’s kind of no return. And that makes things way more flexible. It always makes it more inefficient in the process because you have to build down and build up drums over and over again, and in the studio, and record over and over again instead of in one go, but it also gives you more flexibility, and I think it really benefits the process very much.

Charlotte: It also becomes easier over the years to do it like this because the drums, well, the drums and the choirs on this album, but they’re one of the only things that really cannot be recorded at home, while earlier would also be studio time for vocals.

Martijn: Or guitars.

Charlotte: Yeah, exactly. So parts have become more efficient and parts have become less efficient, and it definitely gives a lot of freedom.

Martijn: Oh, also a nice note is for example, Charlotte did all her vocals, recorded them at home and she also edited most of them herself, and I think that’s also really cool that she can do that, and in general with technology you can do that nowadays. It also really helps. Yeah.

Charlotte: Yeah.

I understand that technology is very helpful. Are there any particular songs that were more challenging for you guys to put together or for you, Charlotte, any particular tracks that challenged your vocal range?

Charlotte: Quite a few of them are. But I kind of enjoyed the challenge of going to new heights or going to a more distorted sounds like the grunt parts on “Burning Bridges” on this record. I have to kind of keep myself aware of the fact that I will have to reproduce this on stage at one point. Usually during the writing process and the recording process, I just see how far I can go and certainly have to keep in mind to throw in some lines that are easier to sing as well, just to be able to make the live shows not as exhausting. Fortunately, we also have an instrumental track on this records. So that helps.

What was the experience like for creating the video for “Burning Bridges?”

Martijn: That was a great experience. We went to Snowdonia in Wales, it’s beautiful there and the company we have really good cooperation with, and you know, we like it when we don’t get scripts thrown at us and we have to choose from that, but that you develop a script together with those video producers, so to say, and you ping pong back and forth with ideas. And I think it was very rewarding and we were also really happy with the results.

Can you talk more about what happened before your North American tour with the sudden visa delay for drummer Joey de Boer?

Charlotte: His visa had to get additional processing, and you know, we can maybe pinpoint some things that have caused this, but in all honesty, they have never said like, “Okay, it’s 100% this or that, that went wrong.” There was additional processing needed. I actually Googled on bands cancelling and tours canceled and people were not getting to do their tours and they all have the same story with the additional processing. Yeah. He couldn’t get the visa in time for the first half of the tour, but he was able to join us halfway and Jan [Rechberger] from Amorphis was gracious enough to perform double duty on the first half of the tour. That must’ve been such a workout every night for him. But yeah, he helped us out there.

It’s awesome that Joey was able to make it for the end of the tour.

Martijn: Yes. The second half actually. So he still did 12 or 13 shows if I’m correct. And we had I think 27 in total, so he did half of them. We were at least lucky with that. So yeah.

Charlotte: It was kind of a rollercoaster because when he did finally get his visa, we were not in the US anymore, but in Canada, and then it turned out he also had to get a Canada visa, which he didn’t have. So that was a stressful moment. And then when he finally hopped on the plane, he’s stranded in Reykjavik because the weather was too bad to fly. So his flight was delayed another day, which was stressful, and then he got a hotel, but there weren’t enough hotel rooms. He had to spend the night with a stranger. And it was quite a challenge to get him back on the bus. But he made it. And that’s the bottom line.

That shows Joey’s devotion to the band and fans. That’s insane what he had to go through, it sounds like an apocalyptic experience.

Charlotte: Yeah. I wouldn’t want to be an issue.

I was at the New York show and you mentioned to the crowd how you guys never had these visa issues before since you seem to always tour in the States. And has the overall visa process changed for you guys within the last few years to tour out here?

Martijn: Actually, it didn’t. The process is the same, but how it’s digested by authorities maybe a little bit more difficult or something. That’s the only explanation I can come up with. And also I think in America the culture is very procedural. You know, procedures are very important and it has its advantages but it also has its disadvantages because it makes the process more inflexible.

Charlotte: One thing is that this year, for the first time, I don’t know if I thought it was the first time, but correct me if I’m wrong, Martijn, this year, you also have to fill in all your social media accounts?

Martijn: No, because I didn’t. No, you could ignore that.

Charlotte: Really?

Martijn: Yeah.

Charlotte: Okay, but this was the first time they asked for it, I think?

Martijn: Yeah, but you can say no, and I did.

Charlotte: Yeah, I didn’t know that.

Martijn: I ignored it and that worked just fine. Of course, Joey also didn’t fill out, he also made a mistake filling something out, but it was such a small mistake and he wanted to rectify it and it wasn’t possible. And that’s where it started.

Martijn: But that’s a ridiculous reason to make this a problem, you know? Just, “Hey, I filled out something wrong, can I redo it?” And they say, “Yes, you can.” And then you do that and then, “Yeah, but we need two additional processes for a month longer.” And yeah, that’s kind of ridiculous. But yeah, it’s what it is. And yeah, we survived, so to say.

The US audience are very thankful for what you guys have to do now to book a tour out here and go through the extensive processing just to perform live. It’s  very much appreciated.

Martijn: Well, thank you very much. Yeah.

Charlotte: Awesome.

Is there anything else that you want to say or add about the album?

Charlotte: Well, I do hope that people will enjoy Apocalypse & Chill. We thank the audience for taking the time to pick up the albuml and for the continued support that we’ve experienced from the US over the years. It’s, you know, one of the countries that we toured the most these days, and yeah, so much, thanks for the support and we just hope that they enjoy the new album.

Martijn: I completely concur. American crowds are always very enthusiastic. They’re very supportive and I think that’s one of the reasons that makes it very enjoyable to do a show for such a crowd. So I’m very grateful. And in general, I love the States anyway, my partner is from the States. We’re going to get married next month in Vegas, so I love to be in America.

Congratulations.

Martijn: Thank you very much.

Vegas is awesome, so that’s going to be an insane wedding.

Martijn: Yeah, it’s going to be a lot of fun.

[arizonatotoronto]

legalization of weed in canada means stoned sex.... right?😄

SO, I decided I wanted to do this prompt but with the boys making and eating edibles. NSFW! 

(Everything in this particular headcanon comes from my own experiences and may differ from others’, of course.)

The legalization of weed in Canada is pretty cool, but not exactly life changing for Auston and most of the people he knows.

Like, it means he and Mitch can grow a plant or two if they want, but as far as Auston is concerned, anyone who'd wanted to smoke the stuff has been smoking it already, legal or not.

It's the truth for most of the team, anyway. Auston and Mitch included.

For the most part, Auston will smoke the occasional joint during the season if it's offered to him, and he's not super secretive about using it to relax while he's been nursing various injuries. Weed is fantastic for pain. It's something the NHL tests for, but doesn't exactly punish, and while Auston isn't huge on smoking while training or competing (he needs his lungs functioning at their max), it has its uses.

It's early into the 2018 season when Auston goes down with another fucking bummed shoulder. His friends suggest trying CBD oils, which would definitely help with the pain and are super easy to order online now -- which, yeah. Canada is awesome. There's also the bonus of not having to smoke it to reap the medicinal benefits.

The thing is, Auston's got some good bud laying around at home already, and a tried and true butter recipe that won't stink up the place too bad. It's been a pretty long time since he's had edibles, and just thinking about that amazing full-body high has him popping out to the grocery store to grab cheesecloth and cookie ingredients.

It's definitely not the kind of recipe his Mama had had in mind when she'd given him a Crockpot for Christmas the previous year, but what Ema Matthews doesn't know can't exactly hurt her.

Auston starts making the butter fairly early in the morning, because the longer it simmers, the better the results. Mitch comes home from morning skate to find him in the kitchen, stirring gently at the mixture of butter, weed, and water.

"What are you cooking?" he asks, coming up behind Auston and going up on his tiptoes to hook his chin over Auston's shoulder. He peers down into the Crockpot curiously.

"Hi, baby," Auston says. He presses a soft kiss to the side of Mitch's head, inhales the scent of the shampoo from the arena showers. "It's weed butter," he adds with a laugh, scoops up some of the melted butter and dried green leaves into a ladle for Mitch to see better.

"Oh, shit, seriously?"

"Mm," Auston says. "I haven't made it in forever. You ever had edibles?"

"No, actually," Mitch admits, but he looks interested, and Auston is sort of weirdly excited about maybe getting to share something new with him, if he'd be willing.

"I was thinking I'd make cookies. Like, obviously my mom can never know that we're using her famous recipe to make weed cookies, but."

"Obviously," Mitch echoes in solidarity. "This is cool. Can I help?"

"For sure," Auston says, and this time he's pretty sure his excitement is obvious in his voice. "There's not a lot to do until tonight. It's sort've gotta cook all day for max potency, and then we strain out all the weed bits with the cheesecloth and put the leftover liquid in the fridge so it can clarify."

"And then tomorrow it's butter?"

"Totally. And, like, it'll be *green*, too."

"Wicked," Mitch says, sort of reverantly.

"Do you, uh. Do you think you'll wanna try one? Of the cookies?" And like, Auston obviously doesn't care either way. Plenty of people find edibles intimidating, especially if they've heard stories about other people eating them and then having a bad time. But Auston's done this enough to sort of know how it goes, and he thinks Mitch will enjoy himself.

Mitch takes a moment to consider the question, his fingertips drumming against the countertop.

"It'll just be the two of us?" he asks finally.

"Of course, Mitchy. Whatever you want."

"And like. You'll tell me how much I should eat and stuff?"

"Half a cookie to start, babe, and we can go from there."

"I-- yeah. Yeah, we can-- okay."

"I think you'll like it," Auston says, because he does think so. Mitch enjoys being high when they get the chance, loves getting fucked high, too, and Auston can't wait to show him what it's like when it's a body-high instead -- every sensation amplified in the best way.

"Mm. So how was physio?"

--

They decide to eat the cookies when Mitch has two days off between home games.

Auston sets them up on the couch in his living room, stocks up on water bottles and takeout food so that they won't have to go anywhere. Mitch looks particularly comfy in a tshirt and a pair of Auston's sweats, cuffed at each ankle because of their height difference.

It's sweet. Mitch looks just... sweet. Eager and excited, as he always is when he gets to try something new with Auston that Auston has promised him will be fun.

He looks the tiniest bit nervous, maybe, too, which is pretty normal. Edibles can be an absolute trip if you have no idea what you're doing (and yeah, Auston's had a few weird experiences that he wouldn't repeat, let alone want Mitch to experience. He knows he can make this as good as possible for him.)

It's important to be somewhere you feel safe and comfortable, at least the first few times, Auston has told him. So they stick to just the two of them, cuddled together at Auston's -- where Mitch spends most of his time these days, anyway.

(That's definitely a conversation they need to have, and soon. It's been long enough now that Mitch really doesn't need to keep paying for a condo that sits empty more often than it doesn't. They're happy at Auston's, and just... Just the thought of Mitch having this safety net place, this backup plan, makes Auston's stomach squirm uncomfortably, go cold with dread.)

They end up baking only two of the cookies. Auston freezes the rest of the dough in pre-formed cookie lumps for later -- easy to throw into the toaster oven whenever they want one.

The cookies come out of the oven looking gooey and smelling fantastic. Mitch is sort of puzzled that he can't smell the weed, that they look just like normal cookies.

"I've kind of perfected the recipe," Auston tells him, feeling oddly proud. "I used to use coconut oil instead of butter, but this is way better."

"You've done this a lot, huh?" Mitch asks, and it's not judgey or anything -- Auston can tell that he's just curious.

"Honestly, I've made a lot more butter and baked a lot more cookies than I've actually eaten," Auston laughs, and then rolls his eyes as he adds, "Most of the guys from the Program weren't allowed to go anywhere near the oven. I got nominated."

"I can see why!" Mitch says, and Auston lets the smug grin spread across his face.

Auston has them eat a small meal before they get to the cookies. He remembers how not awesome it is to have edibles on an empty stomach, and Mitch eats his sandwich happily.

They have the cookies for dessert, standing barefoot in their sweats in Auston's kitchen.

"Half, right?" Mitch asks, his lower lip caught gently between his teeth.

"To start, yeah," Auston confirms, as he breaks Mitch's cookie and sets one piece aside. "We'll see how you feel in an hour. You might not need the other half."

"Okay," Mitch agrees easily. He takes his half of the cookie and looks it over, before tilting his head up to give Auston a small smile.

"Cheers?" He asks, holding the cookie out between them. Auston laughs, feeling so damn fond, and taps his whole cookie against Mitch's half.

"Cheers," he confirms.

Mitch takes a tentative little bite, his eyebrows drawn together like he's honestly expecting it to be gross, and then, "Oh," he says brightly. "That's not as bad as I thought."

"Nah," Auston says, and then he's tearing into his. "Tastes mostly just like cookies, huh?"

"I taste the weed a little bit," Mitch says, and shrugs. He finishes the rest of his piece, and adds, "But yeah. Mostly it's just cookies. Good cookies."

"I'll tell my mom you said so," Auston grins.

They end up on the couch, water and snacks in easy reach. Auston suggests a simple itinerary of video games, some Netflix binging, and maybe some music (which he knows Mitch will interpret as "making out while listening to music" because that's sort of their thing when they're high).

It takes just about an hour for the weed to start kicking in. They're wrapping up another round of Mario Tennis when Auston feels it, that tightness in his face, the tingles that start in his knees and spread slowly outward, like ripples.

He can literally feel himself relaxing in increments, body melting slowly into the couch. It's fucking awesome.

"Oh," Mitch says, around ten minutes later. "Wow, I think I-- yeah. Here we go."

Auston snorts a laugh at the look on Mitch's face, nervous and excited at the same time, like he's trying to decide how the early signs of his high are making him feel.

"Yeah?" Auston asks, interested. "You feel it, too, huh?"

"Yeah," Mitch echoes. "It's... Really, really weird. But a good weird, I think?"

It's early, yet, but they decide to set aside the video games for now. Auston thinks he'd much rather lay back and just let it ride at this point, maybe with an episode of The Office on in the background. Something they've seen before, mindless without requiring too much focus.

He switches the TV over to their Netflix and takes a few minutes to decide on the perfect episode. Before long, he's queueing up "Company Picnic" with a cursory glance over at Mitch.

Mitch, unsurprisingly, is in enthusiastic agreement.

He's pretty quiet throughout the episode, but Auston isn't too concerned by it. Mitch always goes near-silent and contemplative when he's high, and this time he's got so much more sensation to focus on than he's used to. Auston is absolutely in love with getting to see it all play out on Mitch's expressive face.

"Everything is in, like..." Mitch eventually says. He trails off, and Auston thinks he's not even aware of it, the way he's suddenly stuck inside his own head and unable to finish his thought.

Sometimes, when Mitch is really, really ripped, he thinks he's saying things out loud that he's actually only thinking, and it's fucking hilarious how he'll contribute to a conversation long after the topic has changed and everyone has moved on to something else.

"What's that, baby?" Auston prods with a lazy smile. "Everything is what?"

"It's like. Surround sound. But... In my head?" He says, so seriously, and Auston has to bite back his laugh.

"Like," Mitch continues, "Like the sound filters in through one of my ears and out the other? It's... It's really cool. And really weird."

Auston stops for a moment to ponder that, and, huh.

"Shit," he says, sort of awed by the discovery. "Yeah, shit, you're totally right."

Everything begins to sort of unravel after that.

Auston gets lost for a really long time, just *listening*. He's completely let go of the thread of the episode, focused instead on just the sounds and the way they filter in and out, just as Mitch had said.

Every glance over at Mitch reveals him to have become more and more liquid, his body oozing into the cushions. Eventually, he's slid so far down the couch that he's practically flat, his chin resting on his own chest and his feet flat on the floor, sprawled out in front of him.

It's probably not nearly as funny as Auston finds it. He dissolves into giggles that he can't seem to stop, and every time he thinks he's got it under control, another look at Mitch sets him right off again.

"What?" Mitch asks, with a dopey grin. "What's funny?"

"You-- you're--" Auston manages through his hiccups for breath, "You're gonna fall."

As soon as he's said it, Mitch is sliding right off the couch to land on his ass on the floor.

It takes a really, really long time to get either one of them to stop howling with laughter after that.

They break for snacks a little while later. Auston reheats his own Thai curry, but Mitch (predictably, and like a heathen) eats his cold, right out of the styrofoam container.

When Auston checks in with him after, asks how he's feeling, Mitch relays with interest that his limbs are, like, really heavy, and everything feels like it's thrumming with electricity and warmth.

"S'good, though," he says again, and then his face screws up into a sort of unreadable expression, like maybe he's embarrassed about what he says next. "I think I'm kind of-- um."

"Yeah?" Auston asks. He scoots even closer to Mitch on the couch, squeezes gently at Mitch's hip with the arm he's got wrapped around his waist. "Tell me."

Mitch has got this beautiful, faraway look on his face, his big eyes gone glassy from the high.

"I think I'm just-- like. Really horny?"

"Oh," Auston says in realization, because yeah, totally. Auston's been in a low, simmering state of arousal since the cookie -- is always a little turned on when they get high together.

"It's. Um. Like, I want-- I want you to fuck me but I feel like I'd-- I feel like I'm gonna shoot the second you touch me."

And, jesus. Auston hadn't realized just how worked up Mitch has gotten himself. They haven't even been touching, not like that, but...

He reaches down to snag the pillow that Mitch has been resting his elbows on, tugs it out of Mitch's lap. Sure enough, Mitch is fully hard in his sweats, a damp patch already blooming there, darkening the fabric.

"Baby," Auston says, and his voice has gone low and dark, his sex voice, without him even really meaning for it to. "You're already all wet for me, and I haven't even touched you yet."

"God," Mitch breathes, and his hips twitch up almost imperceptibly. He's all flushed and so sweet, his teeth closing around his lower lip as he looks at Auston.

"I don't know why I'm so-- fuck. I just. Even just thinking about it feels so good, like I could-- like I could come without even-- oh my God, Auston."

Auston grabs blindly for his phone. He shuts off the television and tells Google to play one of his playlists, something slow and intimate that he associates with Mitch and sex.

(Because obviously fooling around is on the menu today.

Mitch absolutely loves being touched and kissed and fucked and played with when he's high or drunk. It's something they'd negotiated a long, long time ago.

Auston had just figured they'd maybe get around to making out at some point, enjoying the slow burn of it all. But Mitch is clearly at the peak of his high, and he wants. And Auston will give Mitch anything and everything he wants, every time.)

He pulls Mitch into his lap, gets him settled there with his legs spread wide. Mitch's lip is red and wet from where he's been biting at it, and Auston smears a thumb through the saliva there.

He leans in for a filthy kiss that has Mitch moaning.

"Look at you," Auston says against Mitch's mouth, feels him shiver so hard in his arms. "Wrecked already, just from thinking about my dick in you."

"God, god," Mitch whines. "I want it so bad but I can't-- Aus, I can't--"

"It's alright, baby," Auston says, because Mitch is so close already, and obviously a little bit overwhelmed by it. "Let me make you feel good, yeah? I can fuck you later, okay? Just let me--"

And really, Auston just wants to mess Mitch up, wants to get him off right here, have him come all over the inside of Auston's sweats.

He runs a soothing hand down the length of Mitch's spine, loves the way Mitch arches into the touch like he's starving for it. He gets both hands around Mitch's waist and rocks him forward, hitches his hips against Auston's muscular thigh.

"Yeah," he croons encouragingly when Mitch gasps and repeats the motion. "Just like that, Mitchy, okay?"

And Mitch keeps going, keeps rubbing his pretty dick against Auston and making the most amazing sounds. His eyes are squeezed shut and his mouth has gone slack, and Auston needs to see him *come*.

Auston sucks at his own middle finger, gets it sloppy wet. They don't have lube in the living room, but spit is fine for a single finger -- especially with how close Mitch is to the edge already. He slips his hand down the back of Mitch's pants and gets right up between his cheeks.

Mitch *howls* at the blunt press of Auston's finger at his hole, spreads his legs wider and just opens so fucking easy around the thick slide of it inside.

Auston, for the most part, is content to just watch at this point. The way Mitch is shoving forward to rub off against Auston's leg, and then back to take his finger deeper inside means Auston doesn't really have to do much more than watch, anyway -- Mitch is going to get there all by himself.

"Oh, oh," Mitch gasps. His knuckes are white where he's gripping tight, tight to Auston's biceps.

"Fuck yeah, Marns, feels good?"

"Matty," he says, as he's swallowing hard and tilting his head back to bare his throat. "Matty, m'gonna--"

Auston dips down to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Mitch's Adam's apple, feels Mitch's feverish moan against his lips.

"Oh, fuck, Auston, fuck," he nearly wails, and then his ass is clenching tight around Auston's finger and he's rocking in uncoordinated thrusts against Auston's thigh, jerky little grinds with no proper rhythm.

The sound he makes as he stiffens all over and comes, *hard* in Auston's sweatpants, is a mind-blowingly sexy sob of relief that blazes in Auston's veins.

Auston's got an armful of a pliant, satiated Mitch that he tips over gently to slump against the arm of the couch -- so that he can get his own sweats pulled down enough to tug his own leaking cock out.

The sensations are overwhelming, and his own dry hand feels nothing short of incredible as it works over the hot skin of his erection. When he comes, it's with a muffled grunt that he buries into Mitch's shoulder, his hand catching most of his come as it pulses out of his dick, sticky and abundant.

"Jesus," he says, in wonder, after he's finally managed to catch his breath. There's still a puddle of come cooling in his palm and it's pretty fucking gross but...

He really can't manage even thinking about moving right now.

(It takes a lot of prodding and coaxing to get Mitch up and into a nice, hot shower, but they get there eventually.

The spray of the water feels so good on Auston's sensitive skin, and Mitch's moan of satisfaction makes it pretty evident that he feels the same.

Originally, Auston had planned for round two to take place in their bed, somewhere comfortable where he can take his time fingering Mitch open, maybe fool around with one of their vibrators before getting to the main event.

And well. The way Mitch looks right now, naked and gorgeous and so trusting, has Auston getting hard all over again, already.

"Fuck it," he thinks as he shoves Mitch back against the tiled wall of the shower, "We can always go for round three.")

[day6imagines]

My Anxious Cinderella

member; woosung (sammy) x reader  ft. BTS Kim Taehyung ( and Day6 and KARD Matthew if you squint )

word count; 3.2k 

genre; fluff (i think lol)

summary; Y/N thinks she’s about to have the worst night of her life. That’s until she meets woosung

Being the daughter of one of the most successful businessmen in the country has its perks such as always having the best of the best like best school, best parties, best clothes e.t.c. Even though you had all these things you still lived a simple life. You still had chores to do and even worked a few hours a week in the local supermarket much to your father's disapproval but you managed to convince him to let you for your independence. You walked to school every morning and walked home every evening. Your house wasn't swarming with maids which came as a shock to most guests. Your mother and father took turns cooking dinner and you did the dishes. You lived a normal life for the most part.

Today was one of those days that you were reminded that your life wasn't always normal. Tonight you would have to attend one of the many charity balls your family is invited to. You can already imagine how the night would go. There’d be drinks at the entrance and groups of men in suits and women in ball gowns catching up (business talk is not allowed until after dinner). Then there’d be a three-course meal with food so fancy and tiny it could be an appetizer. Then there'd be some live band that plays for roughly an hour and everyone dances. Then the band leaves and classical music is played through the speakers and everyone talks (this is when business talk is allowed). At the end of the evening, everyone makes a donation to the charity and leaves with huge smiles on their faces (that's a fake smile for anyone like you).

You always hated these events because you would continuously be introduced to some ‘fine young man’ whose only topic of conversation is how he's gonna own his family's company one day. It was uncomfortable and awkward. The night always felt like it would never end. Tonight would be no different. Or so you thought.

“Everyone expects you to be there Y/N.” You could tell from your mother's tone of voice that she was getting sick of you continuously asking if you could not go. “How about afterward we can pick up a pizza?”

“Fine, only if I get to choose the toppings.”

“Deal. Now you better start getting ready! We leave at six on the dot!”

Your ball gown had a v neck and hung off your shoulders. the sequins, embedded in trails from the waist down overlapped, scintillated their reflections across the room. The dress was advertised as "sky blue", but in fact was much more pastel and faded. It sat comfortably at ankle height and you wore silver strappy heels that you would later regret. The evening had just begun and you had already had to try to be interested in talking with two respected families sons. That's a record because it was normally after dinner when you were introduced to ‘potential husbands’. You had roughly ten minutes until dinner and you were already uncomfortable and wanted nothing more than to wrapped in blankets watching whatevers new on Netflix. You were about to enter the dining hall in search of the seat with your name on it when your father came into view.

“Y/N, there you are! I’d like you to meet Kim Taehyung. Maybe you guys have met before, he’s a business major in your school.”

“I don't think we have, I would have remembered someone as stunning as you. Kim Taehyung,” He held your hand and lifted it toward his face where he placed a gentle peck on the back of your hand before letting go and looking into your eyes. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Y/N. NIce to meet you too Taehyung.”

“I’ll be off and I’ll let you guys get to know each other. Y/N we’re seated at table four and Mr. Kim here will be seated with his family at the same table as us I believe.”

“Your correct Sir, we’ll be over in a few minutes.” Once your father left Taehyung turned to you and gave you a boxy genuine smile. “You can call me Tae, all my friends do.”

“We’re not friends.”

“Not yet Y/N but soon don't worry.” He winked at you and lead you to your seats.

You were finished dessert and were not having a horrendous time. Tae was super chatty (and not businessman chatty) he spoke about his dog yeontan who was the love of his life and he spoke about his best friends who were more like brothers to him. You both shared stories of college and filled each other in on gossip around the campus. He told you about a girl in his class that he was crushing really hard on but could never seem to get the courage to ask her out and whenever he tried he would get so flustered he’d somehow end up embarrassing himself. You found the time when he got so flustered he bumped into a table and fell on top of his professor who had just walked in resulting in the professor spilling coffee everywhere the funniest out of them all.

He was interesting and different. His dream is to someday become a singer but for the moment is studying business to impress his parents as well as give him time to train so he can show them his full potential. You admired him and could tell that you guys would stay close friends as you guys already planned to meet up on campus next week to meet his friends and maybe the girl he’s crushing on if he can manage to ask her this time.  He promised that his friend Jungkook was even more socially awkward around girls and that he couldn’t wait to introduce you to him.

It was now time for the live band and you couldn't wait to dance with Tae because he probably had some quirky dance move that would make you laugh until your stomach hurt. Your mother and father had stayed out of your conversations at dinner and let you spend the rest of the evening with Tae which you were grateful for.

You were standing around the dance floor waiting for the live band to arrive when Tae started telling you about an audition he had in a few weeks for a company called big hit. He was really nervous and couldn't decide if this was a good time to tell his parent.

You were listening closely to what he was saying so you could offer your opinion on the matter when the live band arrived. The amps and drums were already on stage but they had to finish setting up. One of the boys had dyed white hair and had an electric guitar slung over his shoulder. For some reason, you couldn't keep your eyes off him and the more you watched the more you felt the need to get to know him. He turned around from talking to bassist in the band and something pulled him to look over in your direction and you both made eye contact. You felt the air being knocked out of you just from him looking at you and you forgot how to breathe.

“So Y/N what do you think? …. Y/N?” Taes voice made you focus back on Tae.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I was talking about the audition and about telling my parents remember?” When Tae was talking you turned your attention back to the boy on stage who was standing in the same place and who was still looking in your direction but turned away when he saw you look over. What you didn't notice was that Tae had turned to see what you were looking at and was now smirking at you. “Wow Y/N I’m sorry that I’m distracting you, with my real life problems by the way,  from eyeing up that boy over there.” He sarcastically stated.

“I’m not eyeing him I just thought I saw something over there and he happened to be standing in that direction.”

“Yeah whatever you say.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

“Suuurree, looks like they're about to start. Let’s go dance!”

It was nearing the end of the bands set and you were disappointed that they’d be leaving soon. They played a few covers as well as originals which you hadn’t heard before but enjoyed nonetheless. You had a great time with Tae on the dance floor and he continuously made you laugh. You couldn't help but turn your attention to the guitarist every now and again. He was even more beautiful when he was focused on the music and you could feel the passion he had for it. He was breathtaking and would be on your mind for days and the sad thing is you’d probably never see him again but you tried to forget about this when you danced and let the music take control.

Towards the end of their set, you started to feel a bit light headed and decided to step outside to cool down for a few minutes and return because you didn't want to miss the end of the set. There was a light chill outside that instantly cools you down and you then sat on the steps of the venue looking out on the garden. There surprisingly were a few people outside mostly couples or parents and their uncooperative children as all seemed to me whispering and trying to hide outside not wanting to be seen arguing in front of the other guests. This truly shows how fake everyone here is.

“Yeah, it really does.” You didn’t realise you had said that out loud until you heard a voice behind you. Startled you stood up to confront the eavesdropper and instantly stopped when you came face to face with the boy with the guitar. It felt like time froze as you looked at him but that was probably because neither of you had said anything. He finally spoke up after what felt like an eternity. “I notice you out there.”

“I noticed you too … out there.” noticed you?? It sounded fine when he said it but why did it sound so awkward when you said it. There were so many other things you could have said like “ your bands great” and so.

“That's cool. Emm I’m Woosung… and that’s it I guess. You probably used to that sentence ending with ‘ son of someones huge company ‘ but emm I'm just Woosung.”

“Sadly yeah but i like ‘just Wossung’ a lot better. Hi Woosung I’m Y/N ‘ daughter of someone's huge company’ it's a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasures all mine.” Although you sensed he was jokingly saying it your heart leaped and you couldn't wipe the huge grin on your face. You guys were suddenly interrupted by a voice behind you.

“Woosung you coming? We said we’d be there by now.” You turned around to see a boy you recognised as the bassist in the band standing at the bottom of the steps. Behind him was a van that you assumed the other members were in as well as their instruments. Woosung gave him a quick nod and then focused is attention back on you.

“We’re going to a friends concert tonight, would you do me the pleasure of being my date Y/N ‘ daughter of someone's huge company.’  I’d really like to get to know you a bit better and besides are fairytale story can’t end here.”

“I’d like nothing more than to get to know you better and go with you but i can't even begin to imagine how livid my parents would be. They know i despise these balls and they’d never forgive more leaving and it’s for charity and every-”

“What time do these balls typically end at?” Woosung cut you off because he could tell how anxious you were getting.

“Midnight at least, normally longer though”

“I’ll have you back by then my anxious cinderella”

In the car ride, you got to know his members. You could tell how close they all were as they shared embarrassing stories of things that happened around the dorm or at band practice. You easily get along with them all and didn't find it hard at all to in cage in the conversation which you would with most people. You felt as though you knew them for years and you were all catching up after not seeing each other for a while.

As you pulled up to the venue you took out your phone and sent a quick text to Tae whos number you got earlier telling him where you were as well as when you'll be back. He texted back instantly saying to be careful and to turn your location on just in case, which you did. He then sent a separate text saying have fun with a slightly creepy winky face.

“You coming cinderella?”

“Yep your majesty.”

At the entrance to the venue you noticed a security guard which caused you to panic because you didn't have a ticket to get in and you doubt woosung had a spare ticket and if he did then that scared you even more cause that meant he planned on getting a date last minute. Or were you thinking too much into the spare ticket. Before you could tell Woosung your concerns about not having a ticket to get in he was talking to the security guard.

“Hey Matthew, this is Y/N.” He gestured towards you and you gave a small wave. “Will I see you at the gym tomorrow?”

“You sure will! Have fun in there guys and extra fun for me who has to stand outside all night in the freezing cold.”

“We sure will Matthew! See you tomorrow then.”  You bid farewell and Woosung led you into the venue. He managed to get you guys up close to the stage.

“My friend Jae is that one.” Woosung pointed to the boy who was playing guitar. He had blue hair that looked a different shade in different lights. “He makes sure I come to support his band and he also supports us. All the members get along its great.”

“Sounds it.” He continued to tell you stories about both bands as well as explaining to you things about live music you never knew. He had such a passion for it that you wanted to join a band right that second because his passion was rubbing off on you.

You both talked, laughed, sung and danced the whole time. You honestly couldn’t remember the last time you felt this carefree. All your worries were gone because all you could think of was Woosung. He was beautiful, talented, kind, funny, passionate and so much more. Seeing as you only knew him for one night and you already thought the world of him you couldn't imagine what it would be like to be with him. Him to be all yours.

And that’s what it felt like in this very moment. The both you were standing facing each other and smiling happily. The world fell silent and everyone around you disappeared. He started to lean towards you and you could only imagine how passionate this kiss would be. As you leaned in closer your lips about to touch a voice echoed in the venue.

“This is our last song for tonight! Thank you for having us.” You pulled away in panic as the concert was to end sometime around midnight and if this was the last song then that meant you were late.

“Woosung I have to leave! I’m sorry, you stay I’ll get a taxi.”

“No, I’ll take you I know a few shortcuts.”

The whole car ride you kept bouncing your leg up and down out of nervousness. You both were silent because Woosung was concentrating on the road as he was driving at a less than legal speed and you were trying to come up with excuses as to why you had left early. Woosung pulled up around the back entrance of the venue and escorted you into the building the way the band would have come in earlier.

“I’m really sorry I lost track of time. I said I’d have you back before midnight and I didn't want you to get stressed.”

“It’s fine Woosung honestly I had such a great time and I’d love to tell you how grateful I am and how much I’d like to do it again but I really need to go.” You then rushed down towards the main hall in hopes the guests would be just about to start the donations. You beant your head around the corner and saw all the families sat at their tables in the middle of making their donations. This isn't good because your seat was obviously empty and your parents know knew you were gone. You also couldn't just walk to your seat without going unnoticed.

“Hey Y/N! Remember me? I was the amazing handsome guy you ditched earlier but before you beg for me to give you a second chance while you were gone I finally got the courage to ask that girl I was talking about earlier on a date so my broken heart was quickly mended so don't worry.” Tae stood next to you and now that you think about it there was another empty chair next to yours when you glanced over.

“Tae, I’m so happy for you, really I am but all that’s on my mind is that im screwed.”

“No we aren’t, they just started when you checked.” Before you could register what was happening he was pulling you into the dining hall and giving apologetic smiles to anyone who looked over. You sat down next to Tae and your parents and before the overwhelmed you with questions Tae was whispering over to them.

“I’m really sorry we were out taking a stroll in the garden when we lost track of time. I’m sorry if we worried you.”

“That's quite alright just be more aware next time.”

“Will do Sir.”

All the tension left your body and you finally took a big breath that was a bit shaky from all the nerves built up. You finally found your voice and turned to Tae.

“I owe you.”

“You owe me big time because I also slipped that boy your number because you left in such a rush.”

“What did I ever do to deserve you kim taehyung?”

“Hey, I know have a potential girlfriend so your gonna have to get over your crush on me. I know it'll be hard but I believe in you.”

The next morning you woke up to a text from an unknown number that read

Morning Cinderella, You left behind a glass slipper and I know that it's a shoe of value so I think it'd be best if you came and collected it straight away.

You replied.

Wrong number i dont own shoes of that description

He replied within seconds

Oh sorry. How about a coffee you know for the inconvenience?

you were quick to reply with a smile on your face

Sounds good. See you in 10! x

a/n: I hope you guys liked my first sammy fic! let me know what you think or just talk/rant/ask anything in my inbox

continue reading my other works on my masterlist

[ghostfiish]

media consumption update

today i watched the truman show  since i’d never seen it. its refreshing to see jim carrey in a relatively chill role compared to his other wacky shenanigans. 

yesterday i watched re:mind on netflix which is an interesting little japanese horror/thriller series that i enjoyed. kyoko is my favorite character. 

the other day i finally caught up through season 2 of the good place which continues to have some of the most fantastic writing and characters ive ever seen in any tv show ever

ive been playing pokemon lets go eevee and its darling im having a great time with that. check out my recent twitter post (username same as here) for some highlights up through me beating the elite four/champion with little more than a perfect IV starmie. i ended up with it while trying and failing to find a shiny staryu which i might go back to get after i finish the pokedex

i watched bohemian rhapsody with some friends on saturday and almost cried like 8 different times (i very rarely cry at movies and when i do its usually by myself) anyway it is a fantastic movie please go see it multiple times like i plan on doing

lost song (bad netflix anime, which is a genre i enjoy watching from time to time) looks really generic, has this awful color palette with bad pillowshading and overexposure, and the blandest characterization/designs ever. but the concept (song-based magic) is neat and theres a character that drums on herself/nearby objects when she’s excited and i like her a lot and wish deeply that she could have been in an anime with more competence.

last hope (a much worse bad anime on netflix) has no redeeming qualities other than an interesting premise (technology integrating with nature) which they somehow managed to make extremely boring to both look at and think about. this is something that project a.i.c.o. ALSO did but at least it was the kind of bad anime i enjoy watching at least enough to get through a couple of episodes let alone the first 12 minutes, which was about when i stopped watching last hope

side note did anime just stop being even remotely good altogether or what happened here

ive been rereading pokemon special which is adorable and yellow is still my favorite. im up to the part where everyone is flipping their shits about suicune but i think the last time i read it i got to the beginning of the diamond/pearl/platinum arc so i have a way to go. especially if i wanna catch back up, because the story has gotten to sun/moon since then

ive also been rereading homestuck, for the first time all the way through since the dang thing finished and now im kinda hankering for some of the old fanfics i read back when the webcomic was still updating. i wonder if i can find them again...

in the move back to my parents place i got out my old ds and tried playing pokemon black (the only gen ive never actually played) but the ds wont read my game cartridge and my 3ds seems kinda nonfunctional as well for that matter. so i might end up getting myself a 2ds at some point. orrrrrrrrr an emulator for now, at least to play black lol

[perfectirishgifts]

How This Visionary Producer Is Transforming The Theater Podcast Landscape

New Post has been published on https://perfectirishgifts.com/how-this-visionary-producer-is-transforming-the-theater-podcast-landscape/

How This Visionary Producer Is Transforming The Theater Podcast Landscape

“You can’t use up creativity,” said Maya Angelou. “The more you use, the more you have.” Early in her life, someone must have told that to Dori Berinstein. This unstoppable theater, film and TV maker appears to embody creativity. She is an endless font.

Dori Berinstein

Berinstein is a four-time Tony-winning Broadway producer whose credits include The Prom, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, Thoroughly Modern Millie, Legally Blonde: The Musical, The Crucible, One Flue Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, Fool Moon, Flower Drum Song, Enchanted April and Golden Child.

Oh, and Berinstein is also an Emmy-award-winning director, producer and film and television writer. Most recently, she and Bill Damaschke, who produced The Prom on Broadway, collaborated with Ryan Murphy to adapt the show into a Netflix feature film starring Meryl Streep, Nicole Kidman, James Cordon, Keegan-Michael Key, Andrew Rannells and Kerry Washington. She also co-produced the Sony Masterworks cast album of the musical Half Time. The show was inspired by her documentary, Gotta Dance, about a group of seniors who make up a hip-hop dance troupe who perform for The New Jersey Nets. 

“I love the art of storytelling and believe it’s all about a good story. Whether you’re telling it on stage or screen or in an audio drama or soap opera, I like moving between different worlds and sometimes moving a project throughout different worlds,” says Berinstein who has degrees from Smith, the Kennedy School at Harvard and the Yale School of Drama where she was a visiting scholar focusing on the business of Broadway. After working in strategic planning at Paramount Pictures she joined a tiny emerging independent film company, Vestron Pictures. Within a year, she became head of physical production and ultimately supervised production on the film Dirty Dancing. “What keeps me very excited is being able to collaborate with wonderful people,” she adds.

But if all this isn’t enough, Berinstein is also the co-founder and CEO of the The Broadway Podcast Network which produces over 100 theater podcasts, dramas, musicals and miniseries, like As The Curtain Rises, the delicious new digital soap opera that Berinstein co-wrote with Mark Peikert. 

As The Curtain Rises is a dishy comedy that offers listeners a glimpse of the behind the scenes mayhem trying to birth a Broadway show. In this case there’s the challenge of getting Avvatar: The Musical to The Great White Way. Producing shows for 25 years, the drama is inspired by things Berinstein has witnessed along the way. “Our As The Curtain Rises characters are certainly “inspired” by our theater colleagues. In some cases, characteristics are exaggerated. In other instances….not so much!,” says Berinstein. “The behind-the-curtain Broadway world is definitely the perfect setting for a soap opera.”

The multi-part series features a riveting cast including Alex Brightman, Ariana Debose, Andrew Barth Feldman, James Monroe Iglehart, Ramin Karimloo, Ilana Levine, Lesli Margherita, Mauricio Martinez, Bonnie Milligan, Ashley Park, George Salazar, Sarah Stiles and Lillias White. The priceless cameos from Lynn Nottage, Alex Lacamoire, David Korins, Natasha Katz, Matt Britten and Jordan Roth are worth the listen.

Creating and producing As The Curtain Rises during the pandemic was particularly meaningful to Berinstein. “We haven’t been able to produce live theater. Even though it’s tremendously goofy and fun, this took on a whole other level of urgency,” says Berinstein. “It’s important to keep theater alive during this time. And it’s thrilling to work with and pay actors, make people laugh and try to provide some joy.” 

Jeryl Brunner: What inspired you to create The Broadway Podcast Network?

Dori Berinstein: I live in Northern Westchester. Pre-Covid-19, I spent a lot of time commuting to and from New York City. I would find myself driving home after seeing theater and would be sitting in my driveway at 1:30am, listening to podcasts because the episode wasn’t over. I was so caught up in it and loved the medium, but having trouble finding theater podcasts. There was no real destination for theater podcasts. Then when I brought the company of The Prom to Google, I met Alan Seales who runs Google Talks. He then invited me to be a guest on his theater podcast. We talked afterward and shared the frustration that we couldn’t find a lot of theater podcasts. We agreed that we had to do something about it and said, “Let’s do it.” We spent ten months building and partnering with a lot of wonderful podcasters who were out there before anyone else like The Ensemblist, The Fabulous Invalid and Broadwaysted.

Brunner: How has the platform gown?

Berinstein: We launched in October, 2019 with 15 podcasts. And here we are, a little over a year later, with almost 100 podcasts. Since the beginning it was very much the plan to have podcasts and record plays, musicals, audio dramas, and soap operas. It was never to replace theater and we certainly never anticipated the pandemic. When you see a show, you want to know more. What is happening behind the curtain? There is so much additive information that we are excited to bring to life. We are in a community filled with amazing storytellers and wanted to help support and give them a voice.

Brunner: What do you hope to offer listeners?

Berinstein: It was very important from the get-go that we create a network that is representative and has many different people from all different aspects of our community. That includes onstage, behind the curtain, looking back in history and education. Having all these different artists and voices is essential, because our community is made up of so many different voices.

There is also a lot of hunger from people interested in getting into the business. So we have podcasts about breaking in and auditioning. We also have podcasts from established producers like Hal Luftig and Eva Price. Kerry Butler has one on breaking into Broadway. Justin Guarini has a podcast about auditioning. They are educational and informative. Then there are pure, goofy, fun, joyous podcasts. It’s exciting to have a lot of star power on the network with podcasts from Tonya Pinkins, Sir Tim Rice and Donna McKechnie. I love hearing those behind-the-curtain stories. It was also important for us to partner with many different regional and international theater companies and the Dramatists Guild, Variety and Playbill. We really want to be a home for everyone.

Brunner: Did you always know this was your path?

Berinstein: From a very early age, I was completely captivated by theater. I saw Carol Channing in Hello Dolly! at the Dorothy Chandler pavilion when I was five years old. And that was it. I was so just transported by that show and the whole experience of live theater. [Berinstein ultimately directed, produced and co-wrote the documentary Carol Channing: Larger Than Life.] My parents would take me to theater all the time. It was just the most thrilling thing. I had no talent. I could not sing. Even though I tried, I never got cast in anything. But I wanted so badly to be part of the world. At my school they didn’t have a student director or even backstage crew. But I still was very captivated by how things came together. In college I triple majored in economics, history and theater and created a special studies program on the business of Broadway. I became voracious about reading absolutely everything I could. So much that I learned about life and important issues came from theater and its power to enlighten and make me think.

Brunner: How did you become a theater producer? 

Berinstein: I really wanted to be part of that world, but had no idea how. I didn’t know anybody. Coming from Los Angeles, I was established in film before finding my way into theater. Finally I was introduced to James Freydberg who was producing Broadway shows. We went to the Serious Fun Festival to see a short piece that Bill Irwin and David Shiner put together. I flipped over it. The show was the early stage evolution of Fool Moon. If I knew anything about producing at that point, I probably would have been nervous about producing a show with two guys who don’t speak and a ragtag band, [The Red Clay Ramblers]. It just doesn’t scream hit. But I loved everything about it. 

I got thrown into the thick of it right away as a general partner producer. I didn’t even know what that meant. It was an amazing experience in every way. In previews the audience was maybe at 50% capacity. At opening night we had our associate producer stationed at The New York Times a few blocks away. This was before the paper was digital. We were in the Richard Rodgers theater where Hamilton is. At intermission he came running into the house, waiving the newspaper with the most magnificent review by Frank Rich. He wrote, “To that short list of unbeatable combinations that includes bacon and eggs, bourbon and soda, and Laurel and Hardy, you can now add Shiner and Irwin.” From that point on, the show was sold out every night and standing room only. How can you not throw your entire career in that direction after that? I loved standing in the back, listening to the audience laugh so hard and lose themselves in the show. 

Brunner: Is there something you look for in a story? 

Berinstein: I believe deeply in theater activism and have had the opportunity to lean into and be part of shows that say something important. I have been so fortunate to tell stories that mean something to me and I believe help make the world a better place. It takes years of your life and it’s hard to do. So you better believe in what you’re doing. With Legally Blonde, my daughter was seven. I loved the idea of telling a story that it is very cool to be smart. That message was really important to me to put out there and help inspire young women. 

The Prom and Half Time all have messages that are also really important to me. When people experience these shows or listen to the cast album or watch the film adaptation, I hope they can evolve and embrace the message. In the case of The Prom it’s all about acceptance and tolerance. With Half Time, which is a Jerry Mitchell musical that was adapted from a film I made, it is taking on ageism. They also say go for your dreams, no matter what.

Dori Berinstein directed, produced and co-wrote the documentary Carol Channing: Larger Than Life. … [] After Berinstein, as a little girl, saw Channing perform live, Berinstein knew that had to work in theater.

Dori Berinstein interviews Terre Blair Hamslich for the Emmy-award-winning documentary celebrating … [] the life of Marvin Hamlisch.

More from Arts in Perfectirishgifts

[cavitymagazine]

Chiara had spent the hot day sending him racist memes and naked pictures of herself smoking weed with captions like “use me” and “punish me Daddy”, so when he finished work he walked through the evening heat to her apartment on Sussex Road. They had sex in the degrading style favoured by many of the fascist women he’s slept with. He spanked her and called her “my Italian slut” and she growled “hit me” with strands of hair stuck to her face from the heat and afterwards they slept until the fingers of late-evening chill reached in the open window and woke them up to the twilight sounds of eating and drinking in the outdoor seating of the restaurants on the street below her apartment. He put back on his work clothes. She pulled a Sea Shepherd t-shirt down over the nordic tattoos on her ribs. They went out into the last light to smoke weed.

They sat side by side on the fire escape, six floors up. She lit a joint and they passed it between them. They inhaled the weed and the smell of the spring evening and the promise of summer you get in April that’s always better than the summer that comes. Two Chinese lanterns drifted like UFOs across the sunset.

“These things kill birds.”, she said, stretching her t-shirt over her knees.

The smoke from the joint rose into the pre-night sky. He thought he could hear the sea from miles away where the scattered lights of the skyline stopped. A breeze ruffled through the trees in the car park below. The waving leaves fanned up the sounds of the city again—a car starting, a gate closing, a dog spooked by something in the almost-dark, the offbeat steps of someone walking with keys their pocket, a barge lapping down the canal, words drifting back and forth between a drawn out group of dawdling friends, the lonely drumming of another office block being built overnight.

He was a journalist. He was investigating the investment funds who were taking over the Dublin property market—Blackstone, Cerberus, IRES Reit, Kennedy Wilson. He thought of them as an invasive, subspecies of money. He looked down from the fire escape at that crime scene of a city and imagined dark movements of money running along in the streets like eels along the bottom of a lake. He smoked and watched the dark sway as the funds moved more blocks of apartments onto their balance sheets. He watched as rent left silently from drowsy family kitchens and passed through walls and borders and oceans and into the bank accounts of corporate landlords. He imagined houses being repossessed by shadowy security firms. He thought of homes being turned into AirBnBs and of tourists appearing in them overnight like ghosts.

He could see money more clearly in the daytime when it took its human form, as accountants, property managers, bankers, surveyors, solicitors, former politicians. Or as men in balaclavas—sabotaging protests, infiltrating movements, breaking down desperately barricaded doors, putting families into the street with their lives in black bags on the ground beside them, and disappearing again into the white vans he thinks might be following him.

They finished the joint as the spring night fell over Dublin like the shade from a tree. A man stood alone in the car park below, staring up at them. They went back inside.

She changed into her pyjamas: a hoodie which had “don’t need sex because capitalism fucks me every day” written on it. She was on big money though. She worked for a cyber security company. She said she would rather be a housewife and be “paid by a man to lounge around in lingerie”. She rejected as “girl-boss feminism” and “peak neoliberalism” any attempt people made to praise her for being a Woman in STEM. She refused all invitations to speak at conferences with names like ‘The Women Disrupting Tech’, ‘Girls Who Code’, ‘Hacking the Patriarchy’ and ‘Queering the Algorithm’. Her Tinder bio read: “dominate me in the bedroom, not in the workplace”.

For a man like him, a Marxist-Leninist and occasional Maoist Third Worldist, there was something so appealing about a woman who so angrily rejected liberal feminism. She was a tech fascist who believed in the utopian vision of the early internet. She was a tech fascist who believed that Europe was diverse enough a hundred years ago. She had moved to Ireland because the tech industry here pays so much. She had moved to Ireland because it was the whitest place left in Western Europe. She had access to sensitive information and she was passing it on to him because she believed all information should be free. She had access to sensitive information and she was passing it on to him because it would hurt the “Jewish conspiracy of global finance”.

She took a USB from her weed box and handed it to him as he got ready to leave. She pulled the curtains across the open window and wrote on a post-it note:

“This is big”

“What is it?” He wrote back.

“Check on this when you get home.” She wrote.

The post-it notes fell around her feet. She put a new laptop into his bag.

“It hasn’t been contaminated by the internet, don’t connect it.” She wrote.

“Thanks.” He wrote.

“Imagine you’re being watched.” She wrote.

“Am I?” He said aloud.

She underlined ‘imagine’ with three lines.

He left her place. The night was so beautifully laundered by the spring air that he started walking back to Cabra under the smell of the new-born leaves. There are always a few nights like that in April, when the first heat intoxicates the city and the streets sway with that first drink feeling of a good thing beginning.

He turned onto a quiet, cooling street. A white van was driving behind him. He walked. He listened. Everything sounded pre-recorded on a soundstage like in a film noir from the fifties: a bike ticking by; a curtain beating against an open window; his footsteps; his breathing; his heartbeat. He was sure it was the same white van that had been following him for weeks. He watched it as it passed. He checked for alleyways or driveways he could disappear into. He turned around and walked back towards the busy safety of Mespil Road. The van went by again. His heart panicked as it passed. On Mespil Road he put his hand out for a taxi. He sat into the backseat and closed the door.

It’s interesting, psychologically speaking, the driver said eventually, the way you tried to open your door so soon after you got in.

Don’t you think?

I had a chap in the car last week. Drove him all the way and he never tried that door once.

Do you know why?

Control.

Control.

He didn’t want to admit to himself that he couldn’t get out. He could’ve tried the door. He could have been on his way. But he let me take him without even trying to escape. Just sat back there chatting. Playing it cool, you know.

Interesting isn’t it? Psychology.

I’m interested in that kind of thing. 

The mind.

Now you’ve got the opposite problem. You took one look at me in me sunglasses and thought to yourself fuck this I’m away. Sunglasses at night, you says to yourself, what’s with this fella?

But now.

You know the door is locked.

I know you know the door is locked.

You know I know you know the door is locked.

I know you know I know the door is locked.

Interesting isn’t it?

Psychology.

Hear that? Last train going over the river. Anyone on that train, coming into town Thursday midnight, they’ve a story to tell. More interesting than the stuff you’re writing now.

We’ve a few journalists with us. They do well. Decent money, a few stories when you need it.

Someone your age, in all seriousness, needs to start thinking about the future.

Planning.

Your rent is what…€700 a month?

Rent is money down the drain.

Down the drain.

Stoneybatter. Some lovely pubs around here.

Look at that lad. Not from Mayo is he.

I was over in Jamaica for a while but. Working for himself. Great country. Lovely beaches. Good weather. Great place to do business. That’s why he’s there of course. Lot easier to deal with people such as yourself out there. No messing around. You want something done—bang—you just pay the right man and it’s done.

Get in the way of progress and—bang.

No messing.

You know who runs this country? You know who you should be investigating?

The unions. The people who contribute nothing. The bloated public sector.

This thing you’re looking into. For example, classic example. The government sold the properties at such a low price because the fund had businessmen working for them, and they were negotiating, think about it, with who? With civil servants and politicians. That’s the whole story. Write it if you want. Public sector versus private sector. Private sector wins every time. There were no bribes or anything.

Just pure business acumen.

Free market. Winners and losers. Simple as that.

Roads are quiet out here.

Dark houses.

You’re probably hoping your roommates are home. Housemates I suppose, should be called.

You’re 36 yeah?

If you don’t mind me saying, you should be putting down roots. Should be saving.

You must spend, what, 50 quid a week on weed. Cut that out and you’d have what…52 weeks in a year…5x5 is 25 that’s…you’d have about €2,600 extra in your pocket. You’d be surprised how quickly it adds up.

Honestly.

There’s no one home tonight by the way.

The accountant is in Frankfurt.

Midwife’s at her fella’s.

Now this is you isn’t it?

You make my job interesting I’ll give you that. Lot of overtime.

160...162…164…66…68, now.

Before you go.

I was watching ‘Narcos’ last night. On Netflix. It’s a series, not a film. Very interesting. It’s about Pablo Escobar. Colombian drug lord. He gives people a choice right. “Silver or lead” he says. In spanish. Worth a watch. On Netflix.

Now, 13.90 is the damage.

Thank you sir.

And 5 is 18.90 and one is 19.90 and 10 cent is 20 and that’s yours back.

The driver reset the meter, turned on the roof light and drove away past the night-coloured houses.

His house was silent. He opened the door. He stared into the hallway. He sniffed the air. A truck dipped into a pothole on the main road. The noise of it shocked him into slamming the front door behind him. The noise of that scared him too. He turned on the light in the hallway. He turned on the light in the narrow kitchen. He turned on the light in the dusty living room. With downstairs lit up it was like the dark outside was staring in the window at him. He took a knife from the draining board. He held it in front of him like a gun and walked upstairs. He stopped after every step on the carpeted stairs to let the creaking wood underneath his foot go silent.

He went into his room knife first. The window was open. The room had been brushed clean by the bristles of spring breeze which had been blowing in since he left that morning. He turned on his desk lamp. He rolled a joint in its light. He smoked out the window. In the time he was in the taxi dew had fallen like snow and like snow it had shocked the small gardens and the empty suburban streets around his house into silence. His neighbour’s gardens were abandoned and embalmed, full of toys, bikes, paddling pools, footballs, sun loungers and kitchen chairs; like the curtain had just gone down at the end of a play.

She texted him.

“I think we should stop doing this.”

He put the USB into the laptop she had given him.

“Ok.” He replied.

He typed in the password. She had copied all of the investment fund’s emails and their slack chats and their bank accounts and their internal payments system.

“Can I come over?” She texted him.

“Ok.” He replied.

He read some of the emails. They talked about bribing politicians and government officials so they could get all those apartment blocks and offices and housing estates cheap. All that property and debt the government bought after the banks collapsed. He made notes. He wrote on post it notes and attached them to the wall. His joint went out and ashed on his notes.

He was tired but didn’t want to sleep alone. Maybe it was the shock of the taxi, or the way she completely surrendered to him during sex, or the way she quoted Lacan when they lay together afterwards, maybe it was his receding hairline which he checked every night, watching it as if it was a clock ticking towards the end, or maybe it was the sounds on the stairs he searched his brain to explain away.

She opened his bedroom door.

“How did you get in?” He asked her.

“Hi to you also.” She said, sitting on the side of the bed, taking her leather boots off.

“Your housemate let me. He always wears sunglasses at night?”

“What did he say?”

“He said you were upstairs. And then he sat on the kitchen with a glass of water.”

“One second.”

He went downstairs and into the kitchen with the knife out in front of him. A glass was on its side on the table, rolling back and forth. Water dripped from the table onto the floor. It pooled by his feet. He waited. The sky lightened as he waited. The house fell into dawn. Morning heat rose in waves from the damp garden. The joint wore off. He checked all the doors. He went back upstairs.

She was asleep. She had written ‘slut’ in lipstick across her chest. He smoked out the window. The good weather stirred outside. He heard a van parking and wondered if it was white. She woke up.

“Rape me.” She whispered, sleepily.

The sound of birds singing came in the open window. Like every haunted man, the singing reminded him of sleep.

[The Man in the Black Pyjamas is an Irish writer based in Bogotá. He has been previously published in ‘The Irish Times’, ‘The Moth Magazine’, ‘Cassandra Voices’, ‘Number Eleven Magazine’, ‘Deep Water Literary Journal’, ‘Increature Magazine’, ‘Cold Coffee Stand’ and ‘Headstuff Magazine’. He won second place in the Fish International Short Story Competition in 2016. He tweets at @pyjamas_black.]

[whyinever-blog-blog]

Thursday, WEEK 13, June 18, of stay at home for COVID-19, Phase 2 Reopening, cast-free for the first time in 6 weeks, wrist rehab in progress, #Blacklivesmatter awakening

We are going to the farmers market today. Locals seafood is there with their catch of the week. We decide that we are supporting local, we are not eating out, so we can splurge on some good seafood to have for a “restaurant” meal each week that we make at home. We end up getting fresh tuna steaks for tonite and black drum filets for later. They are from the NC coast so we feel good about that. BTW, John ordered new masks. They are homemade but very comfortable. When we try them at the farmers market, they are slightly HOT to wear. But it is 84 degrees and humid. I guess we have to get used to it. We’ll be wearing them for a while.

I read somewhere that if you are bored with sitting in your yard, get a chair and go sit in another section of the yard and look at it from that perspective. We tried it yesterday and it was pretty interesting. You can see where the holes are or where you need a plant or two. YEAH, WERE PRETTY BORED OVER HERE!

My friend posted this and I thought it was helpful and I was surprised by a couple of things that were higher risk than I would have thought. I was surprised by grocery stores being at #3 and doctor waiting rooms at #4. I’ve had to be in doctor waiting rooms lately and although there are many people there, they’ve got the protocols in place. SD and chairs blocked to keep people apart and you must wear masks. And they have sanitizer everywhere. So IDK. I guess I’m still at more risk. I’m glad I don’t go in grocery stores, so I’m good there.

We walk around downtown and some of the plywood is finally coming off a few of the shops and restaurants. We wonder when it will be okay to take them all off. Are there more protests planned? The Capitol building is still surrounded by barriers. Then we see a small group of people headed to a protest today. It’s such a shame to see the entire restaurant front covered up and then the door is open and a sign that says, WE’RE OPEN. Then you peer in and it’s a dark hole because there’s no daylight. I really wouldn’t want to go in there. Honestly. We tend to see odd things as we walk. Today, at RUSH HOUR, they have the entire north commuting corridor on Capital Blvd shut down. The traffic is wayyy backed up and they aren’t telling people detours. So they just sit and block intersections and it’s ridiculous!

Dinner: seared TUNA with a soy/sesame sauce, rice, and roasted Brussels. OMG is this tuna is delicious. John thinks its the best tuna he’s ever had. It’s so tender and flavorful. Do we have your mouth watering????

Watch: Hollywood on Netflix, ep 2

[foodieworldmelbourne]

Beyond terracotta warriors: Artist provides antidote to simplistic, 'exoticised' idea of China

Updated May 25, 2019 14:15:07 Photo: Cai Guo-Qiang created 10,000 porcelain starlings for the NGV's winter exhibition, as a tribute to the Terracotta Warriors. (Supplied: National Gallery of Victoria/Eugene Hyland) Related Story: China's 2,000-year-old terracotta warriors to come to Australia Map: Melbourne 3000 Cai Guo-Qiang was a young man when he saw China's army of 8,000-odd terracotta warriors for the first time, but the impression was indelible. "I was taken away by the momentum and might of the presentation," he told ABC RN's The Art Show earlier this week. It's easy to imagine this being a formative moment for the artist, whose practice, in the subsequent decades, has been characterised by the same kind of awe-inspiring spectacle: firework displays and behemoth 'explosion events'; a 500-metre-high 'sky ladder' to the heavens that defied three attempts across two decades to execute before success in 2015. Photo: Cai Guo-Qiang has utilised digitally-enhanced fireworks to create precisely-timed displays. (Supplied: Cai Guo-Qiang) On Friday, Cai's exhibition Transient Landscape opened at the National Gallery of Victoria, within the exhibition Terracotta Warriors: Guardians of Immortality, which features eight of the life-sized warriors alongside more than 150 ancient Chinese artefacts, dating from the Zhou dynasty (1046-256 BCE) through to the Han dynasty (206 BCE-220 CE). The two parallel exhibitions, coexisting in the one space, constitute this year's 'Winter Masterpiece' showcase at the NGV a blockbuster by gallery standards, if not quite at the scale of that thousands-strong ancient army. Photo: The terracotta army is comprised of approximately 8,000 life-sized figures, which vary in height, costume and hairstyle according to their rank and position. (Supplied: NGV) Contemporary take on ancient culture Why pair a contemporary artist with an exhibition of precious ancient artefacts? Curator Wayne Crothers explains, "We wanted to put them in a fresh new environment where they could be appreciated not only as historical things but as objects that relate to our visitor but also in dialogue with a contemporary, international Chinese voice". Cai (pronounced tsai) is possibly the only contemporary Chinese artist whose work is at a scale and level of ambition to stand alongside the terracotta army, which took more than 30 years and 700,000 workers to create and is sometimes described as the 'eighth wonder of the world'. He is also an artist whose output has been deeply informed by ancient Chinese culture, from Confucian philosophy and traditional customs to classical art and materials notably porcelain, silk and gunpowder. Infographic: In Chinese culture, fireworks have traditionally been used to celebrate and to convey certain meanings. (Supplied: Netflix) Nevertheless, he says that he typically gives a wide berth to projects like the NGV exhibition. "I tend to keep a distance from the exhibitions of Chinese artefacts, because often times this kind of exhibition falls into the category or the phenomenon of promoting an exoticised cultural 'other'," Cai says. "First of all, only using a few sculptures, you cannot show the energy of the inventory of the thousands of the terracotta warriors," he explains, likening the alternative to "the decorations in a Chinese restaurant". Even if you brought thousands of terracotta warriors here, he adds, "they can't show you what today's China is about". Photo: This Western Han dynasty belt plaque is one of more than 150 Chinese artefacts on show. (Supplied: Shaanxi Provincial Institute of Archaeology/NGV) That is where Cai steps in, with a suite of new works made specifically with the NGV's exhibition in mind. Among them are a flock of 10,000 porcelain starlings, and several of his behemoth 'gunpowder drawings', made by setting gunpowder-daubed canvases alight. The wall text accompanying the porcelain flock compares them to a "shan shui landscape brush and ink painting" of Mount Li the site where the terracotta warriors were unearthed by farmers in 1974. A quote from the artist suggests the flock "seems to embody the lingering spirits of the underground army, or perhaps the haunting shadow of China's imperial past". Photo: In Chinese writing, the number 10,000 represents 'eternity' or forever which is why Cai chose this number for his flock of birds. (Supplied: NGV/Eugene Hyland) "[But] I'm not only using [the birds] to comment and refer to the history of China," Cai tells the ABC. "[The birds] also represent today's China and its relationship with the world its speed, energy, complexities and uncertainties." "Chaos," he summarises, mimicking an explosion vocally and with his hands. Living in interesting times Cai has seen seismic shifts in China over his lifetime. In his formative childhood years, he lived in the port city of Quanzhou, Fujian province, in a community where Confucian-steeped customs and rituals (such as burning ghost money to honour ancestors) were part of daily life, and feng shui was taken seriously enough to affect urban planning. His father was an intellectual and a traditional Chinese painter. Their house was a gathering point for local artists. Then, when Cai was nine, Mao Zedong came to power, with a call to Cultural Revolution and the rejection of intellectualism and tradition. The boy helped his father burn all his books, in secret, at night. Nevertheless, Mao's anti-establishment agenda ultimately proved irresistible to many young people, including Cai. He has said that this experience was formative of his proclivity to question convention and buck the status quo. Later still, studying stage design at the Shanghai Theatre Academy in the early 1980s, Cai got a taste of China's heady opening up phase, with its attendant surge of experimentation. Though he moved to Japan in 1986, and the United States in 1995, he continued to undertake projects in China. And Cai still works there regularly including major government commissions for the 2008 Olympics ceremony in Beijing and the 2014 APEC Summit in Shanghai. Working within the system to change it In the Netflix documentary Sky Ladder: The Art of Cai Guo-Qiang, Cai speaks with some chagrin about working on the APEC fireworks display. "I wanted it to be more than just style," he says, explaining that the project was conceived to be environmentally friendly, to incorporate a video element, and to tell a story with a political element. "As a country, we no longer need to depend on bombastic ceremonies with thousands of performers, gongs and drums. Rather, I hoped we could engage people through a joke or a story." Photo: This 'explosion event' for the opening of Cai Guo-Qiang's Shanghai exhibition The Ninth Wave used biodegradable coloured powders. (Supplied: Netflix) In the film, footage from a meeting with party officials is overlaid by Cai detailing how his vision was stripped back piece by piece; compromise by compromise. "I feel awfully frustrated," he says. "I always worry about mixing art and politics. I put myself in a difficult position. But, as artists, can't we help change the system by working within it?" In Melbourne, at the NGV, he is reminded of a different system: the museum display of ancient objects that offers up, to use Cai's words, "an exoticised cultural 'other'". Photo: Terracotta warriors have previously been in Sydney twice (1983 and 2010) and Melbourne once (1982), when the NGV secured the first exhibition of the figures outside China. (Supplied: NGV/Sean Fennessy) "I'm very aware that these kinds of exhibitions are performing a mirage that is not true to life," says Cai. Consequently, he wanted to "dissect to the core of this project". The scalpel Cai wields in Melbourne, as elsewhere, is a kind of 'wonder', or poetry: he aims for the viewer to connect in an almost spiritual sense, rather than cerebrally "so that people feel that it's deeply relevant to themselves". Photo: Cai likens the mound of porcelain peony flowers, scorched with gunpowder, to "a burial mound of flowers". (Supplied: NGV/Sean Fennessy) "Even though the exhibition discusses China's past and present, I think when visitors come into the space with the birds, the first thing that will strike them is their own relationship with the artwork rather than 'What about China?'" "I've never tried to present a simplistic theme of China [in my art], but [rather] to reveal my true self and my relationship with the world, and to let people discover themselves and their relationship with the world." Photo: Heritage, featuring 99 life-sized replicas of animals, was commissioned for Cai Guo-Qiang's 2013 solo show at Queensland Art Gallery | Gallery of Modern Art. (Supplied: QAGOMA/Natasha Harth) 'A little boy who dreams big' Cai is the kind of big thinker and showman that the Emperor Qin Shihuang, who masterminded the terracotta army, might have approved of. Emperor Qin was nothing if not ambitious: at 13 he became head of his state; at 38 he unified China; at 49, when died, he had overseen the development of writing, the Great Wall of China, and a unified currency and measurements system. It is believed that even before he became emperor, he had begun planning and preparations for the vast underground necropolis that contained his eventual burial chamber guarded by the terracotta warriors. (According to Han dynasty historian Sima Qian, Emperor Qin's ironclad ambition extended to ordering that all the artisans be sealed alive within the necropolis, to preserve the secrets of its craftsmanship). Photo: Cai Guo-Qiang's 2008 exhibition Inopportune broke attendance records at the Guggenheim Museum in New York. (Keith Bedford: Reuters) Cai ascribes his own tendency to 'think big' partly to living through the Cultural Revolution: "I saw huge scale protests with thousands of people, I saw a certain sense of social ability, social movement," he recalls. But mostly, he says, it stems from a childhood imagination that he has never outgrown. "When I was very little I already started to think about the universe, and that's why Sky Ladder is 500 metres. At Beijing Olympics, I designed these big footprints it looks like a giant of history, but also an extraterrestrial life that's making its first steps on earth. One of the footprints was 150 metres long," he says. "It's all related to the dream of a little boy, who dreams big." Terracotta Warriors: Guardians of Immortality and Cai Guo-Qiang: The Transient Landscape runs until October 13 at NGV International, Melbourne. Topics:arts-and-entertainment,history,installation,sculpture,visual-art,contemporary-art,melbourne-3000,china,vic,australia First posted May 25, 2019 08:46:48 http://www.abc.net.au/news/2019-05-25/terracotta-warriors-and-cai-guo-qiang-exhibition-ngv-melbourne/11146078

[mysteryshelf]

FEBRUARY MYSTERY LOVING: BLOG TOUR - Death Theory

    Welcome to

THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF February Mystery Loving Event!

DISCLAIMER: This content has been provided to THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF by Partners in Crime Book Tours. No compensation was received. This information required by the Federal Trade Commission.

Death Theory

by John D. Mimms

on Tour February 1 – March 31, 2018

Synopsis:

Mankind’s greatest fear is also its greatest obsession. What awaits when we shuffle off the mortal coil of this world? We all have our beliefs based on faith or science, but both struggle to provide a tangible answer. Perhaps it is possible to prove the existence of the soul, to prove it goes on after death. Following the violent death of his parents, Jeff Granger seeks reassurance that they have moved on. After recording what he believes to be his mother’s voice at the site of the accident, Jeff’s obsession throws him into paranormal research. Realizing that most people are doing it just for fun, Jeff forms his own group. He is joined by Debbie Gillerson, a school teacher; Aaron Presley, a mortician; and Michael Pacheco, a grocery store manager. Even though they are all investigating the paranormal for very different reasons, they are all trying to fill an emptiness in their lives. The deeper they probe paranormal theory, the darker their results. The only way to truly test the ‘Death Theory’, as theorized by Aaron, is to monitor a person’s energy at the moment of death. Horrified by the immoral and unethical application, the group dismisses the theory. A darkness seems to follow their investigations and the police become involved. A former colleague of Jeff’s, a self-proclaimed demonologist, believes a demonic force is attached to the group. The police are not so sure. Evil comes in many forms as the small group is about to discover.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Thriller, Paranormal Published by: Draft 2 Digital Publication Date: January 30th 2018 Number of Pages: 320 ISBN: 9781537849713 Purchase Links: Amazon 🔗 | Barnes & Noble 🔗 | Google Books 🔗 | Goodreads 🔗

Read an excerpt:

Death is the closest thing to omnipotence we will experience in our brief time on this planet. It is an all-encompassing power, binding everything, and providing a cold certainty to an otherwise uncertain existence. The firm grip of this assurance reaches much further than the extinguishment of life; it greedily claims the hope and happiness of those who remain. It is a definite ending, but is it also a provable beginning?

Prologue

Linda Granger did not see death coming.

Sleep shielded her from the unfolding horror. The looming headlights and the panicked screams of her husband were beyond her conscious state. When her head shattered the windshield, the dream about her son ended, sending her into what’s next. Linda was gone before the car rolled seven times and wrapped around a large oak tree. Her husband, Stephen, was not as fortunate. He died two minutes later. Linda had fallen asleep from emotional exhaustion. She died with regrets.

Chapter 1

Jeff’s sheets were drenched in sweat. He strained to hear because he wanted to continue the conversation he had been having. The bass drum of his pulse throbbed in his ears, making hearing impossible. He sat up and glanced about frantically. Where had she gone?

As sleep gave way to the waking world, dread filled him. He remembered the terrible truth. These muddled conversations with his mother had become nightly occurrences since his parents’ accident. The last words he shared with his mother were over the phone, and they were harsh. The next time he picked up the phone, mere hours later, it was the Missouri State Police asking him to come to the hospital. It has been over a year since the terrible night, yet the pain had not gone away. In some ways, it grew worse.

Jeff rolled on his side as tears streamed down his cheeks. In his dream, he told his mother he loved her. He wondered if she could hear him. Somehow, he believed it might be possible. His grieving heart longed for a way to communicate with his late parents.

Jeff rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. It was impossible. He eventually got up and opened the blinds. It rained last night and a steamy mist shielded the street from view. This was the perfect morning to stay in bed and he almost did if not for two things. His sheets were soaked and he was excited about today. Even though he needed extra sleep, since he would be staying up all night, he just couldn’t hold back the excitement of investigating with his fourth paranormal group in as many months. Missouri Spirit Seekers claim to do purely scientific investigations, but the three previous groups he joined did as well. He hoped this time would be different.

They would be investigating Pythian Castle tonight, the most ‘haunted’ location in Springfield, not too far from Jeff’s alma mater, Missouri State. The castle was a very cool historical site, but to Jeff, it was another opportunity to find answers for life’s greatest mystery -death.

Although the investigation was still twelve hours away, nervous anticipation consumed him. He hoped this was not another séance based, sage burning, ghost hunt like most of the others. His previous groups were as far away from science as one could get.

Jeff brewed a pot of coffee and microwaved a bowl of instant oatmeal, before sitting down to watch his recording of the show which started him on the path to paranormal investigation. He viewed it often, but it had become a ritual to watch on the day of an investigation. If Jeff were counting, this would be his eighty-third time to watch.

The show starred two men, who were electricians by trade, investigating haunted places using the scientific method. They gathered measurable scientific evidence in their investigations. In this particular episode, they were investigating the catacombs underneath an old church in Baltimore.

What peaked Jeff’s interest were the Electronic Voice Phenomenon the men captured on their digital recorders. He wondered if EVP’s are actually the voices of the dead. The guys on the show didn’t commit one way or the other, they just presented the recordings.

“You up above,” a disembodied voice said.

“The way through,” another one whispered.

The most eerie utterance of them all said, “Come down here among us.”

Jeff’s reaction was the same every time he watched; chills intermingled with hope and fear ran up his spine.

Jeff reached into a box under the coffee table and retrieved his digital recorder. He held it in his hands as if it were an object of holy veneration. Jeff recorded his own EVP one night several months earlier at the scene of his parent’s accident. Short, incredible, and heart-breaking; his mother seemed to call his name from beyond. The EVP was still on his recorder, even though he had backed it up to a dozen sources. He would never delete it from any device. Never.

A loud thud rattled the blinds on the front door. Jeff jumped, almost dropping the recorder. His alarm lasted only a moment when he recognized the sound of the newspaper carrier’s rattle-trap station wagon puttering up the street. He peeled back the blinds in time to see the tail lights disappear into the mist. Jeff was still in his underwear with a gaping fly, but he figured his rural setting, coupled with the fog, would spare him any indecent exposure charges.

Jeff scooped up the paper, almost losing his balance on the wet concrete, and then backed through the door. He plopped down on the sofa and began to unfold the massive log of news. He was heading straight for the sports section when an article caught his eye. The title read:

Springfield … the Most Haunted City in Missouri?

The Kansas City Royals box scores could wait. Jeff dove right into the article. The ghosts of Phelps Grove Park, Bass Country Inn, Drury University, Landers Theater, Springfield National Cemetery, University Plaza Hotel, and Pythian Castle were all mentioned prominently by the author. Jeff had investigated Phelps Grove Park with one of his previous groups. One of the members claimed he saw the infamous spectral bride near the bridge, but Jeff had no such luck. He never had success when it came to firsthand experiences. Either everyone else is lying or perhaps Jeff is walking ghost repellent. He didn’t think they were lying, at least not everyone who made a paranormal claim. His recording of his mother was enough to keep faith in the paranormal.

He read the claims of Drury University with great interest. There were allegedly several ghosts, in a few buildings, which had taken residence there since the school’s founding in 1873. The saddest one was a little girl who died in a fire. Her phantom laughter could be heard from time to time in one of the women’s dorms.

Jeff enjoyed a good ghost story since he was a kid, but these were more than merely a spectral yarn. Each story offered a small glimmer of hope.

He didn’t read about Pythian Castle; there was no need. He had spent so much time researching it the last couple of weeks, he could recite the history word for word. The shadow spirits who allegedly resided in the basement intrigued him the most. They had been reported so often over the years, there was little doubt that something unusual was occurring in the depths of the castle.

Jeff finally checked the box scores, lamenting another loss by his favorite team. He scanned the comics before tossing the paper on the floor. He trudged to the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. Afterward, he put on a fresh pair of boxers and a T-shirt before stretching out on the couch. He fell asleep watching Netflix. If he dreamed of his parents again, he did not remember.

Jeff arrived at Pythian Castle an hour before dusk. The rainy morning had given way to a perfectly clear early evening. The ghostly apparition of the full moon glowed in the eastern sky as the sun began to dip. The large tower on front of the castle cast a long shadow over his truck as he pulled in and parked. He ascended the stone steps onto an expansive porch where a very large woman with a mystical fashion sense met him at the front door.

“Hello … Jack?” she said.

“Jeff,” he corrected. “You must be Swoosie.”

Swoosie half-nodded and half-bowed. She reminded him of a fortune teller he visited one time, just for kicks.

“Would you like a charm for protection tonight?” Swoosie asked, reaching into a velvet bag and retrieving what appeared to be a tiny silk pillow.

“No, thanks … I’m good,” Jeff said. He couldn’t help smirking a little.

Swoosie noticed.

“Suit yourself,” she huffed. “Spirits can pick up on those less experienced in this field. They tend to prey more on them.”

“Good,” Jeff said. “Maybe I will get some good evidence.”

Swoosie narrowed her pudgy eyelids and motioned for a man who was milling about awkwardly, studying old pictures on the wall. “Preston,” she called with a snap of her fingers.

He was a middle-aged man with a greasy ring of dark hair circling a large bald spot. His clothing was a mish mash of suit pants and a Molly Hatchett T-shirt. The shirt and pin stripe pants were riddled with stains.

“How are you?” Preston asked breathlessly. It seemed his pot belly was a strain for him to carry.

“Fine, Preston,” Jeff said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Oh … I think Mr. Leach is preferable,” Preston said. “I could be your daddy.”

“Not likely,” Jeff thought.

“I’m putting the two of you together tonight since you are both new to this,” Swoosie said. “You know … strength in numbers.”

Both men’s puzzled expressions testified their bewilderment of Swoosie’s logic as if to point out that it would make more sense to put them with an experienced investigator.

“I’m a fairly experienced investigator,” Jeff said. “Tonight, makes my twentieth investigation.”

Swoosie’s condescending smile let him know she still considered him a novice. She turned and then waddled over to a sofa in the foyer where her daughter and a couple of other men waited. Their familiar banter showed them to be a clique.

“Okay, Mr. Leach,” Jeff said. “Where should we start?”

This group didn’t set up night vision cameras or environmental equipment as he hoped. Each member was only armed with a flashlight, digital recorder, and maybe a camera. Jeff was sure most of them carried a silk charm pillow in their pocket.

“I think they want us to go the basement,” Mr. Leach said impatiently. “Didn’t you hear what Swoosie said?”

Swoosie was much larger than Mr. Leach, yet she seemed a bit more agile as he watched his partner shuffle down the corridor.

“Okay,” Jeff mumbled before following him down the stone stairs to the basement.

They picked a far corner in the dark, dingy basement, and then set their digital recorders on a wooden table. The musty smell of old buildings had become synonymous with ghosts in Jeff’s mind. Even though he knew better, he sometimes entertained the idea of it being a ‘ghost odor’.

The sun was beginning to set through one of the basement windows, so they agreed to wait until full dark before beginning their session.

“Hey … you know this used to hold POWs during World War Two?” Jeff said, nodding at the old cells across the room. The iron doors had been removed many years ago on all but one.

“It was an orphanage at one time, built by the Knights of Pythias,” Mr. Leach countered.

“Really?” Jeff said, a little confused at why an orphanage would be more interesting than a POW prison.

“Yeah, can you imagine how many kids died here?” Mr. Leach mused.

Jeff’s stomach twisted. His partner seemed a little too gleeful about dead children.

“Yeah,” Jeff said distantly. He watched the last rays of the sun disappear behind the shrubbery outside. When it was completely dark, he said, “Well, shall we get started?”

Jeff jumped when a flashlight beam flared in his eyes.

“Can I ask you something, Jeff?” Mr. Leach asked, lowering his flashlight.

“Sure.”

“How did you get into paranormal stuff?” Mr. Leach asked.

“Curiosity,” Jeff began and then anger began to simmer. He didn’t know why the question upset him so, it was benign and practical. Perhaps it was his partner’s tone. “It’s really nobody’s business,” Jeff snapped.

“Fair enough,” Mr. Leach said. “What did your fiancée say about it?”

Jeff glared at Mr. Leach in the darkness. How did he know he had a fiancée?

“What makes you think I had a fiancée?” Jeff asked, pointedly.

“I know things,” Mr. Leach replied. His coy response echoing from the darkness sounded like the prelude to a horror movie.

Jeff was angry. Mr. Leach seemed to have no boundaries. Jeff’s fiancée was a sore spot. She had been a former fiancée for almost a year.

“Why don’t you tell me her name?” Jeff said, a little too loud. Shushes hissed from deep in the darkness as his voice echoed off the stone walls. It seemed the whole building heard his question.

There was a very long pause. Jeff almost thought he was alone until the answer startled him.

“I can’t see that,” Mr. Leach answered. “Only events and feelings.”

“What are you … some kinda Jedi Master?” Jeff asked.

“I’m psychic,” Mr. Leach wheezed. His last word echoed about the basement, bringing more shushes from around the building.

“Oh,” Jeff whispered. He had encountered these people before; every paranormal group seemed to have them. Out of the dozen or so self-proclaimed psychics Jeff had known in his life, there was only one he believed legitimate. An old shut-in, who he delivered prescriptions to while in college, told him some interesting things about his life that came to pass a short time later.

“So, where is my fiancée?” Jeff asked.

There was a long silence before Mr. Leach replied flatly. “With another man, I’m afraid.”

Jeff didn’t say anything. He knew she was with another man now. Lurid images filled his head as to what they may be doing right now. Acid boiled in his guts and his heart began to pound. He didn’t expect this answer; he was looking for more of a geographical location. She had been with this schmuck for six months, two weeks, and three days, but he wasn’t counting.

“Does that shock you?” Mr. Leach whispered.

“You’re the psychic … you tell me,” Jeff barked. “Look, I just want to focus on the investigation, can we do that now?”

More shushes ensued followed by a booming female voice asking them to be quiet. Swoosie had some lungs.

They were so engrossed in their argument, neither man noticed the single cell door slowly swing open and a black shadow dart down the passageway. The air grew thick and uncomfortable, but both men thought it was from their awkward conversation.

Mr. Leach didn’t answer. A moment later, Jeff heard the beep of a digital recorder turning on. The small red recording light resembled a one-eyed demon in the complete darkness. Jeff knew he hurt the guy’s feelings, but he didn’t care. Mr. Leach had trodden on areas of Jeff’s life where he wasn’t welcome. In fact, no one was welcome. His fiancée had been the last living member of anything resembling family for Jeff. She had tried to get him to see a shrink to cope with his parent’s death, but he refused. Thus, the wedge between them was forged.

On the surface, Jeff seemed to recover. He tried to move on with his life. His preacher once told him that time is a river, washing away all pains and transgressions. Yet, for those who grieve, time is often an ocean. It ebbs and flows, sometimes exposing the pain lurking beneath the surface of our consciousness with each experience.

“Truth,” Jeff thought.

He finally turned on his digital recorder and began to alternate questions with Mr. Leach.

“Is anyone with us?”

“Are you angry?”

“What is your name?”

“How old are you?”

“Why are you here?”

“When did you die?”

They repeated this process several times in different areas of the building. They never heard anything. Hopefully, there would be some evidence on the recording.

Jeff found it difficult to focus. Of course, he was tired, yet it was much more than fatigue. Mr. Leach had upset him, there was no denying it. The thing bothering him the most was the image running through his head; His fiancée and some faceless man with a Chippendale’s body were in bed together. He tried to push it aside and focus on the reason he was here. When he turned his thoughts to his parents, it did not help. He kept seeing the make-shift white cross memorial at the site of his parents’ crash. The same cross where he had recorded his mother’s voice. It wasn’t only the mental image distracting him. His mother’s one-word response echoed in his head after every EVP question – “Jeff”. A few times he thought he heard her voice coming from the darkness – “Jeff”.

Jeff knew it was fatigue, it had to be. If not, Mr. Leach would have heard something.

Jeff left Sunday morning frustrated. He sat in his truck and watched the last act unfold in what had been an all-night circus. Swoosie, her daughter, Mr. Leach, and a few other men sat in folding chairs arranged in a circle on the front lawn. They had asked Jeff to join them, but he respectfully declined. They burned sage while performing a cleansing ritual.

“We can’t have any spirits following us home,” Swoosie’s daughter proclaimed. “This’ll keep ‘em put.”

The obese Swoosie sat with her back to him. Her butt dangled on either side of the stressed chair as the legs sank into the soft and dewy sod. She swung a burning leaf around her head, making her resemble an elephant trying to douse the flames of a burning tree.

Jeff realized the only way he would get anywhere is starting his own team. He turned the ignition, causing his lights to fall on the group. They turned and glowered as if he farted and belched in church. He smiled and waved as he shifted the truck into gear.

Missouri Spirit Seekers,” Jeff muttered as he left the gate, “seems more like shit seekers.”

***

Excerpt from Death Theory by John D. Mimms. Copyright © 2017 by John D. Mimms. Reproduced with permission from John D. Mimms. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

John D. Mimms is a business owner, paranormal researcher and author. John served as the Technical Director for a TAPS (The Atlantic Paranormal Society) family paranormal research group in Central Arkansas. During his four-year tenure with the organization, he helped supervise over 100 investigations and wrote more than sixteen technical articles. Paul Bradford, of Ghost Hunters International fame, read one of John’s articles titled A Christmas Carol Debunked live on the air of the Parazona Radio program on Christmas Day 2009. John also wrote a definitive technical/training manual, which is a comprehensive guide on equipment usage, investigation protocol and scientific theory for paranormal research.

In 2009 John decided to couple his knowledge of paranormal phenomena with his lifelong love of literary fiction. John’s first published work, The Tesla Gate, is the first installment of a three-part, heart-wrenching, sci-fi/paranormal drama.

Book 1 of this unique, ground-breaking story released July 2014 through Open Road Media. In January 2016, Open Road Media released The Tesla Gate Book 2: The Myriad Resistance. Book 3: The Eye of Madness is slated for release September 27, 2016. Though fictional, the trilogy is based on scientific, paranormal theory.

Publishers Weekly declared about The Tesla Gate in the March 3, 2014 issue “…touching sci-fi story that takes the reader on an unlikely road-trip adventure…a fast read with some entertaining ideas and a real emotional core in the relationship between father and son.”

The Examiner proclaimed in June 2014: “Entertaining as well as poignant, this book is extremely imaginative in its basic premise as well as the many colorful and emotionally compelling events that take place.”

John resides and writes on a mountaintop in central Arkansas with his wife and two sons.

Catch Up With Our Author On: Website 🔗, Goodreads 🔗, Twitter 🔗, & Facebook 🔗!

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  Giveaway:

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for John D. Mimms. There will be 3 winners of one (1) physical copy of Death Theory by John D. Mimms (US ONLY) AND 3 winners of one (1) audiobook copy of Death Theory by John D. Mimms. The giveaway begins on February 1, 2018 and runs through March 31, 2018. This giveaway is open to US addressess only.

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FEBRUARY MYSTERY LOVING: BLOG TOUR – Death Theory was originally published on the Wordpress version of The Pulp and Mystery Shelf with Shannon Muir

[garynsmith]

The Inman Files: House drama, Goldberg and low-tech ‘iBuyers’

http://ift.tt/2t0oe2Y

I’m working on a new weekly email featuring my thoughts on the industry and more. Here’s my first crack. Send me feedback at brad@inman.com. And if you would like this in your inbox every Friday, sign up here:

The House Drama: Episode 1 (coming soon to Netflix)

When my wife Yaz and I bought a house in Southern California last month, a brown patch in the tiny green front yard annoyed me to no end. It was not that important, and my eager Realtor Byron made sure the gardner fixed it before we moved in.

The homebuying process also had a brown patch; if I’m honest, it was actually two or three big, ugly patches. They too annoyed me and they too can be fixed, but it will take lots more than watering the grass.

Here is the setup for our crazy experience: I found my agent on the internet, confusing a Zillow Premier Agent advertiser for the listing agent. Fancy-pancy real estate expert — me — got duped. We got lucky; Byron is a good agent.

As we all know, the real estate industry is hyper-competitive. And because there are few better catalysts for innovation than competition, real estate is constantly blazing new ground. Real estate expansion teams -- teams that do business in multiple markets -- are one of the industry’s latest, and hottest, innovations ...

The house was an off-market– in fact, a premature off-market listing, like a banana that is way too green to eat.

It also became a dual agency listing by a prominent broker in town.

To add to the Hollywood drama, the seller was seemingly having a relationship problem as we closed the transaction, causing his partner to get cold feet about moving out of the house.

The entire deal got icky when the off-market listing + dual agency + a nervous seller added up to an iffy closing.

If this was a treatment for a true-crime Netflix series, we could call it “Blood on the Deal.”

Look out for Episode 2 of Season 1 next week.

Outside/Inside Inman

Drum-beating or beating a dead horse?

Put a bow-tie on Rob Hahn and you get Fox News gadfly Tucker Carlson. Their politics are not the same, though a libertarian streak runs through both. They like to bite the horse. That is what a real gadfly does. And as annoying as they can be, they do it with some intellectual fervor. They are characteristically obsessive, which is common among this particularly persistent but entertaining media archetype.

Take the National Association of Realtors (NAR) CEO search. Hahn carried the cross for mapping out what NAR should do when hiring its new chieftain and then painted the outcome with a single stroke — How could you?

Part one of his 5400-word rant was dubbed, ‘The Silence of our Friends: NAR CEO Edition,” trashing almost anyone who applauded or who didn’t publicly criticize the Bob Goldberg choice. He cast them as cowards.

Then like someone stacking too many pancakes on a single pile, he took NAR president Bill Brown to task for objecting to his first post. The message was “I dare you!’ — very Tucker Carlson-like.

All of this was fair fodder. And we should be grateful the industry has Tucker Hahn to remind us that the decision certainly looks like a classic inside job.

Who is the X Woman?

Here is what I heard through the Realtor-vine. The NAR search committee recommended at least three candidates to the seven-member NAR leadership team for the CEO position to replace longtime exec Dale Stinton — Bob Goldberg, Alex Perriello, an X-woman, and maybe one outsider. Was there an order to their recommendations? Not sure; I heard two conflicting scenarios.

Then, the NAR leadership team, who made the final decision, voted. But they were allegedly split. As often occurs in these sort of split votes, at the end of the discussion and the vote, the Chairman (2017 NAR President Bill Brown) asked for a voice “acclamation,” which is a form of unanimous consent once one candidate has enough votes (four was the magic number).

This happens so that it can be reported out that everyone agreed, and — technically — they did.

Eventually, someone will get drunk in a hotel lobby bar and spill the beans on all of the details. Transparency, meet your best friend: Alcohol.

Though touted as such, this was not a transparent process. NAR was paranoid enough about keeping the process secret that their legal counsel sent us a letter about our reporting on the CEO selection decisions.

But at this stage, who cares. Goldberg is the choice. Good luck, Bob!

My advice to you: The end is near for top-down leadership trying to rule the roost. The empowered agent runs the real estate industry, no one else. Not brokers, not franchisors, not Zillow and not you and the NAR leadership team.

The old hierarchical system needs some work to adapt to this bottoms-up reality.

Trade groups play an important role, but the days are over for them trying to control the universe.

Outside Inman

TV and video games explain economic purgatory?

Like a deceivingly stable rollercoaster, we see unemployment down, job growth up, interests rates low. The housing is market recovering and the stock market is celebrating some sort of weird Wall Street party. Yet economic growth is anemic, the equity divide is unresolved and consumers are uneasy. We are stuck in that economic middle ground between heaven and hell — limbo. What’s up?

The researchers at the Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco work late to figure out these economic Rubik’s Cubes.

Their latest: “The Disappointing Recovery of Output after 2009” aka “Why are We in Purgatory?”

They note “the slow growth of total productivity, and the decline in labor force participation,” a trend that started before the recession and is now hurting the economy.

Normally, people pursue employment to get out of their economic ditch. Unemployment comes down and people go back to work after a recession. But not this time, say the researchers.

Interestingly, poorer families went back to work at increased labor participation rates. But not families with higher incomes. And this is what is dragging down the economy and accounts for low rates of growth.

Source: “The Disappointing Recovery of Output after 2009” report

If time spent looking for a job went down, which it did for higher income families, what were these folks doing with their time?

“Personal care and leisure [went up], which include a large amount of TV watching and other video-based entertainment, especially for men,” say the Fed analysts. “The drop in hours devoted to other activities included a decline in housework for women. Basically, time use shifted toward enjoyment and away from work and investment activities.”

America got lazy.

Inside Inman

(McMansion) Hell on earth: Blogger vs. Zillow 

This fiery but short-lived story is important because the fight over photo intellectual property has just begun. What did we learn?

Zillow can’t sue third parties for photo copyright on the behalf of agents, brokers and MLSs, but it can flex its muscles in the legal land called terms of use with arguably some success. Kate Wagner won’t be taking photos off Z’s turf moving forward and, given the internet’s reaction to Zillow’s threat, I’d be surprised to see more threatening letters anytime soon.

Past post from McMansion Hell

Flop or flop: A new HGTV series about real estate startups

These startups will become relevant if one of the models actually catches on. Hundreds, if not thousands of predecessors, have tried and flopped.

Bots vs. agents

A website chat tool is betting on agents over bots. This face-off is more than a debate, changing the role of agents.

BREAKING NEWS!

Cutting-edge instant offer/iBuyer platforms breaking out all over the country. Talk about convenient.

Comment of the week

“Poaching of agents gets old and makes the industry look like a car lot full of used car salesmen,” said Jim Weix, referring to the brokerage that got punished with a $5M verdict in agent poaching case brought by Douglas Elliman.

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