#blue moon of kentucky

[tavolgisvist]

First, I have something to say about Paul's moons. Second, one strange idea about New Moon Over Jamaica.

Paul's demo sounds like reggae (and it's go well with the place where Paul has it written).

But version which done with Johnny Cash isn't reggae at all.

It reminds me another song about another Moon - Blue Moon of Kentucky. Not upbeat Elvis' version but flowing Bill Monroe's. Paul, as we know, loves and plays both.

Well, it was on one moonlight night With the stars shining bright Wind blowin' high My love said good-bye Blue moon of Kentucky Keep on shining Shine on the one that's gone and left me blue

Well blue moon, yeah blue moon, yeah blue moon Keep shining bright Well blue moon Keep on shining bright Bring my baby back tonight (Blue moon of Kentucky)

and

So won’t you come back to Jamaica? You know it isn’t so far Look up in the sky where you left me that night I’ll be standing right under that star

I said good evening to Venus She said good evening too Out there somewhere, you know I could swear She sent a message of true love from you*

There’s a new moon over Jamaica And the new year just got here, you see There’s a new moon over Jamaica And I’m living with an old memory (New Moon Over Jamaica)

*You think you've lost your love Well, I saw her yesterday It's you she's thinking of And she told me what to say etc

Like the same story, isn't it? Just a thought, that's it :)

Get Enough: I’ve been looking for love but it gets me nowhere

One of the most emotionally raw things Paul has ever put out, the lack of attention given to ‘Get Enough’ is baffling. Some random thoughts on the song:

If we’re looking for songs that might have real personal meaning to him, one that starts by recounting a memory and includes a quotation, seems a pretty good bet.

So, can we identify who he is addressing in the song?

“It was a time when we walked by the docks, I told you, "I need you all of my life", and watching the tugs rolling by together, do you remember?”

Docks? Liverpool, John?

“Now and then I see your face”, seems to seal it. We know the importance of the phrase “now and then” to Paul and, as has been pointed out, he has spoken of how if he recognises a face in one of his paintings, it is more than likely to be John.

Then there’s “I keep looking for love but it gets me nowhere”? Who would have foreseen Paul singing that in 2018? How has that gone largely unnoticed?

It is hard to escape the John associations. Could there be anything else going on in there too, though?

Well, it is kind of odd that having managed to be non-gender specific throughout the song, at the very end he changes “get enough of” to “get enough girl”. Why do that unless, and I know this is a crazy idea, he’s actually talking about a girl? That the song at least in part, is about an ex?

It might also be worth pointing out that, with regards to the docks reference, he never stopped going back to Liverpool or the Wirral. He could have taken a walk by the docks with someone that he brought home when visiting his dad. Yeah?

A lot of the criticism of the track on fan forums focused on the use of auto-tune, ignoring that it is being used as a device: distinguishing the current thoughts of the bridge from the reminiscence of the verse. Maybe those current thoughts are so raw that they need some distancing effect as he sings them.

The glorious release of the bridge at 1:58 with that odd, barely audible spoken word passage underneath. Not in the speaker’s first language? Lennonesque wordplay? I’ve no idea but, if we find out it could open up a lot about the song.

While we’re speculating madly and oscillating wildly, one more thought? Could the memory described in ‘Get Enough’ be the same one evoked in Paul’s ‘New Moon Over Jamaica’?

Both songs reflect on a memory: “I’m living with an old memory” (NMOJ) ; “it was real, do you remember?” (GE)

Both reflect on somebody he used to be with, an old love. Watching the moon triggers the memory in NMOJ and is part of the memory in GE.

NMOJ is set at New Year. GE was, very unusually, released as the clock hit 12 at New Year 2019.

“New moons and new years and old loves don’t mix” (NMOJ)

[themagicalmysticalboy]

yeehaw

[gracelandmp3]

got 3 emmylou harris records for christmas btw you wish you were me

[voodooya]

🖤.

[tavolgisvist]

Now, when Paul in my mind flickers like pure Moon, I need to add to Paul's moons John's moonlight (as the June moon’ light turns to moonlight). First, old good Mr. Moonlight (written by Roy Lee Johnson). Our lads played it a couple of years and then recorded on Beatles for Sale in 1964.

Mr. Moonlight! You came to me one summer night And from your beam you made my dream And from the world you sent my girl And from above you sent us love

And now she is mine, I think you're fine 'Cause we love you Mr. Moonlight

Mr. Moonlight, come again please Here I am on my knees begging if you please And the night you don't come my way I pray and pray more each day 'Cause we love you Mr. Moonlight

And a few years late John is singing:

Mr. Moonlight Now you don’t come my way I’m now here to say you’re gone again I’m here to say Mr. Moonlight Mr. Moonlight Tonight you don’t come my way I pray and pray every day Mr. Moonlight / I don’t cry…

Mr. Moonlight You should be alright And now that I’ve seen the day Du du du du du du du I won’t cry…

Then Blue Moon (written by Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart in 1934), which was covered by Elvis Presley in 1954:

Blue moon You saw me standing alone Without a dream in my heart Without a love of my own

Blue moon You knew just what I was there for You heard me saying a prayer for Someone I really could care for Without a love of my own

And which our lads are singing during I Will session (and it gives us more for reading and understanding - and for dreaming):

Blue moon You saw me standing alone Without a dream in my heart Without a love of my own

Blue moon You saw me standing alone Without a love in my heart Without a dream in my own

And then there suddenly appeared before me The only one I ever wanted to hold And then you said you’d come and then you’d adore me Blue moon you went and turned to gold

Blue moon No no no no no…

And, of course, John's version (presumed circa 1978).

But blue moon doesn't come to the surface at first, John begins from mad poem (remindes Skywriting and Goon Show):

Twas a night like Ethel Merman, not a sailor in the sky A kind of aged gentleman was giving me a try I remember it distinctly, as clear as yesterday I was excavating mucus and I thought I heard him say ‘O timorous beastly, what o’er the briney sea The news oot the bracken [inaudible] It’s a long way to tipperillo, och aye’ Mine eye was clouded o’er as I heard his mournful song I asked him what the time was, he said it wasn’t long.

Then he goes to Paris:

Do you remember when we were in the café on the left bank?* You could not find your cartier Because it was around your little throat You naughty little chéri Thank heaven for little pearls My God it’s so high up there You know you can’t really do that to yourself You’d get yourself disease! La la la…

purely accidental someone in March 1978 releases album with the song calls Café On The Left Bank

And then - what a nice context for this, isn' - John is singing Blue Moon with such lovely words:

Blue moon You left me standing alone Without a dog or a bone Without a… reasonable chance of recovery…

And in the end John is singing another wonderful song - Young Love (written by Ric Cartey and Carole Joyner, which was recorded in 1957 by Sonny James and in 1969 by Mary Hopkin for the album Postcard which was produced by Paul):

They say for every boy and girl There's just one love in this whole world, And I know I've found mine.

The heavenly touch of your embrace Tells me no one could take your place Ever in my heart.

Young love, first love, Filled with true devotion. Young love, our love, We share with deep emotion.

Just one kiss from your sweet lips Will tell me that your love is real And I can feel that it's true.

We will vow to one another There will never be another Love for you or for me.

So, John is singing:

They say for every boy and girl There’s just one love in this whole world But I, I found mine Boy oh boy I found mine Oh this is thrilling Just one kiss from your sweet lips Tells me no one can ever split your P’s or Q’s or African…

Yes, it isn't about any moons or whatever but about stuff what moon and moonlight are about for people in love.

It's funny how everything is connected to everything. And there are also Blue Moon of Kentucky and New Moon Over Jamaica (and Get Enough)…

Woke up with a lot of Paul's moons dancing to 'Distractions' in my head. My work can't help: they swim, spin and sway before my eyes and Paul's voice deadens the noise from outside.

Paul's moons, John's laugh and Yoko's words: I said, 'You're a good songwriter, it's not June with Spoon that you write.' So, I give up.

I’ll Be on My Way, 1959 (wirtten by Paul but on the BBC's record we hear John's lead vocal and Paul's harmony). Later John and Paul dismissed this song and kidding on it.

'That’s Paul, through and through. Doesn’t it sound like him? Tra la la la la [laughs]. Yeah, that’s Paul on the voids of driving through the country.' (John Lennon, 1980, All We Are Saying, David Sheff) and 'It’s a little bit too June-moon for me, but these were very early songs and they worked out quite well.' (Paul McCartney, Many Years From Now, Barry Miles)

But look: The sun is fading away That's the end of the day As the June light turns to moonlight I'll be on my way <…> They were right I was wrong True love didn't last long As the June light turns to moonlight I'll be on my way hey

It isn't one time story, apparently:

One day, you'll look To see I've gone For tomorrow may rain, so I'll follow the sun

<...>

And now the time has come And so, my love, I must go And though I lose a friend In the end, you will know

(I'll Follow The Sun, 1959)

But we're looking for the moon - so go to Just Fun (1957):

They say our love is just fun* The day that our friendship begun There’s no blue moon that I can see There’s never been in history Because our love was just fun

*as it was in the original lyrics (and as Paul sings now), or 'They said our love was just fun' as Paul sings in 1969, during Get Back sessions

(and it leads us to others songs, where Paul say about who was/can be wrong, but we need only moons just now)

And if we suddenly remember what I’ll Be on My Way originally was 'a gentle guitar ballad', we can also remember another gentle song about the moon (early days, birds which 'flown from our nest' - sounds a bit like children leave their parents' home or maybe someone' songs elude their autors- and about some other things):

When the moon lays His head on a pillow And the stars settle Down for a rest, Just do me one small favour I beg you Please play me My baby's request

It's the song That we heard When we started. Now the bird have all Flown from our nest But you could bring back memories Departed by playing My baby's request

My baby said That she knows How it goes But you're the one That really knows So go ahead Just one more time and then We'll go to bed

Hmm play me baby's request Please play me my baby's request One more time

(Baby's Request from Back To The Egg, 1979)

Of course, it means nothing, only distractions, which 'like butterflies are buzzing 'round my head'.

[bbyhan]

Blue super moon in pisces over KY mountains

[joevo]

Timestamped because i thought the clip was relevant

I was sad, but a drag queen lent me her violin for a while, and I started playing it. I got quite good at it despite the fact that I didn’t really know exactly what I was doing, until I played it a little too hard and it broke. I cried, until she later came up to me and comforted me, saying something like, “All that matters is that you played,” and then I woke up.

[baeaisling]

Jammin’ with Johnny, clip 14

[dinosaursr66]

All you have to do is play an Everly Brothers song to hear the purest 2 part harmonies ever sung. They are an inspiration to all who follow. Just ask the Beatles.

SONG OF THE DAY - February 17, 2023 honoring Louisville, Kentucky

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 4: Read Between The Lines]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Boulevard Of Broken Dreams” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

It is your first week of basic training at Great Lakes on the north side of Chicago, and as you lie in the top bunk of your assigned bed you wonder what the hell you’ve done. You enlisted right out of high school, eighteen, no driver’s license, no work history, never been more than fifty miles outside of Soft Shell, Kentucky. The drill sergeants are always yelling and you’re bad at push-ups; you can’t understand the recruits from big cities like Los Angeles, Miami, Las Vegas, Detroit, Houston, and they don’t seem to get you either, and aren’t interested enough to try. Sometimes you wish you hadn’t signed that five-year contract, but where would you be if you weren’t here? Home is not words but textures, colors, fumes that still burn in your sinuses: cigarette ash on rose pink carpets, red embers glowing in the wood stove, Hamburger Helper and Mountain Dew, coffee creamer in Hungry Jack potatoes, laughter and heavy footsteps and slamming doors, scratch-off games, dogs barking, collecting coins from couch cushions for gas money, scrubbing clothes in the bathtub when the washer quits, Mama taking gulps from her favorite cup—plastic, Virginia Beach, filled with equal parts Hawaiian Punch and vodka—when she thinks no one is looking, blue shows flickering on the television, Family Feud, Maury, Good Morning America, WWE SmackDown. For as long as you can remember you’ve known you couldn’t stay. Now you’re getting out, but nothing in life is free.

You are at Class A Technical School in Gulfport, Mississippi, and even though it’s hotter than some noxious, volcanic hellscape—Mercury, Venus, Io—you are beginning to like it. You taste the salt of sweat when you lick your lips, sugar in the sweet tea they serve in the chow hall. There’s a magic in building something where there was only empty space before, in patching roofs and painting walls. Here being quiet and watchful is exactly what they want from you: head down, hammer striking nails, measurements and angles and long hours under the sun with no complaints. You’re not just running away anymore. You are creating something new.

You are sitting beneath swaying palm trees and a full moon on Diego Garcia, draining cans of Guinness with Rio, and he’s telling you things he shouldn’t, too personal, too honest: Sophie wants to try for a baby next time he’s home on leave, and part of him wants that too but he’s terrified. As thunder rumbles in the distance and raindrops begin to patter on the waves of the Indian Ocean, you tell Rio you think he’d be a good father. He wonders how you figure that, and you say because he’s not like any of the men from home. He gives you one of his crooked smiles—a flash of teeth, knowing dark eyes—and doesn’t ask what you mean.

But of course, when you swim up from the inky currents of sleep you are in none of these places. You are curled up on the floor of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio, cheap worn black carpet peppered with stars and swirls in neon green, pink, blue. You stretch out with a yawn. Someone has left a Lemon Tea Snapple within reach; you twist it open and guzzle it, hoping to extinguish the pounding in your skull, a rhythmic thudding of warm maroon, half Captain Morgan and half misery. The music isn’t helping. From the green Toshiba CD player, a man is singing in Spanish. Aegon and Rio are sitting at the nearest table and playing Uno.

Aegon says as he ponders his cards: “You know Enrique Iglesias, right Rio?”

“You are so racist.” Rio puts down a wild. “And the new color is red. Racist.”

“So what’s he saying?”

“Aegon, buddy, I told you, I was born here. My grandparents came over in the 60s. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You can’t understand any of it?” Aegon is skeptical. He plays a skip, a reverse, and a seven. “My dad never taught me a word of Greek but I can recognize plenty of phrases. Vlákas means idiot. Spatáli chórou is a waste of space.”

Rio sighs, relenting. He puts down a two. “The song is called Súbeme La Radio, Turn Up The Radio For Me. Bring me the alcohol that numbs the pain… I don’t care about anything anymore…You’ve left me in the shadows…”

“Damn, now I’m sad. Draw four, bitch.”

“When the night comes and you don’t answer, I swear to you I’ll stay waiting at your door…” Rio studies his cards. “What’s the new color?”

“Green.”

“Yes!” Rio slams down a skip. “Fleeing from the past in every dawn, I can’t find any way to erase our history…”

Everyone else is awake already. As muted late-morning daylight streams in through the small tinted windows, Aemond is weaving between tables, pointedly checking on each person. He glances at you, says nothing, turns around and walks the other way.

“That’s tough,” Rio says sympathetically, popping open the tab on a can of Chef Boyardee and shoveling ravioli into his mouth with a plastic fork.

Aegon gives you a smirk. “You want to fake date now?”

“I’ll think about it.” No you won’t.

Helaena appears, a prairie girl vision in a modest blue sundress and with her hair tied back with a matching scarf. She reaches into her burlap messenger bag and offers you a choice between a ranch-flavored tuna pouch or a silvery pack of Pop-Tarts. “Strawberry,” she tells you.

“I’ll take the Pop-Tarts.”

Helaena gives them to you and then shakes a bottle of Advil. You’re so groggy it takes you a few seconds to figure out what she wants, then you obediently hold out a hand. Helaena lays two tablets in the center of your palm and moves on, soundlessly like a rabbit or a spider.

You wash the pills down with Snapple. As you nibble half-heartedly on a Pop-Tart—trying not to look at Aemond, multicolored sprinkles falling down onto the carpet—your eyes drift to the tattoo on the underside of Aegon’s forearm. It’s not over ‘til you’re underground. You’ve spotted it before. Only now do you remember where you recognize the lyric from. “Is that Green Day?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says, enthused that you noticed. “Letterbomb.”

“I love that whole album.”

“Me too. I could sing it front to back if you asked me to.”

“I’m not asking.”

Aegon cackles and resumes his Uno game with Rio. Baela is wearing denim shorts and a crop top, slathering her belly with Palmer’s cocoa butter from Walmart as she chats with Rhaena and eats Teddy Grahams. Daeron is waxing the string of his compound bow. Jace is gnawing on a Twizzler as he scrutinizes Aegon’s map, annotated with Xs and circles and arrows in sparkling gel pen green.

“I’m going to be a thousand years old by the time we get there,” Jace mutters.

Aegon hits the table with his fist. The discard pile collapses and cascades, an avalanche of Uno cards. Rio, undisturbed, continues contemplating his next move. “You know what, Jace? The cities are full of zombies, the interstates are blocked by fifty-car pileups, if we bump into anyone else who’s still alive they’re just as likely to rob and murder us as want to be friends, and on top of all that I’m trying to do you the favor of preventing you from getting so irradiated you turn into Spider-Man. If you have a better route in mind, I’d love to hear it.”

“Spider-Man…? You’re such a dumbass, what are you talking about?!”

Luke says from where he stands by a window: “Aemond, someone’s outside.”

“What?” Aemond stares at him. “Zombies?”

“No. People.”

Aemond bolts to the doors, the rest of you close behind him. Rhaena turns off the CD player. You, Rio, and Aegon squeeze together to peer out of one of the windows. There are men—three of them, no, four, all appearing to be in their forties—passing by on the main road through town. They are armed with what are either AR-15s or M16s, you can’t tell which.

Rio whistles. “If you get shot by one of those, the exit wound will be the size of an orange.” Everyone looks at him. This was not an encouraging thing to say.

You elaborate: “Thirty-round magazines. Semiautomatic, assuming they’re AR-15s for civilian use. I guess they could have gotten ahold of M16s somehow. Those have a fully automatic setting.”

“So regardless, we’re out-gunned,” Jace says.

“If they know how to use them. Some men think guns are wall decorations, like deer heads or fish.”

Aegon recoils. “Fish?! What the fuck. I’m glad the colonies left.”

“Maybe they’ll keep walking,” Daeron says hopefully. One of the men stops and points at the bowling alley, saying something to his companions. They laugh and begin crossing the small parking lot. They are less than two minutes from the door. “Oh, great…”

“There’s an emergency exit in the back,” Baela says.

Aegon snorts. “Yeah, that we stacked about twenty boxes of bowling pins in front of to zombie-proof.”

“We won’t be able to get out before they hear us,” Aemond says. Then he abruptly orders: “Grab your guns, let’s go. Helaena, Baela, Rhaena, you’re staying here.” Aemond’s remaining eye—briefly, reluctantly—skates over you as Rio, Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Daeron scatter to obey him. “You too.”

“But I’m the best shot.”

“I don’t want them to know we have women with us.”

“I’m of more use to you outside.”

Aemond rips his Glock out of its holster, pointing it at the floor. His frustration is palpable, an electric shock, heat that refracts light rays until they become mirages on the horizon. “You’re going to stay here, and if a stranger comes through those doors you’re going to kill them. Okay?”

His urgency stuns you; his eye is blue-white summer storm lightning. “Okay.”

“Now get back.”

You soar to the nearest table, duck under it, reach for your Beretta M9 and double-check the clip, fully loaded. You click off the safety.

“Aemond, wait, let me go first,” Aegon is saying by the door. “I’m better at de-escalation, I’m less…uh…intimidating.”

“Less socially incompetent, you mean,” Jace quips.

“I’ll lead,” Aemond insists. “Aegon can talk. Rio, you’re up front with me.”

Rio pumps his Remington 12 gauge. “I’d be delighted.”

Jace is amused. “I’ve been demoted, huh?”

“He’s bigger,” Aemond replies simply, then opens the door and vanishes through a blinding curtain of daylight. The others follow closely; Daeron, the last one out—his compound bow in hand, the strap of his Marlin .22 slung over his shoulder—shuts the door behind him.

Very faintly, you can hear Aegon: “Hey, guys! What’s happening? How’s the apocalypse treating you…?”

Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are under the table with you. They deserve to have options. You tell them: “If you want to go hide behind the lanes or try to get out the back door, now’s your chance.”

Helaena shakes her head, clutching your t-shirt: black, Star Wars, pawed off a shelf at the Walmart. “I want to stay with you.”

“Same,” Baela says determinedly, gripping her Ruger. She barely knows how to use it, but she’ll try. Rhaena is shaking, her eyes filling up her face, small fragile bones like a bird’s.

You can’t hear voices from outside anymore, but there are no gunshots either. You keep your M9 aimed at the doors, your breathing slow and deep, your heart rate low. Your hands are steady. Your eyes hunt for the slightest movement, for the momentary shadow of someone passing by a window. Against your will, your thoughts wander to Aemond. I hope Aegon is on his left side. Aemond can’t see there.

“Rhaena, get your gun out,” Baela says sharply. “Come on. Turn the safety off. What if you were alone right now? What if we weren’t here to protect you?”

Rhaena nods, fumbling to free her revolver from its holster. “I’m sorry…I’m trying…”

Now there is a stranger’s voice, gruff and deep. He must be just beyond the door, the farthest one to the right. There is a creak of hinges, a sliver of sunlight. “That’s just too damn bad, fellas. You got a nice little hideout here, and you’re gonna have to share it—”

The door opens. Two unfamiliar faces, too shellshocked to raise their rifles in time. You close an eye, line up your sights, fire twice, and that’s all it takes: one headshot, one in the throat, blood like a fountain, spurting scarlet ruin, thuds against the carpet strewn with neon stars, gurgling and spasms as their brains send out those final electrical impulses: danger, catastrophe, apocalypse. Rhaena is screaming. Helaena is covering her ears with both hands.

You run to the doorway; there are more booms of gunfire out in the parking lot. You cross into the late-morning light to see the other two men on the pavement: one with an arrow through the eye, the other with a gaping, hemorrhaging hole where his heart once was. Rio is admiring his work, holding his shotgun aloft. He scoops a handful of Cheddar Whales out of his shorts pocket and shovels them into his mouth.

“Goddamn, I love Remington Arms Company.”

“Oh, that was awesome,” Aegon says, wan and panting, hands on his waist. “Yeah, that was…that was…” He bends over and vomits Snapple and Cool Ranch Doritos onto the asphalt.

“Everyone okay in there?” Rio asks you.

“Yeah.” Behind you, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are stepping through the doorway. Your thoughts are whirling sickly: I killed someone. I killed someone. “They wouldn’t leave?”

“We told them the bowling alley was ours,” Aemond says, not looking at you. “We asked them very politely to keep moving. They chose to try to intimidate us into letting them stay. They weren’t good people, and these are the consequences.”

You click on the safety and re-holster your M9. You’re wearing Rio’s on your other hip. They seem to weigh so much more than they did ten minutes ago. I’m not supposed to be a killer. I’m a builder.

“Aegon, are you okay?” Daeron asks, a palm on his brother’s back.

Aegon retches again. “Shut up. You can’t even buy fireworks.”

“Zombies.” Luke is peering through his binoculars. “Not many, just two. Way up the road.”

“There will be more.” Baela’s cradling her belly; you don’t even think she’s aware of it. “They heard the gunshots, the sound carries for miles.”

“We’re leaving,” Aemond says. “Right now. Everyone get your things.”

As backpacks are hastily zipped and Daeron and Aegon stand guard in the parking lot, you kneel down beside the men you murdered and check their rifles. They are M16s, either stolen or illegally purchased: there’s a little switch by the trigger to choose between semi-automatic or the so-called machine gun mode.

“They barely had any bullets left,” you tell Rio. Just like us when we were trapped on that transmission tower.

“Yeah, same story for the other two guys. Four bullets in one magazine, a half dozen in the other. But it only takes once. We don’t have any ammo that will work with M16s, do we?”

“No, we definitely don’t.”

“Fantastic. Well, we’ll throw them in a Walmart cart and take them with us just in case.”

You’re staring down at the man you shot through the head. His eternal resting place is a puddle of blood and brains in a bowling alley in rural Ohio; surely no one deserves that. “He was a real person,” you say, dazed. “Not a zombie. Just a person.”

“Hey.” Rio grabs your shoulders and spins you towards him. From where he is helping Luke gather up the remaining food, Aemond’s head snaps up to watch. “You hurt him before he could hurt us. You did the right thing.”

“Sure.”

“I killed a dude too. I blew his heart right out of his chest. You think I’m going to hell for that?”

“No,” you admit, smiling. “And if you’d be there with me, I guess I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Rio grins, wide and toothy. “Well alright then. Let’s finish packing.”

The ten of you depart from Shenandoah, Ohio heading northwest on Route 603 just like Aegon marked on his map, Jace chauffeuring Baela in one shopping cart, Rio pushing another loaded high with food and M16s.

“It looks like rain,” Helaena says.

Everyone else peers up into a clear, cerulean sky, wondering what she means.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re a few miles north of Shiloh when the storm rolls in, cold rain and furious wind, daylight that vanishes behind dark churning thunderheads, jagged scars of lightning in an opaque sky. The road is only two lanes, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and ravaged crops and untilled earth; it would look like the patchwork of a quilt if you were gazing down from an airplane, but of course the FAA grounded all flights over a month ago when the world went mad: Revelations, Ragnarök, the fabric of the universe unweaving as death burned through families, cities, nations like a fever, like plague.

“Maybe we should cut across one of these fields,” Jace says, pointing. He is soaked with rain; it drips from his curls, runs into his eyes. Baela is in her cart again; each time she tries to get out and walk, she’s gasping and can’t keep up within half an hour. You’ve all taken turns pushing her, much to Baela’s dismay. She’d be humiliated if she wasn’t too exhausted to keep her eyes open.

“Here, let me do it,” you offer, and Jace gratefully relinquishes the cart. Baela gives you a frail wave of appreciation.

“We stay on the road,” Aemond insists, flinching as rain pelts his scarred face. “Farmhouses have driveways and mailboxes, we’ll pass one eventually. If we lose the road, we might not be able to find it again. We’ll end up wandering around in circles in the woods.”

“Just like the Blair Witch Project,” Aegon says glumly, his Sperry Bahama sneakers audibly soggy.

“There!” Luke announces, spotting something with his binoculars. “Up ahead on the left. Past the bridge.”

You can’t see what Luke does until there is an especially brilliant flash of lightning: a farmhouse, old but seemingly not derelict, and with a number of accompanying buildings, guest houses and stables and barns and towering silos.

“Home sweet home!” Rio says. “And I don’t care if I have to kill a hundred of those undead bastards to get in, it’s mine.”

“Well, hopefully not a hundred,” you reply, in better spirits now that a sanctuary has been found. Aemond keeps glancing back at you as you push Baela’s cart. If he wants to say something, he’s doing a good job of resisting the temptation. “We don’t have that much ammo.”

There is a concrete bridge over a river, probably unremarkable and only five or ten feet deep normally but now torrential with rain. Water rushes by beneath, a muddy incline on each side as the earth rises back up to meet the road. A reflective green sign proclaims that you are only two miles from Plymouth, which Aegon plans to skirt along the edges of. It’s a decent-sized town; he thinks you might be able to find a car to steal there, something with gas in the tank and keys on a hook just inside the house.

“I call the master bedroom,” Jace says craftily, rubbing his palms together. You’re near the center of the bridge now, another ten yards to go. “Nice big bed, warm cozy blankets, and I was up for half of last night keeping watch so tonight I am off duty, I am a free man, it’s going to just be me and my girl and eight glorious uninterrupted hours of sleep—”

Rhaena shrieks, and then you hear it over the noise of the storm, pounding rain and rumbling thunder: moans, growls, hisses like snakes. Not one zombie. A lot more than one. They’re crawling up from under the bridge, from the filthy quagmire at both ends. There was a hoard of them waiting, aimless, dormant, almost hibernating. But now they are awake. They are grasping for you with bony, dirt-covered claws. They are snapping with jaws that leak blood and pus and bile as their organs curdle to a putrid soup.

“Get off the bridge!” Aemond is shouting. He has his Glock in his right hand, a baseball bat in his left. He’ll shoot until he’s out of bullets, and then, and then…

Rio helps you get Baela out of the cart, then opens fire. His Remington doesn’t just pierce skulls, it vaporizes them. When he’s out of shells—there are more in his backpack, but no time to reload—he yanks the M16s out of the other Walmart cart and empties each of them, mowing down zombies as the rest of you scramble across the bridge. All around you are explosions of gunshots, thunder, lightning, zombie skulls crushed by bullets and blunt force trauma. Baela is firing her Ruger as you half-drag her, one arm hooked beneath hers and around her back. When the last M16 is empty, Rio starts clubbing zombies with the butt of it. You’ve all reached the north side of the bridge, except…

“Fuck off, you freaks!” Jace is screaming. They’ve backed him up against the guardrail, a swarm of ten or more. His Remington shotgun is out of ammo; he’s swinging it wildly, but he doesn’t even have enough room to maneuver. There are still more zombies emerging from under the bridge. You can hear them snarling and groaning. You swipe an M9 off your belt and put a bullet in the brain of a zombie as its fingers close around your ankle, then you start picking off the ones mobbing Jace. You aren’t fast enough. As they lean in to bite him, teeth gnashing at the delicious throbbing heat of his jugular, Jace throws himself over the barrier and into the surging water below.

“No!” Baela cries. She careens off the road and into the field, running parallel to the river as swiftly as she can. You are helping her, steadying her, firing at any zombies you have a clear line of sight on. The others are here too: slipping in the muck of the flooding earth, shouting for Jace. He surfaces through the frothing current, flails pitifully, disappears beneath the water again. You glimpse a white hand, a shadow of his dark hair, a kicking shoe. There are more zombies on the opposite side of the river, trailing after Jace, lurching and slobbering viscous, gory saliva. They cannot swim, but they can follow him until he washes ashore.

Jace bursts up through the waves, gasping. “Help! Aemond…Aemond, for the love of God, help me…” He blubbers and then is dragged under. Aemond and Luke are continuing frantically after him. Baela is hysterical, sobbing, trembling with adrenaline. Aegon is yowling as he swings at zombies with his bloodied golf club. Helaena is darting around almost invisibly, always cowering behind Daeron or Aegon or Rio.

You glance north towards the farmhouse, growing not closer but farther away. We can’t leave shelter. We can’t leave the road. You lock eyes with Rio. He’s thinking the same thing.

“Aemond, we have to go,” Rio says, but in the midst of the rain and the turmoil it barely registers.

“Jace, we’re coming to get you!” Aemond swears. The ground is increasingly sodden, deep, difficult to trudge through. Jace resurfaces, coughing and sputtering.

“Jace!” Aegon wails. He caves in the skull of a zombie who was once a registered nurse as Helaena crouches behind him. “Jace, I’m sorry! I’m gonna miss you, man!”

Jace splashes in the rising river, his arms flailing helplessly. He is being swept away far faster than any of you can move on foot. “Aegon, you dumb bitch!” Jace manages, then slips beneath the water and doesn’t reappear.

“Where is he?!” Baela is saying. “Aemond, where…?”

You are trying to soothe her, to bring her back to reality. She was always so pragmatic before; you have to wake her up. “Baela, listen, we can’t stay here, he would want you and the baby to be safe—”

“Aemond! Aemond, we have to go!” Rio catches him, wrenches him around, roars into his face as driving rain pummels them both: “We have to go, or we’re going to die here too!”

It hits Aemond all at once; he understands, horror and agony in his sole blue eye. “We have to go,” he agrees. And then louder, to everyone: “Get to the farmhouse!”

Baela collapses into the mud, howling, tears flooding down her face. “No, he’s still alive, he’s still alive, we can’t leave him!”

You and Rhaena are trying to haul Baela to her feet. Now Aemond is here, pulling you away from her—his fingers tight and urgent around your wrist—as he and Luke take your place. “Go,” he commands. “You run. Don’t wait for us. Rio?”

“I got her,” Rio replies, grabbing your free hand with an iron grip. Gales of wind rip at you; every millimeter of your skin is soaked with rain. As you flee across the fields towards the farmhouse, dozens of zombies pursue you. More are still staggering along the banks of the river, swept up in the hoards chasing Jace and the promise of his waterlogged corpse when it reaches its final destination. Daeron has run out of arrows and is shooting with his .22, which is very much not his preference. Aegon trips, getting covered in mud as he rolls, and Rio stops to help him. While he is distracted, you look back at Aemond. He, Luke, and Baela are moving quickly, but not quickly enough. A drove of zombies is closing in on them. You have a spare few seconds at last. You yank your backpack off, grab a box of ammo inside, and reload your M9.

“Chips?!” Rio calls over his shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

He knows you well enough to listen. The world goes quiet as your finger settles on the trigger. There’s a rhythm one slips into, an impassionate lethal efficiency. It’s easier to keep going than to stop and have to find it again. You fire over and over, dropping eight zombies. You sheath your M9 and whip Rio’s out of your other holster, the sights finding grotesque decaying faces illuminated by lightning. You pull the trigger: blood, bones, brains, corpses jerking and convulsing as they fall harmlessly to the mud. Aemond is here; when did he get here?

“I told you to run!” he’s shouting through the storm, furious. He’s shoving you towards the farmhouse. You resist him.

“Let me kill as many as I can—”

“Go! Now!” Aemond orders over the clashing thunder, and then sprints with you all the way to the front porch to make sure you listen. Everyone else is already there. Helaena has fetched a spare key from under the doormat and is turning it in the lock.

Daeron observes her anxiously. “We don’t know if it’s safe in there, Helaena.”

“Not in,” she says, insistent. “Through.” Through this building, and maybe through the next one too. The average zombie is not terribly clever. If they lose sight of you, without the benefit of the momentum of a hoard they are lost. Helaena opens the door. The living rush inside, and she locks it behind you. As you are bursting out the back door, you can hear zombies pounding their rotting palms against the front one. You soar through a stable full of dead horses and donkeys, leaving the doors open; this should keep the zombies distracted if they make it this far. Then you race to the farthest guest house. Luke, swiveling with his binoculars, spies no zombies approaching as you steal inside. There is no spare key this time; Rio punches out a first-floor window for you to climb through. Once everyone is inside, he and Aegon move a bookshelf to cover the opening.

You all stand in the living room, gasping and shivering, dripping rain down onto the rug and the hardwood floor. The air is dusty but clean of any trace of vile, swampy decay. Outside, thunder booms and lightning flashes bright enough to illuminate the lightless house. The sky is so dark it might as well be nightfall. Baela sinks to her knees, clamping both hands over her mouth so she won’t sob loudly enough for a zombie to hear. Rhaena and Luke are beside her, both weeping quiet rivulets of tears, trying to comfort her in whispers. Helaena is rummaging around searching for candles; she has already taken a lighter out of her soaked burlap messenger bag.

“Daeron, bro, come over here,” Aegon chokes out. He embraces Daeron, clutches him tightly and desperately, doesn’t let go. Rio is reloading his Remington 12 gauge.

Jace is dead. Jace is dead.

Aemond says to you, his voice low but seething: “What the fuck was that?”

You blink the raindrops out of your eyes as you stare at him, bewildered. “You needed help.”

“I told you to run.”

“I’m an asset, I have skills that can keep you alive, why am I here if I’m not going to be useful—?”

“You’re not in the fucking Navy anymore!” he hisses. “When I tell you to run, you run, you don’t stop, you don’t look back, because I can’t worry about you and take care of everyone else.”

“Nobody asked you to worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“Aemond,” Aegon pleads, waving him over. Aegon’s plump sunburned cheeks are glistening with rain and tears. “Man, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters now. Please come here.”

“I’m going to clear the house,” Aemond says instead.

Rio raises an eyebrow at you—this is one fucked up guy, Chips—and then pumps his shotgun. “Me too.” He sweeps with Aemond through the main floor and then vanishes up the staircase.

Helaena is lightning candles she found in the kitchen and arranging them around the living room. Daeron starts gathering food from the pantry. Rhaena and Baela are murmuring to each other softly, mournfully. It doesn’t feel like something you should intrude on. Luke is peeking out of a window with his binoculars, vigilant for threats. Aegon sniffles, wanders over to you with large, sad, shimmering eyes, pats your shoulder awkwardly.

“Hey, Chocolate Chip. You doing okay?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Yeah. Me either.” Then he flops down on the hideous burnt orange couch and lies there motionless until Daeron brings him a can of Dr. Pepper. Aegon pops the tab, slurps up foam, and then begins singing to himself very quietly, a song so old you can remember your grandfather saying it was one of his favorites as a boy: A Tombstone Every Mile.

When Rio comes back downstairs—heavy footsteps, he can’t help that—you meet him at the bottom of the steps. “The house is good,” Rio says. “And Aemond’s in the big bedroom on the right if you’d like to go up there and talk to him.”

“I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”

“I could not disagree more,�� Rio says with a miserable, exhausted smile. Then he goes to the couch to check on Aegon.

You pick up one of the flickering candles, white and scentless, and ascend the staircase. You find Aemond in the master bedroom, the same accommodations that Jace laid claim to when he was still alive. He is sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the wall, at nothing. Tentatively, you sit down beside him, placing the candle on the nightstand.

“Aemond…what happened to Jace…it wasn’t your fault.”

“Criston said I was in charge, that’s the very last thing he told me. They might be the last words I ever hear from him, and I just…” His voice breaks; he wipes the rain and tears from his face with open palms. “I really wanted to get everyone home.”

“I’m so sorry about what I said at the bowling alley,” you confess, like it’s a dire secret. “I don’t want to fight with you, Aemond, I…I want to help you. I can see what you’ve done for everyone here, me and Rio included, and I believe in you. I want to be a part of this.”

He nods, an acceptance of peace, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Can we start over? I’ll never bring it up again, okay? I wasn’t trying to guilt you or upset you or anything. I should have just dropped it. I overreacted. And I understand why being with someone like me maybe wouldn’t be…super appealing.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what’s it about?”

Aemond wrings his hands, shakes his head, at last turns to you, golden candlelight reflected in his eye, his scar cloaked in shadows. His words are hushed, clandestine, soft powerless surrender. “I’m already so afraid of losing you.”

He cares, he hopes, he wants me too? “I’m here right now, Aemond. I don’t know what else I can say. I’d promise you more if I could.”

He reaches out to touch you, to ghost his thumb across your cheekbone, wet with rain. Then he kisses you, so gently you cannot help but imagine the wispy borders of calm white summer clouds, the rustle of leaves as wind blows down the Appalachian Mountains. You don’t have to ask him what he’s thinking, what it feels like. You can read it in the startled, firelit wonder on his face.

You taste like the beginning of something, here at the end of the world.

[beesorcery]

hello here is 3.29-3.31! absolutely devastating for my bingo

hello it's part 3 of 3 for my cool fun graphic design adventure!! part 1 and part 2 got too long. to recap i am recreating this t-shirt design but with the magic 8 ball songs instead of city names:

here is the current draft, updated through 3/27 (pittsburgh) (!!!!)

[pedrospookie]

hello, my dearest 💛

with this ask I challenge you to write a ficlet (or anything bigger if you want) inspired by this screenshot:

may the writing muses be with you,

kissing you on your forehead (if you allow it not then just waving from the distance!)

Howdy howdy!

Thank you for sending in this ask 🤭 I love me some Jack Daniels— my favourite cowboy! I was inspired by Elton John this week and caught myself listening to I guess that’s why they call it the blues while writing this. I’ll be curious to know if you can spot the songs influence! This is my first crack at writing in over half a decade, so I feel a little rusty… but i think it’s cute!

I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues — Jack Daniels x f!reader (fluff/angst)

wc: 2.1k | mild swearing, intimacy is hinted at, nothing wild for my first crack back

A smoky, twangy voice and the strum of a guitar murmurs through Jack’s bronco, filling the comfortable silence between you. His thick hand wrapped delicately around your thigh, claiming what is his as you parade through the open roads, the sweet smell of honeysuckle filling your lungs with every gust of the evening breeze. The bluebells were in full bloom this time of year, glowing almost a pale shade of purple under the lazy setting sun. These quiet moments with Jack had grown to be some of your most cherished moments together, life often getting in the way of the simple life you shared.

You knew Jack as the wholesome country boy from down the way, a man who straps on his boots and Stetson every morning, who appreciates the taste of an ice cold sweet tea on a scorching hot day and who could tame a horse quicker than a cat on a hot tin roof. The soft, kind boy with the crooked smile and whiskey coloured eyes, who wants to do things right, the boy who would go to the end of the world and back for you. To you, he was just Jack— a simple boy from Kentucky, not Agent Whiskey, not an international spy or trained assassin, just a boy who fell in love with a girl.

Yet, somehow your quiet, simple life together was being interrupted once again. In less than 20 hours, with a kiss and a pinky promise to comeback to his sweet girl, he would be off.

Jack would disappear and Agent Whiskey would be somewhere halfway across the world, undisclosed and unreachable. It made Jack sick to leave you. He knew the toll it took on you and your relationship. It broke his heart to go, every time he stepped out that door he cursed himself for it. He knew how his career haunted you, yet you never complained. You only had one simple ask, that he had to come home. Jack felt resentful towards the countdown running in his mind, but he couldn’t think about that right now. He had to cherish this time with you, his girl. His sun, moon and stars. Together under the canopy of the setting sun, nestled on the leather seats of his Bronco, Jack was desperate to get you home, where the sleepy ranch awaits, and tangle himself into you.

“Darlin’, can you promise me one thing?” Jack’s rough voice breaks through the silence, pulling your attention to him.

“What’s that, dear?” You smile, placing your hand on top of his, both resting them on your thigh. Jack lowers his sunglasses with his free hand, looking at you sincerely. The look in his eye sent butterflies bursting through your tummy, it was so charming and sincere. Your sweet boy.

“That when I’m back, you’ll take the day off so we can spend the mornin’ together again? Like that one time?” His chocolatey, brown eyes beg, voice so soft that it is nearly a whisper. The sound of his request tugging on your heart strings. How could you deny him that?

That morning had been perfect.

After several long, agonizing, worrisome weeks apart, Jack had finally made his return, embracing you the moment he entered the door and refusing to let go until the next morning.

You woke in a messy tangle of limbs and bedsheets, the sun shining through and glittering it’s rays across Jack’s soft brown hair that was sticking up every which way, coaxing a small laugh from your lips. Your soft laughter stirred the cowboy awake, his grip on your increasing until he had you nestled under him, burying you with affection. I have a lot of catching up to do, he murmured gently along your neck, pressing open mouth kisses down your pulse points. Once he had had his fill, he was overcome with hunger. I’m a lucky man, he chuckled, getting my dessert before breakfast, the words tumbled from his plush lips as he flipped eggs in a fry pan. The record player was crooning along to an old Hank Williams album as you watched your darling cowboy make his way across the kitchen, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder as he focused on making the perfect sunny side up egg for his sunshine. He was just an old sweet soul taking care of his girl, pure domestic bliss. A sigh found it’s way across your lips as you admired the man in front of you. It felt so right to have him back, to have him home with you. Your sigh caught his attention, a smug look crossing his face as he approaches you at the kitchen table, spatula still in hand. Can I have this dance? He asked in a tone as sweet as sugar, quirking an eyebrow in anticipation. Jack would give anything or find any excuse to have you in his arms. How could he not? You looked extra beautiful, seated at his table, wearing his shirt and the warm morning sun cascading over you, making you glow. Maybe she was an angel after all, he thought to himself as he pulled you into his chest, his large hand pressing into your lower back, beginning to sway along to Hank’s melancholic voice. Jack had no idea how he managed to snag a woman like you, but he counted his lucky stars for it. He would lasso the moon for you, if you asked. Jack inhaled deeply, catching the sweet scent of your shampoo and the lingering remnants of your perfume. It was good to be home.

Your moment of bliss was rudely interrupted by the blaring sound of the fire alarm, smoke starting to waft through the kitchen, stirring a panic between the two of you. Fuck! The eggs! Jack yelped, reaching for the window above the sink and promptly flinging the burnt scraps from the fry pan out the window.

“I’m pretty sure I still owe you a dance.” Jack chuckles, thinking back to that morning, the sound of your laugh tugging on his heart strings. It was hard to keep his eyes on the road, the short peeks weren’t enough for Jack. He wanted to see the way you crinkle your nose when you giggle like that.

“And a new fry pan.” You shoot back with a cheeky grin. Jack could only shake his head at you before pressing a kiss to the back of your hand, steadying his gaze on the road ahead. I’ll get you something even better than a fry pan, Jack smirks to himself as he admires your small hand in his, thinking about the twinkling secret tucked at the back of his night stand.

“And a new fry pan.” He rolls his eyes playfully, “But I will be cashin’ in on that dance once I’m home, gorgeous. I’m gonna wine ‘n dine ya ‘til the cows come home.”

“We’ll see about that, cowboy. Do you remember the last time you promised to take me out to the city?” You snicker, watching his mouth fly open and his moustache framing his surprise, completely aghast.

It was a day hotter than hell itself.

The tall grass moped, praying for a break from the beating sun, crunching under each foot step as Jack led you towards the barn. One last chore, he had promised with a wink, needing to put out some extra water for his horses before taking you into town.

The hose groaned awake as Jack twisted the squeaky spout, the sound of flowing water starting to rush through the rubber. Anticipating a splash, you held out the rusted bucket waiting for water to hit. However, your pail remained as dry as the desert. A look of confusion crossed your face, lacing your brows together, matching the similar look on Jack’s face, until he spots the reason for this drought. His rough, calloused hands pick the old hose up and twist it, relieving the rubber of the kink in its form and releasing the pent up water from within it, dousing you in the process. The shot of cold water shocked your system, spraying your face and chest, the bucket in your hands doing a piss poor job of catching any of it. Jack was beside himself, eyes as wide as saucers, moustache twitching as he mutters apology after apology. Sugar, I am SO sorr—He is interrupted by a loud splash, water hitting him square in the chest, his white shirt sticking to his bronze chest as a roar erupts from you cutting the tension in the air. His worried eyes relax as he chuckles along with you. Oh, now you’re on, missy, he warns, picking the plastic hose back up and chasing you through the old barn.

“Well darlin’, I don’t remember you complaining about that,” Jack murmurs smugly, “something ‘bout how I’d win a wet t-shirt contest?” He flashes you an award winning smile, his moustache curling ever so slightly at the corner of his mouth, this gorgeous smile sparking a warmth across your face and chest.

“Alright, alright. Easy does it, cowboy.” You chuckle, refusing to give Jack the satisfaction of knowing that he’s right. You were going to miss his playful banter and southern charm. The weeks away were always hard, even when you tried to fill them with hobbies and your friends.

“You know I’d keep you under the covers all day if I could, sugar.” Jack croons with a twinkle in his eye, placing a delicate kiss to each of your fingers before reaching the back of your hand. He could feel the mood shift, dancing away from lighthearted teasing to something deeper. He caught the sad look in your eye, feeling guilt wash over him. He looked back at the road ahead of him once more, before turning back to look at you.

“More than just the covers, pretty girl, I need you every day.”

He could feel it in his heart of hearts, that burning desire to be home, that it was time for him to hang up his lasso. Jack was ready to be wholeheartedly present with you, that it was time that could be better spent with you. Making memories together, building your life together, making babies together. His life as Agent Whiskey was one that had come and passed, exciting and cathartic at first, but it had sucked his soul dry. He was tired — exhausted — and ready to be home, to spend his days on his quiet farm, dedicating every waking moment to you. Jack would get that dance, and at then end of the night he would share that twinkling secret with you in hopes that you will say yes. This was promise to you; that you would finally start living the life that he promised to give you.

His grip on your thigh tightens, giving you a little love squeeze bringing you both back into the present. The sun now peeking lower on the horizon.

“I’m going to miss you.” You murmur, tears slowly filling your eyes as you fight the growing lump in your throat. You keep your eyes on the road, counting the stop signs to distract yourself. 3 more until you’re home.

The sound of your breaking voice tugged on Jack’s heart strings. It killed him to see you this way, to know that it was because of him, that he caused this pain and sadness.

“I know, darlin’. I’ll be missin’ you every moment of every day.” He smiles weakly, placing a soft kiss against the back of your hand, refusing to let it go. “It won’t be long before I’m home, it won’t be forever. There’s never a moment where I ain’t thinkin’ of you, of your beautiful eyes, that gorgeous smile…” his voice drifts off for a moment, until he sighs. “I’ll be countin’ down the hours til I’m back here with you, baby.”

While he’s putting on a brave face, his eyes give way to every emotion he is feeling, a mistiness creeping across those big brown puppy dog eyes.

“Please come back home to me, Jack,” You beg, squeezing his hand to emphasize how serious you were.

“I always do, baby. Pinky promise.”

tag list: @josephquinnswhore @iamasaddie

[thewonderofelvis]

70 years ago today, on July 5, 1954, Elvis recorded That's All Right at Sun Studio in Memphis, Tennessee. Elvis sings and plays acoustic rhythm guitar on his rendition of Arthur Crudup's song, accompanied by Scotty Moore on electric lead guitar and Bill Black on bass.

That's All Right was released as Elvis's first single on July 19, 1954, with Blue Moon of Kentucky on the B-side. It marked the early days of his career as an artist that would go on to change music forever.

[dopescissorscashwagon]

Reliving a historic moment in music history! On July 30, 1954, a young Elvis Presley took the stage at Overton Park Shell in Memphis for his first paid professional concert.

With his iconic performances of "That's All Right" and "Blue Moon of Kentucky," he stole the show and captured the hearts of many. What began as nervous leg-shaking turned into a legendary career that changed music forever!

[leopardandstuds]

💘 Elvis's first public concert took place on July 30, 1954, at the Overton Park Shell in Memphis, Tennessee. 💘

This event is often considered a pivotal moment in music history. Elvis was the opening act for country singer Slim Whitman. They even spelled his name wrong on the flyer - if you look it up, it says "Ellis Presley" 😭😂

During this concert, Elvis performed songs like “That’s All Right, Mama” and “Blue Moon of Kentucky,” which showcased his unique blend of music. His energetic performance and distinctive style left a lasting impression on the audience, marking the beginning of his rise to fame. He performed there a few times in the 50s.

Today, you can visit the Overton Park Shell and stand on the same stage Elvis once did! It's free to visit but you can also buy tickets for an official tour! Happy Elvis adventure-ing!

💘⚡💕

#memphis #elvis #overton #overtonparkshell #elvis #memphis #cute #presley