#does looking at these books that imbue every page with the idea that it is empathy and kindness that causes change literally bring me to

[mostlikelyshutup]

watched a video essay about the hunger games and am now struck by the power of human empathy and kindness

[attentive-dragon]

The use of magic

Fantasy stories containing magic don’t have to be explicit in how the magic in their settings works. Sometimes they are explicit: for example, in the Dresden Files, Harry’s powers are often used to deal with a challenge that has appeared in the story. Harry isn’t a god, however, and he can’t solve every problem that arises by just snapping his fingers. The limitations of his power, and the kinds of problems it can (and cannot) solve have important implications for where the plot goes, so such things are carefully explained to the reader.

In the opposite direction, we can look at Tolkien. Gandalf’s magic is never fully defined (in terms of what it can and cannot do.) He’s an angel in human form, and his power is derived from god itself, and could accomplish quite a lot. His only real limitations are rules placed upon him by his own superiors in the angelic hierarchy, but even the renegade Sauruman (who has abandoned those rules) cannot simply snap his fingers to take over the world. There are limits, though Tolkien never defines those limits in terms of “scientific” laws or rules. They’re limited by what the plot requires. If Gandalf solving the current problem with magic would ruin the tension in the current scene, then his magic is not appropriate in that case. If the problem is a minor one, and Gandalf can solve it as part of the scene without ruining the tension or cheapening the emotion/theme/message being expressed, then he can help. But we never get into metaphysical reasons as to WHY Gandalf’s magic is not appropriate in a particular situation. The intricacies of how angelic magic manifests in the mortal world isn’t the point of Lord of the Rings, and so it’s barely touched on because it’s not vital to the story being told.  However, I can guarantee you that Tolkien had ideas about it, probably wrote notes about it, and almost certainly had it very well-defined in his head.

Even when magic is not well-defined on the page, it needs to be understood by the author. The author should be able to answer questions as to what magic can (or cannot) do. What is its source? Who can wield it? What are its dangers, limitations, advantages? More importantly: how does its existence shape the larger world in ways differently from our own?

I have developed a pretty thorough understanding of how magic works in Carthia, the fantasy world I have created. I was not very explicit in how magic works in the first novel, “The Yellow Earring,” because that’s not really the point of the story, though I did give some explanation in the first chapter, and some more later in the story. However, as the series progresses, I feel like I’m going to have to put some more detail in there. Many of the major characters of the later books are mages or students of the only real institution of magical learning, so it would be strange to never remark on what, exactly, it is that they are learning. If one of my mages can’t just wave a hand to wipe out the advancing enemy army, I need to explain why. I did get into some of that in the first book, but I feel like I could give a more thorough explanation.

Basically, magic is, like in Tolkien, the power of the gods expressed in the mortal realm. In the case of some of the other peoples (such as the Dragons) that power is channeled directly from their creator deity: when they do something “magical” it’s a prayer that has been answered by their goddess or god. In the case of humanity, however, their creator (Yuu) imbued them with magic as a part of their very essence. As a result, humans (well, some of them) have the ability to see the hidden world that gods can see, the energy of life all around them, and they can also reach out and manipulate it.

Theoretically, that means that humans could do anything the gods can do. Practically, this isn’t the case. There are two major issues at play:

First, doing something magically doesn’t remove the cost in terms of energy. A good example is lifting a heavy box. If I pick up a heavy box and move it across a room, a physicist could explain this in terms of forces applied, and a biologist could point out the costs in terms of caloric energy spent and even the effect on my muscles. However we look at it, I’m paying a “cost” in terms of energy that’s being used to move the box.  Now, if I instead wanted to use magic to lift that same box, I might be sparing my muscles any strain, but overcoming gravity still requires energy, and that energy still has to come from somewhere. I could “borrow” the energy from the grass at my feet (killing the grass) or from some other source (perhaps I ate some oranges beforehand, and now I can use some of that energy within my own body) but I have to get that energy from somewhere. I can’t just create energy from nothing. Magic is, ultimately, merely taking energy, changing it into something useful, and then using it. That’s easy enough for something small like moving a box, or creating some sparks to light a campfire. But what about moving an entire mountain? Well, a physicist might be able to come up with an exact calculation as to how much force is required, but I guarantee you that there aren’t enough oranges in the world to allow one mage to accomplish that. There are lots of things that magic can do, even far beyond the limitations of human physical ability, but there are also limits in terms of the energy cost.

The second issue is something more mental. In order to perform magic, the mage has to be able to conceptualize what they want in detail and understand what it is they are trying to do. So, say you have magic. Ok then: move that box.

What’s that? You can’t? Ah, see, you’ve never really sat and thought about gravity. You’ve never considered how objects move under its influence. You’ve never studied what we’d call physics on Earth. You don’t really understand what is happening (in terms of forces) when someone lifts a box, carries it across a room, and carefully sets it down. You need to understand all of that if you plan to use magic to move that same box.

Also, you’ve never taken the time to meditate, to clear your mind. You haven’t practiced blocking out distractions in case some enemy (or just an annoying insect) comes along and distracts your focus. It’s not enough to understand. You have to focus on that understanding, on the energy you have to move, on the task you need to perform, the outcome you are envisioning.  You have to remove everything else from your mind, and focus only on that understanding before you even begin to touch the energies required to make that understanding a reality. Without that study, and understanding, and practice, you are just as likely to send the box crashing against a far wall or rocketing up into the ceiling as you are to be able to carefully levitate it. Magic requires focus, and it requires understanding. I can’t just wave my hand and heal an arrow wound if I don’t understand the underlying physiology of the area that the arrow penetrated. I can’t repair an illness if I don’t understand the nature of the pathogen that has produced it. I can’t create a physical barrier from thin air unless I understand the nature of the elements in that air, how to arrange them, and how to turn them into something I need.

Surprisingly, the students at the University in Orb’s Rest spend very little time actually practicing magic. What they study is history, biology, alchemy, natural philosophy, medicine, cooking, all sorts of practical things so that they have a full understanding of how things work. A mage who has really excelled at medical studies, who has gained a very thorough understanding of the body’s workings, will make an excellent medic out in the field. A mage who has studied instead physical properties of matter, and chemical interactions will be able to change substances into other substances. A mage who has studied the intricacies of design: of clocks, and wagons, and houses will be able to manufacture complicated objects, seemingly from random junk. A mage who really understands how ingredients go together, how heat affects different types of foods, and how cooking really works will be able to create incredible meals seemingly out of nothing.  All mages are expected to attain at least a nominal understanding of all of the varied subjects taught at the institution, including the study of meditation and keeping a clear head, even under the most distracting conditions. Such a basic understanding and the ability to maintain control must be demonstrated before qualified examiners before any mage can be awarded her Brand. Ultimately, what separates a successful mage from a failed one is that ability to understand enough about a desired outcome to be able to conceptualize how to bring it about.

There aren’t magic words, rituals, or gestures required. 90% of magic is just that mental understanding, the conceptualization, the ability to imagine something, understand how that thing works, and understand how to do that with the energy at hand. (The other 10% is meditation and disciplined practice to develop the inner third-eye that all mages possess.) Ancient magical grimoires aren’t full of words to recite. They’re full of lectures on esoteric subjects meant to bring a better conceptual understanding to the reader. Magical tomes read like science text-books.  The most powerful mage doesn't possess some ancient magical artifact that has granted her incredible, forbidden unknown powers. The most powerful mage just has a head near to bursting full of detailed, intricate knowledge, years of practice, and a sack of oranges at her hip.

So, for example: in my first book when Achmethae and Tempest are using magic to knock arrows out of the sky, they’re just using a form of that aforementioned box levitation. They’re just using energy to reach out and smack the arrows aside. They understand gravity, and the force behind a bow-string, and how much force is required to turn aside an arrow. And they spent hours out on a practice field being shot at (with blunted arrows, of course!) to hone that skill and really gain an innate understanding of the forces and energies required.

When Achmy summons a physical wall to block arrows near the end of the first chapter, she’s not summoning something out of nothing. She’s just drawing together all of the water vapor from the air around her, arranging it in front of her, sucking away all of its heat energy, and basically using those same principles as before to levitate the thick sheet of ice she created. She understands the physical, and chemical, and thermal principles behind all of it because she spent years studying that and later practicing for days to make it work.  The first time she “created” a snowball out of thin-air on a winter’s day was a huge moment for her, and since then she’s learned how to do it on a larger scale. To her, summoning such a wall of ice is second nature now, so long as she has the energy to work with, but it only became so easy for her because of what she studied. That’s the magic she knows: the inborn ability to manipulate the energy of the universe around her combined with understanding gained from years and years of diligent study.

It’s one reason why one status symbol among established mages is a well-stocked library. It’s also why there’s so much borrowing and lending of books among the upper-class of Orb’s Rest. It’s quite common to offer a book to a house-guest, saying, in effect: “Here is something I have mastered. Allow me to share my vast knowledge with you.” It’s also a very very serious breach of social etiquette to fail to return any lent books in a timely manner. If you lose a book someone has lent to you? Well… good luck. Feuds have been fought over less.

[marshmallowprotection]

Calluna

Pairing: Saeran Choi/Reader

Fairytale AU.

Description:

The Prince has been bound to the castle walls, and he’s never been able to leave from it. The only place that he has to escape to are the books that he reads and the garden that he’s allowed to venture into every evening. But, what happens when he encounters someone that has eyes that know a world unlike his own?

Inspired by a drawing by @sensetenou​

Chapter Index

Chapter One: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Two: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Three: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Four: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Five: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Six: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Seven: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Eight: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Nine: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Ten: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Eleven: Here! | AO3

Chapter Eleven

Darkness.

All you knew was the darkness. There was no trace of light in the dungeon and nobody to hear you scream, and even if they did, they wouldn’t care. You had been used and tricked by Red Hood. He threw you under the carriage and let you take the fall for his crimes. 

How anyone believed him, you had no idea. He just pretended to be some sort of knight for justice at the queen’s side, and since Red Hood was only known by the mask, it had been far too easy to cast his blame onto someone else. You dug your nails into the palms of your hands. You knew that you could never trust that man. But, you never thought he would do something like this. 

You knew he would make good on his death threats, but this? 

A pitiful sob escaped your throat. It didn’t make any sense. How had he made a deal with the queen and what was their plan? You knew that the queen wasn’t innocent and that she had made the people suffer far too much over the years. Red Hood must have found something that she wanted, or maybe they both were after the same goal?

No matter how you wracked your brain for an answer, you could find nothing. 

“No… no… no…! This is a mistake!” 

You wouldn’t dare close your eyes for more than a minute. Every time that you did, your vision would become overwhelmed with the look of betrayal and hatred in Ray’s eyes. He looked at you like you had shattered his world and in many ways, you had. You had tried to protect him by lying and taking that crown but had you had to do that?

Could you have told him the threat against your life? Would he have believed you? Would you have been able to give up information on Red Hood to him? You weren’t sure. You had always wanted to take the brunt of the pain for yourself due to your pride, and you had been so caught up in trying to ensure that Ray lived—

That you never even considered that maybe there could have been another option. If Ray bore the crown, that would have protected you from the queen’s wrath. He could have done everything to stop Red Hood from controlling you or forcing you to take the knife by the hand. Yet, you knew that no amount of pretending things could be different would fix it. 

The second the crown was on his head, something changed in his eyes. He became venomous and very spiteful, his gentle eyes gazing at you with malice. 

It was like you didn’t even know him. You had never seen that look in his eyes, nor did you think that Ray would be capable of such anger and venom. Then again, you had broken his trust and stomped on it for all he knew so he had every right to be upset with you. However, the way that he looked at you without even caring what your punishment would be may your blood curdled. 

Was this all that you would ever know? Would you die without showing Ray the sea? Would you die knowing that you had been played for a fool?? Would you die with a stain on your past that would forever line the pages of people’s memory? Would you become the demon in a bedtime story to make a child behave?

You knew that you were going to die, that was almost a given with the bounty on Red Hood’s head all these years. But, you could only pray now that it was a swift death without pain. Maybe in your next life, you would be able to be happy with Ray and show him the world that made him look so happy to learn about, but it seemed as though cruel fate would keep you apart. 

His anguished eyes would forever haunt you. 

Your cries died down after some time, your heart accepting that no one was going to come to your rescue to break you free. They were all scared of Red Hood, and what he said would happen would be the very thing to happen. You didn’t know his end plan but you did know that he was going to hurt everyone to get what he wanted. 

You clutched your hands together, praying silently to a God that you hardly spoke to, hoping and wishing that Ray, at the very least, would be okay. You had accepted that he might hate you after tonight but now you knew that he would hate you till the end of time. 

You hadn’t wanted things to turn out like this but Red Hood did. Once again, he sealed your fate because you made the wrong choice. 

Time passed, but there was no way of knowing how long you would be there. You pressed your head against the cold stone and waited, waited for something to change or something to happen. It was a long time before you heard the sound of footsteps and alongside that sound came the flicker of a torch-lit with fire. 

You didn’t bother lifting your head, even as a voice spoke up. “Excuse me, are you alright?” 

“What does it matter?” you retorted. “I’m already destined to face punishment. It matters not if I’m okay or not. If you’ve come to take me away, then do it.” 

Silence. 

Footsteps once again and a warm flame moved closer to your body, the dampness of the cold dungeon hit you all at once. You lifted your head and stared into mint eyes, mint eyes that felt like you had seen once before but couldn’t place the memory. “I don’t work for the queen,” he explained. “I’ve come to get you out of here before it’s too late.” 

“Why should I trust you?” 

“...Your friend, Hyun, he’s very worried about you,” he said, quietly. “He wants to get you out of here before it’s too late.”

Your stomach sank. Of course, Zen had found out about what happened to you. You knew that he wanted to protect you from being hurt but this was beyond even his power, and there was no way that he could help you. 

This castle was heavily guarded and even you had a hard time evading guards and now they were just waiting for someone to make a false move. 

Even if you ran, you’d be caught. 

Your wings had been clipped and frayed by the very people that you had faith in. 

“It’s no use,” you said. “I appreciate that you came this far on my account, sir, but there’s no way that you can get me out of here before the morning. I’ll be lucky if they let me live that long.” 

“You’re not Red Hood,” he continued, minding the dread in your voice and picking his words with great care. “You shouldn’t even be facing punishment right now. That man sold you out for his own gain.” 

That made you snap to attention. Your fingers gripped the bar of the cell that you resided in, as you stared at this man with a face that you couldn’t discern. His features were blurred by the hood he was wearing, or maybe the darkness, you weren’t sure. All you knew was his eyes. “Wait, wait, wait,” you stopped him. “How do you know who Red Hood is?” 

“It’s a long story,” he told you, sincerely, sinking to his knees to sit with you. “I’m not sure that you would believe me given the detail of events that have occurred in the past ten years. But, yes, I do know his identity and while I do not know what he wishes to gain here, he used you to get what he wanted and that was the queen.” 

You had no reason to believe this man at all, but you were desperate and he seemingly believed that you weren’t a guilty party. You had nobody else in the world on your side at the moment that could speak to you, so you wanted to listen and to learn what this man had to say. It might be enough to help you save Ray, if not yourself. 

“Surely the queen knows this,” you shook your head, incredulous. “She’s no saint and she’s not easily tricked… not as far as I can tell given the number of people disappearing nightly after they dare speak ill-will of her name.” 

The man frowned and gazed down at the ground. “You… you would be right about that. The queen has a plan under her belt right now and I imagine with Red Hood’s powers at her disposal, it’s only cemented her vision.” 

You tried to lean closer, to get a better look at this stranger that seemingly knew everything that you needed to know. “Please, sir, what does she want? I’m worried about Ray. I don’t want him to get hurt because those two are planning something nefarious. He may hate me now but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want him to be safe and happy. Please.” 

“I suppose… I suppose you’re due that much, Sparrow,” he said as if he knew that he couldn’t hold in his secret any longer from the world. “I’ve been bearing this knowledge for so long on my own and I’ve not made any progress on my own to stop it. I… I’ve seen that you care deeply for him, and I know that your heart is true.” 

The fact that you had been willing to cry and beg had been enough to show the world that you were willing to submit your pride. You starred at him as he began to explain his story. 

“The crown that he wears is imbued with dark magic,” he explained. “The stones that are engraved into the metal are from a cavern deep in the mountains only known to the greatest users of magic in all the land. The people of this kingdom have long used the stone to give power to the crown. For a long time, rulers of this country would have their magician imbue loyalty and compulsion into the crown so that the wearer would be able to control the masses.” 

Magic? 

“There is no greater power than these stones, and when someone with a vast amount of power can channel their power into the stone, they can enforce anything they want. The queen wants to use the power of the royal stones to force Ray to follow her plans with an iron fist. She wants him to be the puppet king for her brewing armies. The people that go missing late at night are drafted into her army, and I’m afraid her reach has staggering numbers.” 

Suddenly, it was starting to make sense. How people just went missing and everyone didn’t dare to fight back against it. Everyone knew that something was wrong but they could only quietly think that it could be the queen. If anyone said it aloud, they would be taken away. If she had magic controlling everyone, then they could have been under her spell without even knowing it. 

Anyone in the village could have been compromised. 

Ever since you had learned that magic existed, it seemed to be used to destroy everyone that you loved and cared about. You wanted nothing more than to shatter every trace of magic that you had ever seen to free Ray from its hold and anyone else that was suffering against their will. 

“When she leaves the castle and travels to other lands, she is steadily stealing from their numbers and casting blame onto Red Hood every time for the sake of convenience. I imagine he heard of what she was doing and decided to work with her to get what they work. Or, perhaps he knows of the stones’ power and wants it for himself. I fear I do not know what it is he wants but he cannot be allowed to continue his terror alongside the queen.”

You swallowed, ignoring the pit that was growing in your stomach. “And, what does she plan to do with this army, sir?” 

His expression darkened as if clouded by a silent fear that even he didn’t want to breathe to life in case it truly happened. His fear was real. You knew that from the way his hands trembled against the torch he held close to his side. 

His voice dropped to a whisper, “She wishes to lay claim to all lands in our continent with whatever means necessary.” 

There was nothing you could do but breathe in deeply. For some reason, that didn’t surprise you in the slightest. If the queen was willing to use her son to destroy everything for her gain and was so willing to let everyone hate him instead of her, well, taking over everything was nothing to laugh at. To think that the queen not only held the power of the throne but magic as well. 

It was disgusting. 

Did greed ever cease? 

Would you ever find someone that didn’t long to own everything and everyone? You knew that you had with Ray, but he was trapped underneath a spell that would make him obey anything that she’d ask of him. His anger was true and tried. It would be impossible to reason with him if the crown was not removed from his head. 

Yet, you were trapped in this dungeon and you would never be able to do such a thing to save him from this horrible fate. This wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to make people happy, not destroy their last shred of hope. If he knew what he was doing he would be devastated. Even as you knew your fate was set and doomed, you couldn’t help but wish he could be better.

“Wait, that still doesn’t explain how you know he’s the real Red Hood and I’m not,” you stared at him, waiting for his answer. “Who are you? You can’t expect me to take all of this in and not know who you are in return.” 

The strange pulled the head from his head and you narrowed your eyes as you tried to discern his features. For some reason, you couldn’t commit any of it to memory. Even as you were seeing him in person. It was like something was stopping you from remembering or knowing what he truly looked like. 

And then, it hit you, it hit you like that time you had fallen from a hill trying to get away from a group of guards angry that you had taken from their boss. His mint eyes were the same ones that you had seen in the painting. 

The painting of the royal family, the painting that held a vision of Ray’s father that made you hesitate in the throne room. 

That could only mean one thing. 

“King… Jihyun…?” 

His eyes held a great deal of sadness to them. But, he nodded, confirming the sinking suspicion in your loins. “I’m afraid so. Ray is not the only victim of her magic. She also cursed me long ago and I was too naive to see it coming. Rather, I ignored all the warnings when I knew I should have done something and it is my blame alone that the people suffer.” 

That made you shudder in fear. If she was willing to curse the king and make everyone believe that he was dead, then what wasn’t she willing to do? If she would use her family as pawns to get what she’d always wanted, then she would have no problem killing you or anything that tried to get in the way of her dreams. 

“How are you alive…?” you whispered, reaching out between the bars to brush against the fabric of his cloth to ensure that you weren’t staring at a ghost or a vision. He was real. The king was alive and still breathing in front of you, underneath some kind of curse that he couldn’t defeat on his own. Much as his son. 

“I’m afraid that’s an even longer story,” he admitted. “And, I don’t have enough time to tell you all of the details. She grew angry with me because I wouldn’t agree with her way of thinking and the more that I pushed for my plans to allow the people to prosper instead of us, she turned against me and used her black magic to place a curse on me. Now nobody can remember my face, and no one can see me as who I am. She removed all my power from me and took it for herself. Now, I fear that she’s going to use Ray until he’s no longer useful for her cause as well. I cannot allow that to happen. He’s already in grave danger. He always has been.” 

And he couldn’t escape from it. 

He was cursed to stay within these walls no matter what happened. So, even if he could fight back, he would be trapped with the queen forever. No way you looked at it was going to help you get out of this mess, and now that you knew that you were going against magic and Red Hood, it felt like you had no hope at all. Even with the king here. 

It wasn’t like Jihyun had power, either. 

He was just as helpless as you were. Why was he telling you all of this anyway? Even if he let you escape, it was obvious that you could never return to this place if you got out. Nobody would believe you or come to your aid, even with the sympathy of Zen, you knew that his power was not going to be enough to help you. 

The most that Zen could do would be to send you on a boat to another country. 

You put two and two together, “Because of the curse that was placed on him when he was a child, right?” 

Jihyun looked away from you… almost as if there were more to the story than that. He opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of heavy boots came from the stairwell. He immediately put out the fire and pulled his hood back over his head, ducking into the darkest corner of the room to hide from view. Even if nobody knew his face—

He clearly couldn’t afford to be caught. 

His must have had some kind of plan to save Ray, otherwise, he wouldn’t have come to the trouble of finding you. You weren’t sure how much he knew about you or how he knew Red Hood, but you’d known from the look in his eyes that he hadn’t been lying to you. You were a liar, you had been raised around the biggest liars known to man. 

You knew one when you saw them.

Jihyun Kim was no liar. 

The footsteps stopped and you were forced to lift your head and stare up at a guard. He grinned at you with a sadistic glee in his eyes, “Alright, you, the king has demanded your presence. Lucky you, though, he hasn’t decided what punishment you’ll face for your crimes yet. Bloody Red Hood, I bet you know what’s coming for you, and I’m going to love watching it.” 

You bit your tongue to stop yourself from saying anything. There was no point in fighting their words right now. Red Hood hurt so many people and now you would have the eyes of everyone that he had ever used or hurt looking to you for a bloodbath. 

“...” 

He opened your cell and you were dragged away by the ones that had accompanied him, away from the king and any answers that you had.

[darkpoisonouslove]

@supersonichero1 asked:

Regarding season 6 and the trix power up do you believe it was out of no where? I have two theories one is that as the ancestral witches direct ancestors they are finally starting to tap into the further capabilities and strength that being related blood wise to the three most powerful witches. My second theory revolves around bloom and the dragon flame. Since the trix took it in the first season I believe that remnants of it still burn within the trix because the series constantly screams at us that the dragon flame can't be extinguished so while they don't have nearly as much as bloom does their portions are still equally or slightly less powerful than blooms and would only cease to exist within them if bloom herself reabsorbed it or extinguished it like she did with valtor.

I do believe that the power-up looked out of nowhere because that was how the show framed it. Or rather, the lack of any framing and lead up to it implies that it was something that the writers just pulled out of nowhere because they needed the Trix to become stronger in order to oppose the Winx who will now get yet another transformation that’s going to be more powerful. There was absolutely no transition between the Trix attacking Domino with the Beast of the Depths while still in their Sirenix in 6x01 and them showing up at Cloud Tower back in their normal outfits and taking over the school. I feel like there was supposed to be another episode between 6x01 and 6x02 that would set up better both Daphne’s decision to go teach at Alfea (which is somehow contradicted on level motivation and goals later when she is crowned as Crown Princess of Domino because I don’t think she can be both a teacher and rule a kingdom) and the Trix’ new powers and new plan. However, I suspect that some of the other ideas ran away from them and they had to cut those parts both for the purpose on maintaining the episodes as 26 and because that would push the introduction of the Legendarium back with one more episode and that is the main plot point of season 6. So in the end we got a choppy, practically non-existent transition between the true end of season 5 (aka the consequences of it) and the new plot for season 6 as well as the new plan that the Trix devised.

As for your theories, I like them on account of them explaining what the show didn’t bother to but I can’t fit them on the time line. If the Trix are using their ancestry and the fact that they have the blood of the Coven flowing in them, why only now? Of course, there is the matter of them sticking with Darkar because he freed them and then with Valtor because they escaped Omega together. And the same logic also applied to Tritannus. But I still feel like there is something missing here. They didn’t have the time to get so powerful all of a sudden. Of course, no one tells you how much time has passed between 6x01 and 6x02 but the Trix looked like they’d abandoned their own development and relied on the power-ups they got from the villains. Of course, they had their dark Sirenix still and that could have helped them elevate their powers to a higher level but it’s weird to me that they suddenly come with a whole new power that they allegedly got on their own (we have no idea what happened during the time that was skipped between 6x01 and 6x02) after they got used to receiving all their boosts from whoever they’re teaming up with. Literally the last time they did anything on their own was back in season 1. I think that they would need more time to get in touch with their previous determination for development and the process itself would take more. Also, there is the matter of what they lived through in Magical Adventure. They got possessed by the Ancestral Witches and I can see things going either way from there - them either being reluctant to tap into the fact that they are descendants of the Witches or that only motivating them more to do it so that they could get stronger.

The Dragon Fire thing seems even more unlikely to me. It has never come up after season 1. And even if they have something left it is definitely super, super little in quantity compared to what Bloom has and probably even dormant. If they had anything that was nearly as powerful as hers, she should have been able to sense them like she was doing with Valtor at the time (back in season 1 she couldn’t sense them because she was out of touch with her own Fire before 1x25). Besides, you are right that the Dragon Fire can’t be extinguished but there is the matter of willingness here. Magic is emotion and the Dragon Fire is a special kind of magic and appears to have some sort of sentience. In 1x10 (I think) when they thought they’d gotten it in the Magic Reality Chamber, it turned out that the Flame had somehow escaped them. So I think the Dragon Fire itself left them when they got defeated because they were knocked out. While they were all unconscious, it could have freed itself from their hold on it that was keeping them in them after they stole it from Bloom. I don’t think they have any of it left.

What I could offer as potential explanation for this power-up is that the Trix got sick of depending on someone else for powers (especially after the whole fiasco with Tritannus (and Politea if you count the third movie)). In fact, when you get back to look at their partnerships, they always get betrayed in the end and don’t receive the power they were promised. It happened every single time. So I think they got fed up with that and decided to go it on their own this time but took a page out of the villains’ book. I believe they might have stolen some magic the way Valtor was doing in season 3 and they could have found a way to imbue themselves with their respective element the way Tritannus was doing in season 5 as he absorbed pollution. They could have done that and, combined with any magic they could have stolen, it could explain their new boost. That has only one minor issue in that if they were stealing magic, how did Winx not catch wind of that? Seems kinda unlikely that they wouldn’t learn but then again, the whole show is full of inconsistencies and that could be explained with the fact that there was a lot of stuff left to fix after Tritannus was captured. Daphne was brought back to life so Bloom definitely had a lot going on with that and the rest also had stuff to take care of on their home planets so it could make sense that they weren’t on the battle front the whole time and some suspicious but ambiguous thefts of magic could have slipped through the cracks. I still think that there should have been an episode that showed all of those things, however. We were robbed of seeing the Trix learning to finally do things on their own and coming up with a new plan (which I am still unclear on even after 1/3 of season 6. Take over the magical colleges and then what? But anyway).

[redemptionbaby]

Out of Touch | Arthur/Reader

Summary: With some liquid courage, you finally decide to tell Arthur how you feel. 80′s AU.

Notes: This is what I’ve been working on. Reader has a lot of personality in this one. 3321 words.

Warnings: Very slight dubcon because you’re tipsy

Liquid sloshed in your mouth, and you barely had the wherewithal to swallow it instead of letting it flow down your chin as you swayed. This party was fierce, but the liquor was fiercer. Your breath was probably acrid by now, a grim portent to your future in the bathroom. Neon lights beat down on the crowd and illuminated choice slivers of their writhing bodies. The growl of synth and bass was invasive in a way that felt enlightening. Like the vibrations were showing you the truth. 

Not an outrageous idea, coming from someone who’d had a few too many fruity drinks instead of dancing, sulking while watching someone else sulk. You could spy Arthur from across the room, settled into a sticky couch despite having gotten numerous offers to dance, with implications of much more. His tropical shirt was a sharp contrast to the bags beneath his blue eyes, unbuttoned to his comfort and showing off some chest hair. His hair was wild with stress. The look screamed I’d love to be on vacation right now, but my circumstances have made this impossible. You could tell he stayed out of some sick obligation to the people who had told him to loosen up and have fun, other members of your shared enterprise. You stayed for him. 

Another swig of tequila sunrise put you over the edge, imbuing you with either courage or foolishness. Or perhaps, honesty. The walk across the room was in slow motion, you could feel your heels clacking against the floor, your arms impassively maneuvering out of the anonymous grasps of the mass of people. You could see from the corner of your eye as Arthur’s gaze flicked to you, but just as quickly moved again. He was trying to give you an out. Pretending not to see you so you could take the chance, come to your senses, go have fun with someone else. Someone better. Too bad you’re too wasted to be able to think of someone else. 

The way you fall onto the couch, spineless and heavy, is far from graceful. You put a hand to your face to begin combing the hair out of your eyes and Arthur can no longer hide being so utterly transfixed by you. Even when you’re sweating vodka and strawberry syrup, half illuminated by burning neon lights, he can’t help but rake his eyes over your entire form, trying to memorize it. He’d rather die than be caught trying to draw you or take a Polaroid. He’d feel like even more of a creep than he already does, but for some reason he’s convinced himself that just looking isn’t as bad. 

A calloused hand cautiously claps the back of your shoulder instinctually. 

“Y’alright there, tiger? Have a lil’ too much?” The tenderness oozes from his voice even when he’s attempting to be joking. He’s nicer than even he knows. 

“I’m— I’m ok. Just working up some nerve… I guess,” you garble out, unknowingly making his stomach sink like a rock. 

“Who’s the lucky one?”

“What?”

“The lucky, uh, person. The one yer gonna… ask for a dance from?”

“Jesus, Arthur, what is this— a highschool dance? From the fifties? Nevermind, don’t answer that.” Great job. You’re really winning him over with that one. 

“... You want me to take ya home?” Arthur would not be nearly as cute if he was a mind reader. But sometimes you wish he was. But it’s nice to know that you’re bombing this and not looking so good. 

“No, no. If I don’t say this now, it’s not gonna happen,” you take advantage of the hand on your shoulder and move in, leaning towards him with your arms slung across each other. Not your most romantic move, but that ship sailed with your sobriety. 

“I like you Arthur. I know you think you’re some unlovable old man, past his prime and destined to be alone, but you’re not,” geez, you’re a brutal drunk. “You’re the best man I know, and I’ve met plenty. You’re nice to me, to everyone, but it’s not just common decency, y’know? Even when I’m looking like I’m about to vomit my soul, you’d drive me home, and I know how much you love that car. Even when I couldn’t give a damn about myself you’re always watching, making sure I don’t trip and fall. You’re handsome and gorgeous, and so comfy to be with. I got it bad for you. And I don’t expect you to say nothin’ about it, I know you’ve been hurt before and I’m not exactly looking like Miss America right now, but I had to tell you.”

As expected, he’s stunned into silence. Like the whole world has turned off. There’s no music, no crowd, just you and him on this sweaty leather couch breathing alcohol into each other’s faces. His first instinct is to refuse you, like every other good thing that comes his way these days. But you know him, and he knows you. The selfless and self deprecating excuses to keep himself alone and in misery can’t work forever. And he’s been out with you enough to know you’re an honest drunk. Those kinda feelings can’t be faked. Not like that. Not by you. 

But Arthur is still Arthur. He wouldn’t want you to do something you’d regret. So he cradles your cheek with his palm and watches your eyelids flutter as you lean into it, hope and anticipation stinging your eyes. His lips ghost over yours before making full contact, always giving you that window of opportunity, to stop him and turn him away, to take it all back. 

But you don’t. And the relief is almost enough to make him cry. 

Your free hand moves up, tracing the color of his shirt before sliding the tips of your painted nails over the hairs on the back of his neck, feeling the shiver that wracks his spine at the intimacy— something he hasn’t known for a long time. 

His kiss is chaste. A closed mouth, not daring to try anything else, but he doesn’t have to. You can almost feel the blood beneath the skin of his lips. He parts from you, opening his eyes to reveal a joy that Arthur doesn’t usually allow himself. The slight draw of his brows revealing that he still isn’t 100% certain this moment won’t end without rejection. 

Arthur Morgan is not a man who prides himself on self reflection. He’s not a man who’s often encouraged to improve, or to change. When you’re hired muscle, just coming back alive is enough. But for once, he wants to change. You inspire him to change. So for once, he’ll take a page out of your book, and ride this feeling instead of dreading an assumed shattering of the illusion. 

“I’d still like to take ya home, sweetheart, if that’s alright with you.”

——————————-

Arthur’s apartment was surprisingly quiet for being above a club. It still had that hum from the muffled music, but it was more relaxing than annoying. He hadn’t been all over you when he walked you up, but he fumbled with his keys like he was. Sat on his bed, your face in his hands, he kissed you more desperately, like a man starved. It felt so dreamlike. You had to summon the will to pull away. 

“Arthur. Tell me how you feel about me.” 

Arthur was by no means an inarticulate man, if his journal entries were anything to go by. But he was a man of action, one not used to being asked to share his thoughts and feelings. But silence wasn’t how you operated. 

“I… I think I love you. You make me wanna be a better man, angel. You don’t look at me like a source of favors. You look at me like… like I matter. And hell, I’m startin’ to believe it.”

He grabs your chin. His thumb traces over the soft edge of your lower lip. His eyes are avoiding yours in an attempt to compose his thoughts. 

But he spoke the words before even really thinking. 

“It’s like you don’t just want me to love you. You want me to feel loved.”

“Bingo.” God you feel like such a seductive genius. And apparently you’re right to feel that way, because Arthur’s grip on your body only becomes tighter as he presses kiss after kiss, trailing down your neck. In the meantime, your hands mindlessly work at the buttons of his shirt, and he’s too busy showing his affection to feel self conscious. 

He parts from you, sliding the shirt from his back with a facade of confidence before moving his fingers to the hem of your own, looking to your eyes for silent permission before lifting. The way you shake your hair out as you finish pulling it off enraptures him. Despite, or maybe because of, your smeared makeup and the way you grimace as the collar catches on your nose, he thinks you look gorgeous. Your hair crests your head like a halo for a perfect moment, you look like a goddamned album cover. Arthur’s sure to file all this inspiration away for later. 

“I can’t believe you— way too cute to be real,” he coos quietly, bringing his hands to the base of your ribs, flushing your skin with their heat, sliding them upwards. His thumbs graze your nipples before finding confidence in their movement, making you keen in a way you might have been able to suppress if you were stone cold sober. Arthur’s eyes flick up to your heated face with a sudden look of predation— like he’s a lion and you’re a wounded gazelle. 

Funny, you’ve never seen a lion fuck a gazelle on nature documentaries. But right now it doesn’t seem all that unlikely. 

Arthur doesn’t feel any of the confidence he exudes. He feels like a teenager who’s just seen his first pair of tits in a playboy magazine he stole from under his older brother’s mattress. His practiced hands undo your shorts, smoothly sliding them down before you kick them the rest of the way off. He undoes his belt almost with panic, like if he delays any longer you’re gonna get fed up and leave. 

The both of you are in your underwear, and it feels like hours have passed since you stepped through the threshold of Arthur’s apartment, but at the same time like no time has passed at all. 

“Even when yer wasted, you can’t help lookin’ so pretty, can ya?” 

“Says the man who hasn’t shaved or combed his hair in two days, but still looks like a Hollywood Star in a western,” you tease, sticking your tongue out to punctuate it. 

“Think I’d make a good Blondie?”

“Oh please. Clint Eastwood wishes he had as much personality.” You did it again. It was like you could trick him into loving himself a little more everyday, without even trying. It makes him chuckle, and you cock your head, not thinking it was that funny.

Feeling emboldened, Arthur lightly pushes the tips of his fingers against your collar bones, urging you to lie back so he can take his sweet time getting to know your body. You comply, a little giddy and almost doll-like, as he manhandles you slightly. He sinks his fingers into the soft flesh of your thighs and delights in the sensation while spreading them, staring in reverie at your vulnerable body, as well as the wet spot forming on your panties. He leans over you while his hand does a broad swipe over the clothed lips of your pussy, and you shudder a little from the stimulus. 

Arthur leans back to take a good look while he moves the bridge of your underwear to the side, using his other hand to stroke and spread your intimate parts playfully. He pulls the elastic past the expanse of your legs, leaving you completely exposed. Not to say that Arthur himself is completely modest in his briefs— you can see the outline of his hard cock and a spot of wetness where it’s already dribbling pre-cum. He had been drinking as well, but clearly it hadn’t held him back. Before you know it he’s got your legs pinned back and his face in your crotch, pressing kisses to your mound before diving in with his tongue, worming it into you. In the middle of giving you the lickout of your life, he parts with a hard suck to your clit, face red and breathing heavy just as you are. 

“Maybe I, uh— I shoulda asked first. Sorry, darlin’, it’s just, lookin’ like you do… you could drive a man crazy.” And in fact, you just might, he thinks. You throw an eye roll and a lazy, lidded gaze his way. 

“Fella, if I look like a lady who’s gonna complain about getting her pussy ate, you got the wrong impression. I’m not gonna get in the way of art,” you trail off, flicking your gaze south, “but I do wanna see you.”

This is usually the part where Arthur would bite back with a no, you really don’t. But the way you said it was just so… sweet. And juxtaposed against the downright filthy thing you’d just said, he couldn’t help but be charmed, and believe you. 

Thought not exactly uncharacteristically, Arthur slid his briefs down silently, like he was waiting for you to say something first. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed, thick and slightly veined. It was in moments like these that it really hit you how truly and honestly Arthur didn’t see what there was to love about him. Here he kneels, between your legs, with his solid build and girthy dick, strong jaw and mana blue eyes, having just licked your soul out of your body unprompted, and he’s still nervous. About what, that his dick is small? He must have been in enough public bathrooms by now to know that isn’t true. You take it upon yourself to reassure him. 

You reach down between your legs to stroke his length, trying to seem appreciative, because you are. Thank you Arthur’s parents, and thank you God, for giving this man such a perfect dick. You’re hoping to telekinetically express this feeling to Arthur, as there’s no way in hell you’d ever say that out loud, drunk or not. Between the light drag of of your nails, gentle as can be, and your focused, starry eyes, he kinda gets what you’re trying to convey. Your paramour delicately slides your hand from him, lacing his fingers with yours and pinning your arm back to the bed. 

“Not that I don’t like bein’ in your grasp, baby, but I can think of somewhere else I’d rather be. I think you and I have waited long enough, don’tcha think?” He rumbles, almost possessed by the seductive heartbreaker persona he had in his youth. Arthur can deny it all he likes, but past a certain point, charm comes naturally to him. You take in a deep breath and steel your resolve. 

“I’m ready, Arthur. I want you.” Six words he could live on. Even if it all ended now, if you suddenly rejected him and tried to forget this ever happened, just the memory those six words could sustain him. For a time, anyway. 

He frotted against you, gathering your slick on his cock before using his unoccupied hand to prod the warm, velvety head at your entrance. He leaned down to give you a lingering kiss before continuing eye contact and gently pushing his hips forward. After a short time and a bit of stretch, his head suddenly popped its way inside, making you gasp and squeeze Arthur’s hand. He watched you carefully for any sign of pain before continuing on, letting out a low groan when you’d finally taken him all the way to the base. He angled your hips up, and you could feel his pelvis against your clit as he started shallowly thrusting. He grunted and knitted his brows together a little before cracking a smile for you. 

“Tight, real tight... Relax a little sweetheart, let me in,” you were so hyper focused on Arthur, you hadn’t realized how tense you were. You did a deep exhale, attempting to relax more, and Arthur seemed relieved, and you shot him an apologetic smile. “Not that it don’t feel good honey, but I don’t want this to be over before it’s even begun, y’know?” he glanced to the side, bashful, but not ashamed. 

His thrusts became deeper, and gradually picked up until you were getting pounded. With the steady slap of his balls against your ass, the wet sound from where the two of you were joined, and the repeated moans of Arthur and oh god and fuck AH! coming from you, you felt like this must look like some cheap, cliché porno. Arthur growled and purred against you like a beast in a rut, alternating between attacking your neck with lips and teeth, and worshipping your face with less than coordinated kisses. You wrenched your eyes open to catch his gaze. 

“Does it feel good?” You asked nervously, unusually lacking in confidence. Or maybe you just wanted to play virgin for him, seeing as he made you feel like one. Meanwhile the depth of your compassion and concern for his enjoyment nearly made Arthur blow his load right then and there. 

“Good?” He huffs out, “baby, you got no idea. Incredible, more like. Like yer pussy was made for me.” Arthur wasn’t particularly thinking about what he was saying. Then again, he never really did with you. That was part of what made loving you so easy— it just came naturally to him. 

Your lover’s hips began to stutter more and more as the both of you neared breathlessness, his free hand dipping down to put the rough pad of his thumb against your clit while he stole a glance at where the two of your were connected. 

“You close, darlin’? I am.”

“Oh god— yes, Arthur,” you gasped. 

“Then cum for me. Cum with me.”

The kiss you two shared in that moment would be one to rival the final pages of the Princess Bride in terms of pure love and passion. What an idea for roleplay that would be, huh? With your fluttering walls stroking his cock, Arthur came tumbling with you in ecstasy. His hips were completely and instinctually flush to yours, you’d never felt so full and warm in your life. 

Arthur heaved himself, sweaty and out of breath, off of you to lay at your side and stick to the sheets. For once, he didn’t even consider lighting a cigarette. He wouldn’t dare do anything to distract himself from your complete and total company in that moment. Slowed by liquor and sex, you could already feel yourself drifting off, and it didn’t escape your bedmate, who just sheepishly recalled how much you’d drank and felt a pang of guilt in the back of his head. But that was a problem for tomorrow Arthur, not tonight Arthur. Tonight Arthur just pulled the sheets of his bed up over you before begrudgingly getting out of bed, and coming back with a wet towel and a glass of water. The water was placed gently on the nightstand on your side of the bed, the towel used to clean the both of you. Luckily you had been sleepy and pliable enough not to fuss over the cold of the wet towel, but you did scrunch your nose and pout adorably. 

Arthur, laying on his side and facing you, held your face and kissed your forehead before looking at your eyes, blinking slowly, your eyes spending more time closed than open. 

“You better not forget this tomorrow morning, y’hear?”

“If I do, remind me?”

Arthur could live with that. 

[deathandhumanresources]

Chapter 2 - Administrative and Clerical

As the pages of my book filled, progress on “The Plan” reached a fever pitch. Father’s groundwork was impressive when it was only sketches and doodles but the first draft of all Creation turned out to be more wondrous than any of us could imagine. The Djinn’s constructs were massive in their execution and the Angel’s philosophical designs imbued every structural cell with Father’s purpose. Each day, I grew busier processing the requests for names from every Angel working in the “Living Things” department. As the work grew more complex, with weirder and more diverse ideas arriving for my designation every day, I became more confident in my abilities. Before long, news of my efficiency reached the Upper Angelarium, where the Archangels gathered.

“Are you sure you won’t get in trouble for this?”  I asked the Cherub called Ornias as he held his creation towards me. “This one seems like plagiarism to me.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Ornias replied, though I couldn’t help but hear a chiding in his voice.

“I mean you stole this design from other Angels. I think I’ve seen this tail before. I’ve definitely seen this bill...”

“I may have taken inspiration from a few of my fellow spirits but this design is an original.” The fat Angel’s snorting face puckered into a look of disingenuous offense.

“It looks like you just mashed five other animals together!” I grabbed the design by its webbed flippers. The thing turned its duckish, rattish head towards me and stared with curiosity. I placed it on the ground where it scurried behind Ornias’ rounded form. I apprehensively asked, “Is this a joke?”

“A joke?” Ornias spat, “Does creation seem funny to you?” In truth, neither of us knew if Creation sounded funny because neither of us fully understood the concept yet.

“Is it mammal or bird?” I probed, attempting to refocus the conversation. 

“Yes.” Ornias replied with so much indifference, that I wanted to reak wrath on the Angel’s stupid face. 

“I’m truly at a loss, Ornias. Perhaps you have a suggestion?”

“Well, I was sort of thinking we could call it a,” he choked as if stifling a laugh, “a Platypus?”

“Oh, come on!”

“Alright, alright!” Ornias guffawed as he reached forward and clucked me on my back with his palm. “Look, I somehow got this one past the Approval Department and all I need is a name to make it official. Wouldn’t it be the best if this thing ended up crawling around with all the other animals?

“Well,” I considered, “I don’t know...” In truth, looking at the creature made me understand comedy a little bit more. And it was cute.

“What do you say, old pal?” Ornias thrust his right hand forward in a gesture that all Angels agreed meant “mutuality.”

“We’ve never met before today, Ornias.” I abstained from returning the gesture.

“Think about it.” The Cherub plucked his weird design up from the ground and turned to leave. As they flew away, the creature wriggled in Ornias’ grasp to look at me again. I smiled and it shook, startled, before burrowing into hiding in the Angel’s arms.

“Erm... next!” I called to my constantly growing queue. I had set up my operations in a vacant cubelike room of the lower Angelarium. When I found the room, it invoked a feeling as though I had meant to be there all along. Inside the cube was a chair for me to sit and a desk for me to place my book. From the room, I allowed one Angel at a time to enter and present their creation to name. As always, the Angels queued naturally and rarely made a fuss.

The next Angel in line entered at my call and I was surprised to see that it was a Principality. For those of you not well versed in Angelic Hierarchy, the Principalities are the assistants to the other Choirs of Angels. They deliver messages and perform tasks for Angels too busy to complete those tasks themselves. They are the delegates and were designed by Father to be pushed around without much fuss.

This Principality had hair as gold as wheat (a plant designed just days prior) and skin the color of olives (a plant that hadn’t been designed yet but one I’m referencing retroactively.) Her physique was rigid and she towered over the other Angels in the queue behind her. Her wings were so soft that they resembled clouds in the distance. Her expression was one of annoyance, brought on by having to wait in a queue when there were other tasks at hand. 

“Hi there!” I greeted, somewhat fearfully. “I did not know Principalities were invited to create for ‘The Plan!’”

“I am Eremiel.” the Angel interjected, “I am not here on Creation business.”

“Ah.” I said “Well I am afraid that I am in the middle of naming every single living creature. Is there something I can help you with?”

Eremiel reached into a pouch slung around her bony shoulder. She produced a page of parchment that she began to hold out to me. Before I could take it, she snatched it back.

“Were you designed to be able to read?” She asked dryly.

“I have the gift of all languages.” I replied, confused, bemused, and anxious for what news Heaven had for me now.

“Good.” The Principality unceremoniously dropped the parchment on my desk. The page slid across the surface and landed in my lap. 

“They’ll see you after you’ve finished your duties for the day.” Eremiel spoke with vexation as she left the room. On her way out she bumped the next Angel in line, an impossibly beautiful spirit with a crown of light and holding a round rodent with enormous ears. Before the offended Angel could protest, Eremiel’s eyes widened and she gave a look that clearly said “Get out of my way or you and the rat will be broken for all of eternity.” The beautiful Angel cowered and Eremiel launched off into the higher Angelarium.

I unravelled the parchment in my lap and read the message within:

TO AZRAEL, ANGEL OF NAMES

YOUR PRESENCE IS DEMANDED

TO DISCUSS IMPORTANT MATTERS 

REGARDING YOUR FUNCTION AND PURPOSE

YOU ARE TO REPORT TO THE HALL OF THE ARCHANGELS 

FOR JUDGMENT

AS SOON AS YOUR DUTIES FOR THE DAY ARE COMPLETE

BE PROMPT

SINCERELY,

GABRIEL, ARCHANGEL AND CHIEF MESSENGER

 “Urp...” Was all I could say as I let the parchment roll up and sway back and forth on my desk. I felt my face go pale. I don’t know how long I sat, silent and staring, before I heard a meek “Ahem” beyond my doorway. It was the beautiful Angel and its creation.

“Oh, er, next!” I called.

The Hall of Archangels stood at the top of the third sphere of the Angelarium. My work was mostly clerical so I hung around the bottom of the third sphere. The upper sphere was for Archangels and Principalities. Beyond the third sphere was the second sphere. That place was the work area of the middle management Angels: the Powers, the Virtues, and the Dominions. Above the second sphere was the first sphere, the upper management sphere. The first sphere was where the Seraphim, the Cherubim, and the Thrones worked closely with Father on “The Plan’s” most important projects. Above the spheres sat Father’s throne, where he shined his radiance on all Angels below him.

I nervously clutched my parchment of invitation as I approached the entranceway to the Hall. The landing for the upper sphere was paved with bricks carved from a porous grey stone that felt soft under my feet. Rounded outcroppings of the stone jutted from the walkway in symmetrical pairs leading from the landing and into the upper sphere. Prototypes for the aforementioned flowers adorned the outcroppings in a manner I found aesthetically pleasing. A massive silver arch marked the entry to the halls. Great, angled runes were carved deeply into the arch, spelling in a now-forgotten language, “DILIGENCE, VIGILANCE, GLORY.” 

The landing was bustling as Angels of all different Choirs launched and disembarked to and from the Heavens. Each spirit possessed a face of focused officiousness as they passed by and around each other on the walkway. Many of them held stacks of paperwork and they would bump gracelessly into one another, mumbling indifferent swears before rebalancing and continuing on. None of the Angels offered so much as a wayward glance at me as I shuffled uncomfortably towards the archway. I felt so out of place.

When I bypassed the arch and into the Hall, I looked above to see the walls and ceiling had been carved of the same soft, grey stone and painted with a mural. The art of the hallway depicted the Heavens, complete with all manner of Angel flying and smiling as they worked at the building blocks of Creation with hammers and chisels. A rendering of Father sat on his throne at the apex of the curved ceiling, his smile was the biggest. In his left hand, he held a sash decorated with the same runic font as the silver archway. The text read “PERFECTION.” In his right hand, he held a strange blue orb that I recognized as the initial design for “The Plan.” I did not notice it at the time, but the Djinn were not pictured in the mural at all.

I came to a series of turnstiles preceded by booths with Angels inside. I watched as visitors approached, spoke briefly with the booth Angels, and pressed past the turnstiles before resuming into the hallway. I puffed up my chest and attempted to imitate the zeal of the patrons around me. I approached a booth on the far end of the vestibule and stepped toward the turnstile.

“What’s your business?” the bored looking booth Angel asked blandly.

“Oh, er...” I fumbled with the roll of parchment at my side before passing it to the turnstile guardian.

“Mmm, yes.” He unrolled the note and studied it with nonchalance. I rocked from side to side on my heels for an awkward moment before he continued. “You are scheduled with Gabriel  in the Western Atrium. Do you know where you’re going?”

“I’m afraid not.” I meeped.

“Oh.” The Angel curled his upper lip, “A  tourist.” He hefted from his seat with a grunt of vexation and leaned over his booth towards me. He reached a slender arm past my neck in a manner meant to lead my gaze. “See the wisp of red cirrus cloud that stretches along the wall mural?” He did not wait for me to answer. “Follow that ‘round the rightmost corner and straight along until you reach the double doors labelled ‘Virtue and Punctuality.’ You’ll find the Chief Messenger’s office within.”

“Alright.” I murmured as I squinted towards the mural. I did not see red cirrus clouds. I turned back to the booth Angel to see he was regarding me with furrowed eyebrows.

“You can go along.” He chastised. With a nod of his head, he signalled to a line of equally annoyed Angels behind me.

“Oh.” I said and pressed at the turnstile. It did not move at first so I shuffled uncomfortably, trying and failing to look like I knew what I was doing. Finally, the arm loosened and I tumbled forward, almost falling to the floor. I pulled my wings around me in embarrassment and hustled into the reconvening crowd beyond the gate. I felt overwhelmed by the roaming crowd and was instinctively drawn to the wall and out of the way of the bustle. I inspected the mural for the wisp of red cloud described by the booth Angel. At first, I found no evidence of such cirrus and I felt a panic rise inside me. After a moment, I noticed a streak of cloud, more pink than red, cast behind the drama of the painting and across the cosmos. I followed the path around the corner into a straightaway that appeared to go on indefinitely. The hall had many pairs of doors across from each other on either side of the walkway. As I strolled passed, I couldn’t shake the curiosity to open one of these doors and look inside. 

The red cirrus on the wall lifted onto the ceiling of the hallway and led to an extension of the main hall’s mural. The color pallet from the previous painting shifted to a radical use of greys and reds. The whisping cirrus fed into a large black stormcloud that loomed over the extension of the hallway. Vibrant flashes of lightning illuminated the backdrop of the scene and made many of the boisterous storm clouds look like violent cosmic explosions. When I stopped to admire a detailed expression of cloud, I noticed the painted silhouette of an armor-clad angel amongst the dramatics. Its outstretched wings matched the curvature of the stormy display behind it and it raised its arm high above its head. In its hand, it held a long, menacing sword that extended high into the heavens above it. A streak of blue lightning extended from a nebulous point in the storm to meet the Angel’s sword where it curled coyly toward the tip of the blade. I had not noticed before but the scene depicted in this hallway’s mural was populated with the silhouettes of many menacing Angels, each dressed in a similar armor and each held a long-tipped sword. My sense of wonder towards the illustration slowly became one of apprehension. I pulled my wings closer around me.

The bustle of busy spirits slowed and thinned out as I continued down the straightaway. I walked slowly, craning my head to either side to read the designations above each approaching doorway. “Virtue and Punctuality, Virtue and Punctuality,” I repeated to myself, trying my best not to forget what the rude booth Angel had told me. To my dismay, none of the doors on either side of the hall included either of those words. Many of the doors instead read similar titles, like “REGIMENT AND RULE” or “CLASSIFICATION AND CARTOGRAPHY.” As I wandered, I began to get a little confused. It wasn’t until I meandered to the set of double doors at the end of the hall before I realized I had reached my designation. As clear as day, the words “VIRTUE AND PUNCTUALITY” hung in a flowing gold font over the doors’ brick and mortar archway. I should have figured the Archangels would signify their meeting place in such a glorious manner.

I did my best to stifle my nervousness and pushed at the rightmost door. At first it did not open and, when I pressed a bit of my heft against it, there was a brief give before more resistance. I heard an “Oop!” from beyond the barrier. I leapt back, embarrassed. Apparently I was pressing the door into someone! There was a bit of murmuring behind the door before it opened inward. I gulped in shock when I saw who stood before me.

“Ah, Azrael!” exclaimed Lucifer, his mouth curled into an unfamiliar smile. “Right on time, I see! It always pays to be punctual for a meeting at Virtue and Punctuality.” His demeanor was glaringly contrary to how he spoke in our previous meeting. I found the change pleasant but disturbing at the same time.

“Er,” I croaked, “I did not realize you would be attending, Mister Lucifer.”

“Mister Lucifer!” He repeated with a laugh over his shoulder, presumably to whoever else was in the room behind him. “What did I tell you about this kid, Gabe?” He turned back toward me and stared with a strange admiration I had only seen before from Father. “No, I won’t be joining in on today’s meeting, but do know that the higher ups are aware of your progress. You’ve yet to disappoint, little Angel.”

A warmth erupted in my face. It felt like shame and pride all at once. I opened my mouth but I didn’t have anything to say.

“Lucifer,” a dry voice called from behind the Archangel, “If you’re going to praise the creature’s punctuality, at least let him in the door to be punctual.”

“Ah, of course!” The smiling Lucifer took a labored step back and held the door open for me to enter. As I inched my way in, he snuck his towering form around me and out into the hall. “Best regards, Azrael!” He said as he let the door close between us. 

The room was not as grand as I had expected. The magnificent aesthetic of the main hall had not transferred to the Archangels’ chamber. Instead, the walls and ceiling were a clean, abstract white. A skylight cropped from the ceiling’s center, allowing Father’s light to shine on the room’s simple furnishings. Ahead of me was a rectangular slab of marble cloud. It hung motionless in the center of the room, illuminated by the light from above. Ten marble white chairs surrounded the slab and sat suspended in a similar fashion. 

At the opposite end of the slab from me sat two radiant Archangels. The first I noticed was a giant of a spirit with earth-brown, craggy skin and locks of flowing silver hair. He wore the same night-black robes that I had recognized on Lucifer but the mass of his chest and arms were bulging at the seams. His enormous hands were clasped together and resting on the slab, his fingers were dressed in several thick, golden rings. His eyes were the shocking blue of a lightning flash and his nose and lips were wide on his muscular face. He looked at me, wordlessly, with an expression barren of emotion.

The Archangel to his right was slender, petite in comparison, but something about her presence was far more threatening. She too wore the black Archangel’s robes, though the cuffs and collar were decorated with an elaborate, gilded pattern. Her amber hair poured from the top of her head in short waves that flowed down to her neck. Her face was narrow, almost gaunt. Her sharp chin pointed downward and her colorless lips were pursed. A needling nose drew a line from those pursed lips up to eyes blacker than a tempest. 

“You may have a seat.” The smaller Archangel called and extended a welcoming hand toward the floating seat closest to me. Her voice was curt and intimidating, it lacked the song that hung in many other Angels’ voices. 

“I do apologize for the short notice.” She continued as I approached my chair and sat down. “With Creation rapidly approaching, we have been encouraged to expedite certain processes.”

“No trouble at all!” I cried out, perhaps a little too loud, across the table. “In truth, I didn’t realize ‘The Plan’ was coming together so quickly. That’s good news!” I smiled. When the gesture was not returned, I said, “Isn’t it?”

“Hm.” The slender Archangel replied noncommittally. She raised her hand to her face and rubbed at her cheekbone with her finger. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve invited Archangel Uriel to this briefing. He will be sitting in on the interview process.” With her other hand, she offered an introductory gesture to the large Archangel to her left.

“Thank you, Gabriel.” Uriel’s craggy lips lifted into a welcoming smile and he unclasped his hands to place them both face down on the slab. “I wasn’t supposed to attend this meeting but, after hearing everything, I wanted to put a face to the name!”

“I’m sorry,” I interrupted, “Gabriel, was it?” My eyes met the slender Archangel’s and she gave a slight, acknowledging nod. “What is this about an interview process? I’m afraid I don’t know why I was summoned today.” 

Gabriel’s gaze shifted to meet Uriel’s for a moment before returning to me. “Your summons,” she said wryly, “explained that we were to discuss your function and purpose.” 

“Now, now!” Uriel laughed in a thunderous tone that shook the room. “Like you said, Gabriel, things are happening so quickly these days. I get the feeling little Azrael here hasn’t been brought to speed with the recent influx of,” he paused as he searched for the right word, “adjustments being made to ‘The Plan.’” With each passing word that passed through Uriel’s lips, I preferred him more and more to Gabriel.

“Adjustments?” I repeated.

“He is little, isn’t he.” Gabriel sequitured and clicked her tongue, her voice permeated with venom.

“You must forgive Gabriel.” Uriel’s grin widened. “She is an auditor, after all. Father designed her to look for incorrections throughout the process. I imagine you’re more used to the friendliness of the Angels in the lower circle.”

“Ah, sure.” I lied. If spirits in the lower Angelarium were ever friendly, it was an event I had certainly never witnessed first hand.

“We’re not here to discuss my function, Uriel.” Gabriel reached below the chair and slammed a weighty book upon the slab’s surface. It was the second book I had ever seen, after my own. “This is about your progress, Azrael.”

“Oh.” I gulped. “I figured there were no discretions. I thought the naming process was coming along quite, er, nicely.” I hung my head and cursed in my mind whomever had complained about my process. I could only imagine it was that pedantic Qaspiel, still angry with his Jellyfish. Or maybe it was Ornias pulling a cruel prank, like his Platypus.

“Indeed.” Gabriel murmured as she flipped through an innumerable amount of pages in her book. “Yes, we’ve received word from Father and confirmation from Lucifer that you are, in fact, exceeding expectations.” Despite the commendation, her voice produced no kindness in its tone.

“Oh.” I said again. “Then, er, what’s the problem?”

“Problem?” Uriel laughed. “Azrael, your work is splendid! Before you came along, most Angels were designating approved creations with a complicated number system. It was getting ridiculous! And don’t get me started on trying to talk identification with the Djinn! They ID everything based on chemical composition! Gabriel,” he turned, “remember when Fuqtus gummed up the ledger for WEEKS because he referred to seagulls in his notes by the number of carbon atoms in their feathers?”

“Mmhmm.” Gabriel vaguely confirmed as she continued surveying her notes.

“Then Father comes along and says he’s tasked an Angel with giving every living thing a name! ‘A name!?’ I said, ‘How’s that going to help anything?’” Uriel turned back toward me. “But then you come along, you take a look at the seagull, you call it a seagull. It’s like that’s what it was supposed to be called this whole time! I mean, come on, it’s a gull that flies over the sea!” 

“Quite.” Gabriel snapped her book closed. “What Uriel is trying to get at is that there has been a highly irregular decision made on your behalf.”

“Highly irregular?” I felt foolish repeating everything the Archangels offered but I was so nervous, my higher cognitive function had ceased.

“A promotion.” She asserted.

“A promotion!?” 

“Will you stop that!” 

“Azrael,” Uriel offered, “we would like to advance you to the role of Principality. Specifically we, the Archangels, need a note taker for our meetings. We figure that no one, so far, has taken detailed notes like yours. Of course, this will start after you’re done assigning your names but, by our projections, we should be finished up with creating new creatures here by the end of the week. So,” he puffed up his chest and lifted himself from his chair, “What do you say?”

I didn’t know what to say.

[vuldromeda]

After the War

Rating: General Audiences

Fandom: Harry Potter

Categories: F/M, M/M, F/F

Relationships: Hermione Granger/Luna Lovegood (implied), Harry Potter/Neville Longbottom (implied), Ron Weasley/Lavender Brown, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter

Word Count: 1365 words

Summary: This is just my version of the Epilogue that was definitely never written. Takes place roughly three years after the Battle at Hogwarts, I just want them to be happy and try to take care of themselves.

Read on AO3 here or continue reading below!

Harry woke up with a choked gasp, sitting up in bed and grasping at his forehead desperately. Breathing heavily, he collected himself, forcing himself to remember that that was in the past, his nightmares truly were just nightmares and not visions. Harry glanced at the drawn curtains surrounding his bed, cast with Hermione’s wards and his silencing charms. He knew that Hermione got even less sleep than he did, which was saying something, so he refused to let up the silencing charms despite her protests.

Once Harry’s heart slowed, he opened the curtains and put on his glasses before casting a tempus. 6:30 am. He groaned. Knowing he wouldn’t get back to sleep, he rolled himself out of bed and went to the kitchen, knowing he’d find Hermione there, downing coffee and filling her time with research, baking, or spell creation. She never got over the habits she picked up on the run, always busy and ready to go. As he padded into the entrance, he made sure to make his footsteps a little bit heavier than he needed so she could acknowledge his presence without panic.

It was no surprise to anyone that they had decided to move in together after the war, buying a cottage in the outskirts of Hogsmeade so Hermione could finish school, and Harry could figure out his life. They needed time away from it all, and with Ron taking the victory as a way to drink himself into stupors and glamorize his war stories, they could only count on each other. Well… that wasn’t entirely true, Harry thought. Hermione had insisted all of the trio seek help from a psychiatrist, a squib that knew just enough to think them sane but not enough to be in awe of them, and had near instantaneously diagnosed the both of them with C-PTSD.

While Ron refused to listen to the psychiatrist (he found himself confused by anything muggle), the Golden Girl and Boy were able to just skirt the edge of unhealthy coping mechanisms, using each other as support to prevent them from going too far. There were still nights were Hermione came home with bottles of firewhisky and tears in her eyes, but Harry made sure to lock the floo and hold her close, just as she did when he found himself taking a little too much pain relief potion.

“Harry!” Hermione whirled around from the counter she had initially been leaning against when he entered, her arm moving to cover the counter corner. Harry’s eyes narrowed in the spot, so he quickly moved to hug her, looking over her shoulder to see the open firewhisky next to her coffee. Rough night, then.

“Hermione…” She shook her head to herself, holding onto him tighter.

“I know, I just…” She let out a sob. “I wish I didn’t look as broken as I felt.” He knew she was talking about her arm and neck; she had taken to wearing turtlenecks no matter the weather to prevent some of the horrified gasps. During one of her long nights in the library, wand in hand, Malfoy hesitantly approached her, palms up as a sign of peace. Over time, they had gotten to be… not friends, exactly, but at least acquaintances. Draco had explained that Bellatrix’s dagger had been imbued with her magic, a unique combination of runes and charms that made it near impossible to heal from fully. And so, Hermione set her sights on innovation, turning their small office space into a brewing/dueling room, a dangerous combination for anyone other than her.

She had, of course, found herself at the forefront of R&D for healing and defense, blessed with Neville’s perfect flora and Luna’s… Luna-ness. As surprising as the pair were, they worked well once Hermione stopped debating every last word they exchanged. Luna had a way of saying what Hermione needed, but in the most indirect ways that drew her to new trains of thought. While it was safe to say that Ron was no longer one of her best friends, they were still close, and Harry and her set aside at least one night a month to spend with him, Ginny, Luna, and Neville. Speaking of that…

“You never have and never will look or be as broken as you think, Hermione. Come on, let’s sit, and I’ll read to you, okay?” He pulled away from her a bit, smiling gently. “We need to set up game night later, but first, you need to rest.” With a nod, Hermione wiped off her tears and allowed him to pull her into the living room, their book left on the side table for them to comfort each other as needed. As he read to her, he thought about the past few years, how far they pushed each other to improve.

They had both decided to improve Hogwarts, making their cottage even more convenient. Harry’s original goal to become an Auror had fallen flat as he quickly realized how terrible of an idea it was to keep himself in action. He was the boy who lived not once, but twice, the wizarding world could stand without him every once in a while. But, he couldn’t quite leave behind DADA, and so he became the first professor to hold that position for over a year since Voldemort cursed the position. It was his second year, and he found himself in love with the job, meeting with Hagrid and Neville during his off periods frequently. True to her fashion, Hermione used hers as an opportunity to either prepare materials for Madame Pomfrey or continue her experimentation, smoke and loud noises commonly coming from her classroom’s door as she used the extra cauldrons to her advantage.

She often retreated to the potion room before the weekly Sunday dinners at the burrow, arriving with spots of soot as she rushed into Molly’s arms. The Burrow felt empty more often than not, Ginny losing some of her spark without Fred around to spur her on. George came over rarely, instead going over for brunch during the weekday where there were less people, making it easier to forget about his missing twin. At least he had Ron, who had moved in with him to help restore the Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes and comfort George. Harry was glad that, while now they were further apart, Ron had begun drinking less when he moved in with his brother.

Without being in a daze all the time, Ron had ironically been the first to find different relationships with others, going back to seeing Lavender, but slowly this time. Now, a year since they started dating, she was being brought fully into the fold, Ron bringing her to their cottage for game night. But Harry couldn’t reminisce long, as he found himself having to get ready and set up for the night, as he had read through just under half the book with Hermione, letting themselves find comfort in each other’s presence. Since their time on the run without Ron, their sibling-like bond had become all but permanent. They knew it would only be broken by death or worse, making them a bit of a package deal considering how much they used physical touch to comfort one another.

Once they had set up and their guests had come, Hermione found herself with a notebook and pen (“Not all of us are stuck in the last century, Ronald”), writing down ideas as they come to her during her conversation with Luna. As they perplexed Lavender with their muggle board games (“What’s a spanner and how does it become a murder weapon?”), Hermione had a chance to relax a bit more than usual. She knew she’d always find it ironic that it was Ron and not Harry who had committed to someone first, but she could tell that the cottage owners simply weren’t ready yet. However, as they joked and laughed together, Hermione caught Neville catching Harry’s eye, and seeing as Luna was becoming where her sights were set more and more, she smiled to herself. They weren’t ready yet, but, she wrote down on the corner of her page, they would be soon.

[1-800-444-tune]

How to: #BOS #Grimoire

How To Create Your Own Book Of Shadows

A Book of Shadows is your personal journal of your magical journey. In it, you will write down any notes and insights you receive from other Witches, from the Universe, from your dreams, from books and websites and any other source you find them. You will write down your spells before you cast them and you will make notes about the casting and about your results. You will keep any tables of correspondences, recipes, sketches of magical plants, symbols and just about anything that comes to you that relates in any way to your magical practice.

It is wise for all magical practitioners of any tradition to have a Book Of Shadows as it provides an invaluable resource you will invariably return to time and again when your memory fails, not to mention the incredibly deep insight your periodic review of your Book of Shadows and provide into your own spiritual evolution.

Required Tools:🌻

To create your book of shadows you will need a book. You can purchase a blank journal, or a specialized Book of Shadows online or in many specialty shops. However, do not over-complicate this project. Having a Book of Shadows is more important than the form the Book comes in. A 3-Ring binder with loose leaf paper, or even a spiral notebook or a composition book is suitable to get you started simply for a very low cost. You can always copy your notes into a fancier book later if you can't acquire one now.

Personally, I like a 3-Ring binder because then I can add notes and recipes I've received from other people or printed from the internet. When I go to public rituals, I often receive typed notes from the ritual leaders. If I like the ritual, I want to stick it in my book of shadows. Also, sometimes I'm out and about or don't have access to my binder. I can jot down notes on any 8 1/2 by 11 piece of paper to add to my Book of Shadows later, I can even type it. A 3-ring binder makes it easy (assuming you also have access to a 3-hole punch). AND I can use dividers to make sections. AND it lays flat when it's open, making it easier to follow a recipe. OR I can just take the pages I need out and put them back in again later. AND, My mom made me a nifty embroidered fabric cover for my binder that makes it look and feel like a "real" Book of Shadows (Check out http://makezine.com/craft/how-to_sew_a_simple_fabric_boo/ for directions to do this yourself. You can also make a cover out of paper or get a binder with a clear sleeve on the outside, then you can paint, draw or print out a cover and slide it right into your clear sleeve.

You will also need a pen. Pencil marks wear off over time so a pen is best. Some folks like to have a special pen for their Book of Shadows. A refillable fountain pen is nice. But again, if it's too complicated, just get any old pen and go for it. Do not let your lack of a really cool pen interfere with the creation of your Book of Shadows!!

You will also need whatever tools you generally use to cleanse and consecrate your magical tools

Directions:🌸🕯💐

1. ☆Obtain and Organize Your Book

Consider how you want to organize your book. Although there are other methods, some good possibilities are the Table of Contents or Tab style and the Index Style.

Table of Contents Organization involves dividing your book into sections and having a Table of Contents somewhere in the book, usually near the beginning or end, that lists the starting page number of each section. Alternatively, the sections can be indicated by tabs.

If you are using a 3-ring binder, you can use tabed inserts to mark each section. If you are using a blank book, spiral notebook or composition book, you may wish to number your pages and create a Table of Contents or you can use colored post-it tabs to mark each section in your book. If you create a Table of Contents, make sure you do it on the second page, not the first. Leave the first page blank. Do not try to populate these sections at this time or you may get bogged down. Just create your sections and mark them out and move on to the next task for now. When you are ready to start writing, flip to that section and go for it.

The Index method does not divide up the book into sections. Instead, you list your main topics near the back or front of the book where they can easily be referenced and when you write in your book, you list the page number of what you just wrote under the appropriate topic in your index. So instead of flipping through sections, you would look at your index and see that you wrote about Topic A on page 8, 17, 22, and 91 and turn to those pages to find what you're looking for. Since you wrote the book, you probably wouldn't have to search through all of those pages to find exactly what you were looking for because you might remember that you wrote something recently or a long time ago.

Remember to leave the first page blank.

The following sections are suggested, but you may add or omit whichever sections you wish as best suits your personal practice and do not feel that you have to stick to this order.

1. ☆Rules to Live By

Many practitioners follow certain laws and it's a good idea to have them right up front where you can meditate on them, absorb them, explore them and refer to them quickly and easily. So here is where you keep your copy of The Wiccan Rede, The Charge of the Goddess, The Delphic Maxims, The Seven Hermetic Principles or whatever it is that guides you.

2. ☆Holy Days and Rites of Passage

In this section you will record the dates and special significance of any holy days you celebrate and any rites of passage you experience, either as the recipient of the rite or the officiant of the rite. These may include the traditional Western Sabbats as well as any monthly observances you participate in and any special personal days, such as birthday celebrations, initiations, handfasting and marriage rites, adulthood rites, naming ceremonies and whatever else comes up in your life and personal practice. Write notes about the significance of each event, the rituals tied to each event, including traditional foods, decorations and gift-giving practices as well as special ceremonies and journal each individual event you celebrate. If you celebrate these events with your family, this will make your Book of Shadows a very special heirloom to pass down through the generations.

3. ☆Symbols and Correspondences

In this section, you will keep any tables of correspondence you collect or develop as well as symbols, runes, magical languages, sigils and whatever else that is symbolic in nature that you find useful during your magical journey.

4. ☆Spells

In this section, you will write down each spell you perform before you perform it. Then you will journal about the actual spell after you have performed it and continue journaling about the results of the spell. Include your thoughts about what worked well and what felt weird and how you could have done it differently and how it can be improved.

(See How to Write Your Own Spell) and How to Cast a Spell )

5. ☆Recipes

Every holy day and rite of passage has food associated with it. Many witches also like to prepare special ritual wine or cakes consumed only as part of a magical ritual. If this is you, be sure to include a section for your recipes because it's a long time between Samhain feasts and you'd hate to leave out an ingredient in your famous pumpkin soup. If you have a special chant you like to recite while stirring to imbue your feast with magic, be sure to include this (or a cross-reference to the appropriate section.)

6. ☆Crafts

Many witches enjoy crafting their own magical tools and candles as well as making household items like soap. If this is you, include this section with step-by-step instructions for each item as well as notes for their use, spells that you like to imbue into the item (you can cross-reference to the spell section) and herbs or essential oils you like to use to scent items for specific purposes, seasonal variations, etc.

7. ☆Chants, prayers and songs

There are many lovely chants we come across online, in books and at public rituals and some of us even write our own. Your Book of Shadows should have a section for these even if they can be found in the Holy Day ritual and spell sections. If you have a prayer you say at dawn, at bedtime or at mealtimes, be sure to include these as well.

Do not be afraid to "steal" someone else's chant, prayer or song for your own personal use; that's what they put them out there for, just make sure you write down the name of the author, if you can find it. If you were to publish your book of shadows in either print or digital format (blog, website, e-book, etc.), you will need to contact the author or publisher to ask permission to include it. Otherwise, it will have to be removed from the public version.

8. ▪A Dream Journal

In this section, you will record any significant, especially vivid or recurring dreams that you experience. Include notes about what's going on in your life when you have these dreams.

Some people like to keep a separate dream journal and this is fine too.

(Read Dream Journal and Begin Lucid Dreaming)

9. ▪Journey or Meditation Journal

If you journey, engage in Astral Projection or practice meditation, keep a journal to record your experiences and impressions during these exercises. Be sure to include any music, fragrances or different methods you used so you can judge their effectiveness later.

Some people like to keep a journey or meditation journal separate from their Book of Shadows and this is fine too.

10. ♡Reading Journal

Keep track of whatever books or websites you use to gather information. Take notes in this journal section make sure you write down where the information came from in case you want to look it up again later. Often when I am reading a book (or a website) I will come across a "fact" or an anecdote that I would like to research further. This journal section is invaluable for me in those instances. (I love that my Kindle has a note-taking feature on it, but I do need to copy those notes into the paper journal as well.)

Sometimes you come across a piece of information in a book or website that you'd like to chew on for awhile before you actually add it to your Book of Shadows. This is a good place to jot that down.

11. ☆General Journal Section

It is nice to have an extra section at the end of your Book of Shadows to just journal in. Here you can work on that poem you don't have quite right, or record that omen you saw that may or may not be an omen or expound on how gorgeous the sunset was or make a note to ask Judy where she bought the incense she used at the last esbat because wow, that was some potent stuff and of course you'll want to write down the name of the vendor you discovered at the RenFest that carried the exact beads you've been looking for so you can order more from their website and you'll want to write down the day you felt like you were in a fog all day so you can speculate on the reasoning for your fog later when you're feeling more clearheaded.

12. ♡Decorate your Book

Unless you've purchased your book already decorated, you may wish to decorate it yourself. I had you create sections to make the book usable before I had you decorate it because I want you to be able to use it right away, even if it's not technically "finished" yet (Your Book of Shadows will never be finished). There is nothing more discouraging than the feeling that you have to do a bunch of work before you get started. Now you may decorate it if you wish, but you don't have to. You can paint or draw right on the book, or use scrapbooking supplies if that's what you're into.

You can learn to create a nifty fabric book cover at http://makezine.com/craft/how-to_sew_a_simple_fabric_boo/

Or you can make the good old fashioned paper book cover (you don't have to use a bag if you have craft paper or wrapping paper you'd rather use) http://specialchildren.about.com/od/schoolissues/ss/bookcover2.htm

If you are using a 3-ring binder with a clear sleeve cover, you can simply print off or draw or paint an image that is pleasing to you and slide it into the clear sleeve.

Many people also like to decorate the first page of every section. Feel free to do this as well. You can use scrapbooking tools or if you are an artist, use your own talents. I have also seen Books of Shadows that were illuminated throughout with sketches of herbs, postures, and just doodles and this is wonderful. The more /you/ you put into your Book, the more personal and magical it will become. Just don't get caught up in the decoration and forget to write. Of course, if your an artist and prefer to journal in illustrated form, that's fine too!

13. □Cleanse and Consecrate Your Book

Cleanse your Book using your preferred method and then consecrate it, that is, declare its sacred purpose.

Check out How to Prepare Magickal Tools for Use

Once this is done, open up your book to the first page and write the following:

This is the magical Book of Shadows of {Your magical name} begun this day, {date}

You can elaborate on this if you like, but don't feel you have to. Some folks have written some Book of Shadows blessing rhymes that you might like to use and there are some more elaborate blessing rituals out there. You can find many of these using the search terms "Book of Shadows Blessing" in your favorite search engine. Choose one that you like and that reflects your intentions and beliefs. Or don't and keep it simple.

Now, hold the book out in front of you, preferably over a candle or burning incense (high enough that it won't catch fire) and read aloud what you just wrote.

14. ♡Write in Your Book of Shadows

Many people like to write a bit fancy in their Book of Shadows. Some artsy types use calligraphy, some like to write in a magical language or code. I always write in cursive in my Book of Shadows. It feels fancy to me and is apparently going to be a dead art in another generation. Go ahead and be fancy if you like, but don't get caught up in it. If you find you're spending more time re-writing the calligraphy that's not perfect or looking up magical languagesthan actually writing in your book, ditch the fancy and go for practical. The most important thing is that you write.

Write every day. Keep your Book of Shadows next to your bed so that you can write down your dreams as soon as you wake up and so that it is within arms reach when you wake from a dead sleep with some brilliant insight you won't even remember you had in the morning.

If you don't write every day, at least write every time you do a spell and at every Holy Day.

Additional Comments:🍎

When your Book of Shadows becomes overstuffed, you may wish to archive it and create a new one. I recommend you read through your old book completely first. This will provide useful insight into your magical evolution and will allow you to identify any information you want to make sure gets transferred to the new book.

For More Information:🍎

http://paganwiccan.about.com/od/wiccaandpaganismbasics/ht/BOS.htm

http://lapuliabookofshadows.com/

[oldsolidbooks]

I decided that I should, at least once in a while, do review books on here. It is a book blog, after all, and I originally intended to publish reviews on here. Certainly not each time I finish a book, but once in a while for sure. So that is that.

I want to review a book that I am very fond of - in fact, since I prefer not to dwell on disappointing reads (and usually not even finish them) most if not all books I review are books that I am fond of, but this book is particularly dear to me.

HIS golden locks Time hath to silver turn'd;   O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing! His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurn'd,   But spurn'd in vain; youth waneth by increasing: Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;   And, lovers' sonnets turn'd to holy psalms, A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,   And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms: But though from court to cottage he depart, His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart. And when he saddest sits in homely cell,   He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,— 'Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,   Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.' Goddess, allow this aged man his right To be your beadsman now that was your knight.

— George Peele, A Farewell to Arms or The Old Knight

It is this poem that stars the book, and moves like a thread through the entire book. Knights and beadsmen, and poetry, are as ever-present as trees and rosemary. The last two lines - Goddess, allow this aged man his right // To be your beadsman now that was your knight. - are the very ground that the Manor house and village of Belmaray are built on.

First of all, I’d like to mention, that while this book is many things that I adore, it’s also many things that reviewers often tend to dislike: it values people over plot, it can be slow and quiet and very descriptive, there’s not much physical action or suspense in the traditional sense, it’s full of literary references, and imbued by Elizabeth Goudge’s very particular sort of spirituality, that’s often found to be too deeply based on nature by Christians, and too Christian by everyone else, but that’s just right for me, personally. And it doesn’t fit in a defined genre either.

It is, essentially, about people who are, over the course of the book, growing much happier than before. That is, I think, the most simple way to describe it, and the most truthful, too. I’ve seen descriptions and reviews that said it was about a particular character, but there is no true central character. It is told from many perspectives, without anyone taking the lead. It has been classified as a romance, but it is only so much a romance, as that romantic love is one of many aspects of it. It is very much a story about love - about human love, whether romantic or platonic or familial, about God’s love, of course, about the love people have for nature and animals, and for their home, and for themselves.

But what’s truly the core of the story is that a really small event can have the greatest effects on many people’s lives, and that it’s often the seemingly small things that truly matter. It’s that people can be sad without anything obviously being wrong about their lives, because they don’t understand each other, or themselves, and sometimes because they cannot really bring up the courage and decide to be happer than before. It’s about the great change a kind word can make, about the immense effect of pure determination to be good to others and to onself, the power of attitude. The gentle and monumental butterfly effect of human kindness.

And I love what a conscious thing kindness is in this book, and goodness and niceness is. I love how being friendly and nice is not portayed as a sort of natural talent or gift, but a deliberate skill that is worth exercising - and never too late to learn. And I like the distinction she makes - because in this book (and others of her’s) there’s two sorts of, let’s call it performative goodness - one that is false and dishonest, almost sinister, and one that is actually a sign of a longing to be and act good, and a way to achieve it. Being kind to people, even if you don’t exactly feel like it, is not akin to fake friendliness, it is as good and true as anything. Actual dishonest friendliness is not having an unfriendy word and then saying something nice - it’s saying something nice to a person’s face and then betraying them in some way. Being nasty does not necessarily make a person more authentic, it’s not a sign of one’s honesty. But on the other hand - even the kindest person is mean or unfriendly or nasty at times, and that’s alright too.

The reasons for unhappiness are often small - or they appear small - but all the more realistic, heartfelt, genuine. These characters are very much people, and their worries at times silly and yet having a frightful effect on their lives, often through years of growing inside their minds. On the other hand, deeper issues are very much a matter, mental illness and trauma never being glossed over, or ridiculed. It’s written and set in the 50s, so the horrors of the war have not yet grown distant, not to mention other difficulties of this, and the previous decades.

I’ve said it is a character driven book, and must add that I love these characters. I love that they are people, each and every one of them so delightfully human. And I love the way Elizabeth Goudge wrote children. Children, in adult novels, are so often reduced to props or plot devices, and her children are people, as characters in all ways equal to her adult characters. The oldest point of view characters in this book are in their eighties, the youngest is five years old, with others of all age groups in between them, and all of them are written with equal care and dedication. The characters’ ages do however, greatly affect the way they are written, and how they think and what they do, in good and bad - although Goudge fortunately refrained from assigning a particular age group a particular view or way of life.

It is also of note that all characters are beautifully flawed, and steadily grow over the course of the book, though not with leaving every flaw or fault behind. One character, sadly, chooses not to grow, and though there is no villain in this book (just as there is no hero) this particular character is an unconventional choice for the only truly negative character, although a very good and convincing one.

There is, it seems, a book for almost everything. That is, of course, a good thing. But it often seems to me, that although all sorts of great ideas and experiences, all big and visible and obvious things can be found in literature rather easily, it’s the quiet and small things that are truly hard to find, and even harder to look for. I certainly did not look for the things I found in this book, but I found them and I am glad I did. I often found that some emotions, some little human interactions, fragments of something that lies halway between feeling and thought, are in a way omitted from the majority of literature and other sorts of stories, that the larger things - even the unusual and controversial things - are not. I often wondered whether these things were so normal that nobody thought them worth mentioning, or so strange that nobody else felt them or, if they felt them, dared to write them down. It was a sort of relief to read, all of a sudden, of such little, yet significant things that were so familiar to me, and so unusual to read on a page. It went further even - at times I found myself reading what I had felt myself, but never knew how to put into words. I’ve had this sort of experience with other books - and it’s one of the most beautiful things that can happen while reading a book - but throughout this one in particular, and it was at times rather confusing, even unsettling for a moment, but in the end always comforting.

Or to quote C. S. Lewis:  “A book sometimes crosses ones path which is so like the sound of ones native language in a strange country that it feels almost uncivil not to wave some kind of flag in answer.”

It’s that sort of book for me.

The Rosemary Tree is a Spring book. The air of the cold, sweet Spring, the sunlight and the morning dew, and smell of all things green and growing are what carries the story. The birdsong, most of all. It is a book about change, change for the better, even though not always in the originally desired way. Goudge’s gorgeous descriptions of nature and the changes it goes through in the Spring months work perfectly well with the developments in the characters lives. Birds, and trees, and flowers - everywhere, so vivid and colourful that the book could nearly burst, yet so gentle and elegant that, in the end, it won’t. Her prose is gorgeous, but never purple, though maybe a slight shade of lavender. That’s because her writing can be sweet, but never in a sticky, draining way. It’s fresh, full of cold morning air and the smell of herbs.

And of course, there’s one thing you can always rely on with Ms Goudge - there are always dogs.

[gdelgiproducer]

What’s been your favorite staged version of JCS? (Non-concert)

First, a list of the staged (non-concert) versions of JCS I’ve seen: two high school productions (about which you’ll hear nothing in this post; it’s unfair to judge them in competition with pros), the closing performance of the 2000 Broadway revival, two performances of the national tour that followed said revival (one of which featured Carl Anderson as Judas and Barry Dennen – Pilate on the original album, Broadway, and in the 1973 film – as Herod), and four performances of a national tour initially billed as Ted Neeley’s “farewell” engagement in the role of Jesus. In total, discounting the number of performances of each, five productions, only three of which we will consider here.

The 2000 Broadway revival had basically all the problems of the video of the same production: I’m sure Gale Edwards is a fine director of other shows, but she missed the boat with this particular iteration of JCS. (Not having seen her original production at the Lyceum Theatre in 1996, which unfortunately never left that venue and was reportedly far better than the one that went wide, I can only comment on this version.) Her direction and the production design that accompanied it were full of the kinds of blatant, offensively obvious attempts at symbolism and subtlety that appeal only to pseudo-intellectual theater kids. In real life, there’s no such thing as obvious good vs. obvious evil (things just ain’t black and white, people), and any attempt to portray this concept on stage or in a film usually results in a hokey “comic book” product, which is kind of what the 2000 production was. 

The first thing Edwards did was draw her line in the sand. “These are the good guys, and these are the bad guys.” The overall production design played into this ‘line in the sand’ feel as well, being so plain in its intentions as to almost beat you over the head with them. There may have been some good concepts mixed in, but for a show that runs on moral ambiguity, they were very poorly executed and did damage to the piece. Some examples:

Annas and Caiaphas were devoutly “evil,” seemingly designed to inspire fear.  It’s easy to see good as so very good, and bad as so very bad; to want to have the evil in a nice little box. But it’s not that simple. As Captain Jean-Luc Picard (and now you know where my Star Trek loyalties lie, curse you!) once said, “…villains who twirl their mustaches are easy to spot. Those that clothe themselves in good deeds are well camouflaged.”  Evil isn’t always a clear and recognizable stereotype. Evil could be lurking inside anyone, maybe even in you, and you would never know. People aren’t inherently evil. Like good, it’s a role they grow and live into. And since history is basically a story of the developments and actions of humans over the ages, maybe it’s a mistake to view the characters who’ve played their parts in it so one-dimensionally. It doesn’t dismiss the evil they did, but it does allow one to understand that this potential to be good or to be evil is in everyone, and that it’s not always as simple as just doing the right thing.

Judas was an almost thoroughly unlikable prick (though Tony Vincent played him a tiny bit more sympathetically than Jerome Pradon in the video); in beating Jesus over the head with his cynicism and curt remarks, any sense of a fully three dimensional person was lost, leaving us with a total, utter dickhead. If the audience is to truly feel for Judas, and appreciate his fall, it’s imperative for them to see his positive relationship with Jesus. More importantly, it has to be readily apparent. It shouldn’t be the audience’s responsibility to assume as much. I never once saw any love, or even a hint of friendship, between Jesus and Judas in the 2000 production. Judas’ interactions with Jesus were a constant barrage of either completely in-your-face aggression, or more restrained (but still fully palpable) aggression. No hint of a conflict in him, or at least none the audience could see, and what use is a conflict or emotion if the audience isn’t privy to it?

And when not telegraphing an ultra-specific view of the story’s events, everything else about the design would’ve left a first-time viewer befogged. Young me liked the industrial, post-apocalyptic, pseudo-Gotham City atmosphere of the set. Older me still likes it (though I am firm in my opinion it works best on stage), but realizes what a mess the rest of it was. We’ve got Jesus and the apostles straight out of Rent, Roman guards that looked (with the choice of riot gear) like an army of Darth Vader clones with nightsticks substituting for light sabers, priests that practically stepped off the screen from The Matrix, a Pilate in generic neo-Nazi regalia, a Herod with showgirls and chorus boys that seemed to have visited from a flash-and-trash third-rate Vegas spectacular, a Temple full of ethnic stereotypes and a mish-mosh of dime-store criminals, and a creepy mob with a striking resemblance to The Addams Family that only popped up in the show’s darker moments. Lots of interesting ideas which might work (operative word being “might”) decently in productions of their own, all tossed in to spice up a rather bland soup. The solution to having a bunch of conflicting ideas is not to throw all of them at the wall at once; you look for a pattern to present itself, and follow it. If no pattern emerges from the ideas you have, it’s a sign you should start over.

You can see what my basic issue was: where other productions at least explored motivation, examining possibilities and presenting conflicting viewpoints for consideration, the 2000 production (when not utterly confused in its storytelling thanks to conflicting design) blatantly stated what it thought the motivation was without any room for interpretation – this is who they are, what they did, why they did it, so switch off your brain and accept what we put in front of you. Which, to me, is the total opposite of what JCS is about; it didn’t get famous for espousing that view, but for going totally against the grain of that.

The national tour at least had Carl and Barry to recommend for it the first time around, but for all the mistakes it corrected about the 2000 revival (swapping out the shady market in the Temple for a scene where stockbrokers worshiped the almighty dollar, with an electronic ticker broadcasting then-topical references to Enron, ImClone, and Viagra, among others, was a fun twist, and, for me, Barry Dennen gave the definitive performance of Herod), it introduced some confusing new ones as well:

For one, Carl – and, later, his replacement, Lawrence Clayton – looked twice the age of the other actors onstage. Granted, Christ was only 33 when this happened, but next to both Carl and Clayton, Eric Kunze (I thankfully never caught his predecessor) looked almost like a teenager. When Ted and Carl did the show in the Nineties and both were in their fifties, they were past the correct ages for their characters, but it worked – in addition to their being terrific performers and friends in real life whose chemistry was reflected onstage – because they were around the same age, so it wasn’t so glaring. Without that dynamic, the way Jesus and Judas looked together just seemed weird, and it didn’t help anyone accept their relationship.

Speaking of looking weird together, the performer playing Caiaphas – who was bald, and so unfortunately resembled a member of the Blue Man Group thanks to the color of lighting frequently focused on the priests – was enormously big and tall, while the actor in the role of Annas was extremely short. Basically, Big Guy, Little Guy in action. Every time I saw them onstage, I had to stifle the urge to laugh out loud. I’ve written a great deal about how Caiaphas and Annas are not (supposed to be) the show’s villains, but that’s still not the reaction I should have to them.

The relentlessness of pace was ridiculous. It was so fast that the show, which started at 1:40 PM, was down by 3:30 PM – and that included a 20-minute intermission. What time does that leave for any moments to be taken at all? A scene barely even ended before the next began. At the end of the Temple scene, Jesus threw all the lepers out, rolled over, and there was Mary singing the “Everything’s Alright” reprise already. How about a second to breathe for Mary to get there? Nope. How about giving Judas and Jesus two seconds’ break in the betrayal scene at Gethsemane? The guards were already grabbing Christ the minute he was kissed. I was so absolutely exhausted towards the end of the show that I was tempted to holler at the stage to please slow down for a minute. The pace didn’t allow for any moment in the show to be completed, if it was ever begun; it was just too fast to really take advantage of subtle touches and moments the actors could’ve had, and as a result, I think they were unable to build even a general emotional connection, because one certainly didn’t come across.

The cast was uniformly talented singing-wise, with excellent ranges and very accomplished voices. (In fact, the second time around, the woman understudying Mary, Darlesia Cearcy, walked away with the whole show in my opinion, and I am incredibly glad to have seen her career take off since then.) But, in addition to some being more concerned with singing the notes on the page just because they were there than imbuing them with emotion and motivation, the cast was undercut by the choices that production made with the music. For one, there’s a huge difference between singing “words and notes” and singing “lyrics and phrases.” When you have a phrase like “Ah, gentlemen, you know why we are here / We’ve not much time, and quite a problem here…” you sing the sentence, and if sometimes a word needs to be spoken, you do that. You don’t make sure you hit every single note by treating each like a “money note” (which you hit and hold as long as you can to make sure everyone hears it), dragging out the tempo to hang on to each note as long as you can. Generally, the actors were so busy making sure every note was sung – and worse, sung like a money note – that they missed the point of singing a phrase, and how to use one to their advantage. Caiaphas and Pilate were particularly egregious offenders. (I’ve never understood some of these conductors who are so concerned that every note written has to be sung. The result suffers from it.) 

And then there’s Ted’s production. Of the three, it’s the one I liked the most, but that’s not saying much when it was better by default. 

The production design was stripped-down, the set basically limited to a bridge, some steps, a stage deck with some levels, and a couple of drops (and a noose) that were “flown in.” The costumes were simple, the sound was very well-balanced, and the lighting was the icing on the cake. Combined, the story they told was clear.

The music sounded very full, considering the pit consisted of a five-piece band relying in part on orchestral samples.

Ted, for being of advanced age, was in terrific form vocally, if his acting fell back a little much on huge, obvious, emotive gestures and choices. (I love him and all, but his attempts at acting were kind of like a “Mr. Jesus” pageant, striking all the appropriate Renaissance poses. The film, through editing and close-ups, allows him a subtlety he just ain’t got onstage.)

And there were some beautiful stage pictures; for example, there was a drop with an image of a coin with Caesar’s head on it in the Temple scene, and it fell on the crowd when Jesus cleared out the riff-raff. In the leper sequence that followed, the chorus’ heads popped out of holes in the cloth, under which they undulated, pulsing to the beat, and rather than being treated as a literal mob scene, the sequence had a very dream-like effect, a mass of lost souls reaching out to Christ. It was rather like a Blake painting, with a creepy vibe in a different manner from the typical “physically overwhelm him” approach. He didn’t interact with them, didn’t even turn to look at them, until finally he whipped around with a banishing thrust of his arm, hollering “Heal yourselves!” Sometimes it was over-acted with annoying character voices (remember, I saw this four times), but when it wasn’t, the effect was chilling.

My main beef with the show was, oddly enough, on a similar line to my beef with Gale Edwards’ production: it drew lines in the sand. But in this case, it drew them with respect to Jesus’ divinity. 

As written, JCS deals with Jesus as if he were only a man, and not the Son of God. The show never suggests that Jesus isn’t divine, but neither does it reinforce the view that he is. Portrayed in detail in JCS is the mostly-unexplored human side: ecstasy and depression, trial and error, success and regret. He agonizes over his fate, is often unsure of his divinity, and rails at God. Not so in this production. Aside from “The Temple” and “Gethsemane,” there was never any room for doubt that Jesus was the mystical, magic man portrayed in the Gospels.

At the top of the show, after a fight between his followers and the Romans during the overture (a popular staging choice I’m not a real fan of, but you’ve got to do something during that moment in a fully staged version, and I understand why it’s an easy choice to make for exposition purposes), Jesus made his majestic entrance, spotlit in robes that looked whiter than Clorox bleach could produce, and raised a man from the dead. Well, where’s the room for Judas to doubt? Clearly “this talk of God is true,” we just saw it! If this guy is actually capable of performing miracles, and more than that specializes in necromancy, good luck telling him that fame has gone to his head at the expense of the message and he’s losing sight of the consequences! Try explaining to anyone that that person is “just a man”!

If that weren’t enough, Jesus went on to have a constant connection with God throughout the show, speaking to a spotlight that focused only on him and often served to distract him from anything else happening onstage, and at the end, during “John 19:41,” his body separated from the cross, which fell back into the stage, and he ascended to heaven. 

Now, though the former was admittedly played to excess (some reviewers unkindly compared Neeley to a homeless man with Bluetooth), there are arguments to be made in favor of both of these choices: a Jesus who constantly seeks a connection with God that isn’t reciprocated, searching for guidance or at least a friggin’ clue, is great foreshadowing for his eruption – and acceptance – in “Gethsemane.” As for the ascension, depending on how it’s staged, there’s room for argument that it could be interpreted more metaphorically than literally, as the moment when Jesus’ spirit is born, as Carl Anderson once put it (meaning, to me, that his message is given life and strength when his body fails him). But this production didn’t have that level of shading and layers to it, and coupled with the resurrection at the start, it defeated the rest of the story.

None of ‘em’s perfect, and I don’t think I could create the perfect one. Thus, concert.

[thebookbin]

This Tender Land

William Kent Krueger

Publisher: Atria Books Genre: historical fiction, literary fiction Year: 2019

It took me longer than usual to read and digest This Tender Land. At first I wanted to tear through it: it's right up my alley. A novel about kids, the found family trope, and exploring the American heartland? All things that sing to my heart. But as I started reading, I felt like this book was so powerful, that I regularly had to put it down and step away instead of devouring it like I usually would.

WORLDBUILDING

Krueger is a fantastic writer and This Tender Land is an incredibly immersive experience. I know a lot about the 1930's in an academic sense, but Krueger has a magnificent way of making the time period come to life. From the desperation that drove people to horrible ends, to the common suffering that lead to the deepest of compassion, the narrative seamlessly wove together a tale of race tensions, financial instability, and deep rooted connections to community that made me feel like I was living and breathing during that one summer in 1932.

PLOT

The story follows 4 orphans and their escape from the Lincoln Indian Training School down the Gilead river. Their intent is to escape, really, to leave the horror behind them, but what they each really yearn for is a place to call home. Their journey, meandering like the river they follow, has twists and turns, as they meet all sorts of people, each with their own gifts and their own ghosts. The world can be an incredibly cruel place, but also one filled with compassion. Ultimately our little band of vagabonds are struggling with which side the world really falls on.

THEMES & TONES

This novel is a love letter to Huckleberry Finn and the Odyssey, but only in the best of ways. Where Huckleberry Finn, both features racism and is imbued with racism, This Tender Land approaches the matter of Native American internment with grace and sensitivity. The journey that the kids take downriver is a journey about finding home as much as it is about finding one's soul.

I was worried going in, about the idea of overt Christian themes, as a lot of the Christian fiction I've encountered can be stiff, hollow, and lacking compassion. While Odie does often wrestle with the nature of god, and his older self who is narrating the story clearly believes in some form of god, but I didn't find it to be a hindrance to the story.

CHARACTERS & CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT

Odie O'Banion is a clever and cheeky boy, and you can't help but love him right from the start. He's powerless in almost every way, and yet he can't seem to stay quiet when he sees an injustice to his twelve year-old eyes. Because of this, he often find himself in trouble but he's such an earnest kid, and his struggles and questions about the world are so earnest, you can't help but love him.

Albert was the quiet hero of the novel. Always looking out for his younger brother, and always looking to keep the group alive and together, Albert didn't often receive love or attention from his brother. But he so diligently takes the lead, and is so quietly compassionate, I loved him fiercely.

I was afraid Mose was going to be a stereotypical Native American character. He's mute because his tongue was cut out as a child, and he seems to always have a cheerful outlook on life. But over the course of the novel, he reconnects with his Sioux heritage, and finally learns what was taken from him, and what he never got the chance to experience. His arc is intricate, heartfelt, and profound.

Emmy is just a little girl. She mostly serves as a plot device, but my favorite thing was to watch these older teen boys just love her and want to take care of her as best they can. I also love her random and very cryptic statements.

TECHNICAL SKILL

Kreuger is a master of his craft, and I was transported from the page to the story. His writing is lyrical and both of Odie's voices, his young and old voice, mesh together seamlessly.

"In every good tale there is a seed of truth, and from that seed a lovely story grows. Some of what I've told you is true and some... well, let's just call it the bloom on the rosebush."

OVERALL

I think this novel truly supplants Huckleberry Finn as a great American classic, that tackles all the same issues, but does so without the rampant racism. The children are still in their formative years, and are so tender to be abused so early in life. They're each searching for something unknown to them, and it's truly a gorgeous journey to behold. It can be sad, and brutal, and so incredibly hopeful, it's a true coming-of-age experience that will appeal to the young and old alike.

MY RECOMMENDATION

If you love classics, but need some new material, you'll fall in love with This Tender Land. Especially if you love historical fiction, this is the book for you.

goodreads | amazon

RATING: ★★★★★

Houston: Murder by the Book

I had the wonderful opportunity to see Krueger (he prefers Kent) at my local mystery store Murder by the Book. Kent was a fantastic speaker, and offered a lot of insights to this book, and his writing in general. 

Kent is a very soft-spoken man, but he feels heartfelt and genuine. He has a way of weaving words, even as he speaks, that’s mesmerizing. Most of his readers seemed to be from an older generation, I’d guess I was the youngest one there by 20 years at least, but I think it some younger readers, and writers especially, could really benefit from his expertise. If I ever got the chance, I would jump to take his writing class and learn from him.

[jounetsulovers]

Title. the silence in between.

Rating: g.

yukie, amagi, mahoro. a friendship in four acts. part 1/4.

read on ao3.

Grandfather likes to spin tall tales about Yukie’s birth: how there was not a single star in the sky until her first cry, when the clouds parted and they lit up the night. Sometimes, the first light of morning filters through the blinds the very moment she opens her eyes. Once, her birth fell upon the first snow of the season. She is always born in the house, but every other detail seems to change every time she asks--which is never, really, but occasionally her grandfather’s mind wanders to times long since passed, and Yukie smiles where her mother sighs.

She takes after her mother more than anyone else in looks, with the old family photos to prove it. But her mother is a realist, sharp mind and intense stare with a restless energy that seems too small for the walls of the family shop. Yukie tries sitting up straight at the breakfast table like she does, to emulate her brand of grace, but it is impossible to commit to entirely. While her mother has no time for fairy tales, there is a part of her that beams at her grandfather when her mother’s back is turned, that wants to entertain the idea that she could be born under a full moon, or at the first snow of the year, imbued with a little bit of magic.

That sort of hope is contagious.

The family building is bigger than it appears, at least a hundred years old, maybe more. Downstairs is the family shop, and one day when she is old enough to sit still and read without fidgeting, she traces back decades of family members, all at one time or another under the same shop roof. The business is part antique collection, and part bookstore, but they have always made their name in the trading of techniques.

“Once upon a time, people would have said it was a type of magic, the things these players can do,” Yukie’s grandfather muses, adjusting his glasses and sneezing as he shuffles around the same path every morning, dusting every inch of the shelves and yet still somehow missing the corners. When she is tall enough, she shadows him, and methodically lifts book after book and flips through the pages gingerly. Some texts for sale are newer, hardback with sleek dust covers; some are so old she is afraid to breathe on them, lest they crumble to dust between her fingers.

He’s never actually offered an explanation as to how they can do the moves documented within, and most of the books, when not full of diagrams, are thick with words and theory that go right above her head and meld together until they hurt her eyes.

He takes her to an exhibition match at the end of summer, Sengoku Igajima versus Senbayama Junior High, and in one afternoon, Yukie is convinced that magic does exist.

She is enraptured, staring down at the players first from her seat, then from her grandfather’s lap for that extra inch of view, and then, with five minutes left in the second half, she is on her feet cheering. Who wins does not matter as players flit in and out of existence, as a stone wall rises from the ground at the very last second, towering over the defenders. They are perfectly tied one-to-one and the world seems to stop when, against all odds, Sengoku Igajima’s number ten flits through the impasse and the ball soars, barely missing the fingertips of Senbayama’s goalkeeper.

The crowd explodes around her, the swell of energy surrounding her electric.

(Somehow, in the chaos, she sees a pair of boys four rows down, one with a shock of bright hair leaning over the railing precariously, seemingly desperate to get any bit closer he can. The other is taller, arms around his friend’s waist, yelling--perhaps at him--to not tip over. She has a feeling neither of their eyes leave the field.)

Yukie’s mother does not understand soccer--or maybe she does, but does not want to. She gets a job offer in Sapporo, and does not protest much when Yukie does not want to move with her, away from her grandfather and the shop.

“There are nice middle schools up there,” she says distantly, and after a moment of hesitation embraces her with a promise to visit on holidays.

And then there are no more sighs to punctuate her grandfather’s stories.

(When school is in session after summer break, she does best to hold on to that promise, the last words of a mother that has vanished like smoke. School feels longer with every day, lonelier with every passing minute. No one wants much to do with a girl who smells of dust, who lives in the ancient, imposing building with dark curtains and candlelight. One person’s magic is another classroom’s curse, and she is not the best at conversation. It gets tiring, fending off childish rumors that her grandfather’s shop is haunted, so she keeps to herself, and they avoid her in turn.)

They get enough foot traffic to keep them busy during tournament season, and she proudly sits behind the counter, perched on a stool to properly see above the desk. They get curious adults in on their lunch break, keeping to themselves while eyeing the shelves. First year hopefuls in their fresh Raimon uniforms pass through often, and Yukie gets good at remembering where each manual is, and even better at pulling their names from the half-formed descriptions of excited fans.

Here, she is in her element, and grows more and more confident on speaking about the books they sell. Slowly, the words and theories between the pages starts making sense in a way nothing else has.

One Sunday, her grandfather is in the back. They’ve just opened for the day, and Yukie is slowly working her way through homework she had stubbornly stuffed into her backpack and forgotten about, then tucked between a book she’d been slowly eating through as a bookmark to suffer the same fate. Trying to concentrate, she almost misses the shadows cast in the mid-morning light until they obscure the light filtering out from inside the open entryway.

Yukie looks up and squints, and sees two figures standing there, barely any taller than her. There’s a boy with goggles atop his head meekly standing with his hands firmly on the shoulders of his friend, whose look of determination is offset by trembling knees. He tries to look stern but his lip quivers a little when they make eye contact.

“...Hello?” Yukie offers, setting down her pencil.

She thinks the “fearless” boy gulps in reply.

The girl hops down from the stool behind the desk and treads lightly, crawling under the collapsable part of the front counter to reach the other side. She half-expects them to run.

“...We’re ope--”

“W… We’re--”

“--Lookin’ f-for a manual!”

The boys are not in her class, but she knows she’s seen them before. When the shorter boy tries to speak with his slightly-quivering lips, the boy with the goggles spits it out. Neither of them make a move to come any further inside.

Yukie’s brow furrows for a moment, and then something--the iron-clad grip on shoulders, the singular focus and the shock of bright red hair--sparks her memory to life.

“You… you two were at the match last month! I saw you almost fall over and split your head open!”

Both boys’ mouths hang open, but it finally coaxes something other than fear from the boy in front: “Nuh-uh. Did not!”

“Didja see that last-second goal?” the boy with the goggles speaks up, face suddenly alight. “No way were they gonna make it, but--”

“I knew he would!” insists the other boy, turning to look back at his friend. They bicker amongst themselves for a moment and Yukie bolts quickly over to the left corner of the store, where the older publications line the shelves. Sengoku Igajima does not make their methods or moves public knowledge. That fact has never stopped enterprising fans from crafting their own versions from memory.

Technically, this book is from the heyday of the Inazuma Eleven, an unauthorized print of wild speculation that includes one set of instructions for teaching a striker how to make their own “ball of earth.”

It’s heavy, but Yukie drags it over to the counter, where it lands with a sharp enough thud that it takes both boys’ attention from their heated debate.

“Don’t you wanna come inside?”

They look at each other, but when they shuffle towards the front back of the shop, the fear is all but gone.

Yukie drags over step stools to the counter in lieu of actual chairs for her guests, and then crawls back to the other side of the desk to reclaim her own seat.

They spend the better part of an hour pouring through the book.

(The homework remained unfinished for the day.)

[uk-news-talking-politics]

Stan Lee's super-hero vision defined the world outside our window

By Ian Dunt

Yesterday, Stan Lee died. He was the creator, in collaboration with others, of countless superheros, including Spider-Man, the Hulk, Daredevil, the Fantastic Four, Black Panther, X-Men, Thor and Iron Man. These characters are now the engine of the global blockbuster movie industry, as well as countless cartoons, childrens toys and, of course, comics. They are part of the wallpaper of our world. Barely a day will go by without you spotting them somewhere, whether it's in a shop window, or the T-shirt of a passerby, or a lunchbox. It is hard to think of a single other figure who contributed so much to the culture we live in today.

There was a dark side to his animated public persona. You could spend an article talking about the failure to properly reward other creators, or the charges to fans for autographs, or the weird and unpleasant recriminations around his household in his later years. Underneath the superhero shine, there was a money machine, working as money machines always do. But today isn't the day for that. Today is the day to recognise his achievements. He wanted to portray the world outside your window. And that world was a vibrant place of multicultural myth-making.

Before Lee, comics had become a fairly stuffy affair. The Golden Age of comics, in the late 30s and early 40s, when characters like Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman were created, was originally imbued with a odd type of transgression. Superman was the product of Jewish immigrants to the US and acted as a deified version of that experience. Batman had a troubling noirish elasticity. Early Wonder Woman comics were obsessed with ideas of loving submission and female superiority.

But in the 1950s, the genre had been targeted by moral puritans. Psychiatrist Fredric Wertham's book 'Seduction of the Innocent' claimed, among other things, that the stories of Batman and Robin were "psychologically homosexual", triggering a moral panic among legislators and parents. The Comics Code Authority was set up, demanding strict moral guidelines in stories. The  "sanctity of marriage" had to be emphasised in romance. Figures of authority would be presented in ways which promoted respect. "In every instance good shall triumph over evil," it demanded. It was an artistic death sentence. The readership left in droves as the creativity and daring was regulated out of existence.

But regulations rarely work the way they're intended. They tend to push things in weird directions, as people try to game the system. For many superhero comics, like Batman, the hero was pushed away from street-level crime stories towards grand and colourful sci-fi plots, which ended up linking arms with the psychedelic drug-infused hippie culture of the 60s. This was picked up later by writers like Grant Morrison to make a kind of mind-expanding anarchic infrastructure to the genre.

But Lee's response to this stifling culture was to bring back readers by humanising the super heroes. The universe he created, in an unsurpassed frenzy of creativity in the 60s, was designed to reflect the "world outside your window". Instead of fictional cities like Metropolis, which represented sun-lit progress, and Gotham, which represented gothic noir, stories were set in real locations. The characters were chiseled away at too. The square-jawed moral perfection of characters like Superman were replaced with fundamentally flawed, bickering personalities, whose own weaknesses and failings drove their narrative arcs.

Lee, who was himself the child of immigrants, populated his universe with a colourful collection of characters, from different classes, races and sexes, and with different personalities and body-types. It was a kind of lunatic multiculturalism, a place where diversity was injected into every element of the stories.

The Thing was rough-and-ready, working class and from the Lower East Side. His best friend with the thin, intellectual, distant Reed Richards. Spider-Man was a nerdy orphan living with his aunt and uncle. Scientist Bruce Banner was turned into a Jekyll-and-Hyde green monster which reflected his own internal angst. Tony Stark was a billionaire industrialist, who would later develop a drink problem. Thor was a Norse God, who spoke in cod-Shakespearean language. Daredevil was an inner-city lawyer whose disability gave him enhanced perception. Black Panther was an African king, of a nation which was far more technologically advanced than anything in the West. The X-Men were mutants who were hated and feared by society. They functioned as a metaphor for whichever minority the writer wished to project onto them, from race, to sexuality, to, in the recent Logan movie, immigrants in general. These characters were jumbled up together, offering a crazed milieu of language and preoccupations and striking visual imagery.

Lee had taken the Platonic form of super heroes, they way they encapsulate one idea perfectly, and injected real like drama into them. By doing so he made them relevant. Any kid reading a comic could picture themself as the weedy, geeky Spider-Man. He allowed people to feel they could act like superheroes, rather than just look up to them. The relevance he provided was not just emotional. It was political. By making them like us, the comics implicitly suggested we could be like them.

This was reflected in his Stan's Soap Box, a little comment section he'd tuck away in the comic, written in his rhythmic splashy style, which would regularly kick back against racism and discrimination. "Let's lay it right on the line," he wrote in 1968, "Bigotry and racism are among the deadliest social ills plaguing the world today."

Years later, towards the end of this life, he put out a video making a similar point. "Those stories have room for everyone, regardless of their race, gender or color of their skin. The only things we don't have room for are hatred, intolerance and bigotry." This was moral instruction, but of the best kind. It opened doors, rather than closing them.

It wasn't perfect, by any means. The Marvel universe was still overwhelmingly populated by white male protagonists, even if they were varied within that context. But this attitude, and the bizarre, super-serum-injected sense of genre multiculturalism, embedded itself into the DNA of the Marvel universe. When I was growing up in the 80s - decades before a female Doctor Who was a twinkle in a BBC producer's eye - a black female character called Storm was already leader of the X-Men. It continues in Marvel comics today, where a half-black half-Latino kid called Miles Morales wears the Spider-Man costume and one of the most popular current characters is Ms Marvel, a Muslim teenager in New Jersey.

Now that these characters have gone mainstream, out of the comics page and onto cinema screens across the world, they have taken that cultural mechanism and spread it to places his books would never have reached. The recent Black Panther film, starring an almost all-black cast and directed by an African-American, took $201.8 million in the US alone in its opening weekend, making it the fifth biggest opening of all time. It's the the of financial performance which fundamentally recalibrates Hollywood's calculations about the viability of future projects.

One of the reasons that's possible is because of the flawed characters at the heart of these super heroes, the fact that the drama does not lie in their costumes, or their antics, or even their identity, but in their personality and the tiny tragedies that Lee injected into each of them as a driving motive.

This is now Stan Lee's world and we just live in it. It's a welcoming, open world. We have a lot to thank him for.

[swanqueeneverafter]

48. Broken Heart, Pt.1

Storybrooke. Present. Beneath The Clock Tower. (Emma has Mr. Gold tied to a wall as she enters. Placing a bowl of food beside him, she uses her powers to untie him.) Emma: “Better eat up. You're gonna need your strength if you're going to remove this sword.” (She walks over to Excalibur as Mr. Gold watches her, warily.) Mr. Gold: “I, uh, I won't be able to do that. You should really just let me go. Please. I-I need to see Belle.” Emma: (Crossing her arms, she leans on Excalibur:) “You're not going anywhere until you get me my sword.” Mr. Gold: “Well, you have so much power. W-w-why do you need Excalibur?” Emma: “Tell me, when you were the Dark One, did you advertise your plans?” Mr. Gold: “My plans were always hidden. But my reasons were not. Every time I used magic, I told myself it was all for my son... to protect him.” Emma: “How noble.” Mr. Gold: “Despite my best intentions... I still lost him.” Emma: “I'm stronger than you were.” Mr. Gold: (Takes a step towards her, but his hobbled leg causes him to stumble:) “Well, that... that really doesn't matter. The more you justify what you're doing, the more you push them away. And take it from me... you will always lose the ones you love the most.” Emma: (Her expression unreadable:) “Merida.” Merida: (Appearing from the shadows:) “Yes, Dark One?” Emma: “Get him out of my sight. Take him to the woods and begin.” Merida: “How long do you think you can hold my heart and threaten me?” Emma: “As long as it takes me to get what I want.” Merida: “Maybe. But I'm thinking I can break your spell!” (Merida lunges, but Emma turns, holding Merida’s heart in her hand.) Emma: (Squeezing the heart:) “Now take him to the woods... and make me a hero.” (Emma stops squeezing and Merida reluctantly walks over to Mr. Gold. She takes his arm as Emma uses magic to transport them to the woods.)

Storybrooke. Main Street. (Regina, Mary Margaret and David are walking together.) Regina: “What do you mean a dance?” Mary Margaret: “It was Henry's idea. Violet and her father were brought here from Camelot and they're feeling a little... out of place.” Regina: “So you want us to throw a street party for two people?” Mary Margaret: “No. Everyone here needs a little hope, Regina. I think it's time Storybrooke had a ball.” Regina: “May I remind you that this girl broke Henry's heart back in Camelot?” David: “If at first you don't succeed...” Regina: (Rolling her eyes:) “Ugh. Spare me the farmer's wisdom, David.” David: “Shepherd.” Regina: “Whatever.” (At that moment, Belle runs over to them, carrying the enchanted rose under her arm.) Mary Margaret: “Belle. What is it?” Belle: “It's, uh, it's Rumple.” Mary Margaret: “What happened?” Belle: “He's missing.” Outside Granny’s Diner. (Violet sits alone as Henry approaches.) Henry: “Hey. Did you see my text? (Takes a seat next to her:) About the block party.” Violet: “Oh, yes. Um...” Henry: “Everything okay?” Violet: “I'm afraid I'm not in the mood for parties. My horse ran off this morning.” Henry: “Oh... oh, no. Did you check the stables?” Violet: “He's gone. My father's out right now trying to lure Nico with some pumpkin. It's his favorite treat.” Henry: “It's okay. He'll come back. The town isn't that big. Maybe tonight will help you get your mind off of it.” Violet: “Henry, I can't go dancing or go to a party or anything... not while he's still out there.” Henry: “I'm gonna find your horse, Violet. And I know just the person to help.” Somewhere In The Woods. (Merida tosses a sword at Mr. Gold’s feet as he struggles to stand.) Merida: “Don't think about running. With that limp, you wouldn't make it ten feet. Pick up the bloody sword and let's make a hero of you.” Mr. Gold: “But I-I can barely stand, much less fight someone.” (Merida thinks a moment before taking a branch from the ground and handing it to Mr. Gold.) Merida: “Now you can stand. All a man needs is a sword and one good hand. You've got both, so pick it up.” (Gingerly, Mr. Gold leans down to pick up the sword. As soon as he does, Merida knocks it out of his hand.) Mr. Gold: “Look, t-this is useless. If she wants me to pull Excalibur, then... then let me try. When I fail, she can move on.” Merida: “When you fail, there's no moving on. You turn to dust.” Mr. Gold: “What do you care what happens to me?” Merida: “I don't! I care what happens to me! And my brothers and my kingdom... none of which I can help while this goes on. So whether you like it or not, you're going to get me home.” Mr. Gold: “I can never be brave.” Merida: (To herself:) “Me whole fate rests in a coward's hands. It's really come to this? (To Gold:) Yes, you will be. You have to.” Mr. Gold: “You have the wrong man.” Merida: “Well, if words won't drive you, we'll have to figure another way, now, won't we? There has to be something. And I'm gonna find it.” (Merida knocks Mr. Gold out with the hilt of her sword.) 

Mills House. Porch. (Having just been summoned by Henry, Emma appears before him.) Emma: “I’m beginning to feel like Beetlejuice, kid.” Henry: “Do you remember why I first brought you to Storybrooke?” Emma: “Of course... Operation Cobra. Bring back all the happy endings.” Henry: “Well, your mission isn't over.” Emma: “Henry, things are different now.” Henry: “They don't have to be. Show me that the mom I know is still in there somewhere.” Emma: “She is. This is me.” Henry: “Then prove it. Help me return my friend's happy ending.” (A short time later, they walk down the path towards Emma’s car.) Emma: “So, the horse likes pumpkin, huh?” Henry: “Yeah. Violet's dad is out trying to lure it with some.” Emma: “Back in my bail-bondsperson days, I caught a guy because he loved pizza, but I didn't walk around randomly holding a slice of pepperoni. There is a better way.” Henry: “I've missed this... us. Operation Cobra.” Emma: “Me too. (Emma and Henry get into Emma's yellow bug:) So, tell me about you and Violet.” Henry: “She's okay. We like some of the same stuff.” Emma: “Like what?” Henry: “I played her some music, and she was into it.” Emma: “What did you play?” Henry: “Yaz.” Emma: “What song?” Henry: “Only You.” Emma: “Did your dad teach you that move?” Henry: “He said it always works.” Emma: “Did with me. He loved that song.” Henry: “It's a good song.” Emma: “Yeah, it is. (Starts the engine:) Okay. Let's get your girl's horse. I have a good idea where to start.” Mayor's Office. (Merida slams the Once Upon a Time storybook onto the desk. She turns to the page where Rumplestiltskin is holding the chipped tea cup in front of Belle. Smiling, Merida closes the book.) Mr. Gold's Shop. (Merida shoots an arrow into the door, shattering the lock. Entering, she searches the shop until finding what she wants.) Merida: (Breathes deeply:) “There we go. That'll do.” 

Beneath The Clock Tower. (Regina, Robin and Belle walk through the tunnels beneath the clock tower.) Regina: “Showtime. Henry says he's got Emma occupied.” Robin: “You told Henry what we're doing?” Regina: “No, but he'll let us know when she's headed back. Let's do this. (They walk on until they reach the stone where Excalibur rests:) Well, now we know what she’s hiding.” Robin: “Excalibur. It’s back in the stone, but how?” Belle: (Taking a closer look:) “I never got to take a good look at it in Camelot, It's the... the same design, the same edges.” Regina: “Well they were both forged from the Holy Grail. What the hell does she want with this? And with Gold. What is she up to?” Robin: “Well, given her secretiveness, I'd wager whatever it is, it's not good. Let's take a better look at the thing and find out.” (Robin reaches for the sword's hilt.) Regina: “Stop! It could be booby-trapped. You could get killed.” Peter's Pumpkin Stand. (Henry and Emma step out of the car.) Henry: “Mom, this is genius!” Emma: “Yeah, when the first curse ended, this Peter guy opened this place. I wouldn't have known about it, but it got so many noise complaints. I guess ‘Peter Peter’ likes his parties. Hadn't thought of it ‘till you mentioned the pumpkins, though.” (Nicodemus whinnies.) Henry: “Violet wasn't kidding. Look!” Emma: “Would you look at that. Come on. (They walk towards the horse. Neighing, Nicodemus shies away from Emma:) Careful, Henry. I got this.” (The horse rears up again, neighing.) Henry: “Mom, you need to step back and let me handle this.” Emma: “I didn't do anything.” Henry: “You're the Dark One. Now get back.” (Nicodemus is snorting, stamping as Henry picks up a piece of pumpkin and approaches the animal.) Emma: (Anxiously:) “Henry...” Henry: “It's okay. I got it. (To Nicodemus:) It's okay, Nicodemus. Come here, boy. It's okay, Nicodemus. Come here, boy. Come here. Yeah. Here you go. (Henry lures the horse in by holding the bit of pumpkin towards the horse's mouth while his other hand reaches for the reins:) There we go. See? Told ya.” Emma: (Impressed:) “Now that you've got your girl's horse, don't you have a dance to get to?” 

Beneath The Clock Tower. (Belle walks over to the wall behind the sword.) Belle: (Sighs:) “He was here. Rumple was here.” Robin: “And now he's gone. Let's try searching further.” (Cellphone chimes.) Regina: “No time. It's Henry. She's on her way back. (Belle sees something as Regina and Robin head for the exit:) Hey. What are you doing?” (Belle opens a box to reveal a brown dreamcatcher with three seashells and brown and white feathers.) Robin: “What the hell is that?” Regina: “It's a dreamcatcher. Apparently Neal gave her one similar to this a long time ago. But this, it's different.” Belle: “Why would she have it?” Regina: “Because they can be more than just objects of folklore. When imbued with magic, they can be quite powerful. The question is, who’s memory does she have?” Storybrooke. Woods. (Merida returns to Mr. Gold whom she has tied to a tree.) Merida: “Well. Glad to see the bears didn't get ya.” (Merida swings her sword and cuts his restraints.) Mr. Gold: “Please. Please. I-I... I can't fight.” Merida: “No. You won't fight. Big difference. You know, my father used to say, ‘If you want a lad to fight, give him something to fight for.’” Mr. Gold: (As Merida reaches into her bag:) “W-what are you doing?” Merida: “Oh. Reminding you what you have to fight for.” (Merida reveals the chipped teacup, dangling from her pinky.) Mr. Gold: (Suddenly intense:) “Where did you get that?” Merida: “Oh, means something to you, doesn't it? (As Mr. Gold pulls himself to his feet:) Oh! If you want it, you're gonna have to fight me for it.” (Merida throws Mr. Gold a sword. He throws it away, and reaches for the cup. Merida kicks out his staff and legs.) Mr. Gold: “Gahh!” Merida: “Oh! I see it's chipped, eh? Ohhh. Must be fragile. We wouldn't want to drop it, now, would we?” Mr. Gold: “No, please. Please don't. Don't.” Merida: “So, what happened? Did your Belle see the yellow-bellied man you really are? (Mr. Gold reaches for his sword:) I bet you she did, didn't she? Ooh! That had to sting! (Mr. Gold stands and attacks Merida with his sword. Merida blocks it:) Oh! Did you feel that?” Mr. Gold: “Feel what?” Merida: “That swing right there! You weren't thinking of yourself or the limp. You were thinking of her. That was an act of true bravery. Ready to try again? Eh? Eh? (Mr. Gold points his sword angrily towards her:) Good! Because we've got a long way to go before you're ready to take on Emma.” 

Main Street. Harvest Festival. (The people of the town enjoy the festivities as David and Mary Margaret look on.) David: “Your plan seems to be working, everyone seems happy.” Mary Margaret: (Nods:) “That’s something at least. Oh, David, what happened in Camelot? How did Emma fall so far?” David: “I don’t know, but I promise you we will find out and save our daughter.” (Through the laughter, dancing and music playing, Violet and her father arrive at the festival.) Morgan: “Just try to have some fun tonight, okay?” (Nicodemus whinnies as Henry rides him up to Morgan and Violet.) Violet: (Smiling, surprised:) “Henry. Henry, you did it!” Morgan: “Well done, lad. Well done.” Violet: “Henry, this is my father, Sir Morgan. Father, this is Henry.” Morgan: “Indeed, we’ve met before. You've made my daughter very happy. We owe you a great deal of thanks.” Henry: “It was nothing, sir.”

Morgan: “Heroic and humble. (Violet Laughs:) It appears I was wrong about you. (Patting Henry on the arm:) You're a good man, Henry. You'll make a fine knight someday.” Henry: “Thank you, sir.” Morgan: “Now, you two... enjoy the festivities.” (Morgan takes the horse’s reigns and begins walking back to the stables. Henry and Violet look to each other and smile.) Violet: “Thank you, Henry.” (Violet kisses Henry on the cheek and they both walk together towards the fun and games.) Mills House. (Regina stands holding the dreamcatcher. Waving her hand over it, the memories come to life before her. The dreamcatcher shows Henry and Violet in the stables.) Violet: “I'm Violet.” Henry: “Henry.” (Henry returns home and begins to walk into the room, but stops and watches the scene before him.) Camelot. Past. Stables. (Violet reads a note from Henry that reads, ‘Dear Violet, Meet me this evening at Granny's Diner. I have a surprise for you. Henry.’ Violet smiles and turns to find Emma stood beside her.) Emma: “Violet. Can you keep a secret?” Violet: “Of course.” Emma: “Good. (Takes Violet’s hand:) Because Henry can never know about this. (Suddenly, Emma takes Violet's heart from her chest:) Violet, listen. You will get this back. I just need your help first.” Violet: “W-w-what do you need?” Emma: “I need the tear of a lost first love... a fresh tear. (Voice breaking:) I need you to break Henry's heart.” Mills House. Present. Regina: “Wha... (Henry drops his bag of popcorn. Turning, seeing her son and realising he saw everything:) Oh, Henry.” 

[untitled-show]

Meet Gray Gleason! He’s a caster from my TV pilot (which remains untitled). He castes his magic by working runes into tattoo designs. This art is by mameedoodles via DeviantArt, and below is a story about him. 

          Gray sits at one of the small cafe tables scattered throughout the tattoo parlor, sketching a design that nobody’s asked for. One of his specialties, it’s a geometric approach with strong angles, all highlights, midtones, and shadows done in strong blocks and triangles that come together to form a shape. At the moment the shape is fluctuating between a woman and a tree; maybe some kind of tree nymph. He hadn’t sat down with a clear image in his mind; just the idea of simply letting ‘the pen take him where it will’. 

         If you knew what to look for (and if you were getting one of Gray Gleason’s pieces you should know what to look for) you might spot a pattern between the lines of the triangles and geometric shapes, a subtext to the design. It’s a rune; this particular one is for fertility. If he were to put this ink to skin, spend a few hours watching the color bloom on someone’s body and feel the world slip away from him as he works, that’s when his magic would go into effect. It would flow out of his art, his person, into the client’s body, and soon enough they’d bring a child into the world. Or grow one hell of a garden. Maybe both.

           Fertility isn’t the only gift he can imbue; he has a sizable number under his belt. Bravery, Luck, Resist, Strength, and Love are all safely in his employ along with Fertility, though he refused to put Love into any of his works. Despite many studies, it was still unclear if Love simply attracted compatible mates to the wearer or if it forced affections onto innocent bystanders. The whole thing smacked of date-rape to Gray so he never disclosed to the owner of the parlor that he could work that particular magic, and with 5 skills he’s still one of the more talented magic workers in the city.

           “Gray, your 12 o’clock is here,” calls the girl at the front. Gray pushes the sketch he’d been working on to side of the table and stands to greet his client. The man is tall, in his mid 40’s with silver hairs starting to push into his temples and a wealth of crows feet at the corners of his eyes. He’s wearing a suit and has the general harried look of a man on his lunch break and aware of every second as it ticks by. Gray favors him with a huge smile and an outstretched hand, which the man shakes.

           “Hey—William, right? Nice to meet you, I’m Gray Gleason. I understand you want a tattoo with Luck. Have you read over our waiver?” he asks, the friendly smile still on his face.

           “Yes,” William responds shortly, eyes roving the parlor, catching on the glossy pictures mounted on the walls. Most of them are works of the other artists’ in the parlor, but one section of the wall is dedicated to Gray’s works alone. The owner of the parlor, Hank, insisted on taking a dry erase marker to the glass over the photos and tracing over where the runes are hidden in the pictures. ‘To prove they’re in there’ he’d said when Gray had argued. He felt the whole point of his work was that he could work the runes into a larger picture, so clients could get the full effect of the magic without having to sacrifice style and design to do it. But he doesn’t own the shop.

           “And you understand that Luck has an equal chance of drawing both good and bad luck?” he recites. The new laws were quite clear that he needed to repeat this all in person whether or not the client has signed the waiver. “Basically it just sort of makes things happen to you, whether those are good or bad things no one has any control over that. Not me, and not you.” Gray waves a hand at the empty chair at the other side of the table and William takes it.

           “Yes I understand the risks,” William says, crossing his long legs one over the other and folding his hands on top of the table like he’s more comfortable behind an ornate desk than seated at a little café table in a tattoo parlor. “One of the guys in my office got the same tattoo from you a few months ago and he got a promotion the next day.”

           “That’s great! Mind if I ask what his name is?”

           “Max, Max Wainright.”

           “Oh yeah, I remember him. Nice guy, I’m glad it’s working out for him,” Gray says with a genuine smile. Max had been a nice guy, sort of squirrely looking, shorter and a little too slim, but a nice enough guy. He’d had Luck put on his left calf in broad black strokes with a wreath of holly around it. “That’s his picture up there,” Gray says, jabbing a thumb at the wall where Max’s tattoo had a place of honor. It was a nice piece of work if Gray did say so himself, bold, contemporary, and Hank liked it since the rune was so obvious.

           “Oh, it’s uh. That’s pretty big. Does it matter how big it is?” William asks, distaste written all over his face, in the line between his brows, the wrinkle above his nose. Gray feels his heart fall. Most of his client base is made of up these types lately, business people who want a leg up in the game and figure a magic tattoo is the best way to do it. It doesn’t matter that they don’t like the look of a tattoo, or that they still feel that tattoos are somehow inherently unprofessional; they just want the supposed benefits of the magic worked on them and they don’t much care how that happens. Gray has to shake himself to get off this train of thought. Maybe the guy just doesn’t like the big stripes of black, maybe he wants something a little more artsy. He puts on a professional smile and shakes his head.

           “No, the size doesn’t matter. We can do any size you’d like to do, do you have a design in mind?” Gray asks, getting down to business. He pulls out his sketchpad and flips to a clean page, writes William’s name in the corner and the date, then holds his pencil poised over paper. This is always his favorite part of the job, the creation, making a new design, a new piece of art that will live forever on someone’s body.

           “Well, I was hoping you could just do the picture itself. Small as you can, and does it need to be in black? I’ve heard that if you get a white tattoo it’s barely noticeable. It’ll still work even then, right?” William says, leaning back in the chair. Gray’s smile fades quickly, but maybe he can still save this. Maybe he just needs to explain a little further what he can do, what they could make together. Maybe he can show William some of the other works he’s done and the man will get it then, that they can make something beautiful and timeless and give him the boost of luck that he so desperately desires.

           “Yes we can do it in white. It doesn’t matter what color the tattoo is, just that it’s on your skin. But you know: I can do anything you’d like. We could work together and put something memorable on your body. It still doesn’t have to be big, but we could work in a lot of meaning. What’s important to you? What do-” Gray starts, speaking quickly as he gets worked up.

           “No. I just want the rune in white; small as you can please. On the inside of my leg. The left I think, not too high up where I can’t cover it with a sock if I need to,” William said, cutting Gray off.

           After the rather disappointing consult the tattoo was ‘designed’ and put on to William’s leg in time for him to get back to work before his lunch break was over, it hardly even looked like he had gotten a tattoo, just a little smudge of white over the bone of his left ankle.

           Gray wanders toward the front of the store with a pout firmly on his face and a sigh in his very soul. The girl at the front desk, Shelly, gave him a commiserating smile. “Another quick one?” she asks, leaning back against the back counter and flipping the cash register shut.

           “Why even do I even bother designing things? The only people I get these days are the assholes who don’t really want a tattoo. All they want is the magic. I feel so used,” he grumbles, dropping his folded arms onto the counter and leaning heavily against them.

           “At least they pay,” she says with a little shrug. “And you get a few people who want designs too, you’re booked for another one of those next week,” she says, pulling up the calendar on the computer. “Coming in for a consultation on Wednesday and everything.”

           “Yeah, and how many others do I have that are coming in just for a ‘simple design’?” he asks bitterly, “a ‘simple design’ always just means ‘something, in white, small as you can’. I feel like I’ve done a thousand of those tattoos. They’re dull, they don’t take any talent and they’re so boring. I feel cheap just doing them.”

           “You could always stop offering the magic component, go back to just doing art?” Shelly asks, now scrolling through her phone as she talks to Gray. It’s a conversation they’d had about a million times, the words familiar as the way home. She could talk this topic over in her sleep.

           “Doesn’t pay as well. And I think Hank would fire me,” he says, with a jerk of his head toward the office in the back of the parlor.

           “Then be happy that you have something so lucrative that can pay the bills. Do you know how much anyone here would pay to be able to do what you can?” she admonishes, this part of the conversation is familiar too, as is the sigh that Gray gives and the way he collects himself again, standing up straight and nodding slowly.

           “You’re right, you’re right. I should be glad for what I’ve got.”

           “Good. Now get ready. You have 24 more appointments for quick runes on ankles.” Gray’s eyes go wide, head whipping around to Shelly, staring in disbelief.

           “24?” he demands, teeth gritted together and a mixture of irritation and dissatisfaction filling him from toe to tip. Shelly just smiles sweetly at his expression.

           “Nah, it’s more like 7. But now aren’t you happy it’s not 24?”

           “Fuck you, Shelly.”

[mypearchive]

https://www.rogerebert.com/interviews/sitting-in-the-undefined-philip-ettinger-on-the-evening-hour

(Archiving interview here, in case the link at RogerEbert.com expires in the future.)

Sitting in the Undefined: Philip Ettinger on The Evening Hour - Carlos Aguilar (July 29,2021)

With a timid smile, Philip Ettinger searches for the proper words to articulate the profound longing that shapes many of the men he’s played. An actor on the fastback (fast track?) to stardom since his showstopping performance in Paul Schrader’s “First Reformed” as a pessimistic environmental terrorist, Ettinger radiates unpretentiousness and friendly warmth teeming with curiosity.

He can take the part of a seemingly unremarkable everyday man and imbue him with behavioral details and intimate wounds that turn words on a page into flesh and blood. That’s precisely what he does in the independent drama “The Evening Hour,” a Sundance Film Festival 2020 selection from director Braden King adapted by screenwriter Elizabeth Palmore from the novel by author Carter Sickels.

Ettinger projects his humble complexity onto the role of Cole, an aide at a nursing home, devoted grandson, caring boyfriend, and prescription medication dealer in a small community in Appalachia. ”You can be two things at the same time,” said Ettinger about his character’s many lives in convergence within this narrative, one where religion and loyalty are active participants.

Ravaged by the opioid crisis, but with few means of escape from it, the people around Cole are all directly or indirectly being benefited or affected by the illegal consumption. When his lifelong friend Terry (Cosmo Jarvis) returns to town and begins to stir up trouble, the quiet leading man’s livelihood is disrupted. Simultaneously, Cole’s emotional stability is shattered as his estranged mother reaches out to rebuild their broken bond. A storm brews for him on all fronts.

“It's easier for me to play someone who has insecurities or strong personal struggles or who has a hard time expressing themselves,” explained the actor about his predilection for embattled souls instead of traditionally valiant warriors. In this recent interview, Ettinger considers Cole’s motivations and his interest in stories of reexamined masculinity and relationships that defy classification.

Being originally from New Jersey, did you find the part of the country where the movie takes place, Appalachia, distant from your own experience or were there points of connection that helped you understand the social dynamic you were portraying?

The thing that I related to was Cole. I feel like he's got a big heart and he has a lot of things to say, but he holds them inside, which is, I think, part of the culture over there. He's someone who's just kind of filled with so many questions and maybe not so many answers. Although I grew up in a very different place, I understood his heart and his emotional core. I understand what it is to feel like you have to protect yourself and be a survivor. I understand what it feels like to have a lot to say, but having a wall of protection between how you feel and how you come off to the outside world. I'm from north Jersey, so it was a very different kind of environment. But I feel as human beings we're all more similar than we are different. I went there, felt the speed of the place, put on the clothing, and sat with the people who live there. You have to understand and respect that stuff. Cole just happened to be born in that place during that time, like I could have. That could have been me.

He definitely defies whatever preconceived notions one may have about men from these communities, even if he still abides by the culture of suppressing his emotional needs.

What I love that was in Carter's book is that it showed a different type of masculinity, what it means to be the man of the house or his relationship to Terry, which I feel was very fluid. Cole is such a seeker in a way. He's not really sure who he is yet. And I thought a lot about it when we shot it and reading the script. You don't really know who you are until you leave the place that you come from, if that makes any sense. He's got this yearning to understand who he is and what he wants. I just loved how things weren't defined in the script. He's just got a relationship with all these different people. He's got a lot on his shoulders and he's trying to get through one day at a time. In researching or watching movies that deal with this part of the country, so much of it is just so stereotypical. They clearly have problems going on and I feel like they've been left behind a lot by this country. So I love the fact that in the script no one is good or bad. Cole, for example, buys and sells prescription medication, but he's not some villain. He's just trying to survive. They're all real people and there's just a kindness to the area and to the story that I thought was really unique and beautiful.

Cole is also a multifaceted character, and his personality depends on whom he’s talking to. It’s almost like he has multiple personalities. But in the series “I Know This Much is True” you actually play two different characters. Did you find any parallels between these two experiences? Not sure what you shot first.

Soon after finishing “The Evening Hour” I shot “I Know This Much is True.” That's interesting. I didn't even think about that. What I will say is that Cole is such a receiver. He has a hard time expressing himself. It was so amazing for me to work every single day just taking in the actor in front of me, even beyond the script and just take on their energy and absorb them. It's a beautiful thing when you're the lead of a movie, especially with an internal character, to show up and get to sponge every different type of person who comes in and let that flow, wherever that leads. In something like playing Dominic and Thomas, it's interesting because Thomas is someone who I think can't hold in how he feels. That was such a nice catharsis to just fully be able to express my gut with Thomas after just having to contain everything with Cole and ground it in a culture that doesn't really speak their emotions. They don’t hold their emotions on their sleeves all the time. It was definitely a nice release for me to move from that to the other one. It's so funny because in every single job that you do, you pick up certain pieces and carry them with you. I would have done “I Know This Much is True” totally differently if I hadn't just done “The Evening Hour” beforehand.

How would you describe your approaches as an actor? Do you want to transform into someone completely different or do you find pieces of yourself in the character you are playing?

I can be pretty insecure and in order for me to fully engage with something, I have to be as present as possible and just try to be a vessel. I need to find something that has purpose. In going down the rabbit hole of things, I work more in the subconscious than the conscious I work with dreams often. I try to find physicality to the part. But for the most part, I don't know why I approach something. It approaches me and there's something in me that I need to express. Often I don't even understand why until I finished. “The Evening Hour,” “First Reformed,” “I Know This Much is True,” all of those were so important to me on an emotional level. I feel like I am all three of those characters. As an actor, you get to lean into a part of you that in my everyday life sometimes it's hard to do. I give myself permission to go to places, to really dive into an emotion, or see what it would feel like to be in a different scenario.

What I get from what you're saying is that in playing those emotions, that perhaps in your day-to-day life are difficult to pinpoint, through these characters they become clearer.

You're searching, man. Every job is an experiment and you get a whole bunch of people who have an idea of how they feel about the script, which is great. You have those conversations and then when you're in it, you're just creating. And hopefully everyone involved is learning on a deeper level why they're even there, like what it all means anyway, that's to me the best part. Working with someone like Braden or Derek Cianfrance, they're just seekers and they just want to discover a moment. It's all about trying to represent emotions that are truthful enough so that if anyone watches and relates on any level and there's that connection, that's what it's all about, man. I grew up going through my own stuff and anytime I watched a movie and it looked like something that I was feeling, it made me feel less alone in the world. It's funny, even doing press for this thing; I'm meeting you over zoom. We're separated from each other and I do this to feel a connection between everyone. What's the point of being here other than trying to connect, feel less alone, and find a common ground?

On that note, spirituality seems to run deep in “The Evening Hour.” Not only in how often bible verses are quoted throughout, but also in the way it’s shot, with the bright light of day washing over the land. Do you consider yourself a spiritual person and do you recognize that spirituality in the film?

I definitely consider myself a spiritual person. I believe in the connection between all of us. We shot in Harlan County, Kentucky where you get a 360 view of the Appalachian Mountains around you. It's beautiful. Time is slower there. The colors are a little brighter. People look you in the eye and everyone's just a little more present. I just tried to absorb that as much as possible. There's a scene in the movie where Cole walks into his grandfather’s church and he gets emotional in that moment. That’s a real church. It's been there for a long time. I walked in there, and it wasn't even a scripted thing, and just felt the energy of that the space. It moved me, man. Those are the cool things as an actor. That was unplanned and it was such a beautiful experience for me because I was really opening myself enough to feel the energy in the room. The movie deals a lot with religion, but I love the fact that spirituality can be deep rooted and it's a beautiful thing. There are parts of that to which he really connects to and then there are things that he has to do that maybe go against his faith a little bit. In the whole script everything is present, but nothing is judged as good or bad. I felt like a really special, spiritual production. We were all letting it speak to us in a way.

Thinking about that I’m reminded of your character in “First Reformed,” Michael, who is on the other extreme side of the spectrum when it comes to faith. Did playing him challenge or made you reconsider your own beliefs? It's such a scene-stealing performance.

Thanks, man. I had that long scene, it was like 18 pages when we shot it with Ethan and it's crazy because I look back on that time and it feels like a memory of a real conversation. I love playing these characters, like Michael in “First Reformed.” He has so much love inside of him, but also walks the line of what it feels like when you've exhausted your hope and you've fallen into despair. I love these complex characters. The things that Michael does you can judge in a certain way, but it's very rare that any of us are bad people. We're all just trying to find connection and love and meaning in this world. And it's complicated. Cole also does things that he compartmentalizes in his brain, but he knows it's not good, but also he's just trying to find a way and life just gets complicated. It's not so cut and dry, sometimes there's so much grayness to it. It's interesting for me because I have more questions than answers in my own life, so it's cool that I've been able to play roles that have help me try to seek purpose and understand why we're here. Not to get like too deep. I don't know about you man, but there are relationships or family members or people in my life that I may have had resentments towards, but as you get older you realize everyone is just trying to do their best.

Could Cole and Michael have an interesting conversation if they met?  

That's so interesting. I wonder how much actual dialogue would go on between the two of them, but I feel like they would have a really nice time sitting together, being in a space together. That's really nice to think about.

You mentioned it briefly earlier, but I wanted to dig deeper into the relationship between Cole and Terry. The friendship between these two men is very tender, in a way that’s not often seen in films depicting their environment. The ways they express their affection is also very physical, which surprised me.

That was such a beautiful thing to read in the script. It was so subtle and nuanced. I love the fact that his relationship with Terry is undefined. Cole was just trying to figure out who he is and find love. I don't know if he knows who he is or how he feels yet. That makes me think about Carter, who wrote the book and his whole story. I don't know how much you know about Carter, but he transitioned. He is a trans man and he wrote this book, “The Evening Hour,” where the lead character is this male figure who has an undefined relationship with a friend of his and also relationships with women. I love that it's a different take on masculinity or what a male relationship is, especially in that environment. I was watching a YouTube interview with Mark Rylance, from not too long ago, and he talked about how he rarely sees movies or plays where people are living in confusion. So often we're going through life and we're not really sure how we feel sometimes, I love the fact that there's a lot of history in this movie and Cole is trying to figure out how he feels about stuff. In those scenes between Cosmo and I there’s what we're saying to each other and then there's the story beneath all that stuff. I just played with him and let myself get out of my own ideas and how society wants to label everything, and just be present with this person in this moment with all this history and see how we both feel. I don't know if I'm making any sense with what I'm saying, but it’s rare to play a relationship that sits in a space of grayness. It was really beautiful.

Do you have any thoughts on “Hillbilly Elegy,” since it’s another recent book and film that portrays this side of America? Personally, I find “The Evening Hour” to be a far superior take.

I appreciate that. I didn't see it. But at Sundance we had a bunch of people from Harlan who came out and supported us, and I think they have a more strong opinion on the subject matter. Someone I worked with on “One Dollar” who was from that area, I actually sent him the script, and he said the same thing. He felt that it was more real to life and to the heart of the place than “Hillbilly Elegy.” But I haven't read the book or seen the film, but I appreciate him saying that. For me, the major thing was that they embraced us and a lot of them are in the movie. Braden definitely spent a lot of time over there and made connections. Everything was done with a lot of love and respect, so I hope it was so exciting for so many of them to come out to Sundance when we premiered and to get their approval and that maybe they feel a little bit more seen. If we were able to tell a story that felt truthful to them, then that’s an awesome thing.

https://www.rogerebert.com/contributors/carlos-aguilar