#dreaming for a life i fear i will only live through literary pieces

[chilling-seavey]

Okay this THIS was...DREAMY. Oh my gosh this was dreamy. It read like a freaking hazy reverie of loveliness...every single word. Every dialogue, every little description, every little touch was right where it needed to be and written just how it was meant to be...my God.

"But George doesn't deal in excuses. He feels it, so he says it."

Now I'm pathetically in yearning hours so thanks so much, op 😭😭

say again

george russell x reader | 3.9k

three times george curses. or, a beginning, a middle, and a future.

cw: george cursing. a few scrapes and a little bit of blood, some kissing, and a love confession to boot.

a/n: this kind of ran away from me, especially in the middle but every time george russell says fuck an angel gets its wings. written ages ago but posting in honor of Las Vegas.

---

YOU'VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME

The door buzzes and you let yourself into the building.

You've only been here a few times, but a match day spent with your coworker and some of her friends is better than sitting on your couch alone, right? Wine and cookies in hand, you trudge up two flights of stairs to her flat. By the time you reach the landing, you can already hear the chatter and the TV.

No one seems to hear your knock so you push the door open and gingerly step in. The kitchen is on the other side of the flat, and you assume everyone is somewhere between there and the television.

But when you pass the living room where the TV actually is, there's just one guy on the couch. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees watching a penalty get called.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he says to no one.

You snicker. He whirls around. "Hello," you say.

"Sorry," he says, standing immedietly. Wow, he's tall. "Sorry, hello."

Oh, and he's familiar. You know him, kind of. He's -- god, he races cars, right? Shit, what is his name? Your coworker has social connections you barely understand so it's not really a surprise to find someone who is probably famous in her flat.

"It is just you, then?" you ask. He laughs and runs a hand through his hair. Dressed in jeans and a team jumper, his casual outfit is at odds with the severe cut of his jaw, his cheekbones. He just looks expensive.

"No," he says. "No, everyone is putting plates together. I'm afraid I might be the one most interested in watching the match."

"Not going well?" you say lightly.

He rounds the sofa, hand out. "Could be better," he says. "I'm George."

You readjust the items in your hands to shake his and tell him your name. He repeats it, and you smile.

"Let me go put these down," you say, "and then, um. Do you want some company, George?"

Honestly, you're not sure where that came from. But, though you came here to escape the smothering loneliness of your own flat, something about him makes you want to stay here rather than go into the kitchen with everyone else.

"'Course I do," he says. "I promise to tighten up my language. Won't do for that to be my first impression."

You wave him away though your cheeks feel a little hot and head for the kitchen.

Your coworker brightens at seeing you and takes your hostess gifts with ease.

"The match is on in the other room," she tells you, "but most of us are drinking in here."

"I saw," you say. "I met George."

She hears something in your tone that turns her expression something between amused and calculating. "You did, did you?"

You just nod, loading up a plate with the various nibbles. "How do you know him, anyway?"

She shrugs. "Oh, you know." No, you don't, but she plows on. "What did you think?"

"Taller than he seems on TV," you mutter. "But very polite. He shook my hand."

That gets her to laugh. "Oh, of course he did. Well, don't stand around in here with us. Go chat up a Formula 1 driver!"

George is back on the couch when you return, arm stretched over the back of it, brows furrowed.

"Has anything exciting happened?" you ask him, sitting down with a perfectly responsible distance between you.

He grimaces. "Nothing good. Wolverhampton, bless 'em, are quite bad."

That might explain why no one is watching this match with him, but you keep that to yourself.

"I see," you say, solemnly. "But loyalty is loyalty, I suppose, if they're your club."

"Exactly," George says. "It's suffering but it has to be done." Someone on the screen triggers a free kick and George leans in until it's over. He starts talking about one of the players being traded, or his contract being renegotiated, or something. You nibble on your plate and just watch. He's animated, this man. Fringe falling over his forehead the more he gestures, blue eyes wide and serious. It's all very endearing.

"Sorry," he says suddenly. "I'm being so rude. You don't want to hear about all of this, do you?"

You smile at him. "I don't mind. I came over for some company more than anything else."

He sinks back into the couch a little, hand running through his hair again. "Well, lucky for me that you did," he says.

Your face feels hot and you don't want to mistake this for flirting if it's not. He is a world-famous athlete, after all, but here you are on the couch next to him. "Lucky for you, indeed."

He laughs, delighted.

OH, SHIT!

This is not how you saw your life going, but maybe that's just the nature of it. Big moments happen just the same as small ones and we have to handle them regardless. The trajectory of your life shifted just a little bit when you sat down on someone else's couch to watch a football match with a stranger.

Because that stranger -- George -- is now much more than that. He asked for your number that day before he had to leave earlier than everyone else, and has been speaking to you ever since. Texts, phone calls, FaceTimes. And, when he's not driving hundreds of miles an hour halfway across the world, he likes to spend time with you.

They're dates, you know they are. But things are still casual, immensely so. Coffee, dinner, long walks through the park. It's probably past due that you ask him what he'd like out of this, but your friends tell you to just have fun for the time being. You've learned a lot about him in the last month or so, both from him directly and by doing your research.

You'd watched a few Grand Prix before meeting him but not with any kind of rapt attention. Now, obviously, you watch with purpose. See him zip around the track, read his radio messages, hope desperately that he'll be alright. He's a big mix of things, George Russell. Witty but determined, thorough but reactionary, polite but intense. You want to keep getting to know him on a personal level and measure that up to how he appears to the world.

Today, you're on one of those long walks. George is recounting the last race at your request. It's always more interesting to hear him talk about what happened than watching it, though you're really growing to love that part, too.

It's a bit chilly and he's got a scarf on in addition to a nondescript hat pulled down low over his eyes. You're used to this by now, though you wish you could see his face more fully.

"And then -- well, I'm sure you saw this bit -- he turned right into me like I wasn't even there!"

"But you avoided it," you remind him. "I saw that, too." A cold wind blows down the path and you shiver a bit.

"You alright?" he asks. "Nippy, huh?" He stops walking and turns to you, his huge hands coming to rest on your shoulders before he rubs them up and down your arms.

"A bit," you agree, a little breathless. God, you really need to talk to him about what this is. You're thinking about him all the time, which is a bit of a nuisance, as you're not sure he's feeling the same. But, a small voice in your head tells you, you can't be too far off in thinking that it might be based on the way he's looking at you right now.

Even under the cap, you can see the soft set of his brow, the way his eyes are shining. The gentle quirk up of his mouth. What would it be like to kiss him? Would he let you?

George stops his warming efforts, catching your hands in his. "Better?"

All you can do is nod. He grins, looking a bit too pleased, and starts walking again, you in tow. This is something else you've learned about him -- he really can be a cheeky bastard. He must have more than some idea as to how he affects you and enjoys it. It's somewhere between a game and a challenge.

You're thinking about ways you can get him back, ways you can flirt mercilessly. His hand is in yours and he's half a step ahead of you when suddenly your fingers are ripped from his and you find yourself on your hands and knees with a gasp.

George is immediately there with you.

"Oh, shit," he says. "Are you alright?"

"I--" You're a bit too stunned to say anything. George rarely curses, which is funny given how you met, but it unsettles you a little bit as much as it warms you. "I think I tripped?"

"Let me see your hands," he says, gently tugging at your wrists with his long fingers. He sucks on his teeth when he sees your palms. "Not too bad, but a little scratched."

You rearrange yourself so you're flat on your bum, legs in front of you. Your hands might be alright but your knees are another story. The fabric of your jeans isn't ripped but you can see the bloodstains already.

"Oh," you say. You look up at George, feeling a bit pathetic. "This is embarrassing."

He scoffs. "No, it's not," he says. "I do think we should get you cleaned up, though."

"We can go to my place," you suggest. The sting sets in a little more, but mingles with your chagrin and you just set your jaw. "Help me up?"

"Brave girl," George says. He presses his lips to the base of your wrist and stands, tugging you up as he goes. "Have you got first aid things at your flat?"

You nod, running through the contents of your bathroom in your mind. It occurs to you that George has not been to your place before, and you did not mentally prepare yourself to bring him there today.

George gently says your name. "Let's get a cab, shall we?"

It takes no time at all to flag one down. George removes his hat in what you can clearly see as an effort to get the cabbie to hurry along a bit, but it seems to work. He takes one look at you, one more at George, and steps on it.

"Let me get your belt," George mutters, making quick work of the buckle.

"I don't think I've ever worn a seatbelt in a cab in my life, George," you reply. He just pats your thigh.

"Think we've had enough injuries for one day, don't you?"

George and the cabbie chat about the race season, about how hot it really is in Singapore, about one of George's recent podiums. He keeps you tucked into his side the whole time -- he's ignored his own seatbelt, you notice -- hand on your thigh. You keep your palms turned up on your knees and wonder how on earth you got here.

The city flies by and you lean your head on his shoulder. You can feel something shifting between you, something clicking into place that wasn't entirely settled before. It's scary, it's exciting, it's big. It's something you're going to have to talk about.

George pays the driver in some large bills and helps you out of the cab and up the steps of your building.

"Where are your keys?" he asks.

"Front right pocket of my jeans."

"Pardon my reach," he jokes, and lightly rests on palm on your hip and slides the other into your pocket to find them. He tugs the keyring out and winks at you before unlocking the door. Up the stairs, into the flat. Shoes toed off, coats on the hook after George helps you out of yours.

"I'm not an invalid, you know," you tell him. He clicks his tongue.

"We don't want blood on this nice coat of yours, do we?"

You roll your eyes. George glances around your flat and smiles. "This is very you."

Dishes on the counter, the pillows a mess on the couch, your books and trinkets on every flat surface -- you suppose he's right.

"Thank you?" you say. He taps your chin with his knuckle.

"It feels like a home, I mean." Your cheeks feel warm and your heart sighs. God, the things he says.

"Oh," you breathe. "That's kind."

"And does this home have a first aid kit?" The reminder brings the dull sting of your scraped skin back to the forefront of your mind.

"Bathroom cabinet," you tell him. George nods.

"I'll get that. Why don't you change into something loose so I can get to your knees?"

In your room, you tug carefully tug on some sweatpants, mindful of your palms, and let yourself marvel at how today has gone. You expected to have George here someday, but certainly not like this. Will he want to see your bedroom? You shove some dirty laundry into the hamper and thank past you for making the bed this morning.

"I think you should sit on the counter," George calls. "Whenever you're ready."

You pad out to meet him in socked feet. It's quite the sight, him in your kitchen. He's bent over your sink, washing his hands. His sweater has been tossed over a chair and you can see the lines of his back under his t-shirt.

"Do you need help getting up?" he asks. You nod. Together, you get yourself on the counter, making you about eye level.

"Hello," you say. His hat is gone, too, so his fringe falls across his forehead in slightly curled strands. When you've cleaned yourself up, maybe you'll work up the courage to run your hand through them.

"Hello yourself. Right hand, please." You hold out your palm and George gets to work. He cleans it, getting all the bits from your skin, and then uses an alcohol wipe.

"Do you have a special interest in first aid, or something?" you ask to distract yourself from the sting. His thumb strokes your pulse point as he works.

"I guess you get beat up a bit in karting when you're young," he says. He wraps one palm in gauze and moves onto the other. "I suppose i just like knowing how to take care of people."

"God," you groan. "Is there anything wrong with you?"

He looks at you then, hair falling into his blue, blue eyes. "Oh," he smirks. "Plenty, darling." He finishes up on your other palm and holds it in his for a moment longer than you expect. Then he slowly brings your hand to his mouth and kisses the bandage.

You might gasp, You're not entirely sure, eyes glued to his lips like nothing else exists. Then he kisses the other palm. Your gaze flicks up and George is looking right at you.

"Knees," he says, voice a little hoarse. "Alright?"

"Alright," you breathe. You stick one leg out just to see what he'll do. You're learning that he rises to the occasion, and that's exactly what happens. He cups your ankle, places your foot on his thigh, and slides your sweatpants up above your joint.

"That's gnarly," he says, breaking the tension. You laugh and tap his leg with your other foot. "You ready?"

"I'm ready."

He makes quick work on it. One hand on your calf, the other gently cleaning and bandaging. The silence is comfortable, familiar, though you've not been in this situation before. It's not until George is almost done with your other knee that he speaks.

"You know," He says, lightly. "If you wanted me to touch you, all you had to do was ask. The tripping wasn't entirely necessary."

"George!" you gasp. He squeezes your calf.

"I'm just saying, darling."

He ties off the gauze and rolls down your pant leg. You widen your knees and he steps between them immediately, hands resting gently on your thighs. It's absolutely electric -- going from shy, appropriate touches to being in your flat together, his hands all over you. How are you going to go back?

Maybe you can't.

George's eyes rake over your face. You inhale his exhales, feeling them on your lips. His pupils dilate.

"What is this, George?" you whisper. His fingers press into your thighs a little harder.

"Well," he says, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "What would you like it to be?"

"I don't know," you say, honestly. He is not dissuaded, does not back away. He must know that this is hard for you -- his life is so different from yours. As it is, you avoid social media so you don't see pictures of you splashed across gossip accounts. It's impossible to totally stay away from it but you try, because you really like being with him.

"Shall I tell you what it is for me?" George says.

You nod.

He cups your face in his hands, thumbs stroking the delicate skin under your eyes.

"Every second I am not with you I am thinking about when I'll see you next," he says. "I store up things to tell you and take photos to show you and I have a bag full of things I've bought you but been too afraid to give you. Beautiful things, things that remind me of you."

"George--"

"I worry about fucking up your life," he continues, and you fall silent. "This is a lot. I am a lot. My life is not simple, and you've already seen that. But I want you in it. I want you in it however you want to be there, though I have my suggestions. I promise that if you let me, I'll treat you so well, because you deserve everything, and --"

Your heart is going to explode if he goes on any longer, so you close the gap between you and kiss him. Finally.

It's just the press of your lips against his for a few seconds, your eyes fluttering shut, before George catches up to what's happening and angles your faces a little bit to make it deeper. Your bandaged hands rest on his elbows and you swallow a sound from deep in his throat, something that lights a fire in your belly.

"Blimey," George says, leaning your foreheads together.

"What, no curse for me?"

His eyes sparkle and he wrinkles his nose at you. "Fuck," he says. "I've been thinking about that for weeks."

You press your lips to the corner of his mouth. "That's more like it."

BLOODY HELL

What the fuck was that? Is he serious? Keep focused, George. This is fucking ridiculous. Head down.

It's a bad day. Not as bad as it could be -- George does not end up in the wall. But he ends up way further down the pack than he should, barely scraping together a few points. It's the car and everyone knows it. The bouncing, the drag, the understeer. A showing far too poor for this late in the season.

And George is pissed. It's not often that you see him this way -- he's fairly levelheaded, even when things get tough. Something about him causes conflict to lull, things to fall into place, but even that can't fix the silver arrow.

You slip out of the garage during the last lap to sit in his driver's room and wait.

This isn't your first race. Far from it, by now. Things got official halfway through the season after that day in your flat, and you've been coming to as many as you can. It's a rush, really, to see him work. Scarier than anything, but when it's good? It's amazing. You love the energy of the garage and everyone seems to have taken to you, too.

So much so that they know to send George right to his room before the media pen so you can calm him down.

You sit on the bench and wait.

He comes in, closing the door firmly but never slamming it, and sighs. All the tension melts from his body and he looks defeated. Sweaty, annoyed, and defeated.

"Hello," you say, lightly.

He smiles wryly. "Shit day, huh?"

You love how George looks after a race. Hair a mess from his helmet, skin beaded with sweat. He unzips his race suit and lets it hang at his hips and you can see the outline of his muscles through his fireproofs. It's genuinely swoonworthy, even with his visibly bad mood.

"Are you alright?" you ask. He shrugs, rolls his shoulders, and winces.

"Bloody hell," he curses. "My back is killing me."

"What can I do?"

"Nothing," he says automatically. "You're perfect just as you are."

It's a reflex he has -- not to ask for things. You're still working it out, poking and prodding to find the cracks. Maybe, with time, he'll loosen this grip he has on his desire to make your life as comfortable and wonderful as possible without thinking of himself. There are moments when it's best to just let him fuss, but right now you think you can push back a little.

"George," you sigh. "Come on."

He hides his face behind a sweat towel for a breath, then tosses it aside. "Alright," he says. "Just sit with me for a bit."

You scoot over on the bench and he flops next to you, head back against the wall and eyes closed. His hand fumbles around for yours, pinching your thigh when he overshoots, which makes you laugh. He cracks a smile and opens one eye just enough to see your grin before settling back into his rest.

He breathes deeply, fingers entwined with yours. The line of his jaw is pronounced in the awful lighting of the room and the shadows under his eyes look worse than usual. A few more races and then he can rest. What will you do in the off season? Maybe a vacation. Hopefully a vacation. You imagine George in swim trunks on a beach somewhere, dozing in the sand. Rubbing sun tan lotion on his back and his shoulders and his nose, reading books for hours until he convinces you to run into the water. Lazy days on a balcony or in a bed with all the windows open, never being far from each other --

Someone knocks on the door.

"Christ," George mutters. "Let's ignore it."

"You need to go to the pen, darling," you whisper back. He squeezes your hand and presses your legs together.

"Just a few more minutes," he says. "Eventually they'll just come in."

"If you say so."

You press a kiss to his tacky cheek and lean your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

George takes a deep breath. "I love you," he says.

The words stretch into the silence that comes after, the moments it takes for you to process it. They fill the small room, sneak their way into your bloodstream, your lungs, all the way to your heart.

Part of you is waiting for the follow-up. I know it's too early, I know it's a lot, You don't have you say it back. But George doesn't deal in excuses. He feels it, so he says it.

You lift your head to look at him and find him already staring at you. Not expectant, just looking to look.

"I love you, George," you say.

He grins bigger than you've ever seen, bigger than after your first kiss, than the days when he's on the podium.

Someone knocks on the door again.

"Oh, piss off," he mutters and leans in to kiss you.

[avelera]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. spread the self-love ❤

Ooh, thank you for this! As for tagging onward, I'm terrible at picking people and I hate to impose, so if you see this and want to fill it out just say I sent you ^^;;;

Giving Sanctuary: The Sandman, Dream/Hob, Canon Divergence AU. Basically, "What if Dream and Hob got together in 1689 when Hob was at his lowest and they bonded over the fact both of them have lost their sons?" Probably one of my most emotionally mature works, I poured a lot of my own meditations on life and grief into it, and it has some of the best dialogue I think I've written to date. I'm also quite proud that it's complete, lol, a running theme in this list.

The Only Way Out is Down: Pacific Rim, Newt/Hermann, post-Uprising but in an attempt to make sense of Uprising and add some depth and poetry to the years Newt and Hermann spent apart. Newt is trapped in a coma after the Precursors are destroyed and Hermann Drifts with him to try to wake him up. In the meantime, they pass through a mindscape inspired by Dante's Inferno, in which each of the 9 years they spent apart take on an aspect inspired by the Circles of Hell that they have to disrupt in order to move on to the next one. Basically a Newt Recovery fic that flips the script and explores how gut-wrenching and traumatizing those years would have been for both of them, but with a lot of humor and healing, this is not meant to be an angsty slog and some of my best comedy is in it too I think. Quite proud of how I interwove Dante's "Inferno" into the structure of the story, quite proud of the fact it's finished and novel-length, and I think I grew at writing character voices and sustaining them throughout a massively long fic with this one. I still jump to read any comments I get for this one because I'm so proud of it, you would not believe how much work went into it.

Prayers to Broken Stone: The Hobbit, Thorin/Bilbo, BotFA fixit in a way but we take the long way 'round. Dragon Sickness literally turns Thorin into a dragon and he and Bilbo need to survive being locked up alone inside Erebor long enough to find a cure for him, or else. The story is much more psychological than it may sound, it's much more about exploring Thorin's trauma through the lens of him turning into the creature he fears and loathes most in the world. Very proud of this fic since it's the first long fic I ever finished, it's the one that made me actually attend some highly competitive writing workshops since I finally felt like I had become a competent enough writer to be able to actually complete a novel. Also quite proud of the characterization, voices, and mythology created for this one.

Shanghaied: Pacific Rim, Newt/Hermann, post-Uprising again. Post-recovery fic, Newt returns to Shanghai where he was held captive by the Precursors for ten years and slowly spirals mentally when forced to confront the physical location of his torment once more, all while trying to put on a brave face for Hermann that only grows more manic as the night goes on. Still perhaps one of my most emotionally... sincere? works? It's the most based on personal experience during a bad time in my life but translated into a flavor of angst I don't see as much of in fic, it's probably one of my more literary pieces in that respect? Anyway, I'm very proud of the maturity of emotion in this one so I always race to see any comments that get left on it.

5. Come live with me and be my love: The Sandman, Dream/Hob, alternate 1789 hookup. Dream loses a bet to Desire and must live for one year as a normal human, in this specific case, one year as the husband or wife of a human of his choosing, without almost any of his powers, in order to better understand how humans live. Dream chooses Hob as his spouse, naturally, since Hob is the least unbearable of humans and not mortal and therefore not in danger from him. Hob is only too glad to oblige but unfortunately, this means Dream has to pretend to be a woman in order for them to blend in, so shenanigans ensue. While this is still a WIP I do intend to return to it and I am massively proud of it. I think it's one of the works I've done the most worldbuilding for from scratch, in the sense that I had to quickly familiarize myself to a reasonable degree with early 1800s England, a period I'm not actually all that fond of in history (I'm not really an Austen or Bridgerton fan, to say the least). I think it has some of my most ambitious writing in terms of scope and scale and some of the more clever writing in terms of building tension and crafting original characters who lend realism to the setting without overwhelming the central, more important characters of Dream/Hob and their story.

[chargoeson]

Happy New Year! I wanted to just give a little update on what I'm working on and some of my hopes for my writing in 2024.

Project Amgydala (tentative title: Ballad of a Blue Whale) Novella- Literary Fiction/Surrealism Status- Draft 1 complete at around 33,000 words 2024 Goal- First revision/draft 2 Synopsis- Maren Hara, a recent graduate, moves back in with her father and turns completely inward. She removes herself from the life she created throughout university and begins walking from sunset to sunrise, looking for something she cannot put her finger on. This leads her to Devereaux's Salvation, a jazz bar seemingly from another era, whose eager manager and illusive owner begin to crack through Maren's walls and bring her back into humanity.

Project Corvidae (tentative title: I Want to Build a Home with You) Undetermined- Literary Fiction/Light Mystery/Horror Status- Plotting and beginning first draft 2024 Goal- Complete outlines and give draft 1 my best shot Synopsis- In the wake of the death of her family matriarch, portrait painter and former performance art prodigy Leonie Richards finds herself on the receiving end of her grandmothers vast literary legacy and her eclectic, spirit filled home. Alongside her uncle, the art store clerk, and a host of portrait clients she begins to unlock the secrets of the final years of her grandmother's life.

This is the one and only true goal I made for my writing this year: Learn to write short stories. So here I am, learning this new form and having a hell of a time at it. I have around three completed in a first draft capacity right now, but don't plan on doing much serious revising or rewrites as I find they come out mostly formed and it's best to just let them be. But here's a taste of the ones I've written so far! Mind Over Matter- this is actually backstory for Leonie from Project Corvidae and seeks to shed light on her past performance art pieces and the relationship between her and her grandmother. Light body horror, unsettling women, the works. One of These Nights- a slice of life, Murakami-inspired piece of an American expat living in Tokyo trying to ground herself within a new language. Digs into themes of friendship and social anxiety. Lots of fun music cameos. a green pea moon- my FAVORITE. My little baby. A surrealist romp through the dream world and how it relates to the joy and fear of being queer and letting yourself be loved. Near and dear to my heart.

Thank you all for keeping up and showing me love! Can't wait to see what we all get into in the coming months. xoxo char

taglist: @annlillyjose @coffeeandcalligraphy @subtlefires @belovedviolence @onomatopiya y'all are amazing, if i am missing anyone please let me know and i'll try to keep better track!

[rockislandadultreads]

Black History Month: Poetry Recommendations

Golden Ax by Rio Cortez

From a visionary writer praised for her captivating work on Black history and experience, comes a poetry collection exploring personal, political, and artistic frontiers, journeying from her family's history as Afropioneers in the American West to shimmering glimpses of transcendent, liberated futures.

In poems that range from wry, tongue-in-cheek observations about contemporary life to more nuanced meditations on her ancestors - some of the earliest Black pioneers to settle in the western United States after Reconstruction - Golden Ax invites readers to re-imagine the West, Black womanhood, and the legacies that shape and sustain the pursuit of freedom.

I Am The Rage by Dr. Martina McGowan

I Am The Rage is a poetry collection that explores racial injustice from the raw, unfiltered viewpoint of a Black woman in America. Dr. Martina McGowan is a retired MD, a mother, grandmother, and a poet. Her poetry provides insights that no think piece on racism can; putting readers in the uncomfortable position of feeling, reflecting, and facing what it means to be a Black American.

This entire collection was created during 2020, many shortly after the deaths of Breonna Taylor and George Floyd, to name but a few.

Best Barbarian by Roger Reeves

The poems in Best Barbarian roam across the literary and social landscape, from Beowulf’s Grendel to the jazz musician Alice Coltrane, from reckoning with immigration at the U.S.-Mexico border to thinking through the fraught beauty of the moon on a summer night after the police have killed a Black man.

Daring and formally elegant, Best Barbarian asks the reader: “Who has not been an entryway shuddering in the wind / Of another’s want, a rose nailed to some dark longing and bled?” Reeves extends his inquiry into the work of writers who have come before, conversing with - and sometimes contradicting - Walt Whitman, James Baldwin, Sappho, Dante, and Aimé Césaire, among others. Expanding the tradition of poetry to reach from Gilgamesh and the Aeneid to Drake and Beyoncé, Reeves adds his voice to a long song that seeks to address itself “only to freedom.”

And Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou's poetry - lyrical and dramatic, exuberant and playful - speaks of love, longing, partings; of Saturday night partying, and the smells and sounds of Southern cities; of freedom and shattered dreams. 'The caged bird sings/ with a fearful trill/ of things unknown/ but longed for still/ and his tune is heard/ on the distant hill/ for the caged bird/ sings of freedom.'

Angles of Ascent edited by Charles Henry Rowell

This is not just another poetry anthology. It is a gathering of poems that demonstrate what happens when writers in a marginalized community collectively turn from dedicating their writing to political, social, and economic struggles, and instead devote themselves to the art of their poems and to the ideas they embody. These poets bear witness to the interior landscapes of their own individual selves or examine the private or personal worlds of invented personae and, therefore, of human beings living in our modern and postmodern worlds.

The anthology focuses on post-1960s poetry and includes such poets as Rita Dove, Ai, Nathaniel Mackey, Natasha Trethewey, Kevin Young, Terrence Hayes, Elizabeth Alexander, Major Jackson, Carl Phillips, Harryette Mullen, and Yusef Komunyakaa - artists who, using a wide range of styles and forms, are cultivating a poetry of personal voice and interiority that speaks against the backdrop of community and ancestry.

[fresh-prince-of-denmark]

Interpretation of V’s Mikoshi Poem Pt1: Life is Murder

Cyberpunk spoilers ahead: 

Let’s talk about Cyberpunk’s literary references and what they mean for the story, coming from a former English professor/teacher.

Alt will read you one of two poems you cross the bridge to the Mikoshi depending on who is in control. Johnny is read an excerpt from Sailing to Byzantium by Yeats, while V is given an excerpt from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot. For now, let’s focus on V’s poem:

“Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, 

The muttering retreats 

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels 

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: 

Streets that follow like a tedious argument 

Of insidious intent 

To lead you to an overwhelming question. . . . 

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" 

Let us go and make our visit.”

Cool. Some English majors (derogatory) work at project red. So why should I care?

Well I’ll tell you:

First, a summary: In this story, the narrator is on an evening stroll with a woman he most likely has a romantic relationship with although the vibes are far from a romantic love sonnet. Interestingly enough, the first few lines of this poem have been cut from Alt’s reading; including the epigraph from Dante’s inferno, which translates to the following:

 “If I but thought that my response were made

to one perhaps returning to the world,

this tongue of flame would cease to flicker.

But since, up from these depths, no one has yet

returned alive, if what I hear is true,

I answer without fear of being shamed.”

This missing piece from Alt’s poem can be read several ways; most of them drawing a parallel between the Blackwell and hell. In fact, Dante’s inferno has a lot of similarities to the story. One can make a comparison between Virgil and Alt, leaving a debate on who plays the roll of Beatrice (the one being saved) and Dante (the one doing the saving) between Johnny and V. I have to wonder at the writers choice to leave this portion out, as there’s a lot to be said here about who truly comes out alive: who’s flame will cease to flicker? V, for obvious reasons, does not return to the world of the living the same. She will not live much longer, and is dying despite being temporarily “saved.” However, if Johnny returns to the body, he is no longer the Johnny we know; arrogant, self-assured, and more than a little narcissistic. The will to fight seems to have died within him; he leaves Night City, presumably looking to start over. While V clearly changes him before Mikoshi, he is a broken and somber man after returning to life, a flickering flame of who he once was. There’s also a connection to be made about Johnny/V dying and returning to life, literally rising from hell. The next part of the missing introduction is as follows: 

“Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;” 

I can’t think of a better way to describe what is happening in Mikoshi aside from the line “Like a patient etherized upon a table.” Johnny and V, in this moment, are suspended in an almost dream-like state. In Eliot’s poem, the “treatment” this patient is awaiting is presumably an examination/reflection of the self, which will lead to the narrator making a major decision. In this scenario, V is being forced to make a very tough choice, one that will take a lot of reflection as they decide what (a few months) of their remaining life is worth. 

On to the actual portion of the poem that Alt reads:

“Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent.”

While Prufrock is taking his lover on a romantic stroll, they are hardly walking through rose gardens. They are traveling through the unpleasant parts of a city, and he is noticing all the unsavory parts of his world. Obvious references to night city include one-night hotels (such as the no-tell motel, the Pista Sofia, or the hotel that Johnny and V stay at after the parade, which Johnny gripes about and asks ‘what kind of losers stay in a place like this?), and ‘the sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells,’ which is possibly a reference to the fact that food in Night City is real sketchy (odd things like synth-milk, which Takemura complains about throughout the game). The streets like a tedious argument works on several levels here; both the crime of night city’s streets, which is relentless and quite literally never-ending (V can’t walk two blocks without an assault in progress task spawning), and the socio-economic ecosystem that threatens self-combust at any point. There will always be conflict between gangs, between corpos, between Arasaka and Militech, and between the nomads and the Raffins/Wraiths. In one mission with Padre, you find out that Arasaka and Militech are on the verge of waging another war. None of this conflict is positive, and always ends in bloodshed, often of the innocent. One can argue themselves in circles trying to find a solution to NC’s problems, there is no win-win situation. It’s a bit of a damnned if you do, damnned if you don’t situation. This comes up in conversation with Takemura on his career with Arasaka, as well as several other missions that involve those who choose to work for corporations to survive. This is also a point of conflict between V and Johnny a multiple times, one that never gets an answer. A literal tedious argument, tedious because there are no ‘happy endings for all involved’ in Night City. The final lines of Alt’s reading have more to do with V/Johnny’s final choice:

“To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.”

All the unsavory things V has to do to survive, all the people that have died to get to Mikoshi, lead up to one ‘overwhelming’ question: who will live on? There are so many other questions that should be answered: what is beyond the Blackwall? Are Johnny and Alt real, or is the soul truly dead, and are they just a copy of the people they once were? What happens to the idea of God and the afterlife when you introduce the idea of Soulkiller? But much like in the poem, we don’t get these answers. In fact, we are barely given time to contemplate the question as we fight for survival. A decision must be made, despite not knowing or even having time to dwell on these answers. Similarly Johnny, when presented with these questions in several side quests, refuses to even entertain the question, much like the poem’s narrator. 

The rest of the poem, which is not included in Alt’s reading, is full of allusions to the story. The “yellow fog,” which persists across the poem is full of cat-like imagery, conjuring the bakaneko, the spirit of misfortune that can bring people back to life that Takemura mentions (coincidence that V/Johnny can adopt a cat? Keeping death as a close companion? I think not). Prufrock spends the rest of the poem contemplating his question, talking himself in circles, and the only thing that changes is his age as time slips by. Just as he seems to be making progress, he talks himself back to square one and begins again. Much in the same way, Johnny and V go in the same circles. Their journey begins with their deaths, and to death they will both return no matter what. Nothing they did really mattered, the world remains the same, broken and unfair. As Prufrock later contemplates: “Do I dare/ Disturb the universe?…Would it have been worth while/ To have bitten off the matter with a smile,? To have squeezed the universe into a ball?” Johnny loses his life trying to strike against an unjust world, yet he is scarcely a memory to most residents of Night City, who do not have time to contemplate what is right and what is wrong; their focus must be on survival. 

Interestingly enough, both the poem and Cyberpunk reference similar secondary materials. Prufrock references Lazarus and Hamlet as he contemplates how he will never lead an exciting existence. Lazarus, much like V/Johnny, famously rose from the dead. Hamlet is a reoccurring theme in the storyline; Prufrock, V/Johnny, and Hamlet all are faced having to inevitably make a very difficult decision, the latter two involving tragedy for all no matter what. It’s also up for debate whether Hamlet is turning mad, similar to how we can’t be sure how much Johnny is driving V “mad” by taking over their mind. Despite this comparison, V/Johnny are no Hamlet/Lazarus. They are Prufrock; their lives, and their deaths, are meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Despite their efforts, they will simply fade away until they remain only in the memories of those they left behind. The play is further referenced as Jackie’s grave reads “Goodnight, sweet Prince,” and in a deleted audio file Johnny tells V “Sleep well prince/princess” before taking control if V chooses to attack Arasaka with Rogues help. What makes this more interesting is when you look at the line in which Hamlet is mentioned:

“No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.”

The Fool, which is mentioned several times by Misty, represents V and Johnny, in the journey that is told by the major arcane in tarot. The beginning of a journey — of a cycle — while the Death card symbolizes the ending of one phase and the beginning of another. An often painful transformation into something new. The main theme of Eliot’s poem is cycles; he  talks himself in circles, never making a choice, always ending up where he begins. Circles are mentioned once again by Kerry during his personal mission, when he talks about beginning a new cycle in his life. V/Johnny’s journey together begins with death, and so it must end that way for them; whether it is a physical death, or a death of the self. No matter what, V’s fate is inevitable; they will face death again head-on, just as they did at the beginning of their story. The chosen passages of this poem asserts this cycle — the first three words of Alt’s first and last sentence are the same: 

“Let us go.” 

[ladyeliot]

Welcome Seaville. Chapter One. [T.S. / J.H.]

Series:  “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong”

Prologue

Pairing: Tony Stark/Justin Hammer x Fem!Reader / Best Friend Steve Rogers

Summary:  1987. The exchange term is over, so you return to your hometown, Seaville, just before Christmas. The reunions with friends, the first day of school, everything goes back to the way it used to be.

Warnings: Insults, piques.

Word Count: 3465

A/N: Sorry for my spelling and grammatical mistakes, English is not my native language, I am learning.

December 1987

It would have been enough to say that this was just another ordinary Christmas in the small Maine town of Seaville, but it was not. The Christmas lights were brighter, the streets were more beautiful under the clear splendour of the moon, and the wind brought a sweet smell of sea salts that gave you a pleasant sensation. You peered through the passenger window and let the east wind envelop you and welcome you home again. Seaville was welcoming you in its entirety and you were leaving it.

It had been just four months since you had left the coast of Maine to head off to fulfil one of your many dreams, to spend a term in the French city of Paris. Nothing in your life could have compared to that singular experience, and you even hoped to return next year having been accepted to the University of Paris, but, equally, nothing could compare to the love you felt for home.

"Please roll up the window," your father insisted. "I don't want you to spend the whole Christmas holidays with the flu."

And of course nothing could compare to your dear father.

As you rounded the corner into your little residential area you could almost smell the sweet scent of hot chocolate and puffy clouds that your father had promised you when he picked you up from the airport. You got out of the car so quickly that you barely paid any attention to the bundle of suitcases your father was trying to pull out of the boot without any help.

As you had predicted, as soon as you turned the lock and opened the door, the smell of cocoa filled the whole house. You allowed yourself a few seconds to take in the view, the fireplace lit and adorned with the three corresponding boots, the Christmas tree in place, without the star on the top, as that was your job, and the coats sorted on the hanger by colour. All the same as always.

"Don't worry, I can manage," your father said almost breathlessly as he climbed the porch steps.

You laughed and grabbed one of the three suitcases that were blocking your father's path. You both closed the door behind you and followed each other into the kitchen as if it were tradition. The chocolate was still warm and the clouds had dissolved, just the way you used to like them. The conversation with your father went on for so long, explaining to him everything you hadn't wanted to tell him over the phone, or through letters, a method your father had forced you to maintain, for we should note that his job was as a literary writer, although he sometimes resorted to writing a few newspaper columns to make a little extra money.

The point is that the little family had been talking for hours on end, not realising that midnight had already passed, and that tomorrow you had to go to the institute to settle bureaucratic matters due to your return.

"Bonne nuit, chérie," your father said in a chaste French accent, kissing your forehead.

"Bonne nuit, papa," you smiled back, preparing to be reunited with your room.

Your room, which you had not yet had the pleasure of entering, was as usual, oblivious to the fact that your father had changed the quilt on your bed so you could sleep warmer. You flopped on your back on the bed, but just as a memory came to you, you quickly got up and went to the window. What your eyes beheld brought a laugh and a sense of relief and happiness, how could you not have noticed it before?

By chance of life, you were lucky enough to have discovered true friendship in the person who lived right across the street from you. When you and your father moved to Seaville, due to your mother's death 10 years ago, you chose that quiet residential neighbourhood to settle down and raise a small family. You met Steve Rogers on your first day of second grade, and from the moment you discovered you lived across the street from each other, a beautiful friendship was forged.

For ten minutes you couldn't take your eyes off the window of the house across the street, right next to yours. A large light blue cardboard covered the whole space and a few letters in capital letters decorated it with "Bon retour". Obviously you had kept Steve constantly in mind during your term away, long phone conversations and a few postcards proved it, but during the flight back you were afraid that he had forgotten about the day you were coming back, a rather stupid fear. So, with the comfort that gesture had brought you, you decided it was time to go to bed and get some rest, as the next morning was a long day ahead.

The sunbeam fell incessantly on your face, the curtains could barely block its power, you had assumed that you were not a good early riser, but that morning you woke up in a good mood, not even the strong smell of charred toast was going to take it away from you.

"Wow, nice smile," your father notified, offering you a plate with two pieces of toast blackened under raspberry jam.

"Thanks!" you took the plate and took his usual seat. "I'm looking forward to seeing Steve, and catching up with Natasha. Although I hope they've got things to tell me too. What are you doing today?"

"I have to finish the chapter of the book to hand in to the publisher," he sat down next to you. "And I also have to go to the mall to pick up a gift."

The smile on your face that morning widened, there were only two days left until Christmas, so it was obvious that the gift I was supposed to pick up would be for you. Even though you had everything planned, and had brought some presents from Paris, you still had to buy the last detail for your father.

Just then the front doorbell rang, and you realised that time had run out on you when you noticed that you were still in your pyjamas.

"Shit!" you exclaimed, taking the last bite of toast and heading upstairs. "I'll be down in five minutes!"

Just as you disappeared your father headed off to greet his visitor. You could hear Steve's voice as you hurriedly went about getting dressed, combing your hair and getting your backpack ready for class, not forgetting to grab two rolls of film to develop, but when you heard his laughter you couldn't help but laugh too, even though you had barely heard the reason for his action. You rushed downstairs and from the third step practically threw yourself onto Steve's back in a laughing embrace.

"Have you grown up? No way, let me see you," Steve scoffed receiving your customary punch on his shoulder.

"Hey, nice cartel," you arched an eyebrow pointing to his house.

"You think so?" your friend asked. "I'm glad you liked it. I spent three poster boards until I was proud of my work. "

Steve's sincerity did nothing but thank you for the small detail he'd had for you. But time was passing and you still hadn't left the house.

"Come on, guys! You're going to be late for class," your father informed you, offering you your lunch bag. You took it with a kiss on the cheek and ran after Steve, who was waiting for you by your bike in the garden. That morning you couldn't keep a smile off your face and Steve couldn't take his eyes off you.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" you said getting on your bike.

"You're so happy. It's not normal to see that smile at eight o'clock in the morning," Steve's comment made you laugh a little.

You both set off in the direction of the school, it usually took you ten minutes to get there by bike if you cycled at a leisurely pace, but you were still able to catch up. On the way Steve was interested in the photographs you had taken during your stay in the European city, as you had sent him some of the ones you had had time to develop. Photography was a way for you to escape, your mother had dedicated all the years of her life to the art, and perhaps it was an incentive for you to admire her.

"It's different, Paris inspires me, it's so romantic and bohemian that it's very easy to get carried away," you explained. "That doesn't mean Seaville isn't, it's... different."

Steve listened attentively to your every word, possibly one thing you both had in common was a sensitivity that you only showed when you were both alone.

It didn't take you long to realise that the school was nearby, as the amount of cars queuing at the entrance informed you of your arrival.

"Welcome back," said Steve as he entered with you through the main door leading to a long corridor lined with lockers.

You both headed towards your locker area, you didn't know why you expected anything to have changed, but everything, literally everything, was still the same.

"There you go again! Have you been deported?" that voice, which you hadn't missed, made you roll your eyes. "I had hoped that you would have climbed the Eiffel Tower and let yourself plummet. But here you are, again."

"I had hoped that one of your absurd inventions would have exploded and you would have been shot to pieces with them," you shot back with a sarcastic grin. "But not all dreams come true."

"And I had hoped that being a senior in high school you two could get along," Steve interrupted. "But I see that's impossible."

A wide wry grin on Tony's face competed with yours, but you added a snip and he countered by trying to bite your finger.

"Lovely welcome Tony," Natasha joined the group hugging you from behind, depositing a kiss on his cheek. "Wait, do I smell Parisian perfume? You haven't turned into one of those French repipes have you?"

You were grateful for Nat's presence, who was your ally against the daily struggle against Tony, for after all Steve was a neutral lynchpin in the battle. Nat shook Steve's hand and when he went to greet Tony he tried to give him a kiss on the lips, which resulted in him getting punched in the arm. The bell rang, breaking up the group, depending on which subjects you were in.

"Meet me later in the cafeteria and continue to catch up?" you commented to Steve who was going the other way with Tony.

"As always."

You gave him a parting smile, but your gaze met Tony's who blew you a kiss in the air, causing you to squint and grimace.

"And we're still catching up?" repeated Nat with a quizzical arch of his eyebrow.

"I've got a lot to tell you, and I hope you've got a lot to tell me..." you arched an eyebrow.

"It all depends on the present you brought me from Paris," replied your friend, winking at you.

You laughed, but the two of you parted ways just inside the administration offices, where a long morning of tidying up awaited you.

After two hours of filling out forms and making photocopies of the documents you had brought from the institute in Paris, you had become quite an expert. You had hoped to have an hour to spare before lunchtime to escape to the developing room to develop the film, but that seemed impossible. When the bell rang, you had barely had time to approach the room and put the film in your locker, which you had been assigned to since sixth grade when photography had become your obsession, so you made your way to the cafeteria and found your friend sitting at your table, right next to the big window overlooking the football field.

"Where were you? I was waiting for you to start eating together, but this pizza... it was tempting me," Nat took a bite of pizza like there was no tomorrow.

"If I tell you I've been reading absurd, meaningless documents all morning..." you snorted sitting down across from her and pulling out your sandwich. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be going to Paris."

"You know that's not true," Nat arched an eyebrow drawing a smile from her. "You would have gone to Paris even if you had to repeat one more grade in high school."

"Anyway, I need an update," you began, turning serious. "Has anything interesting happened while I've been away? Anyone new? Anyone who's been stirring things up?"

"New? No, anything interesting? Neither. This Seaville Murph, there's nothing going on here," Nat shrugged finishing his slice of pizza.

"I'll look for the bright side. At least I haven't missed anything," you shrugged.

"I guess you could go away for ten years and when you came back everything would still be the same," Nat looked around. "Where are the boys?"

"I'll bet you five bucks they're on the football field," you commented. "By the way, have you written the application for Brenau yet?"

"It's practically finished," your friend reported. "I'll go over it during the holidays and send it off in January. Are you ready to move to Paris next year and drive the Parisians crazy?" Natasha winked. "You haven't been hiding some movie adventure from me all this time?"

"Oh! Of course," you said wryly just as Steve and Tony made their big appearance. "Now that you mention it, as I was strolling the first evening in the Luxembourg Gardens I heard a sweet melody in the background and headed for it. There was a man playing the saxophone and I stopped to listen to him for a couple of minutes. I was so absorbed that I hardly noticed that a boy had stopped right next to me until he said 'Ne pensez-vous pas que Paris a un charme particulier?' Then I looked at him, he had the most beautiful green eyes I had ever seen," you paused your story to make a false sigh. "Then we strolled until late at night, and we met every evening so that he could show me the most beautiful corners of the city. I think those were the most romantic months of my life."

Three pairs of eyes stared at you showing completely different feelings. Natasha, who was sitting opposite you, was holding back her laughter, Steve, who was standing holding his tray next to Tony, looked completely confused by what had just happened and Tony was arching an eyebrow somewhat curiously at the story. At this point neither of you two could hold it in and started laughing, snapping the boys out of their trance.

"What was that?" asked Steve sitting down next to you. "Is that true? Because it would annoy me if you hadn't told me."

"Come on! He's pulling your leg," informed Tony jokingly and taking his place next to Nat.

"Wait how are you so sure my story isn't true? Couldn't I have my romantic history with a Parisian?" you rebutted somewhat indignantly at his certainty.

"Was he blind?" Tony arched an eyebrow.

For your part you squinted, just as Tony got a jolt of shock after getting stomped under the table by Nat because of his comment. Steve's change of conversation made it easier to keep the argument from escalating, but something always happened to spoil civilised conversations. A few minutes later, Tony was struggling with the Ketchup sachet which he couldn't open to spread on his burger, such was his desperation that when he took a bite of the sachet, it burst causing the sauce to hit your dress. Nat's eyes along with Steve's widened in anticipation of the contest between the two of you.

"You're an idiot Stark!" you quickly grabbed a couple of napkins Nat offered you so you could remove the sauce before it left a mark.

"At least it matches your dress," Tony interjected, holding back a laugh.

Cursing through your teeth, you headed for the food counter with the intention that some cook would have one of her magical ideas to make the stain go away. Tony followed you without letting go of his burger, even though Steve and Nat advised him to stay quiet and sit down.

"Come on Murphy! It's hardly any different from the red fabric of the dress," he said stepping up beside you, and knowing how much you hated it when he called you that.

"How many times have I told you not to call me Murphy?" you said scrubbing the stain with soap and water.

"It's your name," she shrugged nonchalantly. "It's not my fault your parents decided to name you that."

You bit down hard on your lip so you wouldn't have to blurt out all those things that were running through your mind, and put on an act in the middle of the cafeteria. You were lucky that at that instant someone appeared and diverted Tony's attention.

"Ready for Stark debate class?" Justin Hammer, with whom you shared a few classes introduced himself to you.

"Of course Hammer. I can't wait to see you try to put your meager vocabulary together in one sentence," Tony took a bite of his burger, causing sauce to smear his mustache and chin.

"Come on Tony, you've got a lifetime to be an idiot why don't you take a day off?" Hammer smiled slightly.

You couldn't help but smile at the comment, to which Tony noticed and became uncomfortable.

"Hammer, everyone has the right to act stupid for a while, but I'm not really the one abusing that privilege," Tony took another bite of his burger. "So fuck off."

Justin Hammer had gotten what he wanted, and his success was grounded in a half-smile as he walked away, leaving Tony frustrated. Within seconds he turned to you, so you gave him a raised eyebrow.

"You don't abuse that privilege?" you asked, referring to what he had just said to Hammer. "Please, Tony..."

Your smile faded just as Tony dipped his finger into his burger, and, bathed in what little ketchup he could get his hands on, rubbed it all over your right cheek.

"You're despicable!" you exclaimed wiping your cheek.

"Thank you, sweetheart."

"Don't thank me for the insult, it's always a pleasure," you cocked your head to the side and widened a fake smile leaving him alone, returning to the table.

The doorbell once again brought the lunch hour to an end. Tony followed you and jumped on Steve's back with the burger still in his hand, while you and Natasha gathered up your bags and belongings.

"Hey, what are you doing this afternoon? I thought we could all go to Barry's and catch up," you suggested to Natasha as you headed towards the lockers.

"I've got dance class, and I guess since it's the last one before Christmas it's going to run until dinner time," she lamented.

"Did someone say Barry's?" Tony slowed his pace and interjected into the conversation.

"Sounds like a good idea to me," said Steve. Barry's at 7pm?

"Nat's got dance class," you commented, opening your backpack to put your books in your locker.

"Guys, I know I'm a one-off, but you can go without me, don't worry," Natasha shrugged. "We can meet up tomorrow."

"Okay, but tomorrow you have to come with me to the mall, I'm still missing a present for my dad," you leaned in front of her.

"That means you already got mine," Tony winked at you, you hated his sudden mood swings.

"Yeah, a single ticket to the farthest place on the planet," you said, cocking your head.

"You know you'd miss me," he cut you short and you nudged him.

Oblivious to Tony, you added, "So I'll see you at Barry's this afternoon, and it's okay if you don't show up Stark."

"Believe me it's the last thing I feel like doing, but where Steve goes I go."

Taglist Open (DM) - @ravishingreid

MAIN MASTERLIST

[pretimasafghanistanlitblog]

“Ten Interesting Afghani Novels”

1. Under the Persimmon Tree by Suzanne Fisher Staples

Intertwined portraits of courage and hope in Afghanistan and Pakistan Najmah, a young Afghan girl whose name means "star," suddenly finds herself alone when her father and older brother are conscripted by the Taliban and her mother and newborn brother are killed in an air raid. An American woman, Elaine, whose Islamic name is Nusrat, is also on her own. She waits out the war in Peshawar, Pakistan, teaching refugee children under the persimmon tree in her garden while her Afghan doctor husband runs a clinic in Mazar-i-Sharif, Afghanistan.

Najmah's father had always assured her that the stars would take care of her, just as Nusrat's husband had promised that they would tell Nusrat where he was and that he was safe. As the two look to the skies for answers, their fates entwine. Najmah, seeking refuge and hoping to find her father and brother, begins the perilous journey through the mountains to cross the border into Pakistan. And Nusrat's persimmon-tree school awaits Najmah's arrival. Together, they both seek their way home.

Known for her award-winning fiction set in South Asia, Suzanne Fisher Staples revisits that part of the world in this beautifully written, heartrending novel. (goodreads.com)

2. Words in the Dust by Trent Reedy

Winner of the Christopher Medal and a "heart-wrenching" Al Roker's Book Club selection on the Today Show.

Zulaikha hopes. She hopes for peace, now that the Taliban have been driven from Afghanistan; a good relationship with her hard stepmother; and one day even to go to school, or to have her cleft palate fixed. Zulaikha knows all will be provided for her--"Inshallah," God willing. Then she meets Meena, who offers to teach her the Afghan poetry she taught her late mother. And the Americans come to her village, promising not just new opportunities and dangers, but surgery to fix her face. These changes could mean a whole new life for Zulaikha--but can she dare to hope they'll come true? (Amazon.com)

3. A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini

A Thousand Splendid Suns is a breathtaking story set against the volatile events of Afghanistan's last thirty years - from the Soviet invasion to the reign of the Taliban to post-Taliban rebuilding - that puts the violence, fear, hope, and faith of this country in intimate, human terms. It is a tale of two generations of characters brought jarringly together by the tragic sweep of war, where personal lives - the struggle to survive, raise a family, find happiness - are inextricable from the history playing out around them.

Propelled by the same storytelling instinct that made The Kite Runner a beloved classic, A Thousand Splendid Suns is at once a remarkable chronicle of three decades of Afghan history and a deeply moving account of family and friendship. It is a striking, heart-wrenching novel of an unforgiving time, an unlikely friendship, and an indestructible love - a stunning accomplishment. (goodreads.com)

4. Swallows of Kabul by Yasmina Khadra 

Since the ascendancy of the Taliban the lives of Mosheen and his beautiful wife, Zunaira, have been gradually destroyed. Mosheen's dream of becoming a diplomat has been shattered and Zunaira can no longer even appear on the streets of Kabul unveiled. Atiq is a jailer who guards those who have been condemned to death; the darkness of prison and the wretchedness of his job have seeped into his soul. Atiq's wife, Musarrat, is suffering from an illness no doctor can cure. Yet, the lives of these four people are about to become inexplicably intertwined, through death and imprisonment to passion and extraordinary self-sacrifice.

The Swallows of Kabul is an astounding and elegiac novel of four people struggling to hold on to their humanity in a place where pleasure is a deadly sin and death has become routine. (goodreads.com)

5. The Pearl That Broke Its Shell by Nadia Hashimi

Afghan-American Nadia Hashimi's literary debut novel is a searing tale of powerlessness, fate, and the freedom to control one's own fate that combines the cultural flavor and emotional resonance of the works of Khaled Hosseini, Jhumpa Lahiri, and Lisa See.

In Kabul, 2007, with a drug-addicted father and no brothers, Rahima and her sisters can only sporadically attend school, and can rarely leave the house. Their only hope lies in the ancient custom of bacha posh, which allows young Rahima to dress and be treated as a boy until she is of marriageable age. As a son, she can attend school, go to the market, and chaperone her older sisters.

But Rahima is not the first in her family to adopt this unusual custom. A century earlier, her great-great grandmother, Shekiba, left orphaned by an epidemic, saved herself and built a new life the same way.

Crisscrossing in time, The Pearl the Broke Its Shell interweaves the tales of these two women separated by a century who share similar destinies. But what will happen once Rahima is of marriageable age? Will Shekiba always live as a man? And if Rahima cannot adapt to life as a bride, how will she survive? (Amazon.com)

6. Shooting Kabul By N.H. Senzai

In the summer of 2001, twelve-year-old Fadi's parents make the difficult decision to illegally leave Afghanistan and move the family to the United States. When their underground transport arrives at the rendezvous point, chaos ensues, and Fadi is left dragging his younger sister Mariam through the crush of people. But Mariam accidentally lets go of his hand and becomes lost in the crowd, just as Fadi is snatched up into the truck. With Taliban soldiers closing in, the truck speeds away, leaving Mariam behind.

Adjusting to life in the United States isn't easy for Fadi's family, and as the events of September 11th unfold the prospects of locating Mariam in a war torn Afghanistan seem slim. When a photography competition with a grand prize trip to India is announced, Fadi sees his chance to return to Afghanistan and find his sister. But can one photo really bring Mariam home?

Based in part on Ms. Senzai's husband's own experience fleeing his home in Soviet-controlled Afghanistan in the 1970's, Shooting Kabul is a powerful story of hope, love, and perseverance. (goodreads.org)

7. Green on Blue: A Novel by Elliot Ackerman 

Aziz and his older brother Ali are coming of age in a village amid the pine forests and endless mountains of eastern Afghanistan. They are poor, but inside their mud-walled home, the family has stability, love, and routine. One day a convoy of armed men arrives in their village and their world crumbles. The boys survive and make their way to a small city, where they gradually begin to piece together their lives. But when US forces invade the country, militants strike back. A bomb explodes in the market, and Ali is brutally injured.

To save his brother, Aziz must join the Special Lashkar, a US-funded militia. As he rises through the ranks, Aziz becomes mired in the dark underpinnings of his country’s war, witnessing clashes between rival Afghan groups—what US soldiers call “green on green” attacks—and those on US forces by Afghan soldiers, violence known as “green on blue.” Trapped in a conflict both savage and contrived, Aziz struggles to understand his place. Will he embrace the brutality of war or leave it behind, and risk placing his brother—and a young woman he has come to love—in jeopardy?

Green on Blue has broken new ground in the literature of our most recent wars, accomplishing an astonishing feat of empathy and imagination. Writing from the Afghan perspective, “Elliot Ackerman has done something brave as a writer and even braver as a soldier: He has touched, for real, the culture and soul of his enemy” (The New York Times Book Review). (barnesandnoble.com)

8. Caravans by James A. Michener

First published in 1963, James A. Michener’s gripping chronicle of the social and political landscape of Afghanistan is more relevant now than ever. Combining fact with riveting adventure and intrigue, Michener follows a military man tasked, in the years after World War II, with a dangerous assignment: finding and returning a young American woman living in Afghanistan to her distraught family after she suddenly and mysteriously disappears. A timeless tale of love and emotional drama set against the backdrop of one of the most important countries in the world today, Caravans captures the tension of the postwar period, the sweep of Afghanistan’s remarkable history, and the inescapable allure of the past. (barnesandnoble.com)

 9. A Cup of Friendship: A Novel by Deborah Rodriguez

From the author of the “bighearted . . . inspiring” (Vogue) memoir Kabul Beauty School comes to a fiction debut as compelling as real life: the story of a remarkable coffee shop in the heart of Afghanistan, and the men and women who meet there - thrown together by circumstance, bonded by secrets, and united in an extraordinary friendship.

After hard luck and some bad choices, Sunny has finally found a place to call home - it just happens to be in the middle of a war zone. The thirty-eight-year-old American’s pride and joy is the Kabul Coffee House, where she brings hospitality to the expatriates, misfits, missionaries, and mercenaries who stroll through its doors. She’s especially grateful that the busy days allow her to forget Tommy, the love of her life, who left her in pursuit of money and adventure.

Working alongside Sunny is the maternal Halajan, who vividly recalls the days before the Taliban and now must hide a modern romance from her ultratraditional son - who, unbeknownst to her, is facing his own religious doubts. Into the café come to Isabel, a British journalist on the trail of a risky story; Jack, who left his family back home in Michigan to earn “danger pay” as a consultant; and Candace, a wealthy and well-connected American whose desire to help threatens to cloud her judgment.

When Yazmina, a young Afghan from a remote village, is kidnapped and left on a city street pregnant and alone, Sunny welcomes her into the café and gives her home - but Yazmina hides a secret that could put all their lives in jeopardy. As this group of men and women discover that there’s more to one another than meets the eye, they’ll form an unlikely friendship that will change not only their own lives but the lives of an entire country.

Brimming with Deborah Rodriguez’s remarkable gift for depicting the nuances of life in Kabul, and filled with vibrant characters that readers will truly care about, A Cup of Friendship is the best kind of fiction - full of heart yet smart and thought-provoking. (Amazon.com)

 10. In the Sea There Are Crocodiles By Fabio Geda

What would you do if, when you were ten, you were left to fend for yourself, and, in order to survive, you had to undertake a harrowing journey all the way from Afghanistan to Italy?

In early 2002, Enaiatollah Akbari’s village fell prey to the Taliban. His mother, fearing for his life, led him across the border. So began Enaiat’s remarkable and often publishing five-year ordeal—trekking across bitterly cold mountains, riding the suffocating false bottom of a truck, steering an inflatable raft in violent waters—through Iran, Turkey, Pakistan, and Greece, before he eventually sought political asylum in Italy, all before he turned fifteen years old.

Here Fabio Geda delivers the moving true story of Enaiat’s extraordinary will to survive and of the accidental brotherhood he found with the boys he met along the way. In the Sea There Are Crocodiles brilliantly captures Enaiat’s engaging voice and humor, in what is a truly epic story of hope and survival, for readers of all ages. (barnesandnoble.com) 

[arcticdementor]

Media Twitter does not hate Substack because it’s pretending to be a platform when it’s a publisher; they don’t hate it because it’s filled with anti-woke white guys; they don’t hate it because of harassment or any such thing. I don’t think they really hate it at all. Substack is a small and ultimately not-very-relevant outpost in a vastly larger industry; they may not like it but it’s not important enough for them to hate it. What do they hate? They hate where their industry is and they hate where they are within their industry. But that’s a big problem that they don’t feel like they can solve. If you feel you can’t get mad at the industry that’s impoverishing you, it’s much easier to get mad at the people who you feel are unjustly succeeding in that industry. Trying to cancel Glenn Greenwald (again) because he criticizes the media harshly? Trying to tarnish Substack’s reputation so that cool, paid-up writer types leave it and the bad types like me get kicked off? That they can maybe do. Confronting their industry’s future with open eyes? Too scary, especially for people who were raised to see success as their birthright and have suddenly found that their degrees and their witheringly dry one-liners do not help them when the rent comes due.

…

Life in the “content” industry already sucks. A small handful of people make bank while the vast majority hustle relentlessly just to hold on to the meager pay they already receive. There are staff writers at big-name publications who produce thousands of words every week and who make less than $40,000 a year for their trouble. There are permanent employees of highly prestigious newspapers and magazines who don’t receive health insurance. Venues close all the time. Mourning another huge round of layoffs is a regular bonding experience for people in the industry. Writers have to constantly job hop just to try and grind out an extra $1,500 a year, making their whole lives permanent job interviews where they can’t risk offending their potential bosses and peers. Many of them dream of selling that book to save themselves financially, not seeming to understand that book advances have fallen 40% in 10 years - median figure now $6,080 - and that the odds of actually making back even that meager advance are slim, meaning most authors are making less than minimum wage from their books when you do the math. They have to tweet constantly for the good of their careers, or so they believe, which amounts to hundreds of hours of unpaid work a year. Their publications increasingly strong arm them into churning out pathetic pop-culture ephemera like listicles about the outfits on Wandavision. They live in fear of being the one to lose out when the next layoffs come and the game of media musical chairs spins up once again. They have to pretend to like ghouls like Ezra Klein and Jonah Peretti and make believe that there’s such a thing as “the Daily Beast reputation for excellence.”

I have always felt bad for them, despite our differences, because of these conditions. And they have a right to be angry. But they don’t have much in the way of self-awareness about where their anger really lies. A newsletter company hosting Bari Weiss is why you can’t pay your student loans? You sure?

They’ll tell you about the terrible conditions in their industry themselves, when they’re feeling honest. So what are they really mad about? That I’m making a really-just-decent guaranteed wage for just one year? Or that this decent wage is the kind of money many of them dream of making despite the fact that, in their minds, they’ve done everything right and played by all the rules? Is their anger really about a half-dozen guys whose writing you have to actively seek out to see? (If you click the button and put in your email address, you’ll get these newsletters. If you don’t, you won’t. So if you’re a media type who hates my writing, consider just… not clicking that button.) Or do they need someplace to put the rage and resentment that grows inside them as they realize, no, it’s not getting better, this is all I get?

It’s true that I have, in a very limited way, achieved the new American dream: getting a little bit of VC cash. I’m sorry. But it’s much much less than one half of what Felix Salmon was making in 2017 and again, it’s only for one year.

You think the writers complaining in that piece I linked to at the top wanted to be here, at this place in their career, after all those years of hustling? You think decades into their media career, the writers who decamped to Substack said to themselves “you know, I’d really like to be in my 40s and having to hope that enough people will pitch in $5 a month so I can pay my mortgage”? No. But the industry didn’t give them what they felt they deserved either. So they displace and project. They can hate Jesse Singal, but Jesse Singal isn’t where this burning anger is coming from. Neither am I. They’re so angry because they bought into a notoriously savage industry at the nadir of its labor conditions and were surprised to find that they’re drifting into middle age without anything resembling financial security. I feel for them as I feel for all people living economically precarious lives, but getting rid of Substack or any of its writers will not do anything to fix their industry or their jobs. They wanted more and they got less and it hurts. This isn’t what they dreamed. That’s what this is really about.

…

My own deal here is not mysterious. It’s just based on a fact that the blue checks on Twitter have never wanted to accept. I got offered money to write here for the same reason I got offered to write for The New York Times and Harper’s and The Washington Post and The LA Times, the same reason I’ve gotten a half-dozen invitations to pitch since I started here a few weeks ago, the same reason a literary agent sought me out and asked me to write a book, the same reason I sold that book for a decent advance: because I pull traffic. Though I am a social outcast from professional opinion writing, I have a better freelance publishing history than many, many of my critics who are paid-up, obedient members of the media social scene. Why? Because the editors who hired me thought I was a great guy? No. Because I pull traffic. I always have. That’s why you’re reading this on Substack right now.

…

A really important lesson to learn, in life, is this: your enemies are more honest about you than your friends ever will be. I’ve been telling the blue checks for over a decade that their industry was existentially fucked, that the all-advertising model was broken, that Google and Facebook would inevitably hoover up all the profit, that there are too many affluent kids fresh out of college just looking for a foothold in New York who’ll work for next to nothing and in doing so driving down the wages of everyone else, that their mockery of early subscription programs like Times Select was creating a disastrous industry expectation that asking your readers directly for money was embarrassing. Trump is gone and the news business is cratering. Michael Tracey didn’t make that happen. None of this anger will heal what’s wrong. If you get all of the people you don’t like fired from Substack tomorrow, what will change? How will your life improve? Greenwald will spend more time with his hottie husband and his beloved kids and his 6,000 dogs in his beautiful home in Rio. Glenn will be fine. How do we do the real work of getting you job security and a decent wage?

…

But how do things get better in that way? Only through real self-criticism (which Twitter makes impossible) and by asking hard questions. Questions like one that has not been credibly confronted a single time in this entire media meltdown: why are so many people subscribing to Substacks? What is the traditional media not providing that they’re seeking elsewhere? Why have half a million people signed up as paying subscribers of various Substack newsletters, if the establishment media is providing the diversity of viewpoints that is an absolute market requirement in a country with a vast diversity of opinions? You can try to make an adult determination about that question, to better understand what media is missing, or you can read this and write some shitty joke tweet while your industry burns to the ground around you. It’s your call.

Substack might fold tomorrow, but someone would else sell independent media; there’s a market. Substack might kick me and the rest of the unclean off of their platforms tomorrow, but other critics of social justice politics would pop up here; there’s a market. Establishment media’s takeover by this strange brand of academic identity politics might grow even more powerful, if that’s even possible, but dissenters will find a place to sell alternative opinion; there’s a market. What there might not be much of a market for anymore is, well, you - college educated, urban, upwardly striving if not economically improving, woke, ironic, and selling that wokeness and that irony as your only product. Because you flooded the market. Everyone in your entire industry is selling the exact same thing, tired sarcastic jokes and bleating righteousness about injustices they don’t suffer under themselves, and it’s not good in basic economic terms if you’re selling the same thing as everyone else. You add that on to structural problems within your business model and your utter subservience to a Silicon Valley that increasingly hates you, well…. I get why you’re mad. And I get that you don’t like me. But I’m not what you’re mad about. Not really.

In the span of a decade or so, essentially all professional media not explicitly branded as conservative has been taken over by a school of politics that emerged from humanities departments at elite universities and began colonizing the college educated through social media. Those politics are obscure, they are confusing, they are socially and culturally extreme, they are expressed in a bizarre vocabulary, they are deeply alienating to many, and they are very unpopular by any definition. The vast majority of the country is not woke, including the vast majority of women and people of color. How could it possibly be healthy for the entire media industry to be captured by any single niche political movement, let alone one that nobody likes? Why does no one in media seem willing to have an honest, uncomfortable conversation about the near-total takeover of their industry by a fringe ideology?

And the bizarre assumption of almost everyone in media seems to have been that they could adopt this brand of extreme niche politics, in mass, as an industry, and treat those politics as a crusade that trumps every other journalistic value, with no professional or economic consequences. They seem to have thought that Americans were just going to swallow it; they seem to have thought they could paint most of the country as vicious bigots and that their audiences would just come along for the ride. They haven’t. In fact Republicans are making great hay of the collapse of the media into pure unapologetic advocacy journalism. Some people are turning to alternative media to find options that are neither reactionary ideologues or self-righteous woke yelling. Can you blame them? Substack didn’t create this dynamic, and neither did I. The exact same media people who are so angry about Substack did, when they abandoned any pretense to serving the entire country and decided that their only job was to advance a political cause that most ordinary people, of any gender or race, find alienating and wrong. So maybe try and look at where your problems actually come from. They’re not going away.

Now steel yourselves, media people, take a shot of something strong, look yourself in the eye in the mirror, summon you most honest self, and tell me: am I wrong?

[agentrouka-blog]

GRRM sneaking in some Breakspear. Err, Shakespeare.

And when the bleak dawn broke over an empty horizon, Dany knew that he was truly lost to her. “When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east,” she said sadly. “When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When my womb quickens again, and I bear a living child. Then you will return, my sun-and-stars, and not before.”

Never, the darkness cried, never never never.

Inside the tent Dany found a cushion, soft silk stuffed with feathers. She clutched it to her breasts as she walked back out to Drogo, to her sun-and-stars. If I look back I am lost. It hurt even to walk, and she wanted to sleep, to sleep and not to dream. She knelt, kissed Drogo on the lips, and pressed the cushion down across his face. (AGOT, Daenerys IX)

Wait a second….               

To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles, And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep; No more; and by a sleep, to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep, To sleep, perchance to Dream; aye, there's the rub, For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes Calamity of so long life: For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time, The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely, The pangs of dispised Love, the Law’s delay, The insolence of Office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his Quietus make With a bare Bodkin? Who would Fardels bear,  To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of. Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of Resolution Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment,  With this regard their Currents turn awry,  And lose the name of Action. Soft you now, The fair Ophelia? Nymph, in thy Orisons Be all my sins remember'd.

(Hamlet)

I wouldn’t have made a post on this if I didn’t think this tied into the whole theme of escaping rage and bearing the pains of life along with the joys. That this is the center of the conflict that created the imbalance of the seasons. Someone pulled a Dany and dabbled in the darkest of magic because they couldn’t bear one of life’s heart-rending injustices. There is a reason that in moments of extreme wrath, faces start looking like heart trees with the red tears. (Catelyn at the Red Wedding is the prime example but far from the only.) This is the first time I’ve tried to make a literary connection, but it really works, doesn’t it? Who would bear all that if they didn’t have to? (There’s a whole other meta here that I can’t seem to finish.)

But the counter image to the face of sorrow, pain, horror and wrath in most Heart Trees is the image of the Laughing Tree, as born by the mystery Knight Lyanna Stark: 

Much as he wished to have his vengeance, he feared he would only make a fool of himself and shame his people. The quiet wolf had offered the little crannogman a place in his tent that night, but before he slept he knelt on the lakeshore, looking across the water to where the Isle of Faces would be, and said a prayer to the old gods of north and Neck …” (……)

“No one knew,” said Meera, “but the mystery knight was short of stature, and clad in ill-fitting armor made up of bits and pieces. The device upon his shield was a heart tree of the old gods, a white weirwood with a laughing red face.” (…)

When his fallen foes sought to ransom horse and armor, the Knight of the Laughing Tree spoke in a booming voice through his helm, saying, ‘Teach your squires honor, that shall be ransom enough.’ Once the defeated knights chastised their squires sharply, their horses and armor were returned. And so the little crannogman’s prayer was answered … by the green men, or the old gods, or the children of the forest, who can say?” (ASOS, Bran II)

The answer is not vengeance, no. It is not eye for an eye, son for a son. It is not fire and blood. (Looking at you, Doran Martell.) That’s the path to chaos and dragons.

The answer is justice. It is a pay-it-forward: teach them to be better. Forgiveness. Mercy. 

Ellaria’s cheeks were wet with tears, her dark eyes shining. Even weeping, she has a strength in her, the captain thought. “Oberyn wanted vengeance for Elia. Now the three of you want vengeance for him. I have four daughters, I remind you. Your sisters. My Elia is fourteen, almost a woman. Obella is twelve, on the brink of maidenhood. They worship you, as Dorea and Loreza worship them. If you should die, must El and Obella seek vengeance for you, then Dorea and Loree for them? Is that how it goes, round and round forever? I ask again, where does it end?” Ellaria Sand laid her hand on the Mountain’s head. “I saw your father die. Here is his killer. Can I take a skull to bed with me, to give me comfort in the night? Will it make me laugh, write me songs, care for me when I am old and sick?” 

(…)

The prince gave her a curious look. “She understood more than you ever will, Nymeria. And she made your father happy. In the end a gentle heart may be worth more than pride or valor. Be that as it may, there are things Ellaria does not know and should not know. This war has already begun.” (ADWD, The Watcher)

Ellaria Sand, lady of my heart. You tried. You tried so hard. Some pains you simply have to bear. Some wrongs you simply have to let go. Not all, not to the point of further injustice. But there has to be an end to the wrath. Sometimes you just have to wade through the pain in order to emerge on the other side and be able to see the brightness, the future, the joys. 

Lyanna made it happen for a moment. I think the Starklings will make it happen again. 

I am willing to bet the value of a sizable cake that the heart trees on the Isle of Faces are smiling. 

[fallintomyhands]

Blacked out card for @barisifandomevents !

Fake Relationship: Dreams – Asmodesgold (M) 

·        Barba gets the flu. Carisi gets more than he bargained for. A sweet, soft fic full of longing and loving care.

Wedding:  In Vino Veritas – etothepii ( E ) 

·        A bachelor party, a wedding, late nights in the office, and confusion. One of my favorite fics of Carisi figuring himself out, featuring a lot of unique but realistic situations, tenderness and heat, angst, and hopefulness. A fandom must read.

Alternate Universe: The Primitive and Sanctified – Konigsberg ( E ) 

·        Demons exist, unbeknownst to SVU… except the members counted amongst their ranks. This is one of my favorite stories of all time, and please don’t let the supernatural elements (or the fact this is sadly still a WIP) “scare” you away! The “monstrous” elements are used to perfectly capture characterization, and this is the most tender fic I’ve ever read.  Makes you want to crawl into the soft, dreamy feelings and live there forever. Please give this a shot if you haven’t already; perfection.

Crack Fic: Overstepping – rellkelltn87 (M) 

·        A raid on a real-life mad scientist goes horribly wrong, and ends with Carisi “in a family way.” I never thought I’d see an mpreg story in this fandom that could come off so believable, but this author works miracles (in a much kinder way than her characters!) Part casefic, part romance, all suspense, don’t pass this one up, you will not be disappointed!

Based on a Movie:  Do Monsters Dream? – bourgeois ( E ) 

·        Shape of Water AU in which Sonny works at an aquatic research facility and meets someone special. Takes place in a timeline where we see Carisi struggling after the Tom Cole incident, heart wrenchingly portrayed through his losses, personal and professional, and his meeting of another lonely, imprisoned soul. Beautifully written, absolutely captivating prose, wistful, heartfelt and magical.

Animals:  Yuletide by the Fireside – Juniperhoot 

·        First Christmas with a new love, and unfortunately a new, smaller paycheck. Tenderness, cozy domesticity, and the most adorable dog ever singing along to bad TV music numbers; what more could you want? If your answer was ‘thoughtful characterization’ – that’s here too!

First Date:  Everything Seems a Little Bit Sweeter – rafaelbaseball, burgeois 

·        Barba is obsessed with a YouTube chef, and enters a contest to meet him for dinner. One of the earliest fics I was obsessed with. The whole series is lovely, and the actual date is so tentative and lovely it makes my heart clench. Barba finding himself not in the age group of Sonny’s fans is painfully relatable and a stroke of genius.

Carisi Family:  A Healing Year – Adrianna_m_scovill (M) 

·        A year in the life of Barba and Carisi, in which Barba faces his insecurities and begins to heal, and to love. A fantastic story from start to finish, with top notch characterization and intense emotions, steamy sex, and everything in between. I chose this for my family fic not just because there’s a lovely holiday spent with the Carisi family, but because the fic also embodies how Carisi manages to make everyone in his life his family. Utterly captivating story from an author that always makes an emotional impact.

Soulmates:  Choose To Be With You – Robin Hood 

·        Sometimes the person who has your heart doesn’t have your soul. Great take on the soulmates trope, heartfelt, heartbreaking, mature. Insightful characterization of both characters, but especially Carisi, who faces an impossible situation, and reacts exactly how I believe the character would do.

Get Together:  Noche Sin Estrella – Lambnoire 

·        Casefic in which Barba is injured, and Carisi figures something out about himself when his protective streak becomes something more. A pretty much perfect fic; perfect characterization, strong and realistic casefic, recurring canon characters that feel true to themselves, whump that expresses the right amounts of terror without delving outside the scope of the show, and a slow burn journey of romance and self-acceptance that is meticulously paced, utterly realistic and hits every emotional mark flawlessly. Now that it’s back, make sure you don’t miss out.

Break Up:  Every Time We Touch – OblivionCastro 

·        Soulmate AU where the touch of your partner gives you pain.  A 5+1 fic, a soulmate fic, but mostly, a lyrically written story of enduring pain and enduring its loss. A wonderful metaphor for the agony of love and loss that brings me to tears every time.

Secret Relationship: Pink (& Other Promises) – leslielol 

·        Barba and Carisi fall together, and decide to keep it under wraps for a while; results vary. A common premise with uncommonly good prose. Vivid, lyrical language wraps around a soft story about affection, subterfuge, and acceptance.  A very different look at Barba and Carisi than the author’s main fic, but no less enduring and amazing.

WIP:  Much Farther To Go – nukablastr (M) 

·        The threats on Barba’s life have been declared a cold case, but Carisi decides to do some investigating on his own to protect the man he loves. This is the third part of a long series detailing the “missing” events in S17, and exploring beyond into “what could have been” if this major plot hadn’t been dropped. I added part 3 for the WIP, but recommend reading from the beginning. This story is expertly paced and plotted, and feels absolutely like it could be a piece of canon. One of the seminal works of the barisi fic fandom; read it if you haven’t.

Shadowing:  Mind if I Sit Down? – Larkin21 ( E ) 

·        Another episode tag based story from S17, featuring Carisi and Barba entering into a casual relationship behind the scenes. There’s not really many (or any!) full stories of Carisi shadowing Barba, but I was glad to be able to include this series, which features a full chapter on the shadowing episode. Again, I recommend reading the entire series, as it’s full of fantastically written plot and characterization, seamlessly weaving deep insights on the characters and blisteringly hot sex into the best seasons of the show. Another not-to-be-missed series!

Get Together:  I’m gonna leave it all out there to dry – littleblacksubmarine  ( E ) 

·        Carisi is barely keeping it together, and Barba is waiting to be allowed to help; a story of depression, self-loathing, comfort and devotion told through incredibly poignant intimate and sexual encounters. An unusual depiction of a very dark Sonny, and a protective, self-sacrificing Rafael who’s there for him every painful step of the way. Amazing story that captures perfectly some very different aspects of the characters than we typically see, and still feels 100% true. This story has broken and healed my heart so many times.

Holiday:  Pass Here and Go On – abogadobarba 

·        After the events of Undiscovered Country, Barba and Carisi reconnect, by chance, on a train of all places. Full of atmosphere, literary references, and some of the best prose in the fandom. This story is pure poetry, creating a tone of loneliness and longing, the sense of expanse and yet confinement that only travel can bring, and ultimately peacefulness and hope.  

Alternate Career Rafael: In This Light – Astronaut_Milky (M) 

·        Barba is a photographer, Carisi is a model, both men destined to keep finding… and losing, each other. Beautiful, sexy story about two men whose jobs keep bringing them together, and tearing them apart, full of light and heat and beautiful people and beautiful imagery.  

Undercover:  Have You Ever Wished For An Endless Night? – minnesotamemelord 

·        Carisi goes undercover at a high-powered legal event, and runs into someone familiar. A look at Sonny getting to go undercover at a nicer event than we normally see! Well written characterizations, and some interesting contemplations on unique issues, such as Carisi’s opinion on wealth and the wealthy that felt so spot on I immediately felt they were canon. Also, poor Rafael; he has such terrible friends!

5+1:  We Had No Haste – alwaysbuddy 

·        Carisi and Barba meet over and over in the most coincidental of places, but succumb to their own insecurities. Breathtaking story about two should-be fated lovers who continue to meet and connect over a multitude of vacations, but can’t bring themselves to reach for what they want, until they fear it may be too late. Gorgeous, atmospheric, romantic and sad, in equal measure, with an ending that’s happy, but still exudes a sense of so much lost time. This fic haunts my thoughts in the best ways.

Cooking:  Sustenance – AhumanFemale, tiberius (E ) 

·        Barba’s friends buy him a live-in chef for a time, so he can stop living on pretzels and coffee. Sweeping piece of art that exudes sensuality and the feel of time slipping through your fingers.

First Meeting:  Here and Now – wormghoul 

·        Barba and Carisi meet, and have a whirlwind romance, at LSAT camp before being parted until they meet again at SVU. The imagery and language used in this story has stuck with me for a long time. Shockingly, wrenchingly accurate descriptions of the feelings of holding memories dear, “as a talisman,” and the devastating feelings of having them torn away from you by reality… but also the hope that they can be made anew.  

Crack Fic:  It’s Not Too Late/Gag Order – cupidmarwani 

·        Carisi has a superpower, and has reached the end of his rope. Carisi has seen too much, and has the power to burn it all down. Barba wants to save him, but has to face stark reality. Short, intense story about the toll Carisi’s job takes on him, and how he becomes one of the monsters that he used to fight. Depressing, heartbreaking, terrifyingly relatable, this is an overlooked gem.

Confession:  Him. – keraunoscopia 

·        Carisi struggles with his sexuality and internalized homophobia, and seeks aid from the Church.  Quiet, powerful, painful, and so, so beautiful.

Domestic:  Daylight – cypress_tree ( E ) 

·        Carisi stays the night for the first time and Barba sees him in the sunlight. Short, sweet, hot. What’s more domestic than two people in love, unwilling to get out of bed and leave one another’s presence?

Fix It:  Good Morning – Kaye_21 (M) 

·        A threat to Barba’s life does not end well – repeatedly! Another “supernatural” style fic that shouldn’t be overlooked, even if it’s not your genre. Barba, stuck in a room with Carisi and a man out to kill them both, needs to figure out what is required of him to prevent their deaths, before he loses his mind. Fantastic character study. Terrifying, sad, sexy and hopeful. I chose this one for “fix it,” since as barisi itself could be considered a canon “fix it” or missed opportunity, and this fic itself embodies Barba himself finding a way to be that fix.

[betterdaysareatoenailaway]

Sleep Tight For Me...I’m Gone

Lately I’ve been writing these Better Days Are A Toenail Away™️ posts in Microsoft Word, selecting all and changing the font to Garamond, which is so readable and beautiful, and posting the Word docs, paragraphs by paragraph, inside these Tumblr drafts. It makes things look nice, to my old fashioned sensibilities, but fixing errors is a time-consuming and needlessly convoluted four-step process.

First, I have to copy, then delete the paragraph containing the error. Then I open the doc. and paste the error-ridden paragraph back into Word. After I find and fix the error, I need to save it and copy and paste it back into the post. It's time-consuming because I’m not just copying a paragraph. As you can see from more recent post, what I copied looked more like a photograph of the paragraph, not the words themselves written in Tumblr’s default font Arial. For an example of this, see below. I like the way it looks like old newspaper clippings. I posted an article about how my fent dealer John Smith kept getting robbed, and had resorted to putting a machete in front of his front door as a way of preventing this, a lever of sorts, which is plainly visible in the video I posted,

So today I’ve given up on trying to make my posts look like books or zines, and have given into the Tumblr font, which is about as pretty as a horse with his snout shot off.

There are two much longer posts I’m working on right now, one about Nirvana and one about Soundgarden, respectively, and how both bands were very unlike their public perception, but those posts are taking a lot of work so I’m putting them on the backburner because today is some dumbass corporation’s day where it tries to synthesize mental health and profit and the end result is as baldly capitalist and clumsy as you would expect. 

I’m not gonna name the company, or repeat their stupid fucking slogan. As far as I can tell (which isn't very far), talking about my trauma has never made me feel better. And in fact it has sometimes made me feel worse, because in telling you what hurts and scares me, I’ve given a part of myself away that I can’t get back. When you’re like me, and you’ve lost everything multiple times, sometimes the only form of power you have is how you choose, or do not choose, to tell your story. And in a world where everybody wants to tell “their truth,” silence is power. 

You don’t get to know me, sorry. I’m not gonna hand you my life, both my bad and good experiences, and conclude: “Welp, that’s why I’m so fucked up. Case closed.” 

Honestly, I used to be a little confused, or miffed that my former partner (who is an amazing person btw, in every respect) almost never spoke about some of the traumatic things she’d experienced in her past. I took it as a sign that she either didn’t trust me, or she didn’t think I would be a sympathetic listener, or the mere fact of my gender precluded her from sharing because I couldn’t truly understand what it was she had gone through. It’s not like I ever asked her to talk about it, but I did say, once or twice, “hey if you ever wanna talk about that stuff, I’m around.” She never took me up on it, and I let it go. 

But as I watched her, and saw her life unfold, over the years we spent together, I began to realize I wasn’t exactly in any position to be telling her how to live her life or how to be mentally healthy. After all, she has found success in a number of avenues, both creative and occupational, and I’ve found neither. I'm not saying the fact that she didn't talk much about her trauma is the reason for her success. I'm saying that she's forged a better path through life than I have, and maybe I should take a cue from that.

She never told me what to do, per se. It was more like living by example. But because I’m pretty dense, and a severe addict, our time together actually sorta reminds me now of that Cornell lyric from his first record: She’s going to change the world. But she can’t change me.

I have certainly found that talking about how shitty my life is only makes me feel more shitty, not free, or unburdened, or better. If you wanna talk about your problems, and you find it helpful, more power to you. Just don’t wait for a corporation to tell you it’s okay to not be okay. 

When Chris Cornell died I was so shocked. Of all the grunge icons he seemed the most stable, and he'd survived the rise and fall of two major label rock bands. If anyone had survived the media machine that chewed up and spat out Staley, Cobain, and to a lesser extent Andrew Wood and Shannon Hoon, it was Cornell. He would be the last guy to support hashtag activism like #StarbucksMyLifeSucks. Chris Cornell actually loved to fuck with the best laid plans of corporate rats. Molson once had a few promotional concerts in Tuktoyaktuk, Northwest Territories, called Molson Canadian Rocks Arctic, with both Hole and Soundgarden playing to a crowd of flown-in grunge fans and bemused locals. But the whole anti-corporate thing grunge was known for actually came through when Courtney Love told the crowd she “use[d] Molson Canadian to douche.” Lol. Here’s a photo of Love arriving in Tuktoyatuk.

Cornell told the same people “so we’re here because of some beer company? Labatt’s?” Both artists’ jabs are funny. Cornell’s was a bit more subtle, but that’s what Cornell was like. 

So today’s post is about Chris Cornell’s suicide, more specifically the media’s reaction to it. For whatever reason, when Cornell died, every single news outlet, from CNN to Fox to CBC, posted “Black Hole Sun,” as if it’s the only song he ever fucking wrote, or – and this is far worse – the only song he wrote that’s worth hearing. The problem with this is more than twofold or threefold. It's fucking hydraheaded. 

Not only is “Black Hole Sun” a mediocre piece of music, it’s a complete misrepresentation of Soundgarden’s sound. 

Now, I’m a huge fan of the A.V. Club series HateSong, in which public figures gleefully talk shit about the one song they hate more than any other song in the world. The Max Bemis (Say Anything) one where he talks about Nirvana’s “Rape Me” as a terrible rewrite of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” is terrific, but comedian Anthony Jeselnik’s HateSong takes “Black Hole Sun” apart, and I love it. I think the best line is: I think the more I hear it, the worse it gets. AVC: After the song became a huge hit, Chris Cornell said that he’d written it in about 15 minutes. AJ: I totally believe that. I don’t believe that Soundgarden likes that song. Like, I remember Eminem once said that he knew his song “My Name Is” was going to be a huge hit because the first time he heard it he was annoyed. It’s something about an annoying song that just grabs onto people. But I don’t think that anyone likes “Black Hole Sun.” I’ve never heard of anyone who likes it. I don’t understand why it gets played so much. It’s become a summer jam, and it’s not a summer song at all. Jeselnik is right that Soundgarden didn’t think much of the song. Guitarist Kim Thayil wasn’t kidding when he disparagingly called it the “Dream On” of their live show. And Cornell himself, known for a meticulous approach to his songwriting, had admitted that with “Black Hole Sun”was “probably the closest to me just playing with words for words’ sake, of anything I’ve written. I guess it worked for a lot of people who heard it, but I have no idea how you'd begin to take that one literally.” I mean it’s obvious from the opening lines that Cornell is just playing with words and how they sound: in my eyes/indisposed/in disguises no one knows What songs would have been more appropriate for Cornell’s untimely death? Glad you asked! Cuz there’s like…fucking at least ten that would have been better. I’m not tryna be one of those “the deep album cuts are better maaaaaan,” but with Soundgarden, it happens to be true. With some bands, the single are their best work. With other bands, the singles are the hors d’oeuvres for the entrees. So what deep cuts would have celebrated Cornell’s death a bit better? Well, to begin with, Superunknown’s strange and stately closer “Like Suicide” would have worked, for obvious reasons.

“Tighter and Tighter,” a song that is actually about the moment of death and what it might feel like, is one of my all-time fav Soundgarden songs. Not only is it a creepy and prescient prediction of what Cornell’s death by hanging himself may have felt like, it’s opening line is a good description of the personification of death: Shadow face/Blowing smoke and talking wind

Another sample lyric: “A sucking holy wind will take me from this bed tonight/and bloody wits another hits me and I have to say goodbye/sleep tight for me, I’m gone/and I hope it’s  a sweet ride/here for me tonight/cuz I’m feel I’m going/feel I’m slowing down.” 

The morning after Cornell’s death hit the news my buddy and bandmate James told me that en route to work his phone, which was playing music randomly through his car speakers, landed on “Tighter and Tighter” and he had to pull over because he was tearing up. 

“Fell On Black Days” is another song about depression and mortality. Cornell had the following to say about the song: “Fell on Black Days” was like this ongoing fear I’ve had for years ... It's a feeling that everyone gets. You're happy with your life, everything’s going well, things are exciting—when all of a sudden you realize you’re unhappy in the extreme, to the point of being really, really scared. There's no particular event you can pin the feeling down to, it's just that you realize one day that everything in your life is fucked! 

Now, if that’s not a cogent and even-tempered explanation of suicidal thoughts, what is? Why else would Cornell have admitted to being “really really scared” by his depression unless he knew what that depression could ultimately leasd to? Here’s some lyrics to “Fell on Black Days.” Dig the high literary use of “whomsoever” and “whatsoever.” Whatsoever I’ve feared has come to life Whatsoever I fought off became my life Just when every day seemed to greet me with a smile sunspots have faded and now I’m doing time cuz I fell on black days

Whomsoever I’ve cured I’ve sickened now Whomsoever I’ve cradled...I put you down I’m a searchlight soul they say but I can’t see it in the night I’m only faking when I get it right I sure don’t mind a change but I fell on black days how would I know that this could be my fate?

Eagle-eared listeners might think this version different from the album version. They are right. The rendition in the video was recorded live off the floor @ Bad Animals, the Seattle studio owned by Heart, where Soundgarden would record Down on the Upside. 

“Boot Camp” is a scary meditation about loss of agency that for years was tied with Zeppelin’s “I'm Gonna Crawl” for Creepiest Song to Cap a Discography, until Soundgarden reunited and released King Animal.

“Taree” is about ghost light, influencing events after dying and features Cornell’s most exhausted, convincing “yeah” @ 2:57.

“Applebite” is a Matt Cameron-penned ponderous clunker about Adam’s original expulsion from Eden. Doomy and death-laden.

“Let Me Drown” is a song about letting someone die.

“The Day I Tried To Live” is frequently cited as Soundgarden’s finest achievement, its odd time signature somehow sounds straight, thanks to Matt Cameron’s brilliant time keeping.

“4th of July” is a song about a post apocalyptic urban landscape, where the speaker isn’t sure whether he is seeing fireworks or bombs. 

“Limo Wreck” is a cool death song and has an eerie 9-11 prediction. “Building the towers belongs to the sky/when the whole thing comes crashing down don’t ask me why.” 

ANY of the above songs would have been better than that fucking asinine dirge-like major key fuckaround that has somehow not just become Soundgarden's signature song...but their ONLY song. 

Does nobody remember Johnny Cash covering “Rusty Cage?” 

“Outshined?”

“Burden In My Hand?”

“Blow Up The Outside World?”

Did none of these other songs get stuck in the electric head? (The electric head is Rob Zombie’s term for the technologically advanced culture we have found ourselves enmeshed in, or imprisoned by. It was the subtitle for White Zombie’s 1995 hit album Astro-Creep 2000: Songs of Love, Destruction, and other Synthetic Delusions of the Electric Head.)

For my money (which ain’t much honey), the song that best fits both Cornell’s artistic integrity and the sad circumstances of his suicide is “Tighter and Tighter.” I once wrote a whole article on the way artists use “yeah” as a placeholder or as a way to convey emotion when words themselves aren’t adequate. Dig that tired, world-weary exhausted “yeah” at 5:35 of “Tighter & Tighter.”

Or the creepy line going into the first chorus: remember this...remember everything’s just black or burning sun. Not that I agree with such a bleak worldview. It’s a writer’s line. And Randy Bachman has said, “when you’re a writer, you’d step over your own mother.” That’s the Cornell I want to remember. Not that he would step over his own mother. By all accounts he was a committed family man. I mean, I want to remember the Cornell who created strange atmospheric sonic worlds, who explored the dark side that sadly, eventually won out. His otherworldly beautiful music is what I choose to remember about Chris Cornell, not his estate tastelessly exploiting “Black Hole Sun” by using a line from the song to title a posthumous Cornell album of covers No One Sings Like You Anymore. Sigh.

First Cornell’s widow said this was “Chris’s last album.” Okay. What about the Soundgarden songs he recorded vocals for before he died? Kim Thayil was pretty diplomatic about it when asked recently. Cornell did record vocal tracks for the follow up to King Animal.

Kim Thayil: “Given our love for Chris, I do not see us reconfiguring without him.”

But he makes it clear in this interview that Cornell’s widow Vicky has those tracks and won’t release them to the band. Maybe because she blames the band for Chris dying that night? She’s not wrong to believe that they would have known, and seen, what kind of shape Cornell was in, at least at the venue, maybe not later at the hotel.

Kim Thayil: “It’s entirely possible that a new Soundgarden album will be released. Certainly. All it would need is to take the audio files that are available. I tighten up the guitars. Ben does the bass. We get the producers we want to make it sound like a Soundgarden record.”

Interviewer: “Is there an obstacle stopping that?”

Kim Thayil: “There shouldn’t be. There really isn’t. Other than the fact that we don’t have those files.”

Interviewer: “They’re not under your auspices?”

Kim Thayil: “Right. It would be ridiculous if [the record wasn’t made]. But these are difficult things. Partnerships and...property.”

You’re just gonna keep those wav files? And why title his covers album Volume 1 if it’s his “last album?”

Oh right. $$$

No one does sing like Cornell, but is “Black Hole Sun” really the best thing he ever did? The best song he ever sang? Should an album of covers be the last thing he gives to the world?

The only honest answer is no.

Sleep tight Chris. You’re gone.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Black Swan bookgasm review #2: Growth of the Soil by Knut Hamsun (1917)

It is not uncommon for a writer to become more known for his reputation than actual work. Not that the work isn’t of quality, just that it is easier for the public to fixate on their extreme political beliefs or their tragic life than for the very work that writer should be known. Sylvia Plath is a perfect example, since many non-readers of poetry are aware of her taking her own life by sticking her head in an oven, yet are unfamiliar with her great poetry - the very thing for which she is deservedly celebrated. Such is the same fate of the Norwegian writer Knut Hamsun who was well known in his day, for he won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1920 after having published Growth of the Soil in 1917. 

In the same way the French have come to wrestle with acknowledging the literary greatness Louis Ferdinand Celine’s in tension with Celine’s Nazi sympathies during World War Two - so Norway has had its own ‘Celine’ problem with Knut Hamsun. Hamsun was well known for having been a Nazi sympathiser, and upon winning the Nobel, he apparently mailed his medal to one of Hitler’s closest associates, Joseph Goebbels. Then, after Hitler’s death, sources claim that he made some sorrowful eulogy, lamenting over the dictator’s life and death. As result, readers have adopted ambivalent feelings for the write - hating him for his politics yet loving him for his work. It should be also noted that Hamsun was in ‘mental decline’ after the war, so one can’t be sure what he would have believed in a healthier state of mind. But all this should be no matter, for what counts is the work, and Growth of the Soil is a work worth the read.

Hamsun had his admirers in the literary world including H.G. Wells who wrote, “I do not know how to express the admiration I feel for this wonderful book without seeming to be extravagant. I am not usually lavish with my praise, but indeed the book impresses me as among the very greatest novels I have ever read. It is wholly beautiful; it is saturated with wisdom and humour and tenderness."

Though the novel’s setting is in rural Norway, civilisation and its discontents are never far off. There are telegraphs and newspapers. People read. It's not as though this is a bucolic idyll in a sheltered Eden. It is a novel full of contrasts - most obviously between the remote, traditional agrarian life and the rapidly encroaching modern world. This is a very typical Norwegian subject—and typical for many small countries that have gone through such dramatic changes in just a generation or three. Nostalgia looms large.

The book tells the story of Isak and Inger, a married couple seeking to make a living off land that many believe to be a bad business move. We begin with Isak's first steps to create a home in the Norwegian wilds: 'The wilderness was inhabited and unrecognisable, a blessing had come upon it, life had arisen there from a long dream, human creatures lived there, children played about the houses. And the forest stretched away, big and kindly, right up to the blue heights.' He finds a woman, Inger, initially a simple soul, whom life gradually makes more complex. Inger is physically disfigured, but Isak is devoted to her, and the couple works to raise a family and make a life off their land, furrow by furrow, ax blow by ax blow, grows a life. He is the first, the trailblazer.

Gradually other settlers move in  - the idle, the industrious, the promiscuous - creating over decades a community of sorts. This includes the self-seeking Oline, “Never in life would she give in and never her match for turning and twisting heaven and earth to a medley of seeming kindness and malice, poison and senseless words.” One of the most enigmatic characters is Geissler, originally introduced as a decent official with whom Isak has dealings; he helps him at other times and made me wonder if Hamsun was equating him to some Viking deity, “I’m something, I'm the fog as it were, here and there, floating around, sometimes coming like rain on dry ground... There's my son, the lightening.” Years later, men come for the stringing of telegraph wires, the mining of ore in the adjacent mountains. Hamsun presents the incursion of man into nature, the imposition of will on a pristine Nordic first world.

There's a ‘worldly’ balance to the drama, yet Isak's simple virtues prevail - although he's constantly challenged by events, some beyond his control. There, to a degree, he's protected by his guardian angel of a friend, Geissler, a man as complex and mysterious as Isak is simple - but a man equally as virtuous.

Hamsun’s lovely prose pulls the reader into this pioneer ethic where you rejoice which the construction of a new hay loft and dismiss with contempt the inept farmer who sees to his own comfort before that of his stock. On more than one occasion our protagonists easily reject the offer of a few days’ work for ready cash to tend to the more pressing business of hay that needs cutting or timber that needs hauling, much to the puzzlement of the befuddled capitalists in search of local labour.

Many a Scandinavian will recognise Isak’s inscrutable personality, his lack of expression, his need for time to consider a change. And while Isak plods on in life, prospering by the virtues of hard, unceasing labour, those gathered around him demonstrate every other variation of humanity. There’s the flighty and the money-grabbing, the gossip and the fearful… all stand in contrast to his unerring purpose. By the end of the tale our lone walker has become a wealthy and well-respected margrave, patriarch of the richest farm at the heart of a growing agricultural community, whilst the more speculative endeavours of mining and commerce have boomed and busted around him.

The novel is full of biblical motifs from the Old Testament but it’s not a religious themed story. Rather the book is somewhat critical of city life and culture, especially when it threatens the preservation of land and family values. Hamsun’s far right roots poke through at times with his attitude toward the indigenous Lapps, “maggots”, and fairly non-stop jabs at the less than intellectual bent of the otherwise admirable peasantry.

Hamsun convincingly writes of a beautiful celebration of the rural life: “Nothing growing there? All things growing there; men and beasts and fruit of the soil. Isak sowing his corn. The evening sunlight falls on the corn that flashes out in an arc from his hand and falls like a dropping of gold to the ground. Here comes Sivert to the harrowing...Forest and field look on. All is majesty and power - a sequence and purpose of things.” One of the most fascinating aspects of the story was the prevalence of infanticide in Norwegian rural culture (the extent of which is truly shocking as much as it is known by Norwegians today).  

Although Hamsun is never preachy, the lure of the city is something that recurs throughout the tale, and although the city itself is not something shown to be evil, it is more or less, just like the rough parts of nature: indifferent to human happiness and fulfilment. And in some sense, the imposition it can cause is inescapable. Though when asked which will outlast, land will always live without the need for humans, for the city is nothing more than peopled wilderness, or: “the wilderness was peopled country now.” Without the people, the wilderness will always return.

Growth of the Soil becomes the growth of generations - the passage of time and the growth of land that makes its way within the creases of one’s face and hands. The people become their land, and by the end of the novel, Isak is balding, and what the narrator calls “a stump of a man.” He is older and not as physically strong as he once was, but he is not beaten. He continues sowing his grain. “Growth of the soil was something different, a thing to be procured at any cost; the only source, the origin of all.” Later this point is expounded further: “’Tis not all that are so, but you are so; needful of earth. ‘Tis you that maintain life. Generation to generation, breeding ever anew; and when you die, the new stock goes on. That’s the meaning of eternal life.”

In many ways, reading Growth of the Soil is like reading a preview for the later great writers, for one can see American writers like John Steinbeck and Thomas Wolfe have picked amid the themes in this work and made them their own. Yet there are moments when Growth of the Soil can feel a bit verbose for the impatient reader. Yet Hamsun is worth reading because there is no way around him. In the same way what Louis Ferdinand Celine did for French literature, Hamsun tore apart both the grammar and the lexicon of our Norwegian language, mixed high and low, dialect and aristocratic speech, and put all the pieces beautifully together again - in the totally new fashion we call contemporary Norwegian literature. As every Russian writer is rolled out of Gogol’s coat, every Norwegian one is an offspring of Hamsun, admittedly or otherwise.

One can wonder how the story of Norwegian peasants in the 19th century can be relevant today? But as we live so far removed from nature, are so surrounded by words and noise (mostly meaningless) and spend so much time worrying about our psyches, "Growth of the Soil" provides the exact antithesis of our world. It provides a perspective of what is really necessary for life and contentment and what needs to be let go of and what needs to be retained. It is a simple story of simple people, but it is far from shallow. The writing is beautiful and conveys so well the nuances of relationships and the impact of nature on humanity. In all, this is a a very Scandinavian work. Like an iconic Viking ship which combines beauty and simplicity with function, and is capable of navigating both rough seas and shallow rivers, Hamsun's writing has a biblical simplicity that narrates elegantly both life's small and meaningful events as well as its epic arc.

[millenariumhappinesstheorem]

A Jungian Reading of Tokyo Ghoul: Persona and Anima

Psychologist Carl Jung suggested that emotional and moral development was accomplished through the process of individuation. During individuation, a person gathered the repressed aspects of their personality--the hidden desires, painful experiences, and secret motives--that had been deemed unacceptable. Only after confronting and accepting the scattered pieces of yourself is it possible to live an authentic, healthy life. Until then, the person adopts puts on a mask or a persona, an idealized image of themselves that both society and the individual find more acceptable.

This has obvious implications for Tokyo Ghoul.

I mean, just look at this guy. It’s hard to read the first few volumes of the manga without being shocked at the extent of Kaneki’s self-deception and repression. We are first introduced to him as the stereotypical literature major, the sensative nerd, the gentle soul, the one who believes that “it is better to be the one who gets hurt than to be the one who hurts others.” It is only later that his true self is revealed--Kuroneki is mostly just a persona, the false identity constructed to protect his true self.

 Kaneki is forced to begin the process of individuation when he meets Rize. At first, she seems like the girl of his dreams: beautiful, bashful, intelligent, someone who shares his love for literature. But their first date does not go as planned.

He didn’t know that Rize literally wanted to have him for dinner.

Bad jokes aside, Rize is shown to be deceptive and consuming. She nearly kills Kaneki, and afterward, continues to torment his mind. Many people have noticed that she comes to represent the “ghoul within,” but I would argue that her significance goes far beyond encouraging Kaneki to devour human flesh. During the first Aogiri arc, Rize forces our hero to confront the truth. Through her guidance, Kaneki realizes that his mother did not die in an act of sacrificial love, but rather worked herself to death because she was “too weak to save others.” While he is still repressing a great deal of his traumatic memories with his mother, this is the first time that Kaneki breaks free of his persona.

There are many women in literature who perform the same narrative function as Rize. For example, in the Divine Comedy, Beatrice helps Dante escape from sin and enter paradise, while Eve brings Adam out of paradise and into the sin. Literary women often act as guides of male heroes by leading them into deeper self-revelation, a character pattern which Jung called “the anima.”

As with the example of Beatrice and Eve, the anima can have a positive or negative form. She represents the “ideal type” of woman, all of the man’s experiences with his mother, sisters, friends and girlfriends, even the random ladies he encounters on the street. As Kaneki’s anima, it makes sense that Rize would simultaneously be his dearest dream and his worst nightmare. She is everything he ever wanted in a mate and also, through her emotional manipulation and physical violence, Rize is a reminder of his mother’s abuse.

This explains why Kaneki feels so deeply connected with Rize, even though they did not know each other for more than a few days before her untimely demise. Kaneki projects his projects both his desire for intimacy and his fear of abuse onto the unspecting Rize.

More importantly, if Jung is to be believed, the anima often represents the feminine aspect of a man’s personality. The text of Tokyo Ghoul seems to support this as well. Kaneki takes on aspects of Rize, including not only her kagune, but also her potential for manipulation and violence. This is symbolized by Kaneki’s devouring of Rize at the end of the first Aogiri arc and his subsequent victory over Jason.

Despite the pain and suffering, Kaneki has overcome the first hurdle toward individuation, casting aside his innocent persona through interacting with his anima. However, as I hope to show in a later post, our hero still has a long way to go.

[gadgetgirl71]

Amazon First Reads September 2020

It’s that time yet again! For me and other Amazon Prime Members to take our pick of this months Amazon First Reads. So if your an Amazon Prime member don’t forget to get your free First Reads Book.

This months choices are:

Thriller

Every Missing Thing by Martyn Ford, Pages: 367, Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: One family. Two missing children. A lifetime of secrets.

Ten-year-old Ethan Clarke’s disappearance gripped the nation. Just as his parents are starting to piece together a life ‘after Ethan’, their world is ripped apart once more when their daughter, Robin, disappears in almost identical circumstances. They’ve lost two children within a decade … and now doubts about their innocence are setting in.

Detective Sam Maguire’s obsession with the first case cost him his own family, but he has unfinished business with the Clarkes. He is convinced that discovering what happened to Ethan holds the key to finding Robin. But what if the Clarkes know more than they’re letting on?

With the world watching eagerly, the clock is ticking for Sam as he embarks on an investigation that forces him to confront his own demons. To uncover the truth, he must follow a trail of devastating deception—but the truth always comes at a cost …

Book Club Fiction

Millicent Glenn’s Last Wish by Tori Whitaker, Pages: 340, Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: Three generations of women—and the love, loss, sacrifice, and secrets that can bind them forever or tear them apart.

Millicent Glenn is self-sufficient and contentedly alone in the Cincinnati suburbs. As she nears her ninety-first birthday, her daughter Jane, with whom she’s weathered a shaky relationship, suddenly moves back home. Then Millie’s granddaughter shares the thrilling surprise that she’s pregnant. But for Millie, the news stirs heart-breaking memories of a past she’s kept hidden for too long. Maybe it’s time she shared something, too. Millie’s last wish? For Jane to forgive her.

Sixty years ago Millie was living a dream. She had a husband she adored, a job of her own, a precious baby girl, and another child on the way. They were the perfect family. All it took was one irreversible moment to shatter everything, reshaping Millie’s life and the lives of generations to come.

As Millie’s old wounds are exposed, so are the secrets she’s kept for so long. Finally revealing them to her daughter might be the greatest risk a mother could take in the name of love.

Police Procedural

The Unspoken by Ian K Smith, Pages: 295, Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: In this new series from #1 New York Times bestselling author Ian K. Smith, an ex-cop turned private investigator seeks justice on the vibrant, dangerous streets of Chicago.

Former Chicago detective Ashe Cayne is desperate for redemption. After refusing to participate in a police department cover-up involving the death of a young black man, Cayne is pushed out of the force. But he won’t sit quietly on the sidelines: he’s compelled to fight for justice as a private investigator…even if it means putting himself in jeopardy.

When a young woman, Tinsley Gerrigan, goes missing, her wealthy parents from the North Shore hire Cayne to find her. As Cayne looks into her life and past, he uncovers secrets Tinsley’s been hiding from her family. Cayne fears he may never find Tinsley alive.

His worries spike when Tinsley’s boyfriend is found dead—another black man murdered on the tough Chicago streets. Cayne must navigate his complicated relationships within the Chicago PD, leveraging his contacts and police skills to find the missing young woman, see justice done, and earn his redemption.

Contemporary Romance

Roommaids by Sariah Wilson, Pages: 301, Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: From bestselling author Sariah Wilson comes a charming romance about living your life one dream at a time.

Madison Huntington is determined to live her dreams. That means getting out from under her family’s wealth and influence by saying no to the family business, her allowance, and her home. But on a teacher’s salary, the real world comes as a rude awakening—especially when she wakes up every morning on a colleague’s couch. To get a place of her own (without cockroaches, mould, or crime scene tape), Madison accepts a position as a roommaid. In exchange for free room and board, all she needs to do is keep her busy roommate’s penthouse clean and his dog company. So what if she’s never washed a dish in her life. She can figure this out, right?

Madison is pretty confident she can fake it well enough that Tyler Roth will never know the difference. The finance whiz is rich and privileged and navigates the same social circles as her parents—but to him she’s just a teacher in need of an apartment. He’s everything Madison has run from, but his kind hearted nature, stomach-fluttering smile, and unexpected insecurities only make her want to get closer. And Tyler is warming to the move.

Rewarding job. Perfect guy. Great future. With everything so right, what could go wrong? Madison is about to find out.

Literary Fiction

A Single Swallow by Zhang Ling, Pages: 299, Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: The eagerly awaited English translation of award-winning author Zhang Ling’s epic and intimate novel about the devastation of war, forgiveness, redemption, and the enduring power of love.

On the day of the historic 1945 Jewel Voice Broadcast—in which Emperor Hirohito announced Japan’s surrender to the Allied forces, bringing an end to World War II—three men, flush with jubilation, made a pact. After their deaths, each year on the anniversary of the broadcast, their souls would return to the Chinese village of their younger days. It’s where they had fought—and survived—a war that shook the world and changed their own lives in unimaginable ways. Now, seventy years later, the pledge is being fulfilled by American missionary Pastor Billy, brash gunner’s mate Ian Ferguson, and local soldier Liu Zhaohu.

All that’s missing is Ah Yan—also known as Swallow—the girl each man loved, each in his own profound way.

As they unravel their personal stories of the war, and of the woman who touched them so deeply during that unforgiving time, the story of Ah Yan’s life begins to take shape, woven into view by their memories. A woman who had suffered unspeakable atrocities, and yet found the grace and dignity to survive, she’d been the one to bring them together. And it is her spark of humanity, still burning brightly, that gives these ghosts of the past the courage to look back on everything they endured and remember the woman they lost.

Supernatural Thriller

The Haunting of H G Wells by Robert Masello, Pages: 393, Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: A plot against England that even the genius of H. G. Wells could not have imagined.

It’s 1914. The Great War grips the world—and from the Western Front a strange story emerges…a story of St. George and a brigade of angels descending from heaven to fight beside the beleaguered British troops. But can there be any truth to it?

H. G. Wells, the most celebrated writer of his day—author of The Time Machine, The War of the Worlds, The Invisible Man—is dispatched to find out. There, he finds an eerie wasteland inhabited by the living, the dead, and those forever stranded somewhere in between…a no-man’s-land whose unhappy souls trail him home to London, where a deadly plot, one that could turn the tide of war, is rapidly unfolding.

In league with his young love, the reporter and suffragette Rebecca West, Wells must do battle with diabolical forces—secret agents and depraved occultists—to save his sanity, his country, and ultimately the world.

Nonfiction

Welcome to The United States of Anxiety by Jen Lancaster, Pages: 288, Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: New York Times bestselling author Jen Lancaster is here to help you chill the hell out.

When did USA become shorthand for the United States of Anxiety? From the moment Americans wake up, we’re bombarded with all-new terrifying news about crime, the environment, politics, and stroke-inducing foods we’ve been enjoying for years. We’re judged by social media’s faceless masses, pressured into maintaining a Pinterest-perfect home, and expected to base our self-worth on retweets, faves, likes, and followers. Our collective FOMO, and the disparity between the ideal and reality, is leading us to spend more and feel worse. No wonder we’re getting twitchy. Save for an Independence Day–style alien invasion, how do we begin to escape from the stressors that make up our days?

Jen Lancaster is here to take a hard look at our elevating anxieties, and with self-deprecating wit and level-headed wisdom, she charts a path out of the quagmire that keeps us frightened of the future and ashamed of our imperfectly perfect human lives. Take a deep breath, and her advice, and you just might get through a holiday dinner without wanting to disown your uncle.

Children’s Picture Book

The Monster on the Block by Sue Ganz-Schmitt, Illustrator: Luke Flowers, Pages: 32 Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: Monster is excited to see what kind of creature will move into Vampire’s old house on the block. He even starts practicing his welcome growl for the new neighbour. But when the moving truck pulls up, it’s not a greedy goblin, an ogre, or a dastardly dragon that steps out. Instead, it’s something even more terrifying than Monster could have imagined! Monster quickly rallies the other neighbours to unite against the new guy on the block. But what if the new neighbour isn’t exactly as bad as Monster thinks? Join Monster as he confronts his fears in this charming and light-hearted look at what it means to accept others who are different from us.

*** Which book will you choose? I have no idea which book I’ll choose as there a couple of books that interest me this month. ***

#AmazonFirstReads, #Amazonkindle, #AmazonPrimeMembers, #BookClubFiction, #Books, #ChildrensPictureBook, #ContemporaryFiction, #Kindle, #KindleBooks, #LiteraryFiction, #NonFiction, #PoliceProcedural, #SupernatuarlThriller, #Thriller

[gunnerpalace]

Hyperchlorate: How I’d Rewrite Bleach (Part I)

Okay, this is it, kids. This is gonna be—as best as I’m able to manage—the ultimate synthesis of all my scattered discourse on Bleach, combined with a condensation of what I’d do about it all. Buckle up, because these posts are going to be long, and I’m not putting it behind a spoiler. I’d apologize for destroying your dashboard, but I put in the work.

WHAT’S UP WITH THE NAME?

What's referred to as (liquid) bleach is usually a solution of sodium hypochlorite (NaClO) in water. Sodium hydroxide (NaOH) is usually added to slow the decomposition of bleach into sodium chlorate (NaClO3), and sodium chloride (NaCl)—that is to say, common salt. (How appropriate!)

Sodium perchlorate (NaClO4) is a perchlorate salt which is very closely related to the above and, when treated hydrochloric acid (HCl), makes perchloric acid (HClO4) and common salt. The former is very nasty in and of itself and is mostly used to make other, worse things.

In the context of chemistry, the prefix hypo- means one less oxygen atom than something suffixed -ite, while the prefix per- means one more oxygen than something suffixed -ate. (See here for a chart if you want.) The prefix hyper- isn't used in chemistry, but I think it sounds better.

tl;dr: It's a weird chemistry not-joke used as a code name for this project.

WHAT’S THE PITCH?

The short version of the pitch is: Most people who liked Bleach as a thing liked the initial Karakura and Soul Society arcs, and interest gradually dropped off after that.

Therefore, if you wanted to rewrite Bleach, you’d want to focus on that time period and expand on it and develop it further. You would also want to rework whatever came after, and more thoroughly integrate it with that time period in tone, focus, and perspective.

To do that, you first need to understand how it was structured and what made it work in the first place.

OKAY, WHAT’S THE LONGER VERSION?

The longer version of the pitch is: Bleach was supposedly a shōnen. One of the Big Three shōnen, in fact (in Western thinking). But understanding Bleach and why it worked (and why it fell apart) requires debunking that idea.

You see, the thing is that Bleach was never particularly good at being a shōnen, at least as most people think of such a thing. When people think of shōnen, they tend to think of four (4) things: 1. A Certain Kind of Protagonist, 2. Worldbuilding, 3. Plot, and 4. Fights. Bleach doesn’t really fit the pattern when it comes to these elements. I’ve been over these before, to a certain extent (many times), but I’ll reiterate them here:

A Certain Kind of Protagonist: Goku. Luffy. Naruto. Natsu. Kenshin. Yusuke. I don’t have to name their anime or manga; you already know who they are and what they’re from. Ichigo is certainly a kind of protagonist, but as Sera (@hashtagartistlife​) once pointed out, he’s very different from what one normally thinks of when they consider the genre. Ichigo is a punk with a heart of gold (a la Yusuke) but he lacks the inner drive and confidence of all those other protagonists. He is, in fact depressive at the start of the series; he’s at best listless and nihilistic, and at worst suicidal. He’s something of an outcast loner with a tsundere personality he developed as a kind of mental armor. He’s deliberately mediocre at and unengaged with things. That changes (and the story starts) when Rukia enters his life and gives him the ability to act on his desires to do good and protect people. In other words: his confidence comes from outside of himself. Indeed, it’s a recurring plot-point that the longer he’s separated from Rukia, the more his confidence wavers. In addition to all the other things that were noted as marking him out, this one is crucial, because the average shōnen protagonist is possessed of unwavering confidence. Having Ichigo’s confidence (and his animating ethos) externalized to Rukia essentially splits the traditional protagonist role in two. (Indeed, you could readily say Ichigo and Rukia are deuteragonists, despite the story focusing on Ichigo—he eclipses her visually, but her gravity is unmistakably present and dominant.) This by itself tells you that you are dealing with a different kind of story than usual. This fits in with one of the reasons people tend to like Bleach, specifically the first. 

Worldbuilding: Few shōnen rival Game of Thrones or Lord of the Rings in sophistication and detail, but they usually have well-developed worlds where whatever is going on substantiates—and ideally enhances—the plot and the journey of the protagonist. Think of the world of One Piece, which is excellent at this, or those of Naruto or Fairy Tale, which still sufficiently sell that there is a living, breathing setting in which the story is taking place. Bleach is something more like Plato’s Allegory of the Cave: it holds up on its own if you accept its premises at face value, but if you start to investigate more carefully, things stop really making all that much sense. My own personal go-to example is the identity of the two unrevealed Great Noble Houses which presumably wielded power in Central 46. (I don’t consider Can’t Fear Your Own World a satisfactory answer for this, or other questions, and notably it has only revealed one of them.) Another example is the history of the Great Noble Houses, or Soul Society in general, or the Soul King. All of these (and much more) were things that were shoved into data books or follow-on novels, if they were ever addressed at all. The more one inspects the worldbuilding of Bleach, the more it feels like it’s flat or significant sections of it were missing—like it’s a movie set instead of an actual place. Most fiction strives to present, as much as possible, a kind of simulated world that you could imagine existing. Bleach, perversely, rather brazenly gives us a set of stages with clearly defined borders instead. This ties into the third and fifth reason people tend to like Bleach.

Plot: In academic circles, you will be told that what distinguishes literary fiction from genre fiction is the former is about characters (i.e., how events impact them), and the latter is about plot (i.e., what happens). For example, White Noise by Don DeLillo is not about “The Airborne Toxic Event,” it is about what that catalyzes in the protagonist’s life. Something like One Piece is very much a genre story about adventure. Things happen to the characters, sure, but they don’t really change all that much over time. They’re all following their dreams, and those dreams are (for the protagonists) often immutable. Bleach doesn’t really follow that structure. Ichigo and Rukia have an ethical viewpoint, but they’re not really on a journey to implement it. Things largely just kind of happen to them. In this regard, Bleach is much more like a literary work than a genre one. It also features, as Sera pointed out in an earlier post, a depiction of Joseph Campbell’s monomyth within the Karakura and Soul Society arcs: we see Ichigo and Rukia go through the process of “becoming a hero.” Protagonists like Luffy or Goku already are the heroes, it’s just that nobody else knows it yet. The plots that unfold are thus very different. Furthermore, Bleach is also often a symbolic work. For example, the Karakura II, Hueco Mundo and Fake Karakura arcs are a sort of inverse deconstruction of the earlier Karakura and Soul Society arcs; they function as an anti-monomyth and refutation of it (think of it as being like “how a hero can fail”), a la how Bloodborne subverts the monomyth to incorporate Lovecraftian mythos: they are designed to cast down the achievements of the protagonists and demoralize the reader, rather than being triumphant and uplifting. Bleach also frequently prioritizes thematic elements over verisimilitude. One example is the association of romance with death (Isshin and Masaki, Ryuuken and Kanae, Kaien and Miyako, Rangiku and Gin, and so on). Another is loneliness (no one ever seems to really hang out or have many friendships), especially when it comes to parents (Isshin and Ryūken have strained relationships with Ichigo and Uryū, Ikumi is a single mother, Chad parents are dead, Orihime’s were reverse-abandoned, Keigo and Mizuiro’s are absent, Tatsuki’s are never seen, and so on). Bleach absolutely prioritizes characters and themes over traditional plot or plausibility—that is to say, how things feel is often much more important than how exciting or realistic they are, which ties into the second and third reasons people like Bleach.

Fights: Bleach’s fights tend to suck. There are some exceptions, sure, but the power of those exceptions usually stems from the emotional content and personal nature of them. Something like Ichigo vs. Byakuya, Uryū vs. Mayuri, or Rukia vs. Aaroniero (to name a later example) are very emotionally charged fights. That said, even fights that aren’t particularly interesting, like Ikkaku vs. Edrad, tend to be more about showing us aspects of the characters’ personalities more so than about the fight itself. In fiction, one is encouraged to show rather than tell, and more extreme situations (which violent confrontations are one example of) allow one to show deeper and more extreme aspects of a character than slice-of-life situations usually do. This is what Bleach’s fights are often in service of. This is evident from how uninteresting the average Bleach fight is. There’s a lot of sword-pressing, a lot of ineffectual diagonal slashes, a lot of appearing behind someone to their surprise, a lot of losing an arm as a serious injury, a lot of no-selling attacks, and whoever reveals how their powers work first usually loses. The fighting quickly boils down to shikai and bankai, or their equivalents, with the other aspects of fighting, like kidō (and the rest of zankensoki) being discarded except when they reflect some matter of character (for example, Byakuya or Uryū’s more analytical and technical approach to things). Combat in Bleach isn’t about a robust combat system or consistency, nor is it about what looks cool—it is about what shows off the character in question. This is unusual for a shōnen and ties directly into the second reason people like Bleach.

I’ve talked a lot about why Bleach is liked, and it’s now prudent to get into that. In my opinion, the reasons that early Bleach was well-liked and well-received can be boiled down to five (5) things: 1. Deuteragonists, 2. Character Designs, 3. Mystery, 4. Contrast, and 5. Urban Fantasy Setting. I’ve been over most of these before, but they also bear repeating.

Deuteragonists: I have explored this concept in quite some detail (see: 1, 2, 3) before, so I’m not going to go too deeply into its mechanics here. The most obvious selling point here is that splitting the role of the protagonist into two mutually supporting halves that are fallible in their own ways is A. relatively unique, and B. humanizing. Ichigo and Rukia are by no means either the first example of this (consider Sherlock Holmes and John Watson) or the last (I've not seen Psycho-Pass, but Shinya Kogami and Akane Tsunemori seem to have much the same relationship), but I am unaware of any (supposed) shōnen prior to Bleach that attempted it. (That’s not to say that it doesn’t exist, but rather, that its obscurity if it does simply reinforces the point.) That made it unique for its time. That Rukia is a (competent and independent, but still vulnerable and feminine) woman only makes it even more unique, especially given the medium and how women tend to be treated within it. It also allowed for both Ichigo and Rukia to have problems as characters, and to largely grow beyond those problems over the course of the series, rather than there being yet another immutable and unchanging rock of a protagonist like so many other shōnen feature. When coupled with their interpersonal banter and dynamics, they formed a major draw together simply because their sharing of the role was so unusual and well-executed.

Character Designs: Bleach suffers from a dizzying overabundance of characters. Many of them are only present for a few chapters, at most, and yet even characters who appeared very briefly have any number of adherents out there among the readership or viewership. Consider characters like Starrk, Bambietta, or Bazz B., who have little to no establishment, and little panel time relative to the series, but who nonetheless gained resolute fans. Sometimes they have backstories shoehorned in to help sell them (as in the case of Starrk and Bazz B.; the most hilarious example is probably Giriko being given a flashback several chapters after he was already dead), but often they succeeded without them. They also often succeed despite their personalities largely being remixes of existing characters. How? Because of their character design and attitudes. Bleach was enormously successful in delivering characters that appealed to somebody, even at almost only a glance. The characters almost radiate a sense of mie purely through their designs. This sort of visual imminence routinely overcame all other character shortfalls. 

Mystery: The anime of Bleach began airing on October 5, 2004. Coincidentally, Lost started airing on September 22, 2004. They began at almost exactly the same time. What does one have to do with the other? Nothing, except for the fact that they both relied heavily on mystery and both capitalized on it (in different markets) at almost exactly the same time. The bulk of Bleach is predicated on inculcating a sense of mystery. This is why basic facts that would often be mentioned in passing are kept tightly wrapped secrets until the end of the series and beyond. (Token examples, great and small: Who are the other two Great Noble Houses? Where’s Yoruichi’s zanpakutō and why can she turn into a cat? What’s the deal with the Soul King? Why is there a fox-man like Sajin around, and is he a yōkai or what? What was the Final Getsuga Tenshō?) Even things that were resolved, like Ichigo’s parentage, what was going on with his “inner Hollow” and zanpakutō, and so on, were kicked down the road as long as possible to create an air of mystery. The most obvious manifestation of this was all the guessing about the bankai of various characters that the series egged on. This sense of mystery and a desire for closure kept quite a lot of people invested when their patience for the rest of the series ran out.

Contrast: While lots of anime and manga frequently leaven their drama with comedy, or vice-versa, Bleach was unique for the means in which it did so. It’s worthwhile to draw a contrast with something very close to its opposite: Gintama. Gintama is particularly notable because of its odd mix of different elements; it has a fantastical alternate history setting and can go from irreverent comedy (running the gamut from pop-culture puns to crude toilet humor) to deadly serious drama in just a few pages. However, Gintama’s default mode is comedy. Bleach is a relatively grounded secret history with a default mode that is dramatic. In this regard, they are equal but opposite. Early Bleach was a very dark and grim, almost Lovecraftian setting, and often had elements of horror or was just plain gross, but was lightened up through the way in which it approached that and its frequent inclusion of humor. This contrast is also heightened by the relative lack of fighting in the early manga; when fighting does occur, it’s all the more notable because the focus is largely upon slice-of-life elements. As the series progressed, this element of contrast was lost as it became relentlessly serious (in the process, becoming desensitized to its own sense of horror, great or small) and tried to become a battle manga.

Urban Fantasy Setting: Although Bleach ultimately goes on to visit rather fantastical places, it started out in a very grounded and realistic fashion. The sleepy (fictional) suburb of Karakura in Western Tokyo is just the right mix of urban and rural to be relatable to almost anyone. Simply by virtue of being based on a real area (the region around Tama), Karakura feels lived-in and well-developed, despite the fact that we see very little of it. (This is especially true compared to Soul Society [be it the Seireitei or Rukongai] or Hueco Mundo, both of which are very sterile and fantastical in a bad way [especially since the former is really just a stylized representation of the Heian period in Japan]. There is a very old parody of DBZ featuring the line "We need to go to some place that's completely desolate and... that would never be in real life at all, and it's huge, and it's a bajillion miles wide and it's nowhere to be found on earth—but it's right over there!" and that accurately describes both Soul Society and Hueco Mundo. I’ll get into this more in the next post.) The initial focus on day-to-day high school life also gave it a solid grounding for the age bracket of its intended audience. In this capacity, it exactly nailed the setting of teen-focused urban fantasy. The interesting thing is it did so before a lot of the most prominent novels in that genre were written. In other words, Bleach was a market-leader in urban fantasy for teens, and beat many of its peers to the punch. Just as deuteragonists were a major selling point out of their sheer novelty, so was the setting.

As an aside at this junction, I’d like to direct your attention to something from the Wikipedia page on urban fantasy, regarding the distinction between urban fantasy and supernatural romance:

The two share 90% of their genre DNA. However, the main differences are this: Urban fantasy focuses on an issue outside of a romantic relationship between two characters. Paranormal romance focuses on a romantic relationship between two characters and how outside forces affect that relationship. The best litmus test to determine if a story is urban fantasy or paranormal romance is to ask the following question: 'If the romance between Character A and Character B were removed, would the plot still stand as a viable storyline?' If the answer is 'yes,' chances are good it's urban fantasy. If the answer is 'no,' it's most likely paranormal romance.

Now, whether you think the relationship between Ichigo and Rukia is romantic or not, I would note two things. The first is that if their relationship was removed, the plot would not “still stand as a viable storyline.” The second is that the events of the Karakura and Soul Society arcs are very much about “how outside forces affect [their] relationship.” (As were all subsequent events involving them, really.) In short, I would argue that it’s impossible to suggest that early Bleach doesn’t sit somewhere that very closely approximates paranormal romance, if not being one outright. In this regard, Sera’s assertion that Bleach is a shōjo is a lot closer to the mark than you might think, as is my own that it was on the path to becoming either a battle shōjo or a couple shōnen.

HOLY SHIT, GIVE ME AN EXECUTIVE SUMMARY SO FAR?

To summarize, Bleach started off as a pseudo-paranormal romance (if not an actual one) that succeeded on the basis of being—on the one hand—grounded, characterful, and novel, while—on the other—also being mysterious, emotive, and meaningful. Bleach was, at the start, not necessarily trying to sell itself as an unbiased account of “things that happened in this fictional world,” or create an expansive universe. It was instead a rather intimate story set in a particular place, focusing very much on its characters and on conjuring up emotions.

Even when it went to Soul Society, you might still just as easily think it as something like an off-beat Kabuki play rather than a traditional shōnen. (Perhaps making it not so surprising that it was so easily adapted into a musical play.)

I feel that Bleach is also notable for embracing the aesthetic principles of Japanese art and culture that other traditional shōnen usually do not heavily emphasize; it features elements of not just Kawaii (of course), but Jo-ha-kyū, Geidō, Miyabi, Iki, Ensō, Shibui, Yūgen, and Wabi-sabi. (Indeed, I would say that an over-attachment to those last four is a major component of why it ultimately failed.) This also gave it a unique flair.

I think it was ultimately so successful to begin with because it was a unique melange of elements.

BUT I LIKED BLEACH BECAUSE OF SOME PARTICULAR THING YOU DISMISSED AS ANCILLARY!

There’s no accounting for taste. I’m just telling you what Bleach’s focus was and why it was initially exciting and good at what it did.

OKAY, FINE, WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH REWRITING IT?

Like I said, I think it’s important to first understand what worked and why. Then, it’s important to understand why things went wrong. (And boy, did things go wrong...) Only then can you reasonably propose solutions to fix things.

Next time, we’ll go into what went wrong, which involves a mixture of poor planning, shifting priorities, inflexibility, overindulgence, and hubris. But for that story, you’ll have to stay tuned for Part II!

[sebbybooks]

Somewhere in Paradise (PT3)

Sebastian Stan x Fanfiction ~18

Warnings: Language, Smut

Tagged for updates🍓

@spideyhoecoming @bashfulshy @blueenemy24 @asguardiansoftheavengers @mightiestheroes @ladifreakingda

A/N: I’m back!💕💕🌻🌻💋💋💜💜🌈🌈Life has been busy lately. It’s taken me a while to update and I wanna say a quick thank you to those who have stayed updated with this story. In the beginning I mentioned how I intended on making this just one part, then it sorta spiraled out of control. This part you’re about to read has probably been my favorite to write. Due to the cliffhanger, yes there will be a next part if anyone is still curious to see how it all ends. Believe me when I say there is an ending!🖤

“Promise me you’ll never forget me,

because if I thought you would,

I would never leave.” -A.A.M

Chills ran down my spine.

I’m not sure how long I had been standing in the middle of his hotel room when the realization of what I had found finally sunk in. Sebastian was the one who had stolen my journal this entire time and had been lying to me for days on top of it. I didn’t want to believe what I was seeing, but the proof was right in my hands. I couldn’t overlook the fact it was the same color and that on the bottom lefthand corner my name was etched across in gold calligraphy. I sucked in a tortuous breath inhaling slowly, that nearly got trapped in my airway. Which could have easily strangled me. Well maybe not in real life, but in a literary emphasis it definitely could have! Do I even hear myself? I’m editing my reality to make it sound like a work of fiction that I would write! Un-fucking-believable.

I started to walk but my feet turned to heavy lumps of lead. I physically couldn’t move and that worried me the most. Something inside of me was fighting against my better judgment. It wasn’t just one thing keeping me molded to the floor, there were many. I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of emotions that attacked me from all sorts of directions. I was furious with Sebastian. He had taken a tangible piece of my soul to probably use for his own twisted personal gain. He had confessed to me that he knew in the beginning who I was and what seeing me meant to him. But who knows that could have been a lie! So why would he go out of his way just to pretend to like me? As soon as the doubt entered my thoughts it suddenly dawned on me that maybe his intentions were clear as day and I just refused to see them.

Shame on me for letting Sebastian kiss me in the first place my first night here in Capri. It was the lone ripple effect that led me here. The second he pulled away he looked at me like kissing me was freeing, but equally a reminder of his pain. I started to laugh hysterically at the idea that he might’ve even felt something for me. For a hot second in the cave it sure as hell felt that way. There was something about him that intrigued me more than I thought possible. Like a phantom feeling I could still feel Sebastian’s hands grappling my body for dear life. Seconds ticked away in a tortuous silence as Sebastian eyed my parted lips in anticipation of him. The hairs of his short beard brushed lightly against my face before he finally put me out of my agonizing misery. Feverishly kissing him back, I ran my tongue through the small entrance to meet his.

His mouth meticulously explored mine with desperation that I nearly couldn’t keep up with. Almost as if he was trying to memorize the shape of my lips. My hands were strained against his back, pulling at the material on his soddened shirt. Sebastian palmed the back of my head to deepen the kiss. Whatever came over me in the blue grotto was beyond me. It was as though my entire body all of a sudden lusted after his. I acted briefly like he was someone I could have and I kissed him back as if I was searching for something that only Sebastian could give me. 

This trip was something that I was suppose to do on my own. I realized I had been caught up in my own world of storytelling that I stopping living my reality. I needed something new and fresh to shake up my creative senses. I didn’t ask for this in return. Sebastian was just a detour in my mind. I was never meant to come here with him. I just needed to remind myself that next time I think about sucking faces!

He was the most closed off person I had ever met. Which in return was equally frustrating. Who by the way was still visibly in mourning. I was just a casualty in his journey through his grieving stage. I wouldn’t be able to fill Bianca’s shoes even if I wanted to, which to be clear I don’t. The best thing I could do for myself was to pretend like this was a really bad dream. A bad draft during my editing stage. Revise, rewrite, start over. I could salvage my trip but first thing first was to find my room key that he took and then get the hell out of here.

I had to be quick about my search, but my dress felt like it kept tackling on pounds and it made it harder for me to walk around in. I kept tripping over my own two feet every time I walked forward. I searched around his hotel room looking through every single dresser drawer in sight. I checked under the bed, and in his duffel bag where he clearly kept his contraband. My heartbeat at that point was beating so loudly in my ears. It was like all my worst fears came to life. I couldn’t find my hotel key anywhere and it felt like I was existing in a scene out of a cheesy horror flick, starring me Natalie Foster the dumbstruck damsel.  

I looked back towards the bathroom to check to make sure the door was still closed. When I turned back I stumbled into a table leg stubbing my toe painfully hard. Who's idea was it to put that that there and why am I such a klutz?! I grunted out a string of curse words as the pain slowly subsided in my foot. I heard the water turn off as Sebastian’s voice filled the room. “You okay out there?”

I didn’t answer him. My voice failed to work. I decided to forget the room key altogether and leave. I would just go back to my room to pack my bags and find somewhere else to stay. I was halfway to the door when I felt Sebastian’s presence behind me. Damn he was quick. I froze in my tracks unable to walk through the door. I was mortified at the situation I somehow tangled myself in. Scenes like this usually end bad. I turned around afraid to see a murderous look behind his eyes. When I saw his face to my surprise there was only worry.

“I heard a loud sound so I came to check on you to make sure you didn’t see anymore bugs.” A slow lopsided smile formed across his face as the memory of what happened on the boat tried to squeeze at my heartstrings. Sebastian was gripping a white towel that was barely held together around his well defined waistline. His body looked like someone took a carving utensil and created hard and detailed grooves over his abdomen. The towel was hanging dangerously low. He clutched on to it careful not to take his eyes off of me. I drank in the vision of his bare chest that was still soaking wet from his shower. The tiny anchor pendant that he wore around his neck which Sebastian never took off dangled against his chest. My fingers were just itching to trace along the polished silver on the aged charm. Until I quickly forced myself to snap out it.

This wasn’t the time to develop wandering eyes but if his greatly physiqued body would be the last thing I would see then I gladly give thanks to the universe for sending me this final gift! His body glistened with droplets of water that fell all the way down to the happy trail of dark hair going south. Stop, stop, STOP! I scolded myself for not taking this more seriously. I am obviously trapped in a ghastly predicament and I’m drooling over a thieving criminal.

“I found this.” I said hazily. Patience certainly wasn’t my strong suit and I don’t know where I dug the courage to speak, but I procured it. Sebastian looked back at me with a raised brow that showed no indication of what I was talking about. I held my journal up and his easy going smile disappeared.

ONE YEAR LATER

I looked out at the sky and watched as tiny stars began to appear across the water. I had never stopped to take the opportunity to marvel at how transcendent it is to simply watch the sun kiss the moon goodnight. I had it in my head that it was a love affair between two entities that could never truly exist together. No matter how close in proximity they may have appeared up close if you really payed attention it was all just an optical illusion. They never touched and they would never last for much long.

“I took a wild guess and knew I’d find you out here.” The warm and familiar voice made the ambience even more peaceful somehow. Despite the sudden sinking feeling I felt in my chest.

“Prettiest view on the island.” I sighed. I scooted to the end of the bench to make room beside me. He picked up my hand as he sat down and kissed the side of my head in an endearing gesture. We both turned our heads back to gaze at the shimmering moon.

“Are you going to open it?” Alessio's voice was barely above a whisper. I didn’t understand what he was talking about until I noticed the white envelope he covertly placed in my lap. I was most definitely confused by it because while it was addressed to me. The letter was from no other than Bianca.

“Natalie I can explain.” His tone was laced with a calmness I didn’t expect. I had heard those words before from him. Sebastian probably already had an excuse ready to recite. An I didn’t give him the chance to act out his performance.

“You know you almost had me fooled.” I stated in disbelief. “Just tell me Sebastian what were you going to do with it? Did you read it for shits and giggles or were you planning on selling it?” I asked bluntly, my voice was starting to shake.

“Is that what you think I would do?” He asked tightly.

I was at war with myself over that question. My stomach flipped erratically from the way he looked at me. I had every intent on being the one with the upper hand in this situation. Sebastian’s bemused expression caught me off guard. If any thing he was the one that looked offended.

“I honestly don’t know what you would do!” I said in wary voice. “That night I asked if you had it you looked me in the eyes and blatantly lied to my face. I know it must be an insignificant object to you, but it’s important to me and you stole it! You must look at me and laugh at how gullible I am.” I said breathlessly.

I waited to see if the armor of guilt would shed. His piercing glare was almost too intense to stand in front off. I expected him to grovel and beg for my forgiveness while offering some sorry ass apology along with it. “So you figured it out then huh?” Sebastian laughed unfeeling.

Sebastian moved a little closer to me, his face had changed to a stony expression. By the way he was assessing me made me tremble under his scrutiny and it wasn’t from fear. Nothing about his intimidating presence screamed dangerous. I was more terrified that I would do something stupid.

“What else am I suppose to think? I found it hiding in your bag and you said nothing!” I swallowed back nerves that felt never ending.

Sebastian’s overcast blue eyes narrowed on my face studying my reaction as I gripped my journal down beside me. From the looks of the situation from a third eye’s perspective I should’ve been a little apprehensive about being alone with a half naked man that I met a little over two and a half weeks ago. We were both visibly seething with pent up frustrations for one another and yet I couldn’t seem to leave well enough alone.

“It's rather insulting that you think so little of me and assume I would ever do anything to misplace your trust.” His expression softened like I had wounded a part of him.

The entirety of the situation was enough to give me whiplash. I didn’t know whether to slap him or wish that damn towel would magically fall off. For now I was stuck wanting both. “You can’t honestly blame me! It was in your bag!” I repeated sternly.

“Do you remember the morning after breakfast the day you lost it?” Sebastian asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer from me. “I spent all morning helping you look for it. Together we retraced our steps all the way back to Alessio’s restaurant. When our search came up empty right before we left I asked him to keep an eye out for it just in case it turned up.” As Sebastian talked I started to recall the moments when we nearly spent the second half of our day in Capri looking for my journal.

“None of that explains how it came into your possession.” I said defensively. Unsure of how the story would play out I had a feeling I would be eventually swallowing my tongue by the end.

Sebastian spoke up quickly cutting through my accusations. “This morning I had got a call from someone at the restaurant. One of his bartenders was reading it when he was suppose to be working. Alessio recognized the name on the journal and he remembered that you had lost the exact same one. He had someone bring it over to the hotel right before I went to your room. I had every intention of giving it back to you over dinner tonight as a surprise.” Sebastian sighed in exhaustion.

Sebastian’s words were hitting me like a ton of bricks. I had a hunch that weasel no scratch that! Son of a bitch (much better phrasing Natalie) took my journal the second he didn’t want me looking around the bar! I was too preoccupied tossing back limoncello shots to notice that when he wasn't mixing drinks he was also a kleptomaniac! My heart quickly started to sink in my chest. I wanted to be a giant bubble that would at any given second pop.There was an awkward pause then Sebastian said, “Well?” He gave me a pointed stare.

“Well what?” I asked feeling a thousand percent embarrassed. I had just accused him of stealing and for as long as I’ve know him he hadn’t given me reasons to think otherwise. Which frankly isn’t long at all. 

His eyes closed and the muscle in his jaw worked profusely. “Why didn’t you give me the benefit of doubt Natalie? It was like you were ready to believe the worst in me.”

I began to move forward but stopped in my tracks. The damp fabric that clung to every particle on my skin was the most gross feeling. I had to control my teeth from chattering I was so cold.

“Answer the goddamn question Natalie!” His demanding voice was rasped. My body sagged with guilt and I shrugged my shoulders unable to give him the answer he wanted. Sebastian regarded my silence as a way of saying what he needed to hear. He bit down on his bottom lip shaking his head vehemently, and started to walk backwards leaving me.

“Wait.” I reached forward not thinking as I grabbed ahold of his wrist. Sebastian stared at my hand like it had scales. Clearing my throat I quickly released my firm grip on him. “If it were you in my place how would you have reacted? I don’t know that much about you apart from you being someone who takes too many risks and doesn’t think twice about anything.”

Tilting his chin as if I had just said something amusing. “If only you knew the whole story .” He said with a pained expression. There was a weird pull between us. One minute we were arguing the next I would be dying to know why he looked like someone just died. No shit Natalie. . .someone did die.

“Tell me then.” I asked quietly. I watched Sebastian’s chest rise and fall as if he just remembered to breathe. His body was taut, but his eyes started to soften.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. I wrapped my arms around my body in an attempt to shield myself from the draft wafting over me. I could feel goosebumps rise up over my skin. Sebastian’s cold stare was long gone but still his silence was every bit chilling.“Maybe this was too soon too fast.” He shook his head. 

“What do you mean?” I asked knowing damn well this wasn’t about something as minuscule as a journal anymore.

“This!” He growled low. Sebastian’s voice was uneven, I could hear the brokenness in the one word alone. It wasn’t exactly from anger, but from sorrow. "There's no real point in me coming out here anymore. I just did it for her. I always did.” He whispered.

I wanted to say something anything to just stop his bleeding heart. There wasn’t a single word I could produce to offer him a shred of comfort. Knowing that broke my own heart. “Did what Sebastian?”Sebastian didn't  respond right away. “Sorry, you definitely don’t have to tell me. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Expelling a shaking breath he continued. “She’d deny it if you said but Bianca was a adrenaline junkie.” A frustrated sigh escaped him. “Nothing scared her, apart from confinement and her greatest fear was not living life to the fullest. I don't know what she saw in me I was nothing like Gabriel. Now me on the other hand I was more reserved. I wouldn’t do a damn thing solely based off a whim. ” Sebastian explained.

Unable to stop myself I let out a snort at that confession. The Sebastian I met seemed like a daredevil in disguise. A person who lived and breathed for the next unconventional adventure. I quickly brought my hand to my mouth feeling apologetic at what I just did. Sebastian didn’t seem to care.

“I know what you’re thinking and yeah I’m just as surprised as you are.” He said. “We would travel all over the world but she always ended up doing the craziest shit on top of it. Mountain climbing on El Capitan, deep sea diving with hammerheads in the Maldives, kayaking through glaciers in Vancouver. B was a thrill seeker and because I loved her with every breath in my body I thought I would be holding her back if stopped her.”

Sebastian stared passed me focusing on something other than me as if to keep himself calm. “She needed a rush to feel alive. I think she did it on purpose to feel closer to him.” His shoulders stiffened and his tone turned bitter. “Turns out it was the very thing that killed her.”

How did we get here? Oh right I put my fucking foot into mouth and asked him. The conversation goes from theft to death how much morose can this get? The silence is thick and almost unbearable. All I wanted to know was how he came to posses my journal. Somehow it opened up an unrelated and unresolved issue billowing around his recently deceased girlfriend. I didn’t want to force him to carry on. He didn’t have to explain in detail what happened to her. I shifted uncomfortably in my soaking wet shoes not sure to make eye contact with him or not. I wanted to put the pair of us out of this excruciating silence. As if sensing my awkwardness reluctantly his eyes met mine. Sebastian’s lip curled up but it wasn’t a smile. “Of all the things she did it ended up being a freak accident when her cord broke while bungee jumping.”

Swallowing the lump in my throat felt like tiny pieces of glass shards. The sadness that omitted from him clung on to me and wrapped its dispirited tentacles around me. “I’m so sorry.” I whispered. For everything, but only I could hear the rest of the tiny voice in my head. I especially didn't know how to ask him who Gabriel was. 

“Want to know what the worse part is?” The answer was obvious, but I didn’t have the guts to say no. The look he had in his eyes was insistent and yet almost stalled by a sense of fear he struggled with. “No matter how hard she tried to convince me I could never follow through with it and for that I will always regret.” Sebastian took a long and deliberate slow breath before releasing it.

“Contrary to what you might think of me Natalie right now being here with you is me finally taking that risk. I don’t know what the hell is happening between you and me. An I know you feel it too, yet you were about to walk away from what this is just because you’d think I would stoop so low and take from you. “ Sebastian leaned forward trapping me with his pained stare.

Internally I yelled at myself to say something, anything that would stop him from looking at me like I had just told him I was Lord Voldemort. Just twenty minutes ago I was jumping to the conclusion that he stole from me. Now I felt like the biggest jerk in existence and I suddenly have gone mute. “I’m going to finish up my shower. I really do hope the rest of your stay here is pleasant and you finally get the chance to live your own story for a change.”He didn’t bother to steal one last glance as if looking at me any longer would burn him.

Time ticked by me slowly after he left. I walked over to the bed and tossed my journal onto it, not wanting to hold it any longer as if it were a bad omen. In that moment I realized that I had two options. Two decisions no matter the choice I make I’d eventually regret not choosing the other. My feet started to move before my mind could catch up. I ended up standing on the other end of the bathroom door.

I pushed it open and steam from the shower filled my nose alongside Sebastian’s mouthwatering scent. I took baby steps into the bathroom not knowing what I was going to be greeted by. I peered around the shower and saw Sebastian standing with his head drawn back letting the water from the shower head pour down into his face. His attention suddenly snapped to me when he noticed I was standing behind the fogged glass. Without thinking I mindless started to pull back the sliding glass door, feeling the water spritz my already soaked clothes.

Sebastian who was gloriously naked stood still and watched me as if I was an apparition. My hand lifted to the straps on my dress letting them fall halfway down my shoulder. Lifting up the ends of my damp hair I turned my back. “Can you help me with my zipper. . . again?” I asked casually. I must’ve been felling all kinds of brave today.

I could hear the weariness in Sebastian’s voice. “Natalie.” Sebastian huffed out my name as if it were either a plea or a prayer.

“Are you going to help me or not?” I asked feeling flustered, my voice was unsteady. I don’t know what came over me. I rarely acted on impulse, but my blood ran cold when he wasn’t around and runs hot when he’s near. I’d never given myself to someone so easily who could effortlessly crack open and expose my heart. There was a long contemplated silence that followed my question. His hands gripped the back of my dress grabbing hold to the material, unzipping it in one quick motion. My back was exposed and I stood still waiting to see if he would make the next move. Just as I felt the rejection swallow me in its huge embarrassing jaws. Sebastian’s warm and wet hands tightly gripped at my sides, his fingers firmly pressed through the fabric on my drenched dress. Expectations was coursing though me until he abruptly loosened his hold that I almost lost my balance from lost of contact.

“You coming in?” I could feel the outlines of his chest rising and falling against my back. Those three little words were indelicate and like molten hot lava trickling down my spine. The air in the bathroom turned humid and beads of hot water splashed on my back. I don’t know why my heart was pounding out of my chest. I willfully barged into his bathroom like a woman on a mission. The panic started to rise in my chest when I realize that maybe this isn’t something that he necessarily wanted. I’m practically asserting myself onto him like some creep. One that I vividly remember telling him I was leery of him being back at the airport. Yet I am the one standing in his bathroom with my clothes hanging off of me ready to jump his bones. He must think I have lost my mind. I’d have to agree with him if he did.

As if hearing my thoughts he chimed in. “If we are going to stand in the shower all afternoon I’d at least like to look at your face.”

Swallowing down the lump of insecurities I turned to face him staring directly into his anxiously waiting blue eyes. I could tell he was allowing me to be the one to take the lead. Sebastian in all aspects was giving all the control to me. I lifted myself out of my shoes without taking my eyes off of his. I placed my hand on the glass in order to gain steadiness before I walked completely inside. On the inside of the shower it was more than enough space for the two of us. The interior was made up of ash gray marbling with an antiqued gold brass shower set. It looks like it’s made of the same material as the giant gold mirror in my room. For. Fucks.Sake. I’m even rambling in my head!

“Breath Natalie.” A slow smile had spread across his face. Sebastian’s thumb gently brushed my damp cheek in small circular motions. Last time he said that to me he told me I looked like I was walking the plank. I wondered if I looked like that now? Standing in his shower with my clothes still on yes I can confirm I look out of place.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” I managed to say. We were standing nearly nose to nose. The air he expelled I breathed it in. I concentrated on the light feel of Sebastian’s warm hand holding my face like it was precious glass that would break if he should let go. The touch of him shouldn’t calm me as much as it does. He was someone I didn't want to get use to, but I don’t want him to let go in the meantime.

“Well neither do I.” Sebastian’s back was taking all of the direct contact of the water from the shower head above us. Water pooled down around his hair and face. He stood unaffected as if it didn’t bother him. Being naked and drenched from head to toe was a good look for Sebastian. That maddening fragrance of his skin was making it very hard to have restraint to refrain me from bury my nose in the crook of his neck and breath him in. But that’s exactly what I want to do. “If you’re scared just be scarier than whatever is scaring you.” A shiver traveled over my skin as I met Sebastian’s gaze.

A slight chuckle rumbled out from his chest. “So you’re stealing my lines now, Thumper? And isn’t that from Bambi?”

“If you are inclined to ask then maybe you’re not worthy.” I took another step closer to him not breaking eye contact, moving into him as close as I could get. He stared down at me and I could feel the slowest trail of heat travel up my thighs. I wanted him to kiss me.

Within an instant the air between us changed and his expression turned to something unreadable. “I’m not.” His voice rasped. Sebastian’s head swooped down, his mouth finally finding my cold wet lips.

He took no time getting reacquainted. Good to know that we were on the same page here. With ease he carefully guided me backwards until my back pressed against the cool tiles. His mouth parted over mine with a slight exchange of air. I breathed him in before I slipped my tongue in tasting droplets of water that invaded his mouth. Sebastian devoured my mouth with small nips and rhythmic kisses that fell in sync with one another. We kissed with a tortured slowness that was nearly unbearable. Familiarizing our lips and tongue over and over, memorizing every inch until my jaw went sore. Still it wasn’t enough. Sebastian’s hands clasped around my waist to steady himself as if he were in need of an anchor. Yet I was the one growing weak at the knees. Rubbing my body against him created a sensuous friction that made me wonder why was I still clothed. Lust rippled through my bloodstream as I gripped his neck tighter urging him for more.

A frustrated groan slipped from my mouth as I arched up against him. I was desperate to get this dress off of me. Sebastian’s palms went up my back and up the column of my neck, until his fingers tangled around damp strands of my hair. His tongue steadily plunging into my mouth, pulling on the bottom of my lip with his teeth. I reared my head back needing air to fill into my lungs.

“Why haven’t you taken my dress off?” My eyes fluttered opened. I panted for air I’d gladly let him keep stealing. Sebastian looked back at me with musing curiosity. His gaze grew less fierce and he swallowed back his own growing need.

“Is that what you want me to do?” He swiped a wet strand of hair off of my forehead. The answer to that was simple. Yet, when Sebastian asked he made the question feel more complicated than it should have been. On my own accord I shimmied out of my dress , letting it fall around my feet. I stepped out of it and kicked it off to the side. I was left standing in nothing but my light blue cotton underwear. Bravo Natalie you packed the most unsexiest underwear you could find. Sebastian’s eyes never drifted below my neck. I could see the pulse in his throat thrumming rapidly. I didn’t know what to do with my hands they stayed down my side anxiously balled in a tight fist. His silence was going to be the death of me.

“S-Say something.” My teeth chattered together through my sex filled daze. For as long we were standing there the water was turning cold and it showed. Sebastian was too perceptive to have not noticed my exposed breast.

“I don’t want to rush things with you Natalie.” He stared down at me with half hooded eyes. His lips were blood rushed from being thoroughly kissed. A sliver of self doubt weaseled its way into my head.

“You want to stop?” I managed to keep my voice leveled. I wont deny the disappointment I felt. “I clearly did not read this situation right.” I started to ease away from him to make a mad dash to leave the confinement of the shower, but Sebastian stilled his hands on my face. He rubbed the pads of his thumbs over my damp skin in. I tried to back away from his hold. We always seemed to pick the most awkward moments to go quiet. Sebastian kept my face locked between his hands. Unexpectedly he captured my mouth against his. Kissing me with a deliberate slowness that made my brain got to complete mush. “If you think I don’t want to fuck you then you read me all wrong.” He ran his fingers along my neck I could barely feel that his touch was there.

Well Shit.

Words, Natalie, use your words! Licking my lips in nerves still tasting him. I was too taken by surprise to reply. I wouldn’t necessarily describe myself as shy or a bashful person. I’m in his shower with my nipples pressing against his chest for crying out loud. But in more ways than one I am finding myself constantly taken off guard by him. I’m in a constant state of not knowing what to expect around him and frankly I think I enjoy it too much. Blinking rapidly to keep the water from going in my eyes, I placed my hands on his chest to keep him a few inches away to keep some of my self control. “But?” It came out of my mouth more like a aggravated sigh.

Sebastian voiced echoed my own in a low murmur next to my ear. “But.” The corner of Sebastian’s mouth kicked up allowing his smile that I was quickly becoming enamored by take up his face. I impatiently waited for him to finish whatever he was about to say. Stalling at best Sebastian pressed an openmouthed kissed under my ear following a path down my throat. “I meant what I said Natalie.” He paused, he kissed alongside the nape of my shoulder. His tongue moved across my skin, Sebastian’s grip shifted lower to my ass lifting me higher against his chest. My legs voluntarily locked around his waist.

Sebastian shifted his body inward almost cocooning mine into his like a shield. Trailing kisses down my bare chest. I wrapped my hands around his shoulders and my hips started to move as if having their own agenda feeling his erection brush against my inner thigh. “I said I’d risk just about everything to be near you, but I want to get know every part of you first.” He said, his mouth still lingering over my chest between kisses.

“Oh.” I answered breathlessly. Sebastian’s lips were leaving chills in its wake. “I want to know the first book you read that made you want to become a writer.” Actually it was a movie called Stand By Me that made me love stories. Though I couldn’t seem to verbally string together a coherent sentence for the life of me. I lost all ability to speak.

Sebastian clearly didn’t care by the way his left hand teasingly traced the curve of my breast. “I want to hear all about where you grew up and if you played a pointless musical instrument.” Nashville and the Glockenspiel which depending on how you look at it technically doesn’t count because I’m pretty sure everyone in elementary school dabbled in it.

 “I want you to tell me that the craziest thing that you have ever done does not involve you jumping out of a plane. Because Natalie I want you and it’s making me scared shitless.” He said right as his mouth hovered over my nipple before roughly capturing it in his mouth. Sebastian’s tongue toyed with it at a languid pace, grazing his teeth around it. I drew in quick breath, inhaling in his scent that permeated through my nose and dammit if doesn’t smell delicious enough to eat.

“I think your definition of slow might be misconstrued.” Another gasp escaped me as my head fell against the wall. My hands fumbled in his hair pulling him closer, I wasn’t exactly complaining by the directness in contact. I’m pretty sure my body would have wept at the thought of him not finishing what I clearly started. Sebastian was clearly hell bent on delivering the sweetest torture while holding me.

“Believe me this is slow.” He reassured me, though I wasn’t entirely convinced. With carefulness he guided both of my legs back to solid ground. I kept myself pressed against the shower due to the fact the sensation consuming me whole was weakening me in the best way possible.

Without warning or hesitation Sebastian lowered himself to the floor our eyes locked on one another. He watched me as if he was waiting for a flicker of doubt from me. I peered down at him while he hooked his fingers under the straps of my underwear on both sides gradually rolling them down my legs. Sebastian eyes never faltered ,he released a ragged breath as he gently lifted my ankles to guide my legs out of them. He was no longer shielding the water from the shower.

My brain suddenly decided to unleash a wave of unwanted emotions to run ramped though my mind at the most inconvenient time. I didn’t know what tomorrow would look like or even next week when I boarded my flight back home. It just now dawned on me that he also has a home to get back to as well. He had somehow entered my bloodstream and I didn’t know where to begin to get rid of him. Apart of me hoped there wasn’t a cure. Still I wondered if I was just a distraction from his grief. There was a high chance Sebastian was emotionally unavailable and I was a vulture claiming him as my own. He belonged to someone else and she took Sebastian’s heart with her. There was no chance in hell he had any left over for me.

Having a channel to my thoughts with an impossible slowness be pried my knees apart before leaving chaste kisses on the sides of my legs. “Do you ever give that beautiful mind of yours a rest?”

“I consider Saturday and Sunday my off days, but you never know when inspiration strikes and then I’m spending my entire weekend scribbling over notes in my journal all day long. Then doing outlines on my laptop.” Wishing I could swallow my fucking tongue! Saving me from my own rambling. Sebastian abruptly silenced me for good when his skillful mouth eagerly found the one spot my overactive brain wasn’t connected to.

That was by far the longest and most raunchiest shower I have ever had. I was just waiting for the other shoe to drop and for realization to sink in so that the guilt and awkwardness could take turns tormenting me. I waited and I waited but the feelings never came. Instead I felt dizzy. My head wouldn’t stop spinning and the embarrassingly dopey grin I was sporting was enough to make me feel like the ground would crumble beneath me. I wouldn’t care because the cloud I was drifting on would catch me. On the miraculous chance I was having an extremely vivid dream, no one pinch me.

In the midst of my non alcoholic haze I somehow ended up on the private balcony outside Sebastian’s room. We were laying on a hammock that I was convinced was not meant for two. Sebastian thought otherwise and now I found myself laying practically on top of him. Not to mention I had on one of his long sleeved dark blue t-shirt that looked liked a baggy mini dress on me. On the front it had the words “Property of NASA” written across in bold white letters. Again not my idea to wear his clothes. But I did not complain.

“The view around us is incredible and yet the way you’re studying the moon I would’ve sworn you have never seen it before.” Sebastian’s voice was the ice breaker to the comfortable silence that fell over us.

“Why are you watching me?”I questioned, as I readjusted myself so that I could get more room on the hammock. I lifted my self up a little to shift my body so that I could be on my side. Sebastian, who I was quickly learning was very hyperaware of everything I did. He moved his right leg to hang over the hammock and scooted himself closer to the edge so that I could fit my entire body in the crook of his arm.

“What can I say I like looking at what I’m holding better.” The palm of his hand was right above my ass. I could feel the tip of his index finger draw mindless shapes over my hipbone. Apart from listening to the rhythmic sound of the dormant sea. I could hear the sound of Sebastian breathing in and out, as if he was having to control it. When I tilted my head up his mind looked far away. He looked at me like it was the first time he saw me. I couldn't settle the butterflies metamorphosing inside my stomach. I found it almost overwhelming. 

“When I was little my mom moved us around a lot, she’d always grow bored of our surroundings. Which would eventually result to moving on to the next state. The only thing that stayed the same for me was right up there. To remind me some things don’t have to change, plus I thought it followed me and I’d always make up stories about it. I know it’s cheesy, but in my defense I was six and it sorta just stuck.” My mouth turned downward in my typical embarrassed fashion. I had no where to hide my face so that I wouldn’t have to see his reaction. I glanced away. I felt a firm yet gentle grip around my chin pulling my face up closer to meet his. Sebastian stared at me no longer than three heart beats. Yes, I counted.

“So the reason you’re all the way here in Capri is to see if the moon is the same?” His voice was deep. The way he was concentrating on me I couldn’t tell if he was joking or being serious. I expected laughter to ensure at any second.

“Of course not. . . I read about it.” I stated, my voiced already laced with self consciousness. Yet, for some unexplained reason I kept babbling on. “According to Homer when Ulysses was sailing along the coast of Capri here is where he first heard the beguiling voices of Sirens. Regardless of the fictional elements I still wanted to see this place for myself.”

Sebastian smiled before turning his attention towards the night sky, letting my face go. “You’re something else Natalie Foster.”

“I could say the same about you.” I said matter-of-fact.

Sebastian made a sound, I didn’t know whether he was agreeing with me or dismissing it. “No,” He exhaled. " I'm the guy who came here to visit the parents of the son my recently deceased girlfriend was madly in love with."

"What?" I said loudly.

"You already met Gabriel's father." Sebastian said nonchalantly, as he swayed the hammock back and forth. I twisted around so that I could lay on my stomach to face him. Recalling back to the people I met here was our guide Ian and Alessio. Unless Ian drank from the fountain of youth my guess is with Alessio. 

My eyes widened. "Wait. What?" I repeated looking at him quizzically, still unable to follow along with what he was saying. 

"Long before Bianca met me she was head over heels for this guy she met while in the Peace Corps. She told me they bonded over their passion to do humanitarian work in different countries. Bianca had a huge heart and when she loved something she was all in." Sebastian says, giving me a weak smile. 

Not knowing if I should prompt him to say more, because talking about her looked like it was cutting open a fresh wound. I definitely didn't want to be the one to add to his misery. Though after what just happened between the two of us I'm sure he could let me in just a tiny inch. The line I drew regarding our friendship was already blurred and definitely crossed. "What happened to Gabriel?" I asked slowly. 

"The two of them had a lot of goals they wanted to accomplish together. Remember when I told you earlier she was a bit of a thrill seeker?" I nodded my head at his question.

"Well they were one in the same. She told me they wanted to do all kinds of outrageous shit before they got married. Gabriel caught pneumonia before they could ever make it to the alter. His immune system just got weaker and weaker. Intent on keeping their promise Bianca never stopped. She'd visit his parents from time to time and when we started going out I wasn't going to be the one to stop her from coming out here. Once I really got to know Alessio and Nina they became really good friends of mine. . .so I thought." His voice trailed off. 

"He seemed so nice last time I saw him talk to you and if I heard correctly his wife wanted you to visit them." I was propped up to face Sebastian genuinely interested and taken by surprise at how the truth was shaping out to be. 

Sebastian’s eyes evaded. mine."Alessio didn't show up when we searched for your journal and he was brief with me when I spoke with him on the phone. I hadn't even heard from Nina. I think without Bianca being here it's weird for me to even still visit them. Their son was going to marry her and she never really could let him go. The shittiest part is I was the one robbed of a last goodbye. Her folks claimed Bianca wouldn't have wanted a public service." A devastating wave filled the air around us. For a few seconds I stayed motionless trying to comprehend it all. Everything Sebastian just told me was gut wrenching. I had never known anything like it and I felt even more horrible that in the beginning I had made everything about me.

Tensing, he said, "I didn't mean to ruin your night and you sure as hell didn't sign up for this." 

"You're absolutely correct." I stated flatly, scooting up closer so that Sebastian and I were at eye level. "On the top ten most exciting things to do in Capri the travel blogger didn't include you on the list." Bending down I placed a tender kissed alongside Sebastian's lower throat.  His eyelids fell shut and he exhaled a deep breath. I couldn't begin to fathom the heartache I'm sure he felt for her. I just hoped liked hell I wasn't making it worse. 

"Thank you Natalie." Sebastian cleared his throat speaking in a more vulnerable tone. 

"For what?" I asked.

"For reading The Odyssey." He looked like he wanted to say something else but he didn't. He steadied his protective grip around me hugging me close to his bare chest like I would fall out of the hammock. I sighed. I knew I could stay here forever. Sparks went off in my chest.  I was in over my head ,that I was certain of. I bit the inside of my cheek to suppress the laughter bubbling up inside. 

"You know what we need?" I said with a tenor of determination. I wanted to do something to change the solemn mood that seemed to have taken over the atmosphere. Sebastian suddenly rolled over on his side pinning me under him, pulling my bottom lip with his teeth. "More of this?" He asked suggestively. 

I shook my head while grinning wide. "Gelato." I said, my voice breathless. 

"Gelato?" Sebastian repeated like it was a foreign concept. When the word rolled off his tongue it sounded a thousand times better. I said it before and I'll say it again his voice made everything sound sexier. 

"I think the hotel restaurant is still open. I can be back in twenty minutes top." I told him. 

"Make it ten." Sebastian ordered.

"You never really pegged me as the bossy type." He leaned forward so that he was completely hovering over me. I could've imagined a thousand scenarios of how my trip would've gone, laying underneath a man as gorgeous as this one was not on my itinerary. Perhaps he was thinking the same thing as well. A bashful smile ghosted Sebastian’s lips. "I just like being near you." He said in a hushed tone. 

I was ashamed to admit that I was easily affected by him. I forgot everything that I was about to say, because suddenly I felt Sebastian's mouth nip at the soft skin covering my hip and I yelped in surprise. Which caused me to come down from the hammock. I'm dangerously ticklish and my flailing limbs are lethal. I pushed my shirt back down and tiptoed backwards as I walked back into the room. Sebastian, who remained unbothered by my lack of poise eyed me in amusement. "I...need...pants." 

"I have some sweatpants in that duffel bag behind the closet door." He exhaled a quiet laugh. I scurried off to go find a pair. Riffling through nearly a dozen pair, even his clothes smelled like him. I settled for black ones that I quickly got into, pulling the drawstrings as tight as they would go so that they were secured around my hips. I couldn't walk around the hotel barefoot and I draw the line at wearing his shoes.

I grudgingly slipped into my dampened shoes. Looking down at my ghastly assemble I knew I was a fashion victim. I couldn't muster the courage to steal a look at my reflection when I went inside of the bathroom. I was able to comb through my knotted hair with my fingers and created a side braid. Walking back out I caught Sebastian with his arms rested behind his head still in the hammock looking up at the moon. Sensing my near presence like a magnet he turned to face me. 

I shifted uncomfortably at the weight of his longing stare. "I know I know," I sighed ruefully. "I look..."I racked my brain for the right synonyms; horrible, disarrayed, a hot mess.

"Breathtaking." Sebastian said, cutting through my thoughts. 

While I walked through the main lobby that is exactly what I wanted to keep in mind as I passed by people who were dressed as if they stepped right off of the runway. I didn't mind the few stares I got along the way to the restaurant. I knew my eye sore of an outfit was out of place, but I no longer cared. I followed the trail of bodies coming and going in a direction that led me straight into the luxurious restaurant located on the terrace overlooking the Marina Grande and the Bay of Naples. Every time I caught sight of the  enchanting deep blue sea at night filled me with a serene calmness. Too bad it was going to be short lived. 

I assumed the kitchen was still open by the way people waited for their reservations to open up. The seating area was discreetly arranged. Sitting at a table I assumed made guest feel like they were in their own private sector. Fenced in by an intricate metal railing that was wrapped in a florescent deep red bougainvillea plants that twisted into it.Tall black umbrellas with wooden poles canopied over the tables covered in crisp white cloths. Chilled bottles of wine sat at every table alongside glass pitchers of water. Tiny flicker of flames was trapped somehow in the center of the table which kept the individual areas dimly lit. Trees that were nearly half the size of palm trees had full bloomed branches that hung high above my head. The leaves were curved inward almost making a cloud of greenery, and tiny lemons were dangling from it. 

My shoes slapped against the wooden floorboard making me also be seen and heard. Yippie. I spotted a woman frantically tapping away at touch screen monitor wearing khaki shorts and light blue polo with the hotel logo on the front. "Is there some sort of dessert menu I could look at? Also if possible could I charge my order to my room?" I asked her kindly. It had dawned on me that my pockets were empty and I forgot my wallet. I was internally hoping she would not judge me because of my appearance. 

When she looked up at me a genuine smile broke out on her face. "Yes we do. I'd be happy to provide you with one." Her saccharine accent was so lovely to hear. Taking a quick look at her name tag pinned to her shirt. Elisa handed me a rectangular menu with only the names of various desserts and drinks. My eyes quickly scanned over it looking for any mention of gelato. I squinted my eyes in effort of trying to adjust my vision on the tiny words. No glasses or credit cards I came so unprepared. Ah ha! I found it! The gelato....not my glasses. 

The happy dance I was doing was thankfully in my head, because someone was now beside me. I gave Elisa my order, almond honey butter for me because why the hell not? For Sebastian I chose a safer flavor and just went with chocolate. "I'll just need a name so the charge can be made." 

"Natalie Foster." I told her, as I leaned over to pass the menu back to her. I quickly pulled back not realizing I was hovering over someone seated in a wheel chair. 

"Wow." She stated in disbelief. I turned to face her with an apology fresh in my mouth before she spoke up again. "You're Natalie Foster?" Her voice wasn't laced with anger, if anything she sounded excited.

"Forgive me I should've looked before I moved into you personal space! That was ill mannered of me. I'm sorry." I don't think I exhaled once while talking to her. She frantically waved her hand in the air as if to dismiss me. Which caused her glossy black hair that was cut into a bob that was longer in the front and short in the to bounce around her face. The way her dark green eyes lit up, you'd think I just told her she won the lottery. 

"I am a huge fan of your work!" She moved the wheels on her chair so she could swivel it around to face me. When I looked down that was when I noticed both of her legs were casted in thick silver metal braces all the way up to her kneecaps. I didn't know what to say usually not many readers of my books recognized me enough to come over and talk to me or they did and just didn't care. 

"Thank you!" That was all I seemed to be able to think of. 

"I'd ask you to sign something, but I only own digital copies of your books." Her smile only grew bigger and bigger. If I had to take a guess we were probably around the same age and she was hands down amongst one of the prettiest people I have ever seen. My confidence yeah it was dissipating.

"I'm just grateful there are people out there who still enjoy reading." I said, meaning every word. Feeling the admiration I extended my arm out to shake her hand. "What's your name?" 

Returning the gesture she was happy to tell me. "Bianca Jagger!" 

A burst of soft laugher came out of my mouth. "No way?" 

Bianca laughed along with me. "My parents clearly thought they were being funny. Wait till you hear my mother's maiden name."

I raised my eyebrow in anticipation of her answer. "‪Diana Ross‬." A beat of silence passed between us before we both started laughing. To others we must have look absolutely insane. Right on cue Elisa returned carrying two cups of what I knew was to be heaven in a cup. Bianca watched my movements like I was someone to actually be enamored by.

"I better get going it." I said, I turning around ready to get back to Sebastian. 

"Of course I don't want you to keep him waiting. It was really nice meeting you."  Her voice cracked.

"Likewise!" I chirped, mindlessly unaware. I walked in the same direction that I came in and the other shoe I was waiting to drop finally came down. Right down into my gelato that hit the floor.

No, it couldn't be.