#flicker: Hartford

[srldesigns6277]

In honor of Niall's first show tonight.

These are pictures I took of him in 2018 on the Flicker World Tour. This was in Hartford, Connecticut on Sept. 14th.

[hauntedestheart]

The Ghost Of Hartford Manor (Male Possession)

"Frederick, what on Earth are you doing?!" Lady Priscilla shrieked to her son. "Get out of the water this instant!"

"Oh but it's such a hot day and the water feels so lovely!" Frederick called back to her, and then he turned his eyes to the other genteel folk attending the garden party. "Won't you all join me?"

He placed his hands on his hips, as if to draw attention to his nether regions, and everyone at the garden party gasped at the sight of the pendulous manhood swinging freely between his legs for all to see. Frederick beamed at the crowd without a stitch of shame (or pants) and waved his arms, beckoning them towards him, and the party erupted into whispers.

Frederick Hammlebutton, heir to the Hammlebutton fortune, behaving so shamelessly at a high society function? It was the scandal of the year! And if the women folk peeked at him over their fans, eyes drawn to the way the water made his tight shirt cling to his musculature, and a few gentlemen gazed at his cock for a few more seconds than was strictly appropriate... well, it was simply because they wanted to get the latest gossip, that's all. This was a big story.

Only one woman seemed immune to Frederick's charms,

"What a brute!" Lady Catherine Hartfort harrumphed, giving the unclothed man a stare icy enough to freeze the lake around him. "And to think, I almost considered marrying my daughter off to this man! This simply will not do." Catherine turned her eyes to her daughter, the lovely young Dahlia Hartfort, and sighed. "I'm sorry my dear, but the engagement is off."

"Is it?" Dahlia mustered up a forlorn sigh and a small shake of the head. "Oh, darn. And I was so looking forward to marriage."

Truth be told, Dahlia wasn't the least bit disappointed that her potential beau was making an ass of himself with his ass out- on the contrary, his behavior was her doing.

You see, Dahlia had no intention of getting married. She had gotten involved in this newfangled feminism movement, which had opened her eyes to the injustices facing women in their modern society. True. wasn't opposed to the idea of having a man beside her, but the laws surrounding marriage in the modern era were so draconian- the second a man put a ring on her finger, she would become his property. And Dahlia was not about to become someone's property! Besides, she quite liked running the family estate by herself and intended to do so for as long as she could.

Her mother, however, had other ideas. An old fashioned "proper" noble of the old guard, she was a stickler for tradition and stubbornly insisted that her daughter's husband be (quote) "a respectable man of means." And, thanks to the law, if Lady Catherine arranged a marriage with an eligible bachelor, her daughter was bound to follow through.

So since Dahlia couldn't change her mother's mind, and she couldn't say no, she had to find another method of getting her way.

That was when Norman came into the picture. Dear, sweet Norman.

Norman was a dead man, and Dahlia's secret weapon.

The same friends who had introduced Dahlia to feminism had also introduced her to spiritualism, and on one stormy evening she had invited a genuine psychic over to hold a seance. She and her friends had held hands, shrieked and laughed as the lights flickered, and then bid each other goodnight- however once everyone departed, Dahlia found that she was not alone.

A foggy shape hung heavily in one of the mirrors, and when she placed her fingers upon it, a face that was not her own filled the glass. It was the round face of a pudgy young man, with wild untamed hair and a brutal looking bruise around his neck, and most surprising of all- he bowed to Dahlia politely.

Shock held her tongue and prevented her from screaming, but the man in the mirror assured her that he meant her no harm. He introduced himself by the name of Norman, and he waited very politely while Dahlia gathered her wits about her enough to question the spirit.

Norman's story was a sad one: a faithful servant of the family since he was but a boy, he'd confessed his affections towards one of the butlers who had rejected him and in turn gotten him fired from his position with the family. Disgraced and with nowhere else to go, Norman had taken his own life in the study and his spirit had roamed the halls ever since. His existence had been vague and foggy until that very evening when Dahlia's seance had ripped the veil from his eyes and brought him back to the side of the living.

What stood out most to Dahlia about Norman's tale was her family's involvement in the poor man's death. She apologized profusely to the deceased gentleman, who politely accepted, but pointed out that it was probably a bit late for that. Still, Dahlia insisted, to chase someone out simply for who they loved... that was the true disgrace!

But Dahlia was shocked by the notion of two men engaging in amorous congress- how would that even work, she inquired? So Norman guided her to his well-hidden stash of erotic novels, and a quick skim of literature did wonders to change Dahlia's mind. In fact, upon thorough examination, she found the image of two men thrusting their bodies together rather appealing.

(Better they take that aggression out on each other than a woman, she rationalized. And the drawings in some of Norman's books made her mouth water,)

Despite their incompatible orientations the two found themselves to be kindred spirits, both individuals trapped out of time in a society that wouldn't allow them to be who they wanted, and Norman quickly became Dahlia's closest confidant. She was careful to keep their friendship a secret (because if her family knew she was "talking to ghosts" they'd have her institutionalized) but every evening, without fail, she would report to the study and give Norman the latest gossip, or share the newest chapbook she'd acquired.

And when she'd come to Norman one night, sobbing about how her mother intended to marry her off, he proposed a plan to her. Since the seance, his spirit had been growing stronger- strongest of all when he was around Dahlia -and one of the spiritualist texts she'd brought for them to read had contained an interesting idea.

"What if," he proposed to her. "I could superimpose my spirit into the body of another man? That way I could call the engagement off for you. Could be a good way to solve your problem!"

"And be a bit of fun for you," she teased, knowing full well that her friend often lamented his lack of a physical form, and Norman gave a lopsided grin.

She'd agreed, of course.

She still remembers the first man that the two of them had teamed up to take down. Lord Orson was a stunning statue of a man, so painfully gorgeous that Dahlia had briefly considered sacrificing her morals and becoming a dutiful wife if it meant she could be wed to such a prince of a man- until he'd opened his mouth and begun to complain about everything.

What an arrogant ass! Dahlia thought to herself, though she was all smiles on the outside.

His spoiled, sour attitude meant she'd felt little guilt about pulling him aside in the study for a "private chat" beside the old mirror. She watched with mild horror as his eyes rolled back into his head and his body pulsed, groans of agony issuing forth from his handsome lips, and for a moment she was afraid that she had made a mistake and the innocent man was dying- but then he straightened his back and gave her a lopsided grin.

That was her Norman alright.

Norman's first steps as Lord Orson had been strange- he stumbled about like a newborn colt, decades out of practice with having legs, and he complained to Dahlia that he was unused to being so tall. On the whole Lord Orson's physique was a far cry from the one he'd inhabited before his passing, which came as quite a delight to him. His hands pressed into his chest and squeezed at Orson's powerful chest- and when he lifted his shirt, Dahlia understood why the man had struck her as so arrogant.

Norman had been so excited to be amongst the living again that he'd immediately divested himself of his clothes, eager to explore Lord Orson's chiseled musculature, and while Dahlia had enjoyed the sight of the gorgeous man examining his body in the mirror, she had to beg him to remain decent at least until dinner. Norman begrudgingly agreed, but if anyone noticed that Lord Orson seemed strangely preoccupied with readjusting his britches all afternoon, they wisely kept their mouths shut.

Getting to spend the afternoon cavorting about with Norman had been delightful, and even her mother had been surprised by how well Dahlia and "Lord Orson" were getting along. She'd puffed herself up like a smug peacock thinking she'd found her daughter the perfect match- right up until she walked in on him buried balls deep in the stable boy.

And to think, her poor daughter had been struck frozen with shock at the sight and had helplessly borne witness to the whole thing!

Needless to say, Lord Orson was quickly dismissed after such a shocking display, and Dahlia was free to maintain her status as an unmarried woman. As for Lord Orson, the second he crossed the property line of the estate he claimed to have no memory of the events at all- though most people took these claims to be a shoddy attempt to save face.

The rest of Dahlia's suitors had met similarly strange fates:

The Duke of Chustlewitt was a slender thing, barely even of marrying age, but he threw himself at every man in his path with the appetite of a man twice his years and made eyes at them like he was a cheap whore. Lady Catherine had been horrified, but Dahlia insisted they give the man a chance- one that ended in the storeroom with the chef's assistant making very inappropriate usage of some butter.

The Earl of Trackspont, a great big bear of a man, had been dismissed after a few short hours when Lady Catherine realized he didn't plan to stop lifting his shirt up and shaking his own hairy belly at the slightest excuse to do so. He'd slapped at his stomach and called Lady Catherine a prude, and still managed to snag one of the serving boys on the way out.

Sir Timone had been a promising suitor, a dashing musician employed by the royal court, but when the guests at the afternoon get-together had begged him to play piano for them the song he'd sung had been shockingly lewd and concluded with him whipping out his hard cock and plunking it upon the keys.

Count Ludovich was an educated man with degrees from several universities, but he proudly informed everyone at breakfast that his proudest achievement was how many candlesticks he could fit into his buttocks. He'd made it up to four before he was forcibly removed from the premises.

Sir Barstew had made it all the way to dinner before stripping his pants and depositing his genitals into the stew- and then offering Lord Heckleston cousin a taste. (Dahlia had scolded Norman for that one- it had been too funny, she said, and she had almost burst out laughing at the table.)

And so on.

Unfortunately for Dahlia (but fortunately for Norman) each failure only seemed to increase Lady Catherine's determination to find a match for her daughter, and thanks to the estate's considerable means she found no short supply of suitors ready to take her up on the offer despite the unsavory rumors beginning to swirl around the Hartford estate.

Funnily enough, Dahlia had noticed that since she and Norman had begun their escapades, invitations to Lady Catherine's parties had become some of the most sought after social items in town.

Dahlia roused herself from her musings and returned her attention to the table, where the matchmaker was apologizing profusely to her mother.

"I swear, I don't know what's gotten into him!" The poor woman protested, eyeing the throbbing vein on Dahlia's mother's forehead. "He's always been such a polite boy."

"I'll tell you what's gotten into him-" Lady Catherine huffed, giving a haughty toss of the head. "He has the table manners of a horse!"

"And that's not all he has from a horse," muttered one of Dahlia's friends, drawing a snicker from the other girls at the table.

"And what is it that you lot are whispering about?" Catherine sniped, fixing her withering gaze upon the younger women, who all busied themselves with the tea and cakes.

"Merely remarking what a shame it is that such a remarkably gifted young man should go astray like this," one of them said quickly.

"Yes, such a shame," Damonia echoed, hiding her smile behind a sip of tea.

"How peculiar that this should happen to every single suitable bachelor that we have brought for you," Lady Catherine narrowed her eyes and glared at her daughter, and one eyebrow raised in an unspoken challenge.

"How peculiar indeed," Dahlia demurred, her face the picture of innocence. "It's so hard to find a proper gentleman in this modern era- it almost makes one think that the estate would be better off in the hands of, say a woman."

"Almost," her mother said, her thin lips pressing into an unimpressed frown. "But not quite yet. I've been in contact with another matchmaker and the Earl of Windton will be arriving in a fortnight- an upstanding military man, so we should expect no tomfoolery from him."

Dahlia smiled- a soldier? Norman would be most delighted.

She just hoped that Norman wouldn't be too rough on this one- he'd done such a job on the last beau that the poor man had fled to America to escape the scandal. This Frederick fellow had been humiliated enough, she would have to get Norman release him soon.

She glanced across the party towards the lake, where Norman was still frolicking about using Frederick's face and Lady Priscilla was still desperately trying to get her son's body out of the water.

"At least cover yourself!" Lady Priscilla wailed, then she lowered her voice to heated stage whisper. "Everyone can see your buttocks!"

"Cover myself? Why?" Norman gave a cheeky grin and his hands reached down to his backside and teased at the ample flesh of Frederick's cheeks. "I've got such a lovely bum! Everyone should get a chance to see it."

Dahlia vaguely recalled the matchmaker mentioning that Frederick was a horseback riding champion of some sort, and as she watched his copious buttocks jiggle, she could believe it.

She could talk to him later, she decided. For now, she was enjoying the lovely garden view.

[laughing-hellblazer]

closed. @burdenedwithfaith

Connecticut. He hadn't visited this edge of the States in a while now. The red maples painted the hills with scarlet and orange, eventually scattering into a mixture of maple and oak with a brush of evergreens in the distant mountain range. Beautiful land, he thought as the plane landed just outside of Hartford.

Then he got to the city on the outskirts of New Haven by train. Now this was truly the state's next best thing to an absolute shithole. Buildings were left derelict, people lived on the streets, and he could smell piss evaporating in the bitter autumn air. Cars occasionally passed by with headlights to shine through the night's darkness, the only real illumination on the street next to the flickering lamps.

It reminded him of home in the late 60's.

He wouldn't have been anywhere near here if not for the letter from Vince. He was an old friend from the battle against the Great Darkness back in 87. It had been years since he'd heard from him, but he'd made contact out of the blue with some rantings about 'creatures' in his walls and bloody symbols around his building. He had hoped it was all a wind up until he went to Vince's apartment and found it in a state of disarray, with a bloody sigil left on the bathroom mirror. He knew that symbol. It was tied to a demon he'd met before.

Xelacis. Demon lord of lost battles.

Now he was on a walk to think things out, and what had he spotted but the same bloody sigil on the wall of an old, empty factory building. Someone was making a habit of calling on the old boy. He chose to follow the trail, stepping through the threshold and into the walls of the factory. Immediately, he was nearly overwhelmed with the presence of evil seeping through the brick and mortar. It sent his gut into a spiral until he gained composure again.

He traveled deeper within the factory, lighting up a cigarette with a flick of his lighter. Smoke trailed behind him as he walked through the halls, his eyes witness to entrails and blood on the various surfaces. Nausea tangled with his throat. Something had gone wrong a this summoning, he reckoned.

He stopped at the sight of a pair of legs sticking out from behind a stack of wooden crates and palettes. He waited for movement, breath held in his chest until he saw the slightest shift of a foot. Alive. Alive! He tried to stay quiet as he rushed over, rounding the stack of crates. Blue eyes looked down at the man. "Christ, have you had a bloody time of it..." he said before spotting the telltale white collar of a priest's garb. "... Need some help, there, Father?"

[offorester]

@malka-lisitsa gets a plotted starter!

Of all the places Dean could have ended up after a break-up, of course it was a bar. Everything in his life had crumbled right before his eyes, but without him having any idea that it was going to happen. His marriage had failed, Rory was no longer in his life as per his own decision to set her free, and now he was left here in this small town with nothing. Years ago he would have laughed if someone had told him that this was the path his life was going to take. That he was going to be stuck in this sickening downward spiral that never seemed to end. It was like he was free falling, but not in the fun way that people described. But in the way he was just waiting for himself to hit the ground hard. He'd hoped that the days would get easier but they never seemed to. And maybe it was this town that was the source. All these constant reminders no matter where he went. That was what had led him to this bar in Hartford. At least it was a town away where things were not as familiar to him. The mechanic sighs softly and takes a seat at the bar, hazel eyes flickering to the bartender there. She didn't look familiar but man was she beautiful. If the situation were different he probably would have flashed a dimpled smile and flirted but at the moment it was the furthest thing from his mind. "I'll take the strongest drink you have, please." He spoke up, pulling out his I.D. so she could take a look. All he wanted right now was to drink until he quite literally forgot that Rory existed, or hell, maybe even until he forgot he even lived in Stars Hollow.

[jostweinberger-archived]

The Dorf Hunt Journey

Dorf Hunt is a post-apocalyptic thriller set in the near future. We follow two friends, Jan and Ana. The two survivors have lost everything and are forced to sleep in the woods and hunt with a bow and arrow to forage for food. When Jan’s foot gets trapped in a beartrap set by Arlan. The antagonist hears the scream and comes to the scene to offer help. Arlans wife Josie is a doctor and disinfects and stitches up the wound. Josie and Arlan thereby earn the trust of their prey. Although Ana remains on edge after Arlan has a PTSD episode. Her fears are proven to be true when Arlan smashes Jans head whilst he is enjoying his dinner. Josie and Arlan are Cannibals. Ana jumps to her feet and fights on the ground before giving up and fleeing the house. The next morning she returns traumatized to kill Jans killers and to feast on them in vengeance.

 I wanted intensity that grabs and draws you into the next scene. Along with challenging myself to avoid jump cuts wherever possible. Whilst the film couldn't be a slow burn thriller within the prescribed 12-minute time limit. The scenes themselves would be drawn out as though a stage play for theatre was being put on with cuts being made only when absolutely necessary.

Over the summer I visited the location. This gave me the opportunity to make an exact floor plan of how I wanted the camera and actors to move through the space. It also let me think more about possible lighting setups. I had envisioned the interior daytime scenes to be lit by the daylight coming through the large windows to be the only source of lighting. Then at night, faces would mainly be lit from beneath with candles sitting on the table. To show the post-apocalyptic nature of this universe and to cast flickering and unsettling shadows on the faces of the actors. A soft rim would also be given to deepen the illusion of more candles filling the space in unseen areas. Finally, I was inspired by Stanley Kubrick's eyes wide shut and the film's use of deep blue lighting peering through the windows at night in Dr. Hartfords apartment. (Kubrick, 1999) However when we came to shoot, neither I nor the DoP Kolja Bolt had tested this lighting setup in advance. And this showed on camera, the 650s from Arri didn't give us the effect I wanted on camera when we set them up. In reflection we should have just turned them off  and the scene would have been fine. But I only realized half way through directing the dinner scene that this exterior lighting looked silly. Like car headlights. Not super noticeable but still casting light shadows which we now had to keep or they would ruin the continuity of earlier shots.

After the summer holidays I invited all cast and crew members that were already on board including others who I could potentially see being onboard of this project and I gave a twenty minute presentation on my plans for the initial pre-production. After a few questions the feedback was resoundingly good and it felt like people were now actually ready to commit to this project full time. This was especially apparent among the actors as they agreed to my rehearsal schedule of two times a week with each session being two hours long. With a total of eighteen rehearsal hours the characters were really well rounded and I trusted the actors to deliver a well rounded performance with me only jumping in on occasion to shape the emotional flow. This led to a very satisfying work flow on set. It also helped that Bree Shaw had a lot of fight choreography under her belt which led to a really fine tuned fight performance. Thus saving us a lot of time on set.  

The edit was supposed to begin a week after we had wrapped the shoot. In preparation to beginning the edit I went through all the takes and made a list detailing all the ones I wanted to use so that Alan Cooke the sound mixer could already synced those up in advance. When it was time to begin the edit with Miranda Siegel as we had planned three weeks in advance she called me letting me know she had covid. This set us back around two weeks. But still we managed to begin the edit with a trip to an Apple store to purchase a mac studio which would serve as our editing ring. Whilst our editing workflow was coming along nicely and the picture cut was done by the 18th of december which was the new deadline Siegel and I had set ourselves. This was also communicated with the rest of the sound team. However, communication and perhaps motivation was low on their end as the Christmas break had now started for all of us. I was very clear about our final deadline for this project. But still I had to keep chasing behind Alan Cooke and Filip Tomic asking when they would be able to deliver. Until the evening of the set of January when Alan let me know that his hard drive had failed. All the files were uploaded to google drive as a backup but he claimed the downloads were failing. Through this I learned that it is better to work with people you might not love on a personal level as long as they can be counted on to be reliable.        

To conclude, I really enjoyed working on this film together with what for the most part were really engaging team members.  I consider it to be the first film I can call mine that I am proud of. Though now I accept that I held my colleagues and myself to too high of a standard. This led to unrealistic expectations of what I thought we would be able to achieve with this film. It also would have been nice to not have to carry the additional burden of the producer role. Something I’ll be keeping in mind for future projects.

[qu-film-history-to-1968]

I think it’s interesting how certain themes that we typically only think of being prevalent in the modern day have always been around, just lying deeper under the surface. To get a better idea of the mindset of the era, we can examine the treatment of people of color during this time period. Seth Browner writes about different methods that were used to keep minorities in one area and one area only post-WWII. I had heard of zoning, gentrification, and how the push for suburbs created a lack of housing for people of color. However, he mentions a term called “blockbusting,” which I hadn’t heard before in this context, which was essentially a way to separate the whites from the Blacks rather than the other way around through fear mongering (3).

Examining films specifically, we see these themes in everything from dramas to comedies to horror. One example is “Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” which, as Paul Thomas wrote, “showed ‘how easy it is for people to be taken over and to lose their souls if they are not alert and determined . . . to be free…[lending] itself to both right-wing and left-wing readings—either a drama of communist subversion or a parable of suburban conformity’” (82). No matter what the political lean was supposed to be, the fact that there were these strong undertones is a surprising fact.

Another example of this is in Billy Wilder’s films of the 1940s-60s. Stephen Farber writes about it, saying “Homosexuality plays a furtive role in a number of his films…the transvestitism of Some Like It Hot [is] obvious…The relationship of Neff and Keyes, the two insurance investigators in Double Indemnity, certainly has [homosexual themes] as well. Keyes has rejected women, and in the course of the film Neff too comes to see the treachery of women; at the end the flickerings of tenderness between them- as Keyes lights Neff's cigarette- are the only moments of warmth in the film” (16). While I haven’t seen the original Some Like it Hot, I have seen the recent Broadway musical, that leans into these queer themes much more prevalently. Double Indemnity, though, is one I have seen, and I never noticed any of these homosexual messages, but it might be because I wasn’t expecting them. 

Technology is practically the opposite, where elements that we take for granted in the modern day actually have a long and storied history behind them. Take the widescreen. I’d never thought twice about the fact that nearly all films of the modern day are in is same wide aspect ratio, but after reading Paul Schrader and Robert Brink’s writings on the topic, I got a new perspective. Not only was widescreen never used, it was extremely difficult to make the switch from the thinner aspect ratio and was met with lots of differing opinions. It even emerged, and died off again before it became the norm (64).

The same goes for color in films, though this change is more obvious and well-known. However, the interesting aspect is how Technicolor went from two-color to three-color. As Gorham A. Kindem writes, “Technicolor offered contractual incentives to two small, independent producers, Walt Disney and Pioneer Films…Technicolor offered Walt Disney the exclusive rights to its three-color process for cartoons from 1932 to 1935” (33). Similar to the rebirth of widescreen, Technicolor had gone through a dip in popularity as people became disenfranchised with two-color, but with the support from Disney accompanied by two Academy Awards skyrocketed demand.

-Haley Ruccio

Farber, Stephen. “THE FILMS OF BILLY WILDER.” Film Comment 7, no. 4 (1971): 8–22. http://www.jstor.org/stable/43752857.

Browner, Seth, "The Post-World War II Suburb in the United States". The First-Year Papers (2010 - present) (2013). Trinity College Digital Repository, Hartford, CT. https://digitalrepository.trincoll.edu/fypapers/46

SCHRADER, PAUL, and Robert Brink. “WIDESCREEN.” Film Comment 51, no. 5 (2015): 62–65. http://www.jstor.org/stable/43577950.

KINDEM, GORHAM A. “Hollywood’s Conversion to Color: The Technological, Economic and Aesthetic Factors.” Journal of the University Film Association 31, no. 2 (1979): 29–36. http://www.jstor.org/stable/20687473.

Thomas, Paul. “Witchcraft.” Film Quarterly 64, no. 4 (2011): 82–83. https://doi.org/10.1525/fq.2011.64.4.82.

[actualhumansunshine]

Countdown to Niall’s 26th Birthday (4 days to go) ↳ Niall + Maren pulling faces

+bonus:

[nhupdates]

undefined

Life In The Fast Lane -- Flicker World Tour Hartford (14.09.2018)

[undertheniall]

Flicker World Tour Hartford 14/09/2018

[niallhgifs]

[flavorednarry]

©

[goldtracing]

1776 – New England

Rain patters on the tent over his head, yet Arthur is too entrenched in thought to waste much thought on the downpour. Sure, the weather has been bloody rotten for the past few weeks, with late summer turning into cold autumn. And with the chilly northern winds came rain that soaked the common foot soldier to the bone.

A couple had already died from the flu, the numbers were jolted down somewhere on a fried slip of paper. Yet England couldn’t bring himself to care at present, there were much more important matters to sort out.

Like his wayward brat of a firstborn.

His little Alfred has now deluded himself into thinking that he has become an adult, when such a thing couldn’t be further from the truth. Of course, being a personification, that came intertwined with inked words and promises of revolution and entitled statesmen grafting their dreams onto reality.

Though, in retrospect, it had much deep roots than even that. The American colonies had been founded and nurtured in their infancy of religious dissidents, by all those Quakers and Baptists and Puritans that had safely exaggerated their fundamentalism far away from the beautiful British Isles. Naturally, Arthur always did what he could when it came to his eldest. He liked to think of himself as a benevolent father, with enough firmness to ensure that the young brat didn’t spiral out of control.

After all, what had he had, as a fledging nation, other than insecurity and blood and filth. Post-Roman Europe had been a slugfest, with nations flickering in and out of existence like dim candles. On a part, he had only survived that through sheer ingenuity and a generous dollop of luck. The British Empire had been born drenched in blood, swathed in iron chainmail and filth with bespoken words of hegemony a guiding light to a brighter and better future. The promise of being the heir of Imperium Romanum.

He curls his fingers in the leathery fabric of his breeches, his other hand viciously carding through his hair. It is blond and choppy, short from the last time he shaved himself bald dur to lice, and slightly greasy from being under that white powdered wig the whole day.

Never had he thought that somebody could anger him to a greater extend than his wayward brothers. France evokes disgust mixed with dashes of anger and harsh undertones of hatred. Spain once made bitter, caustic envy bubble to the surface, still does in a way, though not to the extent it did before the defeat of the Spanish Armada and the harvest of all those Spanish ships.

He had coddled this brat, given him a name and a place in the world, extended his protection to him. In this dog-eats-dog world, the protection of an elder was an utter luxury, especially amongst their kind. Children were to pay piety to their parents, colonies to their wardens doubly so. And yet, the uncouth little brat has the audacity to bite the hand that feeds.

A bitter smile rises to a set of thin dry lips as recollections rose to the surface. It was a given that Alfred wasn’t the easiest child to raise. In the first decades of his life, he had been a distrustful little tyke, that only being amplified by the sneers of “bastard” that adults thought he couldn’t hear and that one incident with that backstabbing whore of a governess back in the Hartford during the 1650s. He had also been a sweet child, so eager to please and live up to his father’s sky-high expectations.

Adding to that, is that there always was an ocean between them, both in the literal and the metaphorical scene of the word. Crossing the Atlantic was tedious and time consuming, England’s visits therefore being few and far between, things had slipped through the cracks, like missing literature and slight signs of dissent that hadn’t been quelled by a good hiding.

It is France’s fault, as it usually tends to be. Unable to accept defeat, the debauched country had reached out to the colony and nurtured the seeds of dissatisfaction that had already been there. Through extensive letters, the European had pointed out the injustice of the colony having to fill the coffers that had been emptied in course of the war, had discussed the woes of no visual representation and of mercantilism and…

The Empire stops his pacing and sighs. Soon, he’ll show his Alfred just how much he still has to learn. He’ll demonstrate the boy what it means to be proficient in the art of war and tug him back in the welcoming embrace of the British Empire. There would be lessons to be learned, and after this fiasco England won’t be so lenient anymore. He had coddled the boy too much, allowing him far too many freedoms. After this, he would have to be sterner in order to remind the colony who he belongs to.

First he had a war to win, and his Iroquois and his Cherokee allies. He had promised them to curtail his son’s habit of encroaching on their territories as well as autonomy. Deep down, Arthur doubted his son could win against his father and the peoples who inhabited the land before the mere idea of his was conceived, and thus knew this continent better than him.  

[foxpaws10]

Don’t Forget Me When I Let The Water Take Me

It was the red hair which had done him in. His eye had latched on and for the first time in a very long time he felt his chest lift with hope. But the man had turned, eyes deadened and brown, not blue, and hope had been squashed under disappointment.

He should know by now that he wouldn’t ever see him again. Kept pushing it down down down. There were more important things to focus on than the ghost of a boy.

But as Andrew sat in the trenches, clothes soaked with mud, rain and the blood of his men, his mind conjured up old memories. Perhaps the memories were the only thing keeping him sane. Giving him a reprieve from the constant onslaught of bombs and gunfire, of men screaming and crying, of rats and lice and flies.

He held tightly to the image of the boy - because that’s what they had been, boys - and he closed his eyes against the fireworks of shrapnel in the otherwise dark sky.

He thought of nights spent on rooftops, smoking stolen cigarettes and making up stories about the bright stars above.

He thought of Nathaniel, and Nate, and Abram and Junior - of Neil.

Neil, always Neil to Andrew.

How his mother cursed them and threatened them and warned them. That boy was the son of the devil, the women of the village swore. They weren’t wrong. Neils father was the devil, with his burning temper and iron fists raining blows down on his son, painting him crimson and lilac.

But Neil, he was mischief. He wasn’t the fire and brimstone his parents raised him to be. He was sneaky and sly and a liar right down to his toes. He was a thief and he burned, oh how he burned, but it was life which coursed through him. Life which lit him up brighter than any star in the sky and drew Andrew into orbit.

He remembered the first time he saw him; galloping a chestnut mare across the fields which separated Andrew’s house from the Laird’s. They were both shiny as copper, Neils hair a fiery crown of curls, the horse dipped in blood - all but her muzzle which was a bright white.

Devils son? Well he looked the part. He took joy in the twin curls which curved like horns by his temples when his hair was wet; a consequence of either being caught in a downpour or Andrew dunking him in the river.

The river. They spent most of their days by it. Stealing the Laird Hingston’s fish, swimming in the clear depths, skimming rocks across the surface of the smoother, deeper pools.

The first time they swam, Neil had stripped naked as the day he was born. No shame in his nudity, though cautious about the scars and bruises littering his freckled skin. By the second week, Andrew was down to his underwear and then nothing at all.

They spent hours floating down the flow. Settling in shallow areas where the riverbed pushed up to the surface, keeping them locked in place despite the rushing water. Jumping off the high banks into pools, or swinging off overhanging tree branches.

They’d begun to ride Fox, Neils glorious chestnut mare, down to the river together. She would graze the lush grass along the banks, and Andrew swore she flicked them dissapointed looks every now and again when they were being particularly rowdy. Occasionally she would travel into the water with them, cooling down in the shimmering summer sun. Once, Neil had backflipped off her rear end and nearly had his skull caved in by her hoof.

She was a birthday present from Neils uncle, a Londoner by the name of Stuart Hartford. A strong Irish breed, she was to be used for hunting; covering vast stretches of land and jumping wooden gates and stone walls and deep gulleys. She had a temper worse than Neils some days; her ears would lie flat back against her skull, her nostrils would flare and she’d bare her teeth like a savage while stomping her hooves. Neil had worked through the anger with patience and persistence, and Andrew with a pocket full of sugar cubes.

Despite her bloodline boasting impressive abilities, she was just as happy pottering down country lanes and cobbled streets, loose and relaxed with the two boys riding atop her bareback.

Neil had taught Andrew how to trot, canter and pop a small jump on her. Just in case, he’d said, with a shifty look in his eye.

Andrew liked the speed of her, feeling the unbridled power in her muscles as he pushed her on until her strides swallowed the ground beneath them. Some days it felt like flying, most days it felt like freedom.

Andrew had been tucked into the corner of her stall late one evening, sharing an apple with both Fox and Neil, when he met Stuart Hatford. A man of high class and strange fashion, he was abrupt and rude but entirely harmless. Harmless to the two boys, that is.

Andrew grew to like him, enjoyed listening to him tear apart Nathan Wesninski with whip quick words. Enjoyed even better the day he’d threatened Nathan with his cane, a deadly look in his eye that Andrew had caught Neil mimicking once before.

After that incident they hadn’t seen much of Hatford, but when they did, he was sure to sneak money into pockets and biting remarks into ears.

The last time Andrew had seen Stuart, he’d been sat upon an impressive dark horse. A coat like midnight, shining like stars under a low autumn sun. He had passed Andrew, taking a shortcut through the fields, on the way to peruse the sweets of the bakery. Pulling up beside him, Stuart had made Andrew promise that he would take care of Neil, keep him out of trouble. And had warned that they needed to leave, the sooner the better.

If Andrew knew then what he did now, he would have left that very same day. But he had a brother to look after, one who confessed not long after that he’d knocked up the baker's daughter.

Their mother had been livid, and Andrew had taken the abuse in place for his brother. God only knew what the woman would have done had she found out about Andrew’s own inclinations.

He’d never understood the fascination with girls. Their curves and their high pitched giggles, their swishy skirts and small frames and sweet perfumes. He’d always been drawn to men, their deep voices and strong hands, the lingering musk of sweat and what lay between their legs.

He’d seen two men kiss behind the pub one late evening, when it was safer out in the cold night than their house. Had been fascinated with the hard press of lips and teeth and tongue, how their hands had gripped and tugged and pulled. It was a memory that wreaked havoc in his sleep, leaving him with damp undergarments in the morning and which haunted him on the days he did slide his hand between his legs.

Neil was the first male he ever kissed. Sitting in the corner of Fox’s stall, a puddle of kittens between them. Neils father had ordered him to drown them, but Neil had stowed them away in one of the outbuildings instead. They mewled and tottered between them on stumpy legs, claws digging through their trousers as they climbed into their laps.

Andrew had been sat on his window ledge smoking and watching the last dim light of the sun dipping below the horizon when Neil had stopped below him, wheels of his bike skidding in the loose gravel and dirt. His eyes had been alight with defiance and mischief as he coaxed Andrew to join him. Andrew had learnt early on he wasn’t capable of saying no to that look. It promised mischief and adventure and danger.

Andrew had mounted the bike with Neil balanced on the handlebars, telling him all about his precious find. One of his mothers exotic felines had been caught by a barn cat and given birth to five small kittens. She had hidden them away in a closet to protect them from Nathan and his hounds, but they soon found their voices and she’d been exposed.

They were a grey-blue colour with dark stripes and squashed faces. Andrew marvelled at how small they were, so soft and warm in his hands, with needle sharp claws and teeth. Despite only being a few weeks old they were strong and bold.

He dared a glance at Neil and felt his chest tighten. A bruise was splattered across his jaw, and a half circle of black skin hugged his left eye, but neither could take away from the soft smile curving his lips.

In the flickering lamp light, with the soothing sound of Fox’s heavy breathing and the grinding of her teeth as she grazed from her hay, he looked soft and melting like butter. Andrew wanted to dip his hands into him, to sip from his mouth and feel the steady pulse of his heart.

Neil came from old money produced through blood. He was the heir to the Wesninski estate, but also the Hatford’s. He had wardrobes packed with silks and chiffon, fancy coats and stiff trousers and hard boots. He had a mansion hung with exquisite portraits and oil paintings, curtains which cost more than Andrew’s house, furniture which dated back centuries yet was polished so bright it could have been made yesterday. He had a bed larger than Andrew’s and Aaron’s shared room. He had prospects and future betrothals and a list of universities just waiting to snap him up.

Yet he sat in the dirt of a horse stall, with mud splattered overalls coated in horse hair, a shirt which once might have been white but was perpetually stained yellow from hard work and sweat, boots gone soft and falling apart at the seams. His hair was an unruly uncombed mess atop his head, bright like the sunrise, and his eyes were blue as a summer sky. He smelt like sweat and horse and the Earth. His fingernails were perpetually dirty, no matter what time of day it was. He spent nights walking dark streets or sitting atop rooftops with Andrew, a bastard boy coated in poverty.

Their lives were miles apart, and yet they fit together perfectly. They had the same blase attitude about most of life, a dark humour others shyed away from, and a belief that there had always been something… missing. They had dark days and sharp days and quiet days. But together, they were learning ways to chase away the dark clouds and foreboding shadows.

Neil had been the one bright spark lighting up Andrew’s life from the first day. Everything was on fire, every atom of his being burned and yearned to be swallowed within Neils own blaze.

Andrew could remember, as clear as if it were yesterday, how his stomach had tied itself in knots. How his palms had dampened with sweat, catching the fine hairs of the soft kittens. How dry his mouth had gotten, all the moisture whisked away by nerves.

He could remember the wrinkle of Neils brow as he glanced at him, concern tightening his eyes as he realised something was wrong. The soft murmur of his name, slipping between smooth lips.

Andrew had asked, because he couldn’t bare to be pushed away once he leant in. He didn’t know what he would do if he lost Neil, if Neil looked at him with disgust and swore to never see him again.

But Neil had merely smiled, eyes gone soft and dewy as he set aside a kitten and leant in. His lips were even softer than Andrew had imagined. They were both inexperienced, and yet somehow it was perfect. The fumbling movement of their mouths as they tried to slit together in an even rhythm; the heavy gusts of breath as they tried to breathe and then forgot how to and almost choked on lack of oxygen; the first quick swipe of tongue to dampen the dry stickiness which suddenly turned the quiet kisses loud and sucking; the gut tightening sound Neil made when Andrew lifted a hand to his jaw, careful of the bruising, and tilted him down into the kiss; how they kept trying to get closer, ignoring the mewling and sharp claws of the kittens between them; Fox’s snort as hay dust swirled in her nostrils and she splattered them with wet droplets; how Andrew opened his mouth to breathe and suddenly Neils tongue was on his and it was like the beginning of a universe.

He could remember it all like it was yesterday. As another whizz-bang exploded overhead, he struggled to decide if it was a blessing or a curse. The memories were a warm blanket, a honey soaked film trying to cover the worst memories he’d occurred over the last few years. Where once everything had been bright and golden and beautiful, everything was dark and cold and horrid, leaking blood and guts everywhere. He could slip away for a second, a minute, an hour, and remember the boy he had cherished above all else. But it never lasted.

He didn’t know what happened to Neil. One day he was there, the next he was gone. Slipped out from under his fingertips, stolen on the wind as more bad news about the war blew in.

Andrew had tried to write to him once, but he’d never gotten a reply. He’d tried to find him, but so far there had been no news of a Wesninski or a Hatford in their ranks. Every glance of red hair was a beacon of hope, yet they left nothing but dark disappointment behind.

When the horses passed them, mud splattered and skeletal, he looked for red with a white muzzle. He dreaded the day he’d find it, abandoned on no-mans-land.

A whistle blew further down the line and he heaved a heavy breath before standing, so used to the feel of his clothes stiff and ridged and mud soaked he knew it shouldn’t bother him anymore, yet somehow it still did. He had a team of men to lead, he couldn’t dwell on the past. His brother, a medic now, among them.

Perhaps one day, the war would be over. Today wasn’t yet that day.

They had an advancement planned, a move to gain back what had been taken. A move closer to the enemy. It would be another week before he heard more than whispers travelling down the lines. They had a new battalion joining them in the meantime, due some time tomorrow evening.

Among them, a new translator. Andrew hoped Private Josten would be more help than their last one had been.

{READ ON AO3}

[actualhumansunshine]

life in the fast lane, hartford | 14.09

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niallhoran Hartford CT 📸 @christiantierney

[undertheniall]

Dancing King 😂