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minghellafine · 4 years ago

Link

Full interview below.

The first thing Max Minghella does when he joins our Zoom call is ask me about the weather. It wasn't just a conversational cliché though, he really wanted to know what it was like where I was. I tell him I'm in New York City, where spring can surprise you with a day that's colder or warmer than it looks. This particular day was chilly. "I'm always cold," he interjects, "I'm reptilian. My body finds a way to keep me cool." He shivered as he spoke, sitting in his sunny backyard in Los Angeles wearing a T-shirt. I checked the temperature right after our call. It was 80 degrees in L.A.

Despite any discomfort, Minghella is just really happy to be at home. Unlike the millions of people who spent 2020 in quarantine, he was working on season four of The Handmaid's Tale throughout the spring and summer."I'm sort of jealous of people who have this moment to pause and reflect," he says soberly. "Even with all of the trauma it's caused and all the things that obviously were detrimental, I know a lot of people who've had big life changes in the past year."

He acknowledged, however, that creating something in a time when everyone wished they could escape was ultimately a lucky thing. "There was a ubiquitous sense of gratitude," he adds.

Outside of the global pandemic, the dynamics on set had shifted — this season, his co-star Elisabeth Moss (or "Lizzie" as he affectionately calls her), was a director. "She was amazing on set," he explained. "Just very in control and it ran super smoothly. When I saw the episodes she directed, it just kind of blew me away. Her style — it's very cinematic and it really underlines the sci-fi elements of the show. It has a real kind of scope and confidence to it. I think she's a real filmmaker."

RELATED: Marvel's New Face Danny Ramirez Has the Range

Minghella's character Nick has an interesting arc this season too – he's realizing his role as a senior member of the Gilead ruling class, but also still in love with June [Moss]. It's a complex character that challenges you as an audience member. He is the brooding love interest, and while you may root for him and June to be together, you also have to see him for what he is: an architect of a world that kidnaps women and uses them for childbearing.

What made the previous three seasons of the show even harder for viewers to digest was the fact that people so badly wanted to believe there could be a good guy defector — maybe even Nick — in a room full of bad guys. During those years, many people felt that the dystopian elements of the show were reflective of the nationalist agenda being put forth in the United States by the Trump Administration. So much so that a group of protesters famously wore Handmaid costumes to protest anti-abortion bills and Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh's confirmation hearings. Without saying much about the parallels in the show — other than chalking them up to "pure coincidence," Minghella felt the Handmaid's Tale, whose protagonists are anti-Gilead, are "on the right side of history." He added diplomatically, "Ultimately, I'm most proud because I think it's really great fiction."

I get the sense that the pursuit of "great fiction" is something that consumes Minghella. He's someone who appreciates art (he got his big break in 2006's Art School Confidential), and his parents are Anthony Minghella, the late award-winning director of The Talented Mr. Ripley, and actress Carolyn Choa. He loves details (see our earlier weather conversation). Even the way he talks about Los Angeles has a story-like quality. He tells me about how he knew when the city became his home after a feeling he got driving past the Silver Lake 7-Eleven. As he told it, I pictured it like a scene in an indie movie starring Zach Braff.

"I had this sort of pathological obsession with movies from birth. [My mother] worked for the British equivalent of the Motion Picture Association, so she would watch three films a day. By three or four years old, I was just kind of an obsessed movie person." It's his favorite movie, Beverly Hills Cop ("I think I saw 100 times by the time I was eight years old," he says) that inspired another big role he was working on during quarantine: Minghella stars as a detective opposite Chris Rock in the Saw franchise spin-off Spiral: From the Book of Saw.

"The movie was so serendipitous for me. I feel like I almost manifested it in my life," Minghella muses. "There's a line very early in the movie where we're investigating these crime scenes and we come to a grizzly one. My character looks nauseous. Chris's [character] says to me, 'Are you okay?' And my character says, 'Yeah. I mean I'd been dreaming about this since I was 12-years-old.' And that was a very kind of weird line because it's just true."

Now at 35 years old, Minghella is feeling settled. He is still a "film nerd" that gets giddy with each new opportunity, but he's less anxious about the results. Next thing on his list? Vacation.

"I'm hoping in May once the movie comes out I can run away somewhere."

Read on for his cheesy would-be campaign slogan, his fast-food weakness, and the time he escaped a tornado while working on a film with Blake Lively.

Who is your celebrity crush?

Mary Tyler Moore.

What's the last thing you do before you fall asleep?

I listen to 1950s radio shows. Usually Dragnet. I was researching a project in that period briefly and got sort of into the radio culture of that time. And now I find it incredibly soothing.

Favorite villain?

Hans Gruber.

Describe a memorable dream.

I had a recurring nightmare as a child in which my grandmother turned into a cat. So Tom Hooper's Cats was very traumatizing to me.

First album you ever owned?

My mother bought me the Top Gun soundtrack on audio cassette.

If you were required to spend $1,000 today, what would you buy and why?

I would do anything to help a distressed dog.

If you ran for office, what would your slogan be?

Some kind of tacky pun using my first name. "Take it to the Max," or maybe "Max on, Max off."

Name one place you've never been but have always wanted to go.

Easy. Japan. I went when I was one, but I don't think that counts.

What's the most uncomfortable outfit you've ever worn?

I did a film called Art School Confidential and I had to wear a beret and I found every moment of it truly humiliating. I remember being completely traumatized by it.

Describe your first kiss.

My first kiss was at a bus stop. I was 14 and I lied and told the girl that it wasn't my first kiss, but I think it was probably immediately evident that it was.

What's one dish you're always tempted to order if you see it on a menu?

There are so many things. That's the sad answer. French fries is the truth.

Favorite on-set memory?

I did a movie called Elvis and Anabelle with Blake Lively like 100 years ago and we shot in Texas. There was a tornado one night that forced us to evacuate the set and we had to sort of drive off in a hurry. I put on this song by The Knife called "Pass This On" in the car which is very dramatic and cinematic. The tornado was sort of in pursuit of the vehicle while we were speeding away. And it was just far enough that it wasn't life-threatening, but also a radical visual. That's one of my favorite life memories.

The Handmaid's Tale season 4 premieres on Hulu April 28, and Spiral: From the Book of Saw hits theaters on May 11.

Photographs by Emily Malan. Grooming by Sonia Lee for Exclusive Artists using La Mer. Polaroid Photos by Max Minghella. Special thanks to Polaroid. Production by Kelly Chiello.

#max minghella #the handmaid's tale #saw #spiral #elvis and anabelle #the social network #interviews #*

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dillydedalus · 5 years ago

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february reading

truly the month of the 2.5 to 3/5 star books

the testaments, margaret atwood y’all.... i was bracing myself for disappointment but yikes. the first half is semi-decent, with at least the storylines of aunt lydia’s (alleged) diaries and the testimony of a girl raised in gilead opening up some interesting themes (the third, from the pov of a canadian teen, is a fucking disaster from the beginning), but the second half genuinely reads like generic dystopian YA, it’s predictable & tropey & silly & the prose becomes bad, real bad, ‘is atwood okay’ bad. 1.5/5

paul takes the form of a mortal girl, andrea lawlor really cool & propulsive picaresque about paul polydoris, a queer student in the early 90s who can shapeshift (yeah) & explores what that means for his identity, learning to reject attempts to force him into binary categories. it’s a fun read, but it felt a bit directionless (picaresque i know), and like... i read a lot of this on my commute & there really is nothing like sitting on the train, in a half-awake daze, and your book throwing a fisting scene at you. 3/5

delusions of gender: the real science behind sex differences, cordelia fine nonfiction book dedicated to debunking claims about the neurological basis of sex differences. it’s from 2010 so prob a lil dated (scientifically i assume, as well as a relative lack of intersectional analysis), but it’s a good overview of why such claims are often based on flawed or misleading studies (like one on toy preference where monkeys where presented w/ gendered toys, such as the clearly female-coded pan, which like... it’s a monkey...). the section on supposedly gender-neutral childraising was particularly interesting & depressing. 3/5

silence, shusaku endo (tr. from japanese by william johnston) historical novel about the oppression & persecution of christians in 17th century japan - the protagonist, a young priest, secretly travels to japan to find his mentor & ends up betrayed & captured, under threat of torture, struggling with his own doubts about his faith. it’s interesting but preeetty damn slow. also tbh i can’t really relate to the struggle of whether or not you should step on an image of jesus to save yourself or others from torture/execution. (to be fair depending on your reading god does break his silence to be like ‘dude. just step on the fucking image.’) 2.5/5

the garden of the finzi-contini, giorgio bassani (tr. from italian by william weaver) a melancholy novel in which a jewish-italian narrator looks back at his youth & early adulthood thru the lense of his relationship to the finzi-contini, a very rich jewish family whose daughter, micòl, he was in love with. although the narrative is slow and leisurely, the growing antisemitism and the narrator’s retrospective knowledge of what is to come makes this quite haunting & unsettling. what’s also unsettling is the narrator’s campaign of sexual harrassment against micòl in the end of the book, which is painted as silly, lovesick weakness, rather than, you know, harrassment. 2.5/5 why are men like this

white is for witching, helen oyeyemi i love an evil house, i love an evil house that gets to narrate (!!!), i love (conceptually!!!) an evil xenophobic white supremacist parasitic house that loves & starves its daughters. conceptually & thematically oyeyemi sets up a lot of really cool shit about haunting & grief & race/whiteness & yanno, evil parasitic houses that eat you from the inside, but i don’t think the resolution of these themes really works & a lot of the build-up just kinda deflates (the brother especially is kinda pointless). idk. i want to read more from oyeyemi tho. 2.5/5

vater unser, angela lehner (no english translation yet) the blurb for this is big cringe (’you’ve never seen a crazy person like this!’ like bitch i have to see myself every damn day) & the bones of this are not super original (mentally ill compulsive-liar narrator gets herself committed, manipulates everyone around her) but it’s pretty well-executed with a strong & funny voice, lots of austrian-specific weirdness, & a nice zippy pace. the twist is a bit predictable but still well-done imo. 2.5/5

interior chinatown, charles yu really smart experimental novel(ish) about one willis wu, struggling actor, trying to work his way up from Generic Asian Man to Kung Fu Guy in a strange shadow-world-version of chinatown where everyone is an actor & everything is part of the set. this strange half-world & the fact that much of the novel is in script-form are both really clever & also work really well in setting up the novel’s deeper point (i.e. not just that the film industry sucks if you’re any kind of minority, but that the stereotypical roles one is assigned in a culture have deeper repercussions in terms of identity and self-perception). it’s also a really funny books, and the epigraphs for each chapter are *chef’s kiss*. 3.5/5

die erfindung der deutschen grammatik, rasha abbas (tr. from arabic by sandra hetzl, no english translation) funny little collection of very short stories by a young syrian journalist & author who moved to berlin in 2014. the stories are for me most part about her experiences as a refugee, learning german, dealing with german bureaucracy & so on, often with a slightly surreal twist. fun but not super substantial or anything. 2.5/5

northanger abbey, jane austen tbh henry tilney is a condescending ass & the whole thing about him only falling in love with catherine bc she is so in love with him is a big yikes from me but it is so charming & funny (the thorpes! the narrator!) & catherine is so sweet, so ready to suspect gothic misdeeds & so naive when it comes to the much more commonplace cruelties that like, i still love it. 3.5/5

a thread of grace, mary doria russell historical novel about the nazi occupation of northern italy from ‘43 onwards, told thru various perspectives of partisans & resistance members, italian jews and jewish refugees in hiding, and catholic clergy involved with the resistance efforts. given that topic, it’s often brutal and depressing but there is always that (title drop) thread of grace in seeing the heroism of the partisans and the people who aided them & hid thousands of jewish refugees from the nazis. and russell just always brings so much humanity to her characters. not as good as the sparrow, but man, russell is great. 3.5/5

eure heimat ist unser albtraum, ed. fatma aydemir & hengameh yaghoobifarah & many many others (german, no translation yet) 2019 anthology about racism in germany, what it means to be a minority in germany, and why ‘heimat’ (~home(land)) is a problematic concept. as it is w/ anthologies it’s a mixed bag & i will say that i don’t think it’s as radical as it presents as overall but i think the #discourse in germany just ain’t as advanced as it is in the us&uk. 3/5

currently reading: gideon the ninth (i have no idea what’s going on but it’s very stylish)

#the books i read #tbh except for testaments i didn't dislike anything but very few of these books really stood out #to the point that i completely forgot to publish this #long post

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serenagaywaterford · 5 years ago

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This might sound weird, but I love the way your brain works; just i mean the way you analyse THT and their motivations but also the general dropping of knowledge that I have never heard of in my life and it is all so interesting! Like in your tag you said no one probably wanted to hear about like the meaning of the crucifix or something, but that sounds amazing and I love the way your mind works its so cool, anyways I will stop now sorry if that was weird. I'm glad you are in this small fandom

It only sounds weird cos I think you give me way too much credit ;) I’m just a simple idiot with too much time on my hands and too many university degrees going to waste--so this is my outlet for all that rambling I no longer can do to my poor professors. And a particularly sick obsession with this show on a level that I shouldn’t have. Cos literally, I didn’t think anybody would care to listen to a rant about crucifixes in THT lol. I just get preoccupied with dumb shit lol.

Honestly, the crucifix thing is actually really fucking weird when you think about it, but it also makes perfect sense why the Catholic church specifically would choose such a GROTESQUE mascot. And look, crucifixions were real, and absolutely fucking the worst form of capital punishment at the time (or one of the worst, but certainly the worst most popular one). The fact out of ALL the images and symbols the church could have chosen, they went with a dead (or nearly dead) man on a symbol of abominable torture.

And what’s happened over time is people have sort of become desensitised to the image? Like people wear it around their NECKS? As a symbol of devotion cos apparently Jesus did that for “our” sins. Like... I dunno. Choosing a symbol like that for an entire religion? It’s pretty fucked up, lbr. But in a sense it fits perfectly with the Catholic church cos they’re all about torture and guilt. Who wants to celebrate and revere something? Not us! Let’s look upon this dead guy bleeding out on his murder cross and remember how good and loving God is.

I just could go on and on about religious imagery.

I can see why other Christian denominations removed Jesus, and just left the cross. ALTHOUGH, still, it’s pretty fucked up that a literal torture and death device is the iconic image of a whole group of religions. Let us never forget what JESUS DID FOR US! A cross and a crucifix are the same damn thing, lbr. They’re a symbol of a death of a god. (OK. “man”. But I am not gonna get into the whole Jesus debate lol. While real Jesus may have just been a dude, Bible Jesus is a demi-god--or not, technically by definition lol, but again, semantics. It’s too late to get this complicated lol.)I wish I could explain this better... ANYWAY, it’s just pretty fucked to have a death device as your symbol.

And well, it’s also sort of weird that Gilead WOULDN’T want such a terrifying symbol to re-appropriate more fully. Like, those dudes love killing people. Honestly, the cross to Christians is like having a noose for Gilead lol. It’s messed up.

And anon, right assured, YOU are not the weird one and nothing you’ve said is weird. You’re very kind and sweet. I am glad people like YOU are in the fandom. If it was just me here, ranting into the abyss, that would suck. Our little group is so lovely and makes this experience what it is. x

#i skimmed a lot of the cross stuff... just touched on it #cos i am no expert #Anonymous

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greysfanpage388 · 5 years ago

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The Handmaid’s Tale Season 3 episode 11 review

This was by far the best and most satisfying episode of the season!

*spoiler alert*

[[MORE]]

Wow where do I start? Let’s start from the beginning. It was obvious that Gilead had taken its toll on Mrs Lawrence as she held Mr Lawrence at gunpoint. I love how June was calm and rational in this scene and managed to persuade Mrs Lawrence to put the gun down, and then gave her a shoulder to cry on. I also love how June and Mr Lawrence could now talk to each other like friends and that Mr Lawrence treats her with dignity and respect. I really liked their conversation and how they talked about how mental health and also maternal love had been taken away from them. He really seems to regret Gilead and is genuinely wanting to escape the brutal regime which he helped create.

We then see June having an underground Resistance meeting with the Marthas. The senior Marthas who made the decisions were weary of June, openly expressing their displeasure in her interfering with their own plans. Luckily Beth came to June’s defense, saying that she could be trusted. June is on her own though in her plans to get the children out, without the support of the senior Marthas which is fine by her.

I was shocked though and so was June when the next morning the Lawrences disappeared with their car. I thought that the Lawrences were really gone for good without her and was relieved for her when they actually returned. Of course they returned because they couldn’t cross the border but smart June had a plan B...

The next thing we know, Commander Lawrence had dropped her off at the Jezebels where she met the bartender Billy and made a deal with him to give her access to the cargo plane in exchange for the Lawrences collection of paintings. ( which they looted from museums).

All was going on smoothly and I could see June envisioning the 52 children getting on the cargo plane which would bring them safely out of Gilead... until... Commander Winslow appeared. Damn.

June tried to keep her cool even as he ordered her to follow him into a room and lie on the bed. She had done it before, after all. In her own words, ‘One disconnects. ‘

What happened next was one of my favorite scenes of the show, albeit a brutal one. After the struggle , it was so satisfying to see June stabbing Commander Winslow to death -with a pen! I saw what the writers did there, letting June who was an editor before Gilead, use a pen as a murder weapon. I’ve to admit that I cheered when he was lying bleeding on the floor after being stabbed with a pen on the chest and then on the head with a statue after his weak plea regarding his children ( were they really his children?) It wasn’t realistic though that a strong man like him could die so easily like that, but it was honestly so gratifying to watch 😅 He got what he deserved. I had the vibes that he was even more evil than Fred. Also earning some applause were the Marthas cleaning up his bloody clothes, and vacuuming the blood stained floor, with the cool music playing in the background. ( I would appreciate it if someone could tell me the name of the song being played for that scene?) I wonder why they didn’t help June to clean herself up though. I was so afraid she would be caught by someone with her bloody face. The best part of the scene was the Marthas throwing his body into the incinerator to be burned to ashes. Burn baby burn! 🔥

Another very satisfying development was Fred and Serena being arrested in Canada! Now, that was unexpected. Had I not read the spoilers beforehand, that would have caught me by surprise. Finally, karma returned to them. For a moment, the night before their arrest when they were staying at the house of the econofamily- they seemed almost like a normal couple- enjoying a road trip and an overnight stay at a random B&B together. Judging from the smile on her face, Serena really seemed to enjoy the freedom of being able to drive, something which had also been taken away from her. Their conversation at the woods and them being intimate with each other made me wonder what life would have been like for them had Gilead not occurred. I wonder if Serena had set up the whole thing and conspired with Tuello to get Fred arrested. Her saying goodbye to Rita and also the previews for the next episode seem to point towards that. If she really set him up, that would be a huge blow to his ego, as he believed her when she said that Tuello could be trusted. Also, it was typical of Fred to still want control over Serena by telling the police to handle her with care when both of them were being captured, like she was his property. I also can’t believe he was gullible enough to not realize something was up when they drove for so long and crossed the bridge. Anyways, seeing both Fred and Serena in handcuffs and their crimes being read out aloud to them by the Canadian police was so gratifying to watch!

Let’s not forget that at the very end of the episode, Commander Lawrence handed June a gun, saying ‘they’re coming for us.’ Who are ‘they?’ Anyways, whoever he was referring to, I can’t wait to see June putting the gun to good use. If she could murder someone with a pen, imagine what she can do with a gun. 😁

Just like the other episodes, this episode had a lot of symbolism and imagery which might have been missed by the casual viewer, including me.

Below is the link to a superb article which points out and elaborates on the easily missed imagery from this episode.

https://mamamia.com.au/the-handmaids-tale-season-3-episode-11/?utm_source=Rivuu&utm_medium=Facebook&utm_campaign=oc

The preview for the next episode looks amazing! I can’t wait! It looks like this season is finally picking up steam and ending with a bang!

Do let me know what you guys thought of the episode. I would love to hear from you all!

#the handmaid’s tale #episode review #season 3 episode 11

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lightwood-18 · 5 years ago

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The Testaments bookmark 🔖📚

This is the bookmark I designed for The Testaments (ignore my watermark obvi the printed one doesn't have it) after we read it on #RosendeReads. Promise I will show you guys too my Anne of Green Gables bookmark soon! And a pic of this one printed!

✧ Please don't repost my edit without credits 🙅🏻‍♀️

✧ Follow me on Twitter and Instagram: @lightwood_18

This is the first "digital" bookmark I make and I'm kinda happy with how it turned out :) The background colors are the cover's green, pink and plum for the colors of the dresses Agnes used to wear as a kid, and the Aunt's shade of green (thought the colors change a little from my laptop's screen to the printed version or to my phone's screen) + once it is printed it wears a tassel, red for June/Offred (I never add tassels to my bookmarks but I thought it would be a cool way to add some red to symbolize June). Then I used the 3 symbols for Nicole, Agnes and Lydia that appear in the chapters of the own book, plus Gilead’s symbol and a maple leaf for Canada. Then I added the tattoo Nicole had to get, and the lilacs Agnes and the others embroidered on petit-point handkerchiefs for Lydia. I also thought of adding a little skull for when Nicole dresses to look like a different person with a t-shirt with a white skull and a pair of leggings black with white skulls, and for when Agnes embroidered a small skull on the footstool, but I thought it would look too creepy idk? To end I obviously had to add June too, so I added a big J and a moon for the password “June moon” because I love the quote “It’s warm for a May day. It’s not May. Of course not, my mistake. There’s a June moon.” + also the large imitation-pearl brooch in the shape of a new moon Nicole wears during her stay on Ardua Hall + one of the professor’s names at the symposium on the end is literally “Crescent Moon”.

#The Testaments #TheTestaments #Margaret Atwood #MargaretAtwood #The Handmaid's Tale #TheHandmaidsTale #Agnes Jemima #Baby Nicole #Offred #June Osborne #Hannah Bankole #Ann Dowd

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lcngdays-archive · 5 years ago

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shelter protect them. ( alain n roz )

nonverbal starters

How many men had they brought down that night? Many more than two should ever be able to alone, aye, so you kennit. But Marksmen are not normal men, some may even say they ain’t human, more human adjacent than anything else. This one here’s an interestin’ story, ya see. ‘Cause it’s not supposed to work out this way. Which might confuse the average reader, cause, hey, aren’t the good guys meant t’win? ‘Course they are. But that’s meant to fail here, meant to fail here with friendly fire. Alain was the one meant to get the bullet in the heart, but his wasn’t going to be the only heart t’break. That’s both how it isn’t meant to go in any normal story, but how it’s meant to go in this story.

‘Cept someone decided it wasn’t.

It goes like this;

Rozland counted three dozen. Mayhap a few more, mayhap a few less. In the fog and haze, it was nearly impossible to see.

“Check. Make sure they’re dead,” Rozland says, though he’s holstered his guns, the metaphorical fight is over signal. He knows they’re all dead. Just as he’d know if there had been any to escape. There hadn’t been. He wasn’t psychic like Alain, no, but he had this... Sense. About him. This sense of Fate and how things would play out, sometimes.

“So say, dear dinh,” Cuthbert calls, whistling as he idly kicks over one of the dead, satisfied at the hole in his face. Holes in all their faces, throats, hearts. They were Marksmen, and Rozland the best, not one shot went that t’wasn’t fatal. “Why so many near our encampment? But a mile out! I know Randolph isn’t Jamie, but you might think he’d be able to scout something like this, wouldn’t you?”

The tactician that Cuthbert was, underneath the jokes, underneath the playfulness. The calculating, sharp man who would have you at gunpoint before you even realized he was packing iron. He was there with Rozland now. Eyes cool, voice near cold. They’d had plenty a traitor in their midst, as after Rozland’s Father had passed, there’d been groups going out, and going out hunting in every sense of the word. Though t’wasn’t deer on the menu, nay, so it wasn’t. The young dinh had said simply they needed to wear out Farson’s men before Farson stormed Gilead, because storm Gilead he would. They’d prepared the cities ancient defenses, and then they’d gone out. Exhausting the forces while they could still return home to their city for food and rest and recovery. And Farson’s men? They had nowhere to go but the ground.

Before Rozland can offer up the word, traitor, before he can even begin to think it, the sound of a horse bearing down on them brought them both to it’s sound, guns raised in time with one another.

But that sense Rozland had. That sense of Fate strikes, and strikes hard.

Alain knows he will die tonight. Things had been different that what he’d first saw, Gilead had not fallen, (not yet...), and they were still very much fighting the good fight. But he had seen it. Nightly in his dreams since he was young, he’d seen it. Things may be a bit different, but this was the same. Randolph traitor. Wrong information. He, riding on horseback through the smoke and the fog and the haze. To Cuthbert and Rozland. One bullet through the heart, the other through his lung. Friendly Fire would end his days on this world.

He can just make the two figures out now, guns raised, no doubt hammers thumbed back. Cuthbert and Rozland had always been so fast. He knows it will come. He knows it will-

“No, Cuthbert!” Roz grabs him suddenly, shouting at him, yanking him back and to the ground, both of them collapsing against one another while Bert’s gun fires harmlessly into the dirt and blood beneath them, touching nothing but air and earth in it’s short lived journey.

“Rozland, are you mad?” Cuthbert all but screeches at him, scrambling, elbowing Rozland hard in the nose, not worrying about the blood and the crunch because the threat coming to them was surely worse than a broken nose, the threat may have a gun, a bat, a knife, who knew and Rozland had just decided to lose every last single marble he had and down he and his own self! Cuthbert hoped he’d gone mad, because the only other possibility was traitor and--

“You didn’t shoot me.” Alain’s dull voice as he sits above them on horseback, looking down to his two dearest friends, who he loves in every way he can. They didn’t shoot him. Gilead stood. And the faintest twinge of what else had he gotten wrong, wormed its way through Alain’s mind. But he says nothing more, only staring down at Rozland, who is pressing his bandanna to his nose, face unreadable, and Cuthbert, whose jaw has dropped open, unsure if he should be apologizing to Rozland or shouting at Alain for not announcing himself when it was nigh impossible to see out here!

Instead, he presses a hand to the side of his face. And laughs.

“Well, no, no we didn’t, mighty sorry for that, so we are! Oh, worry yourself not, we’ll make sure to not neglect to next time! Please, please, no more Alain, you’ve all but triggered me to tears!”

#🌹i came back from the edge - asks #saving gilead au like #plecsantnights

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zeciex · 6 years ago

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Obsidian & Angelite Ch. 13

Oya has spend centuries bound to one single plot of land when one day a stranger with a voice of velvet and presence that can only be described as dark and outmost interesting. He comes with an offer she can’t refuse and suddenly her entire world changes, both for better and worse.

But what does Langdon need of her? And how can she use him to get what she want? Maybe they’re bound by something bigger than fate.

Warning: Dark themes, death

A/N: Since tumblr kills everything with links, I’ll reblog this post with the links to previous chapters and archive link I’ll need some extra love for these next chapters since its getting increasingly harder to find inspiration to write. We’re so close you guys!

Voodoo of New Orleans

The Louisiana air was hot and damp, it made you sweat and wish for a cool breeze. Oya had always hated when the air was damp, hated the way it made clothes stick to skin, the way it curled up her back and collected as sweat at the nape of her neck. She walked through the french quarter, black long pants ending just as her black heels began, a white airy shirt to top off the look. In hand were her old scratched up leather bag, containing what was left of her supply of candles, herbs and stones. People glanced after her as she walked through the crowd of tourists much like it did in venice.

It wasn’t before she reached a little shop called ‘sticks & stones’, its outside a faded green peeling off the wood, with big trimmed windows displaying all sorts of ‘magical’ things, most of which didn’t have any magical properties at all. Upon entering the air smelled of a mixture of dust and jasmine. The bell rang, alerting a newcomer had entered.

Oya dropped her bag at the register to wander further into the store with empty hands. She turned her nose at ‘magical potions’ and ‘holy candle lights’. The energy flowed through the room in an easy rhythm brought on by the few magical items that were.

“Can I help you with something?”

“Do you have snake oil?” She asked still turned to the table filled with stones and crystals. Her hands hovered over them to see which one emitted the most energy and stopped when it came to a sapphire, she picked it up and continuing until she held moonstones, hematite, carnelian and orange calcite, all of which would help her perform the ritual she had in mind.

“We do, is there anything else I can help you with?” the woman behind the front desk answered, turning to the many vials behind her. Her hair was beautifully braided, collected on top of her head and held together with golden pins. Around her body were various items for protection, love and stability, all in the fashion of bracelets worn all the way up her forearms, clicking together as she moved, and various necklaces around her neck. From her ears hung big golden hoops, as well a small one from her nose. They stood out against her darkened skin. If Oya didn’t know any better she’d have though her as a goddess blessed by the sun. But there was no magic in her blood, no more than all other humans.

“Your warding is off,” Oya commented rummaging through bagged herbs to find the ones she needed. The owner went silent, she could feel her eyes on her as she turned with some of the essentials she held, dropping them off at the register. “You should strengthen it, it won’t keep out evil spirits as it is.”

“What do you know about it?” Aisha, or so the necklace told, asked. The woman’s defences went up, her eyes studying Oya with interest and mild annoyance. Oya paid no mind to it and turned around to go through the aiels.

Most of the things sold were more souvenirs than anything else. Various masks with empty eyes glared at her, the crystal and stone skulls reminding of the inevitability of death, for some. A box was filled with voodoo dolls, best sellers from the look of it, from the ceiling hung dried herbs, blessings and curses with no magic bound to most of them, rosemary's and crosses. The store was a mix of cultures and mythologies but the most prominent was the voodoo aspect, as it should be for New Orleans. It is after all were witches sprung from once upon a time.

“I know a thing or two of warding. Do you have Balm of Gilead? Dragon’s blood? or maybe some pinto beans?” Oya asked, eyes running over the pendulums with various cut stones at the end. She already had one, it was old and not nearly as pretty but it was good and stayed true to what she needed it to do. Instead she picked up a bunch of candle lights, filling her arms with them before returning to the counter and the woman behind it. She gave her a soft smile.

“Is it okay the Dragon’s blood is a oil? The rest we have in solid form,” Aisha said, scuffing over the creaking floor to get what she asked.

“What do you know of the New Orleans coven?” Oya asked, dropping off the candles and continued to venture through the small store.

“Coven? You mean Miss Robichaux’s Academy?” A deep frown settled upon her face as she returned with the herbs, neatly packed in a fine paper and a bag. The wariness electrified the air, tension settling in her shoulders. Although she was young, something told Oya she was an old soul, one that had seen loss. “It closed down a year ago when the girls inside got massacred. The house remains closed off after that…”

“Do they know what happened?”

“...No, they never caught the ones who did it but the guess is, is that it’s a hate crime,” Aisha answered almost hesitantly. “What ritual are you planning to do with this?”

Oya shrugged and began putting the things on the counter in her bag with all her other things. The candles were by far the heaviest item but the bowls took up more space, still the bag was big enough to fit in a lot more. “It’s for scrying. I want to see what happened so that I can find the survivors.”

“You shouldn’t go there, they say the place is cursed,” she warned, pushing forth the bag with herbs, letting Oya take them with a soft smile. “They say the place is haunted by the witches who died there.”

“I’m sure that if they were ghost they’d have returned from the grave already,” Oya said, rummaging through the bag. “Witches tend to do that.”

“Who are you? Things like that you should leave alone, the darkness there you should leave alone. Spirits and necromancy you should leave alone.”

Oya looked straight at the woman in front of her. It was obvious that Aisha believed in energy, in herbal properties, in what her shop carried weather it was magical or not, but the notion of scrying into the past seemed too far fetched. Or just maybe she was worried that a client of hers would encounter whatever she believed to be at the academy. “You wouldn’t know me, my name has long been lost.”

“I’m warning you, don’t go there, don’t be white people stupid, there are spirits there, bad juju that should be left alone. My sister went there and she said the place was filled with bad energy, not even Marie Laveau would set foot in there, god rest her soul.” Aisha seemed desperate to keep Oya away, it was cute in a way, how humans can worry about another person they have just met. A smile widened on her lips trying to invoke a sort of trust with that woman, she was after all just worried on her behalf.

“Thank you for your concern,” Oya began, pushing a gold coin over the table, one of the ancient coins she acquired for her work years ago when they were used. It was the only money she had, this new from of currency in the form of a plastic card remained untouched by her, mostly because she never needed one. “but I’m far more capable than you think. I won’t be, what did you call it, ‘white people stupid’?”

“I tried to warn you,” Aisha muttered under her breath. “Don’t go blaming me when you end up dead.”

Oya took the bag and turned to walk out the door but stopped when Aisha called after her in an angry tone, her brows know knitted together in fury rather than worry. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You gotta pay for that!”

Confused Oya nodded towards the coin on the desk. “I did. It’s worth more than these items are worth.”

“I can’t take this,” Aish yelled, picking up the coin and waving it through the air. “What the hell, lady! I don’t even know what this is!”

“It’s a gold coin from early mesopotamia,” Oya answered with a huff, dropping the bag to the ground and walking back to the register. Maybe it’d be best to remove the memory of this in case the coven doubles back and senses her energy there, they might find a way here and she did prefer to remain in the shadows. Letting out a breath, Oya unfolded her energy, letting it wrap around the woman who stilled in trance. She reached over the counter, softly placing her fingertips at the temple, her suntouched skin standing out against the smooth dark skin of Aisha’s. Small electric tethers sprung from the touch, searching through her mind to wrap around the memory. Ever so slowly Oya pulled her fingers from the temple to hold them in front of her. Small silver pedals bloomed against the skin of her fingers, only visible to the eye of those who possess excessive magical properties.

“What are you holding?” Aisha asked quietly, eyes glossed over in trance.

“I’m holding your memory of this, for your protection and mine. It’s a small thing, the memory. When pulled from the brain it’s a fully blossomed flower, silver pedals so fine you can see through them. They don't wither, instead they fold in on themselves as if it’s blooming in reverse until it’s a small fine pearl. There are many ways to do this but this by far is the most beautiful,” Oya answered with fascination of the pearl now formed between her fingertips. “You can keep the coin, it’ll bring you great fortune and though it will not save you from the future it will make your present more fun.” She turned, letting the pearl be hidden by softly cut moonstones the size of the coin she had just parted with, pushing it to the bottom. She had no use for that memory, keeping it with her would be a waste. Some things are better hidden in plain sight. Oya withdrew her energies on her way out of the store.

Finding Miss Robichaux’s Academy would prove easier that she thought, the place famous for coming out as witches, the only school for witchcraft in the world, or rather, the only school known for it. It was famous for that and infamous for the tragedy that happened within its walls.

The house stood tall and proud with its columns and white walls standing out against the green bushes surrounding the premise and the dark spiked fence that caged it all in. From the outside it looked like the rest of the houses on the street, expensive and upper class, with the common Louisiana air surrounding it. Behind her the taxi speed away, leaving her alone on the pavement overlooking it with an wary eye.

Sweat beaded on her neck, it made the white shirt stick to her back uncomfortably. Hair stuck to her skin, the ponytail proving to not help against the humid air. Her eyes landed on the gate in front of her, on the chains and padlock wrapped around the bars to keep people from entering. With a fick on her wrist the padlock sprung open and fell to the ground with the sound of scuffing metal following it the way down and continuing after it had stopped by the chains following in its path. The gate opened with a loud groan, the mental complaining.

With one single step over the barrier the air changed as if all the oxygen had been pulled out and replaced with a void. It seemed stale, with no mention of life, no vibrance at the presence of magic. It crept along her spine and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand in spite of being stuck to her skin.

Oya passed over the fine stone path, the grass withered and overgrown, reaching towards the sky in the hope of a drop of water. She neared the porch, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet, groaning at her weight.

In front of her were the reminands of a voodoo ritual for breaching a barrier of protection, a bowl with the contents rotting away, traces of ash and blood on the dark wood. It was a spark of magic, nothing more, a faint rippel overshadowed by the empty void that lingered in the air.

With a sigh she hitched the bag up to get a better grip of it, her palms sweaty and unable to keep a proper hold of the heavy thing. The door opened screaming to the sky for oil on it’s hinges and it screamed again as it closed behind her. Inside the house the void became more apparent and for a moment it took her breath away. The air inside was a complete contrast of the outside, it was cold and dry, small specks of dust gleaming through the rays of light that slipped in between the skotters. It smelled dusty and illventilated, and of course it would, there had been no one here since the investigation wrapped up. Everything was covered in a fine layer of white dust. With each step she took she made footprints over the hardwood floor.

She followed her instinct that lead her to what would have been the dining hall, with a long table placed in the middle of the room, a white ghosty cover thrown on top of it in an attempt to keep the dust from settling on its surface. Though by the look of it, the surface would already have been ruined. Around the floor chairs was scattered, some tipped over while others were forced to the corners furthest from the table.

Traces of blood lingered on the wood speaking of the tragedy that happened within its blood splattered walls, with white chalk lines were drawn around where the body would have been.

She took a step into the room and felt something beneath her shoe. It was an old nail, it’s tip bloodied. Not far from it were the remains of aquamarine and shell casings. There should have been energy knitting in the air, magic reminands remaining in a place like this, there should have been something. But the void hollowed it out, carved into the seams of energy and killing them before they formed. Where there had been life there should be embers left of it, fragments of it, especially with so many witches.

Oya dumped the bag on top of the table, opening it up and placing the content in the open. Everything was placed neatly and in order, the black candles standing out against the white, the dark ceramic bowl a circle and the herbs and stones placed neatly and ready for usage.

Instead of beginning the ritual something drew her attention. She followed it up the stairs, past the blood stain on the floor and through the ghostly halls. A mixture of her own herbs burned as sage in her hand, the white smoke dancing in ever changing patterns in front of her. She passed through a door and into one of many bedrooms. It was faint, the fragment of magic, but it was there.

Upon entering further into the room she noticed the burns in the floor. It wasn’t the fragment she was looking for but it did speak of powerful magic. Her incense filled the room with a varied smell of burning herbs, it continued to fill the room with smoke when she put it down on the bedside table, she caught onto remnant.

“Papa Legba,” she mused in thought.

A shadow passed over the walls, followed by a dark laugh. Magic filled the air, electrified it and tickled over her skin. One moment she had been alone the next she was joined by a powerful presence.

“It is not every a goddess speaks my name,” a dark voice with heavy accent spoke, each word formed a particular way she could not place. Oya turned and watched the dark shadow’s owner, a black man who wore white warpaint that framed in his red eyes. Dreads draped over the shoulders of his tux jacket, underneath a white shirt ruffled up. Power emminated off of him in surges. She raised a brow at him, eyes watching with caution as he took a seat, placing both hands on top of his cane.

“Papa Legba?” She asked, taking a seat on the bed. Whatever he came here for it was not to harm her. Though his power was dominant and mighty, her own reached just as wide as his, if not more.

“That is my name,” he smile an alligator smile. A demigod like him didn’t fit into the frame of the Robichaux witches, none of the practiced voodoo or any variation of that. It was more likely that any voodoo practitioner in the french quarter would call for him than these witches and still, somehow, they knew of him, had called him.

“Why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, mon cheri,” he answered. Something about him made her heart speed up, not that she’d let it show. “I was down in hell when I heard your voice speak my name and I just had to see if the rumors were true.”

“Rumors?”

“The goddess of the underworld is back,” he answered and offered another smile, red eyes gleaming. “What is you doing here, child?”

“I wanted to see if I could find the witches,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. Papa Legba laughed, the sound carrying itself up the walls, booming through the room with a dark base. “You’ve had dealings with them, why else would your reminands be here?”

Papa remained silent, watching her with eyes of a predator. He reminded her of an alligator, its eyes shining through the dark of night, revealing the presence of strong jaws and endless teeth. But he also felt strangely familiar, not in the way that they knew each other but in the way they stood equal, a goddess of a forgotten religion that gave birth to the one that would overshadow it and the other a demigod of a religion just as forgotten, with myth being the only thing to carry the tales of him.

“Do you know where the witches are?”

“An answer like that demands a steep price,” he spoke.

“Tell me the price and I’ll pay,” she exclaimed quickly, cutting Papa Legba off from continuing. He grinned at her, not minding her sudden outburst but rather finding it entertaining.

“An answer like that demands a steep price,” he repeated, “If only I knew the answer. I do not know where the witches has gone, they have hidden themselves and are beyond my reach.”

She wrinkled her nose, letting out a sigh at the setback. She should have known, in a way she did, the expectations to find something not even the devil himself could were highly unlikely. Michael had told her they were gone, finding them were unlikely but when he had told her he were to attend a meeting, she took the opportunity to travel to Louisiana to see for herself.

And maybe it was just not for seeking the witches, but to see what she was up against.

“It can’t only be out of curiosity you come here,” Oya said with suspicion laced in her voice.

“Why not?” He questioned, tilting his head a little. The necklaces he wore sounded off, bones clicking into each other. If he were an alligator she was a serpent.

“You said there were rumors of me,” she continued, dismissing his question for one of her own. “What rumors?”

“The queen of the underworld walks upon the earth once more, no longer bound,” he answered her. His accent turned most ‘t’s into ‘d’s, shaped off the words into something softer and yet clear. “You kingdom awaits you. It may be smaller than what the previous queen had but it is still there.”

“My kingdom can wait, I still have much to do here.”

“Mmm, with the antichrist,” Papa hummed at her, leaning back in the chair that groaned beneath his weight. “Your kingdom will not grow if he is the one to end this world.”

A frown formed on her face, brows knitted together in question. “What do you mean?”

“You do not know?” Now it was his turn to be surprised, or rather act like it. Something about him told her that he knew things she’d never know, a keeper of secrets, one who saw the strings and knew where they lead. She supposed he should, being who he was. “Every life you take, child, brings their soul to your kingdom.”

It took a moment of confusion until it dawned on her. “If the world is whipped out by the bombs the souls would either go to heaven or hell and my kingdom, the underworld, will never grow.”

“For it was not you who took their life,” Papa finished. Oya mused over it, biting her lip in thought.

“What of you? Do you have a kingdom?”

“I am but a demigod. I stand between this world and hell. No, I do not have a kingdom…” he answered her. He did not have a kingdom but he had many souls beneath him, many helpers, soldiers, whatever he needed. Satan gave him orders, he was the boss of hell, but that didn’t mean Papa didn’t have any power down there. Not at all.

She suppose that’s what would happen if she didn’t claim her throne, if her kingdom dwindled in to nothing, that she’d take up as a part of hell, be a glorified crossroad demon. As other religions fell, so did their worlds. If Oya hadn’t been born with the blood of Ereshkigal, if she hadn’t been reborn with her soul, her underworld would have succumb to hell.

Maybe that was why her powers lashed out, to make a mark, however little it was, that it should still remain. She killed thousands and now their souls were hers.

She killed her mother.

“My kingdom may not grow in the underworld, Papa, but it will grow in this world,” She voiced with confidence. Papa smirked at her, no more and no less.

“The antichrist would give you a crown?” He questioned and lifted his cane only to immediately drop it to the floor with a click. “Would call you his queen?” Click. “Will see you as equal?” Click.

“Yes,” Oya said and stood. “If he give less than I deserve he will pay.”

“I am sure he will,” Papa said, watching her movements. Oya passed through the room, towards the door. There was nothing left to be said, Papa had planted his words and seen them cropped when they set root. Oya was confident in her stance with Michael, confident in his words.

“Goodbye, Papa Legba,” She said, turning to look over her shoulder as she had reached the door. Legba remained seated, sending her an alligator smile, eyes red and gleaming.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Cheri,” His voice were soft. Papa drew in a breath as she stood, his shadow passing over the walls in an unnatural way, a faint sound of hissing seemingly coming out of nowhere. “I hope to see you again soon and with crown this time.”

Papa disappeared in front of her eyes, taking his shadow and the hissing with him. It was in the moment of farewell Oya realised everything had been spoken in korean, in her native tongue, it left a strange knot where her heart was.

In the air lingered his presence, the touch of his magic, ancient and otherworldly. Oya closed the door after her, passing through the halls as silently she could with her heels clicking against the floor.

As she came into the dining hall all the candles lit up, casting a warm glow through the empty house, lights and shadows dancing on the white walls. In the chermetic bowl she placed the herbs she had purchased, pouting snake oil over the dried up content. In the bowl she crushed bone of a goat, then added an oil she herself had made, one to open up the mind. Oya ran two finger through the sticky content, lifting them to her eyes and drawing circles around her eyes.The mixture was then crushed together into a liquid, one that’d make a person's stomach turn by the smell of it, even more so when she put it to flame.

Blue flames licked the air, slowly dissipating into heavy smoke than poured over the sides of the bowl, fell thickly onto the table to its edge and then to the floor. Soon the entire room was covered in white smog so thick the dark hardwood floor was gone. Oya spoke in tongues, words long forgotten forming on her lips to be send out into the room. She held her hands over the bowl, swaying back and forth to tempt the past to come forth. Her magic filled the room, every cavity that had been left. A sudden jitter went through her and when she opened her eyes once more, they had gone completely white.

The room became fully lit, no longer were the light withheld by shutters, the white covers gone so that she could fully see the antique table. Nails and stones were scattered over the wood, scratching up its surface in an unholy way. At the end of the table opposite her were a woman, hair grey and pinned up, her skin wrinkles and covered in wounds. A girl cried to her side, clawing her way over the floor only to be stopped by a bullet coming from a black cladded woman, a woman whose face she didn't recognize nor did she care to look properly. Instead her eyes turned to Michael, passing through the room with his hands folded behind his back, hair a shorter halo that what she was used to. He stepped over the bodies of the witches as if they were nothing more than mere obstacles. Michael turned towards her, his tongue behind his lip as he inspected the death around him.

She watched as a girl ran through the opened doors and up the stairs, a bullet painting her white shirt red, then another to bring her down. Oya’s heart raced, death clung to the air, filled it with a cold touch, skellet fingers trailing up her spine. Death was something, it was of substance while the void she had felt were nothing. Death clawed at the wooden floors, painting the world in red, life snuffed from a full fire ablaze to embers. Embers were still something.

One moment the room was full of light, of red, of death and then the next it was dark, the moon casting a ghostly light into the room. Oya watched as a blond woman, cheeks stained with sorrow, lips quivering with pain, walk through the room. Her hands shook. When she saw one of the witches on the floor she fell to her knees with a cry that cut through the air.

Oya neared her, feeling how death had left the room, replaced with the vast void of nothing. All embers of life were gone, snuffed out. It was as if Michael had poured water over life's fire until even the embers, the smallest traces of life, were gone completely. There were nothing in these bodies, no tether for the soul to find its way back to, no fragments of life or traces of the soul. There were nothing.

It clung to her, strained Oya’s breath as fear flared up in her chest. She gripped one of the chairs to hold herself up, but found her hand went through it. Oya fell to her knees beside the only life within the house. The woman leaned down trying to breathe life back into the younger witch, to no avail. Her breath were mere air, no magic could bring back what no longer existed. She tried desperately, choking out cries when nothing happened.

Whatever Michael had done it was permanent. He had taken their life and extinguished their souls. There were nothing left of them, nothing for heaven and nothing for hell. Just nothing. It reminded her of the Inbetween, the vast empty but there was a difference, the Inbetween was something.

Oya found herself kneeling on the floor, hands gripping at the wood but hidden by the white smog. Slowly it began to lift, what was hidden beneath revealed. White floors stained by blood. It took a while to compose herself enough to stand and when she did, she gripped the table and used it as clutch while her mind spun.

The vision had told her nothing of where the witches were but it did reveal a fearsome truth. Michael had the ability to erase someone completely. What she feared wasn’t Michael nor really his intent with the ability but rather the erasement itself. The trust she held him didn’t waver.

But she did feel a twig of sympathy for the mourning witch. To see her loved ones gone, erased from every world. It was nothing but a mere afterthought, the witches had caused far greater pain, to her they were no allie nor anything resembling a friend. Witches were the ones that bound her, they were the one who conspired so much pain and agony, they saw themselves as inherently good, just like they thought their magic were. But magic were neither good or bad, it was not light or dark, magic was neutral in every way, it was the intent behind them that painted them one way or another.

With a sigh she pushed away the bowl and found another one, placing the same herbs and ingredients as the one she had done at home. If the witches were to come back she’d know.

It was the last thing she did before leaving, now with a lighter bag.

#michael langdon #michael langdon fic #michael langdon imagine #ahs apocalypse #ahs fic #obsidian & angelite

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carolrance · 6 years ago

Text

I AM DYING LMAO

i just found the most hilarious reviews for the handmaid’s tale and i’m dying lol. since twop is dead(?) (is it? i dunno cos i never look anymore tbh) this is the next best thing. and it’s doubly awesome cos she hates all the same characters. (mutual nick hate is my life). i have another post in my drafts about how amazing amy glynn’s reviews at paste are. and they are. but they are serious. these ones are snarktastic.

“Welcome back to America’s favorite rape and explosions show, The Handmaid’s Tale.”

“Nick goes out into the rain, full emo cigarette smoking, resigned to boning this virgin, when he spies something. Oh no! It’s Offred, sprawled in the rain, bleeding to death. He picks her up and screams for help. My god. These two. Offred is the world’s worst teenager. And Nick is her bad boy boyfriend. She’s going to robotically obey and then bleed to death in the rain? Get the fuck out of here with that. These two act like they are in a My Chemical Romance music video circa 2005.” (This is my fav one of them all.)

“Speaking of Nick, he’s still the worst! His baby bride comes to Offred for...advice? I don’t know why she comes to her exactly, except maybe it’s like coming to your sluttiest friend and asking a weird sex question? I don’t know.”

“Serena is clearly mad about Offred, and E. Moss is doing a great job as playing her as the bitchiest teenager in the house. Aunt Lydia has moved in to keep her eye on Offred, and she bursts in during Offred’s teenage sulk bath to instruct her to wash. Down there. You know. (vagina). Offred makes more defiant teenage eye contact as she washes. Down there. She’s almost coming on to Lydia. That’s cool, I guess.”

“We cut to the Colonies and some more cockadoodie plot machinations. Because of the mass casualty event, Emily and Janine, among others, are going to be pressed back into service as Handmaids. This is some ripe bullshit. First off, both are disobedient. Secondly, they’ve been in the radioactive Colonies for a hot minute--who knows what that’s done to their baby making machinery? But now the writers can bring back some important characters. COCKADOODIE.”

“Part of the purpose of the walks are so the fetus can hear and get used to Serena’s voice, you see, and Serena wants to talk shit about everyone they know.”

“We get some grade A pen pornography as she lovingly fingers Fred’s pens, and we close on the image of Serena behind the desk and Offred clicking the ballpoint just like Ofglen clicked the detonator. (We also get an insane music cue: “Venus.” You know, from the razor commercials and also the 1960s? Like, what the what the what, show.)”

“She’s worked on her shrine and her newspaper-clipping Crazy Wall ™, where she is reconstructing the events that led to the creation of Gilead. Which is great, but also, bitch, didn’t you watch the fucking news? You lived through this.”

“They load up into a truck, but at the last minute, Offred remembers that she is the worst and this show is supposed to go for ten seasons, so she hops out, gives the baby to Emily, and heads back into the night, to become Jedi June and fight Gilead to rescue her other daughter.”

“Serena stomps into Devil Fred’s mancave while he is enjoying his jazz records and demands that Offred go back to the Red Center. Fred talks her down, telling her that they don’t want to miss the joy of the pregnancy. Which, okay, Fred. You try having a testy teenager in your face all day.”

“I really wanted to punch her during all of this. How golly, and how insensitive, to poke through their sacred objects and get all teary-eyed, especially as they risk their lives to shelter her dumb ass.”

“Serena monologues about her drafts of new security orders. She wants things to get back to normal--she wants to cut back on the police state to normal dystopian police state levels.”

“It seems the Marthas have had enough, and they are taking action. Offred fucks around for about ten minutes because she is the worst, carving Nolite into the bedroom wall.”

“Anyway, Serena is super pissed, violently potting succulents and plotting dark deeds.”

“At some point, Offred takes a pout bath that is red with blood. She also bleeds clear through her underwear. When they get home, the Waterfords welcome Nick’s bride into the household, and then send Offred and Rita away. Rita is worried about Offred, but Offred has decided to bleed to death. Up the stairs she goes.”

“Offred’s presence rouses Fred out of his mini-coma for just long enough for him to remark on her size (just like a real son of a bitch). Offred leaves and makes out with Nick in the hall because they are stupid assholes. I mean, really. There are people and Eyes all over the place and these two are just slobbering all over. Offred also makes the Martha’s shooting all about her in a real self-centered way.”

“Let’s check in on the boring house, shall we? Offred decides to go around and collect godmothers for her baby.”

“Oh I forgot that Nick and Offred cuddled the baby and blah blah and I still hate them. Also, Nick, your baby bride’s blood is on your hands.”

“In the show, though, we’ve seen a lot of natal care, including ultrasounds, and we’ve seen the inside of a hospital room. Why in the fucking hell would they mess around with home birth at all? It’s so illogical it makes me mad.”

“So she goes outside with the shotgun, has another wolf encounter, and blasts off some rounds to alert someone of her presence. Then she goes back inside and takes off all her clothes and shits that kid out.”

“Back at the Waterford manse, Serena and Offred bond, AGAIN, over Eden’s execution and Serena lets Offred breast feed the baby, because she is completely internally inconsistent. On this episode, Serena will be affected by the atrocities of the regime she helped create. ANYWAY, THE END.”

“Eden wants to spruce up the apartment, and Nick gives her permission and plays the husband humoring his little woman’s whims. Which, total and complete barf forever. Nick still doesn’t see Eden as a potential threat, because he is an idiot. While she’s working on her HGTV audition tape, she finds the stack of contraband letters Nick took from Offred when she was going mad.”

“Into the house they run, Serena screaming Offred’s name like she’s going to catch her and probably murder her. I mean, this is full throated scream. If your dog ran away, you wouldn’t scream his name that way because he would be like: that bitch is crazy and wants to kill me. So it unsuprisingly doesn’t work on a human woman.”

“Meanwhile, Nick catches Eden kissing the douchebag Guardian. He’s like no big deal, and Eden freaks out. She says that he’s in love with the Handmaid, and he gaslights the fuck out of her denying it. Nick is a bastard. He shows Eden no kindness. He doesn’t treat her like a person. She doesn’t rate even a decent excuse. There are many things he could say: that she’s so young, that they don’t know each other, that he’s unhappy to be married at all. But he does none of those things. This woman is fifteen years old. She’s spent her adolescence under the yoke of Gilead. While she may be a true believer, she is still not in charge of her fate here. Nick is a bastard.”

“Devil Fred and Offred get in a knock-down, drag out, and he misquotes the bible at her and slaps her across the face. She then slaps him across his face, and is not immediately fucking super murdered.”

“Emily is like what the fuck, this place is weird. Lydia is like, bye! You better be good or we will kill you! Have fun! Anyway, she has a brief conversation with the Wife, who is like: this guy is horrible. He created The Colonies! He poisoned people! Commander Old Hipster gently shuffles her away, back to her crazy room.”

And serious business shit (cos it’s not all jokes):

“What I do think is wrong is the zig-zagging of Serena’s character. She’s mean and petty, and then she’s happy playing writer to Offred’s editor. Then she’s mad again, and then even more mad after that. Raping Offred to punish her for false labor is insane and irredeemable. Devil Fred has been consistently devilish--a prick who enjoys owning women--but Serena has seesawed from one extreme to another. I don’t think it makes her character more complicated or deep. Instead, it seems like inconsistency in the writing.

This show has been saluted as being of the times, for being very current. When I see children being ripped from their parents, or in an earlier episode this season, people desperate to escape to another country, and then I see it echoed in real life, it is hard to take. Dystopias are less entertaining to watch when you live in a country that seems to be accelerating toward the same.”

“Things I liked: Annie Lennox, Commander Old Hipster/his house/his wife/his Martha/his stolen art collection/taste in graphic novels/scarves, Rita and the Marthas rising up. Things I didn’t like: EVERYTHING ELSE

As adaptations go, the second season was always going to be a rough one. I can’t say that it was successful. They’ve turned June/Offred into an asshole, and they made Serena so inconsistent we don’t even know what to expect moment to moment. That’s not good writing, y’all.”

BTW, the site is:

https://heauxsmag.com/new-blog/?tag=handmaids+tale

#i'm gonna read s1 later #the handmaid's tale #i no longer worry about any of my posts showing up in tags cos apparently tumblr has decided that nothing i post is worthy of being found ev #ever so whatevs pals. i don't even worry about tagging to avoid being seen in a search now #it's kinda like freedom?? but also invisibility???? hmmmmmmm #there's gotta be some sort of philosophical treatise in there or something #who cares #anti-nick #there i did it. i have a tag. cos nick is the worst.#(he's not the literal worst obvs. but he's the worst to me cos of fandom. it ruined him totally and made me hate him 10000%)#(serena and fred and lydia like worse than him technically but meh.)

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raisethemup · 6 years ago

Text

I’m your man.

Words: 2k+ | Relationship: Nick Blaine/June/Offred | Rating: M (language/suggestive themes) |

The door slammed behind him.

Goddamn, she was the most fucking stubborn woman he had ever met. She was in the window watching him as he jogged down the steps, a frigid wind kicking up, snow tonight, 4 to 6 inches. He would need to shovel these damn steps tomorrow, but that was the least of his worries right now. Right now he desperately wanted a smoke and of course his pack was empty, crushing it in his hand and shoving it in his coat pocket he looked up to see exhaust fog swirling around the waiting car, the driver Ray rolled down the window asking “where to?” Trying not to glare at the guy assigned to him Nick bit down his frustration answering flatly that he wanted to walk and Ray should go home for the night. Turning away towards the only mini mart that he knew would be open he shoved his hands in his pockets. He shouldn’t have slammed out that way, it wasn’t going to help the situation to let his temper get the better of him.

Her crazy usually intrigued him, he loved watching her get all wound up and excited, it always seemed to him that her eyes got more blue, he found it fascinating, but then he found everything about her fascinating, always had since the minute he laid eyes on her. Her passion carried over into everything she did...everything, and he wouldn’t change that for the world but this seemed different. The last month or so she had been off the rails erratic, little things that he did would suddenly bother her and she would lash out. The mood swings were giving him whiplash, the upside was that the make up sex was fucking fantastic, although sex between them was always phenomenal, and frequent. He would look up to find her studying him and seconds later she was all over him, they were all over each other, it was thrilling. He had started to worry though that his dick was going to fall off trying to keep up with her, the door had barely closed behind her tonight before she had his pants open and his cock in her mouth, just to be clear that wasn’t a complaint, he had ended up with her straddling him, on the kitchen chair, scratches down his back, orgasms everywhere.

Then she cried.

He couldn’t get a handle on it, couldn’t figure out what was bothering her, what she needed, what he could do for her, get for her, give to her. He knew June, he watched June, it was one of the greatest joys of his life to watch her. She fascinated him physically and mentally. He was an analytical guy, kept his thoughts to himself unless she pulled them out of him. “Talk to me Nick,” she would plead her blue, blue eyes dripping with empathy and love and want, and he couldn’t refuse her, then he would do his best to voice whatever had been rolling around in his head.

This time though he had been the one to ask, her legs straddling him, sweat still cooling on his forehead, trailing his fingertips up and down the smooth skin on her back, her head turned and tucked in on his shoulder, tears sliding down his chest. He was baffled, shifting her and tilting her face to meet his eyes.

“Talk to me June,” he urged, cradling her face with both hands and wiping away her tears with his thumbs, “June, baby, what’s wrong, tell me?”

She had gone ballistic. Wrenching herself off of him and stumbling away locking the door behind her.

They had been married for a year and a half, a crazy 18 months. He had fought like hell and gotten her out of Gilead while he stayed back working nonstop to be able to finally bring Hannah home to June. Word of his successful spy game maneuvering against Gilead had spread and the struggling but true US government had quickly offered him a lucrative and high profile job, the position had allowed him opportunities and insider information instrumental for he and June to rescue Holly. So life as a married man had given him everything, two children, a beautiful wife that he loved with all of his heart, a job that allowed him rise to a position high enough to make a difference fighting the continuing clusterfuck evils of Gilead and the power to help put every sick motherfucker like Fred and Serena Waterford behind bars for life.

Feeling his phone buzz he stopped walking to pull it out of his pocket, over the screen saver photo of June, Holly and Hannah sitting on the sand on the beach, was a text from Mrs. Blaine, “I’m sorry. I love you. Come home.” He had never asked her to take his last name and he had never expected her, totally her decision and fuck he never got tired of seeing the words Mrs. Blaine, he didn’t care if it made him a pussy that his eyes teared up almost every time he looked at that photo of his family.

It wasn’t June’s job bothering her, she had gotten herself a position part-time working for the government writing and editing new laws and procedures, she was making a difference and she glowed with pride and excitement when she recounted her days to him.

Hannah was happy and healthy, sure she was entering the pre-teen years and could be a handful at times recently but that seemed to be a fairly normal life passage for both parent and child, and given what she had been through in her young life he and June had agreed many times that some attitude and push back was healthy.

Holly was thriving, fair and blue-eyed like June but with a head of dark curly hair like his, a happy easy going child, where Hannah was always a bundle of activity Holly could be content to sit on his or June’s lap and observe. He hoped he hadn’t woken either one of the girls when he had slammed the door on his way out.

Luke couldn’t be the problem, he was miles away apparently happy in a new relationship which June was thrilled about but, and while he agreed that Luke moving on was a damn good thing, he was more than a little freaked out that the new woman looked a bit like June to him. For Hannah’s sake he always tried to go with the flow when it came to Luke, but frankly, he would never understand the guy. Who the fuck leaves their woman in that fucking nightmare of a shitshow and makes no move whatsoever to help them, rescue them or get them out. He realized it was asshole-ish of him to refer to June as his woman, but it was what it was, there would never be anyone else for him and God willing there would only ever be him for her.

That being said he should just get his ass home and get this situation resolved with her. Fuck the cigarettes, June would always know if he had been smoking because she smelled his clothes, he had more than once walked in on her smelling his coat or pillow or sweater. When he teased her about it she would try to turn it around by chiding him about his frequent I-really-need-to-quit comments. He really should quit, for her, for the girls, for him. If she asked him to quit he would in a heartbeat, God knows that June had been through enough in her life, he would give her anything and everything she wanted even if she didn’t voice that she needed it or wanted it. Their house was large, their lifestyle comfortable, did they need a big house, no but he was damn proud that this government salary allowed him to provide that for her, whatever school she wanted for Hannah, he wanted too and made it happen. June had been through enough, struggled and fought enough, he wanted life to be easy for her for her now and always.

-----------------------------------

Stepping quietly into their foyer he closed the door behind him, the few lights left on were dimmed casting a warm glow on the school books and toys cluttering their coffee table, stepping over the gym shoes and little pink dress up cowboy boots strewn haphazardly on the floor he headed into the girl's bedroom. Hannah’s dark head peeked out from under her duvet. He smirked at her.

“Hey Han, you know she’s gonna nail you for having that thing on after bedtime.”

“Nickkkkk, I’ll turn it off, please don’t tell her, pleaseeeee?”

Nick raised his eyebrows at her enjoying the lighthearted pleading.

“No Nick not the eyebrow raise, nooo.”

He chuckled, leaning forward to pry the Ipad out of her hands and setting it on her nightstand.

“Nick?”

“Yeah Han?”

“Why is mom mad at you?”

“I don’t know but I’m going to find out, we’ll talk it through and everything will be good.”

“What if she doesn’t stop being mad? You won’t...leave will you?”

It fucking gutted him every time, the effect of Gilead had left on her.

“Hannah, look at me, I love your mom more than anything in this world, and you, and Holly. I will never leave her. No one will ever take me from her or her from me. And nobody will ever take you away from us, ever. You are safe. I will always keep you safe.”

He leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead where the small worry lines had smoothed out.

“Night Han, love you.”

“Night Nick, love you too.”

Crossing the room Nick eased himself down on the edge of Holly’s twin bed, she was a hot sleeper, always warm and kicking the blankets off, he straightened them out folding them down to her waist, her thumb was resting in her open mouth, both he and June had heard many times from many people that they shouldn’t allow this, that they should force her to quit. They just couldn’t bring themselves to do it and had agreed that eventually, she would give it up on her own, but he gently pulled her thumb out of her open mouth and stroked her dark curly hair back from her soft sweaty forehead. He breathed in her sweet little girl scent leaning over to kiss her, whispering, “Sweet dreams, Holly Go Lightly.“

-------------------

Walking into their bedroom he found June in bed turned on her side away from him surrounded by pillows, many pillows. It was a king size bed...with eight pillows, he never understood the need for all the pillows when you only needed one for each head and it was a pain in the ass to line them all up exactly the way June wanted, but all things considered, they were only pillows. Although right now those were pillows keeping his wife from him.

“June?”

No answer.

“Are you okay”

No answer.

So fucking stubborn, he knew she wasn’t asleep, toeing off his shoes and undressed down to only his black boxer briefs he crossed to the other side of the bed crouching down in front of her. Reaching out he pushed a lock of hair back off of her face, then rested his hand to stroke his thumb over her cheek, her eyelashes were wet. She took a deep shuddery breath and opened her eyes, he kept his voice low and calm.

“June, what is it? Talk to me June?

Finally, her hand shifted out from under the duvet stopping over his heart, then her fingertips skimmed back and forth. She had confessed to him once that she liked to feel his heart beating, that it beat for her and hers for him. He watched her silently waiting to see if she would say anything. His heart ached as her eyes welled with tears and a few spilled over.

“I love you so much Nick,” she whispered sliding her hand up higher to stroke it over his late night dark stubble.

“June, what the fuck, you’re scaring me, are you sick? Is it Hannah, Holly, is something wrong, are they okay?” Although his voice was still low the words came out more urgently.

Nudging her over, he climbed onto their bed and positioned her sideways onto his lap, cradling her in his arms, his head resting on top of hers. He tightened his arms around her.

“Enough June, tell me now, I can take it. Whatever it is I’ll fix it and make it right.”

He heard her sucking in a breath and steeled himself for whatever she was about to say.

“I’m pregnant.”

His heart stopped, time stopped, the world stopped, his arms dropped away from her.

“Are you mad Nick?”

He heard her voice but his mind was racing through nine months, nine months of seeing, touching, feeling June every day, whenever he wanted, feeling June pregnant with his baby. Touching her silky hair and feeling it get thicker, being able to see her body change, getting rounder, lying in bed with her every night, his hand on her belly with their baby growing in her. Sliding inside of her warm, wet heat, and making love to her with their baby cocooned safely between them. Taking her to the doctor to hear the heartbeat, watching her breastfeed...

“Nick, talk to me, you are mad aren’t you? Nick?”

He blinked looking down into her eyes, the same blue eyes he saw in Hannah’s face, in Holly’s face.

“I’m sorry, I think that’s what’s been making me so emotionally crazy. I, I just, I must have forgotten to take a pill or didn’t take it at the right time or it was the antibiotics I took. I took a pregnancy test, during lunch today and I wanted to, to...

“June.”

I wanted to tell you right away but we’ve never talked about having more kids. I was afraid to tell you, I just...

“June, stop. Stop...”

“Nick, I”

He dropped his head resting it on her shoulder. Thank God, thank God, there was nothing wrong, everyone was okay, sucking in a breath he wrapped one hand around her neck and wiped her tears away with the other. Tipping her head up and resting his forehead on hers his lips close enough to breathe in her breath he murmured in a husky voice “June, I’m thrilled we made another baby. It doesn’t matter how it happened. You want five more kids, throw away the pills and we’ll have five more, you don’t want anymore after this that’s fine too. Whatever you want June, that’s what I want you to have.

She leaned away from him, scrambling around to straddle him, her hands sliding up to grab his biceps her blue eyes spilling over again with tears locked onto his.

“This time we’ll do it all together right, we won’t have to be separated, or hide it, no one will be able to take our baby away. or keep us apart?”

She leaned forward her entire body resting against him, nuzzling her face into his neck kissing and licking.

“That’s right June, you’re safe here, I’ll keep you safe.”

She was squirming around in his lap, her tongue sliding into his mouth and he felt himself getting hard, her hand sliding down his chest and into his boxers, he grabbed her hand stilling it.

“June?”

“Hmm?”

“Is this we’re having a baby sex or makeup sex?”

He released her hand and sucked in a breath as she slid it down the length of him.

“First it’s we’re having a baby sex, then we’ll have makeup sex.”

Her hand drew slowly back up and his head tipped back as his eyes closed.

“Fuck June, it’s been a long day and you’ve put me through an emotional roller coaster, I don’t know if I can...”

She knelt up resting her hands on his shoulders and slowly lowered herself down onto him.

“Try.”

#nick and june #handmaid's tale june and nick #thtedit #nick blaine #tht season 2 #thtfanfic

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emma-christine-spoole · 6 years ago

Text

My Muse Does the Vanity Fair Interview

https://www.vanityfair.com/magazine/2000/01/proust-questionnaire

Tagging: @normalouisebatesrp @itsnormanbates @leather-lover-massett @xeffie-thredsonx @maggiexesmerelda @tillhumanvxices @foxbelieve @danascullyeffect @costaricaaguitars @theirlament

and anyone else who wants to. (repost, don’t reblog)

1. What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Wow, we’re jumping right into the deep philosophical questions, huh? I don’t know if it’s possible to have completely flawless, perfect happiness in this life. The world has too many flaws and too many people with high capacity for senseless evil. I think the closest we can get to perfect happiness in this life is having strong bonds with those you love, the kind that will give you the strength to face down that evil when you have to face it.

2. What is your greatest fear?

I try to stay out of political discussions and keep my views to myself most of the time. I’ve just found it’s the smartest thing to do, having spent so many years living in the nation’s capital and considering where I was working. But here’s an exception. My greatest fear currently is that we’re sliding toward a Gilead-like nightmare, slowly like a frog in a pot, so we aren’t going to notice until we’re being boiled alive. Scared that women are going to be stripped of all the progress made over the last half-century, including rights my mother and her mother demonstrated in the streets for. But then I look at my daughter @xeffie-thredsonx and know that’s not going to happen without a hell of a fight from the next generation.

3. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

I can have a streak of hypocrisy, unfortunately. I can condemn and punish others for the same perceived wrongdoings I’ve been guilty of myself. I do that by rationalizing, believing my reasons are justified and even noble when theirs aren’t, that I’m bending or even breaking the law to protect those I love or to bring down those who otherwise would’ve gotten away.

4. What is the trait you most deplore in others?

Cowardice. It’s so often an underlying root issue of criminal behavior. I deal primarily with criminals who keep other humans as slaves to be sold. They put on such an act they’re such big, tough dangerous guys. But they’re really cowards; it’s obvious once you know how to scratch the psychological surface. Also cowards are the violence-fetishists who hide behind their keyboards and post death-bounties on my head on 4Chan. Pffft. Whatever. That’s been going on for years. Nothing new at all.

5. Which living person do you most admire?

Captain Tammy Duckworth, U.S. Army. She piloted a Black Hawk helicopter with both her legs and part of one arm blown off after it was shot down by a grenade missile in Iraq. Still landed it and the rest of her crew to safety. I met her once when she was campaigning for the Senate, and she’s an amazing person. That’s a true warrior and American hero. People overcome once-fatal childhood diseases every day now. That’s not a warrior. That’s called advances in modern medicine.

6. What is your greatest extravagance?

My white Mustang convertible. I love that car like no other. I bought it when I still living in D.C. and there was no need to drive, but so what? I got it anyway. In Oregon, there’s nothing comparable to driving along the coastal highway with the top down on a rain-free day!

7. What is your current state of mind?

Guess you could say I’m pretty introspective because of these questions. I’m also curious and a little bit apprehensive how this interview is going to be received once it hits the news stands. I know we talked about me being known in some circles as “The Sex Trade’s Most Hated Woman,” but I’d really NOT like that moniker splashed all over the cover, if you possibly have any control over it.

8. What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Conformity to “traditions.” I have no patience with people who feel it’s best to be conservative, unremarkable, ordinary, to blend in and to blindly follow the life-script that gets pushed on all of us. To me, that’s consigning yourself to a lifetime of mediocrity and dead dreams.

9. On what occasion do you lie?

I lie when I have to protect my birth family, and that’s not the only thing I’ll do to keep them out of harm’s way. We’re not the typical close-knit family. We even have a dangerous side we show to those we perceive as threats. Spend some time in White Pine Bay, and you’ll soon hear all sorts of whispered rumors about us. And whispered warnings to stay off our bad side. Some of those people even act like we’re the Mafia or something! We might not have quite that much pull, but any of us will lie, defend ourselves, and more, when it comes to protecting our own.

10. What do you most dislike about your appearance?

Nothing, to be honest. I’ve always thought I look pretty damn good. If I had to pick one thing, I might’ve liked to share my sister’s bigger breasts. But trust me: they look best on her.

11. Which living person do you most despise?

It’s almost a tie between Ellen Sanders and Alex Romero. The former: Nearly assassinating the President while taking away another woman’s husband is one thing, BUT the latter: taking emotional and sexual advantage of my sister and trying to have my nephew locked up in an institution for no valid reason: NOW it gets personal.

12. What is the quality you most like in a man?

Knows how to treat a lady. Ripped. Obedient. Has Mommy issues.

13. What is the quality you most like in a woman?

Sweetness. A great body. Willingness to give me complete control. Not only willing, but eager.

14. Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

“‘Fuck.’ It’s such a blunt, to-the-point, attention-grabbing word in one syllable. Used the right way, it can express anything. Anger, excitement...climax...

15. What or who is the greatest love of your life?

At one time, I didn’t believe having one “great love of your life” existed in reality. That was before I met my sister’s oldest son @leather-lover-massett. My sister’s his mother and my brother’s his father, so the only thing I’ve heard is accurate to call us is “aunt and nephew twice over.” DNA-wise, we’re closer to being mother and son than regular aunt & nephew. We were strongly, inexplicably drawn to each other from the minute we met, and over the course of one evening, we felt like we’d known each other our whole lives. Before anyone gets up in arms over the taboo of it: Genetic sexual attraction is real and happens 50% of the time in cases like mine. I didn’t believe in it either, until that indescribably intense love - and yes: lust - hit me like a ton of bricks. We’re two consenting adults, we’re hurting absolutely no one, and that’s the end of that discussion far as I’m concerned.

16. When and where were you happiest?

Cliche’ as it might sound: when I was an undergrad at Ohio State. I’d wanted to go there since I was 11 or 12 and watching the Buckeyes basketball games with my dad. I was a two-hour bus ride away from my parents, away from home for the first time; everything was so full of possibility. No one’s college experience is perfect. I would of course face challenges and pitfalls, but there were plenty of good times too. I haven’t been as completely, enthusiastically optimistic since.

17. Which talent would you most like to have?

It would have been cool to be able to learn an instrument. I suffered through piano and clarinet lessons before I started middle school, and I was terrible. It sounded like throwing metal trash cans down a flight of stairs, and I feel sorry for our neighbors back then. Tried some of my bandmates’ guitars when I was older, and I wasn’t much better. I can hear all the rhythms, timing, and such when I sing, but instruments: something just never computed.

18. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

It’s all in the past now, but I would’ve changed the amount of courage I needed to first contact my birth family. I needed a lot more of it, which is why it took me so long. A lot of years were lost, and it would’ve been so different if we’d met earlier. I never got to meet my birth parents, and in a weird way I have some deep-down gratitude towards them, for putting me up for adoption. But then I start to feel guilty about that when I think of Norma and Caleb left behind with them, and the hell they were put through.

19. What do you consider your greatest achievement?

I don’t think about it much, and sometimes I lose sight of it, but yeah it’s achieving the rank of Special Agent. The exams and PT for it are quite challenging, and it can be very taxing mentally, physically, emotionally, every which way. Only 5-10% of field agents make it every year. Sadly, that percentage of women is even smaller. I’ve love to see that number start climbing within my lifetime.

20. If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be?

I haven’t thought about that one! If I got to come back as a whole new person and got to do it all over again, I’d want to come back as the rock star who makes it big this time. Recording contracts, sold-out arenas, the whole nine yards. No law enforcement career this time, in this next life.

21. Where would you most like to live?

I’d love to have a private island off the coast of Oregon and Washington State, and have a big fancy cabin built there for Dylan and myself. Since I spent time with my bio family, I’ve also fallen in love with this beautiful area of the country. Our island would have a causeway bridge and of course gorgeous views of the ocean and forests. Definitely with enough space and privacy for all of us in the family.

22. What is your most treasured possession?

My riverfront house I ended up buying, in northern Portland. Not that I don’t miss downtown Bethesda and all the urban excitement of D.C., sometimes. It was a big change, but I felt like I was home. On a deep level I’d never felt before. I can’t see myself living anywhere else, even after not this long a time. Now, if I could only get the city to sign off on the building permit for a hot tub on the back deck, that’d be great.

23. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

That’s a tough one to talk about. I’d say it’s the feeling of being alone after a traumatic loss. A sudden loss of someone or something who’d meant the world to you, and you couldn’t have guessed it was coming. People can say they sympathize and understand how you feel, but they don’t. Not really. Not unless they’ve lived through the same kind of loss.

24. What is your favorite occupation?

Ask me that a few years ago, and I would’ve said “Mine is! Working for the FBI, of course!” But lately I have low-key thought about what other career I would’ve pursued given the desire and the circumstances. The first one I came up with: I would’ve gotten my Krav Maga instructor certification and opened my own KM studio. It would be in White Pine Bay, because god knows women there especially need to learn self-defense. Then maybe I’d open another one in Portland, and after that: who knows? Another, very fleeting career thought: If I’d really pursued it seriously when I was younger, I might have ended up singing in a band that made it big, or *laughs* otherwise ended up in show business. But it wasn’t the path meant for me, in reality.

25. What is your most marked characteristic?

I’ve always been told I pull the energy right to me once I walk into a room. Most people already there, their attention gets drawn to me even when they’re doing something else. I suppose that’s defined as magnetism. Others’ attention gets me energized and even more confident, though I’ve also been accused of arrogance. It’s something I’ve honed for years: the need to mentally and emotionally grab people and shut down any flickers of doubts they may have about me, my leadership, and my convictions that my course of action is the right one.

26. What do you most value in your friends?

I don’t have many female friends, except my sister and a few from the Academy or college that I keep in touch with on Facebook. It’s not that easy to make friends with most other women because we end up having nothing in common, and of course I’m guarded about my family. If I did have them, I’d value a lack of jealousy or toxic emotional fuckery that’s so prevalent among adult women who never matured past high school age. When it comes to finding a beautiful fuck-buddy, I don’t have nearly as much trouble ;)

27. Who are your favorite writers?

Anyone who has written a good autobiography or memoir. I love following other people’s journeys and experiences through this crazy life with all its highs and lows. They can be famous or not; it doesn’t matter to me. Everyone’s life is a story to tell. Some of my favorites: I’ll read anything by Haven Kimmel, most of Stacy Layne Wilson’s books, and similar. I’m currently reading “The Woman Who Smashed Codes” by Jason Fagone.

28. Who is your hero of fiction?

Most of what I read is non-fiction, like I said. I think anyone who writes down their life story and all its intricacies is pretty heroic, putting it out there for the world to read. If I had to pick a fictional hero, it would have to be Molly Bolt from Rita Mae Brown’s Rubyfruit Jungle. You don’t have to be gay or even female to love this character. It also brought me a long way in realizing how much my own bisexuality is to be owned and celebrated.

29. Which historical figure do you most identify with?

Gloria Steinem. I consider myself a Steinem-era feminist; I was raised that way and it definitely comes from my mother. I see all the ways feminism has changed over the decades, and it’s funny how some of those beliefs are downright conservative when you compare them to some of what’s considered “feminism” today.

30. Who are your heroes in real life?

I don’t truly have a lot of hero-worship for much of anyone. It goes back to my being a supposed egomaniac, which I still think is an exaggeration. Like a lot of kids, especially cops’ kids, my dad was one of my heroes when I was that young. Until I grew up some, then learned he (and any law enforcement officers) isn’t all-powerful against the evil in this world.

31. What are your favorite names?

Those of us three Calhoun siblings: Emma, Caleb, and Norma. They sound rhythmic together. Even though I take serious issue with what my brother did to my sister, we are still bound by blood and that’ll never change. Caleb and I have a rocky relationship, and I would slap handcuffs on him in a second if he ever tried to hurt her again. But he’s still my brother too. Part of me will always believe there should’ve been three of us growing up together. I still wonder how different our lives would’ve turned out if we had.

32. What is it that you most dislike?

People who exploit and harm those who can’t defend themselves. They don’t even have to technically break the law, although most I’ve encountered do just that, over and over. There are too damn many of them in the world.

33. What is your greatest regret?

Shit, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to talk about this. *deep breath* My greatest regret is losing someone I loved deeply and highly valued as a colleague. He was married and a father of two, and I had no business falling for him. Of course that does nothing to stop it, ever. Neither of us could control falling in love. It’s taken me years to accept and believe David’s murder wasn’t my fault, that there was absolutely nothing I could’ve done to stop it. I’m just now coming to accept that what happened to him after he died isn’t my fault either.

34. How would you like to die?

In the words of John Lennon, “I’ll probably get popped off by some loony.” Haha! I kid! Ideally, I’d like to die naturally as an old lady, surrounded by loved ones. I don’t think the odds are much in my favor for that, but we can only wait and see...

35. What is your motto?

If you’re physically and mentally able to do something to make things better and punish the deserving, then you no longer have the luxury of shirking that responsibility.

Also:

“Do what you feel in your heart to be right--for you’ll be criticized anyway. You’ll be damned if you do and damned if you don’t.” --Eleanor Roosevelt

#character development #ic #rp meme #muse is contemplative #8: both muse and mun

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cupofteajones · 5 years ago

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Fall is just around the corner…and there are exciting highly anticipated new releases that will make you excited for the cooling weather! And this month is perfect to make use of your library card (or sign up for a new one) because of National Libray Card Sign-Up Month. From highly sought out sequel to an upcoming romance from a popular author, September will be one busy month from book lovers:

The Testaments by Margaret Atwood

Expected Publication: September 10

And so I step up, into the darkness within; or else the light.

When the van door slammed on Offred’s future at the end of The Handmaid’s Tale, readers had no way of telling what lay ahead.

With The Testaments, the wait is over.

Margaret Atwood’s sequel picks up the story 15 years after Offred stepped into the unknown, with the explosive testaments of three female narrators from Gilead.

Home Girl by Alex Wheatle

This isn’t my home. Haven’t had a proper home since . . . This is just somewhere I’ll be resting my bones for a week and maybe a bit. This time next year you’ll forget who I am. I haven’t got a diddly where I’ll be by then. But I’m used to it.

New from the UK-based best-selling black British author and winner of the Guardian Children’s Book Award, Home Girl is the story of Naomi, a teenage girl growing up fast in the foster care system. It is a wholly modern story which sheds a much-needed light on what can be an unsettling life—and the consequences that follow when children are treated like pawns on a family chessboard.

Home Girl is fast-paced and funny, tender, tragic, and full of courage—just like Naomi. It is Alex Wheatle’s most moving and personal novel to date

I’m currently reading this right now and I find it both heartbreaking and entertaining and would be engaging to any reader who is a fan of realistic fiction.

Bringing Down the Duke by Evie Dunmore

England, 1879. Annabelle Archer, the brilliant but destitute daughter of a country vicar, has earned herself a place among the first cohort of female students at the renowned University of Oxford. In return for her scholarship, she must support the rising women’s suffrage movement. Her charge: recruit men of influence to champion their cause. Her target: Sebastian Devereux, the cold and calculating Duke of Montgomery who steers Britain’s politics at the Queen’s command. Her challenge: not to give in to the powerful attraction she can’t deny for the man who opposes everything she stands for.

Sebastian is appalled to find a suffragist squad has infiltrated his ducal home, but the real threat is his impossible feelings for green-eyed beauty Annabelle. He is looking for a wife of equal standing to secure the legacy he has worked so hard to rebuild, not an outspoken commoner who could never be his duchess. But he wouldn’t be the greatest strategist of the Kingdom if he couldn’t claim this alluring bluestocking without the promise of a ring…or could he?

Locked in a battle with rising passion and a will matching her own, Annabelle will learn just what it takes to topple a duke….(Credit: Berkely)

Girl by Edna O’Brien

Expected UK & Irish Publication: September 5

Expected US Publication: October 15

I was a girl once, but not any more.

So begins Girl, Edna O’Brien’s harrowing portrayal of the young women abducted by Boko Haram. Set in the deep countryside of northeast Nigeria, this is a brutal story of incarceration, horror, and hunger; a hair-raising escape into the manifold terrors of the forest; and a descent into the labyrinthine bureaucracy and hostility awaiting a victim who returns home with a child blighted by enemy blood. From one of the century’s greatest living authors, Girl is an unforgettable story of one victim’s astonishing survival, and her unflinching faith in the redemption of the human heart. (Credit: Faber Faber)

Pet by Akwaeke Emezi

Expected Publication Date: September 10

Pet is here to hunt a monster. Are you brave enough to look?

There are no more monsters anymore, or so the children in the city of Lucille are taught. With doting parents and a best friend named Redemption, Jam has grown up with this lesson all her life. But when she meets Pet, a creature made of horns and colours and claws, who emerges from one of her mother’s paintings and a drop of Jam’s blood, she must reconsider what she’s been told. Pet has come to hunt a monster, and the shadow of something grim lurks in Redemption’s house. Jam must fight not only to protect her best friend, but also to uncover the truth, and the answer to the question-How do you save the world from monsters if no one will admit they exist?

In their riveting and timely young adult debut, acclaimed novelist Akwaeke Emezi asks difficult questions about what choices a young person can make when the adults around them are in denial. (Credit: Make Me A World)

The Institute by Stephen King

Expected Publication: September 10

As psychically terrifying as Firestarter, and with the spectacular kid power of It, The Institute is Stephen King’s gut-wrenchingly dramatic story of good vs. evil in a world where the good guys don’t always win. (Credit: Scribner)

Red At The Bone by Jacqueline Woodson

Expected Publication Date: September 17

An unexpected teenage pregnancy pulls together two families from different social classes, and exposes the private hopes, disappointments, and longings that can bind or divide us from each other, from the New York Times-bestselling and National Book Award-winning author of Another Brooklyn and Brown Girl Dreaming. (Credit: Riverhead Books)