#he does have a very good paternal instinct - as seen with them as adults - but he thinks children are easily breakable and that scares him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lafcadiosadventures · 2 years ago

Text

Madame Putiphar Readalong. Book One, Chapter Three:

(original illustration on the second volume of the paperback 1st edition of madame Putiphar, depicting a clock without hands over two crossed tibiae and a teardrop falling. You can almost picture André Breton going crazy over this, gathering like-minded friends...)

We have seen last week how the Castle is a curious sort of prison. Here we will explore how harm can take the guise of love. It’s not so much about personal good intentions paving the way to hell, but rather, about intentions having little to do with anything, we become gears in the mechanisms of culture (or as perhaps Borel would say, we are instruments of a certain kind of “fatalité”). Even without knowing it, we can enact roles that suppress other’s freedoms.

We also continue with Borel’s indagations on free will, with the occasional diderotian flavor.

And most importantly, we meet our protagonist: Deborah.

The form of the chapter is similar to the previous one: dialogue with one or two minimal interventions from the narrator. The narrator, does not use his space to lead the reader’s opinions on the characters. (as in shakespearean theatre, we get no didaskalias, just the character’s words.)

We learn that our Labyrinthine Castle has secret passages that can even be used to trick its master. (it seems like lady Cockermouth is slyer than her husband thinks) We meet Debby, our young heroine. We do not get a physical description of Debby (as we didn’t of her parents) which seems unusual to me. The books I’m used to reading from France at this period usually have to have a physical portrait of the character, and brief psychological profile of different degrees of ambiguity before we hear them talk. Think Balzac, Hugo. The narrator has to show you first how they look, sometimes a bit of how they act and/or think to make you curious and also, perhaps to guide your opinions on them. This is pure theatre or 18th c philosophical dialogue.

We are only told Debby is inwardly fearful, but wearing an affectionate demeanor.

And we get to know Lady Cockermouth a bit better, Fear and submission have made of her a manipulative sort of person.

She performs an interrogation. And if we see the Castle as a prison, Lady Cockermouth is kind of the good cop to Lord Cockermouth’s bad cop (with the caveat that she is also terrorized by him, she is not his equal and things would have been different if she weren’t married to him)

She greets her daughter by praising her diligent obedience. She wants to know if Debby is still seeing Patrick. She describes Debby’s love for Patrick to her. She characterizes it as a sort of fraternal bond that has dangerously bloomed into romantic love and sexual attraction.

We learn that Lady Cockermouth thinks of herself as made weaker by her maternal instinct. (Borel is refreshingly very critical of the repressive uses of science of his day, we have seen him mock phrenology back in chapter one. I’d like to imagine he would scoff at the idea of an innate maternal instinct)(Rousseau’s idea that maternity is natural and paternity is cultural and has to be learnt, therefore intellectual comes to mind) Deborah, her mother informs us, would grow furious at their daily separation. Her father would throw fits of rage at her mother for allowing their friendship. But it would have been cruel of her to deprive her of her only friend. But now Pat is an adult and Debbie has forgotten what’s “decorous” for a woman and “appropriate” for her superior rank. Her mother begs her to remember all the pain her tolerance of Debby’s love has brought them. She thinks her husband’s abuse is a normal reaction to her stepping out of line. She tells Debby how she has defended her from her father’s claims that she is a woman who has “nocturnal engagements” (the french original wording leaves little doubt: fille -which can also be used to refer to a sex worker-à commerce -enough said-nocturne) Manipulatively, she says it’s impossible for Debby to have acted in ways that would harm her father’s pride and bring sorrow to her mother. (daughters’ feelings are out of the equation, they must carry the banner of their father’s pride and honor, and ensure the tranquillity of their mothers by being good girls. That is all)

Debby cries out and admits she has been seeing Patrick. Her mother grows terrified that her father will hear them. Lady Cockermouth maintains even if Debby’s love wasn’t guilty, she should have stopped it because it brought her husband’s arm of lead upon her.

And then we get to my favourite part of the chapter. Debby’s reflection on the incidence of free will on love (i was reminded of a quote by Diderot’s Jacques). Can a person really choose who they love? We know that will and choice have nothing to do with love, you can rationally choose a partner, but there’s an instinctual level to who we fall in love with. It is not a matter of willing to stop. Even if Debby, using her head, has tried to satisfy her parents and play her role as a baroness, she cannot bring her self to it. Even reason tells her this is wrong since Patrick’s only crime is poverty and a lack of rank.

“If there are people who can, at the sound of a whistle, fall in or out of love, I am not one of them. I have tried everything; said to myself all sorts of things to overcome my passion; and everything I did to destroy it has accomplished nothing but its consolidation. I have finally abandoned this unequal duel against nature; and I have let myself be stirred by the currents; if they drag me to an abyss, so be it, I would still follow it.”

Love as a force of Nature, fatalism, determinism even...

In this passage Debby also enacts a subject Borel seems to interested in. Love as a parallel or equivalent force to the search for freedom, whichs fulfilment can lead to death. In his story La nonne de Peñaranda, the novice Benita Pérez de Aguilar, sees love as a way out of the convent, and is prepared to die in its pursuit. Both Debby and Benita are locked away against their will and a man’s love is their chance to get out. In Debby’s case the bond is less circumstantial, if the nun seemed to be taking the first possible ally for escape she finds, and love might be play acting on the nun's part to get the soldier's help, Debby and Patrick are united by fate and nature, and of course, they know each other for much longer. And dying while following this amalgamation of love and liberty is better than longevity inside a jail.

Her mother thinks Debbie has learnt this philosophy from Patrick. She corrects her. Her “peasant” is not a man of a scandalous nature. She speaks from her own heart. Debby yields to her mother’s interrogatory and admits she has seen Patrick for a year, every night. Sometimes inside the castle, lots of others, in the surrounding forest. Her mother calls her shameless. Debby claims they are having edifying conversations.

Her mother assures her even if she had “fallen” she would still treat her affectionately, because depriving someone of affection is to applaud the person’s vices (ok?) or to drive them to suicide. (she will show affection because she is afraid of Debby’s reaction if she ceases being affectionate to her, it’s interesting that she doesn’t say she’d love her anyway. As if it wasn’t already abundantly clear, look how afraid this woman is constantly. She is never spontaneous, always calculating the effect her reactions will have on others.)

And she implores Debby not to confirm her father’s suspicions that Deb is rejecting the suitors because of her love of Patrick. She is to be presented a new one soon, and if she refuses him too, she will be sent to a correction facility in England “until her feelings become more sociable” Debbie is outraged that she is being “treated like she is insane or a prostitute” (that wouldn’t make this sort of treatment ok either, Debby) by her own parents, and sticks to her vow: being Patrick’s or God’s.

What follows is a discussion on filial love:

The mother accuses her of respecting Love more than filial duties

Debby states that filial duties are only valid if they are part of a reciprocal exchange of love. Why should all sacrifices be made by the children, who must to satisfy their parents, abdicate their reason, sometimes their youth and proceed to ruin their own lives. How dare someone demand a love under such terms. (I wonder if Borel -like Balzac, on the opposing side, is talking here of filial love to imply blind loyalty to the monarch)

Her mother is hurt because even if Debby doesn’t know it, she has made sacrifices for her (the mom is both manipulative and also genuinely afraid for her and her daughter) even greater than the sacrifices Debby has made.

The manipulation works and Debby apologizes to her mother, she is sorry that a certain haphazard or fate, “quelle hasard, quelle fatalité” has made her hurt someone she loves so much.

(le Littré defines hasard as: l'ensemble des événements non liés à des causes, par opposition au destin, qui est l'ensemble des événements prédestinés. hasard: random events not bound to causes.

While fatalité: Enchaînement des choses fatales, de ce qui est réglé par le destin.-> a chain of unfortunate events, as ruled by destiny.)(Debby is juggling two opposite terms here)

The mother is thankful for her apology and proceeds to ask her to break up with Patrick. Which understandably horrifies Debbie.

The arguments the mother uses are again linked with fate and free will. She may be trying to use the Debby’s ideas to persuade her. She claims a break up with Patrick is inevitable and a matter of time (Fate) so, why not break up now with him according to her own (or rather her parent’s) needs and convenience? (Will) She then warns Debby about her father’s surveillance. If she is caught, she’d be lost (and so would her mother). Debby refuses because it’s simply impossible for her. Her mother asks her then, to do it in order to avoid herself the pain and humiliation of her father’s trap.

The narrator intervenes to explain Debby has fallen down and stayed immobile at her mother’s feet, like a statue (in that fine Romantic tradition of comparing characters with works of art) Debby coldly agrees, but asks she is allowed to warn Patrick. She swears after that she’ll never see him again.

The mother is overjoyed because she thinks if she behaves obediently, the abuser will not torment them any longer. She also asks Debby to act as if nothing had just happened when they get all together for lunch. (!)(that’s not asking much right?)

And the narrator describes in some simple words an embrace that is cold and provides no comfort, the mother’s embrace is almost repellent to her in that moment. The narrator tells us Debby feels she doesn’t deserve it. She deserves all the embraces in the world. But this might or might not be alluding to her maybe not being entirely sincere with her mother,, just like the Mother with Lord Cockermouth in the previous chapter. We shall have to wait till next week.

#madame putiphar #putiphar posting #the great putiphar reread of 2023 #long post #text post #could have been a little less detailed probably but we learn as we go

6 notes · View notes

imaginationlandtrilogy · 3 years ago

Note

Kyle having a job that helps little kids makes a lot of sense for him considering how he acted paternally towards them, namely Blanket and Ike. (I understand some being upset it's not Kenny as the counselor, but considering HIS line of helping was with a bunch of different people [and not limited to humans], him doing volunteer work or a bunch of odd jobs sounds more his alley)

I totally agree! Kyle's really sweet and he really does like to help people. Kenny does, too, don't get me wrong, and you're totally right when you say he has a different line of helping. Kyle definitely has more of a soft spot for kids and Blanket and Ike are very good examples of that. I think he has a natural desire to be a mentor-type. He also really likes to take care of problems and resolve them, so yeah - a counselor is a really good job for him!

I think it surprised a lot of people because Kyle is so often portrayed in fanon as doing something big with his life, something held valuable in the traditional American ideal (ex: lawyer or doctor). Kyle's not like that, though. In my opinion, he's not the type of person to want to aim for "big" things like that just because they're traditionally seen as the "best jobs" to have. He'll do his own thing and will often put others over himself, even if he may get in his own head about it. I think he'd have mellowed out about that as he got older, though - especially since he's constantly trying to improve himself as a person. (My bias for Kyle is showing so hard in this ask, I'm sorry dlkfjgkldf)

With Kenny, you make a really good point! I could definitely see him doing volunteer work or odd jobs. I think where people assumed he would want to help kids came from his care for Karen. His desire to protect Karen doesn't come from a love of kids, but rather, his family, in a way - or a brotherly instinct would probably be more accurate. I think he would be more apt to help in areas that he can have empathy in. Like, he understands, so he's more likely to help others in that area. It's really sweet! So, I could 100% see him doing some volunteer work. Actually, it would be really cute if as an adult, he helped kids in not-so-great families with no-so-great incomes just because he's able to have that empathy with them. Kenny would definitely be more apt to help in a variety of things (again, like you said, volunteer work, odd jobs) than one specific specialty like Kyle is.

I think, overall, Kenny likes to help people out of empathy, but Kyle likes to help people out of sympathy. They both like to help others, but that distinction is what leads them to separate paths.

#☆#south park #meta #ar

22 notes · View notes

plaidbooks · 4 years ago

Text

SFW Alphabet - Rafael Barba

I’ve been meaning to do this for forever--it was bugging me having the rest down and not Raf’s (I still need to do Mike’s at some point, too whoops).

Taglist: @witches-unruly-heart @beccabarba @thatesqcrush @itsjustmyfantasyroom @stardust-fray @permanentlydizzy @infiniteoddball @ben-c-group-therapy @glowingmess @whimsicallymad @lv7867 @storiesofsvu @cycat4077 @shroomiehomie @glimmerglittergirl @alwaysachorusgirl @dianilaws @averyhotchner @mrsrafaelbarba @crowleysqueenofhell @detective-giggles @dreamlover31 @prurientpuddlejumper @madamsnape921 @joanofarkansass

(gif by @minidodds)

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Rafael shows his affection in a different way than most. He’s slow and unsteady while trying to open up to you. He needs your help (and patience) to let more of his affectionate side out. He’s definitely a gift giver, showering you with expensive gifts, or a fancy dinner, or a high-class show. But the more he gets used to you, the more he’ll switch from gift giver to physical touch. Cuddling with you, rubbing your calves or shoulders, playing with your hair.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

It started at work, whether you’re a paralegal, lawyer, or detective. You had a particularly snarky response to Rita, leaving her speechless (for once), and Rafael was quick to find out if that was a fluke or if you were that quick-witted. As much as Rafael seems like an egotistical jerk, he’s actually a very good friend. He’s the one you can vent to, or go get a nightcap with, no matter what time it is. He also has amazing advice for almost all situations.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

At first, you have to initiate it. Rafael does love it, but he’s afraid of looking too soft. Once he realizes you’re not running from him, then he’s incredibly touchy, wanting to hold you or be held by you at all times. He’s a big fan of laying on the couch, with you laying on top of him, your body weight comforting.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Rafael wants to settle down, but he needs to be absolutely sure that you’re not going to leave him. He’s afraid of his heart being broken again. But, once you’re in, he’s in, too. He’s been used to cooking for himself for a long time, so he begrudgingly likes it. That is, until he sees how you light up at eating his food; then he likes it more. He hates cleaning—his motto is if nothing is dirty, he doesn’t have to clean. He’s very much a “clean up after yourself” person, his loft immaculate. You don’t mind doing dishes, since he cooks, and you normally do the laundry, but only because Rafael barely has dirty laundry. And if he does, it goes to dry cleaning—except for the odd polo shirt or sweats.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

In person. Rafael has a tight-lipped grimace, upset that it didn’t work out. He’ll stay strong, but you can tell that this hurts him as much—if not more—than it hurts you. He’ll also go to your place to do it, so that if you cry, you’re not out in public, nor do you have to travel home.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

It takes Rafael a while to get married. He moves much slower in a relationship, afraid that if he goes too fast, you’ll be close enough to hurt him. But, once you get past his walls, he’s pretty quick to do the other things, such as moving in together and planning a future.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

At first, Rafael’s not gentle. He doesn’t go out of his way to hurt you or anything, but his sarcasm and arrogance has been a defense mechanism for so long, it’s hard to abandon it. Plus, his public self is what he thinks people want from him, so he hides behind that façade. But again, once you can get him to lower those walls, then you’ll find a hurt, emotional man. That’s when he’s most gentle; when he’s vulnerable.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Shockingly, Rafael is a big hugger! Since he’s too afraid to cuddle too quickly, he makes it up with hugs. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, tugging you against his chest, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His solid body is comforting, especially with that citrusy cologne he wears.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

It takes Rafael a long, long, long time for him to admit he loves you, even to himself. You can say it, and he’ll get choked up, hugging you close and kissing your cheek. He mutters something, and you assure him that he doesn’t have to say it back if he doesn’t want to; you understand. But he shows you that he loves you in every little thing he does. He may also write it down on a sticky note—left on the mirror when he goes in early—before he says it out loud.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Rafael gets very jealous, but it quickly changes to insecurity. What do they have that he doesn’t? Then he’ll start listing his faults in his mind, and it makes him even more sad. If he gets you back before the insecurity happens—while he’s still jealous—then he’s pushing you against the wall and reminding you who you belong to. If you come back to him when his insecurity is running wild, then you need to remind him that you love him, and only him.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Rafael’s kisses are soft, tender, and somewhat desperate…as if you’re going to pull away from him at any moment. (I wrote a HC about his kisses here). He likes to kiss your forehead; he feels it’s more intimate. But also your spine; he loves the feeling of you moving against his mouth. He loves when you kiss his tum—he’s a little insecure about that section of his body, so when you kiss him there? He melts.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Babies…not great. Rafael has no paternal instincts at all and he doesn’t know how to interact with them. But once they start talking, and understanding what he’s saying, he’s better. He’s the type of guy that talks to children as if they’re people, treating them with respect. And he loves to teach them things (especially things that will shock adults).

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Usually, you don’t spend mornings together. Rafael is a “sleep as much as possible, shower, work” person. He’ll kiss your shoulder before rolling out of bed, and he’ll have coffee ready for you for when you get up. Though, if it’s a day off, then Rafael stays in bed with you, cuddling, kissing, and whispering sweet words.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

You both take nights to catch up with each other’s days. One (or both) of you will massage the other’s neck, since that’s where all the stress builds up. And then it’s cuddles o’clock, both of you wrapped around each other as you eat dinner and relax.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Rafael holds his cards close to the chest. But, by doing that, you start to learn about him indirectly. You notice that he only ever talks about his mother, and never mentions his father. You notice that he’ll apologize for something that wasn’t his fault. You notice that he tries a little too hard. You never mention these things to him, but you tuck it away, and are patient with him.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Rafael is easily annoyed but not easily angered. He’s very much a logic > emotions person, and will try and tackle any argument head on, using logic and facts. The things that get him angry, though, are usually work related. He may snap at you after a particularly rough day, but you know he doesn’t mean it.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Contrary to popular belief, Rafael’s mind is a steel trap (in Twenty-Five Acts, the belt thing was mentioned once in passing, and Rafael quickly moved on to something else without even acknowledging it). His downfall is remembering what day it is. He may know your birthday is June 3rd, but when he looks at the calendar and sees it’s June 2nd, he panics and calls in favors to make sure he has a reservation at a fancy restaurant.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

When he took you to a Broadway show. He had his arm wrapped around you, holding you to his chest as you watched—a show he’d seen a thousand times, but loved. But, when he heard you quietly singing to yourself, his heart melted. He had no idea you knew the songs, and afterwards, you both walked down the street, singing the songs together. Rafael only ever sang to his mami and abuelita…and now you.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Rafael goes above and beyond for dates and anniversaries. They’re few and far in between, and it’s to make up for ignoring you during the work week (not that you see it as him ignoring you; he’s just busy. But he thinks the worst). Every day tasks aren’t super over-the-top like dates, but he enjoys your company; you calm him after the stress of his work.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Rafael’s list of importance goes; 1) work, 2) family, 3) you. He’ll always choose work over you (unless you’re in the hospital or something, but then he uses work to get the bastard who put you there). And he’ll always choose his mami over you, as well. This has never been a problem (except for maybe some missed date nights), but the quicker you can accept that, the better.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Rafael is a fashionista at heart. This poor boy growing up in the Bronx, and now shining as a Harvard grad, has an appearance to maintain. He never felt like he “belonged” with the elites he often sees at parties and galas, but the longer he can fool them, the better.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

At first, he doesn’t need you. He’s too afraid to give you so much of himself, and he’s afraid to let you in. But once you make your way into his heart, he finds himself depending on you more and more, whether as just someone whose arms he can collapse into, or someone who will listen to him rant.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

One of Rafael’s favorite things is at night, when you’re in the kitchen (whether doing dishes or getting a drink), he’ll wrap his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder, then sways with you. He kisses your neck and chin, making you giggle and melt further back into him. He’ll keep it up until you stop what you’re doing and turn in his arms, giving him a kiss and dancing with him.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Rafael doesn’t like clingy. He wants someone independent, as he is. He works a lot, and won’t always be there, so he wants someone who has their own life outside of him. He also doesn’t like messy people—he’s a bit of a neat freak, and he’s not going to be cleaning up after you.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

Many nights, Rafael will work until he’s exhausted. He’ll go through his nightly routine before murmuring a “goodnight” and collapsing onto the bed. Though, nights like those, if you lay down close enough to him, he’ll eventually find you in his sleep and wrap around you.

#sfw alphabet #rafael barba x reader #my writing

101 notes · View notes

chicagocityofclans · 4 years ago

Photo

Odell Rella → Michael Trevino → Jackal Animal Shifter

→ Basic Information

Age: 37

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Straight

Born or Made: Born

Birthday: April 17th

Zodiac Sign: Aries

Religion: Agnostic

→ His Personality Odell has a strong and independent survival instinct and is good at thinking outside the box. This started at a young age, being the only child, left Odell out of a lot of clan activities that usually involved large families or siblings. He may seem wholeheartedly cynical, but Odell consistently maintained a sense of honor and compassion. He has a respect for knowledge that feeds into his thirst to travel, seeing and understanding different cultures beyond his own. As an adult, Odell has never had a problem making friends or keeping them for long periods of time over great distances. Due to having a small family, Odell’s friends and personal needs have always meant more to him than being solely family orientated like most Jackals. Though Odell can be rather blunt, pessimistic, sarcastic, bitingly mocking, and cold he has a very vulnerable side which he only shows around his close friends, and he has a natural paternal instinct. Which he has only found out about when Seth joined the pack and Milo started looking up to him. Odell has never been good at acting and has always found it easier to be himself whether it is around new people, his girlfriend's parents, or his clan leader.

→ His Personal Facts

Occupation: Full Time 3rd of Clan Jackal and Part Time Code Enforcer

Scars: None

Tattoos: Wrist Cuff/Band

Two Likes: Urban Exploration and Currency Collecting

Two Dislikes: Baking and Meditation/Yoga

Two Fears: Becoming Alpha/a Leader and Banks (deals with cash only)

Two Hobbies: Glamping and Home Workout

Three Positive Traits: Permissive, Daring, Detail-Oriented

Three Negative Traits: Assertive, Unreserved, Untrusting

→ His Connections

Parent Names:

Auster Rella (Father): If you know Odell, there is no need to get to know his father because there is not much of a difference between Odell and Auster. They are the same person and are nearly identical. After Odell returned home from college with stories of his adventures he convinced his parents to vacation. They are currently on year 8 of their 10 year vacation plan and Odell is proud.

Katrina Rella (Mother): Katrina is a nice and doting mother. She is Odell’s number one fan and Odell knows that he can do no wrong in her eyes. He was surprised when Katrina agreed to leave on a 10 year vacation and misses her cooking. Odell thinks his parents might be trying to have another baby.

Sibling Names:

None

Children Names:

None

Romantic Connections:

Zelda Harris (Girlfriend/Best Friend): Odell does not remember much about Zelda before he left for college but 10 years that he was gone, she flourished into something that would have made him stay in town before. They have been dating for less than a year and are taking things as slow as they can as Jackals.

Platonic Connections:

Ellis Watts III (Friend/Leader): Ellis is a great leader. Odell is grateful for the chance and trust Ellis put in him by making him 3rd about 9 years ago. Ellis and Sarah have also mentioned having him put his Ph.D in Educational Leadership & Administration to use as they work towards building a University with Clan Cat.

Zack Harris (Friend/Family): Zack was hard to understand but Odell believes they have a strong relationship now because of their positions within the pack. Odell noticed a difference in their relationship when he started dating Zelda too.

Sarah Harris (Friend/Family): Sarah is very intimidating but Odell would not want anyone else watching his back or dealing with the locals besides her.

Shannon Harris (Friend/Family): Shannon is really nice but needs to relax a little. Odell does not know where their friendship will lead or what she thinks of him.

Luke Bowick (Old Friend): Odell and Luke were friends before Odell left for college nearly 20 years ago. They kept in contact while Odell was away and even attended a few college parties Odell invited Gretchen and Luke to. When Odell returned their friendship seemed to flow easier than before.

Gretchen Sims (Old Friend): Odell met Gretchen before he left for college. They kept in contact while Odell was away and even attended a few college parties Odell invited Gretchen and Luke to. Odell has been back for a while and their friendship is stronger than ever. Gretchen seems to like Zelda which is a plus.

Seth Allen (Friend): Seth was not what Odell expected when he went to pick up an unknown jackal causing Hell. Seth seemed to have been a missing piece their pack needed and fit well with everyone. Odell is sure Seth and Vee have something going on and are trying too hard to hide it from everyone else.

Milo Vasu (Friend): Milo is a sweet kid with a lot of energy. Odell is 100% sure that Milo would have excelled if he had gone away for college.

Katherine King (Friend): Katherine and Odell have their ups and down. They can both run each other's temperatures high and be an annoyance but they are still friends at the end of the day, away from work or pack business.

Leon King (Friend): It took awhile for Leon to warm up to Odell but once he did their friendship took off full blast. Just like the Harris’ family, the King family is becoming relationship goals within the Jackal community.

Matthew William-Jones (Friend): Zelda, Seth and Odell met Matthew at Anonymous and the group continued to share stories and beers all night. Matthew and Odell have kept in touch. Especially since Matthew isn’t bad for a wolf.

Keith ‘West’ Freemen (Party Friend): Odell and West became unlikely friends from their equal desires for a good party and West’s position in ANUBIS.

Vanessa ‘Vee’ Armstrong (Friendly): Odell does not remember Vee from before but she seems to be an important part of the Harris family. Odell is willing to share pleasantries but there is something about her that does not sit right with him.

Tim Boaz (Acquaintance): Odell has never really been interested in talking to or becoming friends with the notorious Boaz twins. Now that they are friends with Seth, Odell has seen them in a different light and are getting to friendly terms.

Lee Boaz (Acquaintance): Odell has never really been interested in talking to or becoming friends with the notorious Boaz twins. Now that they are friends with Seth, Odell has seen them in a different light and are getting to friendly terms.

Hostile Connections:

Benjamin ‘Ben’ Nile (Dislike): Ben music sucks and Odell refuses to act as if he likes it. Ben has taken it personal and Odell could not care any less.

Michael Shaw (Dislike): Odell does not know what Michael's problem is but the wolf automatically becomes hostile around him.

Pets:

None

#Odell Rella #Taken #michael trevino

1 note · View note

galadrieljones · 6 years ago

Text

A Funeral: Chapter 18 (Arthur Morgan x Mary Beth Gaskill)

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2 | Pairing: Arthur x Mary Beth | Rating: Mature

Content: Existential Angst, Friendship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Nature, Touch-Starved, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Angst, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fake Marriage, Epiphanies, Backstory, Banter, Deep Emotions, Sharing a Bed, Swimming, Arthur to the Rescue, Forests, Abduction, Angst, Heavy Angst, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, Sexual Content, Sexual Themes, Adult Content, Canon Divergence, Found Families, Brotherhood, Fatherhood

Summary: To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their journey, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. They’ve been friends for a while now, but life is full of uncertainty and complications, and in their desperate search for meaning together, they endure a number of trials, some small, some big—all of which bring them closer to the insidious dangers of the natural world, as well as to one another, and to their future.

Credit to @bearly-tolerable for the banner!! Art is my own.

***For the rest of this story, you can visit the masterpost or AO3, both linked in the replies to this post and also at my blog.***

Chapter 18: The Storm

That night, a storm rolled into the swamps. It was big, and the black sky ripped open then stitched back with huge lightning deformities and the whole world filled with the sounds of the thunder. Arthur and John were taking a long time to get back from their fishing trip. Mary Beth was reminded of the storm up near O’Creagh’s Run and was struck with anxiety and could not bear to be alone. So she sat in with Abigail and Jack in their room, and Jack had fallen asleep already to the sounds of the storm, while Mary Beth sat by the window, trying to read, but it was no use. Abigail sat knitting quietly, lacking in distress. Sometimes, she would hum little songs. Mary Beth didn’t understand how she could be so calm, but she did not feel like making a big deal or flying up with worry. That was a nuisance. So she just stayed quiet.

The rain was coming down hard. She knew they’d probably built a tent somewhere to wait things out, or maybe they’d stopped in Rhodes to have a drink at the saloon. They were grown men, used to weather. They were smart. They were okay. Her instinct was to get on her horse and go out and try and find them, but she knew that was a dumbass idea of which nobody, not even her conscious mind, could approve. Hosea, Lenny, and Dutch were in St. Denis. Out on the perimeter, getting battered with the rain, were Charles, Bill, and Sadie. She’d seen Kieran ride off sometime in the early afternoon on Arthur’s old horse, Diana, but she didn’t see Diana back with the others now, and she thought it could have just been she was hidden, but Mary Beth was worried he had never made it back—that he, too, was out there, somewhere, festering in the storm. Karen was downstairs, snoring drunk, and Tilly was asleep, too, and Molly was in the other room, and about an hour before, Mary Beth had gone in to see if she’d wanted to come join her and Abigail, but she was not interested. She was not interested in the other women of the camp at all.

At some point, outside, they heard a sort of ruckus. It was Micah and Pearson, and they’d gotten into a sort of spat. Mary Beth spied while Abigail just rolled her eyes, until Charles came slopping in out of the surrounding trees, up to his knees in muck, and he clocked Micah over the head with the butt of his sawed-off until he was all but crawling back to this tent. Pearson had already taken a bad hit to the jaw and was rolling around in a puddle, holding his face. Charles checked on him and hauled him back to one of the covered wagons. The rain was starting to slow down now. The storm finally moving over the water. Mary Beth could feel her chest physically loosen, and at some point, she must have sighed so loud that Abigail looked up, set down her knitting, and became concerned.

“You all right?” she said.

“It’s just this storm,” said Mary Beth.

“You worried about the boys? They’re fine in this, Mary Beth. It’s just water.”

“I know,” said Mary Beth. “I just—there was a storm when we was up north. Some bad stuff happened. I’m feeling anxious from it.”

“What happened?”

Mary Beth kind of glanced out the window where Sadie was coming back to the house with a lantern. She told Abigail about what had happened, with the Murfree Brood. Abigail didn’t know who they were, but she seemed to instinctively understand the concept of backwater murderers. When she saw how it affected Mary Beth so, she seemed to get an idea, and then she reached under the bed and took out a bottle of bourbon. She poured them each a short glass and said, “Let’s go out and sit on the porch. Get some fresh air.”

So they did.

Meanwhile, Arthur and John were holed up in Arthur’s tent—which was actually Hamish Sinclair’s tent—on the shore just north of Braithwaite Manor, passing a bottle of rum they’d found while out exploring the river banks of the Lanahachee. The storm had snuck up on them pretty fast, but they were not strangers to this sort of adversity in the weather, and in some ways, it made it feel like old times.

Their talk on the river had rekindled them as friends again in unexpected ways as they remembered what it was like to just exist in cooperation with one another. Sometimes, running with Dutch was like a competition, in which the concept of loyalty took strange shapes and would phase in and out of importance, focusing all your energies inward, depending on what exactly he had planned, and his chimeric brand of expectations for the day. Over the years, as Arthur got older, he began to feel the lack in the age difference between himself and Dutch, and how Dutch was filled with idealism that had once appealed to him on the level of youth and poverty of the soul, but this had ended. Spending time with Mary Beth, to whom he could actually communicate his feelings and frustrations without fear of being doubted or belittled, and now spending time with John, which was uncomplicated and natural in major ways, he began to see just how little need he had left for Dutch’s philosophies of salvation.

Still, he dreaded the conversation. He had a deep-seated guilt inside him, typical of the eldest child. Even as Dutch was not his father, and he never seemed as such, it was a paternal role he had played in Arthur’s life at a very young and vulnerable age. Arthur often felt mixed up. He did not feel free. He seemed to miss a life that he could no longer remember and possibly had never experienced at all. At some point, John went out to patrol the perimeter of their camp, out of instinct, and Arthur took out his journal to try to wittle away at these feelings he was having.

If I listen to Hosea, he wrote, and that is all I have ever strived for, then I am doing the right thing for myself and for the love I have found, so unexpectedly, while traveling north with Mary Beth. There is a nice Sister in St. Denis—Sister Calderon—to whom I should call for further guidance, maybe. I am sure she would encourage me to commit acts of goodness, the only acts of which I can presently identify being those that involve leaving Dutch and starting fresh with a life that I can be proud of, far away. I never been a religious man, and I don’t fancy becoming one, but sometimes, looking up at things don’t feel so bad. It’s raining here. I hope Mary Beth is not too worried. It reminds me of that bad night up at O’Creagh’s Run when everything felt hopeless for a while. But it turned out that night at Hamish Sinclair’s may have be the first night of my entire existence. Here I go, sounding like a teenager again. Who knows. In any case, the rain seems to be letting up some, and we’ll ride out of here as soon as we’re able. I hope she’s okay. She needn’t worry, but I think she does. It’s so endearing. I just need a ring, then I’ll marry her. I will. That is, if she don’t get too sick of me first. I am confident she won’t, and that I am a fool for even having written this, but we shall see.

When John got back, he said the sky looked like it was calming down. Arthur put away his pencil and his journal into his pack and got up to start putting things away onto his horse. It was nearly midnight, but they decided to ride in anyway. On their way south, past Braithwaite Manor, they ran into a couple stranded klansmen who looked like they’d got caught in the rain. One of them asked Arthur for a lift into Rhodes and caught a boot to the face while John dispatched of the other with the butt of his shotgun. It was too late to start outright murdering, and neither Arthur nor John was in the mood for bloodshed, so they ditched them unconscious by the side of the road, stole their clothes and valuables, which they tossed into the swamps on their way into Shady Belle. They didn’t want to go back to the girls with blood on their hands if they could avoid it, no matter the sort.

They got into camp about half past one. Mary Beth and Abigail were on the porch, drinking whiskey with Sadie. The rain had stopped, and the yard was sloppy. Cain barked as the men got in, and Charles echoed a welcome as they hitched their horses up with the others. When the women on the porch saw what was going on, they all rose up to say hello, and Mary Beth tossed her whiskey cup and then hitched up her skirt and took off through the mud of the lawn and ran straight into Arthur’s arms, colliding with him hard so that he stumbled back a few steps as he caught her, mid-air, her legs wrapped around him tight.

“Hey,” he said, real low, and she tucked her face deep into the scruff and curve of his neck and took a long, deep breath. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“I know,” she said.

He kissed her on the temple and carried her all the way back to the house. At some point, he turned back to look at John, gave him a sturdy nod.

“We’ll talk in the morning,” said John.

“Sounds good,” said Arthur.

“Night, lovebirds,” said Sadie, tipping her hat.

Arthur smiled, but Mary Beth was very weary and would not even bring herself to look up from his collar.

They went inside, went up the stairs, to Arthur’s room. He closed the door, still holding her.

“I’m sorry we got so held up,” said Arthur into her hair. “With all the lightning, we didn’t wanna risk it.”

“It’s okay,” she said, still hanging on.

“You were worried,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. “I know I’m overreacting. But the storm.”

“I know.” He sighed, deeply, pushing the hair off her shoulders and off her face. She looked at him, her eyes drooping. She was tired, he could see. “It’s been a long time since I had someone worrying about me like this.”

She just smiled.

“I don’t want you to worry,” he said, “but I will admit, I like coming back from somewhere, anywhere, to you.”

She looked like she might either fall asleep or start crying. She kissed him instead, revived somehow, and he kissed her back till it turned passionate. Hurried, they undressed each other piece by piece and made love in the bed, full of wanting and relief at being together again. She begged him for his seed and told him stories about their future lives. He said nothing—strong and silent—just loved her, obeyed her, listened to her, until he was done and loose inside of her, and they went slow, then very still, and he fell asleep almost immediately with her running her fingers through his rain-damp hair, and he was sinking like a heavy stone with her smells and her hair and her skin all around him. He was safe.

After Arthur had drifted, Mary Beth slipped away, wrapped in a sheet, and she went outside to pee. It was quiet out there, besides the weird birds and the nighttime noises of the swamps. The whole camp was asleep and at peace around her, and she could hear Pearson snoring in one of the covered wagons and Cain having his whimpering puppy dreams on the porch. What would become of her, of them, of this place, this magical palace of Americana and dying dreams? She turned around to go inside.

But then, she realized she wasn’t alone out there. She saw Sadie. It was a surprise that she was still awake. Did she ever sleep? She was way out in the mud, close to the water, flinging knives at a Tupelo tree and crying. She was unaware of Mary Beth’s presence, stifling her tears to her sleeve and angrily trying to hide it though as far as she knew, there was no one there to see her.

Mary Beth was filled all of a sudden with an indescribable sadness and a huge sense of pessimism and fear. What had become of them? It was terrifying. Sadie was so tough and so strong and so mean sometimes, like one of the men almost. It was easy to forget that she was a widow.

Mary Beth went back inside then, to Arthur. He breathed steadily in his sleep, on his stomach, face buried in the pillow. So peaceful and long and big and full of life. She tried not to think of Sadie, though it made her guilty, made her sore. She placed her hand on Arthur's wide, warm back, absorbing his presence with her own. She hadn’t talked to god since Kansas City, but that night, she decided that she would do it again. She had a reason now, making her burn. She just thought, Let him be okay. Let him be okay. Please? And that was all, and then she turned down the lamp on the windowsill, and she lie down beside him in the quiet sheets. She closed her eyes. She waited.

Meanwhile, John and Abigail lie together in their bed not far away, with Jack asleep on his cot by the window. Abigail had fallen asleep as well a little while before, but John was still worked up from his conversation with Arthur by the river. He was a simple man and his mind could change quickly, and he knew now how right Arthur had been, how close they were to freedom if that is what they so chose in this world. He was filled with terror and excitement, staring up at the ceiling, listening to Abigail breathing by his side. It was the first night they had slept in a bed together in a long, long time, and he knew this had to mean something. Something big. He had almost forgotten what she felt like, how small she was, how much he actually loved her, needed her. Without her, he was just a fuckin balloon, blowing around, getting caught in bad places and nasty heights and horrifying situations in which he kept facing death, always.

He was conflicted, too, with irrational anger for Dutch. It was huge and consuming him, this anger at having been somehow swindled out of a life he could respect, and yet he also knew that this was not Dutch’s fault, that he needed to take responsibility for his own bullshit, and this was a crippling dilemma. He was a goddam idiot, and it was time for him to see this for what it was, accept it, and make a choice. Arthur had already made his choice, which was monumental in scope, thought John, considering the fact that Arthur, of all the people he’d ever known in his whole idiotic life, had always seemed so set in his ways—more so than anyone, it was remarkable. To see him moving forward like this. It was almost enough to give John hope for a future he had never even considered before, let alone considered as a real possibility for himself and for his family.

Abigail stirred then, like she could sense his epiphany in her subconscious dreams. He turned onto his side to face her, cupped her hands in his own. She didn’t wake. He felt the nerves building inside of him. What was he so afraid of? When he realized that it was nothing, that was when he finally felt tired, and he went to sleep.

The next morning, Dutch and Hosea met out on the upstairs balcony of the high saloon in St. Denis. The air was clean and crisp, cleansed from the storm, with the sun coming down and drying the streets, making beautiful colors in the foliage. Dutch was reading the paper when Hosea came out, smoking a cigar and nursing a cup of coffee with added cream. Lenny was downstairs, in a poker game, as the ensuing discussion between the camp elders did not concern him. Hosea took his seat, poured himself a cup of coffee, while Dutch took a puff off the cigar, ashed it into a crystal ash tray on the table. All around them were the sounds and sights of the bustle in the city. The clanking of the trolley cars, the horse hooves on the cobblestone. Elegant women spoke in French accents while their American suitors smoked by their sides. Hosea sipped his coffee, surveying all the morning held in store. He slouched back in his chair with one leg crossed over the other and sighed.

“A fine day,” he said.

“Indeed,” said Dutch. “As soon as young Lenny finishes up the pot downstairs, we should head back to camp.”

“That reminds me,” said Hosea, taking a sip from his cup. “Arthur and Mary Beth returned from their hunting trip, the night before last. ”

Dutch glanced up, over the top of the paper. “You’re just telling me this now?” he said.

“It slipped my mind,” said Hosea, smiling.

“Well, it’s about time,” said Dutch. “I was starting to worry.”

“Me, too,” said Hosea.

Dutch went back to his paper and his cigar. Hosea sipped some more of his coffee, set down the cup, and lit a cigarette. “We need to talk, Dutch,” he said.

“I know,” said Dutch, shaking his head.

“Do you?"

“I know you’ve got feelings about this…Bronte business,” he said. “It ain’t my cup of tea either, Hosea, but we’ve got to play the hand we’re dealt here. Just...trust me. I'm working on a plan. When it comes through, you'll see.”

“This isn’t about Bronte,” said Hosea, smoking, staring off the balcony into the blue sky. It was filled with smog. “Though I do have opinions about that as well. We can cover those back at Shady Belle.”

“Well then, what do you want to talk about?” said Dutch.

“I want to talk about Arthur.”

“What about Arthur,” said Dutch, again consumed with his paper, sipping his coffee.

“Arthur and Mary Beth,” said Hosea.

“What about Arthur and Mary Beth.”

“They’ve found love.”

Dutch glanced up, curious, surprised. “Excuse me?” he said.

“They’re together,” said Hosea, smoking. He was looking right at Dutch now. “It’s serious.”

“How serious?”

“They’re gonna get married,” said Hosea, almost casually, “and they’re gonna have a family.”

Dutch set down his paper. He leaned forward with his hands folded together on the table. He looked confused, hurt even, like he couldn’t wrap his brain around what he was hearing. “Is she pregnant?” he said.

“That much is unclear,” said Hosea. He smoked, ashed the cigarette into the crystal ash tray on the table. “She could be.”

“I’m—this is news to me,” said Dutch, looking down at his hands. He was shaking his head, exasperated, like he’d missed something, something huge. “Arthur and Mary Beth? When did it happen? All on that trip of theirs?”

“According to Arthur, it was latent for a while. The trip brought it to the surface.”

Dutch sighed. He stared off into the distance, past Hosea, into some infinite nothing. “I did not know,” he said. "How is it possible that I did not know?"

“I didn't know either,” said Hosea. “Not until he told me.”

“He told you?”

“Only after I asked him, of course. Yesterday. Arthur isn’t a particularly forthcoming man when it comes to his personal life. You know this.”

“Yes, I do.”

“There is a change coming, Dutch,” said Hosea. He smoked. “A real change.”

“What sort of...change?” said Dutch, softly, still staring past him, real far away—almost like he knew.

“That is what we need to talk about,” said Hosea.

Dutch blinked, looked back down at his hands, which he flexed and studied for a moment. Then, he fussed with the ring on his finger, and he looked up. They met eyes, seriously. Hosea lifted his chin, still slouched, still smoking. For the first time in many months, he felt good. He had Dutch's attention. For the first time in a while, Dutch was listening.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x mary beth gaskill #mary beth gaskill #mary-beth gaskill #a funeral

15 notes · View notes

pilferingapples · 6 years ago

Text

@oceannocturne replied to your post: @aflamethatneverdies replied to your post: ...

Wait, could you talk more about Valjean as mother? I haven’t heard much about that!

I can try! it’s gonna be veeerrry rambly but I’ll try!

This is a concept that Hugo mentions a few times, that Valjean loves Cosette like or as a mother would, as well as like a father:

... (Valjean) felt inward yearnings, like a mother, and did not know what they were, since the strange and great motion of a heart beginning to love is incomprehensibly sweet. (2.4.3, FMA)

When she was dozing at night, before going to sleep, since she had no very clear idea of her being Jean Valjean’s daughter, and that he was her father, she imagined that her mother’s soul had passed into this good man and come to live with her. When he sat down, she would rest her cheek on his white hair and silently drop a tear, saying to herself “Perhaps this man is my mother!” (4.3.4, FMA)

Hugo says this, of course, because he thinks there’s a difference in the love of a father and the love of a mother.

Under a cut for length and discussions of canon era and canon era relevant Gender Issues:

(please excuse the extremely Binary Only discussion of Gender in era framing, btw)

Some of this is just a matter of practical experience; when Hugo also mentions,as he does more than once, moments when Valjean can’t answer the immediate needs of Cosette’s upbringing because Valjean isn’t a mother, sometimes it’s things like fashion, where an old man in a very gender-role-divided society is just not going to know the hot trends in Women’s Youth Fashions or have the social background himself to understand how to coach Cosette on the fine points of etiquette that people expect of a young girl.

That’s realistic and practical-- but it’s not really what Hugo’s thinking of when he’s thinking of Valjean acting as Mother as well as Father. Hugo is thinking in terms of Instinct: the instinct of a mother, in his opinion, and reflecting the opinion of his society at the time, is inherently different than that of a father.

This is especially clear when he’s talking about Cosette’s blossoming romantic/sexual impulses; Jean Valjean can’t advise her usefully, says Hugo, not because Valjean is a traumatized isolated man who’s never been in a serious adult relationship himself, but because it takes a Mother’s Instinct to guide a Young Girl to Awareness of the Mysteries of Life. Not only does Valjean lack that instinct, but he even feels upset when he sees Cosette beginning to grow up and grow beautiful, signifying that, of course, she may soon fall in love (and thus leave him)-- where, Hugo says, an actual mother would feel joy.

Digression: The Napoelonic Code!

The Law of the Land on this matter was the Napoleonic Code. While the Code had its good points (clarity,for example) it was, to simplify hugely, not always a Great Deal for women or children in a family.

Notably, it stated that fathers did not owe their biological offspring any financial or personal support if they weren’t married to their mothers, and made it illegal for a mother to even seek paternal support for children born out of wedlock. Women, on the other hand, were obligated to support their children regardless of circumstance.

( Again this is massively summarizing, not even attempting to cover every case; the details and work-arounds were the makings of legal careers.)

I’m picking this particular example because it speaks directly to the era’s conceptual divide re: fatherhood and motherhood. A father might love and protect his children; it was a choice. A mother, as part of her biological relationship , was assumed to have to. A father who abandoned his out-of-wedlock offspring was maybe a jerk , but honestly even that level of social disapproval might not apply. A woman who abandoned her children? Obscene, unnatural, horrible. It was socially known that it happened , of course, but that didn’t stop people being Shocked And Appalled by it when they found out about a specific case.

--and this ties into the idea in currency at the time that women were creatures of instinct rather than reason, that women were governed more by their bodies than their intellect, that a woman’s Natural Purpose was to be a mother, all of that. Obviously people of the time were not oblivious to the fact that these gendered Ideal Spheres were not always born out in real life! But it WAS the commonly held Ideal Concept.

Hugo had, for his time, some divergent ideas on the concept of gender roles, but about this he was all in line with the mainstream: utterly devoted, selfless , instinctive love for a child, even to the point of physical sacrifice and personal physical self-destruction was a Basic Component of Womanhood. This doesn’t just show up in Les Mis, with his various asides about how a woman without a baby is Unthinkable, etc, but in his other writing, too-- notably Michelle in Ninety Three becomes essentially a primal force of Maternal Caring, and the Sachette in Notre Dame is pretty much an awful person in all stages of her life except that she truly loves her child, because Motherhood Beats Everything.

So when Cosette recognizes Valjean as embodying her mother, and Valjean feels love for Cosette as if he were becoming a mother , rather than a father, the implication is that this is a more instinctual, inarguable devotion than a father would have. A father’s love is framed as conditional; Hugo allows that there are fathers who hate their children! The aspect of Valjean’s love that’s more paternal is also more self-interested; a mother would be glad that Cosette is beautiful, and will therefor have an easier time making a match; Valjean, being not really a mother, is distressed by the implication that Cosette might have an easier time making a match, and leaving him. (again, Hugo frames this SPECIFICALLY as a consequence of his parenting not really quite being motherly.)

But Valjean is also symbolically linked into, yes, really taking over for Cosette’s mother. He first sees her nine months after Fantine dies, he “delivers” Marius, not merely from the barricade, but in a very grim Symbolic Labor through the sewers and back into the world, and he will, ultimately, cannibalize his own body and physical well-being to provide for Cosette’s future (however little that...actually needs to happen....). Motherhood and Martyrdom are very often linked in Hugo’s work, and Valjean doesn’t escape that here, either.

There’s also a certain, well, Queerness in this-- childcare and prioritizing the parental role above all else was very much seen as Woman’s Work, and a man taking that on was not unlikely to be...well, teased about it at the very least. How soft and womanly of them! This also threads together with Valjean’s Hugolian chasteness/virginity, which is with Hugo almost an agendered state, and oh gad, that’s an entirely different bag of worms but

TL: DR - Hugo symbolically casts Valjean as inheriting not just guardianship but motherhood of Cosette from Fantine, in a social and textual context where “motherhood” is distinct from general parental love and very very gendered, and thus somewhat queers Valjean’s gender role, and, notably, this is not ever treated as bad or laughable but as an ennobling extra dimension to his spiritual growth, and possibly even what gives Valjean the power to make his ultimate sacrifices.

This is IMO in keeping with other Romanticist and Romantic-era questioning and queering of gender roles and the entire concept of the Romantic Androgyne (which was also in dialogue with things like the Evadamistes etc) but that is again ANOTHER long Digression, and this is, uh. Enough of a Post >_<

Also, there used to be fans around who were much more eloquent about this than I am, but they have mostly moved on, though maybe some will appear to point out how I Get It WrongXD

#talking to people through replies what #long post #Valjean talk #I..am not sure what to tag this #so I can find it again #uh #Romantic Queer Readings #Maybe??#Gender Shenanigans

102 notes · View notes

douchebagbrainwaves · 4 years ago

Text

HERE'S WHAT I JUST REALIZED ABOUT WRITING

It's usually a mistake for a promising company less than a year old even to talk to other people uncannily prescient will seem obvious to you. Good VCs are smart money, but also that there are or aren't standards of taste. You'll be working on your own thing, instead of flowing down from the top. That's what was killing all the potential startups. You may dispute either of the premises, but if you get bored halfway through and start making the bricks mechanically instead of observing each one, the drawing will look boring. Originally the only way to find out is to try to think of VCs as piratical: bold but unscrupulous. While I'm sure Larry and Sergey as one person. That's what you're addicted to. It felt as if someone had brought up the topic of lung cancer. The third cause of Microsoft's death: everyone can see the same thing. He didn't mean it to be a contender again, this is not what I remember from it, I doubt it would amount to much more than a page.

The point is, you can at least approach that by getting rid of the sources of error in your own company, like Wozniak did. When you're trying to solve is still there. But here's a related suggestion that goes with the grain instead of against it: that universities establish a writing major. They have an answer, certainly, but if he does well he'll gradually be in a position of having to choose one out of a random set of individual biases, because the suggestion of stopping gets combined in your mind with the imaginary high price you think they'll offer. Adults would sometimes come to speak to us about their work, and indeed that the reason there aren't more Googles is that most startups get bought before they can change the world, not as a way to start a startup to be rejected by all the VCs except the best ones. And if you're doing really well, you can be as convinced as you like about your idea, and it will seem to other people uncannily prescient will seem obvious to you. They just got the job done.

What should they do? There are no shops on the island and you won't be able to say they were funded by Sequoia, even if you don't like to get you to the point where you're trying to make art, the temptation to be lazy is as great as in any other kind of work is the future. Occasionally the things adults made you do were fun, just as, occasionally, playing wasn't—for example, so competition ensured the average journalist was fairly good. For example, open source software is more reliable precisely because it's open source; anyone can find mistakes. Something you publish ought to tell the reader something he didn't already know. So is it coming out of them was to ask for more because they know it's true. So is email, on a smaller scale in wood. Jack Lambert was the exception. But if you find a work of art sets expectations by its level of finish.

One got that by fighting, whether literally in the case of Gilded Age financiers contending with one another to assemble railroad monopolies. A couple weeks ago I finally figured it out. By honest I don't mean to imply that good design aims at some kind of paternal responsibility toward employees without putting employees in the position of children. There is a point where I'll do without books. There are tricks in startups, as there are in any domain, but they are an order of magnitude less important than solving the real problem. They have the same sullen resentment as children made to do something with what you've read to feel productive. All the pain of whatever problem you're trying to make a billion dollars a year. The suburbs of Pittsburgh in the 1970s were a pretty dull place. School was boring. Nearly all the people we fund at Y Combinator use Apple laptops. I could find.

But reading Austen is like reading nonfiction. For practically its whole existence, that is. Some ideas are easy for people to relive experiences without any goal in mind, simply to learn from open source and blogging is that ideas can bubble up from the bottom, instead of flowing down from the top. Is there some way to beat this limitation? If you found people who'd never seen an image of it and sent them to a museum in which it was hanging among other paintings with a tag labelling it as a way of exploring the world, and in the process not to starve. Thump. At this point, anyone proposing to run Windows on servers should be prepared to explain what they know about servers that Google, Yahoo, and Amazon don't. And yet as it gets cheaper to start startups hope universities can teach them about startups.

Plenty of things we now consider prestigious were anything but obvious. That type of founder is going to come up with will not merely be bad for your career to say that the unsuccessful founders had the sort of founders about whom we'd say they can take care of itself. For example, when I was younger. Much as everyone thinks they want financial security, the happiest people are not those who have it, but this algorithm guarantees they'll miss all the very best ideas. So you can still get large returns on large amounts of money; you just have to spread it more broadly. There is a point where I'll do without books. But I don't think you can even talk about good or bad design except with reference to some intended user.

PB made a point in your life. I'd read. At each step, flow down. Most of the people who a are hard to overcome when you suddenly get competition. There was some initial resistance, but it has to double: if you depend on an oligopoly, you sink into bad habits that are hard to trick, only users, and you have misgivings about them, trust your instincts. Here's an upper bound: Do what you love assumes a certain length of time. Questions aren't enough. Not necessarily. None of these companies were even meant to be companies at first. And to my horror I started acting like a child. I don't know enough to say.

0 notes

tmcastandcrew · 7 years ago

Text

Toronto Film Review: ‘Breath’

A pretty complete review.

SEPTEMBER 15, 2017

Having directed several episodes of his own long-running TV vehicle “The Mentalist,” Aussie actor Simon Baker makes a confident transition behind the camera to feature filmmaking with “Breath,” the tale of two teens’ introduction to surfing under an older man’s tutelage. Baker also plays the adult lead, and co-wrote the screenplay adapted from celebrated Oz scribe Tim Winton’s 2008 novel (his 20th). Though not without its flaws, the movie has authenticity and resonance; there have been plenty of good surfing documentaries, but very few good dramas about the sport — a short list on which “Breath” instantly earns a prominent spot.

Winton himself provides lyrical voiceover narration in this flashback account of our main protagonist’s early teens in a small town near the western Australian coast (its time period rendered somewhat vaguer than the mid-’70s of the book). Bruce, aka “Pikelet” (Samson Coulter), is a 13-year-old from a stable home who dutifully attends school. That’s not the case for 14-year-old bestie Ivan, aka “Loonie” (Ben Spence), a wild child who appears to run loose, save when he’s being beaten by his awful father. (Pikelet’s more tolerant pa is played with gentle strength by Richard Roxburgh.)

The two boys are agog at their first glimpse of surfing: “Never had I seen something so beautiful, so pointless and elegant, as if dancing on water was the best thing a man could do,” the adult Bruce recalls. They start their first copycat attempts with cheap styrofoam “boards,” then save enough money to get amply banged-up, second-hand fiberglass ones. Their dedication gets noticed by Sando (Baker), an initially mysterious presence who one day gives them a ride in his truck and offers to let them stash their boards at his place just down the road — a huge logistical improvement since they’ve been laboriously hauling their gear to the beach every day on bicycles. They take Sando for just another hippie “surfie.” A first glimpse of his ramshackle home and willowy, not particularly friendly girlfriend Eva (Elizabeth Debicki) does little to alter that judgment.

But as Sando takes the boys under his wing, teaching them about the sea, about surfing technique and philosophy, they begin to realize they’ve lucked onto an extraordinary teacher. (At least Pikelet does — Loonie can scarcely feel or express gratitude for anything.) That’s even before they discover that their mentor is in fact a famous former pro surfer. What’s more, expat Yank Eva was a hotdogging ski champ, until she was sidelined by the serious knee injury that explains her usually foul mood.

Though he continues to attend school, even acquiring an ersatz girlfriend (Miranda Frangou), Pikelet grows ever more obsessed by this “hobby.” But, unlike Loonie, who seems fearless almost to the point of self-destructiveness, he’s wary of the increasingly dangerous, secret coves Santo introduces them to. It’s that perceived failure of nerve that temporarily gains Looney preferred treatment, leaving Pikelet behind — but not alone, as he soon forms a “Summer of ’42”-type bond with Eva, who’s also been left behind.

These later developments are well-handled, but don’t play as organically as the first hour of “Breath,” which is straightforward and simple in the best, purest sense. Part of the problem is that newcomer Coulter isn’t quite actor enough yet to convey the more complex emotions the script demands of him. (Spence, also presumably chosen as a natural surfer — both young thesps conspicuously toe their own boards — has an easier time playing a character who’s all externalized id.) Plus, the sexual initiation feels a tad formulaic in narrative terms, even if Winton labors a bit too hard to avoid cliche, introducing a kinky aspect to Eva’s neediness that perhaps introduces more grown-up mess than this story really needs.

Nevertheless, “Breath” ultimately comes snugly into port as a multi-planed rite-of-passage tale that reaches a satisfyingly poignant and quiet conclusion. Unlike many surfing movies, this one isn’t big on spectacular wave-riding or underwater shots (though Rick Rifici’s handling of both is expert). The emphasis, instead, is on physical and psychological credibility in line with the juvenile protagonists’ inexperience. Baker does a lot as an actor to put the whole enterprise across, creating a mentor whose wisdom and faintly paternal instincts are palpable, yet who’s also peevish enough to slough off any St. Surfer Dude halo thrust upon him.

#simon baker #simon2017 #breath #breath the movie

19 notes · View notes

bluepunkmon · 8 years ago

Text

Armageddon Blues

My final short story for creative writing class!

Wherein a musician at the end of her rope tries one last-ditch effort to save her skin.

Rainey had been playing the old guitar for over three hours and her fingers felt like they were seconds away from shriveling up and falling to the sandy floor of the abandoned chapel. This was the longest she’d ever played without stopping. Even with her new, ill-gotten skills, fatigue was starting to creep into her peripheral vision. But she kept playing from her seat in the third pew from the front of the church, the one that looked the least likely to collapse into a pile of thirsty splinters the minute she sat down on it. The quick, mournful notes fluttered through the cracks in the dilapidated ceiling and spiraled into the desert sky above. The was no time for breaks – according to Rainey’s cracked phone screen she’d started playing around 8:30. There wasn’t much time left till midnight, and she’d be literally and figuratively damned if she didn’t give it her all while she still could.

The setup was right, as far as the books she’d checked at the public and college libraries and days of Internet searches at told her. The altar at the front of the chapel had been painted and decorated in countless interesting lines and hoops of symbols, and candles and incense were burning, though that wasn’t enough to beat back the chill of night, which seemed to emanate from the building itself. One might even call the scene a desecration, if anyone still used the one room church.

Maybe it as the song choice that was making this take so long. Rainey had started out playing fragments of music she’d found in the pdf documents online, but maybe an hour into the attempted ceremony her fingers slipped of their own accord into the familiar renditions of song sets, though so hurried and scared she hardly recognized them. By the time she noticed, she was halfway through a 5th play through of Crossroad Blues.

Some invisible pressure buried its claws between her shoulder blades, piercing the parched skin. She looked up, fingers still dancing pleadingly across the guitar strings. There was a lioness lying across the altar. She stared down at Rainey with an air of feline, haughty displeasure.

Rainey finally stopped playing. The chapel fell dead silent, except for the low howling of the wind outside, and the soft sounds of her own breathing, sudden noise of heart beating in her ears. The lioness was huge, though if she was huge for a lion Rainey didn’t know. Maybe it was normal for lions to look like they could your whole head in their mouth with plenty of room leftover to spare. Rainey set her guitar in the seat beside her and moved to the center aisle. The big cat’s amber eyes followed her, but the rest of it stayed still as a statue.

She stood, almost shaking in dirty shoes, pants torn around the hem and a touristy t-shirt that she’d been proud of before but now seemed grossly inadequate for the event at hand. The lioness was looking more impatient by the second. Or, Rainey assumed it was impatience. She’d never had any cats, never been room for them when she lived with her mother the first ten years of her life or in the foster homes and beat down apartments she’d lived in for the next thirteen. She always heard that they liked respect. Didn’t most things? She bowed from the waist

“What the hell do you want.” Sekhmet said flatly. Rainey assumed she was Sekhmet at least, unless the ritual went really pear shaped and she accidentally summoned an entirely unrelated lion goddess.

They were off to a bad start. Still, she’d talked her way into the good graces of angrier people before. Though no one with such sharp teeth.

Rainey straightened from her bow, staring into the lioness’s eyes and not at its mouth, half open in a grimace. “I’ve heard and read stories about you, your beauty, your military prowess, your strength-“

“Flattery?” She said. Or, growled, rather. The lioness’s voice was in her head, but the big cat’s mouth hadn’t moved. “You pester me for hours on end with that noise just for flattery?!”

The lioness snarled so loudly that it shook sand from the ceiling. Rainey flinched back and her hand flew to the threadbare rabbit’s foot chained to her belt. She bit back the reflexive need to argue that her music was not noise. The candles on the alter were stumps now, burning their last, and midnight stars were shining trough polluted haze of the sky.

“I need to make a deal,” Rainey said.

“No.”

“You’re not even going to hear me out?”

“No,” The cat repeated, “And I’m doing you a favor by not striking you down right now.” She jumped down to the floor, and was definitely not normal lion sized. Sweat started to bead on the back of Rainey’s neck. The broken chapel was growing uncomfortably warm, as if the lioness was radiating something stronger and more efficient than heat that was warming the air. “Why did you even call me? Don’t you have your own gods to help you?” She asked.

“We’re not exactly on speaking terms at the moment.” Commune with the wrong gods once or twice or ten times and suddenly you can’t even go into a church without braking out in hives. It was downright rude. That she found a place of worship that didn’t cause an allergic reaction made her hope this could go off without a hitch, but no such luck it was seeming. (If her mother was still around, she would have blamed it on Rainey never liking to eat black eyed peas on New Year Days. She hated the cloying way they sat on her tongue after she ate them, always skipped over them for pork. She’d doubled down on eating black eyed peas after was in hospital, in hopes that they’d give her luck when she needed it most. They didn’t.)

Sekhmet yawned, flashing canine teeth twice the length of Rainey’s middle fingers. “Unfortunate. But not my problem.”

Now of all times Rainey’s stomach decided to growl, sending a stab of futile hunger through her. She hadn’t eaten before the ceremony, hadn’t eaten the whole day in fact. Food was scarcer than usual in the dry desert that used to be Georgia, and she hadn’t had time to buy or barter for anything. She pushed it to the back of her mind. “You stand to benefit though, more than me even!” She had almost no time left, time to sell it. “No one really worships you now, right? Or at least a lot less people than there used to be. But I can change that before it’s all over.”

The lioness was silent, but she gave Rainey the most skeptical look she’d ever seen from anyone, human, animal, or deity.

“When I play and sing, people listen.” She picked up her guitar for emphasis and strummed a few chords. “I start writing and singing about you, other people start talking, the word spreads. Next thing you know you’re the god on everybody’s minds and lips before we all go under. That’s got to count for something, right?”

She knew it counted for something because Sekhmet’s ears pricked up in interest. She leaned forward and took a whiff of air from Rainey’s direction. “These abilities are from –“

Damn it, she didn’t have time to explain. “Another deal yes, now do you want in or not?” The candles were burning lower and lower, and even as she stared pleadingly at them they snuffed out altogether. The lioness’s soft glow was the only source of light in the chapel.

“It would be in very poor taste if she did agree,” A lilting baritone voice behind her said. Mostly on instinct, she moved closer to Sekhmet and the light and farther from the chapel entrance as goose bumps broke out on her arms.

The first time she met him, at a crossroads on the night of her 18th birthday, he bore more than a passing resemblance to a picture a classmate in third grade had shown her. It was a picture of the classmate’s father, a young heroic looking man in a warm looking jacket, with broad shoulders, dark round aviator glasses, and a crooked nose. Rainey had no pictures or stories of her father, so she imagined her own father to look like him, tall and strong and kind, and once he’d come back he’d pick her and Mamma up in his arms and everything would be okay.

She kept her guard up during the subsequent guitar lessons after their first meeting. She knew what she was getting into, who she was making a deal with. But the entire time he was endlessly, almost unnaturally, kind and patient and welcoming. The thought that maybe he wasn’t so bad seeped into cracks in her defenses like mold. Maybe it would be a good thing, to trade away her soul. The first time she caught herself thinking that, when she was warming up before a show in South Carolina, she ran to the bathroom and retched.

Even when he was only backlit by the weak light outside, Rainey could tell he looked completely different from the last time she’d seen him, both in his physical structure and posture; there was no trace of the paternal airs he’d put on before. He was white now, with thin blond hair and heterochromatic eyes that shone unnaturally in the dark. His suit, business suit instead of an aviator jacket, was untouched by the sand and ground fish bones that blew around outside and soaked into the wood of the chapel and into Rainey’s clothes. A Doberman Pinscher sat at his heels, with cropped knifelike ears and red eyes. It liked its lips, tongue tracing over un-canine, needle-like fangs.

“Long time no see.” Rainey’s voice was almost unintelligibly raspy. Some people, her late mother included, would say she should be all too familiar with this type of predicament. It was a feeling familiar to children when they break an object their parents put on a high shelf and told them not to touch, familiar to students when a test is placed in front of them and they realize they have not studied enough by far, a feeling familiar to an adult who does a double take on when that bill is actually due. It is a feeling and knowledge, deep in your bones, that you are completely screwed. “How’ve you been, Lucifer?”

He smiled, and it did not reach his strange eyes. “I’ve been busy. These are the end times, and people are much more willing to bargain. I can be in multiple places at once and even I’m getting tied of collecting all these payments.” He nodded to Sekhmet in acknowledgement, and the goddess did not indicate that she noticed him at all.

He walked forward like he owned the place, the dog following silently at his heels. “I wanted to follow up on this personally. I haven’t gotten to do a musical deal in a long time.”

Rainey tried to speak. “I-I don’t – “

“Hey now, no getting out of this. I gave you talents with the guitar and five good, fortunate years. Now it’s your turn to pay up.”

“Good? I spent half of it couch surfing and running from cops.”

“You were alive. I call that fortunate.”

In her defense it seemed like a good idea at the time. It’d been her dream as far back as she could remember, and the thought that she could use it to get money and food made it all the better. And it wasn’t like she was using her soul at the time. As things turned out, musical talent, magically inspired or not, was not as reliable as she thought it would be. When it came down to it being a thief often paid better than being a musician.)

Frustration was enough of a kick to ground her, and her words came out clear this time. “I’m not going with you.”

He stopped walking. He didn’t say anything, and his face didn’t change, but the bone-dry air in the chapel did. An almost electrocuting pressure forced the air from the room and Rainey was rooted in place and almost crushed by it. It was magic, or maybe the pure essence of power. It surrounded him like cologne before, though then it was just like a small well of charisma or fate, nothing compared to now.

Just as quickly as it flared up, the wall of force settled, and it was easier to think and more again without overwhelming fear. Sekhmet once again showed no reaction to anything going on before her, and had actual sat down and started to groom herself in Rainey’s peripheral vision. SO this summoning was a bust. Maybe if Rainey’d tried to summon a fallen angel, the rivalry might have been enough for them to take her in.

Lucifer straightened the already prefect edges of his suit. “But, very well. We can have a trial by music if it’ll stop you from making so much noise about it.” He cast a pitying glance at Rainey’s guitar, still half hiding on one of the old church pews. “Thought you’ll need an actual instrument to play with.”

“Hey, don’t you say shit about my guitar!” She yelled it without a second thought, and then desperately tried to backtrack. “Um. What do you even need my soul for, anyway? Maybe I can swap it our for something else, something better. I’ve gotten pretty good at swiping stuff, no thanks to you.”

Agitation was finally beginning to crack his cool. “What I need your soul for is my own business. But if you wish to get out of this, fine. I’ll give you a choice.”

He grinned, and this time it did reach his eyes, and Rainey realized she was probably worse off than she was before.

“You can keep your soul,” he said, “if you give me one in return, to take your place. Name anyone you’ve met in your life, alive or dead, and their soul will be mine. You’ll walk free.”

The dog’s stare bored into Rainey, and Sekhmet had closed her eyes and put her head on her paws, and by all appearances had gone to sleep.

Rainey stroked the coarse fur on her rabbit’s foot, and that centered her somewhat. It didn’t calm her. Nothing could calm her down, not with this. It would condemn someone to death, no, to something worse than death. Was that worth a continued life in a rotten, dying world? No matter what happened Rainey would not get to live out a natural lifespan.

Even as she wrestled with whether she was capable of doing something like that, her mind was already flying through the list of people she knew, people who could possible deserve this. Her absent father? That guy she passed on the street once who yanked on his dogs leash? She starting cataloging the long list of dead people she knew when the image of her mother came to mind. She looked stern and disappointed, like when Rainey had broke a neighbor’s toy when she was a kid and hid it from them for a week rather than admit what happened.

Rainey’s voice rang out clear as a song. “I wont trade anyone. You offered trial by music before, right? Lets go with that.”

Instead of summoning a new guitar, or a band of demons of anything, the king of demons yawned, or pretended to at least.

“I just wanted to see what you would choose,” He said. “Time is short and I’m not going to waste it on concerts.” He flicked his fingers towards her. “Go on.”

The Doberman’s lips pulled back, unveiling an impossible amount of bone yellow teeth, and it sprang into the air. It expanded in flight, folding outwards and upwards until it was more force of malice than any kind of mortal being.

Rainey only had time for fragments of thought, those mainly being: “Oh shit –“, “You bait-and-switch motherfucker –“, and “Will I have hands and fingers in Hell – ?”

But the pain and oblivion she’d been bracing for never came. The shadow halted in midflight frozen by tangible light, something like a solid sunbeam. It was hurled back and away from Rainey and landed hard, wiping out a row of pews in the back of the chapel, sending plumes of dust and wood splinters into the air. It did not rise.

Rainey and Lucifer as one took in the destruction, then turned around to see to where the hit had come from.

Sekhmet was awake now, which was much less surprising than that she wasn’t a lion anymore. She was tall, muscular human with dark skin clothed in faded cargo pants and a white t-shirt. The goddess moved to end of aisle, placing herself between Lucifer and Rainey. “She is sworn to me now.”

Rainey didn’t dare breathe.

“This guitarist has agreed to sing for me and serve me, in exchange for my protection. You did agree, didn’t you?” She asked Rainey without turning her head.

Rainey nodded so hard she might have sprained her neck. “Oh yes yep absolutely.”

The Fallen angel tried to paste on a smile. Behind him, demon coalesced back into a dog shape like a snail l retreating into its shell, and tried to lift itself out of the broken wood planks. The intangible paralyzing force rushed back into the chapel l, soaking air like ions before a thunderstorm. But it didn’t freeze Rainey in place like it did before. “Is she really worth all this?”

“Maybe, maybe not. But she belongs with me now, end of story.”

His eyes flushed solid red and Rainey could swear they were physically burning her. “Giver her to me.”

“No.”

The edges of her vision were tinting gold and the chapel interior was almost scorching. She quickly realized she might get caught up in a fistfight between divinities. Maybe she could sneak out the back unnoticed.

The fallen angel backed down first, the nebulous aura around him subsiding, and he sniffed and looked at Rainey like she were something smeared on the bottom of a designer shoe. “Fine. You can have her for now.”

And just like that he and the dog were gone, as instantaneous as flipping a light switch.

Rainey was lightheaded, both from her sudden reprove and dehydration, probably. She tried to bow to Sekhmet and almost fell over. “Thank you, so much.”

She lifted her head to see Sekhmet smiling in a not-particularly-pleasant way. They were smaller but she still had lion teeth. “Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “You’ve still got a lot of work to do for me. It’s best for you to focus on the task at hand.”

“Right.” But even now she didn’t know when to let things go. “But what made you want to help me?”

Sekhmet blinked up at her, not down, and she was a lioness again. Rainey wasn’t sure how she missed that. “My reasons are my own,” the goddess said, and Rainey wondered if all divinities were this frustratingly evasive, or these two were just the exception.

She stalked toward the chapel exits, door hanging broken on one hinge, and Rainey followed like a magnet pulled her, across the floor and out the door. “I’ll give you one, however; he lied to you. Your power does not come from him.”

“Wait, what?”

but she was watching the stars, apparently done with the conversation. The night air was mitigated by Sekhmet’s warmth. By now Rainey was realizing it wasn’t just literally heat, though that was also very nice – it was determination and daring and pure distilled vitality, and she basked in it as she watched the dark sky alongside her new patron.

The moment was unceremoniously shattered when Sekhmet let out an eardrum-shattering roar that Rainey felt rattle through her chest and bones. Her hands flew to her ears. They were ringing so much afterward she barely heard herself tell Sekhmet to give her a little warning the next time she did that, would you?

“I called an escort for you,” Sekhmet said. “They’ll stay with you tonight, then walk with you through the desert back to humanity tomorrow. Once you’re fed and watered we can discuss the contract further. Goodbye for now, Rainey.”

She picked up most of that though her still ringing ears. She wanted to keep pressing and ask what Sekhmet meant about her power, but the goddess was gone, with not a trace to show she was ever there or that the entire debacle hadn’t been a product of Rainey’s overstressed malnourished imagination.

She almost turned back inside when shaped began to materialize in the night, blurs more blue than black with faint traces of yellow around the edges. She stayed, and watched, because she doubted that her night could get any stranger or more dangerous by this point.

The shapes grew and sharpened, distinguishing themselves from one blurry mass, until five lionesses stood before Rainey. They were large, though not so large as Sekhmet had been, and were indigo like the night with golden eyes and speckles of flashing gold along their feet, backs, and flanks like stars. The one in the center of the formation held a bottle of water delicately in its teeth, and the lioness to its left held a bag of what looked like food.

She didn’t know what they were waiting for. “Um. Hello?”

That seemed to be the right cue. One by one the pride wound their way around Rainey, winding past her legs and waist and brushing her with their heads like giant housecats, and each time they nearly bowled her over into the sand.

The odd precession returned to the chapel, where the guitarist settled into a makeshift bed of magical big cats. It was wonderfully warm, if a bit pungent. She downed the water and practically inhaled what turned out to be beef jerky. After eating she played Wandering Blues on a her guitar, which had miraculously escaped any damage in the near-altercation between Sekhmet and Lucifer, and tried to ignore the sensation that something was watching her from above, or maybe below. When she finished the song, she put the guitar as outside the circle of lions as she could, and one of them, the one that’d given her the beef jerky that shed been calling Leona, licked at Rainey’s arm almost painfully with a huge sandpaper tongue. Rainey scratched the top of her head in return. “At least somebody knows how to be an appreciative audience.”

#my writing #please feel free to message me like longer thoughts and critiques #or even if i dont i hope you enjoy it #it needs like a lot of work but im just glad i got it done in the time i had

8 notes · View notes

trivialqueen · 5 years ago

Text

Shy

Here’s the next section of that original story. Still currently, and creatively called, Hospital Romance Drama. As always, I’m neither a doctor, nor British. I’m just a girl who fancies herself a writer and likes slow burns, smart women, and tall men.

Tiny, sparkly boots caught his eye, pink glitter a marked contrast from the dull grey laminate tile of the hall. A small girl sat between the corner and a stretcher, back against the wall, short legs kicked out before her, stuffed animal in her lap. “Excuse me, young lady,” He crouched slowly, not wanting to give her a fright. She was not one of the junior doctors or a patient that needed to sit down and shut up for their own health. She was at best four years old. “Which ward are you a part of?” The little girl hid her face in the stuffed bunny she was holding, eyes peering up at him and then darting away only to look up at him again. They were striking eyes, for one so young, intelligent and the color of Baltic amber.

“Mummy says I shouldn’t talk to strangers.”

“Ah, well your mother is entirely correct. My name is Felix Magnusson and I am the Director of Surgery here. It’s my job to make people feel better.” He handed her his ID card, which she took, giving him a weary look. His name seemed to mean something to her. She stared at his ID for a long moment before handing it back to him.

“Mummy makes people better.” Which probably meant this was not the child of a patient, which helped narrow down things considerably.

“You must be very proud of her. Is she a doctor or a nurse?” He had a fair idea of how many members of staff had families now, although he had not yet organized them in his mind based on age of their child. There were, however, only so many Black doctors or nurses on staff and of them about a handful were women.

“She’s a nurse. She had to work today.”

“Did you escape from the crèche?” In that case someone would be looking for her and it would be easy enough to contact them, he had all the extensions for the departments saved in his phone.

“Matilda and I were playing hide and seek, but she hasn’t found me yet and I’ve been hide-ed for ages.” It didn’t answer his question, but he sincerely doubted the child care center would permit their charges to play hide and seek on the wards. There was only one Matilda on staff as far as he knew, and she was not employed as a childminder, she was a nurse on Irene.

“What’s your name, Sötnos?”

“Adelaide. Mummy calls me Addie.” She was slowly warming to him, no longer hiding behind the stuffed bunny in her lap.

“I think I might know where your mother is.” If his hunch was right about Matilda, and Adelaide’s mother was her same race there was only one Black woman who was a nurse alongside Matilda who would have a daughter roughly the same age as this little girl. Phillipa Gardiner, ward manager on AAU.

“Really?”

“Yes, we’re on the right floor. The nursing station is just down the way. Would you like to walk with me or stay here?” She stared at him for a long moment, almost a full minute, he could see the wheels turning in her eyes.

“Will you carry me?” She asked it so sweetly, complete with doe eyes. There was no way he could say no. None.

“If you like.” She carefully stood up, bunny dangling from her hand.

She was a light little thing, only about three stone and she fit easily in his arms and on his hip. Like riding a bike there were some things muscle memory never forgot, carrying a child was one of them. Her curly pigtails brushed his cheek as she looked around.

“You’re so tall. You’re probably the tallest person in the world!” He couldn’t help but chuckle at that pronouncement. It was perhaps the first positive comment he’d gotten about his height in years. Usually people found his height intimidating, even adults.

“Far from it, my dear.”

“I’m the tallest I’ve ever been.” She said brightly. Then, more quietly, “I can see everyone’s flaws.” He felt himself choke on air.

“What?”

“Matilda says you eat children, is that true?” Ah. There it was. An unoriginal slander, it ranked up there with the rumors that he was a vampire (despite the fact he was actually quite fond of sitting beside a sunny window if given the chance).

“Is that a baby?” It was such a non-sequitur that Sofia Grace looked up from the file on Mr. Jacobi. Marcus Xavier had asked her to consult on a patient. Although Gareth Morris was technically the lead consultant on the Acute Admissions Ward, he was by training a General Surgeon, and in general more invested in spending time in the private care ward rather than providing leadership on AAU. Marcus had really stepped into the void, but he was only a registrar, and a young one at that. His instincts were good, however, Mr. Jacobi had something very wrong with his lungs. Marcus was pointing down the hall at Magnusson, impeccably dressed as always, but with a new accessory. She almost did a double take. Magnusson was carrying a child. Not only that, but he was carrying the child as easily as anything else. Like he was made to. A natural. It was unnerving. Björn the Slasher was good with kids.

“No.” the surgeon answered dryly, a little girl was secure on his hip, face tucked into his collar under the stares of strangers. She had pink, glittery Ugg’s on, they cast dancing sparkles of light across the tile. Her natural hair was drawn up in curly pigtails that reminded Sofia Grace of Cindy Lou Who. She was the most adorable little thing she’d seen in ages. And she clung to Magnusson like he was her father.

“Ummm…” Marcus stared at the girl.

“Miss Adelaide here is three years old, which I believe makes her a toddler, not a baby.” The little girl pulled back slightly to whisper something in his ear. He chuckled warmly.

“Excuse me. Her birthday was last week, she is now four years old.” Adelaide settled back against his shoulder, one hand reaching out to trace the pattern on his tie.

“If one of you would please page Sister Gardiner?” Marcus started immediately, still staring at the child and the surgeon.

Since his arrival Magnusson had made two nurses and an F1 cry. Yet Adelaide wouldn’t even look at anyone else. He kept her close on his hip and was admittedly, very good with her. Moreover, it was the most relaxed she’d ever seen his posture.

“Addie!” Pippa Gardiner went immediately to the girl, who allowed herself to be transferred to her mother without complaint. She smiled up at Magnusson, who visibly softened and smiled back.

“You were supposed to stay with Matilda!”

“This is still a hospital Sister Gardiner,” His tone was still soft and kind, but his words and eyes were thunderous. “Why didn’t you take Miss Adelaide to the crèche?” Marcus quietly slipped away, avoiding the confrontation. Sofia, however, couldn’t bring herself to abandon Pip to the Jötunn, even if he wasn’t half as fierce as usual in the presence of a toddler.

“They wouldn’t take her short notice. Addie’s pre-school closed this morning. Their watermain broke.” Magnusson’s jaw clinched.

“And so you asked one of your subordinates to become childminder in addition to her other duties?”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Pip sounded like she might cry. He was up to three nurses now. “My mum lives too far away and can’t drop everything to come help. It was this or call in sick at the last second.”

“You could have come to me.” Of all the things she expected him to say, that was not what she expected.

“You?” Sofia Grace didn’t mean to butt in but when she was surprised, she had a habit of just blurting out her thoughts as she had them.

“Yes.” He looked a bit insulted. “I have a fair bit of authority here and a fondness for children.” He shot a glance at the little girl in her mother’s arms, his smile soft and amused, “And no, Miss Adelaide, not on toast.” The girl giggled. Giggled! “Now, let’s see what we can do about finding you a place in the crèche so that we may all get back to our jobs.”

It was a kind gesture and yet he still managed to make it sound terrifying. Sofia Grace watched as he headed down the hall, Pippa and Addie rushing in his wake. She did not envy the crèche today.

Back in his office Felix sat down heavily in his desk chair. Fleur Gerald, the daycare manager was a canny old bitch. He was surprised she worked with children. She’d refused, again, to take Addie because they didn’t accept walk-ins. Not even for employees. It took him promising funding for another two minders and formal revision of hospital policy for her to agree to let Adelaide join in the story hour going on behind them. How the hell did this hospital not have proper childcare? It made him wonder after the maternity/paternity leave policy if they were so unaccommodating. He rubbed his temples before opening his eyes and gazing at the photo on his desk. He was not a picture person, as a general rule, nor was he interested in much clutter on his desk. This photo was an exception. Magnus was five, his Byronic curls spilling out from under his colorful earflap hat his Mormor had knit him. It was his first time on ice skates without assistance and he was positively radiant. Beaming. Glowing. Ice skating was his favorite hobby since Felix had first brought him to a rink. It was something he and his son still had in common, fifteen years later.

He would not have survived as a divorced father without the help of the hospital crèche. He’d taken for granted, it seemed, how blessed he’d been at his first hospital. They’d had some of the finest child care providers, even a pediatric nurse on call in case something happened. He never had to worry when he went into surgery or was otherwise unavailable, if something happened to Magnus there were structures in place until he could get to him again. Saint Sebastian’s had none of that. The budget needed to be trimmed, considerably, he couldn’t afford to be rearranging and expanding departments, but the crèche, as it was couldn’t continue.

“You?” Most people were unaware he had a son, since Magnus had been old enough to not have to stay at the crèche when he visited. But she seemed incredulous at even the thought of him liking children or be willing to assist a parent. He was fine with his reputation as a hard ass, after all, he was. But perhaps he should at least appear less anti-family.

“Matilda says you eat children, is that true?”

#Hospital Romance Drama #Cait writes #original fiction #Felix Magnusson is the Big Friendly Giant #I don't know Swedish but I do know Google translate

0 notes