#i created the sound of madness || margo

[nxttheendxfthestxry]

Closed Starter: Unlocked (Keefe/Everyone)

The first sensation he’s fully aware of is cold.

He’s cold.

He’s laying down.

There’s a sharp, medicinal smell in the air. He’s not a fan, at all. But there’s far more immediate scents coming from everywhere. Something smells strongly of garbage.

Beeping sounds.

And then the feelings sort of hit him. Worry, stress, fear. A lot of it. He’s not entirely sure if it’s his.

Keefe shifts, finally opening his eyes... and abruptly closing them from the fluorescent lighting. “Ow.”

Axel jolts to life. “Keefe--”

“Keefe!” Sophie launches up to him, but half trips, half gets pushed aside by Margo.

“Bitchy!!!”

“Right here,” Keefe grunts, holding up one hand to the yelling, his other hand coming up to his head. “I’m right here. No need to yell.”

@storystartsanew​

[nxttheendxfthestxry]

Margo looks up, reaching up and pulling her jacket up around her neck a bit and shrugging. "Yeah, I'm-- I'm all right. Mmhmm." She shrugs a bit, looking down and picking at her shoelaces somewhat, her ankle absolutely throbbing.

Margo was not inside the dumpster but squeezed between it and the wall, eyes shut tightly and curled into a ball. She'd confirmed she was alive and well and would send periodical updates to the group chat, but in all actuality she felt alone and small and scared, and she didn't know how to cope with that and she really didn't like it, so she'd found the one place she felt content in to try and hide: the garbage. She looks up when she hears footsteps and tries to squish herself back more, banging her ankle off the dumpster. "Ow!"

Bastian is taking a walk to clear his head. Waiting in the hospital has been a bit too much for him. All of the chaos and injured people. It makes his heart ache to know he can't do more to help.

He barely notices the movement of the dumpster shifting a little as she does, and his eyebrows scrunch in concern when he hears her exclamation. His first thought is maybe someone is stuck back there, but then he thinks they would probably be calling for help. Maybe they're just hiding.

He peers over the side and offers her a soft smile. "You okay down here?"

[nxttheendxfthestxryarch2]

“Goblin brain wants many things, and goblin brain is fucking right.”

[fxirytxlcfxtc]

Tag Dump - Muses, 5/??

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

were lonan and harrison in a relationship? could you ~maybe~ share a romantic (as romantic as them two can get) excerpt between the two of them?????👀👀👀🥰

OH so u want the tea anon, I shall SERVE. This will probably make more sense if you have context on the series (which I briefly summarized HERE) but I’ll try my best to add context as we go. Here’s a comprehensive breakdown of the entire relationship! TW: this relationship is a little toxic, so tread carefully, mentions of trauma, blood, also lots of old, sorta cringe writing in this one!

1. The initial phases

The boys have had a very complex relationship from the start. At the time, I was very young, so I hadn’t sorted out sexualities for any of my characters, and over the years, they’ve all progressively come out to me, which has been a really wonderful experience.

Lonan is introduced 1/3 way through book two, when the series was still very YA dystopian. When he appears on the page, he’s been Harrison’s coworker in the ~~government, so they know each other well. They’re also nemeses. They dislike each other fiercely, but it’s kind of endearing. Clearly they have a history no one knows about (including myself), whether that’s as friends, enemies, both.

At the time of meeting, both boys are in relationships of their own, Lonan with his first serious girlfriend Holly who is Foster’s (Harrison’s best friend) sister, and Harrison with his first girlfriend, Margo, which always didn’t work (because! Harrison! is! gay!).

2. Getting warmer

In book three, the boys still hate each other, but with even more passionate vengeance. Harrison is angry at Lonan because Lonan keeps ruining his life (does this sound familiar) and Lonan is mad for no reason (does! this! sound! familiar!). This is the book where Fostered’s protagonist, Reeve, finds out Lonan is actually her half brother, and this very much changes the dynamic between Reeve and Lonan who go from trying to kill each other to ~~bonding, which by proxy, changes the dynamic between Lonan and Harrison because Harrison is essentially an older brother figure to Reeve. They’re kind of forced to make some form of amends in this book, but don’t become allies until 1/2-3/4 through.

Big tea is that they take a solo trip together and this is where I first hint at the SHIP (ft. Harrison’s very kind nickname for Lonan: Loner). The squad discussing romance:

“Really Foster? With Loner? Oh my god, out of all of the guys in this world, you paired me up with Loner?”

“Yeah, well why not? You both seem awfully close–”

Foster on Lonan and Harrison’s relationship:

“You guys are practically a married old couple. You even have nicknames for each other…”

3. Making progress

In book four, the boys have amended their destructive relationship, somewhat, and are kind of friends! Between books three and four, we can assume they’ve gotten closer as Harrison seems to know things about Lonan’s past that even his sister doesn't. I’d say they have a pretty productive friendship at this point. Lonan, however, starts a pretty intense romance with a woman named Glenne who reappears in Feeding Habits, and Harrison finds a dog! This is really becoming too similar to what’s happening currently oh! Here’s the first moment where I began squealing at this ship:

The both of them lie on their backs, staring straight up at the ceiling. Blood pools from Ris’ nose, slicing his cheek in two. Lonan’s eye is black, tears still seeping from them in slow, agonizing lines. They don’t look at each other. They don’t speak.

But when I look down, they’re clutching each other’s hands, so tightly, the blood between their fingers drips to the floor. 

THE SHIP THE SHIP THE SHIP

4. The ship?? is it sailing??

In book five, the boys seemingly have gotten even closer! The boys have a lot of one-on-one time before the start of the book because they create an entire underground empire together lol but Lonan’s mental health has taken a dip for the worst as past traumas from book four follow him into book five, and Harrison is a big support. Their emotional intimacy has deepened, even if they are only friends (Harrison is single and READY to mingle but Lonan’s still in a relationship with Glenne).

Here’s a line where Reeve states “so haha Harrison is the only person who can make my brother feel better”:

I’ve brought Harrison with me. Not because I don’t trust Lonan, and what he’s capable of, but because I think, out of every one of us, he’s the only one that can get through to him when he’s like this.

I mentioned Lonan’s mental health is not doing great, and at its worst point, Harrison goes out of his way to do the difficult task of tracking Lonan’s mother, Izzy, down so that he can have more support. He pretends to reach out under the guise that he’s actually Reeve:

“Don’t tell him,” Harrison breathes, running a hand through his hair. “The last thing I want him thinking is that I gave enough of a shit to actually, I don’t know, care about him.”

“But you do, don’t you?” Mom laughs when he only flushes deeply, taking a final sip on her tea, which must be nothing but lukewarm at this point. “Seriously, Harrison, right? You two are such teases with one another. You bicker like a married couple.”

5. Harrison says I love you: 

(it’s in a funny context but STILL)

“See, this—this is why I love you, Lonan.” Harrison says, swipes the tears from the corner of his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“What did you say?” Lonan asks, and not even biting his lip is enough to stop the goofy smile that peels across his face. “Did you just use the L word?”

6. This ship has come to a halt??

At the end of book five and the beginning of book six, Lonan and Harrison are not on speaking terms. This is because everything seems to go wrong for everyone at the same time. Harrison keeps secrets Lonan wishes he hadn’t, etc. Lonan and Glenne’s relationship falls apart and no one is happy.

Here’s Reeve saying Harrison’s heart is broken over how badly he feels for Lonan and that loss of friendship (SOFT):

I always wondered with Harrison and Lonan, if it were possible to have your heart broken over love that wasn’t romantic... Harrison’s heart broke over Lonan’s torment.

Reeve explains the state of their relationship:

Lonan and Harrison haven’t shared a word since their fight. But we’ve all had duties to tend to, so they’ve still been forced to interact, but even then, it’s radio silence. Sometimes there are glares and scowls involved, but other than that—nothing. It’s the longest they’ve gone without talking, as far as I know. Ris and Lonan might have had a similar conflict when they were co-workers, but from what I’ve witnessed of their relationship, this is more than just a warning sign.

The two make amends after a few weeks of not talking because mutual friend of the squad, Darren, calls Harrison to be like “haha so Lonan and Reeve are disasters please help” and so their reunion is kind of forced:

[Harrison] knows [Lonan and I are] standing there. The involuntary twitch of his ears, the tense of shoulders when the weight of both our stares pin them down. He knows. But he doesn’t look up. He keeps his attention fixed on the bubbling eggs in front of him, the old red spatula that now misses its spot in the cupboard.

Lonan immediately takes a step back, almost knocks me over in the process. It’s not shock, it’s not anger, it’s nothing. Just a passive jolt that makes him clench his jaw, and pull himself together. His eyes, as usual, are safeguarded, prepared to launch back any form of advance.

“You guys gonna stand there for the next hour, or what?” Harrison turns as he says that, and it’s a sting, yet relief when he looks at me first, and not Lonan. “Seriously, you can talk if you want to. It’s not gonna bother me. You look lovely, by the way.”

Silence, but around the skin I peel off my lip with my incisors, I say, “Thanks.”

“Actually,” Ris unzips his jacket, throws it over the back of one of the chairs. “I was talking to him.”

At this point, we feel a few things: a) Harrison is done with Lonan and his toxic patterns but still cares b) Lonan feels somewhat suffocated by Harrison’s attempts to help and the relationship, though a little more civil, is still volatile.

Their second reunion again, is inevitable, which Reeve explains as the squad set out to rescue Foster lol:

Lonan’s coming with us too. That wasn’t my call, or Harrison’s, even. It’s mutual, albeit wordless, the agreement we have that we’d rather find Foster without him. Though his motives steer somewhere closer to wanting to avoid pissy attitudes, we both know Lonan’s of no use if he’s injured. And from the looks of his eye that’s gotten worse, crusted in blood, like a leaked pipe gooed over, and the lacerations across his ribs, sewn shut by my unsteady hand, he isn’t ready for a mission like this. But who am I to control him. I’m not his mother. 

7. Back on track?

Reeve outlines a false backstory for Harrison’s iconic leather jacket in the 250-word sentence from a few years ago (she’s in Harrison’s room) and we hint at an actual, palpable romance:

...pretend not to have a flask of whiskey hidden behind his headboard, drink out of it when he falls in love and drink out of it when he falls back out of it, meet a boy who will drink half of it with him, who will hurt him, and hate him, who will be pasted in polaroids behind the map he’s tried to cover him up with, who he’ll kiss and take a picture with, sometimes both at the same time...

8. Or not

But when she brings the romance up shortly after, Harrison seems a lil *tense* about it:

“I saw those pictures. In your room. Behind the map? I saw you. You kissed him.”

Harrison’s jaw trembles. Clenched by the joint, skin concave in the bone. Takes another puff of the cigarette but almost bites off the tip. Curls of the cherry wood table catch under his fingernails. 

Harrison denies his feelings for Lonan, tho from the above, we’re not exactly sure why:

“You’re wrong.” And then louder, when I don’t say anything. “You’re wrong. I don’t like your brother.”

 “Then why are you hiding him from [Emily]?”

From this, we can assume the boys had somewhat of a productive, healthy romance threaded through the end of book 5, and in sprinklings in book 6, though it seems to not be in a very hot place currently. We see flashes of this in the “mini” stories I’ve written about the boys (Lampshade, Fishbowl, and Mandarin).

9. Jump into Moth Work

In book 6, Lonan has a bit of a resurgence back into a bad frame of mind when something bad happens to his sister and he feels he could’ve prevented it. This leads closer to the present of Moth Work as Harrison makes the decision to take him to his father’s cabin on the west coast, a place he hopes Lonan’s mother, Izzy, will be. She is there, but unlike the first time in book 5 where she helped him, Izzy’s a bit far gone with her own problems, namely a drug addiction. Lonan is unhappy at the cabin, tho this decision leads us into Moth Work as the squad, except for Lonan and Harrison, leave the cabin for the east coast.

In Moth Work, the relationship seems to be teeming into unhealthy as both parties (but mostly Lonan) need to work on themselves. The entire book centres on this conflict as a) Harrison tries to help Lonan who is still unwell, while struggling to realize this is just something he can’t do and b) Lonan struggles with accepting himself and also being a better, accountable human.

10. Oh god here comes Eliza

Lonan is so hyperfocused on himself and understanding his traumas that he struggles to prioritize others over himself, even when he doesn’t mean to. This becomes really emotionally exhausting for Harrison, so in ch. 5 of MW, they physically split. Lonan winds up in Las Vegas, looking for Eliza, his father’s ex-girlfriend, and OH BOY does a bizarre, unplanned (for all of us lmao) romance ensue. This relationship takes a nosedive, even in its best parts because its foundation is laid upon mistruths.

11. Harrison is back

In chapter 12 of MW, Harrison, who’s been entertaining a romance with someone else in the interim, appears at Eliza’s apartment to make amends with Lonan who he can’t seem to shake off (he’s a pesky moth haha). This shakes them both as a) Harrison isn’t sure about Eliza and her potential motivations, and b) Lonan, without Harrison, most definitely knows he’s done hurtful things to “better himself” (which is actually toxic).

12. Lonan says I love you

Lonan realizes how important Harrison is to him, and while they both inevitably know their relationship isn’t going to work out, which Harrison hints at, they share a wholesome moment at the “beautiful place” which I mention in MW writing updates:

“You’re not coming back with me,” Harrison says.

Lonan takes hold of the guardian angel, and gingerly, like it’s fragile enough to crumple, brings it to his mouth and kisses it. His lip glints, just as the angel does, in the moonlight. He lets the angel fall, swaying like a pendulum, and pulls his hand back slowly. Quietly, he says, “I think I’ve loved you a long time.”

13. Inevitable split

Harrison makes the decision to not stick around for Lonan because he’s realized it’s actually unproductive for them both to try to make a relationship work in the state it’s in. Structurally, Lonan needs to change, and he realizes that. Harrison leaves Las Vegas to live with his mother and that leads us to Feeding Habits.

14. Where are we in Feeding Habits?

Lonan has been in a strange relationship with Eliza for about six months, and Harrison’s been living with his mother in NYC after a few destructive instances that prompt her to host an intervention. While Lonan learns a lot about himself and grows a lot in this book, Harrison struggles because I really think he’s hurting over the end of their romance. This is truly a hurt bae moment.

TL;DR: Lonan needs to work on himself & be accountable for his actions before he gets into a relationship with anyone, and Harrison has to learn when to keep his emotional spoons for himself and that he can’t control how much he helps someone, even when he wants to. In my head, I know where the relationship ends (happily ever after), but this is just the very, very beginning, so there’s a lot that both sides need to work out before we get there.

Since you particularly asked for a romantical excerpt, the last chapter of MW is under the cut. It’s imperfect but I think it kind of sums up everyone’s feelings pretty nicely.

--Rachel

Chapter 15: Summon Away

He sees Lonan once the next morning. Sitting at the kitchen table over a cup of steeped tea—something floral and springy. Harrison watches him from the couch and can’t remember at what point he fell asleep last night. He’s not sure if he even did—if all he remembers is Eliza leaving, and then a blank wall.

Lonan is reading the newspaper. Every few minutes, he flips the page so new cheap colours and words blot against his fingertips. Harrison doesn’t move at first. It’s easier to watch him. How in the trickle of morning sun, his hair is a damp brown. How his eyes take to that glow, their translucent sparkle.

When Lonan has sipped four times from the mug, Harrison finally rises. No sign of Eliza sounds, and he’s grateful for it. This morning, he knows what he’s doing.

“What is that?” Harrison asks, pulling back a barstool with one hand, while pointing at the mug with another.

Lonan glances up, and the two mutually analyze each other. Lonan’s puckered skin, how morning makes his eyelashes papery, like wings. He wonders what Lonan sees in him—for a moment, it’s all he wants to know.

Lonan knuckles the mug over and Harrison picks it up like he’s holding an eyeball. The tea is hot, though Lonan hasn’t seemed to mind, and its flowery perfume burns Harrison’s throat. Lonan pulls the mug back to him when Harrison’s done, and takes another sip.            

“I still have no idea,” Harrison says, and to his shame, studies Lonan’s face for a bite wound.

“Earl grey.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“It expired four years ago.”

Harrison gasps, and Lonan almost smiles. And for a moment, Harrison almost forgets where he is. What happened at this counter just a few hours prior. With Lonan, it almost disappears. They could be back at the cabin, needling through the woods on that first day they tried to get rid of the darkroom. They could be in the water, shielding, yet simultaneously pushing each other under. They could be dancing to no music in a tiny bathroom or driving for carless miles in the tarnish of rain. Harrison traces Lonan’s face, each line that etches his eyes, nose, mouth, hair, and he doesn’t stop.

“You’re up early,” Lonan says finally. “Did I wake you up?”

Harrison shakes his head. He clutches the edge of the counter and tries not to tremble. Lonan is pretending to read the paper. He tries to fill in a miniature sudoku game in his head, follow along to headlines, but Harrison knows he isn’t. Through the skin of the paper, Harrison watches him watching him. Harrison doesn’t know what he dreamt of last night. If it was a good dream. If he’d want to dream it again. If he dreamt at all.

“I found this article,” Lonan says, and turns the paper over. It’s not very long, just a small corner of the entire page, but Harrison sees the title, all bolded, Summer’s Dreaded Pesk: 10 Facts About Moths. He leans in closer to read it.

The facts are almost all useless to him—that moths like sweet things, that there are thousands of species, that many don’t eat, but what sticks out to him is the last: how they’re attracted to light. Harrison skims the text with his fingernail, reads something about light traps, and tries not to think of how unfortunate it all is—to move toward light and then stop moving altogether.

“What does it mean?” Harrison’s voice catches.

Lonan doesn’t say anything. They just watch each other, and then the article, alternating until they can almost do both at once.

Harrison looks away first. He inhales, and tries to steady himself, but when he knows he’s going to break, reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the chain. He took it off last night and put it in there, and today, he unravels it carefully. He shoulders off his eyes, and in his palm, displays the angel. Its crystals beam in the sunlight that hits them both, and though it misses a jewel, has never looked more beautiful.

He almost says something but catches himself. He knows whatever he will say will keep him here, in this sun, on this barstool, reading the newspaper about moths, sitting next to Lonan, drinking his tea, never knowing what flavour it is. Harrison inhales, and on his exhale, unclasps the chain and drapes it around Lonan’s throat.

When the angel hits Lonan’s chest, a sound comes out of his mouth that Harrison thinks is almost animal. Harrison’s hand lingers on the back of Lonan’s neck when he clasps it, feeling the pulse of Lonan’s heartbeat, even from all the way up here.

Lonan clutches the angel when Harrison pulls back, and he doesn’t let go, even when Harrison rises.

“I’m going to grab a pack of cigarettes,” Harrison says, speaking to the ray of sun next to Lonan’s face. “Is there a gas station around here?”

“Just up the road.”

“Do you want anything?”

“I don’t think so.”

Harrison nods. Then he steps back, away from the kitchen, and slips his shoes on, one by one, more carefully than he’s ever done before. He knows Lonan looks at him. He knows what’ll be in his eyes if he looks up—and so he doesn’t. Harrison checks his jacket pocket for his car keys, and when they jangle, he turns toward the door.

“How long?”

Lonan’s voice makes him jump.

“Pardon?”

“How long will you be gone?”

Harrison frowns. “I’m just grabbing a pack of cigarettes.”

Lonan is the one to nod this time. He’s such a pretty sun baby, golden and capable.

“Before you go,” Lonan says, and closes the newspaper so it sits as a square on the counter. He doesn’t continue. All he does is gesture Harrison forward, his fingers weak as they curl twice—a beckoning.

Harrison takes a step forward. And then another. He doesn’t move closer than that. His head pounds; his heart bleeds too much. Lonan meets him in a place he won’t go, stepping out of his seat so they both stand in a patch of light that makes the dishware in the glass cabinet sparkle. Harrison says nothing when Lonan puts a hand on his cheek. Pushes a strand of his hair behind his ear, connects the dots of his freckles in a quick sweep because he’s done this before and knows exactly where they are. Harrison says nothing when Lonan kisses him. How his lips taste like the tea—a flavour he’s already forgotten, but that he knows. He doesn’t move. He just lets him touch, and touch, until he’s finished, until the lack of his mouth on Harrison’s finally feels like he needs it back immediately.

“A pack of gum, maybe,” Lonan says, and wrings his lip between his finger.

“A pack of gum.”

Harrison steps back. The sun is getting brighter now—it lights the kitchen like the lace on a doily, a warm glimmer like being underwater at dawn. He leaves the apartment without his angel, and keeps going, even when he wants to turn back.

 ***

Harrison buys the pack of cigarettes. And then the gum. And then he finds his mother.

She isn’t hard to locate. A quick question at the checkout counter, and he finds out the apartment complex near the public garden is only a fifteen-minute drive away.

It’s just as he pictures it. A white building, with a white lobby, the bricks white, the carpets white, the tables white. In little places, there are bits of gold—lining the keyboard the security guard types at, on the edges of every window so it’s only visible when the sun flashes.

In his hand, he holds a bouquet of roses from the convenience store. They’re cold and wet, and dampen his palms, but he clutches onto them in the elevator. When he gets off, he navigates through the hallway until he reaches her door—217.

He hesitates before knocking. Something in his heart is missing, and he knows exactly who, but he knocks anyway, two quick taps that he’s surprised she hears.

When his mother answers the door, she’s still wearing her pajamas. And they aren’t the pajamas he’d expect her to wear—no silks, laces, tank tops, fuzzy slippers. Instead, she’s in a too-big trucker t-shirt and a pair of wearing sweatpants. He doesn’t know why this comforts him. Or why this makes him cry when he hands her the roses.

He is swept into her apartment in a cloud of tears and he lets them fall as he collapses on his mother’s welcome mat. She smells like coffee, and clementines, and he clings to her when she holds him, when she pats his hair, his cheeks, his neck, the clamminess of her what he feeds on.

“It’s not going to last forever,” she says as she pats him again, on the floor with him now, crying with him now. And he repeats this: it’s not going to last forever, it’s not going to last forever, and he doesn’t know if this is supposed to be a good thing.

 ***

His mother has a balcony too. At it, they sit together, mostly silent, though Suzanna comments on the madeleines she unboxed for them to try ever so often, as if their flavour changes, though it never does. He can’t remember what he explained—it feels like so long ago that he arrived, even though it’s been less than an hour. He doesn’t know what he knows, if Lonan knows his trip to the gas station is going to be prolonged. His words were a woven mess when he spoke to his mother, of their messy love, of the unknown tea, of the moths, of so much more with that kiss.

Now, his mother massages his hand absently while paging through a book. He doesn’t know what book. It could say encyclopedia or academia, or amnesia—he can’t read it. She peeks at him too often, but he revels in it, the worry there, a care he doesn’t know how to handle, as if it’s fragile and wrapped in moth wings. Ahead, the city crumbles, and he can’t stop the pictures he sees in the clouds.

His mother reads. Harrison watches. A father and son down below, who take turns walking their golden retriever. A food stand vendor that hands a stack of checked tissues to a mother wrangling four small children. A couple who take photos in front of a cherub fountain, how he can almost hear the mechanical click of their camera from fifty feet up. Something stirs inside of him, at the thought of Lonan back in that golden apartment, and he only realizes what it is much later, when his mother is heating up something spiced and leftover in the microwave. The feeling like being buried alive and wanting to do it again just so someone can pull you out. A loneliness he sucks on until his mouth sores.

[nxttheendxfthestxry]

riseofthemuses​:

“I am begging you to please hear the words that are coming out of your mouth right now.”

“Now you and I both know that’s asking too much.”

[enz-fan]

Article by Margo Huxley - early days in Australia, 1975. 

“On stage are what appear to be seven refugees from an op shop run by a lunatic asylum. They wear suits that are too big, too small or both at once. The singer’s hair is a frizz of tangles that falls over his heavily be-rouged face. He moves like a sped up movie of Charlie Chaplin doing an imitation of Harpo Marx - or is it vice versa? He comes on with a patter that sounds like ‘Waiting for Godot’ done by a music hall M.C.

Somewhere in the shadows lurks Groucho, complete with eyebrows and moustache, playing a Gibson electric guitar. Next to him, but only briefly, stands a fellow in a baggy brown suit from the set of the Godfather - he plays bass.

Round-faced and cherubic sits the drummer, almost hidden behind his kit, but visible enough to show that his suit too is certainly somebody’s cast-off.

A resurrected James Dean, white faced and hollow-eyed in a teddy boy suit of brilliant red, the pants of which are far too long and bag around the lower part of his legs, plays acoustic, electric suitar and mandolin.

The maestro of the keyboards - synthesizer, mellotron, string synthesizer and a piano that looks like someone has taken an axe to it, (and though electric, it sounds just like the real thing) - he is resplendent in tails, almost normal except that one sleeve ends at the left elbow and the other is about a foot beyond his right hand.

Then there’s this fellow just standing there, seemingly redundant in an ill-fitting pale blue suit, his head hanging like a broken marionette. Redundant that is, until he breaks forth with a pair of spoons in his hand, playing them against his head, his feet, his knees, anywhere. The rest of the time he plays slightly pixillated triangle, xylophone, bell-tree and tambourine to mention a few. Occasionally he strides up to a microphone, any microphone, to throw in a world or two of vocals.

Suddenly the demented action stops and the whole band stands in cameo stillness for a burst of electronic sound that fills the hall.

“Who are they?” a bloke in the audience asks his mate. “Dunno” the mate replies. “I think they’re Captain Matchbox.”

WRONG! This is Split Enz and as their name implies, they hail from New Zealand. Don’t be fooled. Just because they “dress funny” doesn’t mean they are like Captain Matchbox, skyhooks or - “Anyone who compares us with Roxy Music hasn’t heard Roxy Music” says Timothy Finn, lead singer.

Neither are they like Yes, King Crimson, The Sensational Alex Harvey Band, Beefheart, Zappa, Schonbert, Cage, Al Jolson, Scott Joplin, The Goons, Marcel Marceau, Monty Python or anyone else you like to mention. But comparisons are inevitable.

Comparisons are the direction with which we chart the waters of a new experience. In Split Enz music you fill find everything: classical and neo-classical; music hall honkeytonk and sleazy vaudeville; acoustic and electronic, with a blues and a boogie thrown in here and there; good ol’ rock’n’ roll; and just when you think they’ve done it all they hit you with a piano full of cool jazz, some Gregorian chants or calypso shouts for good measure.

These analogies are only signposts; the more you hear their music, the less you need them, and the more you come to realise that Split Enz create music that is individually theirs. Their lyrics conjure up nightmare visions, obsessions with madness and the macabre, woven out of cliches that spring at you with renewed vigour; phrases such as “time to kill”, “dead to the world” suggest sinister overtomes. Lines like “just hold me down if I have a fit... I think I’ll be all right... I’ll be normal someday”, “the rats are crawling up my back, it can only mean you’re coming back” are delivered with frenetic, demented mime that is more demonic than lunatic.

Some songs perhaps threaten to fall apart at the seams as style, rhythm and reference change and pile upon one another, but for the most part each song, as each performance, is carefully arranged.

“It’s a bloody orchestra.” one innocent bystander is heard to remark. And indeed ‘orchestrated’ is a better word for the music, and ‘choreographed’ a better word for the performance.

The taped Andrews Sisters-type music at the beginning with canned applause and the announcement “... SPLIT ENZ!”, the discourse on “how to get from A to B”, walking on an invisible conveyer belt going nowhere - the whole performance is a carefully planned sequence.

But not stilted, not unspontaneous. There are always new surprises even when, at daytime gigs they dispense with make up and stage clothes and appear as their normal selves. Despite the parodies and satires implied in their music - “Spoofs” is the word Timothy Finn uses - there clings to them an aura of innocence and naivety, like a Henri Rousseau painting.

This impression persists with them off stage. They are quietly spoken and polite. although their normal dress is somewhat - uh - eccentric in these days blue jeans and T-shirts, they are not the formidably intimidating maniacs they become on stage.

Timothy Finn, whose hair is no more manageable off stage than on, does most of the talking. Eddie Rayner of the keyboards is more relaxed, with a fresh-faced charm like the captain of the school cricket.

He joined Split Enz from Space Waltz, a group in which he earned much deserved renown for his wizardry on the ivories and electronic switches.

Jonathon Michael Chunn of the bass guitar has Byronic good looks that even his stage make up cannot hide, and Wally Wilkinson, moustache free from blackening and eyebrows normal is full of witty irrelevancies.

Emlyn Crowther, the man behind the drums, looks as Welsh as his name and smiles a lot. Noel Crombie is the owner of the chattering spoons. He is also the designer and maker of costumes, silent and forlorn looking, like a lost pup. And Philip Judd is reserved, almost disdainful, and stripped of grease paint, looks more like Rudolf Valentino than James Dean – that might be something to do with the scarf knotted at his throat.

Split Enz was formed about 3 years ago, but the present line up has only been together for about 10 months and work remarkably well. Timothy Finn and Philip Judd are responsible for the genesis of the words and music which the whole group then fashion into a final stage presentation.

They don’t like to talk about ‘influences’ – “The Beatles” says Timothy Finn without so much as a bat of an eyelid. And when you think about it anyone who plays music today can’t have escaped the ubiquitous presence of the Beatles. Anyway, Split Enz have admitted to liking the Kinds and the Sensational Alex Harvey Band. You can make what you like of that. It’s not a definitive list.

Their conversation is free of swearing and they don’t smoke, but have been seen to drink a beer or two on the odd occasion. They are naturally “un-hip”. They avoid words like ‘hassle’, ‘dig’, ‘gig’ and anyone in the group who makes such a blunder is gently offered alternatives like ‘bother’, ‘appreciate’, ‘job’.

Confusion occurs about their names – again because of their desire to reject the clichés of the pop world. They decided to take their second Christian names as first names which is why if you ever come across anything written about them in New Zealand, the names won’t tally. Sometimes they themselves forget and call each other by their old names, but the error is always quickly corrected.

However, some of them nationalistically flaunt the great New Zealand ‘eh’ on the end of their sentences. “That’s a great new piano we’ve just bought, eh” – not a question, a statement. But they are dropping the tag “New Zealand’s Top Band” and such like, which, while it is undoubtedly true, is just another cliché to be avoided like the plague (whoops, sorry).

Already their stay of three weeks in Australia has been extended to six in order to record with Festival in Sydney. The album will be produced by their manager Dave Russell and the cover design by ex art student Philip Judd. Out on Mushroom, the album will be a token of Michael Gudinski’s enthusiasm for this band.

They have been deluged with work, after an initially slow start in Sydney. They are the support act for the Leo Sayer Melbourne concert and have done an ABC GTK which was an immediate success. More than 60 phone calls came in after it was shown to ask who the band were – that’s some sort of record.

Up until this Australian tour, the group has always had plenty of time to recuperate from the last job and plan and prepare the next. But they are finding the rigours of touring with jobs every day or so, and sometimes more than one a day, very wearing. Any spare energy left over from the last performance must be channelled into preparing for the one following close on its heels.

Another result of the GTK spot was an approach from an ABC producer to do the sound track for a documentary called “Ten Australians”. In particular they are to back a sequence featuring the artist Sydney Ball at work.

Their plans for the future include a return to New Zealand for a couple of months, followed by a longer sojourn in Australia (amen to that), and depending on reactions to their album they hope to go to England…

Of course such an esoteric band does not have universal appeal, and being unknown in Australia, sight unseen, it’s even harder to win hearts and minds. They have great hopes that the album, plus their shows here and a bit of media exposure will make their return to Australia somewhat easier.

They do not appeal to the younger age groups – “they are no the audience we are really aiming at”. They got a poor reception at the Melbourne Festival Hall Skyhooks concert, where they were first on. The audience didn’t know and didn’t want to. (But I seem to remember once a long time ago, Skyhooks was an “underground” band). But at the Reefer Cabaret, at Unis and the Station Hotel standing ovations are the order of the day.

“There are many ways of saying goodbye:” Timothy Finn lurches into his pitch for the final number – limbs jerking, face twitching at the mercy of some drunken puppeteer; “Goodbye, Byebye, Adieu, See you later, Au revoir…” etc. “…SO LONG FOR NOW”.

Never fear, we have not seen the last of Split Enz. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is A Good Thing.”

[douxreviews]

The Magicians - ‘The Serpent’ Review

“Some God of War. He only liked them when they were too weak to fight.”

Library’s become ever-more fascist, Alice splits in two, and big revelations are made, but not on-screen.

I’m going to be honest: I didn’t feel great about this episode after I watched it the first time. And then I watched it again and found I was better able to understand it and appreciate some of what it was exploring. But I still don’t feel great about it.

Here’s what I liked: the Alice on Alice conflict. From the moment she split I was excited. It’s like taking Gestalt’s empty chair technique and making it literal, and the psychology student in me was living for it. Even better, the execution was pretty great. It allowed the show to directly with Alice’s main conflict, which is that there was a part of her pre-niffin who was sheepish and kind and scared, there was a part of her post-niffin who was arrogant and dominant and selfish, and each part hates the other, blames the other for everything that’s gone wrong. But the thing is, they’re all Alice and all to blame. And she needs them both. She needs to be selfish to survive, but she needs to be cautious to avoid blowing stuff up. Both her arrogance and her fear can put everyone in danger. But she can’t lock either part of herself up and manage, and even if she could she wouldn’t be able to survive long.

It’s an interesting issue to explore, because it’s probably come up for a lot of us. It would be nice to be able to erase or at least lock up the parts of ourselves we don’t like. It’s harder to admit we’re more complicated than that and the whole of ourselves is the source of our problems and our triumphs. So we need to learn to better the parts of ourselves we don’t like, to see the good and bad in them, and, at the least, try to cope with them. But what I like best about what the show does with Alice is that she doesn’t really figure out how to do any of this. Both parts of herself work together to finish the spell, but that’s not because of any real epiphany. She (they?) just realized she didn’t have much of a choice. Alice still has a lot of growing to do. And, really, don’t we all?

While this is going on Zelda learns more about the Library—namely, that it’s devolving into a fascist regime. I didn’t appreciate this plot much the first time around. I thought Zelda finally realized the Library was corrupt after the Library kept the killer deweys in circulation and that the revelation that Everett was her mentor was revealed too late. I still somewhat feel that way. But after my rewatch I do feel more interested in the Library’s continued corruption. Throughout the season we’ve seen this grow slowly. They were meant to keep everyone safe by carefully distributing magic. But they unfairly favored trained magicians over hedges, manipulated people into the Library in exchange for magic and education, rewarded people who posted magic-monitors in their homes, the list goes on. Manipulation, indoctrination, invasion of privacy. And finally, faking a terrorist organization to create fear. The Library wants power, it will do anything to fuel that.

This whole idea of obtaining power by any means necessary isn’t new. What’s more interesting is seeing people why people might trust the Library, believe in its cause and believe that cause is just or that helping it would be a good option (Zelda, Fogg). Seeing Fogg struggle with when to cut ties with the Library, whether that would help or hurt, if that’s cowardly or selfish. Seeing Kady and Alice forced to make ethically-questionable decisions while trying to help those harmed by the Library (using Harriet’s vulnerable position as leverage). And seeing the harm that not only fear, but also apathy can have. When considering what to do about the terrorists, Kaylee Frye the Librarian asks if the terrorists are even the Library’s problem. She doesn’t care about the safety of the hedges, it’s likely few librarians do, and that makes her much more likely to go along with whatever the Library has planned regardless of the cost. And then there’s fear itself. While remembering The Monster’s destruction, The Monster insults Enyalius for going after souls too weak to fight. The same can be said for Everret. It seems Everret fears the hedges—he needs their submission to raise the Library up—and he uses fear to keep them down. And maybe this is—in part—what war is.

In Fillory, things go down with the prophecy. But also, not really. Fen doesn’t want to overthrow Margo, Margo has her eyes on Fen for all of a minute before asking (forcing) Fen to dethrone her so she can go off and find something to save Eliot. It’s all resolved pretty easily. That said, I did appreciate that Margo and Fen didn’t act out of character or that just enough information wasn’t kept from them to make things more dramatic. But I just didn’t understand why Margo had to ask Fen to dethrone her at all. The only explanation I can think of is that Margo had to leave Fillory to go to the desert, and that’s not allowed for kings. But I don’t remember being told the desert was out of the realm. And I also don’t know that leaving Fillory is still not allowed. Ember and Umber are dead and Fillory is a quasi-democracy, do the rules even apply anymore? All this confusion messed with the story’s emotional beats. Not entirely—I’m not a monster—I still felt for Margo losing the crown she worked so hard to get for the realm she cares so much for. But enough.

Finally, there was The Monster stuff. There, we almost get information about Julia’s “transition”, but then we don’t; Alice finds the binder but doesn’t open it up. And then we almost get information about The Monster’s plan, but then we don’t; Eliot tells Penny 23 the plan off-screen, Penny 23’s just about to tell Julia and Quentin the plan when the show ends. It all kind of feels cheap, especially the final cliffhanger. The Magicians has ended episodes—entire seasons—in cliffhangers before without it feeling cheap. But something about the multitude of not-reveals, the show looking away at just the right moment, and ending the episode almost mid-scene was too much. I wish the episode ended right after Margo’s last moment instead. Seeing her walk out to the desert listening to 80s music would be a fitting lead-in to the musical in the desert. And it would’ve felt way less cheap.

Bits and Pieces

-- Kady got to use her mad punching skills, which elevates any episode. Sucks for Alice, though.

-- Zelda gets a back-story! She was a hedge, her mom died, she was found in an ally. Zelda’s right, it does sound dramatic.

-- It was great seeing Harriet and getting her back, but I wish she and Marlee Matlin had more to do than just struggle to communicate with Alice while Alice deals with her stuff and share new plot information. Hopefully she’ll be on again.

-- I feel (maybe unreasonably) defensive of Julia. Zelda says she trusts Kady because she was able to try to understand the woman responsible for Penny 40s death (which must be Julia, right?). But that wasn’t really Julia’s fault, both Kady and Penny 40 agreed to help take down Reynard, Julia never asked Penny 40 to go down to the poison room, and it’s not her fault Reynard was evil and raped her and killed most everyone else. And, even so, both Julia and Kady summoned OLU in the first place. It just felt victim-blamey to me and I didn’t appreciate it from Zelda (I wouldn’t from anyone). End of rant.

-- Speaking of Julia, I found it interesting seeing how quickly she offered to shift the focus from her god problems to The Monster problems. Her story has been moving along pretty slowly (probably because if she powered up she would be hard to keep on the show) and maybe this an in-show reason why. Her issues always fall second to The Monster or even the Library issues, because those are life and death.

-- I also liked seeing Penny 23 advocate for Julia (suggesting they try to research the binder while working on The Monster stuff) and Julia advocate for Penny 23 (trying to keep him from putting himself in danger with The Monster, etc.). And they almost kissed! But The Monster cock-blocked them. Maybe now that he’s alive they’ll have that dinner he promised her.

-- Margo found out Eliot’s alive! And immediately had sex with Josh. Fen’s facial expressions were amazing.

The Monster: “Are you aware that there is big money for psychics who are in actually big giant fakers?” I actually did know that, Monster! John Oliver just did a whole segment about it.

Ru, Queen of West Loria: “During the feast you will order the castle doors open where upon my men will enter and chop off—” Fen: “Enjoy the desert course.” Ru: “Did you really think I was gonna say that?” Fen: “Hoped.”

Margo, about Fen: “That false-toed bitch!”

Margo: “Wait! I curse Fen’s name, but if I were you I’d listen to her! And wait! Be nice to her! Your grandkid’s grandkids will fear me!”

Three out of four fascist libraries.

Edit: Thanks to Percysowner and late-ish night reflections I now understand that Margo needed to be dethroned so the Fillory-hating people of The Foremost would agree meet with her.

Ariel Williams

[nxttheendxfthestxry]

Harper bursts into the hospital room, scared and very, very confused. "So, um, Hemlock just got fucking arrested outside." - ( @storystartsanew )

"WHAT?!" Keefe sits bolt upright and starts to move to get up.

"No, no, no no no no no, no--" Axel moves to push the other back into bed.

"GET OFF OF ME!" Keefe snarls out, shoving the other aside.

Axel staggers back, but moves right back to trying to pull him back down. Margo yelps and goes to help him. "Bitchy--!"

"LET ME GO!!!"

[nxttheendxfthestxry]

storystartsanew​:

"Chill, it's only chaos."

“That’s why I’m so excited!!!” Margo heaves herself up better, leaning against the lip of the dumpster. “That was awesome!!”

The raccoon underneath the dumpster seems to disagree, judging from the noises it was making. Margo rolls her eyes. “Hush, Stinky.”

[maximusthewolfe]

Peaches and Plums | 1/?

Back in Fillory, present day, Eliot struggles with the rush of memories from a life he apparently lived, even though he didn't. But there's a quest to be finished, a kingdom to be run, and a world with no magic to make it all infinitely more difficult. So what's a High King to do when flashbacks won't stop and Quentin just wants to move forward?

I wanted to play with all the empty spaces from THE scene in A Life in the Day, and explore the fallout from it in the present world that never really got shown. I hope you enjoy! 

Also on AO3 

“Just give. Me. A minute,” Eliot said through gritted teeth, irritation sharpening the edges of his words until they cut effortlessly.

“Babes, look, we don’t have a minute. I need you to get your shit together now.”

Margo’s voice matched his abrasive syllable for abrasive syllable, but Eliot kept the heels of his hands pressed firmly to his eyes. She was right. The quest was waiting. Their kingdom was waiting. Somewhere in the castle, Quentin was waiting. When had the weight of not one, but two entire worlds suddenly landed on his shoulders? And when had he decided he was okay with carrying it all?  He may have been miserable at Brakebills, but sometimes he missed the simplicity of burying his misery in drugs and drinks and warm bodies willing to occupy his senses for an evening.

“Can’t magic save itself for once? Let its merry band of idiots take a breather?” he said. His swift answer was Margo prying his hands from his face, an unforgiving look in her eyes.

“What the fuck is this, El? It’s your goddamn quest, you roped me in. And you know I’ll do anything to help you out here because fuck if I don’t miss magic more than that purple vibrator I left in the cottage, but I didn’t ask for this. Any of it. Do you see me moping over some lost past that probably sucked ass anyway? I mean, you apparently died, right? Sounds like a fuckin shitshow to me,” she said, hands on her hips, standing her ground, as always.

Her voice echoed slightly in the high marble ceilings of the throne room, only serving to add to the power of it. Margo had always known how to command a room. Or in this case, an entire castle. Eliot shook his head, a mess of dark curls flying from the places where they stuck out around his crown. “I know. Down, Bambi. I get it.”

“Well,” Margo said, tapping her gorgeous pointed toe boot on the floor, “What I need you to GET right now, is your ass in gear. Q’s called some sort of all-questers-on-deck meeting.”

Eliot groaned his disapproval but stood from his throne anyway. She was right. Margo was almost always right. But she had missed one fine detail. He wasn’t mourning the loss of a past he couldn’t remember. It wasn’t all lost when Margo stopped them from going to the mosaic in the first place. Oh no, not by a long shot. He remembered everything. That was the problem.

“Let’s go see what our sweet, depressive Potter thinks we ought to do next,” he said, raising a hand in protest even as he followed Margo out of the throne room. “Which, I take issue with, by the way. His incessant need to be the big man in charge. This quest was bestowed upon me, technically, and he keeps hijacking it.”

Eliot pretended not to hear the words of the Great Cock ringing in his ears. You have a brother of the heart. With the floppy hair. This quest was just as much Q’s as it was his. It might have been theirs – both of them – more than it was anyone else’s.

“Weren’t you just complaining about not wanting this thing?” Margo eyed him carefully, clearly uninterested in putting up with whatever rabid mood swing was overtaking him.

“Well, yeah, but I want the option of not wanting it, you know?” he said airily, twirling his hand above his head as though that elegant, meaningless movement explained what he meant.

“Oh fuck,” Margo rolled her eyes, “Can you not be a teenage girl for two seconds here?”

Eliot huffed, but he quieted and followed the path to the fairy-proof hallway, linking his arm in Margo’s. When they turned the corner, Eliot caught sight of Quentin pacing back and forth, hands twisting in front of him, long hair creating a curtain over his face. He could practically see the concentration on the younger man’s face, the way his forehead scrunched up, eyebrows practically in his hairline. He was trying to work something particularly difficult out, Eliot recognized the look in an instant.

****

And suddenly, he wasn’t in the pale stone hallway convening with the other questers anymore. He was outside a small hut, staring at piles of tiles around them, looking up to catch that same concentrated, problem-solving look etched onto Quentin’s face in a different world, in a different time, in a different life.

“Um – so,” Q started.

"Yeah,” Eliot paused, understanding what he was trying to say before it was said, “Um… Let’s just save our overthinking for the puzzle, yeah?”

A beat passed where Eliot’s heart was practically in his throat, and then Q nodded. “Yeah.”

And that was that, or so he thought.

The mosaic itself was increasingly frustrating by the day, but they still worked at it diligently, documenting each failed attempt and starting over again. And again. And again. By the end of the day, they were both exhausted, and by the end of this particular day, Eliot was especially exhausted. He’d been doing his best to follow his own advice, to save his overthinking for the puzzle, but it was difficult when he kept catching vivid glimpses of the night before in his mind.

He watched as Quentin moved through the little hut, anxiety coming off of him in waves as he filed away the drawings from the day according to some intricate organizational system he’d made up, and Eliot had let him run with. He’d thought he’d had a pretty good handle on all of Quentin’s… Quentinisms before they stepped through the clock and into this past version of Fillory, but the level of familiarity every tick, every look, every sigh now held in his heart only proved to him that he hadn’t known as much about the younger man as he’d assumed. So, it was unsurprising to the former (or future? Time travel had never really made sense to him) High King when Quentin looked in his direction with those big, worried eyes.

“Hey, El?”

Eliot blinked away the interest in his amber gaze and replaced it with practiced nonchalance. “Hmmm?” he hummed in response.

“You ever think about what’ll happen if we don’t figure it out?”

The fear in Quentin’s tone was poorly masked, even to the ears of someone not as well trained in emotional avoidance. Eliot’s immediate instinct was to diffuse.

“No, not really. That’s not how this story goes, Q. You’re the hero, and the hero doesn’t die halfway through the quest,” he said dismissively.

“Well, the hero also generally doesn’t kill a God and get magic turned off in the first place, so,” Quentin retorted, “I’m not sure the usual literary epic rules apply here.”

Eliot paused, elegantly wrinkling his brows at his…. friend? Fellow quester? Brother of the heart? Man he kissed and then some the night before? Quentin may have had a point, but if they couldn’t count on fairytale rules in this fairytale land, well, then what was the fucking point of it all?

“So we’re playing parts in Homer’s Morally Gray Odyssey. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“Yeah, but what if you are?”

“Then I try to be right again tomorrow. We don’t have a lot of choice here,” Eliot said finally, sighing heavily.

“Huh….” Quentin’s unspoken anxieties were enough to drive Eliot completely mad.

“Come on, out with it,” he prompted, waving at the space in front of him. “The floor’s all yours.”

“No, it’s, it’s nothing.”

In lieu of rolling his eyes so hard he gave himself a headache, Eliot replied, “Convincing.”

“It’s just – “ Quentin’s hands were headed for his hair, a nervous tick Eliot had learned to recognize long before they’d spent a year with almost solely each other. “I know we said no overthinking last night –“

Eliot held up a hand, shaking his head as he stood. He tucked in the olive green fabric of his shirt that had been pulled loose in the movement.  “Stop. No, nothing good can follow that sentence. And no offense, but I think I’m about up to my tile-riddled brain in ‘nothing good’ for the day.”

He’d woken up that morning with an impressive amount of hope in his heart for Eliot Waugh. Quentin was lying beside him in bed, his own arm draped protectively over Quentin’s waist. It was something he’d never really been able to stop himself from doing, protecting Quentin. Even when it came at the cost of his own destruction, it was a fee he would pay a thousand times over. In the morning light, Eliot was quite certain he’d never seen anything as beautiful as the peaceful planes of Quentin’s face awash in the golden-pink of the sunrise filtering in through the window. It struck him in that moment how rarely he saw the younger man looking at peace. The calm on Quentin’s sleeping face then was a stark contrast to the intense anxiety that had clouded his every feature nearly as soon as he woke up.

One year. It had taken one year for Quentin Coldwater to break his heart again. But the way he’d looked at him after remembering the previous night; the way he’d practically jumped, and then almost fell, out of bed, tucked his hair anxiously behind his ears, dressing quickly and insisting on getting to work had done the trick. It took everything Eliot had to give him the out earlier that day, he didn’t think he could bear to drudge it back up in order to allow the younger man the space to verbally hammer the final nail in Eliot’s extremely premature coffin.

“El – “ Q protested, but Eliot sauntered away in the direction of the kitchen.

“Seriously? Can we not Quentin this to death, please?” he said, his voice betraying the exhaustion he felt at the prospect of having to listen to Quentin detail all the ways in which he was “really great, but…” That was typically his speech to give.

“Eliot, for fuck’s sake, would you let me finish a goddamn thought for once?”

Quentin had followed him into the hut’s tiny, primitive kitchen. The forcefulness in his voice caught Eliot off guard. With considerable effort, he stopped himself from speaking again by biting his lower lip from the inside and crossing his arms with impossible grace over his chest. He arched an eyebrow in a sort of challenge for Quentin, conceding him the floor.

“Oh, um. Okay. I didn’t think you were really going to –“ Quentin must have caught the exasperation that swept into Eliot’s gaze, because he corrected himself quickly, “Right.”

“Look, I just – I’ve been thinking and I know that all of this,” his hands flailed around him, trying to encompass the hut, the mosaic, and the time they’d stepped into in one erratic gesture, “Is just, y’know, not at all what either of us expected. And I dunno, it’s a different world, but it’s also not? And you’re still Eliot and I’m still Quentin and I just think that’s something important. That’s something you should know, you know?”

“Q….” Eliot interjected cautiously. Biting his tongue had never been Eliot’s strong suit, but he did his best, motioning for Q to wrap it up, smirking to mask the small spark of hope that had ignited in his chest. It was foolhardy, Eliot knew, but something in the tone of Quentin’s rambles shifted the day’s despair in him slightly.

“What I’m saying – what I’m trying to say is – we’re here. And it’s familiar because it’s Fillory, right? But it’s also totally not because it’s Fillory like, forever ago, and we uh, we don’t know HOW long we’re gonna be here. We could figure this out tomorrow and I dunno, I just mean, if we did, if we do, I don’t think it would uh, I don’t want you to think it would change the fact,” Quentin’s sentence sputtered out there, his left hand raising from the place it had settled deep in his pocket and coming to rest on the back of his neck, his elbow jutting awkwardly out from his side.

“That I – I want last night to happen again.”

A hush fell over the entire hut. In the heavy silence, Eliot’s heart took Quentin’s words and used them as lighter-fluid drenched kindling, growing the spark of hope into a wildfire that propelled him forward. He reached out his arms so that his hands cupped the sides of Quentin’s face a full three seconds (damn long limbs) before the rest of him did, and pulled the shorter man up to him, dipping down to meet him somewhere in the middle, their lips crashing together far less gracefully than they had the night before. He felt Quentin’s arm drop from the back of his neck, felt the uncertainty in the other man’s body as Eliot kissed him like he was the only viable source of oxygen in the room.

When Quentin had started rambling, Eliot wasn’t sure what to expect, but it damn sure wasn’t the confession he received, and if this was a quick lapse in mental clarity brought on by the stress of another unsuccessful day at the mosaic, he wasn’t going to miss his moment. Eliot’s long fingers tangled easily into Quentin’s hair, and after a moment where Quentin’s entire body tensed against the sudden contact, Eliot felt him relax into it, felt Q’s hands wrapping around his waist, hands sliding up his back. They stayed that way for several minutes, Eliot’s tongue hungrily exploring the younger man’s mouth until finally he pulled away but kept his hands on either side of Quentin’s face.

“Done overthinking it?” he asked, a slow, playful smile spreading across his kiss-swollen lips.

Quentin looked dazed, eyes bouncing back and forth between Eliot’s as though searching for some sign that this was all a joke to the older man. He would find no such evidence. After a long moment, seemingly satisfied with his search, Q smiled, mirroring the joy Eliot could feel emanating from his own face, and lifted onto his toes to close the space between them again.

[nxttheendxfthestxryarch2]

Open Starter: I Swear It’s Okay (Margo)

Margo closes her eyes, idly tapping her pen against the blank sheet of notebook paper as her mind slips back to that.

To everything she’d done, to herself and her friends. Pulling her emotions out of herself. Removing her humanity, trying to be the perfect little witch she was always supposed to be...

And their faces, the looks in their eyes...

Dexy seeing it...

Stephie’s horror...

Zevy’s panic, his begging...

Margo jolts when someone knocks against the table. How long had they been there? “What?!”

[everythingispaper]

“THE BEARD READER” #1

By Sondria

Gates hadn’t seen Margo in two months, even though they were each other’s favorite people and lived in the same city. She came outside in one of those dresses that are tight on everything above the knee, and split up the sides of the calves. She was standing at the top of her narrow staircase scowling, and rummaging through her large bag for something. Gates followed the top of her shaved head to her thick, animated eyebrows. Some blood rushed from his hat to his trousers when he got to her tight, angry eyes.

Gates’ brain continued to drain as he came to her large, shiny, pursed lips. The dress was the same dark chocolate brown as Margo’s skin. Gates reached down and adjusted himself at the color coordination, then readjusted himself (this time with a squeeze) at the holy trinity of Margo’s breasts, tummy, and fupa. She turned back toward the door--and the big, brown, round, glorious, gravity-defying ass jiggled and waved at Gates from the sudden change in direction. Margo opened the door and started to go back inside. Where the fuck was she going with all that?! Gates sprung into action and hit the “auto” button on his car door’s arm.

“Yooooooo!” He beckoned through the widening window crack desperately. His manhood throbbed in supportive echo (yo, yo, yo).

“I’ll be riiiiight back”, Margo smiled over her shoulder then closed the door. That voice! That fucking voice. Gates rolled his window back up and pressed his head hard into his head rest, trying to focus.

In Margo’s brief absence, some blood took the opportunity to rush back into Gates’ brain--not much, though, and he half-wondered why the fuck he hadn’t seen her in the last eight weeks and who the fuck had. The half-full brain got mad at the absence but forgot it was both of their busy schedules that kept them apart, and it downright ignored the fact that she had cancelled an interview to meet him for brunch today. Gates was just about to honk the horn in blind rage when Margo appeared at the top of the steps again. She was smiling her perfect smile and jingling the once-was-lost-but-now-are-found keys. He smiled back foolishly and imagined grabbing Margo by the ass and the back of her neck when she sat down next to him. He’d smother her lips in his.

He had to stop looking at her. He watched that ass bounce in the rearview mirror and adjusted himself again as Margo approached the passenger door and opened it. Then he tried to go cold.

“I said ten-thirty”, Gates said looking straight ahead.

“Old man,” Margo laughed pushing his thigh. “For this body in this dress?! You should be willing to wait all day.” All day. All night. All my life. Gates thought and chuckled.

‘Nigga please”, he said pulling away from the curb. They laughed and Margo pulled down her visor and pulled out her lipgloss.

“I think you good. Them lips already greasy as hell.”

“Greasy?! And what does your ashy-lipped-ass know about moisturizing some lips?” Margo sucked her teeth and rubbed the middle finger of her left hand in a bald patch in Gates’ beard.

“Worry about this patchy ass beard.” Gates laughed and moved his face out of Margo’s reach, covering the empty patch with his hand.

“Man, my barber fucked me up. That shit ain’t been right in weeks.”

“Mmmmhmm...your barber, huh?” They stopped at a red light and Margo cocked her head at him, swiping the wand dramatically across her bottom lip. Then she pressed and rubbed her lips together making that popping sound at the end and rolled her eyes. That was it. The last drop of blood drained from Gates’ brain and he took the back of Margo’s neck in his bigi, soft, warm hand and guided her--with swift, gentle force--to his mouth.

THE END (...or whatever…)

(Margo and Gates are characters I created for the short story “Middle of the Night” and its sequel “The People’s Pussy: Margo’s Revenge. Both stories are in my second short story collection: UNTHINKABLE ACTS. Now available in print and audiobook!)

www.sondriawrites.life

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unscrxpted​:

Jet smirked at Axel. “Now why would I do that when your reactions are always so fun?” She chuckled, looking up at Stephanie.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Crystal said as she walked up to them. “Really, what’d you do? Or is this about someone else and your bare minimum thing?”

Eretria nodded, putting her hands on her hips. “And uh, why should we expect to get bloody? How many bastards are we supposed to be killing?”

James doesn’t even open his mouth before in a flash, Margo appears with Zevon and Keefe. The witch chews her gum and crosses her arms. “All I’m saying is this better be all the fun I was promised.”

Sighing, James shrugs and nods. “It’s... I’m not so sure I can call this a bare minimum thing. Not this time.”

“Oh, that’s a new one,” Keefe crosses his arms. “You called Pixie Hollow bare minimum and this isn’t? Now, if we were your average villain kids, I’d say we can’t be caught up in this.”

“Why do you think I called you?” James raises an eyebrow, turning at the sound of one final approach, a carriage escorted by the dead. Harmony is helped out of it and brushes herself off, though the princess looks anything but princessy, completely dressed for the occasion.

“So, what is this about?” She asks as she joins up with them, crossing her arms.

James sighs. “You remember Mackenzie?”

Zevon looks up as Harmony straightens up a bit. “What happened?”

“The bastards hunting her caught up with her, I don’t know how long she was in their custody. What I know is I found them, and her, when they were taking her up to their mountain base for her execution in two days’ time. That was two days ago. According her, at least half the clan’s gonna be there.”

Margo blinks and glances around at the rest of them, seeming to silently ask, Is James showing attachment? Is that what’s happening here?

[revisitingstoneybrook]

#8 Boy-Crazy Stacey: Chapter 14

Let’s see if we can finish up this book today so I can get more of my old snarks up on this blog!

Stacey wakes up the next morning in a dreamy haze, still thinking about the Tunnel of LUV and Toby. And don't worry - she's alone and in her own bed at the Pikes' beach house. It's their last day in Sea City and Toby and Alex are coming by later to say goodbye, so Stacey feels bittersweet.

Hey, that reminds me - the Pikes never met them. I wonder how they'll feel when two random guys show up to say goodbye to Mary Anne and Stacey. Then again, the Pike parents were really busy, what with the constant dumping the kids on Mary Anne and Stacey while they go off and do their own thing (which is screw).

While she's fantasizing about Toby, she hears "Stacey-silly-billy-goo-goo?" at the door and goes to open it. Stacey's greeted with Claire in nothing but her birthday suit. She doesn't seem too fazed; remember, the Pikes have almost no rules unless your name is Mallory, so they're totally cool with Claire running around without clothes on. So I'm sure the BSC's used to it. Claire wants to go to the beach and she's trying to find her bathing suit, so that puts to rest any concerns about Claire wanting to go to the beach nude (though there is a nude beach in New Jersey).

Stacey's game, so she tells Claire to go put on something warmer than a bathing suit and she'll meet her downstairs. It's windy and cloudy out, and Claire stands near the water's edge, looking out to the ocean. While she does this, Stacey writes "STACEY + TOBY = LUV" in the sand with a piece of driftwood. And unlike when she wrote the same thing about Scott the other day, this message doesn't wash away. Stacey and Claire head back after that...I guess Claire felt they should take a walk, so Stacey could have the chance to create a metaphor to contrast with her "STACEY + SCOTT" message before that got washed away earlier in the book. Deep!

After breakfast, Mr. Pike looks around and wonders who the hell all these kids are that came on vacation with his wife - oh wait, they're his kids. He announces it's time for the Chore Hat. All the kids groan, Mallory in particular, and I don't blame her, since she always ends up with all the Charlie Work.

Mallory Pike = Charlie Kelly

Basically, everyone reaches into the hat and pulls out a chore. And since everyone hates Mallory, you just know her parents rigged it so that while everyone else is sweeping the porch and collecting sand pails, she's rotating the tires on both cars, waxing the floor, and regrouting the tiles in the bathroom.

Mr. and Mrs. Pike put Stacey and Mary Anne in charge of supervising the kids packing after they finish their chores (of course). Later, Stacey says the Pikes are still "working away in the bedroom," so they send the kids to the beach with Stacey and Mary Anne for one last swim. While the kids run into the ocean, Stacey and Mary Anne sit down and watch. Stacey gives a brief run-down of Mary Anne's night of romance with Alex - well, she doesn't say much, but makes sure they mention they went through the Tunnel of LUV too. Though since I'm pretty sure Logan is her first kiss, it sounds like their time through the Tunnel of LUV was pretty uneventful.

And speak of the devil, here comes Toby and Alex with the kids Alex is babysitting! They've come to say goodbye. Mary Anne looks like she's about to break down sobbing, and we're thankfully spared the deluge because Stacey and Toby step away for privacy...to talk. Get your minds out of the gutter! I've been bawdy enough in this snark!

Anyway, Toby and Stacey exchange goodbyes, and promise to write each other. Stacey says she'll always remember him by Toby-Bear (lol) and the shell, he says he'll always remember her by the cheapass hat she won him, which he wore to the beach. He adds that he wants to kiss her, but there's too many people watching them. Sorry Mallory. You'll have to wait to see what it looks like when two people kiss.

They part ways, and Toby goes back to Alex and kids and then the group leaves the beach. Stacey reaches Mary Anne and surprise, surprise, she's crying. There's the Mary Anne we're all familiar with. As Stacey comforts her, her eyes drift over to the lifeguard stand, where Scott sees her and waves. Stacey tells Mary Anne there's something she has to do and leaves her wallowing in her grief. 

Stacey's greeted with a "Hey babe," from Scott, and if this was Dawn, he would have gotten an earful from her about what a sexist pig he is, expecting women to be subservient to him. But since this is Stacey, she doesn't do that. Instead, she says she's leaving and he says he'll miss her. Stacey knows he'll just miss her playing waitress, but says she isn't mad about that anymore, because she thinks deep down, he still likes her, even if he doesn't love her.

Oh, Stacey...so close.

He likes you because you made him lunch and got him sodas and inflated his ego, like he did for you. I doubt he likes you *that* way, when there's 72 other girls willing to take your place. At least she's over the "Scott = true LUV" thing and reassures us that his whistle will be buried in a drawer, while she puts Toby-Bear (lol) and the shell on display.

They say goodbye, as Byron yells for Stacey because Mrs. Pike is calling for them. Stacey runs and helps Mary Anne round up the kids and pass out towels. As they head back to the house, I guess the sky was inspired by Mary Anne, because it starts raining. Then Claire starts crying because she doesn't want to go back to Stoneybrook. Can you blame her? I think Claire knows that once she returns to Stoneybrook, the Time Warp will take effect and she'll be five years old for the rest of the series.

Thankfully, we're spared the details of the car ride home, though right as they pull out, Margo says she needs the Barf Bucket. Geez, Mr. Pike just pulled out of the driveway and already she's queasy!

[networkingdefinition]

Best Job Quotes

Official Website: Best Job Quotes

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• Acting in particular is a fun job when you have a good script. I don’t know about acting when you don’t have a great script. I’m gonna say that’s not a great job, it’s kind of a dumb job. But when you have a good part in a good script, it’s the best job, in a way. – Bob Odenkirk • Acting is the best job in the world. Look at the way they treat you when you turn up for work. They give you breakfast and a cup of tea and ask, ‘Are you all right’ They tart up your face, you say somebody else’s words, then pick up your check and go home. And you get days off. I tell you, it really is the way to live. – Bob Hoskins • Actually, acting turned out to be the perfect job for me, because I had a lot of different interests. I thought about being a priest at one point. I thought about being a teacher. I thought about being a lawyer. But I think acting is probably the best job for me. – John C. Reilly • Amidst all the clutter, beyond all the obstacles, aside from all the static, are the goals set. Put your head down, do the best job possible, let the flak pass, and work towards those goals. – Donald Rumsfeld • Anyone who says they don’t enjoy the Army is mad – you can spend a week hating it and the next week it could be the best thing in the world and the best job you could ever, ever wish for. It has got so much to offer. – Prince Harry • As an actor, you want to do the best job possible, and you want the best scripts possible because it makes life more interesting. – Mark Strickson • At the end of the day, the TV show is the best job in the world. I get to go anywhere I want, eat and drink whatever I want. As long as I just babble at the camera, other people will pay for it. It’s a gift. – Anthony Bourdain

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Job', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_job').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_job img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Being a chef is the best job in the world. – Gordon Ramsay • Being a showrunner is tough, but it is incredibly rewarding and it is, without a doubt, the best job I’ve ever had. – Graham Yost • Big money, big Liberal Party politics and big media are trying to get rid of us, of course, by letting Packer take over Fairfax – a media-only company. But we’re hanging in there and doing the best job we can for our readers while we can. – Margo Kingston • Boxing is the best job in the world to let off steam, and people are in trouble when Tyson wants to let off steam – Michael Spinks • But [Sunday] as you saw, it was obviously [the media] took some more than initiative to try to get me to kind of go down the wrong path. I know the last two teams that I’ve been on, I felt like I left those teams prematurely due to media interviews that I’ve done and things kind of taken out of context and they created sort of a media whirlwind in the locker room and things kind of went downhill from there. I’m just trying to do the best job I can do as far as answering the questions and trying to be a better teammate and not try to throw people under the bus. – Terrell Owens • Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.- Confucius • David Ortiz is an icon. He is one of a kind. But we’ll do our best job to replace the offensive aspect, however we can. – Dave Dombrowski • Directing is a nice job. It’s the best job for me. If I had to pay money to do it, I would do it… Directing is playing. Acting. – William Friedkin • Directing is a nice job. It’s the best job for me. If i had to pay money to do it, I would do itIt’s problematical. It’s disapointing often. It’s very challenging. It’s frustrating as hell. It’s extremely demanding and totally satisfying work. And if I wasn’t doing this, I would have to do legitimate work for a living. There are guys out there really working for a living, cleaning streets or coal mining, teaching. Directing is playing. Acting. – William Friedkin • Directing is probably the best job, but acting is really, really great. It’s like a fun vacation that you get paid for. – Bob Odenkirk • Every little kid that steps on the court or the field has aspirations to go pro. I think being a pro basketball player is the best job. The thing I had to realize was that I can’t do every dream that I have. – Brian McKnight • Every mother I’ve ever met, pretty much without exception, is doing the best job she can ever do. – Jennifer Weiner • Everything I do is unfabulous. Im the most normal person. I love walking everywhere, and going to hole-in-the-wall places, like nail shops, because they do the best job. And I go to vintage stores rather than high-end boutiques, because I like to dress different from other people. – Ashley Benson • For somebody who loves foreign policy, being Secretary is the best job in the world – but it doesn’t happen twice. – Madeleine Albright • I am already experiencing something better than being a pop star and that’s being a father. It’s the best job in the world. A lot of work, but a lot of fun. – A. J. McLean • I am happy with what I do. I’d love to be the manager of the Atlanta Braves, but they hired somebody this week. So I’ll just have to be inordinately happy with one of the best jobs on the planet. – Robert Gibbs • I am positive – determined to move forward with my life, bring up my babies, and do the best job I can as a mother, entertainer, and person. – Jennifer Lopez • I call ‘Community’ the best day job in the world, because between takes, I get to write music. I get to write sketches. I get to write movies. It’s the best job ever. – Donald Glover • I enjoyed the crew. The best part about ‘The X-Files’ has been the crew. This crew is an exceptional family and to go to work with a bunch of people that you really like is great. They’re all the best of the best and they really try to do the best job they can. I’ll miss that – Robert Patrick • I feel like I have to do the best job I can to basically say, “OK, I understand – you have every right to be angry, but anger is not a plan. Here’s what I want to do, and that’s why I hope you will support me, because I think it will actually improve the lives of Americans.” – Hillary Clinton • I felt like I had kind of played it out, and I wanted to see what was next, and then came Mythbusters. You know, it’s the best job I’ve ever had, on its worst day it’s better than anything else, but it’s a huge amount of responsibility, and there are days when just going into work and building something from someone else’s drawing sounds like going back to heaven. – Adam Savage • I grew up thinking the best job in the world would be a Jedi and being a psychologist is the closest thing I could get, so I wanted to be a Jedi and I don’t want to be a Sith, so that is what keeps me on the straight and narrow. – John Amaechi • I had fun pretending to be a sportscaster. People always think that was a down thing for me. I had the best job in sports broadcasting for two years. – Dennis Miller • I have everything that I could possibly want in life, from a gorgeous granddaughter and a wonderful wife, brilliant students, the best job anyone could hope for, and about half of my hair. Not the half I would have kept, but no one consulted me. – Daniel Gilbert • I have talent at playing myself. I don’t have a very broad range, but at playing myself I am a wizard. It’s more than fun; it’s the best job on Earth. – Ben Stein • I have the best job in the entire history of broadcasting. – Willard Scott • I have the best job in the world with the best fans in the world – Jeremy Davis • I have the best job in the world. – Anthony Bourdain • I have the best job in the world. I’m able to express myself, and people attach themselves to it if they identify with it. Music certainly is a driving force in my life. There’s not a moment where I’m not in it. – James Hetfield • I have the best job in the world. There’s not really a lot to moan or whine about. I’ve got the privilege of going out and doing something I absolutely love. – Boy George • I have the world’s best job. I get paid to hang out in my imagination all day. – Stephen King • I hope to focus on what I’m passionate about because I think I’d do them best job on them – education, urban education, women and children’s issues and literacy. – Jenna Bush • I just feel that God gave me a certain gift, and that was to go out, do storytelling and be an actor. And my responsibility with that gift is to do the best job possible and to re-create real life. – Eric Close • I just try to do the best job I possibly can – put the blinders on, go to work and be the best you can possibly be. Once you have done everything that you possibly can – you’ve put forth your greatest effort – then I can live with whatever’s next. – Bill Parcells • I just try to do the best job that I can, as an actor. Hopefully, that carries through. That’s all I can do. – Luke Mitchell • I know that I am my worst critic. I know that if I can walk away from the set at the end of the day and feel that I did the best job I could and feel proud, that’s what will satisfy me. – Emmy Rossum • I learned that when you do the best job that you can do, some people will idolize you, others won’t care, and some will vilify you. – Mike Love • I learned that when you do the best job that you can do, some people will idolize you, others won’t care, and some will vilify you. I believe it is important to remain humble and thankful for the blessings in our lives, for the tremendous opportunities that are a result of our musical success. – Mike Love • I love acting. I think that’s the best job in the world, but I don’t really enjoy the career of it so much. You don’t have as much control over your life or the material as you do, well, certainly when you’re a director or a producer, so while I love acting, I prefer to make my living as a filmmaker, but my rule on acting is if somebody asks me to do a part, I’ll do it. – David Hayter • I love being a mom. That’s the best job I’ve ever had. All the other stuff I love the same, but being a mom trumps all of it. – Tamera Mowry • I mean, I hate when actors talk about how hard their job is. It’s ridiculous, because we have the best job in the world. – Jon Bernthal • I really like writing in English, and it’s the best job I’ve ever had. – Nell Zink • I tell you, ‘Firefly’? Best job I ever had. Heartbroken when it was canceled, but had it not been canceled, I never would have gotten ‘Serenity’. I think ‘Serenity’ is the most incredible thing I’ve ever been able to actually get my hands on and do. I can’t even tell you how much love I have for that project. – Nathan Fillion • I think Ayn Rand did the best job of anybody to build a moral case of capitalism, and that morality of capitalism is under assault. – Paul Ryan • I think I have the best job in the world. Seventy-one percent of the planet is covered by water, we’ve explored less than five percent of the ocean, and there are so many fabulous discoveries that have yet to be made. – Edith Widder • I think it’s a tough road if you’re a stay-at-home mom, a working mom, if you have a partner, if you don’t. It’s the best job in the world, and the toughest job in the world all at the same time. – Angela Kinsey • I think I’ve got the best job around. – Ron Wyden • I wanna do the very best job I can to fulfill the trust and faith that people have in me. – Hillary Clinton • I want to do the best job I can. – Lucas Till • I was shocked by the reaction I got for Bleak House. It was very intensive but one of the best jobs of my life. It was a chance to play a character that grows and develops and I was very enmeshed in it. But I didn’t realise how stylish it was and how much people would love it. – Anna Maxwell Martin • I would never really analyse what I do. I leave that to other people – I’m not a critic. I just want to get on with whatever I have in hand, you know? Just try to make the best job of the available material. – Dylan Moran • I’d love to do situation comedy – it’s the best job in show business. – Patti LuPone • I’m not concentrated or concerned with any other factors rather than just being able to do the best job that I can. – Benigno Aquino III • I’m not saying you need to become a spokesperson for every cause your character goes through, but it’s important to absolutely do the best job we can in portraying a disease, and all the crap that goes with it. – Monica Potter • I’m not trying to put on airs for anybody. I’m only trying to impress myself by doing the best job I can do. – Matthew McConaughey • In 1971, after seven years in college, with that magic piece of paper clutched triumphantly in my fist, the best job I was able to get was night watchman on a sewer project in Babylon, N.Y. guarding a hole in the ground to prevent anyone from stealing it. God bless the American educational system! – Spider Robinson • In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries you have these great nation states hurling their young men at one another. The victory was really going to rest on who could do the best job of bringing up their kids to become efficient and effective soldiers. That’s pretty grandiose, I guess, but I do think that, and thank God it’s been the armies of democracy that have emerged from this as the triumphant armies. – Stephen Ambrose • In the theater we’re like blue-collar workers: It’s a physical job, you don’t make a lot of money, and you’re on the road all the time. It’s worth it in that it’s the best job in the world, but you have to negotiate living in cities that don’t always accommodate you. – Randy Harrison • Inner peace is not found in things like baseball and world championships. As long as I feel I’ve done the best job I possibly could, I’m satisfied. – Sparky Anderson • It’s a form of bullying, in my opinion, to make sure that your kid gets the best grades, the best jobs and all that sort of stuff. I just want my child to be happy. I want him to do his best and trust God in the rest, but I’m not going to bully him. – Nick Vujicic • It’s basically the best job in the world. If you’re fortunate enough – and I consider myself fortunate – you get to work with your friends and you get to work on projects that interest you. – James Franco • It’s just really making sure I am doing the best job I can do as a dad. I do think that is my No. 1 job. – Tony Dungy • I’ve already felt that I want to direct. Being an executive producer is like the best job in the world because you make all these executive decisions and then you leave the money to other people. You don’t have to be on set and counting beans. – Robbie Coltraine • I’ve always thought that, as a romance writer, I had the best job in the world. I sit around all day making up emotion-drenched, conflict-laden stories that push my heroes and heroines to the edge of sanity. Then I give them a happy ending. – Ruth Glick • I’ve got the best job in the world being a senator from the United States, a senator from South Carolina in the United States Senate, representing South Carolina in the United States Senate is a dream job for me, but the world is literally falling apart. And we can’t get anything done here at home. So that drives my thinking more than anything else. – Lindsey Graham • I’ve got the best job in the world, and i meet some of the most amazing human beings on the planet. I’m one lucky guy. – Ty Pennington • Keep your head down. Mind your business and do the best job you can. – Bill Raftery • Keeping your head down and doing the best job you can in the beginning gives you the opportunity to be evaluated on the basis of the contributions you are making. [Then], when you feel strongly about your work or about a position, you’ll be given more attention [than] if you hadn’t done that constantly. – Hillary Clinton • Loving you is a full-time job. It’s a great job, don’t get me wrong. It’s the best job in the universe. But it’s not easy. – Carrie Jones • My goal was to do the best job I could in governing the state of Wisconsin, in some cases making very tough decisions to have to bring our spending in line with the resources we had at the state level. – Scott McCallum • My kids complained about Secret Service as they became teenagers, and Secret Service has done the very best job they could accommodating them, so it hasn’t restricted any of their activities. – Barack Obama • My left brain is doing the best job it can with the information it has to work with. I need to remember, however, that there are enormous gaps between what I know and what I think I know. – Jill Bolte Taylor • My slogan is I’m the least qualified guy for the job, but I’d probably do the best job. – Gary Coleman • People ask me, “How’s Teen Wolf?,” and I tell them it’s literally the best job I’ve ever had. – Shelley Hennig • People tell me I have the best job in the world, which is true, but I also work with some of the best people in the world. – Michael Silverblatt • Perform your job better than anyone else can. That’s the best job security I know. – H. Jackson Brown, Jr. • Random acts of kindness and the desire to do the best job possible lead to trust. – Jeffrey Gitomer • So to the best we can, what we do is focus on creating value for others, and how do we do that? We do it by trying to produce products and services that our customers will value more than their alternatives, and not just their alternatives today, but what the alternatives will be in the future. We try to more efficiently use resources than our competitors, and constantly improve in that, and we try to do the best job we can in creating a safe environment, and environmental excellence, and constantly improve at that. – Charles Koch • Society as a whole is better off when information is available to the public. Whether you are talking about how to prevent disease, or about who does the best job of treating disease, it is useful to provide as much information to the public as possible. – Dave Obey • Sometimes I think I have the best job in the world. – Louis Susman • The best job goes to the person who can get it done without passing the buck or coming back with excuses. – G. M. Trevelyan • The best job that was ever offered to me was to become a landlord in a brothel. In my opinion it’s the perfect milieu for an artist to work in. – William Faulkner • The best verse hasn’t been rhymed yet, The best house hasn’t been planned, The highest peak hasn’t been climbed yet, The mightiest rivers aren’t spanned; Don’t worry and fret, faint-hearted, The chances have just begun For the best jobs haven’t been started, The best work hasn’t been done. – Berton Braley • The companies that do the best job on managing a user’s privacy will be the companies that ultimately are the most successful. – Fred Wilson • The crew, the actors and the writers all work the same way. We always want to do the best job. – Robert Knepper • The last thing I think I am is perfect. I’m just trying to do the best job I can. I’m trying to be the best father I can to my kids. I’m trying to do the best job I can running my business. – James Packer • The man with the best job in the country is the vice-president. All he has to do is get up every morning and say, ‘How is the president?’ – Will Rogers • The only reason to be in politics is public service. There’s no other reason. Frankly, if that’s the best job you can get in terms of money, that’s too bad, you know. Because frankly, it’s not well paid, everyone knows that. So for most people it’s a big sacrifice. – Malcolm Turnbull • The Patriot Post not only does the best job of putting important news, policy and opinion in proper context, but also of cutting down to size the pompous praters and propagandists on the left. – Lyn Nofziger • The thing that I have done throughout my life is to do the best job that I can and to be me. – Mae Jemison • The things you don’t have control over, you don’t worry about. I have control over my attitude, my perception, how I do things, and you do the very best job you can. Other people have control over other things and you let them do their jobs. – Mike Sherman • The voters reward good performance. So, I’m going to go out and focus, if I become the governor, to do the very best job I can as governor. The rest of it will take care of itself. – Dave Heineman • The worst men have the best jobs the best men have the worst jobs or are unemployed or locked in madhouses. – Charles Bukowski • There’s nothing more fun than being out on stage and getting the vibe from the crowd. There’s nothing like being on a set where you are there to make other people happy and to make them laugh. That’s the best job in the world. – Miley Cyrus • There’s such a wide variation in tax systems around the world, it’s difficult to imagine a harmonized CO2 tax that every country agrees to. That’s not in the cards in the near term. But the countries that are doing the best job, like Sweden, are already doing both of these. I think that eventually we’ll use both of them but we need to get started right away and the cap-and-trade is a proven and effective tool. – Al Gore • These days she simply did the best job she could, accepting the good with the bad. – Nicholas Sparks • To get a job where the only thing you have to do in your career is to make people laugh-well, its the best job in the world. – Ronnie Barker • Trump claims he’d be the “best jobs president that God ever created.” But isn’t his claim to fame firing people? – Michael R. Burch • Twin Peaks’ was the best job I ever had as an actor. – Richard Beymer • We started off with a set of objectives for what we needed to communicate with the company’s identity, created several proposals intended to meet those objectives, and picked the one that did the best job. – Gabe Newell • What you realize is that a lot of actors want to be directed. They’re there to do the best job they can for the director. They have a lot of questions, and your job is to have answers. – Jon Turteltaub • Whatever it is, I just loved it and felt at my absolute happiest when I was performing for people. And if that’s what you want from a job, then this is the best job you could ever do. – James Corden • When it is going well, it is the best job [writing] in the world. For those few hours, you are god, in control of everything. However, for me, the great joy of writing is that it has allowed me to travel the world in search of stories. – Michael Scott • When you do something well, this is the best job in the world. – David Thewlis • Women are always being tested … but ultimately, each of us has to define who we are individually and then do the very best job we can to grow into it. – Hillary Clinton • Writing is hard work; its also the best job Ive ever had. – Raymond E. Feist • Writing studio movies is the best job in the world… it’s awesome. – Thomas Lennon • You can’t please everybody. All you can do is really just try to work from the heart and do the best job that you can and hope for the best. – Jackie Earle Haley • You concentrate on what you are doing, to do the best job you can, to stay out of a serious situation. That’s the way the X-1 was. – Chuck Yeager • You do the best job you can. You take it step by step. It’s hard enough to make a movie. If it works, that’s great. If it means something beyond the moment to somebody, they can take it and it lasts through the years, we’ll see. – Oliver Stone • You just go in and try to do the best job you can everyday. – Nick Cassavetes • You just try to get the best jobs that you can get. Sometimes I produce my own movies, so that’s your own sort of vision. That helps things. I don’t know what it is. Probably just circumstance. I’ve definitely been aware of the fact that I want to do different things. – John Cusack • You try to get yourself into a situation where you only have to answer to yourself, where you can ask advice of people and work with your peers and mentors and things to try to do the best job that you can possibly do. – George Lucas

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