#i fear she may never be called linda again....... *fucking dies*

[bisupergirl]

me wanting kara to get another solo that firmly places her on earth with a civilian supporting cast VS me not wanting to see her referred to as "kara danvers" ever again FIGHT

[no-reply95]

So I listened to the Something About the Beatles (SATB) latest podcast today, titled “Dear Friend” with the topic of conversation John and Paul’s relationship in the 1970s. So I was thinking that this would be great because I feel like the primary things talked about when the John/Paul 1970s dynamic is discussed is Lennon Remembers, How Do You Sleep and the PlayBoy interview, maybe they’ll throw in the Lost Weekend for balance if they’re feeling so inclined... I’m obviously exaggerating here but... Firstly, before I start my rant, SATB is a good podcast, they usually have great guests (Erin Torkelson Weber the MVP of course), cover interesting topics and Robert Rodriguez is a good host who’s good at challenging things in the story that don’t ring true.

However, I feel like throughout the Beatles active years and into the post break-up years there’s a narrative that has been established that so many people are wedded to, to the point that it’s part of the orthodoxy of the band. In my opinion the narrative is that from first meeting up until the moment that John died Paul was always doing everything to be John’s BFF, he was always trying to be closest to John, no matter what John said or did, Paul would always be the one to try and mend fences and throughout the 70s he was doing whatever he could to end up back working with John. I don’t think this narrative is completely wrong but I think it’s uneven mainly because, in all this, Paul’s importance to John is completely glossed over and John’s manoeuvring to ensure that he was the most important person in Paul’s life is completely missed. So, I just want to highlight some of the instances off the top of my head where I feel that John showed how much he needed to be prioritised in Paul’s life and how much he wanted to mend fences post break-up, that I feel don’t get talked about often enough:

1) John’s competition with Jim McCartney: There’s a lot of stock put into the John-Paul-Stu triangle but that obscures a weird triangle that, maybe Paul wasn’t even aware of, but I think definitely existed which is John-Paul-Jim. By all accounts Jim didn’t want John around and was against John and Paul’s friendship. Jim had a lot of influence over Paul and had a lot of sway as his sole parent once Mary died and I think John was resentful of that. We all know about the ultimatum John gave Paul when he took the job (that Jim implored him to get) which jeopardised his commitment to the band. In John’s eyes and own words, Paul choosing to quit his job to commit fully to the band was Paul choosing John over his dad. No one (in books I’ve only seen Joshua Wolf Shenk discuss this) discusses how Jim was effectively John’s Stu, someone that obstructed his closeness and ability to influence Paul to the point that over a decade later, post break up, John saw Paul focusing on the band as a victory over his dad. John had a jealously of Paul’s closeness and prioritisation of his family that would rear its head further down the road but, by and large, I rarely see this discussed.

2) John’s jealousy of Paul’s other close friendships: On this front, we hear ad nauseam, about Paul’s jealousy of Stu, which is fine because, even without Paul acknowledging it, it’s obvious from space that Paul was jealous of Stu’s closeness to John but we never hear about John’s jealousy of Paul’s other close friendships. All the Beatles were close to Mal Evans but I think Paul was especially close to him (he was the first Beatle to befriend Mal, Mal lived with him at Cavendish for some time, Mal helped Paul write some songs etc.) which got to John. In John’s own words when discussing Magical Mystery Tour he was “choked” when he found out that Paul had come up with the idea with Mal and Mal’s widow has said that Yoko told her that John had told her (whew Chinese whispers time) that he was jealous of Mal’s friendship with Paul... Then there’s Tara Browne, it’s interesting that despite Tara apparently being really friendly and outgoing John never took to him. Maybe it was because Tara was upper class. Maybe it was because after pestering him for months, Paul chose to do LSD with Tara instead of with John and the rest of the band. Maybe it was because Paul invited Tara up to Liverpool, right after Christmas, to hang out with his family resulting in the infamous moped crash. If I put my tin foil hat on, in “A Day in the Life” when John’s reaction to the death of a man in a car crash is “to laugh” is that meaningful? The song is thought to reference Tara but does that passage give us a glimpse into how John saw Tara? If he’s laughing about Tara dying then it sounds like he really didn’t like him, possibly due to his close friendship with Paul.

3) John’s resentment of Paul’s romantic partners: So this one is interesting... There are quite a few examples to walk through so here goes. We have the incident in Hamburg where Paul is in bed with a woman and John (in the aftermath of Stu’s death and probably high on prellies) comes charging in attacking the girl, cutting up her clothes and basically scares her out of the room, maybe that was just the prellies but there seems to be too much of a pattern to ignore. Then there’s Jane of course, we don’t know a ton about John’s interactions with Jane over the years but it’s interesting that he makes a terrible first impression with her (asking her to describe how girls masturbate) and it seems that their relationship is cordial at best going forward (note how Jane and Paul never go on holiday alone with John and Cynthia in the same way George and Ringo did with their respective partners). Peggy Lipton also tells the story about how when she came to hang out with Paul in 1965, John was really rude to her out of nowhere and asked “what she was doing there” and she seemed to think that John couldn’t understand why Paul wanted to take her to dinner if all he was going to do was fuck her. Then, there’s Linda... John consistently gives interviews in the early 70s when he talks about how in a few years Paul will wake up and leave Linda, according to Ray Connolly John couldn’t believe that Paul was staying faithful to Linda and then there’s other weird occurrences in that late 60s/early 70s period. There’s the fan who claims seeing John about to hit a pregnant Linda before Paul stepped in, there’s John rushing to get married as soon as Paul does (8 days later I think which is WILD to me), there’s John describing Paul’s wedding as a “funeral” in ‘71... What does all this tell us? That John was too busy replacing Paul with Yoko to care about Paul anymore? In my book, it’s John’s fears being realised that Paul would always prioritise his family over him when push came to shove, in John’s mind he had won when he was competing with Jim for Paul but once Linda came into the picture and gave Paul the family he always wanted, I think in John’s mind, it was game over. Maybe if Paul had divorced Linda in the 70s (like John predicted) they would have worked together more, we’ll never know, but in a similar way to Yoko, Linda was a wedge in John’s relationship to Paul.

4) John’s attempts post break-up to reach out to Paul: We hear a lot about Paul reaching out to John in the 70s and not engaging with the feuding anymore, it’s Paul that decides not to respond in kind to HDYS, it’s Paul that invites John to the Venus and Mars sessions, it’s Paul going to the Dakota to see/try to see John, it’s always Paul seemingly who misses John and wants to reestablish their relationship. However, according to May Pang, John was happy to do Bangladesh if Paul was doing it too. According to Ray Connolly, John gave him a letter to give to Paul, in the hopes that Paul would call him. According to Paul and other people involved in the One to One concert, John asked Paul to appear with him during his performance in ‘72. And in the face of the backlash from HDYS, John’s the one going around calling Paul his best friend ,other than Yoko, and sending him Beatles bootlegs for Christmas.

All this is to say that John and Paul did not have this one sided relationship where only Paul cared and wanted them to repair things or where only Paul was looking to manoeuvre a situation so he was closest to John, John also wanted to be the closest person in Paul’s life, he was jealously protective of their partnership (see his angry reaction to Paul not coming to him and only him to help with Eleanor Rigby) he also seemed to fear losing Paul to his family which may have happened in his mind, who knows. Because John’s most famous post Beatles interviews have him bashing Paul and Paul’s had 40 years to talk about how much he loved John, there’s this view that Paul loved John more than John loved Paul or that John loved Paul until Yoko came in the picture, at which point Paul was no longer relevant. If Paul meant nothing to John anymore, why did he even bother writing HDYS, if he was so tuned out he wouldn’t have been bothered by Ram, none of the critics were so why was John all over that album more than a Paul is Dead truther?! Why did Yoko block Paul’s calls to John, they were happy to hang out with Ringo, what was so threatening about Paul? Why, according to Robert Rosen, were John’s diaries full of his obsessions about Paul?? We’ll never know a lot of the answers to these questions but I would love it if more podcasts even acknowledged that these questions exist and acknowledged that Paul was such a huge part of John’s life till his dying day: “we have our ups and downs but I would do anything for Paul and I think he would do anything for me” John Lennon December 8 1980.

Apologies for the rant it seems listening to Beatles podcasts always seems to set me off! But SATB is a good podcast, just feel that there are so many interesting conversations that get missed in favour of the usual narrative time and time again, so close but no cigar!

Thanks to @onesweetdreampodcast and @anotherkindofmindpod for being the only podcast I’ve heard to date brave enough to discuss these questions, I think doing that will give us a much better understanding of the Beatles and how their story unfolded.

By the way most of what I referenced above can be found in @amoralto incredible blog, have fun!

[fuckingthefictional]

Shelby’s stick together

A/N: requested by @shady80smusicsingercolor hope you enjoy, sorry it took so long- I’ve been super busy was college work! Xx

Masterlist

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Sister! OC

Warnings: swearing, racist slur used in historical context, super fuckin long.

Olivia Shelby and Linda Shelby did not get on. Plain and simple.

They didn’t get on one bit.

Liv maintained that Linda had barged her way into the family and had forcibly changed Arthur into someone he quite simply was not.

Linda however maintained that Liv was just being bratty and selfish and that she was hogging her brothers all to herself and never wanted them to be happy.

Which was wildly untrue. After all Esme was Liv’s other sister in law and Olivia got on like a house on fire with her.

When they had first met they had only slightly clashed, it wasn’t a big deal.

Arthur strolled up the blackened streets of Small Heath, Linda grasped onto his arm out of what must’ve been fear or anxiety.

To Arthur however he owned the space, people feared him and this place was his home.

He had no issue with the workers or the fire fuelled factories, or the children running barefoot in the streets together- it was as normal as could be, even the whores that littered the corners didn’t cause him to bat an eye.

This was Small Heath. His safe haven.

Linda however was tense on his arm, her eyes shooting around frantically.

It was clear she was afraid of meeting the one and only Olivia Shelby.

Everyone else had been civil to Linda (for Arthur’s sake) but Olivia was another story.

Polly claimed that Olivia had the Gypsy blessing of judgement.

Or being able to tell what a person was truly like- or what their true thoughts were at first glance.

Making Olivia unpredictable in her reactions.

And that was where they first disagreed, The Shelby’s called this power a ‘gift’ or a ‘blessing’, Linda called it Witchcraft and blasphemy in the highest.

Unfortunately it didn’t take long for Arthur to locate where his youngest sibling was (thanks to Jeremiah)

She was down by the cut with Isaiah (which was unsurprising considering the two of them flirted back and forth continuously)

It wasn’t long before the eldest Shelby heard the giggles of Olivia, and the chattering of Isaiah.

“Now what are you two doing out here alone?” Arthur boomed teasingly, purposefully trying to frighten the teens.

“Shit!” Olivia jumped, tumbling backwards and landing with a splash in the river, “Arthur you fucker!”

Linda flinched at the language being used as the other boys laughed heartily and dragged Liv out of the murky depths.

“Liv, this is Linda.” Arthur gestured to the woman stood awkwardly on the bank, “My fiancé.”

Olivia took the woman in, she didn’t like the judgement that lay in her eyes. The slight frown that she tried to keep hidden suggested that she had negative ideas of Olivia already.

Liv was clear on one thing- she didn’t trust Linda one bit.

It was frustrating to Liv. She had always been feisty (courtesy of the Shelby genes and the Gypsy blood running through her veins) but when this ‘good Christian woman’ was around she couldn’t help but make snarky comments.

But that didn’t mean Linda couldn’t hit back with harsher, nastier comments.

The needle that broke the horses back occurred the day before- resulting in Olivia to purchase a train ticket to London to stay with Ada for a while.

She was desperate to get away. The comments coming from her sister in law were enough to beat her down day after day. Liv was certain that Tommy had noticed a difference in her, after all she was closest with him.

All Olivia did yesterday was glare slightly at her sister in law, and in return got a mouthful of insults from the devil blonde.

It hurt, it was embarrassing, and even worse it had hit a sore spot in her heart.

Because Linda had mentioned the Shelby’s mother- more specifically how Olivia was the cause of her own mothers death. How it was all her fault.

That one hit close to home.

And now here Liv was, sat on a train that was heading to London. A train that her family (minus Ada) had no idea she was on.

//

Tommy was stood at his sisters bedroom door, his fist pounded insistently at the slab of wood.

Every knock that he made were all answered by silence. It made him feel anxious- Liv always answered the door to him. Always.

“Liv?” He presses his ear against the door, “Liv let me in please?”

Tommy twisted the knob again, but the cool metal was still locked against the latch.

If there was one thing that Tommy prided himself on, it was being patient with his youngest sister.

Sure, he was protective of Ada and they got on- but they had never seen eye to eye on most things.

Olivia, however was Tommy’s soft spot. Ever since she was tiny, she’d been able to melt his heart. He’d learnt to be patient for Liv, and he’d continued to do so.

But considering Tommy had been knocking for a good 15 minutes to no response, his worry began to erode at his patience.

Weighing his options, Tommy quickly decided on attacking the door one last time...with a strong kick.

The door cracked and flew off the hinges, leaving splinters littered across the floor.

Only one thing was apparent to Tommy however, the room was empty.

The wardrobe was cleaned out and Liv’s one and only stuffed animal which she slept with was nowhere to be seen.

Tommy’s heart was thumping out of his chest painfully. Olivia wouldn’t just...leave.

Unless she felt as if she was a intruder in her own family or was being pushed away.

He felt his feet thump on the floor, a sign that Tommy was in fact walking away from the room. Moments later he found himself in the betting den.

Esme, Linda and Lizzie were sat at their desks chatting away- as John, Arthur and Polly were crowded around one of the many finance books out of Tommy’s office.

Nobody had seemingly noticed his presence- until he spoke loudly.

“Would anyone care to tell me why the fuck Olivia’s room’s fuckin’ empty and her shit‘s gone.”

Everyone’s head turned sharply at this. Esme, John, Arthur and Polly paced forward- clamouring in confusion and fear.

The only person who was sat still and unbothered was the small figured blonde who perched on her chair, a smug expression painting her lips.

//

Kings cross station was always busy- it didn’t matter what time you arrived. It was always crowded.

So it was a blessing in disguise that Olivia Shelby was short in stature and could slip through small gaps in the crowds.

Liv didn’t have a plan if she was being honest. She had enough money for a taxi- maybe a hotel room if Ada wasn’t home.

With these new thoughts in her mind, Liv picked up her pace and rushed to the street outside.

It may have been just past 11 o’clock in the morning, when the taxi dropped her off at the street corner where Ada’s home was located.

Olivia, tired and mentally drained, ambled to the front door. She rung the doorbell, waiting as she heard the excited screeches coming from Karl on the other side.

Seconds later, Ada’s face appeared as the door swung open- immediately Liv embraced her older sister, trying to find some comfort.

She was upset and just wanted some peace and time away from the hurtful comments.

When evening fell and the sun crept beyond the horizon, Olivia was awoken from her slumber by the sound of the front door being opened and heavy, rushed footfalls running up the stairs.

Liv could feel her heart rate spike in fear, as she hid under the covers like a young child.

“Livvy?”

It was Tommy, immediately she came out from the linen sheets, and stared at her brother who came forward and embraced her in a tight hug.

“Thank God you’re okay,��� he mumbled into her shoulder, “I thought something bad had happened to you.”

“I’m okay.” Liv whispered back, although it sounded like she was trying to convince herself as she spoke.

Tommy broke the embrace, as he cupped her face in his hands- searching her eyes for truth.

The moment she looked into her older brothers calculating gaze, Liv just found herself breaking down into floods of tears.

The older man perched on his little sisters temporary bed, scooping her up like she weighed nothing and cradling her in his lap- like he did when Liv was little.

Tommy continued to rock his sister comfortingly, it pained him to see someone he loved so much this upset.

Finally the question arose, “Livvy, What’s got you in such a state?” He asked unsure of the response he’d get.

Olivia took a deep, shuddering breath before responding, “Linda, we’ve been arguing for a few months now. I don’t trust her and she doesn’t respect me. I hit her with snarky comments and she hits me back with ones that hurt twice as much.”

Tommy nodded along, it was obvious the two girls didn’t get on. But Olivia just grit her teeth and bared it for Arthur’s sake.

“And for months she’s been saying this horrible stuff, ‘you’re ugly’, ‘you have witches teeth’, ‘freckles make you look like you’re permanently ill’, ‘it’s not surprising that the only boy who’s attracted to you is a negro’, and then yesterday she told me it was my fault that Mother died- that I killed her.” Olivia cried, tears breaking again, “And I hate myself Tommy, I’m unlovable- it should have been me that died not Mum.”

“No.” Tommy said firmly, “Don’t you ever say that- never say it again. You are my little sister, my little gypsy princess.” He stared at his young sister, “You are kind, brave, smart, loving and beautiful an’ Isaiah is lucky to have someone like you to love.”

At this point Olivia had tucked herself into the crook of his neck, almost as if she was hiding from the truthfulness in his words.

“An’ most importantly, you were not the cause of our Mothers death. You and Finn had no part to play- she was sick Liv, if she hadn’t of died when you were born then she would’ve died a day later.”

“I’m sorry for worrying you Tom.” Liv said in a apologetic tone, “And making you drive to London in a panic.”

“I’d do anything for you Livvy, you know that,” Tommy replied, hugging her tighter and kissing her forehead, “You’re a Shelby- and if that’s not enough for Linda then she can kiss goodbye to our family and Y’know why?”

Olivia smiled, “Because us Shelby’s stick together.”

[mwolf0epsilon]

A story of Sammy stumbling upon siren head?

Summary: The studio wasn't the only place hiding the lurking horrors of the world.

---

[[MORE]]

Freedom had come with a lot of existential dread and lingering doubts. It hadn't been the oh so sweet respite that everyone had coveted so much, not when they were still abominable creatures made of cursed ink (and in some cases machinery). Still, for all that they'd worried, Henry had pulled through and prevailed.

He'd not only gifted them their salvation from Joey's nightmarish dream, but also offered them a way to live unafraid in a world they no longer belonged in. He gave them a house, food, clothes, a life worth living.

Never once did he ask for anything in return. A true loyal and kind friend to those who desperately needed such a charitable heart.

"You don't need to repay me. I'm only doing what's right, and besides I got that house after my uncle died... It never really felt right to move out of town with Linda and the girls, and I never knew what I was going to do with it." He'd humbly dismissed any offers to repay his kindness. "You all need a safe place where you can recover and slowly reacquaint with normalcy without anyone judging or fearing you. The location is perfect."

And it was. An isolated corner of a vast forest, with nearly no signs of civilization. Easy for Henry to check up on them since he knew where to go to reach it, but out of the way enough that not even hikers came by often.

It helped that it had a bit of a... Dark reputation. Missing cases, strange sightings, and creepy sounds in the night. A deterrent for sane people with a yellow streak.

For someone like Susie and Allison who looked human enough to pass off as such if provided with an appropriate disguise, it was a bit of a hassle. Grocery shopping (when they were in the mood to be seen by the oblivious folk in the nearest town) took longer due to such a long trek.

For others like Tom and Buddy who were living cartoon characters it was a more comfortable experience. They could go out and feel the sun upon their skin without fear of what may happen if they were spotted.

And then lastly, for beings like Sammy, the Searchers, Butcher Gang, and for Norman, it was both a stark reminder of their inhumanity, and a blissful respite from the crippling dissonant thoughts that made them oh so prone to violent outbursts.

In the woods there was no one they could hurt if they lost their senses (which was not as common a thing as it once was, but still something the Projectionist suffered with on the regular). In the woods there was peaceful silence where they could wade through the madness and regain their footing. In the woods they could almost be their former selves.

Granted this was a double-edged sword on one regard: The Projectionist tended to wander far and not recall how to come back.

If Norman ended up somehow stumbling back into society, there would be trouble. Which is why Sammy was assigned to follow him every time he felt like going for one of his "little walks".

At first the once-music director had scoffed and been incredibly annoyed at being saddled with such a responsibility. He was not in a capacity to look after himself, much less a 7, nearly 8, foot tall half-ink half-machine man that could easily render him into ribbons if he set him off. Norman's transition from coherent sentient thoughts to downright feral and highly aggressive behaviour was too unpredictable for someone who's memories tended to evade him easily.

But then, as pointed out by Allison, Susie wouldn't be able to calm him because she knew neither sign language nor Morse code (which he'd learned specifically from Norman when he was still human just for fun), and Allison herself was not overly close to him so her presence would only distress him further.

When he'd still tried to refuse, Tom had resorted to threats which he'd returned in kind. In the end it was the pleading looks of both Jack and the rest of the band that got him to relent. But not before barking at them to never say he wasn't a charitable and patient man (things he really wasn't, considering his short fuse and unwillingness to socialize when he was in a particularly sour mood).

Once he'd committed to the task, Sammy found that the sounds of nature soothed him. Watching after the Projectionist wasn't too bad either, as he thought the large monstrosity looked quite happy as it wandered aimlessly, occasionally looking up at the expanse of darkening skies. Sunsets seemed to spark something more human in Norman. Got him to sign more and sometimes vocalize his words (as painfully gritting to the ear as that may be). It reminded Sammy of... Of times long past. Ones where he'd consider this brute as a bright and very accommodating (if not a little annoying at times) friend.

A friend he dearly missed even, for no matter how much they tried, Norman would never go back to being who he was before the studio chewed him up and spat him back out as something some would consider a dubiously smart animal.

The peace also sparked something in Sammy himself. It made him feel more grounded, more like himself, to the point where his form would shift accordingly. Because their bodies were reacting to their slow recoveries.

Over time a few Searchers had slowly become Lost Ones, and a few Lost Ones had begun transitioning into human forms. There was always something a little off and cartoonish about them, but it was progress nontheless. People were remembering who they once we're, and that was more than they'd ever accomplished in that hellhole.

Sammy sometimes could see his true face reflected back by a puddle or larger body of water, but it was a fleeting thing.

At times he could even feel his unruly curls brushing against his neck and shoulders, but they weren't the dirty blond he'd remembered. They were an inky black that upset him slightly, but better than the shiny bald head he'd had for so many years. Less saddening than the yellow glow of eyes that should have been a soft hazel, and much less startling than the sharpness of his teeth. Somehow he always got the nose right, which was adding salt to injury considering he couldn't regenerate his pinkies.

The Projectionist's walks were moments of introspection. Ones where he was sure he'd be able to get his true form back, even if slightly altered.

So imagine his annoyance when one such moment was marred by his selfish distraction...

He wasn't entirely sure when he'd lost sight of Norman, or for how long he'd spaced out just staring at his reconstituted face on the nearest reflective surface, but the moment he noted just how dark it was Sammy knew he'd fucked up.

They'd been wandering for hours and he'd been so absentmindedly worrying over faded memories that he'd just let the Projectionist wander off to the nearest flower patch to marvel at all the pretty colors (prettier than old sepia and inky tones that had made their horrid existence oh so much duller). He'd gotten so stuck in his own head that he'd never noticed his charge moving off to explore further and further into uncharted territory.

They'd never gotten so close to the mountains, and now? Now Sammy was sure he'd never be able to find the Projectionist again. He'd failed Norman.

Something which he absolutely refused to let happen. If not out of pride, then out of shame. He'd rather die than return to the others without Polk in tow, knowing they'd add it to the list of things that made him a genuinely horrid person (aside from ritualistic murder and allowing Joey to manipulate him to the point of idolizing a false god). That wouldn't do.

Sammy wouldn't be able to live with the scorn. So he trekked further to where he assumed the hulking ink creature had gone.

Henry had told them stories. The ones about the people going missing. Freaky tales that had unseen horrors lurking amidst the trees and skulking in shadows. One such creature he seeked (for the Projectionist had become one of these fabled cryptids just by being an out of place being in the woods), but the others he'd heard of, although fabricated, were mysterious and spooky to him.

Having such shluck looping in the forefront of his mind like a bad film reel was troublesome. It made him hesitant the moment he heard anything that sounded out of place.

Steeling his nerves was hard. Despite being made of ink, his heart was very much still human, so he felt instinctively fearful of the unknown. Those silly stories were genuinely scaring him and he resented Henry for being such a good narrator.

With every step further into the mountainside he hoped to see the light of Norman's lens, and hear the clicking of the projector he had for a head.

He was not expecting to hear... What sounded like an emergency broadcast.

It was so sudden and confusing that it made the ex-music director pause in his tracks. An echoing call that spanned miles, like it was being projected from up high.

Looking around his surroundings he saw nothing out of place. Just rows upon rows of trees and a watch tower in the distance further up north.

Turning his head more slowly yielded the same results. Nothing that could broadcast that loudly in sight... Until he saw it...

At first glance it looked like an old siren. Rough and weathered, rusty looking from a distance. Very strange to be found this far away from civilization. But then he really took the time to stare at it. Noted just how off the towering thing was, and then realized... Those sirens hadn't any speakers. They had teeth.

As soon as his mind picked up on this very fact, he saw everything else. And then, before he could exclaim in terror, he was up in the air held in a massive far-too-human-looking hand, and being pulled closer to said teeth.

Sammy screamed as he felt the pain of being bitten into, upper torso pulled into this nightmarish thing's eager maw, only to then be unceremoniously spat out and tossed on the ground. The shock and pain made him deconstruct into a puddle and, to then aggravate the issue further, the beast stepped down on him as if insulted by the vile taste of ink.

Sammy didn't much care. He lost consciousness soon after.

When Sammy came to, the sun was rising. He was groggy from the pain and confusion of being violently assaulted by something straight out of a Lovecraftian novel, and the intense light washing over his eyes didn't help.

Wait... Light?

Blinking away inky tears, Sammy found Norman staring down at him with a posture that read clearly of concern. The poor thing had likely found Sammy's puddle form and been fretting ever since.

The composer thanked whatever god was out there that the monster that attacked him hadn't found the Projectionist. He wouldn't have had the sense to run.

"H-home. Let's go home..." He whimpered weakly, despite the creature before him being deaf and unable to read his lips properly considering he currently had none. The pitiful look of him must have clued the bigger ink being, however, as Norman scooped him up with ease and began the trek back. Sammy directed him, mostly through pointing when he seemed unsure, all the while keeping an eye for that... Siren-Head thing that thankfully found him too disgusting to consume.

The one perk of his abominable state...

Needless to say, they were never coming back to these parts. Not as long as he allowed it. Some things were better off left undisturbed.

Because, as it turned out, the studio wasn't the only place hiding the lurking horrors of the world...

[hazelnmae]

Lies Travel Faster: Chapter Nine

Summary: Sophia Murphy’s life seems to be on the upswing when she takes a job with Birmingham’s notorious Shelby Company Ltd. But when she falls for her boss, CEO and ruthless gangster, Tommy Shelby, she finds herself wrapped up in a tangled web of danger and deceit. After all, lies travel faster than the truth.

Tags: Tommy Shelby x Original Female Character; Tommy/Assistant Trope (it’s a hill I’ll die on)

Warnings: angst; smut; violence; language; rape/non-con; death

CHAPTER 9 (read Chapter 8 or start at the beginning with Chapter 1)

Tommy only made it three pages into the book before his son was asleep in his arms. After placing Charlie back into his bed, Tommy retired to his own. He’d had time now to calm down, but he was still thinking of her. The taste of her lips, the feel of her tongue pulling at his and her soft hands in his hair. He undressed to rid himself of the smell of her and climbed into bed, hoping for sleep, although he feared it wouldn’t come.

The door opened with a slow creak and Tommy turned to see her sneaking into the room. He could only make out the shape of her through the moonlight and expected her to say something from where she stood. Shock pulsed through him as she climbed on top of his body and anchored herself on his lap. He could see now that she wasn’t wearing her night dress, but only a bra and lace panties. Immediately Tommy grabbed at her. He’d dreamed of this moment so many times and had come so close to making it a reality in his office earlier that night. He wasn’t going to let it slip away from him again.

He pulled her down, her chest meeting his, and wrapped an arm around her. His other hand grabbed at her face and slid into her hair as he found her lips with his own.

Sophie.

She was soft but moved roughly. She was passionate. Her tongue fought with his for control of their kiss. She began rocking her hips against his and he felt a low moan grow deep in his chest as his desire crashed against the walls he’d so meticulously put up.

God, Sophie.

Her breath became heavy, growing into deep but quick pants for air. He moved his tongue to her neck, finding the spot below her ear that had been so delicious for them both earlier in the evening. As he reached to untie the ribbon holding her bra closed, she whispered in his ear, “Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy froze.

“Mr. Shelby,” she said in a full voice now. “It’s your brother.”

Something was wrong. He couldn’t smell her perfume. He couldn’t feel the warmth from her body.

“Mr. Shelby, I’m sorry to wake you. Sir, it’s your brother,” she said, looking into his eyes now.

Tommy sat up in a start to find Frances in his doorway.

“I’m sorry to wake you, sir, but he says it’s urgent,” She said now.

“I’m awake,” Tommy replied, rubbing his face in frustration. “I’m on my way,” he grumbled.

Wrapping himself in his robe and returning to his office to take the phone call was a challenge. He was unsteady on his feet, drunk off the dream he’d awoken from.

____________________

Bonnie Gold and Goliath would face off in a fine ring constructed in a large opera hall. Tommy had arranged the purse and was ready to collect and then move on with the next and final step in his plan against Changretta.

The entire Shelby clan poured into the opera hall as Sophie watched from the street.

Two days had passed since the night in his office and she’d somehow successfully avoided Tommy since, despite the fact that she still slept down the hall from him each night and worked right outside of his office each day. It helped that Tommy, too, avoided the situation, deciding he couldn’t handle preparing for the fight, planning to take on Changretta, and falling in love all at the same time.  

Sophie watched until Tommy was out of sight and eventually followed the crowd into the building, choosing to sit with Ada and Linda across the ring from him. They made eye contact a few times throughout the evening, but neither one chose to acknowledge the other.

At the close of the first round, she made a trip to the to the washroom with Ada and Linda. The ladies they passed around their whiskey and watched Linda partake in her husband’s bad habit as she snorted a few lines of snow. She was still struggling to sleep a full night since bringing home their son and, as far as Sophie was concerned, deserved a night out as much as any of them. She found herself enjoying the evening, not thinking of Tommy for the first time all night.

That’s when they heard gunshots.

Sophie stood looking into the mirror, preparing to reapply her bright red lips, when the sound rang out. They ran from the washroom and saw him standing in the ring, shooting his gun above his head.

“My brother is dead!”

It’s all Sophie heard before it was replaced with a deafening ring in her ears. She and Ada immediately caught Linda as she slumped between them. Polly rushed to her side, seemingly from nowhere, wrapping her arms around Linda and speaking quietly into her ear.

In the ensuing chaos, they rushed to help Linda out of the building. None of them noticed the Italians who hurried out with them.

________________________

He’d been betrayed.

There was no other explanation. As he looked around the small room at the family that surrounded him, he found himself thinking the unthinkable– could it have been one of them? He hung his head low as he tried to push the thoughts out of his mind.

Arthur was alive, sitting in the corner drinking whiskey, but was worse for wear. The deep cut along his throat served as evidence of someone’s betrayal.

Tommy searched his memory, thinking about the last few months–wondering who may stand to gain from opening the door to the Italians.

And for the second time since he met her, he found himself suspicious of Sophie.

Polly had told him once before that love could blind him. And it had. He’d been blinded by Grace. Tommy wasn’t one to reflect on his feelings often, but he had been thinking of Sophie more and more. Was that moment of passion an attempt to disarm? Could she have played along in helping with the attack only because Changretta had a bigger plan for tonight?

He raised his head slowly but his heart quickened. Arthur seemed to know what he was thinking when he caught Tommy’s gaze from across the room.  He looked at his brothers, then to his cousin.

Pointing his finger at Michael, he simply barked his order.

“Go find her.”

___________________

Michael found her helping Linda into the car.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked through the smoke from his cigarette.

“Michael, what’s going on? They said someone was killed.” Sophie was panicked now, but tried to contain her voice to a whisper. “Was it Arthur? Where are the boys?”

“Come with me,” he said, grabbing her wrist and leading her back toward the building. He swung the door open quickly and led her into a dark hallway, one instantly familiar to Sophie.

Her mind flashed back to her dream. This was the hallway–the one where Tommy had died, over and over in her nightmare. She tried to steady herself against the wall, but Michael didn’t let her slow down. He just kept pulling at her until they reached a room at the end of the hallway.

“This place, it’s– it’s from my dream,” she muttered, reaching for Tommy as soon as she turned the corner. She searched his body for a wound, pulling his jacket away and frantically moving her hands over his chest, back, and arms.

“Was it a dream, Sophie, or was it a plan?”

It took a moment for her to register what he’d asked. When it hit her, she looked up to find anger in his piercing eyes.

“What?” Was the only response she could manage.

“Someone gave us up,” Michael added now, from behind them. “Someone let Changretta’s men in here tonight.”

“And you think it was me?” Sophie asked looking around the room.

“You’re not denying it.” Arthur added from the corner. He could barely talk, but he managed to get the insult out. How he could possibly think this of Sophie–how any of them could–was baffling. And beyond painful. She’d considered them all family. Thought she’d proven that more than once. Had helped Tommy best Changretta. Risked her own life to do it.

Steeling herself to their reactions, Sophie said, “Well, it seems like you’ve already made up your mind about it.”

She turned to storm from the room when Tommy grabbed her arm, spun her to face him, and pushed her back against the wall–holding her by her chin.

“What, you’ve been in Changretta’s pocket all this time, eh?” he growled, his face just inches from hers. His nostrils flared as he fought the urge to hit her. “All of this was a lie, right? You give me up now?”

“I told you everything I knew,” Sophie managed to squeeze out through his tightening grip on her face.

“That is my fucking brother,” he spat, as he pointed toward Arthur.

She tried to glance in his direction, but could barely see Arthur’s eyes now through the blood smeared all over his face. Tears welled in her own eyes.

“And my fucking brother,“ she countered. “You told me I was family, Tommy.”

Tommy slammed his free hand against the wall next to her head. He loosened his grip, but refused to fully release her. He continued to search her face for an answer.

“Tommy.” John spoke up now and tried to calm his brother. “She’s right. Sophie is one of us, remember.”

“Family doesn’t do this,” Arthur said to no one in particular.

“No they don’t,” John said pulling Tommy away from her.

John stood between them, looking into his brothers eyes. But Tommy didn’t release his gaze until his breathing calmed.

He finally turned away from them and ordered, “Just get her out of here.”

________________________

For all her desire not to, Sophie returned to work the next day. She’d spent the night in her own flat, refusing to return to Arrow House. She’d collapsed on the sofa after downing a few glasses of whiskey and finding herself too exhausted to climb the stairs to her lonely bedroom.

She was desperate for some semblance of normalcy and she knew she’d never move on if she couldn’t pick herself back up after a fall. She also couldn’t afford to quit her job so she decided to hold her head high and walk right into the office like nothing happened.

And she did.

Much to her relief, Tommy never came in that day–or the next.

She had enough work to keep her busy, regardless of whether or not he was in the office. On the second day, Polly stopped by to deliver paperwork to Tommy. Sophie fought the urge to ask where he may be, but Polly offered the information freely anyway.

“Tommy’s in Margate,” she said, after dropping the papers on Tommy’s desk and returning to the open room.

After making small talk she revealed they’d decided it must have been Alfie Solomons who turned on them. Sophie was relieved to be out of suspicion, but Alfie’s guilt didn’t change the fact that Tommy and Arthur had been so quick to mistrust her.

“For what it’s worth, none of us truly thought it was you,” Polly offered.

But it was too late. The damage had been done.

Sophie just forced a small smile and turned back to her work. She no longer had the energy, nor the desire, to give a damn.

____________________

Sophie returned home that day hoping to have one evening without seeing or speaking to any member of the Shelby family–one evening of peace. She sat by an opened window, grateful for warmer spring days that allowed her to enjoy fresh air, though she found herself longing for the clean air of the countryside and not the smell of industry that poured into her flat in Small Heath.

That’s when the knock came.

She opened the door to find Tommy, blood dripping from his hand onto the floor.

He removed his hat but said nothing.

She was tempted to slam the door in his face, but let him in instead–assuming he’d come for help with his injury instead of conversation. She followed his lead and helped him remove his jacket without saying a word.

Tommy had been shot.

Her dream made reality, although the seriousness of the injury was different. He was shot in the arm and he needed her help to remove the bullet.

“Still not safe to visit the hospitals?” She asked, motioning for him to sit on the table and moving to collect the tools she’d need to work on his arm. Her hands worked without the help from her brain, searching drawers for tweezers, sterile cloths, anything she may need to dig into his flesh and remove the bullet. As she moved, her mind raced, replaying the dream she’d had over and over.

Tommy didn’t answer her but it didn’t matter, she went to work.

“Hold still,” she ordered. “I don’t have a proper antiseptic, so I’ll need to douse it in alcohol.”

She poured from a bottle of rum she’d found in the cabinet and dug in. Tommy wrenched forward with a loud, deep groan, but after some work she removed the bullet and dropped it into the small glass jar on the table. Before he could say a word, she poured again from the rum bottle onto the open wound, pulling another moan of pain from Tommy’s throat.

As she got to work on his stitches Tommy finally looked at her. He was panting for breath but he watched as she focused intently on the task at hand.

Still refusing to make eye contact, she cleaned and stitched the wound then worked to move her tools to the sink. All along ignoring the painful silence that lay between them.

“Thank you,” he finally said in his low brum. A few days ago that brum would have unraveled her. Now, though, she was more resolute than ever to fight its pull.

“Of course,” is all she said as she cleaned her tools, back turned to him.

She heard him behind her now, approaching closer.

“I made a mistake,” he said.

And if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was apologizing–humbled, even.

Finally turning to face him, Sophie replied, “Yeah, I think I did too.”

She hung her head, fighting back the tears threatening to spill and reveal her pain. Instead, she focused on drying her hands on her apron. She saw his feet in front of her just seconds before she felt him lift her chin. “Sophie,” he pleaded.

And just like that, it burst forth. The pain and frustration he’d caused her. The resentment that had bottled up as she found herself drawn to a man who couldn’t trust her, let alone love her back. And just like that, she said it. All of it.

“What do you want from me?” She asked, pushing his hand away. “You spend months letting me in, then–, then you push me away. I spend all of this time worried about you, knowing you’d get shot, which you did by the way!” She was shouting now. “God, these last two days. But then–, But–, you accuse me of working with him. What the fuck is that, Tommy? As if this is all my fault. Did you really believe that?”

Crying, she lowered her voice and continued.  “And now. This. Just. What the fuck do you want? What, Tommy. Please?”

He grabbed her, crashing his lips to hers in a rough kiss. It’s what she’d wanted–what she’d really been seeking for days now. But she wasn’t going to give into it again.

She pushed him away, shaking her head.

Tommy stood still, wanting so badly to close the space between them again, but knowing he couldn’t cross it. Not now.

“You said when this Changretta mess was over that I could come home,” she said, looking away.

“It’s not done, Sophie.”

“No, but this is over.” She motioned to the space between them. “And I’m home. And I just want it all to go back to the way it was. Before.”

“That’s what you want?” he asked, raising his head higher, as if challenging her–tying to call her bluff.

“Yes,” she said with more confidence than she felt.

Tommy just nodded and walked toward the door. As he pulled his coat on with some difficulty, he cleared his throat and said, “I’ll send your things.”

With that, she heard his footsteps make way back down the hall and the door shut behind them.

All of the pain that had been sitting in her throat burst forth with a sob as her tears finally flowed freely.

________________________

Read Chapter 10

Hope you enjoy! Please let me know if you do!

[finnbloodyshelby]

Nights Out Headcanons || Peaky Blinders

Request: Headcanon for how the Peaky ladies would spend their night out. 

I really hope I haven’t forgotten any of them, but if I have please let me know and i’ll add them in!

Polly

> Polly secretly went to the café every Wednesday night.

> They had a poetry session that ran from 8pm till late, and she often found herself sat in one of the back booths, hidden by the shortage of light.

> She’d listen eagerly over a cup of coffee, stirring it with a spoon every once in a while. 

> Listening to other women reading their poetry, she became intrigued, jotting down ideas for her own poetry.

> She wrote journals and journals full of her works, but never once had the courage to stand in front of a crowd.

> So she watched and listened each Wednesday, heart pounding like it does when you’re torn between doing something or not.

> Once she had even raised her hand when they said their last call.

> But quickly pulled it down out of fear of being rejected. 

Ada

> Ada found herself sitting in on feminist meetings, listening from the side with a hat drawn over her face.

> She loved the idea of feminism.

> Loved the idea of equal rights between men and women at work. 

> She’d repeat things daily of what she heard during these meetings.

> Once even finding herself telling Tommy the difference in wages between men and women.

> To which he replied, ‘don’t you think I know that Ada? I mean I am the one who fucking pays them.’

> She wrote letters to feminists In America, intrigued to learn that they were also planning strikes. 

Linda

> When Linda wasn’t praying at home or at the church, she was usually seen at the only library in Small Heath.

> Most nights before Arthur arrived home she would go there, hoping it would distract her from the horrors that she was sure to face when Arthur got home.

> She dreamed about the stories she read, wishing that one day she too would have the perfect happy ending.

> Arthur caught her there once, and declared that once he left the Peaky Blinders he’d buy a big house with enough room for a library. And he’d by her ‘all the fucking books she could ever want’. 

Esme

> Esme was always at the Garrison

> It was her way to rebel against John.

> She knew he hated her drinking (It was bad for the baby after all), which only made her want to drink more.

> When she wasn’t drinking she sometimes found herself in one of those Baby-Mother Classes.

> They showed her how to take care of her baby in the best way possible. 

> After all, she did want to be a good mum.

> She just wanted to piss John off even more.

Lizzie

> Lizzie was always at Tommy’s.

>Or bent over his desk. 

> He seemed to occupy all her spare time.

> Even at work, she couldn’t get away from him.

> She hated how he had almost cast a spell over her. It literally felt like he could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

> But he was a good fuck.

> so did she care that much?

Grace 

> Before she died, she spent every second she could singing.

> Singing, singing, fucking singing.

> She’d sing in the bath, when she was getting ready, when walking the streets (often getting whistles and kind remarks from the men she passed), even in childbirth.

> Tommy loved hearing her voice, and when she died, his first thought was how he’d never hear her beautiful voice again. 

May

> Although it was her job, her favourite thing to do was tend the horses. 

> She loved everything about them

> Their loyalty, their beauty and how smart they were.

> Many a times, she found herself picking them over going out for the night.

> Finding herself speaking to them as if they were real people.

Jesse Eden

> She was the woman who spoke at the feminist meetings Ada attended. 

> When she wasn’t speaking, she was arguing with men in pubs as to why she couldn’t drink there without a male companion. 

> Obviously she was always refused service, but that wasn’t before putting up a good fight.

[elisaenglish]

All the Difference in the World

It seems almost contradictory to think of shining a light on dystopias. And there’s a certain element of “Why should we?” when history offers a damning surplus of cautionary tales and the future beckons with innovation yet too murky to fully judge. Here we are at the pivot. The pendulum swings without a concrete place to land and opinion drowns consideration. Meanwhile, the clock ticks on; we vacillate like a metronome as spectacle draws attention.

Thus, herein lies our quandary. We can speculate, but we can’t know. We can weigh, but far from settle. Literature presents some longed-for clues, except less discerning eyes are prone to over-simplify the essentials.

After all, non-literary figures frequently cite Orwell as science fiction’s most incisive voice and I agree that there’s grain of truth there. But I can’t help but feel somewhat sorry for poor old George, languishing in his premature grave, largely misread and far too easily utilised to justify all manner of dubious agendas. Quote-mining? Never a good idea. It’s like taking the moral high ground; there really is only one way to go. As for the ghost of the writer? There are two words you need to embrace: context and oeuvre. And in this case, I suspect he’d also like his name back. Because anyone of sober mind really would.

So if not Orwell, then who? If not a partial analogy, then where resides completion? And I hesitate at this juncture because parallelism is never an exact measure and variables come and go. Still, it feels safe – and by ‘safe’ I mean ‘absolutely fucking terrifying’ – to place our bets on Brave New World.

Not entirely original, I know. You could argue that it’s a bit mainstream, a bit staid, possibly a bit done to death. I could trawl obscurity to find something – well, obscure. But no, because what would be the point? Huxley, to use a technical term, knows his prophetic shit.

And ninety years later, here on the brink of some digital abyss, it looks a lot like we’re living it. Or at least we will be, before the next half-century’s done.

Of course, the world was negotiating its own horrifying pre-show in 1931. Lest we forget, communism and fascism were entrenched on the eastern and southern flanks of Europe. Meanwhile, Nazism was on the rise in the crumbling Weimar Republic and the Great Depression took its social and economic toll on the entire globe. In the midst, however, Huxley drew together a vision of a political model that had evolved civilisation beyond war, or famine, or plague, or suffering. A place of continuous peace, prosperity, where the government artificially, by means of advances in biotechnology and social manipulation, keeps everyone in a permanent state of contentment so that no one ever has any reason to rebel.

Control through love and pleasure, we see, is far more potent than that acquired through fear and violence. A whole population anaesthetised, and on and on they beg for another, and another hit. Familiar, isn’t it? And somehow under your skin because unlike 1984, it isn’t as easy to pinpoint what makes this scenario the worst of the worst, or even just one of them.

We turn, then, to the novel’s climactic moment. John the Savage, having lived all his life on a remote reservation in New Mexico and symbolic of the authentic and passionate mindset eliminated in the name of ‘benign’ tyranny, is brought before Mustapha Mond, the World Controller for Western Europe and the only other man in London to know anything of Shakespeare or God, or it must be said, freedom:

““My dear young friend,” said Mustapha Mond, “civilisation has absolutely no need of nobility or heroism. These things are symptoms of political inefficiency. In a properly organised society like ours, nobody has any opportunities for being noble or heroic. Conditions have got to be thoroughly unstable before the occasion can arise. Where there are wars, where there are divided allegiances, where there are temptations to be resisted, objects of love to be fought for or defended—there, obviously, nobility and heroism have some sense. But there aren’t any wars nowadays. The greatest care is taken to prevent you from loving any one too much. There’s no such thing as a divided allegiance; you’re so conditioned that you can’t help doing what you ought to do. And what you ought to do is on the whole so pleasant, so many of the natural impulses are allowed free play, that there really aren’t any temptations to resist. And if ever, by some unlucky chance, anything unpleasant should somehow happen, why, there’s always soma to give you a holiday from the facts. And there’s always soma to calm your anger, to reconcile you to your enemies, to make you patient and long-suffering. In the past you could only accomplish these things by making a great effort and after years of hard moral training. Now, you swallow two or three half-gramme tablets, and there you are. Anybody can be virtuous now. You can carry at least half your morality about in a bottle. Christianity without tears—that’s what soma is.”

“But the tears are necessary. Don’t you remember what Othello said? ‘If after every tempest come such calms, may the winds blow till they have wakened death.’ There’s a story one of the old Indians used to tell us, about the Girl of Mátsaki. The young men who wanted to marry her had to do a morning’s hoeing in her garden. It seemed easy; but there were flies and mosquitoes, magic ones. Most of the young men simply couldn’t stand the biting and stinging. But the one that could—he got the girl.”

“Charming! But in civilised countries,” said the Controller, “you can have girls without hoeing for them; and there aren’t any flies or mosquitoes to sting you. We got rid of them all centuries ago.”

The Savage nodded, frowning. “You got rid of them. Yes, that’s just like you. Getting rid of everything unpleasant instead of learning to put up with it. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them... But you don’t do either. Neither suffer nor oppose. You just abolish the slings and arrows. It’s too easy... What you need is something with tears for a change. Nothing costs enough here. Exposing what is mortal and unsure to all that fortune, death and danger dare, even for an egg-shell. Isn’t there something in that?”

[…]

“There's a great deal in it,” the Controller replied. “Men and women must have their adrenals stimulated from time to time.”

“What?” questioned the Savage, uncomprehending.

“It’s one of the conditions of perfect health. That's why we've made the V.P.S. treatments compulsory.”

“V.P.S.?”

“Violent Passion Surrogate. Regularly once a month. We flood the whole system with adrenin. It’s the complete physiological equivalent of fear and rage. All the tonic effects of murdering Desdemona and being murdered by Othello, without any of the inconveniences.”

“But I like the inconveniences.”

“We don’t,” said the Controller. “We prefer to do things comfortably.”

“But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.”

“In fact,” said Mustapha Mond, “you’re claiming the right to be unhappy.”

“All right, then,” said the Savage defiantly, “I’m claiming the right to be unhappy. Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind.”

There was a long silence.

“I claim them all,” said the Savage at last.”

So it is that he rejects the ‘blessings’ of modernity and retires to the wilderness to live out the rest of his days as a hermit. Having tried – and failed – to incite rebellion in those shackled by the system, he has learned from their apathy that they cannot be saved unless they possess inside them the will to liberate themselves. Such instincts are instilled in us through the multiplicity – not least of all, our stories, our art. Without them, we are husks of our generational selves, perhaps never to be salvaged.

True to form, as we see in these our days now, John is eventually hounded to death; his novelty of antiquated longings yet more fuel for a public driven rabid by consumerist lust. But so, his soul remains:

“He was digging in his garden—digging, too, in his own mind, laboriously turning up the substance of his thought. Death—and he drove in his spade once, and again, and yet again. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. A convincing thunder rumbled through the words. He lifted another spadeful of earth. Why had Linda died? Why had she been allowed to become gradually less than human and at last... He shuddered. A good kissing carrion. He planted his foot on his spade and stamped it fiercely into the tough ground. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport. Thunder again; words that proclaimed themselves true—truer somehow than truth itself. And yet that same Gloucester had called them ever-gentle gods. Besides, thy best of rest is sleep, and that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st thy death which is no more. No more than sleep. Sleep. Perchance to dream. His spade struck against a stone; he stooped to pick it up. For in that sleep of death, what dreams?...”

What death? What purity? What dreams? And of course, what strength?

Choose your dystopias wisely, you could say. But nonetheless, choose. As Huxley writes in his essay Drugs That Shape Men’s Minds, “Generalised intelligence and mental alertness are the most powerful enemies of dictatorship.” We are the intuitive solution; we are the nuanced light. And for all of Miranda's mistaken claims, we might live to “see how beauteous mankind is.” Just be wary of the distractions.

[filmista]

Vintage Horror: The Exorcist (1973)

“What an excellent day for an exorcism.”

I really think this face might haunt me for quite some time. It’s really simply awful, it freaks me out, I hate it (which means I love it) and really can’t stare at it too long to be completely honest.

I really have to repress the urge to get a pillow to cover my face with. Seriously the more you look at it, the more you’d get convinced it’s gonna come at night to curse somehting in Latin at you. Anyway, of course I’m exaggearing slightly but really considering how old this film, it’s pretty scary. And you couldn’t even call Ghostbusters yet... 

Finally, after being into films for a few years and writing about them, I finally sat my butt down to watch the one horror film in the genre I had been avoiding, both watching and writing about it.

It’s mostly due to the fact that I had built it up to be the scariest shit ever in my mind, I’ve heard multiple anecdotes and stories about the film over the years.

One from when my mother was a student, and you were apparently considered as cool when you went to see it, while the rest of your class pissed their pants.

The film I’m talking about folks is the legendary ‘The Exorcist’, it is still listed as one of the films to guarantee a sleepless night. That at first was my reason not to watch it then.

Because I can at times be a scaredy cat and I don’t always like admitting to myself that I’m scared, especially if it is mere of a film and the reputation preceding it.

So I convinced myself that since it’s gotten a bit older, that it's shocking effect must have become a bit less or that it’s even become a bit outdated. What finally changed my mind though, was reading the entry on it in my cinema history book (by now I’ve got three of those things) and looking up reviews on it afterward.

There’s a divided consensus concerning the film generally: For some, it’s still one of the best horror films ever made, maybe even the mother of all horror films. And for some time hasn’t been kind to it and it’s lost its zeal or those to whom it is simply a disgusting film.

One interesting thing that I heard is that ‘The Exorcist’ was created with something more in mind than just a horror film, it was supposed to get people to reflect on the existence of God, good versus evil and serious matters like these.

I highly doubt that people at the time left cinemas reflecting on these things, however, I can imagine them being scared out of their wits. What I loved about the film, is that rather than jump scares and cheap scares, its director, William Friedkin, relied on making everything as realistic as possible.

He seems to have been thinking, okay so we’re about to film a girl and her bed being lifted off the ground, how do we make this as realistic as possible? And it is that realism, along with a clinical coldness and distance, that still makes it unsettling, it makes impossible events seem plausible.

After hearing some of these divided opinions, I decided to sit down and watch it and come to my own conclusions. Maybe it helped that I had never seen the film before or that I also didn’t know all that much about it, and thus was able to look at it with completely new eyes.

I knew it’s adapted from a book, that’s supposed based on real possession cases that happened in 1994 in the United States, and that the film thus to sum it up simply is about possession.

I’ve also over the years watched my fair share of horror films, some if I now come to think about it, clearly took a few cues of ‘The Exorcist’. But my point is I’ve seen a lot, I don’t scare all that easily anymore.

So I was expecting ‘The Exorcist’ to be outdated and to not scare me in the slightest. And while I neither vomited or fainted, it did surpass my expectations for it and I found it to be a very pleasant surprise.

It had been a long time since I’d had such a good during a horror film, and I don’t mean a good time as in that I had an awful lot of fun while watching. But in that I had the viewing experience I long for in horror films.

I was on the edge of my seat, thoroughly enjoying every minute of it. And I also got started real good a few times, I loved every minute of it.

As someone who as I said, has also seen a lot of modern horror films, I can see how it might have been somewhat more impactful in its day.

But while I was never drenched in cold sweat, I still found it to be one of the best horror films I’ve seen, simply because it managed to do something that modern horror doesn't always pull off, it kept me engaged throughout.

I liked its build-up, I was interested in seeing how its story was going to evolve. And it also got a couple of physical reactions out of me, while these scares are maybe what could be considered jump scare, ‘The Exorcist’, doesn’t really seem to have them put in, just because.

It comes more from subtlety, from having to double check, from having to say “did I really just see that? Oh shit yes I did. It was wonderful to once again react to a horror film, and get a wicked sort of pleasure out of being genuinely unnerved.

Since everyone probably knows the storyline, I’m not going to go into too many details regarding that. Here it is:

What especially surprised me and what was probably some of its shock factors, is how obscene it actually is.

The language in the film is of a kind you don’t even see in modern films, it makes the 60 fucks in your average Tarantino, look tame, seriously the conversation in ‘Reservoir Dogs’ in which Madonna’s music basically gets desecrated looks like nothing compared to that.

It’s got the phrase “your mother sucks cocks in hell, you faithless slime.” My point is that the film, does enter some territory that we don’t always go anymore these days, of course, you’d expect nothing less nasty, of a demonic entity that claims it’s the devil.

What I think is also quite scary is simply the contrast between such a young girl and the fact that she’s sprouting out such terms, without abandon, who wouldn’t worry if their daughter started cursing like a demonic sailor and pissing the carpet out of the blue.

I’ve never read the book, maybe I now will though. Although if the cliche you often hears is true that the book is better than the film, I don’t know whether I want to know if that’s the case for ‘The Exorcist’.

Blatty’s screenplay won an Oscar but has also been heavily criticised over the years, one of the reasons being that the characters are said to have more psychological depth in the book.

Be that as it may, and have never read the book I still thought they were overall excellent performances, there’s like two that really left me somewhat indifferent.

But those were more than compensated for with the ones that did leave an impact. First of all, there’s Linda Blair as Regan. What can I even say about that performance, you’d really have to discuss two.

As it’s the girl who’s moving, and a man who sounds like he’s quite a few years her senior doing the voice. There’s just something innately disturbing about hearing a young girl talk in the voice of a grown man…

All I can say is that the performance clearly is a very physical one and I think she manages that well. There’s fear, discomfort, as well as pleasure, and she conveys all with just her body.

My favorite performance in the film though is Ellen Burstyn’s as Regan’s mother, a truly excellent performance. While she also undergoes a transformation, it’s more of a psychological one.

She starts as a happy lively woman. But becomes a scared bundle of nerves and looks exhausted, like she’s on the brink of a nervous breakdown, throughout a large part of the film.

The great thing is that the transformations are not all drastic, it happens subtly and gradually, you slowly see her begin to lose her sanity under the circumstances, it’s also an incredible reflection, of a parent living with the fear of losing a child.

Then there’s Jason Miller  as Father Karras and Max von Sydow  as Father Merrin, of the latter I just want to say one thing “I am the Exorcist”, that's all, simply iconic. And Father Karras apart from looking like one of the coolest priests ever is also one of the most well fleshed out characters in the film, also one who undergoes a psychological transformation.

Jason Miller did an excellent job, he goes from a complicated, melancholic man, who is losing faith in his relaigion, and tormented by his mother’s death, we feel sorry for him. To one we like and are ultimately sad for when he dies. His transformation goes along with and is a natural product of the occurrences in the film.

So for me, the performances while they can be criticised as perhaps at times a little over dramatic and perhaps hysterical, are really good for the most part. Also over dramatic and hysterical is actually one of my guilty pleasures in acting when it comes to horror.

As far as the direction I have to say that the film surprised me both visually and in how it progressed. It’s a film from 1973, so obviously I was expecting it to look older and maybe even a bit outdated, but I ended up being really pleasantly surprised.

Of course, it looks a bit older, that’s only natural, but it still looks surprisingly good, ‘The Exorcist’ ins an incredibly stylish and visually pleasing horror film, it’s simply a good looking, even when it is disgusting.

Every shot and every frame are infused with an air of mystery, suspense and a sometimes almost tangible sense of dread. What I particularly liked is that like many older films it takes it’s time to build up and intrude its characters.

A modern film that would do what the film does, would build it up a lot less slow and it certainly wouldn’t have as long a running time, at the best an hour or an hour and a half.

Also regardless of the fact whether you believe in possession as something real or not. The brilliant thing about the film is that it makes the unrealistic seem realistic, there’s a sense of logic and realism almost any moment the film, although no one can, in fact, turn their head 368 degrees.

The characters act very much in a way that seems plausible in real life. They recur to the Exorcist only at the very last minute, after a parade of hospital visits and psychiatrist. And in ‘The Excoricst’ (the visit to these doctors' also isn’t brushed over, we see Regan in physical agony and her mother’s frustration build  )finally  when all earthly and plausible explanation has been ruled out they go for other help.

Even the scene in which Regan floats over the bed. Which has become a cliche staple of horror films ever since, works Because it’s stripped of any excessive drama.

Same goes for the music: there’s more music than in most films of course, but a lot less compared to the standard of some films of the time.

It’s used primarily to set a sinister mood and atmosphere and to foreshadow that horrible thing are going to happen, and it works even the music somewhat unnerves.

It’s indeed clearly a product of its time, but I still thoroughly enjoyed it and found it to be a thrill ride, I’d say it’s indeed worthy of its reputation, I’d have to see if my opinion would change with more future viewings, but this one was a success.

“I think the point is to make us despair. To see ourselves as... animal and ugly. To make us reject the possibility that God could love us.”

[ecotone99]

[SF] Imperfect Unhumans.

“Most days, I wake up and wonder if the machine has taken over. If today is the day I'll start walking around without control, a passenger in my own body.”

Jacken stroked his daughter’s brown hair as she snuggled against him, careful to use only his human hand. Hilda’s head was laid against his chest, half-off her bed, various tubes and monitors positioned on the other side. Turned away from her, his bulky machine arm hung stiffly, deactivated like all his other parts.

“Is that why you’re always so sad, daddy?”

He smiled sadly at her, wishing inside that he could just make all her worries go away. Little girls shouldn’t have to be worried about their daddies when their own problems were much worse.

“No, honey. They call that having a conscience.”

She struggled with the word, before giving up and not asking, likely determined to look it up herself once he was gone.

“It means I've done bad things and I'm sad about them.”

“Does that make it okay to do bad things? Being sad about them later?”

“No. Not really.”

“Then why did you do them?”

“I keep asking myself that. Maybe the blame is on the people who sent me to war knowing I'd fail. Maybe it's on the people who kept me prisoner and did bad things to me. Maybe the doctor who cut away me and put the machine there. Maybe the machine itself. Or maybe it's me and I don’t want to admit that.”

She puzzled that over, a young girl trying to make sense of concepts and questions that haunted nearly every soldier out there. She looked so small and frail next to her father's bulky form. So fragile. He wanted to hug her, pull her close, but couldn’t, for fear that he might break her.

“Flip a coin on it.”

“Really?”

“Yes. If you can’t figure out who did it, flip a coin on it. It's what May did.”

The mention of Jacken's sister made his chest clench, old anger bubbling to the surface. But he was with the only person he loved in the world, so he forced the venom and bile back down, determined not to show his daughter what a hateful man he had become.

“It’s a nice idea, sweetie, it really is. But life isn’t that easy. We know that.”

“Okay.”

Gently pulling his scarred hand through her hair, he let his child nestle against him, finding some safety in a man she hadn’t known for the first four years of her life. Four years he’d missed and would never get back.

A slow, steady beeping came from a nearby monitor, signalling that it was time for her to rest. Despite being a vibrant bundle of energy when she was awake, his daughter spent most of the day asleep. Unaware and blissfully unfeeling as serums and machines around her tried to fix her body.

His Oone burly arm scooping her up, Jacken drew up the blankets up over her small, stunted legs and tucked her in, bending down to kiss her goodnight as the medication put her under. He stood, reactivating his mechanical parts before carefully picking his way through the room, gazing out at a gloomy sky before pulling the curtains closed.

Looking back at his daughter’s sleeping form, he felt guilt tear into his chest with barbed talons, clawing and accusing.

If only he'd been there when Tanya was pregnant and looked after her. If only he had known he would have a child. If only he hadn’t ran away to fight in some war half a world away.

If only.

Head hanging, he turned and stomped from the room, pausing only to whisper that he loved her when he got to the old oaken door. Turning sideways to get through, he gently pulled it shut behind himself.

“Mother has invited you to dinner.”

The gravelly voice came from nowhere, nearly causing him to flinch in surprise. Careful not to appear surprised, although they both knew he was, he turned to face his 'brother'.

“Richard. Why are you here?” His voice was taut. Tense to the point of snapping.

“Mother has invited you to dinner. Must I repeat myself?”

“No.”

“No? Surely you jest.” The last word had all the dripping scorn in the world forcefully inserted into it, spoken as if to a particuarly stupid kid.

Resisting the urge to grab to grab and throttle the spindly little prick, Jacken took deep, heavy breaths as he forced down his rage. Goddamn machine had left him half a man, but he could still break this smug little prick if he wanted. He had lines, though. And violence this close to Hilda was one he wasn’t about to cross.

“Tell the old crone to take her invitation, spread her fat asscheeks and sit on it.”

Richard blinked.

“You were invited.” He accused, making it sound like the greatest honour in the world.

“I don’t care.” And he didn’t. So far as Jacken was concerned, the old bitch was the entire reason this fucked-up family was as damaged as they were.

Smartly stepping around the corner ahead of them, another Richard curtly smiled and addressed the man standing before Jacken.

“Master. Your presence is needed in the garden. Mis-“

Richard waved him off halfway through.

“Yes, Eighth, I know. I will be there momentarily. Shoo.” Again, he addressed the clone like he was talking to a dog, dismissing him out of hand. The clone vanished down a hallway without another word.

“You must go. You simply cannot refuse. The rules of the house dictate it.” Pulling out a tiny, barely held together yellow book, he waved it at Jacken like it was supposed to intimidate him.

Jacken scoffed at that.

“You still follow the fucking rules? They were made by a mean old bitch to keep young kids in line. Nobody takes them seriously anymore. It's time to grow up, Richard.”

“You. You*. You're a murderer! We let you in our house. You're a disgrace!”*

“Yeah, I probably am. Better than being an emotionally mangled man-child like you. Waited on hand and foot by clones. What do you sort them by anyway? Expiry date?”

Richard's flushed in anger as he glared at Jacken.

“How dare you.”

“I dare.” He growled back. “Call me a murderer, but you're no better. Pretend like they’re not living people all you like, but we both know you’re a worse monster than I'll ever be.”

“Enough.”

They'd gotten so heated that Jacken hadn’t even seen Hans until he was right behind him.

“You were called. Go. If you want your progeny to remain in Josie's care.”

The giant of a man spoke softly and simply, but his tone carried more warning and danger than Richard's red-faced screaming ever could. His bulk filled the entire corridor, head bent to squeeze through. Jacken idly wondered what the old bitch had done to the scientist who made Hans this big. Probably killed him after she got his secrets. So she and she alone had the knowledge.

Lips curling in a snarl, he was about to tell Hans to go fuck himself when it occurred that more of the others might be nearby. Daniel, Shikke, Linda and Walter would all be lurking in other corridors if the old bitch was serious about dragging him to meet her.

Richard, he could break with one hand. Hans was more of a challenge, but he'd bet on himself, if by a slim margin. All the other piling on him, though? Not too good. And the threat against his daughter was clear. If the old hag said it, Josie would stop keeping her stable. Josie always did as she was told. The only decent person in this house, and she had all the willpower of a half-eaten cracker. Then, it wouldn’t matter if Jacken killed the old bitch herself. He would already have lost everything.

Gritting his teeth, he stomped away, making sure to viciously shoulder Richard aside, leaving him muttering at his back and clutching the tattered rulebook.

The old crone wanted to talk? Fine, he'd take all her usual bullshit. Then shove it right down her throat, along with his fist.

***

“Fatter than ever, Bertha. Should I have a card prepared when your stomach staples burst?”

Mother grunted and looked up, regarding him as if eyeing some unsightly vagrant on the street.

“About time. I was worried they removed your brains when they cut off the rest of you.”

“You’ve never been worried about anything but yourself. Don’t pretend otherwise.” Jacken sat in a small, uncomfortable chair, facing the mountain of flesh that called itself Mother in this house.With no hair, crooked teeth and gums swollen with infection, her head reminded the man-machine of a rather nasty arsehole.

“You and your spawn live under my roof. At my expense. Taking valuable time from one of my daughters. But you can’t find it in you to be civil? Shame on you.”

“I can find it in me to be honest. What do you want?”

“A mother can’t see her son without reason?”

His mechanical arms curled around the arm of the chair, slowly crushing it under unfeeling metal.

“You’re no mother of mine. You never have, and never will be. You ruined this house and this family.” Painting a mocking smile on his face, he continued. “So talk all you want, but your words have no hold on me.”

She was showing signs of understanding now. Hidden in the folds of fat that covered her face, but he could still spot them.

“Whatever happened to my sweet boy? You were never this hateful. What changed you.”

“The small, naïve boy learned the truth and couldn’t handle it. So he ran away and went to war, to escape you. But war is a horrible place, and the small, naïve boy died there, replaced by a man. That man came home to find he had a daughter.”

“So I’m to take that your spawn is the only reason I haven’t seen the last of you?”

“Sounds about right.”

“What about the girl's mother?”

“What about her? She’s dead to me.”

“And you’re sure that you don’t need more insightful looks at the situation?” Her voice was soft now, sweet and honeyed. He recognized that tone, faintly. The one she always used to calm them.

He was feeling a bit relaxed now. Maybe the old broad wasn’t as bad as he'd remembered.

“Sure, why not?”

Another smile curled the corner of her lips, almost unnoticeable to the eye.

“Well, to do that, I must have context. Why did you leave?”

A shrug.

“Don’t quite know, honestly. It wasn’t one big reason. Bunch of small stuff adding up over time. Weird things I noticed. How other kids grew up and had some freedom, left home. But you kept us close. Too close. So I left.”

“And shipped off the Russo-Sino war. Where you got captured.”

Her voice was soft, soothing. Comfortable. Safe. Like he could tell her anything.

“I did. Didn’t take long either. Walked right into an ambush in my first month. They killed everyone else, just not me.” He shook his head as if trying to clear something. “Spent the next few months getting tenderized by the chinks. Lemme tell you, little bastards really know how to get in your head. Literally. After they had me beaten down into a lifeless sack of meat..well, the operating table was worse.”

He shuddered somewhat as the memories came bubbling up. She urged him on, her voice making the pain go away.

“Didn’t even have the fucking decency to knock me out before they put me under the scissors. Never screamed so much in my life. Two, three big snips, and I didn’t have my arm and leg anymore. Or some of my organs.”

He held up his mechanical arm, peeling away the shirt to show her the fused flesh.

“Bastards welded that to me. Connected the cables, pulled out some sort of weird welder, and got to work. I was past screaming then. In shock. Heart had stopped a few times. When I came to, I wasn’t myself anymore. Had this thing attached to me. They put something in my head, tried taking it for a test run.” He grinned savagely at the memory. “Bad idea.”

Mother leaned forward, a mildly impressive feat, smiling sweetly. Her voice was as calming as rain on the rooftops, like honey and sunlight distilled into beer.

“So, tell me more about this 'machine' inside you.”

Jacken found that he was nodding, smiling as he had a pleasant chat with his mother.

“Well, to start with, it-“ He paused. “Well, to start-.”

Clearing his throat, he tried again.

“The thing is-.“

There was a burst of pain and red light, a shock going through his system, recordings of the last few minutes playing through his mind in an instant. Something cold and calculating stirred in the part of his brain that wasn’t human anymore.

The sound of wood splintering came from the chair underneath him, the arm of the stool crushed in an instant.

A distorted voice spoke through his mouth.

“Use that power on this body again, and I will burn everything and everyone you love to ashes and scatter them in the wind.”

Then it was gone, just like that.

Holding up a fistful of broken wood, Jacken dropped it before her and stood.

“Jacken died fighting another man's war. He died on the battlefield. He died in the chinese torture chambers. He died on the operating table. All that is left is me. Me and the machine.”

“And the machine sees you and all your honeyed lies.”

***

That night, Jacken did as he did every other night. He sat with his daughter, rough voice talking to her, trying to sing her a lullaby.

But deep inside, he wondered if it was actually him, or the machine.

Did he really want to know?

Holding his daughter close, he decided it was best if that question was never answered.

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