#i heard from somewhere many years ago that all the classic sound effects came from balloons

[spagheddiesquash]

watching older cartoons with the sound effects and everything is an interesting experience when youre so used to seeing the sounds used ironically. like for example i hear that POINK!! like. the poking noise. and im like oh shit i know that sound. from Cartoons. until i realize Oh wait im WATCHING Cartoons

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Hit Or Miss || Morgan & Bex

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @inbextween & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan tries to get to know Bex over a game of Battleship. Explosions may or may not ensue.

CONTAINS: brief references to transphobia

There were a few things that death couldn’t take away from Morgan: love, the view of a January day, and board games. She had never been much of a fan as a kid, they were bulky, hard to pack in a hurry, and as soon as you lost a couple pieces, all that mess became worthless. But at Karen’s house a lifetime ago, the novelty special editions of Monopoly and Life and the varnished wood sets of checkers and parcheesi had seemed like treasures from another world; one where the ground was steady beneath your feet and it never occurred to you that the nice things you loved would fall apart. Today, she ran her fingers over a battered edition of Battleship: Classic (was there a Battleship: passé somewhere?) and brought it down to the table by the window she was bogarting at Board to Death, grinning affectionately at the scuffed pegs and stained ships hiding under the lid. It was the only coffee shop in town that anything to offer besides food she couldn’t taste. Her triple espresso had a soothing bitter taste, but all the icing in the world on the danishes or dipped vegan scones couldn’t bring back her old sense of taste.

She sipped the just-below-boiling mixture and watched the living world shuffle by in their puffy coats and bright scarves. When she saw a nervous looking girl approach the window she smiled, nodding in case it was her. When she entered the cafe, Morgan held out her hand. ���Hey, you’re Bex, right?”

The strangest part about being back in White Crest was that it felt so nice. There was something about this place that felt enough like home that Bex almost didn’t altogether mind her overbearing parents controlling her every move. Almost. They’d delighted in the fact that she was being scouted by a professor already, and she’d opted to not mention the part where said professor was gay and also recommended by someone who thought they were a witch. For some reason, Bex trusted Nell’s judgement, and Professor Beck seemed really nice. And, well, Bex couldn’t help but leap at the idea of meeting a real life queer person. Especially a woman. Who was out! And open! Even if she couldn’t really ask her about it today. The concept was novel. And so Bex really wanted this meeting to be good.

Therefore, she kept an excited demeanor about herself as she made her way to Board to Death, trying to push the anxiety away. Put on a smile when she opened the door, and glanced around for Professor Beck, seeing her through the window. She scooted herself over, taking her hand. “Hey! Hi, yes! That’s me! I’m Bex! That makes you Professor Beck, then! Unless you’re not, which would make this very awkward,” she chuckled, then stopped, clearing her throat. “S-sorry. Um, hi, thanks for meeting with me!” Glanced down to look at her refreshments on the table, then back up. “I never really knew Board to Death had food! I’ve only been here a few times. Do you come here a lot?”

“I am Professor Beck, yes, but you can just call me Morgan. Pretty much everyone does.” Morgan took another sip of her espresso and gestured for the girl to sit. It wasn’t every day she could tell someone she’d spoken with online just from their demeanor, but Bex was nearly vibrating out of her skin with anxiety. It was an excited kind of anxious, like her face might hurt from smiling so much, but it still gave Morgan some pause. This was a girl who had wrecked a whole computer lab with just the force of her emotions. Even if she couldn’t accept magic yet, some kind emotional release would probably be good for her. “I don’t come here much, no. Coffee tastes pretty much the same to me anywhere, and at least here it comes with something fun to do. You’ve played Battleship before, right? It’s only one of a couple of two player games I’m familiar with that doesn’t make you think too much.” Grinning at her, Morgan lifted the top from the game and started assembling her board.

“Oh, um--” Bex started, feeling that anxiousness already bubbling in her throat again, “-- I’ll try, but no promises. My parents sort of drilled it into me that it’s ‘Mister’ and ‘Misses’, or ‘Doctor’ and ‘Professor’ only!” Her face scrunched, as if she were trying to be angry and she lifted a finger to waggle. A poor imitation of her father. “You are a child, Odelia, and you will address your elders properly!” Not realizing she’d let slip her real name, she looked back across the table at Professor Be-- er, Morgan. “Oh, yeah, I’m much more of a tea person, myself. Coffee makes me jittery and anxious and I think I’m plenty of that all on my own, you know?” She watched as Morgan began assembling the game, not saying too much. Her father had made her play old strategy games like Risk and Chess for hours on end as a child, but Battleship had never seemed to reach their table. “Um, once, at school. You just kinda guess coordinates, right?”

Morgan couldn’t hide the arch in her brow as Bex gave a different name as she impersonated her parents. Did they not address her the way she asked to be? Did she keep the name she gave out to acquaintances as a secret? Still, she snorted kindly and finished setting up her board. “It’s good that you know yourself at least. I’m not sure if the world is ready for a caffeinated Bex just yet.” She finished setting up her board and started on her ships, keeping them mostly spread out from each other. “And yeah, it’s just a fun guessing game! If you know your opponent well, you can try and guess their methodology, but it’s, you know--” She held up the box lid, “Ages 6 and up.” With everything set aside on her end, she could lean back and relax. “So, I do hope you’ll take one of my seminars. My syllabus is way more fun than the other professors’, not to knock my colleagues, because they’re amazing, but I hand out movies and, occasionally, video games too. We look at what speculative and fantastical stories tell us about humanity, how we see ourselves and each other and why changes in those perceptions matter. And, you know, with all the writing homework, you’ll probably get a leg up on your fellow pre-law students. Anyone can have an idea or a feeling, but it takes work to give voice to it. But, that’s my one and only pitch. I’d much rather get to know you. Sometimes strangers can be easier to open up to than others.”

“Oh, it’s definitely not,” Bex agreed with a chuckle. She watched Morgan set up her side-- without peeking, of course!-- before working to set her own side up. She didn’t entirely know the best strategy for Battleship, but she decided she wanted to go for an out there one, sticking all of her ships right in a square in the middle of the map. “Well, I’m definitely six and up, so, I think we’re all good. Who goes first?” She looked across the table to Morgan as she continued to fuss with her pieces, wondering which formation was better, listening to her description of her course. “It sounds like a great class,” she said when the older woman was done speaking, but there was something vibrating inside of her. Something about the description, something about how free and open the course sounded, made her realize something else was going on here. Bex might have been closed off and insecure, but she was observant as well. It was one of the qualities that made her an actual decent law student. Her gaze dropped to her board and she pulled her hands away. “I’m ready to start, then,” she said, lifting her eyes just enough to gaze over the top of the board, the double meaning of her sentence not lost on either of them.

Morgan watched Bex thoughtfully, from the tightness in her shoulders to the shrill chirp of her voice. She was trying, eagerly, desperately, but for what? Morgan wanted to tell her to relax, there were no quizzes or grades handed out at the end of this meet-up. But having been that anxious herself more than once, she knew drawing attention directly didn’t always have the desired effect. “A-10?” She called. “Why don’t you tell me about why you like it here? I thought I saw you mention something about ‘coming back’ on main and I gotta say, I haven’t heard of too many people returning after they’d left. Well, not often by choice anyway.”

“Miss,” Bex said quietly, sticking a peg into A-10. “E-6?” she tried, waiting for the response. She chewed on her lip at the question, thinking a moment. It wasn’t that she really liked it here, but White Crest was home and she knew she had a place here. And even if she hadn’t gone to school here, or grown up with the other kids, or become a regular at all the diners-- she still felt like she fit in here. More so than at Penn State, where the kids looked at her with those eyes, and whispered behind their hands, and posted her private life online. “It just...feels like home, I guess. I went to private school as a kid, so it’s not like I really have any sort of connection to the town, but I just feel right here,” she explained softly, neither smiling nor frowning. She stuck a peg into the missed slot. “I came back because I had to.” Where she really wanted to be was far away from the East coast, maybe in Oregon or Washington or California. Somewhere she could start over brand new and be whoever she wanted to be. She cleared her throat. “How um-- how long have you been in White Crest?”

“Miss,” Morgan called. She let a round pass unremarked, taking in as much as she could. She was just bundled up so tight, it was no wonder she’d exploded in front of Nell. That much repression might do the same even to someone without magic. “Private school, huh? Like boarding school? I didn’t realize those were still a thing in this country.” She made another call, D-6, and took another sip of espresso. “I’ve been here for a year now. I’m starting to see how somebody could feel like they belonged here, even with all the terribleness. It’s not an easy fit, but I don’t think I could leave on a dime, not by myself anyway. But what--is it okay if I ask what made you have to come back? Or if not, maybe tell me about someplace else you dream of being. Those are good ideas to hold onto. The future, I mean.”

“Yep,” Bex said dismissively, “I went to a private boarding school. And they definitely still exist here.” And they suck, she wanted to add, but held her tongue. Uniforms and strict schedules and forced rules. Secrets and hush money and skirting around the fact that Bex was not born a girl. “My parents paid good money for it, it was a Jewish Orthodox school, a really good one, too,” she went on, swallowing down the hard feelings. They didn’t matter anymore. “The town certainly has a charm to it, doesn’t it?” She stuck a peg right between two of her ships as a miss. “Miss. Um...H-7?” She looked up again, contemplating which question she wanted to answer. They both would give away too much, and she was bad at lying. “There was an incident at my old school,” she finally said, the waver in her voice coming through, “my parents thought it best I come back home.”

“It’s okay, Bex,” Morgan said softly. “I want to know you, but you don’t have to talk about anything you don’t really want to. But I am sorry about whatever happened to you over there. It doesn’t seem like something easy.” She tilted her head, trying to meet the girl’s eyes. There was something there, something awful. Bullies, maybe? Did kids chase Bex and lock her in storage cabinets and call her names like they had Morgan? Or was there some kind of accident with her magic? “What do you want, Bex? However important your parents are to your life, however close you might be, your life is still yours. Your future should look like what you hope for. Why don’t you tell me more about that, huh? Or how the law firm fits into that idea.” Another sip of espresso. “Miss, by the way.” She scanned her grid and made a guess toward the middle. “F-6?”

Bexley swallowed hard, trying to make the worble that was building in her throat go away. “It’s okay, it’s kind of public information, anyway,” she stated matter of factly, moving away from the topic enough to not feel too overwhelmed, and thankful for Morgan’s offer. But the next question felt even harder, and Bex could feel the anxiety building in her stomach again. Her hand shook as she went to plug in the peg next to her ship, one hole away and she had to grip it with her other to make it stop. “I want to make my parents proud,” she stated, as if reading from a script, “I’m the sole heir to our business and fortune. That’s all there is to it. M-my future. That’s all I want. To be the perfect daughter for them.” And stop messing up. Since she couldn’t be their son. Since she couldn’t be the best. “Miss,” she said and her voice cracked. “F-5?”

“Miss,” Morgan replied. “And you don’t have to be perfect. No one is perfect. Perfect in terms of being flawless and incapable of improvement isn’t even a real thing. And your parents--” Morgan frowned. She had a lot of fairy tales about what parents should be like, but the more people she met, the more she wondered where she had cooked that one up. “The best way to love someone is to enable them to be the most themselves. The best, freest version of themself. And asking yourself those questions is the best way to find yourself loved better. I don’t know what your situation is, Bex, but you shouldn’t live to be an object in someone else’s story. You’re more than that. What is it that really excites you? What do you hope for?” Morgan waited, peering at this small glimpse of Bex’s pain with growing concern. Then, suddenly remembering that she had yet to call a move, she distractedly mumbled something a few spaces out from her last one. “E-5?”

Bex didn’t like this anymore. Morgan was saying things she already knew, but she also already knew that they were things she couldn’t have, so what was the point in thinking about them? In talking about them? She didn’t even bother putting a peg in this time. This was supposed to be a fun, easy meeting, not a deep dive into her extremely painful situation. “Please stop,” was all she said, hands folded tightly into her lap, “just...please?” Fingers began to pick at nail beds, still red and raw from every other time she’d done it. “All I hope for right now is to make it through each day without messing up or embarrassing someone,” she admitted quietly, but her voice was stern, an anger stewing inside of her that she rarely let to the surface, “And I just hope that I can make it through the week without some shit happening. And I hope that one day I’ll be able to look back on all this and put it behind me, but that’s not feasible right now so I really need to just not think about it and keep trying my best for my parents because they’re all I have.” And she owed them everything. Shakily, she lifted the peg and placed it on one of her ships. “Hit.” A loud whistle behind the cafe counter signaled steaming water and Bex startled. She let out a long sigh. “A-2.”

“I’m sorry,” Morgan said quickly. “I don’t mean to-- I am being sincere in what I am saying and whatever me or my life looks like to you or anyone else peeking on main apparently, it’s-- I do know what it’s like to feel like your life isn’t yours and what you want doesn’t matter and keeping your head down and being small and left alone is the best you’re gonna get. I am deeply, intimately familiar with that feeling. I can only imagine what kind of suffering you’ve been through, but you were meant for more than that, and I’m sorry. I’ll stop, okay? Do you--” Morgan stopped as another kettle trilled, glowing with sudden heat. She made a note of the hit, but didn’t put the red peg on the board. Flustered and desperate to recover the afternoon, she pawed her pockets for her phone. “I have cats. Three of them. Do you want to see pictures of the cats? Or ask me something? This isn’t an interview. If there’s something you want to know you can--” The phone clattered onto the table. Deirdre and Anya’s faces bloomed on the lock screen. “You can do whatever you want, Bex, you don’t even have to stay.”

Everything Morgan was saying just made Bex tense up more and more. Kettle’s started shouting, left and right, even the baristas were beginning to panic, running around and removing them, but finding them still screaming, louder and louder, despite the lack of heat. A crack formed in the window next to Bex as she screwed her eyes shut and clenched her entire body. She didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for her or tell her how much they understood or tell her how sad it was-- she wanted to pretend like how she was living was okay and fine and that one day she’d make it through and suddenly everything would feel okay. And just be okay. She unclenched and the whistles seemed to die down. Looked at the phone that had fallen to the table and saw the happy woman on it, smiling and beautiful. And the cat, so peaceful looking. Tears welled in her eyes. “I have to go,” she said suddenly, standing up. The chair scooted back and toppled over. People turned around to look at them. Her heart seemed to leap into her throat and the mug on the table shattered. “I’m sorry! I have to--” took a step back and all the teapots wailed again. Bex looked around frantically. “It-- It was nice to meet you, Professor Beck, but I--” she didn’t get to finish her sentence as one of the pistons on the espresso machine shot off and shattered a nearby tower of cups. Bex turned and ran before anyone had a chance to ask her anything.

“Bex, wait! You need to--!” Whatever half-assed plea Morgan was working on fizzled out under the crash of falling furniture and screaming machinery. Someone’s baby started wailing, the window buckled like it had been gut-punched, and the steam whirred louder. Morgan grabbed her coat and bag and phone. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen to downtown with Bex like this, if she could talk her down or if following would only make things worse. Shit, probably worse, right? But by the time she stumbled out the door, the girl was long gone and all Morgan had left were more questions. At least she would be able to tell Nell one thing for certain: Bexley was not okay, and under her nerves lay a sadness too deep for her to contain, especially in White Crest.

[stainedglassgardens]

Watched in May

A Russian Youth (Мальчик русский) Sicario Fedora LoveTrue The Platform Water Lilies (Naissance des pieuvres) The Assistant The Half of It Tomboy The Last Man on Earth Beanpole (Дылда) Mommy The Fall Girlhood (Bande de filles) Carnival of Souls Marguerite & Julien Portrait of a Lady on Fire (Portrait de la jeune fille en feu) This Magnificent Cake! (Ce Magnifique Gâteau!) Romantic Comedy Transnistra Eraserhhead The Farewell Emma. Late Night Charlie's Angels Birds of Prey (and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) The Ancestors Came Suicide by Sunlight Anthropocene: The Human Epoch A Perfect 14 Westwood: Punk, Icon, Activist Free Radicals Aniara Vivarium La Pointe-Courte Diary of a Pregnant Woman (L'Opéra-Mouffe) Salut les Cubains Uncle Yanco (Oncle Yanco) GUO4 Atlantiques Sitara: Let Girls Dream Lions Love (Lions Love... And Lies) Živan Makes a Punk Festival (Živan pravi pank festival) Plastic and Glass The So-Called Caryatids (Les Dites Cariatides) The Octopus (La Pieuvre) Hyas and Stenorhynchus (Hyas et sténorinques, crustacés marins) Sea Urchins (Les Oursins) Bernard-L'Hermite (Bernard-l'Ermite) The Sea Horse (L'Hippocampe ou "cheval marin") Voyage to the Sky (Voyage dans le ciel) Le Vampire Freshwater Assassins (Assassins d'eau douce) How Some Jellyfish Are Born (Comment naissent des méduses) Shrimp Stories (Histoires de crevettes) The Love Life of the Octopus (Les Amours de la pieuvre) Acera, or The Witches' Dance (Acera, ou le Bal des Sorcières) Pigeons of the Square (Les Pigeons du square) The Slumber Party Massacre Jane B. par Agnès V. The Cranes Are Flying (Летят журавли) Crystal Swan (Хрусталь) Take Me Somewhere Nice Microhabitat ( 소공녀) The Unforeseen

Did not finish

Swiss Army Man (Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert, 2016) Braid (Mitzi Peirone, 2018) A Secret Love (Chris Bolan, 2020) Calder's 1927 Great Circus (Le Grand Cirque Calder 1927, Jean Painlevé, 1955)

Did not like

Sicario (Denis Villeneuve, 2015) The Platform (Galder Gaztelu-Urrutia, 2019) The Half of It (Alice Wu, 2020) Sitara: Let Girls Dream (Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy, 2019)

I could take them or leave them

Fedora (Billy Wilder, 1978) LoveTrue (Alma Har'el, 2016) This Magnificent Cake! (Ce Magnifique Gâteau!, Emma De Swaef & Marc James Roels, 2018) Romantic Comedy (Elizabeth Sankey, 2019) Eraserhhead (David Lynch, 1977) Late Night (Nisha Ganatra, 2019) Charlie's Angels (Elizabeth Banks, 2019) Free Radicals (Len Lye, 1958) Aniara (Pella Kågerman and Hugo Lilja, 2018) Birds of Prey (and the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (Cathy Yan, 2020) The Ancestors Came (Cecile Emeke, 2017) GUO4 (Peter Strickland, 2019) Živan Makes a Punk Festival (Živan pravi pank festival, Ognjen Glavonić, 2014) The Unforeseen (Laura Dunn, 2007)

Films I enjoyed

A Russian Youth (Мальчик русский, Alexander Zolotukhin, 2019): Went into this with the single aim of improving my Russian. Loved the back-and-forth between “the story” and the orchestra playing the score to said story. The “story” itself is also tragically moving

Water Lilies (Naissance des pieuvres), Tomboy, Girlhood (Bande de filles) and Portrait of a Lady on Fire (Portrait de la jeune fille en feu) (C��line Sciamma, 2007, 2011, 2014, 2019): I saw all four of Céline Sciamma’s films practically in a row! I liked all of them, don’t think I prefer one over another. And I recognise she’s a talented filmmaker, even though she’ll probably never be a favourite

The Last Man on Earth (Ubaldo Ragona and Sidney Salkow, 1964): A good... vampire-zombie film... that is worth sticking with even though you might find it too ordinary at first

Beanpole (Дылда, Kantemir Balagov, 2019): This story is fucked up! I liked it up to a certain extent, but I suspect it was mainly because of the historical and geographical setting. If you like post-WW2 Russia and this is the film for you

Mommy (Xavier Dolan, 2014): The portrayal of the titular mother hit a bit too close to home... This was my first Xavier Dolan film and I was not disappointed. Only drawback: Céline Dion’s song “On ne change pas” has been stuck in my head ever since

The Fall (Jonathan Glazer, 2020): It was... good? From the publicity it received on Mubi, I thought this was going to be a feature film, so yeah, I was disappointed, I loved Sexy Beast and Under the Skin so much

The Farewell (Lulu Wang, 2019): I really liked it, I think this didn’t get nearly enough praise -- but I was expecting something life-changing when I “only” found this very good

Emma. (Autumn de Wilde, 2020): This adaptation felt like Autumn de Wilde really, really wanted her film to be shown in as many classrooms as possible. It was enjoyable! I liked her additions to the book, and I appreciate the challenge she took up

Suicide by Sunlight (Nikyatu Jusu, 2019): A good short vampire film about Black vampires who are protected from daylight by their melanin

Anthropocene: The Human Epoch (Edward Burtynsky, Jennifer Baichwal, Nicholas de Pencier, 2018): Stunning visuals, sobering message. Somewhere between Koyaanisqatsi and Unser Täglich Brot in tone

A Perfect 14 (Giovanna Morales Vargas, 2018): This, by necessity, doesn’t cover everything on the subject of plus-size models, and practically speaking I didn’t learn anything -- but it’s well-made, and the personal stories of the main interviewees make a good, contrasted portrait

Westwood: Punk, Icon, Activist (Lorna Tucker, 2018): I came out of this feeling as if Vivienne Westwood wasn’t that interesting of a person, which I’m sure wasn’t the director’s intention... still, it was informative enough

Plastic and Glass (Tessa Joosse, 2009): A short somewhat-documentary about a choir in a recycling facility. Good music

The Slumber Party Massacre (Amy Holden Jones, 1982): Finally saw this! Very surprised to learn this was written by Rita Mae Brown. It was good as far as slashers go and of course, it is nice to watch something from that era that is not appallingly sexist

The Cranes Are Flying (Летят журавли, Mikhail Kalatozov, 1957): I guess I had to read about this afterwards in order to see how unusual it was for the time it was made. While I watched it I enjoyed the way it was filmed but the story left me indifferent, and I thought it lacked subtlety

Crystal Swan (Хрусталь, Darya Zhuk, 2018): A very aesthetically pleasing story set in 1990s Belarus, about a young woman who wants to emigrate to Chicago for the love of house music... the story will keep taking you unexpected places from there. The costumes are perfect, the soundtrack is interesting. It does feel a little as if it were made for export, and I thought it relied quite heavily on stereotypes about Slavs

Take Me Somewhere Nice (Ena Sendijarević, 2019): This coming-of-age road movie about a Bosnian girl who was raised in the Netherlands and comes back to visit her father in hospital has everything... drugs, violence, death, even cute dogs. The pastel palette makes it very satisfying

Microhabitat ( 소공녀, Jeon Go-woon, 2017): This film about a woman with a minimum-wage job who would rather leave her flat than quit smoking and drinking whisky just spoke to me

La Pointe-Courte, Diary of a Pregnant Woman (L'Opéra-Mouffe), Salut les Cubains, Uncle Yanco (Oncle Yanco), Lions Love (Lions Love... And Lies), The So-Called Caryatids (Les Dites Cariatides), Jane B. par Agnès V. (Agnès Varda, 1955, 1958, 1964, 1967, 1969, 1984, 1988): I decided to watch all of Agnès Varda’s films that are on Mubi France and that I haven’t seen already, in chronological order. This feels a bit like a chore sometimes, but I find it rewarding. It’s strange to think that even a few years ago hers was a name I’d heard a few times but that didn’t mean anything to me. And I know I can be merciless when it comes to French cinema. Anyway... I like what I’ve seen so far (the above plus Cléo and Vagabond), I like that someone can just pick up her film camera and make a short about caryatids... generally speaking I like Varda’s approach to film that makes it seem more accessible to people like me. I don’t think all of her films are particularly good, but I like that she made all of them. I never did particularly like Cléo, and I didn’t particularly like La Pointe-Courte in spite of the fact that it was shot very close to where I’m from. Of the above, my fave was probably Lions Love, even though (or because?) it doesn’t very much feel like a Varda film. Uncle Yanco is a close second. I’ve got three feature films left now

Films I loved

The Assistant (Kitty Green, 2019): Unfortunately enough, this reminded me of an internship I did a few years ago... I found it uncomfortably realistic, and thus very good. Julia Garner is perfect, as usual

Carnival of Souls (Herk Harvey, 1962): I watched this because it is a classic, expecting it to be over-the-top and not nearly as scary as I found it... a very good surprise

Marguerite & Julien (Valérie Donzelli, 2015): It’s hard to talk about this in a way that will make people want to see it without making me sound like a huge weirdo but here goes. It’s a story about a brother and sister who are madly in love with each other. It takes place in a fantasy past and is told like a fairytale. If you think it’s impossible to turn this premise into a good film please watch this

Transnistra (Anna Eborn, 2019): With this film I discovered the existence of the tiny unrecognised state named Transnistria... I also discovered Alla Pugacheva, who is part of a great nostalgic Russian soundtrack with Kino amongst others. The story is one of those documentaries about youth that punches you right in the gut. Definitely recommended

Vivarium (Lorcan Finnegan, 2019): This is the type of what, for lack of a better term, I call “minimal science fiction” that I really enjoy. I’ve thought about it a lot since then. I don’t know why people generally didn’t seem to like it. I thought the premise was terrifying and nightmarish, and the actual film effectively claustrophobic. Plu:s Imogen Poots

Atlantiques (Mati Diop, 2009): This is the short, not the feature film of the same name. I’ve heard a lot about Mati Diop and I saw this the second it became available on Mubi France -- and I didn’t regret it. Can’t wait to see Atlantiques, long form

The Octopus (La Pieuvre), Hyas and Stenorhynchus (Hyas et sténorinques, crustacés marins), Sea Urchins (Les Oursins), Bernard-L'Hermite (Bernard-l'Ermite), The Sea Horse (L'Hippocampe ou "cheval marin"), Voyage to the Sky (Voyage dans le ciel), Le Vampire, Freshwater Assassins (Assassins d'eau douce), How Some Jellyfish Are Born (Comment naissent des méduses), Shrimp Stories (Histoires de crevettes), The Love Life of the Octopus (Les Amours de la pieuvre), Acera, or The Witches' Dance (Acera, ou le Bal des Sorcières), Pigeons of the Square (Les Pigeons du square) (Jean Painlevé, 1928, 1929, 1929, 1930, 1934, 1937, 1945, 1947; Jean Painlevé and Geneviève Hamon, 1960, 1964, 1965, 1972; Jean Painlevé, 1982): I didn’t know who Jean Painlevé was before I decided to watch The Octopus. As it turns out, I am a sucker for well-made nature documentaries, and since all of these are short films, I ended up watching them all, in order of release, over the course of one afternoon. It’s a little bit crazy that these were getting made as early as the 1920s, and I can’t imagine what it would have been like to see them in theatres nearly a hundred years ago. Anyway these are all good, although I wasn’t expecting the vivisection that seems to have been par for the course in the early days

*

Yes, I really did watch 65 films in May. It becomes a little less impressive considering a fair amount of those were shorts, but still. Unemployment!

I have access to Outbuster now in addition to Mubi and Netflix, this time through my boyfriend’s account. It’s a French thing I think, and very cheap, but I’ve only just tried it with Microhabitat. Of course it was the Mubi Library thing that just completely sent me over the edge, and I want to watch all the things.

In June I hope to finish Agnès Varda’s filmography on Mubi and maybe watch some more Tarkovsky!

[michael-weinstein]

Reacting to David Hurwitz

Some weeks ago I came across the recently opened Youtube channel of David Hurwitz, a music critic who wrote reviews for High Fidelity and Amazon, and the founder and executive editor of the website Classics Today. I agree with some of his opinions, though I do disagree with him a good deal. But the straw that broke the camel's back was one of his early videos, which is titled: Classical Music's 10 Dirtiest Secrets. I was so alarmed by it, that I decided at once to stop watching his videos and to omit him from my YouTube recommendations. Today I've decided to finally face Mr. Hurwitz and express my reactions to his "secrets". Now, more than my opinions being lauded, I actually want people to congratulate me for copying the entire script, unabridged, because it was painful for me to do so, since I disagree with practically every "secret". And in response to some of the comments, Mr. Hurwitz said something to the effect of "some people here don't have a sense of humor!" Well, I do have a sense of humor (you can blame my parents for that), but if you, dear Herr Prof. Hurwitz, say you're joking, you've got to make that more clear in your arguments. Well, here is, without further ado, Classical Music's 10 Dirtiest Secrets by Mr. David Hurwitz.

[This is] the antidote to all of that PR we hear these days, that tells us that just because something is "classical", it must all be equally fabulous and we just can't get enough. Well, here's a news flash: it's not. Witness the following:

1. Mozart really does all sound the same. Yes, he was a genius. Yes, he wrote 620-some-odd pieces in 35 years, but let's face it. How different can they be? Even Toscanini thought they all sounded the same.

2. Beethoven's Grosse Fuge is just plain ugly. I mean, if you ever listen to that thing recently, it sounds like four dying cattle. I know we're supposed to be amazed at its contrapuntal mastery, and it's transcendental what-not whatever. It's ugly, let's not kid ourselves.

3. Wagner's operas are much better with cuts. I mean nothing, nothing has the right to be 4 or 5 hours long at a stretch. I mean, you go to the Met at 6 in the evening, and you don't leave till after midnight? You got to be crazy. The shorter it is, the better it is.

4. No one cares about the first 3 movements of Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique. I mean, nobody. We all want to hear The March to the Scaffold and then The Dream of the Witches' Sabbath. That's the hot stuff, that's were the music gets really juicy and exciting. The first 3 movements are more than a half hour [long], they're just preludial. I mean you sit through them politely, but then you wait to get your pulse racing, right? When the guy's head gets chopped off and the witches start hopping around. I mean, you know, he really should have just written the last 2 [movements] and left off the first 3, I think.

5. Schoenberg's music never sounds more attractive, no matter how many times you listen to it. Of course we're told that, you know, it's only a question of getting accustomed to its particular unique sound world and all that, and the more attention you give to it, the more rewarding it will be. Wrong, it's never more rewarding, it never sounds better. He was just a difficult truculant kind of guy, and he wrote difficult truculant music. Even his tonal music is hard to listen to. It's just difficult, period. Accept it, live with it, and love it, or don't.

6. Schumann's orchestration is really bad, and needs improvement. Once in a while a conductor will show up who says: "Well, you know I'm playing the original orchestration, it's better than everybody thought". No, it's not. It's thick, it's muddy, it doesn't do the music justice, and everybody tinkers with it. Even people who don't physically rescore it mess with the balances or whatever, just to make it listenable. Otherwise it's simply impossible.

7. Bruckner couldn't write a symphonic allegro to save his life. I mean, he calls some movements allegro, but who is he kidding. Even his early school symphony (you know, the one we call [Symphony No.] 00) has a first movement that's Allegro molto vivace. I mean, who is he kidding? It's not allegro, it's not molto, it's not vivace, it's all just slow. It's the way the man was, and we have to accept it as it is.

8. Liszt is trash. Enough said.

9. The so-called "happy ending" of Shostakovich's Fifth is actually perfectly sincere. Now, recent scholarship has revealed that this happy ending with the trumpets going nuts, and cymbals and timpani pounding away, crashing and bashing, is supposed to be a hidden signal for the misery and suffering of the Russian people. So while the music itself is going nuts with joy, we're supposed to be secretly sympathizing with their unhappiness and with the composer's personal misery. Well, I don't know. Freud said sometimes a happy ending is just a happy ending. And you know, it's okay to be happy. Finally:

10. It's a good thing that only about 200 Bach cantatas survive. I mean really, folks, have you listened to all 200 of them? Do you just like come home from work and say, "Heck! I really need to hear a 25-minute Lutheran penitential cantata about suffering and misery"? I mean, how many of them can we stand? Supposedly about a third of them are missing, I mean more than a hundred of them. And if you're really really that concerned about it, if you really think it's a loss to humanity, I have a suggestion of where you might want to look for them. You see, when Bach died his estate got divided up between his wife and kids, and the oldest one Wilhelm Friedemann (who was supposedly a drunk organist or something like that) had a daughter. And his daughter got married to a business man, and sometime around the 1760s or so (or '70s, I don't know somewhere around then) they moved to Oklahoma. So, if you happen to have nothing to do, and you're really desperate for a new Bach cantata, start looking in barns at Oklahoma, because they started a farm there, and so somewhere, maybe, you know, near Oklahoma City or somewhere out there in the Texas Panhandle, you may find a hundred or so Bach cantatas!

And with that, let me just suggest that you should use your own judgement, listen fearlessly, judge mercilessly, enjoy what you want, love what you love and don't worry about the rest.

Well, now it's my time to respond (wow, it was difficult copying all of that).

1. I have to admit that I'm not so hot on Mozart. I get the feeling that I must worship him because he was a colossal genius, in a sense he's an encylopedia figure (and it's weird that I don't feel the same way about Bach, Beethoven or Haydn who are usually considered as encylopedic figures, and Mr. Hurwitz has himself admitted that although he respects Bach, he doesn't like a lot of his music specifically for this reason). However, I do think that there's a very noticeable difference between Mozart's 1st symphony and his 40th (I haven't heard the Jupiter, so the analogy is not perfect, but at least I'm honest about it). Besides, I personally do not really like Toscanini, but even without that, just because Toscanini said something doesn't mean it needs to apply to everything and everyone.

2. Well, Beethoven's Grosse Fuge is an acquired taste. I mean yes, it's difficult, it's hard to get through, it's angry, and it might even be "ugly", but that's because Beethoven wanted to be ugly. If you don't like it, just go and leave.

3. This one touches a sick nerve because I am a Wagnerian. Yes, some people are crazy in order to go and be in the theater for 6 hours for a Wagner opera. I do get that sometimes it's difficult to be attentive throughout such a long performance (especially if it's a bad one), but Wagner knew what he was doing when he was composing such long operas (and mind you, I don't always agree with his megalomaniac ideas). It is Wagner's right to have Meistersinger run for 5 hours, just as it is Puccini's right to have La Bohème run for 2 hours. Once again, if you don't want to be in an opera house for 6 hours, don't go. But don't tell me that everything is better when it's short.

4. Once again, this one also touches a sick nerve as I'm a deep fan Berlioz's Symphonie fantastique. I should remark that aside from its programmatic function, I don't get the fourth movement, but I would be the first to admit that the finale is the X-Factor of the symphony. That said however, there is a place for the first 3 movements. If they're preludial, they're supposed to be so! And they're much more than a prelude! The first movement has lots of moments of teenage anxiety, depression and hallucination and one of the criteria for a good performance would be for me how much it gets the madness and extremness in this movement. In short, how "teenagery" it is. The second movement also seems to be just nice, and not having any service apart from its programmatic function, but it's sometimes good not to be going full tilt in the epicness department. Likewise, the third movement is also there for the need of what William Berger called (in a different context) "the lowering of the collective blood-pressure". And yet despite what might seem from a movement titled Scene in the Countryside, this movement actually has some manic terrifying moments. Once again, if you don't like the first 3 movements, just listen to the last 2, but again, Berlioz knew what he was doing in adding these first 3 movements.

5. Like the Grosse Fuge, Schoenberg's music is also an acquired taste. I disagree with Mr. Hurwitz's opinion that "it never gets more attractive", but I also disagree with those who say that "the more attention you give to it, the more it will reward you". Circumstances vary with every single person from one millisecond to the next. I am a Schoenberg fan, but I don't persuade people to join the Schoenberg fan club (but that's because I'm not a kind of a persudaing guy). And I'm not alone in that. Alexander Goehr, who is likewise a deep Schoenberg fan, seems to agree with me on this point (that is, I agree with him):

I don't think it is likely that it is possible to convince people who find the music [of Schoenberg] extremely difficult, that hidden beneath the surface is a heart of gold, and it's really all like Puccini if you only knew how to listen to it. It isn't like that. This was a fractious and difficult personality, with a striking and fast mind, and a feeling of responsibility towards music, musicians, students, all through his life.

Once again, if you don't like it, don't listen to it, just go and leave.

6. I haven't listened to Schumann's music so I can't say whether his orchestration is bad or not. However, I can say that people don't tinker only with Schumann's dynamics, and for some reason they get criticized for that in a way which would not happen if they would do the same to Schumann. So in a sense, having a conductor tinkering with Schumann's dynamics should not be something all that special, so stop making so much of a deal out of it.

7. Likewise, I haven't listened to much Bruckner, but I would agree that if it is indeed slow, that is the way Bruckner was and we can't do anything about it. Maybe what for him was fast, is slow for Mr. Hurwitz. And not only is the perception of tempo different from one person to another, it's different within the same person from one millisecond to the next.

8. Ok, I'm barely handling myself together when I'm writing this, and things are especially confusing when Mr. Hurwitz doesn't dare detail. If you think that Liszt is only virtuoso opera transcriptions, the Transcendental Etudes and the Hungarian Rhapsodies, you are damn wrong! Just look at his symphonic poems, and the Faust and Dante Symphonies and you'll see he was much more than just a flashy romantic pyrotechnic of the piano. You still think this is kitschy and wearing on the sleeve? Ok, fine. How about the late piano pieces?! I just keep going mad when I see how many people don't know, let alone appreciate Liszt's late works (which I'm not even going to write a blog post on, because it speaks by itself. Here's a playlist.) These pieces tell you, more even than Tristan, the Ring and Parsifal, how Debussy and early Schoenberg came into being. If you're not convinced by that, I really have no other idea to dissuade you from believing that "Liszt is trash".

9. I have to say before I begin the discussion of Mr. Hurwitz's argument, that trying to figure out the meaning of Shostakovich's music is just pure mayhem, for reasons I hope I don't need to tell you. That being said, we are really actually told that the conflict between musicologists is whether he composed the Fifth Symphony in order to save his skin, or is the music braced with sarcasm. As I understand, there is no reason why the ending should be understood as "sincerely happy" when one goes deeper. Once again, what Freud says doesn't necessarily apply to every situation. So yes, I wouldn't necessarily go as far as to say that we're supposed to be thinking of misery, but we should think of hypocrisy.

10. Once again, I have barely listened to Bach cantatas, but just from looking at the titles, I'm pretty sure that not all of those cantatas are about "suffering and misery" (small unimportant sidenote: You really needed to use the same two words you just used for Shostakovich?). I don't know how much this is likely, but go figure that the hundred or so lost cantatas happen to be the best cantatas Bach ever wrote, and what we've known till now is, forgive the expression, the rotten bottom of the barrel? But trying to go around Oklahoma farms to find them is almost hopeless, for a number of reasons. Most likely, the manuscripts could have been deemed worthless, so they were used for other purposes. The farm could have been destroyed or dismantled or whatever. So maybe we're lucky that some Bach cantatas are missing, maybe not, I have no idea what to say about this.

I saved the most important issue for the end. I have no problem with all the opinions that Mr. Hurwitz has expressed - as long as he was meaning only to express his own opinion. I obviously disagree with him, but I have no serious problem with Mr. Hurwitz suggesting that Wagner's operas are better when cut, that Mozart sounds all the same, and (though with some difficulty, if only because Liszt is widely misunderstood) that Liszt is trash. The problem I have is with him saying that these are the "official dirtiest-secret facts of the classical music industry". And once again, if he's joking, he should make that clearer.

P.S. As I was writing this, I discovered that it's apparently also available online as an editorial, so if you want to make me suffer twice, you can do that.

(Originally posted: 9 August 2020)

[sickandtideeeee]

By Bast - Chapter 12 (Erik x Reader)

A/N: the nice side effect of graduating is that I’m bored and can crank out a chapter in a day and a half apparently when before it took me like literal months to craft a few pages

Anyway, please talk to me i love interaction. Otherwise I’m just screaming into the abyss lmao

“How do you not have a dress picked out?!” Asha nearly shrieked, running her hands through your wardrobe.

You shot her a dirty look as if to ask ‘Really?’ She scrunched up her face in retort.

“Just two weeks ago the whole country taught King T’Challa was dead, so is it really shocking that maybe it slipped my mind that his birthday feast would still happen?”

“I mean you live in the inner palace. You would have had to have known!” She insisted, shooting a glance at Amina, who leaned against the wall of your bedroom, picking her fingernails. Amina continued to look disinterested, denying Asha the support she was looking for.

“I have a lot on my mind.” A truth.

“More important than the King?”

Amina’s sharp look at you screamed ‘Don’t answer that.’ You artfully dodged the question, by turning your attention to one of the many dresses your friend had laid on the bed for you.

“What do you think about this one?” The dress you smoothed across your front now was a flowing maxi dress in purple, red and orange-toned ankara print. The sweetheart neckline left your arms and shoulders bare, but they would be covered by draping a soft matching scarf. Suitable enough for a priestess.

“That’s the first one I grabbed.” Asha said, a little suspicious but delighted once you tried it on completely and twirled around once. Amina’s eyes lit up and you beamed back at her. You did feel pretty. All that was left would be to tame your coils. You decided on a goddess halo braid for the soiree. You had a few hours until the dinner party would begin.

For someone as poised as T’Challa, he had a knack for extravagance when he felt like it. Opulence was only one of the words that described the theme of the venue that night. Stepping into the birthday feast hall felt like trespassing the grounds of heaven itself. Warm lights shone from above, illuminating gold and marble fixtures as well as floral arrangements of lilies and orchids that were the size of a middle school child.

Rows and rows of lavishly decorated tables filled a room the size of a football field, piled high with cured meats, spiced stews, seasoned starchy side dishes, and enough fruit and desserts to land someone in an instant diabetic coma. Accoutrements were as loud and jovial as the people themselves, with your own floor-length dress paling in comparison to many of the tribe princesses’ dresses. Nakia herself sported a shimmering forest-green mermaid dress with golden highlights and a plunging neckline that warranted a second look from most, if not all, men in attendance. She stayed close to T’Challa who wore a classic brown tunic but of a material fine enough that you could almost smell the royalty from a distance. They sat at the table of honor, flanked by Queen Ramonda whose regal smile was almost oppressive in its sincerity, and Shuri who appeared frankly nauseated by the amount of boo loving she’d have to watch close up.

Idly stuffing your face with meat pies, you sat at the first table from theirs on the right side, pretending to be fascinated by one of the stone centerpieces. Live drum music played as a vibrant backdrop to the evening.

You had just fulfilled your one and only duty in leading the ceremonial prayer for longevity and blessing before everyone could partake in the meal. Now, it was best to keep a low profile. After T’Challa called you out personally just yesterday, you did not want to invite any unwanted conversation or attention. You found yourself scanning the sea of guests for N’Jadaka as if it were not obvious why he wasn’t present. Even more unsettling was the fact that during T’Challa’s speech, he was reduced to one of the many “challenges” that he had gone through in the past year.

Once all guests had been served their fill of food and fun, Nakia led an exquisite performance of a war dance. Thereafter, the rest of the guests were invited to dance. At this time, T’Challa was now surrounded by a circle of his elder advisors, who praised him on another year of age and a successful reign so far. Since you had declined joining the dance floor, you couldn’t help but quietly listen in while you attacked a scoop of imported cardamom ice cream.

“When do you plan to execute the traitor?”

Your spoon clattered as it dropped, but the sound was quickly drowned out by the crowd. The cold dessert slid down your throat unimpeded, causing you to choke softly.

So Erik wasn’t just talking…

You could see T’Challa answering, his expression betraying discomfort, but you had trouble reading his lips from your vantage point. Only bits and pieces of conversation came through as you tried to tune out the rest of the event.

“The longer he sits in that cell, the more likely you will have a change of heart.”

“Of course he cannot be changed, why would you even suggest something of the sort?”

“He has disgraced the royal family, has he not?”

“There is already intel leaving the palace suggesting that you have kept him prisoner because you are afraid to kill him.”

“Who cares if he is part of the royal family? He lost.”

The elders now began to talk over each other, rendering the rest of the conversation unintelligible.

It did not help that a stranger now blocked your view, introducing himself as head counsel to the merchant elder. You politely introduced yourself, smiling weakly. The young man, not getting the hint, began to chat you up. Trying to keep focus on T’Challa and his advisors, you circumvented questions like who did you come with, how were you liking the party, and were you interested in dancing?

In the meantime, the elders eventually dispersed, leaving T’Challa seated back at his head table alone with a grave look on his face. T’Challa’s expressions were as difficult to read as usual. How you wanted to question him on whatever decision he had just made, but on what pretext could you do it safelyl? As it was, you had already crossed a line with him.

No longer could you find any happiness in all this noise. It was past time for you to retreat in your quarter. The young man who had invited himself into the seat next to you finally realized that you had stopped listening.

“Are you mad? Do you not hear me talking?”

“I’m very sorry but I think I must leave now.” You replied, rising abruptly to your feet. You attempted to leave, but either your quick movement or your new male friend’s spite had resulted in the fabric of your long dress getting caught out. A large rippp sounded in the air, quickly smothered by music and voices, right before you tripped and toppled to the ground.

The man behind you made an audible ‘tch’ sound as you hit the floor hard on your face. Gathering the rest of your dress in your arms, you ignored the throbbing pain in your cheek. Yup, you had definitely enough of this party.

Before you could rise and give this stranger the tongue-lashing of his life, T’Challa was already by your side to help you up by the arm.

“Disappear.” You heard him say to your slighted suitor. “Are you alright?” T’Challa’s voice lost its edge as he turned his attention to you.

“I’m fine,” you assured him, embarrassed. Touching the pain on your cheek made you wince, it was sure to swell. You pulled your arm away harsher than you intended, and made your way out of the feast hall. To your dismay, the king followed suit.

“Are you sure you’re fine?” T’Challa said, louder now that you were out of the public view. In one of the corridors, you gave him a confused look. You could tell he was not just asking about your face.

“Yes…?” You insisted. Knowing he would not leave you alone until he heard a more satisfying answer, you added: “I was just a bit clumsier than usual.” You smiled widely, albeit a bit insincerely.

“I hope your party is to your liking! I know you had a hard year so it must be nice to relax and enjoy for once, is it not?” Maybe you were laying it on a little bit too thick. T’Challa raised an eyebrow and then let out an exasperated sigh.

“When will this stop?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You said.

He sighed again loudly, then waved you away. “The good thing is that this will be over soon.” This last part was flippant. “Thank you for attending. I will see you around later.”

This will be over soon.

Is that how casually he was going to talk about ending a life?

“Kunkani.”

This time you were stopping him in his tracks. He turned his head to give you a curious look, taken aback by the sudden steel in your voice.

“What have you decided?” You queried.

He knew what you were talking about, and this angered him. It was his birthday, for goodness’ sake.

“I don’t need to discuss that with you.” He dismissed.

“What. Have. You. Decided?” You repeated again slowly. Your shoulders squared, and your chin lifted. You were trying so hard to portray strength. It would be almost laughable to someone like him, if not so infuriating.

This time T’Challa was visibly upset. He walked to you until he was mere inches away, and you could feel yourself wanting to shrink but decided to stand your ground.

Stand mighty. Hold your king accountable.

“You’re serious?” He stared down at you, his eyes darkening.

Yes, you are serious.

“I have to know. As someone who is tasked to guide you spiritually in the future. As the daughter of Zuri.”

He gave a laugh that was somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“When did you become so bold?” He asked, patting your head lightly. “From a girl so timid she could be bullied by a child half her age to challenging your king?”

When you’d been presented to the former King, Queen and son you had been about eleven years old, with no recollection of your life before then. T’Challa had looked at you curiously from afar in that time, and he continued to look at you that way even now. You were an amnesiac that his father had asked him to be gentle with. You later became his sister’s quiet peer mentor and companion. You were the high priest’s daughter. You were a girl whose brown skin reddened at his very smile, every time without fail. You were calm and serene. You were ever present but also blended in every room. You were somehow clumsy and elegant at once.

You never were this confrontational, this demanding. This was new.

T’Challa lowered his hand when your gaze remained fixed and unchanged. The patronizing gesture would not pacify you.

“Are you going to kill him?”

“My council has decided that he can’t be allowed to stay in prison.”

“So you will release him?”

No answer.

“You will exile him?”

No answer.

“You cannot kill him.” You warned. This interdiction apparently struck a nerve.

“I can do anything I want.” T’Challa quipped. “You seem to have trouble acknowledging who I am these days.”

“I know you can do anything you want to as the king of this nation. However, you are also tasked by Bast to be fair.” The muffled sound of distant music seemed to grow as loud as the distance between you at this moment. You had acknowledged this distance your whole life, a distance that T’Challa had rarely seemed to respect. However, today, for the first time it felt impassable, even for T’Challa.

“You are losing sight of your position in the palace. Perhaps I’ve been too kind to you.” T’Challa finally said, smoothing some imaginary wrinkles on his shirt. It was almost as if he were trying to smooth out his own behavior.

“Why would you save him if you planned to execute him anyway?”

T’Challa gave you an incredulous look. He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, rubbing his temples.

“I’m going to leave now and we will pretend we never had this conversation.”

“There you are! What conversation?”

Nakia had suddenly arrived, her smile radiant but with eyes that betrayed concern. She linked an arm with T’Challa and nudged him slightly.

“I was wondering where you were,” she murmured, looking between him and then you. You bowed to her in greeting.

“I was just leaving,” you said, in a low voice. “Happy birthday, King T’Challa,” you said once more with a curtsy, before you parted ways. You could feel the stares burn holes in your backside as you walked away.

Tagging:  @syndrlla97 @iwantsomethingeternal @1killmonger @chasingsunlight @hoopshoney @destinio1 @wakanda-inspired @thadelightfulone @lalasparkles @pessimisfit @youreadthatright @stark-red19 @ruruly20 @bossyboyd03 @autumn242 @heybriheyyy @thelovelyliterary @muse-of-mbaku @bidibidibombaclaat @supersizemeplz @romanceoftheeveryday@chaneajoyyy@lildashofmelanin

[chrysolina]

My eternal love

Summary - The feeling of having, knowing and believing you have a totally unrequited love for someone can often make most people feel undeserving of such a pathetic fantasy in the future - but does everyone share that same view?

Pairings - Chris Evans x reader, Chris Evans x Jenny Slate, Reader x OC!

Warnings - swearing, angst, unexpected happenings

A/N - Here it is! Part 2 of My love! Enjoy! <3

“And that’s it, congratulations again Miss Y/L/N. We’ll see you on Monday,” the audition panel smiled and waved you off once you thanked them graciously and signed on the dotted paper, your signature being the last one they needed to begin filming ‘Practicion’.

You quickly wandered out of the studio hangar, zipped up well into your short tartan trench coat and out onto the forecourt where you were met by the cool LA January air that kissed your cheeks eagerly. Picking up your phone from your coat pocket, 6:13pm, the locksreen read. Jack would be here any minute now to pick you up and take you to dinner.

You scrolled aimelssly through your phone, your boredom quickly taking over. You took a quick glance at the three missed text messages you had and decided it should be wise to text back your sister and manager with whatever they were asking about or for. As if on its own, your thumb scrolled through the messages list and almost accidentally landed on the one name you swore you deleted - Crusty Evans - also known as, Chris Evans.

Your heart, mind and face cringed at the old nickname you had given him ages ago. It had been little over five months since you had last heard from Chris. From what the internet blogs, magazines and paparazzi rumours told you on an unnecessary week-to-week basis was that Jenny and Chris did spilt for a short amount of time but are - apparently - still ‘seeing each other’.

They must’ve been doing pretty well together since according to an inside source, the couple were last seen looking very happy out and around Tribeca, allegedly trying to find an apartment to live in together.

Why they had to come and live so close to where you and your family lived was beyond infuriating for you and your family.

However, your papa dismissed the idea that any of you would ever see them since ‘they are nobody’s to us’. ‘I wish I could believe you papa’ you thought to yourself as the words repeated themselves in your head ‘but they’ll always be someone’s in this world.”

Before your mind could digest the toxic thought of the couple together, a car horn cut through the chilly air and diverted your attention to where the noise came from.

An unmistakable sleek all black range rover was parked idle by the gates, waiting for someone - more specifically, you. Jack’s new car was certainly a beauty alright, wherever he went in it and wherever you saw it, the black luxury car demanded attention from onlookers - sometimes making you squirm in your seat on the days you’d accompany him somewhere.

In many respects, the car was very much like Jack himself.

Your face broke out into a smile as you pulled the the pricey car door open and was met by the charming Scotsman’s classic smirk. “Why good evenin’ m’lady,” Jack tried to charm you with his thickest Scottish accent possible which only made you laugh in return “did ya get the role?” He merely rolled his eyes at your laugh and began to turn the car around. “I sure did, got it with flying colours - apparently,” You squealed and jumped excitedly up and down in your seat and took Jack hand from the gearstick and shook it for effect.

“Alright you,” he pulled his hand away from your grip and focused back on the LA roads ahead of you “so where would you like to eat tonight? Wendy’s? Chick-fil-a? In-and-out?” Your stomach grumbled at the mere names of the fast food joints. “Wherever it is tho, food’s on me; got it? No buts, I insist.” Your lips turned upwards at Jack’s gentlemanly manner of buying you food.

Food, yes, that was what you were deciding on. After a second or two of short-wired thinking, your finally decided on where to eat. “How about we just go for a classic McDonalds, hm?” You watched eagerly as the Scotsman thought it through and twisted his face in (fake) thought. “Alright then, McDonalds it is.”

The rest of the car ride to the drive-thru was pleasantly quiet bar the sound of Jack’s playlist humming from the speakers. You weren’t bothered by that, you were just enjoying the sights of golden windows around you as the city lit up for the night.

“Tell me again Y/N,” Jack broke through the silence peacefully, making you whip your head around to the man before you “who and what is your role in this film?” The film - of course. You had even forgotten yourself considering first auditions were so long ago “Well, I am playing the role of the main romantic interest of her businessman-husband who is also a recovering drug addict. I think..” As hard as it was, you tried to pluck out who you actually were in the film through all the paperwork you had to sign today, scraping it as you did so.

“Hm, well so long as they have good teeth, you’ll be alright with kissing them huh?” Jack smirked at you and ran his tongue over his plush lips. You chuckled at the now-auburney haired Scot as you recalled the horror of your prom date all those years ago and how digusting his teeth looked once you got up close to kiss him. “Fingers crossed, just in case though,” you and Jack laughed again and watched as the Golden Arches of McDonadls came into view.

“So, what would miss Y/L/N like for food tonight hm? Burger? Fries? McFlurry? Or how about..Me?”

“Jack!”

•••••••

As if as the norm lately, your weekend spent up in the reclusive estates of Hollywood in your own little rented place was easy, relaxing and consisted of nothing more than eating your own home cooked meals, binge watching your favourite shows on Netflix, learning the new script as best as you could and sleeping until late.

It was a great way to ease yourself back into the rush of filming and took your mind off other minute things that floated around your mind.

Before you knew it, 9am rolled around quicker than anticipated and you found yourself being walked by an assistant to the main studio you’d just left that Friday before. Your eyes were quick to take everything in again, routes to the trailers, toilets etc - they all needed to be mapped out by yourself in due course.

Trotting through the main doors to the first - of many - sets and waited whilst the assistant went to look for the director and other cast members.

In the meantime, to calm your nerves, you began to smooth out your short black pencil skirt and toyed wth the sleeves of your white and black lined tailored jacket. In all fairness, your looks were definitely matching up to your status in Hollywood - clean, sweet and professional.

Everything most directors looked for in an actor or actress.

“Where is she?!” The booming voice of the director could be heard throughout the building, making you wince at the volume of his gruff voice.

All of a sudden, out of a door in the distance burst out a short, slightly chubby middle aged tanned man with a thick lit cigarette hanging from his seemingly chapped lips - lined by a grey black moustache. His hair was a little scarse, Black and grey in areas and cut very short - but overall, he looked pleasant enough.

“Ah you must be the infamous Y/N Y/L/N! Welcome welcome, it’s an absolute honour to have you here today.” The director began to talk to you but all you could pick up on was his familiar New York- Italian accent - one that you’d most definitely have if it wasn’t for travelling the world.

“Please, sir; the honour’s all mine,” you quickly thanked his graces about you and excused them as silly and unfitting for someone like yourself. “Oh please darlin’, you’re worth all the hype.”

The director winked at you and shot you a genuine smile in return, one you mirrored almost instantly “and don’t worry about the ‘sir’ thing Y/N, just call me Joe,” before you could thank him on the comfort of calling him his real name, Joe shouted out - seemingly - to his PA that stood a few metres away.

“Marie! Darlin, call him back in,” the young lady only nodded and trotted off someone to the side of the set behind a wall to find someone.

“I’ve yet to introduce you to your co-stars haven’t I?” Your voice was a blubber out of the new oncoming embarrassment and only trusted your head to do the talking, nodding in agreement. Your newest crew had evidently caught wind of your arrival were quick inforce to come and see, greet and meet you.

“Sir, I got him. He’s comin’ now,” the PA quickly shouted out from the wall she disappeared from and disappeared around it again.Who were they on about? Was it your other romantic interest - the drug addict businessman? Who knows.

Before your mind festered any more, you could hear the imminent of clicking heels aiming from the wall the PA came from. Surely it couldn’t have been a woman - the footing of his person was too deep and long to be that of someone in heels.

“Y/N, I’d like you to meet your main co-star, the Chris Evans.”

‘Oh shit!’

••••••

Time seemed infinate and everlasting as you sat hunched over in the plush leather chair you were given in your trailer. Judging by your emotionless stare into nowhere specific, anyone looking at you would say you’re just daydreaming, sleepy or even bored - but you were far from any of those things.

Your mind was running at a million miles a minute, every stupidly minute thought you ever pushed aside during the past five months had all resurfaced and were causing your poor brain havoc.

You wished it wasn’t true - no, you prayed in your hands and knees that this was all just some silly joke. He wasn’t really going to be the actor you’d actually have to kiss and be romantic to once the cameras were rolling, was he? He couldn’t have been - why Chris?

He had marvel films and soon-to-be broadway appearances to be dealing with, he shouldn’t really be here in reality. Maybe this was all just a big fat mistake; a joke that everyone will laugh off in a couple of hours, right? Well...one can hope, you supposed.

With your back to your trailer’s door, your mind allowed you to think that the assistant who was getting lunch for everyone had come back and came with food, so without caution you just called out “The door’s open,” and expected the assistant to waltz in on her own accord.

“Hey, I - uh - brought some lunch for you.” That voice - damn that smooth Boston accented voice - it was here, right behind you. Just over a metre away from you stood the (anxious) man of your nightmares these past couple of months. At the mere sound of his voice, you shot up out to the chair you resides in and whipped your head around to look at him dead in the eye.

The look of shock-horror plastered your face like a pantomime mask, you just couldn’t help it. It was agiven reaction and so was Chris’ in all fairness. He was bewildered by the look on your face and only sent his brain further into it’s shell, his anxiety picking up that bit more. With the paper bag in one hand, Chris began rubbing the nape of his neck and shoulder - a habit you found to have stemmed from his anxiety.

“I thought maybe we could - uh - catch up or well, moreso me apologising for..everything.” It wasn’t until the end of his sentence he finally looked back into your eyes, your posture suddenly relaxing that little bit more, understanding that Chris had only good intentions from being here.

Moving away from your armchair, you decided to collect your lunch from Chris and serve it up - Chicken Caesar salad - your new favourite. Chris quickly gave you the paper bag and watched you help yourself to cutlery, bowls and bottles of water from the stylish yet homely mini kitchen.

“Would it be wrong of me to imagine that you have a bit of a grudge against me right now?” There it was - you wondered how long it’d take for the confident, assured Chris to come through again - evidently not long enough.

“No, you’d be bang on the money,” you huffed and began tossing the salad in the ceramic bowl, those blue eyes continuously boring into your uncomfortable frame - just like the did the whole time you met your fellow cast members- Chris got on your heels the whole time.

“Lucky me hmm,” Chris hummed to himself, tucked his hands in his tan jean pockets, making the light blue shirt he wore bulge around his Adonis-like muscles and leant against the dresser. Why this had to feel like some sort of meetup by two ex’s was beyond you but you thought nothing of it as you set your salad, bottle and cutlery down in the space you were intending to eat from. That was until Chris wedged his body into you, preventing you from moving.

“Y/N, we - I can’t keep doing this. This whole avoidance game, I’ve had enough.” His eyes looked down into yours with a heat that you couldn’t stand on a day like today. Much like him, his look was strong and confident and it made you squirm in your spot.

“I don’t think there’s much more I can say to get us out of this limbo, Chris.” You dared not to look into those eyes and tried to turn away from him, but in just one breath of air, his muscular form was now pressed up against you; breasts to chest, stomach to stomach, you were officially toast.

“Oh I beg to differ Y/N. There’s nothing more Jack can say for you but I think you’re a completely different picture. You have a lot more to say, don’t you darlin’..” you watched intently as Chris’ hand slid out from his tan jeans and out to play with the hem of your jacket.

The air between you was palpable, you could feel his short warm breaths tickling the apex of your neck, the way his muscles rippled against your body after every movement he made. The air was choking you and you hated it.

“Perhaps I do, but I think you’ll find my words will have a very similar ring to Jack’s,” a sudden burst of confidences surged through your veins and made you straighten your spine in defiance to this beautiful menace. Your confindence led you to look right where you didn’t want to and only found hunger in return. Chris’ eyes were lit up with an unmentionable hunger that you couldn’t digest, making you quiver even more.

“Tell me something darlin’, are you and that McCallister a thing? Are you two..dating?” You continuously locked eye contact with the actor and winched in pain as his smirk grew wider, deeper and more mischievous by the second.

“N-no. We’re just very - very - good friends. Nothin’ more!” You denied all the claims Chris tried to pin on you feverishly, trying through every means to keep your image of Jack clean as possible. However, it was evident in Chris’ furrowed brows and darkened stare, he wasn’t having it today.

“Not even friends with benefits? ‘Cause I’ve seen plenty of pictures of you and him together and nothin’, not one inch of those pictures tell me that you’re just friends.” How it was even possible that Chris’ tone could drop another two or three octaves was beyond you. The deep rumble of his chest against yours and the bitterness of his tone solidified your thoughts, he was jealous.

Deciding that now might not be the time to push any buttons, you tried your best to put out the fire Chris had started. “I - I think that’s something you’d have to ask Jack himself. I can’t comment for him if he does have feelings for me.”

“Oh,” Chris chided mockingly, his hand stopping all movement on your jacket “So he does have feelings for you? Aren’t I a genius..” still refusing to make even the slightest bit of eye contact, you tried to wriggle out of his imaginative hold - failing miserably as you did so.

At the thought of you wriggling away, Chris’ hand flew to waist and gripped you possessively tight - he just had to know if you had fallen for the Scotsman over him - he had to. “And do you reciprocate these feelings for him? Hm?”

“Maybe in d-due time..” They do say that the heart is very very precious and Chris knew no different.

His heart dropped ten miles underground at your confession and his eyes began to prick with the hot tears of nearing heartbreak. You were refusing to give in to him - something was holding you back from him and he had to find out what or die trying.

“And what about now?” He chided coolly, the change in tone made you look at him scrutinisingly. “Honestly Y/N, do you have feelings for him as of right now?”

“I don’t...” to think such a small sentence could lift his heart was unbelievable to Chris but filled him with internal joy all the same. Instead of easing up on his hold on you, Chris chose to close in on you even further and cage you in his arms - your body stuck between his and the dresser behind.

“And do you have any feelings for anyone in particular right now?” You knew what he wanted to hear right now, hell - you were close to giving him it. But with being so close to him and in the full knowledge that he had a girlfriend - you weren’t so keen to give him what he wanted.

“Not especially, no.” You deadpanned your time and took to looking straight into his eyes again, watching his eyebrows shoot up his face in undeniable shock.

“Not even for someone like..me?” He chided at you again and pressed his body closer to yours, angling you in such a way one could call it erotic - you, however, begged to differ entirely.

“I think you know the answer to that question, Christopher.” You snorted at his high-hopes, hoping and praying he’d just leave you alone to eat your untouched salad.

Your heart and mind were tearing apart by the seams, one half of you wanted to slap, kick and hit him in all the places it’d hurt the most, the other half of you just wanted to jump his bones here and now, give in to himself and indulge your worst thoughts.

But that would never come to be.

“I actually don’t, do please enlighten me on it.” His mischievous smirk had returned again for the worse and cranked up the anger metre in your mind.

“Fine! You win! I did have feelings for you, yes; I was bordering on loving you, yes. But that and everything else were all ruined the day you decided that fucking bitch you still call girlfriend!” You yelped in anger, pain and grief and tried to push Chris away by his chest, failing in doing so entirely. The tears that were stashed away were now making an appearance and began to stream down your clenched face, ruining your mascara and eyeliner in the process.

Chris didn’t know what to do with this information, you had just confessed that you were romantically attracted to the man and here he was, dumbfounded and generally reeling. He didn’t believe Jack’s word on the phone, he thought they were just to dig at him but now - now, god he was so wrong. “W-what girlfriend?”

“Don’t play stupid now Chris, you know who I’m talking about..” your voice wavered and cracked at his stupidity over the situation.

“Oh, we’re talking about Jenny now, are we?” His voice was suddenly pointed, shard and bitterly cold and made you shiver in fear over what’d he’d say next.

“Who fucking else would I be on about, Chris?”

“Considering I’ve been single since December, I’m finding it hard to think about any ‘girlfriend’ I’m with as of right now..” you felt his head tilt upwards and a heave of air rush from his lips. “I’m calling bullshit, Chris.” You winced in memory of seeing the claims all across the internet, Jenny spending Christmas with his family, the house-hunting, all of it, how could it all be a lie?

“You really think I’m bullshitting right now? Really Y/N?” Chris’s chin came to rest upon your head and you felt the familiar hands wrap around your shorter frame, hugging you tenderly close to him, your hands still stuck in shock on his chest. “You’d be surprised..” you sighed into the tender warm hold of the actor, a feeling you dearly missed, feelings or no feelings at all.

“You have no clue how much I’ve been hurting these past months Y/N, I didn’t think I could want anyone as much as Jenny..but fuck, did you screw me over..” chris chucked at the memories of him reeling over the new found feelings he had for you, realising you weren’t with him anymore and no longer share the same feelings. “Is that meant to be a good thing or a bad thing? I’m having a hard time telling right now Chris..” he laughed again at your sarcastic, straight-to-the-point question, your charm never ceases to leave you after all this time.

“It’s a very good thing, well..that’s if you still feel the same way as you did back then.” He remived his hands from your frame and cupped your wet cheeks in his hands to look at you thoroughly. You looked at him with such a look of longing chris just couldn’t help what he did next. He’d be damned if he never did it and would regret it for the rest of his life.

Wordlessly, Chris quickly joined your lips together in a smouldering yet very endearing kiss. His lips moved and slid between your perfectly, like a missing piece of a jigsaw, fitting you perfectly. Your hands froze open on his chest, your eyes forced wide open at the sudden intimate contact.

It wasn’t until Chris began to move his lips slowly against your own that you realised it - you finally realised that no matter how much pain was done, how much you tried to combat your feelings with denial, you still loved the bastard with all your heart - and that was something you could never change.

Before Chris could pull away in heartbreak over your refusal of his love, you yanked in shirt forward into you and kissed him as if it was the last time, your hands running up his neck and found purchase on his prickly hairy cheeks. Your kiss wasn’t anything like Chris’, trepardising in some areas and soft; yours was passionate and fierce, the kind of kiss the two of you would have to fight for dominance over.

Pulling away slowly, the two of you held your stare into each other’s eyes and lost each other in them. You wanted to kiss him again, and again and again but instead, you focused only on him, the man you fell for so stupidly. Instead of holding you for longer, chris decided to take purchase in the plush seat on front of the dresser and sat you in his lap, his eyes never leaving yours as he relished in the feeling of you playing with the ends of his slightly longer than usual hair.

“My god..where have you been my whole life?” Chris whispered and shook his head in bewilderment and listened to the melodic tune of your giggle ring in his ear. “Right under your nose, silly..” you swiped the bottom of his nose with your index finger and ran your fingers through his growing beard. This had to have been a dream, you didn’t believe for one minute that this was happening - you were actually in Chris’ lap stroking his face like a lovesick baby.

“How will I ever make it up to you Y/N?” He whipsered quietly, running his fingers along your tack and up and down your arm in a soothing manner. You smiled warmly at the softness of the question and thought over how he could make it up to you. “Well, I think it’d take an awful lot of hugs, kisses, time and attention just for being such a bad boy..” you smiled like a Cheshire Cat once his eyes fluttered closed at the sensation of your hands soothing his face, a knowing smirk then beginning to grow after you finished talking.

“What?” You laughed at the smirk on those heavenly lips “you do know I’ll always be a bad boy when I’m around you, right?” You sighed and shook your head at Chris’ mark and only embraced his frame, your hands wrapped around the back of his neck. “Not in public you won’t, will you?” You whispered into his neck firmly whilst your lips found their way around his neck, sucking and kissing certain areas.

“For you darlin’, I’ll be your angel and your devil.”

•••••••

A/N - I just wanna thank everyone for reading this little fic going on and hoped everyone enjoyed it as much as I did! <33

Taglist : @dlb113 @coffeebooksandfandom @chrisevans1fan @badtzmarurogers

[figjelly]

Comics, Pornography, and Communication: also, a discussion of why *Men* suck.

First, notice how I typed out *Men* up there. It is capitalized. There are asterisks around the word. I don’t describe myself as a “social justice warrior” because the label, to me, signifies lip service, mob mentality, and a lack of critical thinking. Second, notice how I qualified that definition with “to me.” It’s subjective. It’s about my experience with the term and the people who’ve I encountered who use it as an identity. Do I think social justice is bad? No. Do I think wanting social justice, equity, and all those buzz words is wrong? Nope. But do I think the world is mostly grey areas? Heck golly gosh, I do.

*Men* (to me) is meant to signify major societal trends, norms, and expectations that are grounded in patriarchal, misogynistic, and ableist rules, environments, and scripts that are written for *Men,* by *Men,* between *Men,* and with *Men.* *Men* are those who think the world works a certain way, so suck it up because that’s just the way the world is. *Men* (In. My. Experience.) have zero interest in critical thinking unless it is done so in a way that benefits them and other Men. Often times, *Men* engage in the lowest threshold of critical thinking or want to employ rhetorical techniques/classical logic to whatever is being discussed. *Men* is not limited to cis-men. This is important but not relevant to the following discussion. I’M ONLY GOING TO BE DISCUSSING AMERICAN COMICS. YES, I KNOW THE FIRST RECORDED SUPERHERO COMIC WAS MADE IN THE 1800s SOMEWHERE IN EUROPE. So, let me tell you that this entire position that I’m about to present is NOT about:

1. The history, merit, or discussion of why Comix (different from comics, for historical reasons) is important. Underground Comix is important for many reasons. There have been dissertations written on the subject. I’m not about to do that here. 2. Whether or not the goal of satire was/is achieved with Underground Comix. 3. Whether Underground Comix is “problematic.” I.e. was/is it sexist, ableist, racist, bigoted, and whatever other problems they could have. Again, another dissertation topic. Again, again, aaaagain: this is about my individual experience working in a comic book shop. Don’t act like I’m drafting a treatise on some objective truth that’s floating aimlessly around in a vacuum. Go watch Netflix. Eat pizza. This isn’t that deep. It’s me griping about things from a particular point of view. Some background: I’ve worked at a comic book shop in a small, midwestern city for almost five years now. The shop has been here going on over 20+ years. It’s the only game in town when it comes to comic books. Historically, this wasn’t the case but other shops didn’t adapt so, uh, they died off. Comics is a strange business to be in because while it is technically a bookshop, the industry came from a place of fun and general absurdity that was meant to be throwaway material for kids (especially the target market, young boys) to waste money on (hence, why Golden Age stuff, any of it really, is usually worth a little something--the newsprint wasn’t meant to be durable, so kids would throw them away, use it for drawing paper, etc.). Comics had been around before the Golden Age, but yanno, it’s called a Golden Age for a reason--it is the era in which comics became introduced as “suitable” for mainstream consumer consumption. I mean, we could argue on other reasons but that’s neither here nor there. Comic books, graphic novels, and comic strip utilize sequential art. Sequential art is a specialized term. Within the definition itself, the requirement of narrative is implicitly built into the term. There is no room for debate here. If a story is not being told, a body of work can be classified as art but it is not sequential. Art can tell a story, sure, but a square is a rectangle but a rectangle isn’t a square. I run into a wide variety of people because of the strangeness of the product we sell. We’ve got readers (like myself), we’ve got collectors, we’ve got beginner readers, we’ve got artists (like me), we’ve got writers (like me), and we’ve got people who “haven’t been to a comic store in ages and, boy!, is it sure different than when I was young!” And, yes, we have the certified perverts. Once, I found out one of our customers was a registered child sex offender. I politely told my boss that if the person in question wasn’t banned from the store, I was quitting. As with all stores, as times change, so does business practice. One must adapt to the changes that are happening around them or they have to have a big enough, steady clientele to support them. This comic book shop, in particular, did not and does not have a large enough, regular clientele base that spends enough money for us to keep doing things the way it always had been. These are just facts. In the past, this store was ran in such a way that it was a dying business but the current owner would put their own money into it in order to keep it afloat. At that time, the store allowed some subscribers (note: to my knowledge, all cis-gender men) to order exclusively from publishers like Boundless Comics (publisher who specializes in “sexy, cool comics for adults”) with no advance payment. Which means if they never came to pick up their stuff, we were stuck with the responsibility to sell it because, well, we already paid for it. I don’t think I have to make a Venn diagram to convince anyone that the overlap between deadbeats (for our subscription service--basically, we never heard from someone ever again) and these men was pretty much two circles just a bit off-center from one another. These were not comics we could put out to be sold because they never would be. In over 20 years, our numbers have shown that Adult/XXX/Mature comics don’t sell well off the rack regularly. We do have one or two customers back from Ye Olden Days who still have subscriptions to mature comics, but they never look around. They never try out something new. They buy the comics they ordered because they wouldn’t get them any other way. Both of them are strongly against buying things on the internet, so my guess is we’re they’re only option. I wasn’t around during the time in which “boxes were kept under the counter” for “special comics.” Today: About a month ago, an older man (because all of the customers who ask for the “boxes under the counter” are older) came into the store. He looked around. He came up to the counter and asked me where the Underground Comix were. I showed him where we kept our collection of Underground Comix. He said that wasn’t what he was looking for. Did we have the “boxes under the counter.” Now, understand, I’ve been told about all of this because we don’t have it anymore but I needed to know the store’s history. Fair. I told him that we do not and have not in many years. But, when people ask me for Those Boxes, I know what they’re asking for. Not all of it was satirical Underground Comix. So, they usually stumble when I tell them that, no we don’t. This guy stumbled. I could assume a number of reasons as to why he did so, but it really doesn’t do any good. So, I try to ask a number of questions to find something else they might like to try. The conversation goes like this: Me: Are you looking for a comic or graphic novel with explicit sexual content? Him: Yes. Me: Okay, I can definitely suggest Saga and Sex Criminals.

At this point, I pull out the first trades of both and show the explicit sexual content in both. I mention the art, the story, and the writing. Sequential art is divided into four elements: design, drawing, caricature, and writing. Design, drawing, and writing are usually the most salient elements to a lay reader. Caricature has a lot to do with symbolic representation--how does one exaggerate an element of X in order to represent X? But some people lay people are interested in this element because of the comical effect it can play in a comic story. Him: No. Not like that. Me: What is missing from this then? Him: Something more adult. Me: Would you like explicit sexual content with more graphic violence? Him: Yeah, that sounds about right. Me: Okay, I’ve got Crossed.

!WARNING WARNING WARNING! THE LINK I’VE PROVIDED IS TO THE WIKIPEDIA PAGE WHICH IS ABOUT THE TAMEST RESOURCE FOR WHAT CROSSED IS THAT I KNOW OF. DO NOT LOOK INTO THIS COMIC IF EXTREME VIOLENCE, GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF DEATH AND DISMEMBERMENT, INCEST, BESTIALITY, RAPE, BLASPHEMY OF RELIGIONS, AND A WHOLE HOST OF OTHER THINGS REMOTELY BOTHER YOU. NOT EVEN TRIGGER--REMOTELY. BOTHER. So, yeah, I feel like I’d picked out a good contender considering. Him: No. Not like this. But, hey, wanna know something about Crossed? Everybody is a target for wanton humiliation, suffering, and all sorts of horrible things! Is this something I’m praising? No. It’s just a fact of the comic. And an important fact to know when guy says to me: Him: Well, the old Underground Comix I used to read were more sophisticated with the satire, like the sex in it was about humor with having sex with women. Me: So, you’re looking for comics about humorous sexual encounters that are also explicit? And as I start suggesting comics, he interrupted. Him: No, not like that. More like... *he pulls out a Robert Crumb collection we have and thumbs through it* that. The funny stuff, yanno? The picture in question (I won’t link it, because it is upsetting, as will be my description of it) is just in Crumb’s style--pretty distinctive--and it’s one panel of a skinny, naked man with a sizeable erection. He’s bent over backwards, his hips bent such that his back is practically parallel with the floor of the drawing and his erection (which, if I recall correctly is something like 1/5-1/6 of the height of the page) is pretty close to perpendicular with the floor. One of his hands is wrapped around a nude woman’s throat, the drawing exaggerating the woman’s body parts as if she were being squeezed through tube--the head is ballooned and her neck stretches out to her shoulders. her arms are ramrod straight leading down to outstretched hands. Her legs are equally straightened, bent ninety degrees at the hips. There are motion lines to indicate that the man is forcibly shoving the woman onto his dick over and over again. By her throat. He’s got a pretty happy expression. She does not. Please, read the part where I explain what this thing I’m writing is NOT. Because it is a grey area if you know enough about history and context. Divorced of context, it’s pretty disgusting. I’ll just say that outright. So, if we use the four elements of sequential art to think about what story is being told and how it’s being told, there are things I can understand. The design is good (lots of sharp angles). The caricature is good (Crumb is great with exaggerated forms, whether I like his style or not is irrelevant). The drawing is in Crumb’s style which I can understand why people like his art. So, that leaves the writing. It is wordless but there’s still a story being told. Me and this guy were have a disconnect about what kind of story he wanted to read. Cut to today, about a month after this. It seemed like he hadn’t internalized anything we’d gone over because he had similar questions. At one point, he finally picked up a book and bought it. Which led me to writing this humongous post for the last four hours (it’s been busy today!). Because the guy wasn’t asking for pornography. I’ve definitely straight up told people before we don’t sell pornographic material here. Besides, how we define porn depends on the era. To me, I define it as material that was created with the intention to arouse, stimulate, and to be used as an aid for sexual activity AND someone wants to consume it for said purposes. But, that’s not a definition that would fit all pornographic material. The guy was (again, my perspective. Why I have to keep saying that is important here in a moment) asking for satirical material where misogyny was humorous. Now, if you were to ask him to communicate what he wanted, I guess good luck on getting that answer. I’ve tried. I don’t think he could, to be quite honest because that’s how *Men* are (hey! I used it again). This guy is a *Man* and his answers to me when I probe are, “How it used to be, just how things are,” and the like. The comic book industry is usually fraught with the same problems regular prose books are, the big topics being censorship and purity politics. It’s not as bad as, let’s say, the 1960s and 1970s but there are still problems. Even books for readers of all ages come under scrutiny and are banned from some libraries and schools (Raina Telgemeier’s Drama, for example). To censor any material is a very murky grey area for me. To say that someone cannot create material because it contains material that I am not comfortable with is even murkier because, usually, I’m presented with these hypotheticals in the form of loaded questions (”So, have you stopped bad habit X?” which doesn’t allow me to engage in how I qualify my own habits); complex questions (”What is the legal age of consent to sexual activity?” assumes a LOT of things about legality, age of consent, consent, and sexual activity without consideration to context, to say the least); false dilemmas, suggestive questions, leading questions, and... *takes a deep breath* *exhales* Listen, there’s just a lot of things that make a lot of issues super murky and grey for me. That’s not to say I don’t have opinions and personal/societal biases that sway me toward one end or the other of a polemic (I’m human. We all do it).

When I say, “I hate *Men,*” it is hatred directed towards the skewed power dynamics and socialization that I’m cemented into (through no consent or fault of my own), that allows a *Man* to think (without a second thought) about showing someone the picture I described and not worrying about what he’s communicating. About what the comic is communicating. Let’s pretend that he knows the historical context and importance of Underground Comix. How does he know that I know those things? I mean, I do, but this guy doesn’t know that. “But, Ash!” you argue. “You literally asked him to show you an example!” My friend, there’s no shortage of Underground Comix either from Crumb himself or in similar style that showcases supposedly satirical humor where “battle of the sexes” comes into play. To show someone that image with no knowledge of what the other person knows is a little dicey imho But it sucks! I have to be okay with him showing me that! I asked for an example and I got it. In his mind, it was a smooth communicative exchange. Request for information? Information given! Because of *Men,* I have to watch the way I approach wanting to talk about this subject because I might become “emotional” or I might be accused of, gasp, showing bias! (Newsflash: we’re humans. WE ALL HAVE BIASES. If you aren’t willing to talk about and challenge them then THAT’S a problem. Another story for another day, I digress). And it’s a shame because I know this *Man* isn’t wanting to consume stories where rape is funny because he’s interested in engaging with content that is historically important but because it was created in the context of some socially-acceptable horrible crap there’s some interesting discussion to be had. No, my bet is the thought process looks like: “Heh. Yeah, I know that feeling. Sometimes you just want to have a girl ride you but she just doesn’t know how to slam that pussy down right, so you gotta help her!” “lol yeah sometimes you just wish pussy would magically work your dick into oblivion without you having to worry about the woman that’s attached to it! am I right, y’all?” laugh out loud satire right there someone give me my own netflix show (watch someone take this section out of context sigh) And, honestly, I don’t know where I’m going with this. I didn’t have a thesis or anything. Just me rambling. RIP moblrs

[gigsoupmusic]

The Flowers of Hell, Japanese Television, Sterling Roswell (28 Feb 2020)

Being the infidel atheists that we are, we normally only ever set foot in a church when someone gets married or dies, and lately it's been much more of the latter. So, it is largely thanks to musical events that we get our occasional ecclesiastical hit that doesn't involve being surrounded by family, whether dead or alive. Bit-Phalanx put on an amazing electronic festival last year in a church in Covent Garden, which you can read all about here. We were not expecting another chance to enjoy music inside a London church so soon. But, enjoy we did. Last Friday night we were congregated in the small but perfectly-formed St Pancras Old Church just north of the famous station named after it, looking forward to a triple bill of the Spacemen 3's ex-drummer Sterling 'Rosco' Roswell, current BBC6 darlings Japanese Television, and 'Lou Reed approved trans-Atlantic symphonic psych group' The Flowers of Hell.

Rosco's main percussionist had had to cancel last minute – let's just say it's a 'sign of the times' and leave it there – so Max Peak stood in on bongos, and started tapping away at them as Rosco kicked into his beautiful opening song, "Like Wild Horses".

"Heartbeat" was followed by his slightly off-the-wall "Nobody Loves the Hulk", and then into one the more recent tracks that we fell in love with when we first heard it a few years ago, "Atom Brain Monster", the lyrics of which Sterling has recently updated to refer to Boris Johnson instead of Tony Blair. We recorded the performance and would like to share it with you here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yQSBpeXNUAo However, things sadly were not going well for our Rosco tonight as his string broke right in the middle of his next track, "Venus Honey Dew". It would have taken him at least twenty minutes to source and fix a new string and, whilst most of us there would have gladly waited to hear his classic "Give Peace Another Chance", which he was scheduled to sing next, it would not have been fair on the following act.

As we therefore do not have much more to add about Rosco's gig, we'd love you to read an article we wrote for GIGsoup about 'Being Sterling Roswell', following an interview with him in his studio last October. Next up were a very tight band from London called Japanese Television. We've been seeing their name a lot in the gig listings over the past year but this was our first chance to see them live. They are so different to everything else out there at the moment, so it is no wonder that they caught the eye of Marc Riley on BBC6. The tracks they recorded last July at the Marc Riley session have made it onto their new double-EP reissue, now available in all good record shops and which we were able to buy that night, the night before its official release!

But what makes Japanese Television so special? Well, for a start, there's no singer. And we like that, because it's different. Not having vocals means that the audience can really concentrate on the music, which is very surfy and very psychedelic. Not as surfy as, say, the Beach Boys, or as psych as say The Roaring 420s, but somewhere in-between, and without a singer. I think the best thing we can do here is to share here a bit of video we filmed. Here are two of their songs on one video – "Crocodile Dentist" (which, incidentally, was originally recorded for their EP in one take on an 8-track) and "Tick Tock". https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OsGNCu4IR6I Before this they played most of their back catalogue, kicking off with "Lizard Moon", and then their brand new track "Moon Glider", which is so new it's not even on the new release! We loved how psychedelic "Mood Glider" was, and how it slowed down towards the end.

"Surfing Saucers" came next, which has a really good organ sound to it which just sounded perfect given the church setting. Which brings me onto the instruments. Tim Jones plays his pale-blue surf guitar in a very unique way, hoisted right up underneath his beard, which must not be comfortable! He plays in a slightly different tempo, it seems, to the rest of the band, which is a truly marvellous effect. Ian Thorn is on keyboards, but also uses a taishōgoto, which is a form of Japanese harp which first came out in 1912, and looks almost like something you would type on (in fact, these instruments are also collectively known as 'typewriter zithers'). The sound is, as you would expect, very Japanese. Just something else that marks out this band as being pretty unique.

Alex Lawton on bass and Al Brown on drums make up the remainder of the foursome. They were buried by the dark shadows at the back of the stage, but kept time immaculately. We chatted both to Alex and to Ian after the gig, such lovely chaps. We recommended they give Young Georgian Lolitaz a listen, and if they ever play a gig in the former USSR republic of Georgia they should get together, as we think they would merge and make some really nice spacey music! After a short break, it was time for the main event. But first, a bit of background knowledge about The Flowers of Hell. They were formed in 2005 and were mentored by Sterling Roswell's erstwhile bandmate from Spacemen 3, Pete 'Sonic Boom' Kember.

Their second album was Come Hell or High Water, and the album cover features in the Aubrey Beardsley exhibition which opens tomorrow 4th March at Tate Britain. This is going to be the largest exhibition of the late-Victorian artist's drawings for over 50 years, and The Flowers of Hell's album will feature among the exhibits, as an example of how influential Beardsley was, whose life was so sadly cut short by tuberculosis at the tender age of twenty-five. Other artists' albums featured at the exhibition include The Beatles, Procol Harum and Humble Pie, so The Flowers of Hell are in very good company indeed.

Toronto-born band-leader Greg Jarvis suffers from, or in his case is blessed by, a unique neurological condition called timbre-to-shape synæsthesia, which basically means that he sees all sounds as layers of three-dimensional shapes. He went on to found the Canadian Synesthesia Association in 2013. Whereas many albums from artists on the psych scene are influenced by visions from LSD and other psychedelics, Come Hell or High Water is actually based and arranged on Jarvis's synæsthesthetic visions, which is what makes his sound so very unique. There were thirty musicians performing on that album, recorded over a mammoth forty sessions in four different countries. Knowing how much Jarvis likes to surround himself with a crowd, we were not altogether surprised that we counted eight musicians on Friday's small stage – nine, if you include the contribution of Anna-Nicole Ziesche (on the left in the photo below), Hamburg-born visual artist and former alumnus of Central Saint Martins, who got up on stage to read out a German poem from 1955 that her mother had taught her, over a trumpet solo.

Jarvis was everywhere on stage. Sometimes playing keyboards, sometimes harmonica and, towards the end, at the front of stage on his trusted guitar. One of the three trumpeters who featured on the original Come Hell or High Water album was our taishōgoto-player from Japanese Television, and therefore was also on stage for The Flowers of Hell, as was a sax player, a violinist, a female singer who had a hauntingly angelic voice, and various other performers, most of whom were lost in the darkness at the back of the stage.

Back in the 90s, before The Flowers of Hell, Jarvis was living, among other places, in Prague, playing in various underground rock bands. They played their version of "Muchomůrky bílé", a protest song by Milan Hlasva, who was the original bassist and songwriter for PPU (Plastic People of the Universe), who were forbidden from performing this (or indeed any other song!) by the then Communist government, which was one of the many catalysts that spurred PPU fan Václav Havel in 1976 to create Charter 77 which took on the government and eventually lead to the Velvet Revolution in 1989. The rest, as they say, is history. To be honest, it's not our favourite song of The Flowers of Hell, and certainly the least psych, but we filmed it because it means so much to Greg Jarvis. Here is our footage: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B6CznGOsrR0 Far more atmospheric was the next song, "Pipe Dreams", which was truly quite beautiful, it made the hairs on our arms stand on end. The violin intro, the pipes, the singing, the slow introduction of the percussion, it all works so well together. We'll let you make up your own minds: https://youtu.be/bZF_5WmXxuo "The Joy of Sleeping" came next, which was a fantastic duel between the female singer's haunting voice, and Thorn's trumpet sounds, with violins and keyboards and guitar and percussion adding to the quite breathtaking sound. Here's the footage. Enjoy. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IsTvjcrWrME After a couple of other tracks, Jarvis took to the front of the stage, turned around, and literally conducted the band to play his very experimental piece which is largely made up of rehearsed improvisations. Originally, this piece lasts over 46 minutes long (it is a classic example of 'absolute' music, in other words, music that is not about anything in particular, and is a term first invented by Richard Wagner to describe this abstract, non-representational form). Jarvis's synæsthesia is largely helping him direct the band to perform the sound that he is seeing, in a really interesting symbiosis. We did not get the full 46-minute treatment (or else there's no way we'd have made the tube home), but we certainly got a good crack at it.

The song finally ended on a real crescendo, with Jarvis whirling his arms around like crazy. Imagine Pete Townshend meets Simon Rattle and you're halfway there.

Lou Reed was a big fan of The Flowers of Hell, so it is no surprise that the band always like to fit in at least one Velvet Underground or Lou Reed classic into their set. Their cover of "Heroin" had a great build-up with the drums and the violin, with Jarvis on vocals and playing guitar. As with "O", it had a really exciting and cacophonous dénouement. There was something nicely cyclical about the way the evening ended. Sterling Roswell, whose set had earlier been so cruelly curtailed by a broken guitar string, was encouraged onto the stage for the closing encore. He sat on drums and joined The Flowers of Hell on Spacemen 3's iconic hit from 1988, "Take Me to the Other Side". This was a real treat for us, and was the perfect end to the evening. We filmed it and we're delighted to be able to share it with you here, though unfortunately the drums were right at the back of the stage so you can't see Rosco, but you can certainly hear his trademark drumming style. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SIbn0J9J-Os And that was the end of another epic night of great entertainment. Armed with a copy of Japanese Television's EPs, and with a bounce in our step, we bade our fairwell to the lovely church and the lovely musicians who had entertained us for the prior three and a half hours. We are also looking forward to The Flowers of Hell's new greatest hits compilation album called 15 Years of Soft Labour, which is coming out this summer. It is going to include a 10-minute extended version of "White Out", featuring the sadly recently deceased Ivan Král, who was Jarvis's mentor and 'rock'n'roll uncle' for the past two decades. We at GIGsoup would like to also pay our respects to Král, who played with and wrote music for so many musical greats, from Iggy Pop to David Bowie and Patti Smith, among many many more, and who lost his fight to cancer last month. Čest jeho památce. Read the full article

[hereidinathoreauwrites]

Fiona Felicity Frizzle (or: Frizzle, the younger)

Magic School Bus Rides Again one-shot drabble: the adventures of Fiona Felicity Frizzle (travels through science and time with the new teacher)

No one ever could keep me tied down. Not that anyone had ever really tried.

If there was one thing the Frizzle family was, we were proud of our eccentricity and desire to learn. We were also special. Mom used to say we all had a little touch of magic. Nothing world-shaking or time-altering but just a sparkle that let us be extraordinary. And my sister and I seemed to have more than just your average sparkle.

Of the two of us, Val had always been the golden child. She excelled in both school and the extraordinary specialties of our name. She was smart, curious, charming, and talented, even among our family. That’s why no one raised any stink when she was gifted the keys at the tender age of 16. She was ready for them; everyone could see it.

And while I wasn’t far behind her in most things, in this, she indisputably won.

I never wanted to follow in Valerie’s footsteps. No one even expected it of me. We were free to pursue whatever we wished. She was just the perfect embodiment of a Frizzle. Everyone in our extended family looked up to her and I was just Frizzle: the younger.

All the same though, when Val was handed those keys, it awoke a deep hunger in me. Hunger for the kind of adventure only having the keys could provide. But the keys were out of reach. So I’d just have to find adventure on my own.

With that spirit, one day I just grabbed up my knapsack and took off. What can I say? I was 16, it was 1993 and I had waited long enough. The world was my oyster and I intended to know everything about it that I could. Keys or no keys, I wasn’t going to let my education suffer. Maybe I should have apologized for taking Dad’s Time-Winder but the thing was just collecting dust. Wasn’t it better if it was in use?

So my curious tinkering may have set the thing off and I ended up spending quite a long time on ancient Lesbos Island helping a wonderful young woman write some very beautiful poetry. In return, she let me study her father’s books on medicine and biology. It all worked out in the end. After a while, I was able to un-tinker what I had tinkered and the Time-Winder shot me forward to the year 2016. Deciding I should maybe leave exploring time for later, I instead set off to explore space.

After a few hitch-hikes and a brief stint as a stand-up comedian in Lithuania, my lucky break got me all the way to a place I’d always wanted to go — the steppes of Mongolia in the Altai Mountains. So in a way, it was lucky my plane crashed there. I met a fascinating young girl who taught me about how her culture has hunted with golden eagles for generations. I nearly got frostbite cantering after her on her hunt. In return, I taught her everything I knew about medicine and human biology. When I was ready, I left her family to join a caravan heading east.

From Mongolia came a rather trying time in Japan, where I struggled to master calligraphy and the lost art of the sword. After that, I crossed the Pacific in a one-woman kayak and nearly drowned just off the coast of Guam. A passing freighter offered me a ride and I happily bounced from Guam to Hawai’i to the Gulf of California.

Sometime later, I found myself wandering through the Brazilian jungle and somehow ended up being adopted by a family of golden lion tamarin monkeys. I think they wanted my necklace but didn’t know how to ask. They were a lot of fun, especially when they tried to comb my hair for me. I learned a lot about climbing from them. When I left, one of them followed me. Before long, she was sitting on my shoulder, comfortably jumping from adventure to adventure with me. I called her Goldie.

Goldie made my adventures more interesting by far. She was curious and sneaky, often getting her fingers into things people didn’t want them in. One time, I’d had to pry her away from a bakery in Germany after she’d discovered banana crème filling. I don’t think we’re welcome in that bakery anymore…

She’d also once pilfered the Hope Diamond. I don’t think anyone noticed though; I had recently perfected my espionage skills in study with the KGB and CIA (independently, of course) and those transferred rather well to breaking into the Smithsonian to restore the jewel.

Goldie eventually learned though that some times were better than others for sticking her fingers into things. It took a few years (and a lot of stern reprimands and banana crème pastries) but I eventually taught her.

If there was one thing I never did, it was settle down. There was just too much to see and learn. I had barely cracked into world languages, let alone the dead ones! My pack was always home to half a dozen books or so that I swapped out as I finished them. Reading a chapter or two of a classic before falling asleep at night was the best way to finish off a day of adventure. And long flights between new adventures were perfect for picking up phrases in other languages.

Goldie and I traversed the world, never once looking back in our endless thirst for knowledge and adventure.

At some point while rocketing down the Alps on stolen skis, I realized I had turned 33 somewhere in my wanderlust.

And for some reason, that made me more homesick than anything else. I debated going home but never made a move to. For one, I had effectively vanished for twenty-three years when I’d used the Time-Winder the first time. I’d be the wrong age if I went home. Val would be nearly twice my age now. It just seemed wrong. And I hadn’t even told my parents when I left.

I didn’t belong at home.

After that, I stopped counting my numerical age. I measured my life in adventures and I had more of those than I had years on this Earth. Besides, it was harder to keep track of one’s age when one was leaping through time constantly.

Despite the inherent danger I’d found in using the Time-Winder, it was irresistible to have that power and not use it. What was an adventure without a little risk after all?

And use it I did.

It was finicky but functional. I couldn’t choose the destination precisely but it always seemed to take Goldie and me where we needed to go.

1567 was an incredible year. Yes, I may have romanced both the captain’s wife and the captain himself aboard a trading vessel and then accidentally won a sword duel to become captain of a passing pirate schooner but life was so dull without conflict. So I may have picked those fights deliberately. Elizabeth was an incredible woman though…she didn’t even care that I was a woman.

Shame the pirates learned I was a woman as well and chased me halfway across the Caribbean before I managed to slip into Costa Rica and vanish.

Nikola Tesla was a surprising ally in my quest to explore time. He was fascinated by my Time-Winder, even though I’m not sure he completely understood what it was. I spent many months at his side, studying engineering, chemistry, and electricity alongside him. Leaving was difficult but I had to. Edison was getting suspicious and I wasn’t looking to end up in any history books.

I picked up guitar somewhere between Han dynasty China and 1980’s New York, which surprisingly opened up more doors for me than my newly-cultivated ability to speak 14 different languages (2 of which were dead languages!) fluently. Seems throughout most of history, people have had more use for music performers than they have for reliable translators. Goldie and I played our way across America and Russia during two different centuries on the pennies cast by passersby and the tips of the tipsy.

Splashing along the tide lines with Rachel Carson was a truly illuminating experience. Was there nothing that woman didn’t know about the ocean? She was an incredible friend and companion to me in the 1950s when I’d stopped to study the early days of space exploration and the rise of the environmental movement. And who better to apprentice myself to than Rachel herself? We took a great many tidepool specimens back to her study and spent many weeks identifying each one and making small sketches. I even offered my critiques on some of her writings.

But when she mentioned Val, I knew it was time to leave her. Coming so close to my sister while she was chasing her own adventure was jarring and it brought back feelings I hadn’t realized I’d buried so long ago.

I could pretend all I wanted but what I knew I craved, I couldn’t have. Without the keys, I was imprisoned in this life of wandering. The most I could hope for was a surface look at whatever phenomenon or historical event caught my eye. I was doomed to see everything through unbreakable glass.

But still, it was all I had. Val had inherited the keys. That left me with whatever I could take and whatever I could explore on my own. So I got even more daring.

Maybe Alcatraz was a step too far though...

Goldie and I were sailing down the Colorado River on a raft I’d constructed on my own sometime in 1842 when my real adventure finally began.

As I struggled to both man the tiller and the sail (Goldie scouting ahead from our mast), an anachronistic ringing sound came from my pack.

Strange…I wouldn’t have thought my phone would work in a time before it was invented…

Risking letting go of the tiller, I dug into the pocket and pulled out the ringing device.  Wow, cell reception was surprisingly strong out here.

I answered the phone with one hand. “Hello? What’s up?” The sail rope slackened and I leaned on it to rig my sail back up.

“Hello Fi!” It had been years since I’d heard that voice.

“Val!” Goldie shrieked, drawing my attention back to the river. “Can you hold on one second?” I tucked the phone between my teeth so I could hold the sail with one hand and adjust the rudder with the other. Goldie and I shot down the river, dodging nimbly between the rapids. The rope burned into my hands and I smiled around the phone in my mouth. This was just as incredible as I had imagined!

We burst out into some steady water a few seconds later and I finally released my grip on the sail.

“Sorry about that, rapids.” I continued, holding the phone to my ear again. “What can I do you for, Val?”

“I’ve got a proposition for you, dearest sister of mine.”

“Oh yeah? What?”

“How do you feel about teaching?”

“Teaching…?”

“Yes. You’d have to give up your lonely quest to explore all of time though. How does 2017 sound?”

“Does this mean…!”

“Yes Fiona. The keys are being passed. It’s your turn to inherit the Bus.”

I didn’t wait a second. Barely giving Goldie time to jump onto my shoulder, I scooped up my bag and tinkered the Time-Winder one last time.

At last, I was stepping right through that glass door.

[aviationfiction]

XIX

Autumn Dupont

It’ll get better.

This is a new beginning for you.

Though it may hurt now, ultimately, you will realize that it’s for the better.

Now is the time for your personal growth.

Some people believe that holding on and working on it is what makes you strong; sometimes it’s letting go that is the strongest act that one can do.

I’ve heard it all.

I have pages and pages of a marble notebook filled with the many different quotes and words of advice that I’ve been given in reference to divorce from Dr. Jill, my parents, Issac, and friends. Though I didn’t do it out right, I eventually laughed at every single one of them for loosely offering advice for a circumstance that none of them have gone through. Human beings tend to believe they’re expects on every situation when it has nothing to do with their life and livelihood. There’s an arrogance within that. It often comes into play when life is good on their end. For that reason, they can happily assess your incompetence or shambles of a life, to figure out where not to go wrong in their own, and finally to offer you a charade of advice. It’s always from their perspective; what they would and wouldn’t do if they were in your shoes. It’s rare to have someone step outside of themselves and actually view what’s happening to you from your eyes; to feel the pain and severity of the situation and finally, to understand the hardship. I’ve flipped through those pages endlessly, reading every single piece of advice I decided that a mental note was enough for, and none of it soothes me or has prepared me for what I am facing today. It hasn’t aided in the much needed closure I don’t believe I’m ever going to get. Instead, I’ve been left internally conflicted and confused because I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is the correct way to go about this. I’d love to have the divorce party, where my friends and I cheerfully toss back endless amounts of alcohol, dance to our favorite tunes, and verbally trash every single trait about my husband. If not that, I’d love to sign those papers and walk out of there in my high heels feeling liberated and confident in the decision that I personally made for the betterment of myself. I’ve imagined it all by letting it play out like some heavily directed alternate universe scene out of a dramatic sitcom but my reality is anything but that.

I had a session with Dr. Jill yesterday evening and we discussed the stages of heartbreak that she swears by. Though she admitted there are different therapists and psychological doctors who will pan out anywhere between five and ten stages, she lives by the lucky number seven. We spent nearly three hours discussing these stages with no regard for her paid time or my much needed breath of fresh air from the intensity of her office. First, I’d been desperate for answers. Actually, I still am desperate for the necessary words or even excuses to fill in these holes that I have. The demise of my marriage has been a difficult puzzle to piece together on my own and the other party involved has been no help in bring it all to perspective. According to Andreas, it’s my fault. It’s the only way he’s made sense of our beginning, our middle, and finally, our destructive ending. I’ve yet to truly debate anyone about it; just myself. It’s a conversation that my mind has with itself when I first wake up in the morning and as I lay awake in bed at night tossing and turning with a dire hope to sleep, so the bitter thoughts will temporarily cease. The denial was strong; stronger than I needed it to be. Shane’s death heightened it. The stroke was my wake up call. I don’t know why, but when I hit the wooden floor of my parent’s entry hall clutching my head while my surroundings blackened, I knew right then and there that Andreas wasn’t returning to me. It wasn’t the arguments over the phone that ended in him angrily hanging up on me, my rants about the death of my sibling to guilt him about his neglect, or my deteriorating mental health. It took my mind and body suddenly feeling like I was on the brink of a young and sudden demise to understand we were irrevocably broken.

Bargaining? Oh I did plenty of that. Suggested marriage counseling? Check. Worked on myself? Check. Attempted to figure out what I wasn’t doing right? Check. Hell, I even worked on my appearance. I did my best to tackle every possibility there was to fix us and came up short. We haven’t relapsed. At one point, I wished we did. I desired for us to foolishly allow ourselves to toss our emotional sorrows aside and to get caught up into the physical aspect of our love, so we’d have no choice but to confront what tore us apart at some later point. He didn’t need my body anymore. Amber came into the picture to fill every physical void he was experiencing and seemingly has done a much better job than I ever could have. The anger I feel is beyond what woulds can ever express. It has taken me on this roller coaster ride of mental and physical responses to what’s happened. I scream, yell, cry, and blank out. I’ve punched a few things; knock over plenty of delicates. I’ve ripped pictures and even thrown the rings a couple of times. Dr. Jill has always told me that my anger is empowering because it is within those moments that I step outside of Andreas and realize that what I feel matters just as much. I stop worrying about what wasn’t right for him and acknowledge what hadn’t been right for me and all the hurt he’s inflicted upon me. It’s not victimizing. I don’t want to be a victim. It’s a reminder that I may actually deserve better and possibly more than I was given. Within the anger, somewhere in there, I’m telling myself the truth. I’ve come to accept this. I’ve surrendered. I’ve withheld this divorce for long enough and dragging it along is no longer beneficial for my emotions or childish thoughts of revenge. We’re not meant to be and though it’s taken quite some time for me to come to terms with that; I have. It’s painful to let my connection to my husband go but it’s far more painful to contain it with an idiotic hope that somehow it’ll all work itself out.

It’s over.

We’re over.

Love’s over.

Late last night, I was assured of my choice in a blush toned figure fitting pencil dress that I keep in the back of the closet for those days of necessary professionalism, but the high eighties Miami weather convinced me to leave it lying in my garment bag. Instead, I opted for a fairly new pair of acid washed, blue denim, cut off shorts I purchased from the California based revolutionized brand Runwaydreamz. The holes, rips, and frayed styled could easily scream hipster poser at Coachella, but with my elongated legs and caramel skin, they were a nice choice for the scenery of this beach front hotel. My choice of a top was an ode to my brother. Shane had a love for vintage t-shirts and created arguably the most ridiculous collection of them. He’d lay around his apartment using rags soaked in Clorox to bleach various parts of them and would use razors to intricately cut rips, holes, and fringe type of styles into the material. As his little sister and favorite muse, I reaped the benefits of either stealing them out of the closet that was specifically for them without a verbal lashing or he’d run around the city grabbing shirts for the both of us to create matching masterpieces that we’d go out in. He made this Motley Crue top about four years ago, here in Miami, after we spent the morning running around visiting numerous thrift shops. By that night, I was wearing his bleached, distressed, and slashed up creation while tossing back Jamaican rum and tooting my tail end up towards the ceiling as we danced to reggae, soca, and kompa classics at some little hole in the wall spot in Little Haiti. Now I’m wearing this top as an armor; a piece of him to cling to me and console me through what I wish he was here to hold my hand for. A mixture of tough and soft love; the soft often edged out the tough and he happily basked in his position as my earthly protector from all. Though it’s just threads of fabric, it’s a representation of the embodiment of him being threaded within me; within my soul. Knowing that should be enough to hold me up as I sit before two lawyers and my husband.

“Autumn, it’s mom.” She’s the only person who calls and announces her title and relationship just about every single time as if her name and number aren’t stored in my phone book or her position in my life hasn’t been engraved into my being for twenty six years. Occasionally it’s funny, but today, I am in no mood for my mother or her sometimes intentionally annoying antics.

“Hey.” I glanced between the black and white classic Converse All Stars and the Sophia Webster sandals resting on the bed and opted for the sandals. The black, pink, and orange cameo effect on the knotted cage shoes is a perfect pair with the shorts and vintage tee. Their vertiginous height would further enhance my legs.

“Where are you honey? Lauren and I landed about forty five minutes ago and we’ve checked into the hotel. We’re going to change and I figured we could catch an early brunch. Heather’s bridal shower isn’t until later on and we’re starving. What do think?”

“That sounds nice but I cannot join you. I’m extremely busy. You two go ahead and enjoy yourselves.”

“Surely you can take an hour of your time to spend it with your mother. I’m not negating your time consuming tasks but come on. I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks. I’d like to have a meal with my child.” I listened to her huff as a bit of guilt slithered through my frame. Between work and this divorce, she’s accurate about us seeing less of one another but this is what she wanted. I’ve been living in her home and under both she and my father’s care for about two years now. After my release from the hospital, I’ve been cooped up in my second floor bedroom, wallowing in depression and boredom, for far too long. Dr. Jill has been my only escape and I had nothing to say to the woman for quite some time. My mother’s been nudging and persuading me to pick up and move on with my life; to let Andreas go and become anew again. Now that I’m officially working towards that, she’s questioned my job, my whereabouts, and now, how I’m using my time. She’s arguably the most backwards person I know.

“I can’t. Maybe another time? Possibly tomorrow if you’ll still be in town.”

“You gave me the same excuse when you came home two days ago.”

“I had to get ready to travel down here. You cannot fault me for that. You’re not being fair.”

“Okay. I apologize. I just miss you that’s all. It’s what us moms do. I worry. I’ll let you go and I’ll see you at the shower. Okay?” The defeat in her tone heightened the guilt within me as I finished pulling up the zipper on my right foot sandal. They older I’ve become, the harder it is to censor myself and cater to her need to shower me with her endless affection and meddling. Maybe it’s not my age but rather my circumstances. Affection is just not what I need right now; it’s not what I want.

“Okay.”

“I love you honey. Lauren says hi.”

“I love you too. I’ll see you later on.”

I tossed my phone on the bed; leaving her to end the call and quickly headed in the bathroom to apply another coat of the gold shimmering and warm peach Yves Saint Laurent lip gloss I grabbed out of Sephora in the city just yesterday afternoon. I went on a last minute and extremely panicked shopping run for a dress appropriate enough for today’s festivities. I thought I’d be able to nab something out of my closet and be satisfied with that. There wasn’t anything that particularly grabbed my attention so Glen happily drove me from store to store until I found an entire ensemble for this afternoon. Sephora was my last stop. I needed to grab another bottle of my favorite Armani Luminous Silk Foundation. The additional lip glosses, tubes of lipstick, and mascara was just me spoiling myself for the hell of it and upgrading the mediocre make up collection I have in my parents home.

While heading in the direction of the suite’s door, I tossed the lip gloss in yet another bag I’ve taken out of my mother’s closet. This time it’s her pink vintage Chanel bag that I’m praying I return back to it’s original place on the wooden shelf before she can ever notice it’s missing. She’s given me permission to borrow whatever I like…unless it’s vintage. I’m sure to earn her infamous glare if she notices that it’s gone.

“Excuse me.” I stepped out of the elevator and picked up my pace as I neared the doors of the Mandarin’s entrance. I bid the doorman a proper thank you as I exited and immediately slid into the already opened back of the awaiting SUV. He’d been waiting for me for about twenty minutes now. I’d taken far more time than needed flat ironing my hair. I thought about it curling it but the Miami humidity would have ruined it as soon as I stepped out into it.

“I’m heading to two six six five South Bayshore Drive.” As the driver closed the driver’s side door behind himself, he glanced at me through the rear view mirror and nodded his head with a small smile.

“That’s about fifteen minutes away from here ma’am. Traffic is down. We should be there shortly.”

“Thank you.”

I was looking forward to him forewarning me about a bit of traffic or even abruptly running into a bit of it on the way there. I’ve stalled myself with the flat ironing and I needed yet another interruption to mentally prepare myself for what’s to come. I’ve rehearsed lines, coached myself into avoiding all possibilities of crying, and mentally beat myself down to a pulp so Andreas wouldn’t be able to do it to me. I’ve run down every possible emotionally insulting, dismissive, and unreasonable comment he could verbally slap me with and I meshed the tears in with the running water immersing from the stainless steel shower head as I cleansed myself. The last time I had a genuine meltdown over that man, I woke up with tubes all over the place and the reddened eyes and distraught expression of my mother’s beautiful face. I will not give him that power once more. More than anything, I will never do that to my mother again. I will never forget my father tensely describing how her piercing screams rang out throughout their entire home as she clutched my body in her arms and wailed to God for my life. She pleaded and offered him all, including her own life, in exchange for mine. My father described what seemed like a shell of himself as he watched the paramedics wheel me out of the house. Though I wish I could have seen it myself, he described a frantic Issac who used his boisterous voice and intimidating demeanor to nearly bully the hospital’s staff and two of it’s board members to make sure the best of the best were in charge of my care. Their promises didn’t stop him from calling friends and friends of friends who could reach out to some of the best neurologists in the country. Even when I was awake and just about completely alert, it didn’t stop him from walking the hall giving orders as if he were recently appointed the Chief of Staff. I don’t live for them but I do take their love into consideration. Enough is enough. I’ve exhausted all of them, including Heather, with this part of my life. I no longer have the will power within me to further it.

I thought of you when I woke up this morning and I’ve contemplated on whether I should send this or not for a couple of hours. My conscious won the battle. I wish you all the best today. Let me know if you’re okay later, please.

My fingers tapped along the screen of my phone and it was my turn to contemplate if I should say anything to him. My pain won the battle as I clicked the lock button and slid it back into my purse. Thoughts of Dante seized my brain as soon as I checked into the Mandarin yesterday. This has become my go to hotel whenever I’m in Miami since meeting him and I’m reminded of the time we spent together together watching the moonlight dance along the Biscayne Bay. Whenever I go to and from the entrance, I cannot refrain from flashing back to the evening he was standing there waiting for me. Because of the incredible time he showed me at Palmeiras, I’ve booked the beach club for Heather’s bachelorette party. We parted on somewhat of a confusing note after such a sublime time in Paris, but it was necessary to minimize any further assumptions or confusion we may form between one another or at least on my end of what has already crossed the line of professionalism. I miss him and that should be forbidden within itself. With every conversation and moments spent exploring some location in the world I’ve never experienced before, I bask in how cultured he is and it heightens my avidity to learn more from him. The glances into his penetrating almond shaped brown eyes and his overall striking countenance entices my body in manners that leave me mentally abashed. His mannerisms and demeanor reek of power, control, and a confidence in who he is that serves as a representation of his masculinity and leadership within his manhood. His allure nearly has me in a choke hold and my internal battle against it has resulted in nothing more than multiple loses.

Issac would not only fire me but he’d verbally rip me to shreds of nothingness if he picked up on even the slightest hint of Dante and I being anything beyond employer and employee. He’d then turn it into yet another example of me being an impulsive, irresponsible, and childish “rebel” and further feed into my family’s quiet thoughts about my lack of self control and responsibility. I’d be the subject of company gossip and never escape the unwavering scrutiny about the perks I am sure to be receiving in exchange for me possibly sleeping with one of the company’s wealthiest clients. Rachel would scold me for having followed in the footsteps that she warned me about. Lastly, I’d have to berate myself for treading into uncharted waters once more. To expect a different result this time would be absurdly foolish.

“Ma’am. Your destination is just one building down.” He interrupted my chain of thought as he pointed towards the window and I nodded my head as I secured my bag over my shoulder.

“You don’t have to get out. I got it. Thank you.”

The warm air was the perfect contrast to the chills running down my spine as I neared the front entrance. Upon my entry, the cool central air blew at me with an unexpected force as soon as I stopped at the wall directory to search for the appointed floor of suite twelve zero four. The elevator ride up was filled with the churning of my stomach and the spinach omelette I forced myself to eat for breakfast began to reappear at the very end of my esophagus. I could barely subside the contents from threatening to completely come up into my mouth. As the ride came to an end and the metal doors slowly pulled themselves apart, my feet began to drag themselves down the hall. The sound of my heels scraping the marble caused a faint ringing in my ears. I could only wonder if my purposeful lagging aggravated the receptionist who leaned over her desk to find the source of the noise. The smile on her face caught my attention but her greeting never registered. As my eyes landed on the woman comfortably waiting in a leather black lounge chair, my stomach suddenly dropped to the heels of my feet and my throat tensed until it was tight enough to bring me to the brink of suffocation.

The future Mrs. Andreas Scott Harrington sat back in her seat staring at the double doors of the conference room with a visible expression of incertitude. As her fingers danced along her extremely protruded belly, a soft sigh slipped past her lips and finally, she turned to find me within her presence. She froze, as her glistening skin suddenly flushed into a hue of pink and her brown eyes widened in unison with her mouth falling agape. My expression remained blank as I glared at a small piece of the puzzle that is my pain. Beyond Andreas’ actions, I’m disappointed in her as a woman. It’s her stubbornness and willful blindness about her participating in the demise of my marriage that urges me to slap the shit out of her on my worse days and leaves me shaking my head on my calm ones. I cannot fathom how she isn’t capable of hypothetically putting herself into my shoes and fearing that she too will be on the other side of this happy life she believes she’s created with him one of these days. Does she believe that the universe and the way this world turns will always work out in her favor? Will their recklessness have no consequence? The bliss clearly isn’t forever; or maybe that’s just my story.

“Mrs. Harrington you’re right on time. Everything is all set up in the conference room. Mr. Harrington arrived just a few minutes ago.” I nearly choked at the sound of my marital name and the grimace on Amber’s face sparked my own. Suddenly I felt like nothing more than a forgotten about possession on Andreas’ memorabilia shelf in his office within our home. We both belong to him. The man has his wife and pregnant mistress within the presence of one another as he sits in a conference room anticipating himself finishing off the shattering of one of our hearts. Though I didn’t expect to see Amber lingering around awaiting this entire process to be over, I am not surprised that she made the decision to attend. What intrigues me about this woman’s presence is her lack of glee. There’s a tension radiating from her dainty frame that wasn’t so apparent when we crossed paths in my kitchen. The confidence has receded and the questioning look her eyes holds a tale that I have no interest in knowing.

“Thank you.” I bid the tiny woman a small smile as I walked ahead and for the first time, I didn’t hesitate. I entered the conference room and closed the door behind myself; ending Amber’s determination to burn a blazing hole into my back.

“Ah. She finally arrives.” I glanced over at Sorrell Trope who held a smirk on his face that I wasn’t expecting to see. He’d been very displeased with my method of handling this divorce ever since our first meeting with one another and I only furthered his aggravation and disappointment whenever he’d plan out new strategies to make sure I left my marriage with a bank account filled with Andreas’ earnings.

“Hello.” I couldn’t force a smile or even muster up the strength to wave at any of them as Mr. Trope pulled out a seat for me on his side of the table. The set of eyes that I’d fallen head over heels in love with were observing my every move as I sat deliberately across from him. My internal challenge to avoid making eye contact with him already failed twice and I’ve only been in the room for less than a minute. He made it no easier by never breaking his gaze and nearly placing his hands towards the tips of my fingers as they rested on the table. The four stacks of papers and the two personalized pens to the right of the table caught my attention as a breath of air slowly flowed past my lips. They’d need my signature about a million times before this would be all over with.

“Hello Autumn. We haven’t met in person but I’m Raymond Rafool, Andreas’ lawyer. I’ve been in constant communication with Mr. Trope about the proceedings and the negotiating between both you and Andreas. You two opted out of continuing to go to the mediating sessions and there were no court appointed sessions that were legally required to attempt to move both you and Andreas towards a final resolution on the issues that stand between the two of you. There were no marriage counselors involved and if there were, they have no standing in this proceeding or any ones prior to this final step. There are no children involved so custody, visitation, or child support is not relevant to this proceeding or the settlement involved. In going back and forth between you two, there have been no issues in which you two absolutely cannot come to an agreement with one another on so there is no need for a trial. Honestly, that’s a good thing, because not only does that prolong this process but it is also costly and the results are less predictable depending upon what the circumstances of both parties are. Mr. Rafool have drawn up the legal paper work necessary to dissolve your marriage and we’ve both carefully looked over each document to assure that everything is absolutely the way you’ve requested.” His words were going into one ear and directly out of the other as I twirled my thumbs around one another endlessly and stared at the window directly behind Andreas. The blind shield my eyes from the world but I took it upon myself to imagine what was happening outside. Thoughts of half naked women cheerily skipping or skating down the sidewalk while immersed into lighthearted conversations about their activities about the night before and young men childishly howling in the direction while walking along in their summer garb; a few with surfboard strapped to their backs; was far more interesting to think about than this.

“Autumn.”

“What?” The harshness in my voice nearly startled me just as much as it did everyone in the room as I gave Andreas the attention he called for. In his usual fashion, he widened his ocean blue eyes at me and slightly shook his head in disdain for me answering him in such a manner. He always hated for me to snap at him or raise my voice though he often did it with me. Our shouting matches often became a competition for the two of us with me working my hardest to win. There were days I’d challenge myself to see just how quickly I could get him to walk away from me or walk out of our home in anger. I had to find the fun in my misery.

“Did you hear what Mr. Trope said?” I hadn’t even noticed he’d slid one of the stacks of paper in the middle of the table and he’d placed a pen in front of both and Andreas and I.

“Autumn. I know what we spoke about many times over our phone conferences and while I do understand how assured you are in your position, Andreas brought a second possibility to the table that he’d like to discuss with you. Well, we all will discuss it. You don’t have to agree to it. It is your legal right to refuse. Mr. Rafool handled every single detail precisely and I spent the last couple of days going over every single detail to make sure it is proper and fair.”

“What the hell did you do?” I turned to look at my husband again. I can’t stand to do another month, week, or even a day of this nonsense. I refuse to. I no longer have the will power to mentally prepare myself for every blow this gut wrenching process forcibly takes on my mind and heart.

“I want to give you twenty million dollars.” He leaned forward, with his elbows resting on the table, and he glared into my eyes in that all too convincing look he’d give me whenever he was either offering me false hope about something I wanted from him, bidding me a promise that he knew he’d break without ever considering it, and lastly convincing me to consider or do something that worked out in his favor far more than it did in mine. With his seniority in age, education, professionalism, and finance, he would always operate in a manner that reeked of him believing that he knew what was best for me without him ever verbally saying so. Initially, I didn’t bite back. I enjoyed having a man taking the lead and making sure I was in a good position without me ever having to request it but it also became my enslavement to his mind and deceptive behaviors.

“Twenty million dollars? You’ve gone from twelve to twenty? Seriously?” I laughed out loud as his jaw tightened. He tosses around these estimates and prices to buy me out of this situation with no regard for what all of this actually means. I’ve heard the commentary from media personalities. I’ve read around about the large sums divorcees have gotten from their significant others and I’ve seen the lavish lifestyles that they’ve living but I can only wonder if that clears their conscious of all of the hurt and anger that had to happen in order for them to attain it. Is that what it all comes to? Is that supposed to be redemption for all the damage on his end?  “No.”

“No? What do you mean no? You’re being senseless and you’ve been behaving that way since we began this process.” He knocked his knuckles on the table hard enough to draw three sets of eyes on him and I aloofly sat back in the chair with a shrug of my shoulders in response to what is most likely going to turn into a verbal attack on my intelligence, character, and personality.

“I don’t want your money. What part of that don’t you understand? You had me sign a prenuptial agreement because your obsessive and controlling mother dropped numerous hints into your ear about it and I did so without a fight. I didn’t question it. I even did so without a lawyer which is damn near illegal. I wasn’t thinking about your money before I signed it, when I signed it, and I’m certainly not thinking about it now. Keep it Andreas. You’ve earned it. It’s yours. It’ll be far more beneficial to you than it is to me. You don’t have to pay your way out of this. I’d just like to sign these papers and go. Let’s do what we originally came here for. Fuck all of these extra negotiations. This is a divorce. It’s not a business deal.” As he stood to his feet, his lawyer oddly stood along with him and he bewilderingly stared at Andreas as he walked around to my side of the table and pointed at the double doors.

“Can we have the room please?”

“What?” Mr. Trope questioned him in confusion and Andreas continue to point at the door.

“Can you two step outside. I’d like to speak with my wife in private.” My eyes widened and a sarcastic chuckle followed as the word “wife” echoed in my mind repeatedly. I haven’t heard him use that possessive term in quite some time and if I’m lucky, I’ll never have to hear him or anyone else ever use that word in reference to me again once I exit this building today. I failed at that position. I didn’t live up to the standard of what it means to be a wife and he never gave me the chance to redeem myself. At this point, I don’t even know what it means to be a wife nor do I ever want to know. I don’t ever want to be here, in this position again.

“Okay. Raymond, let’s give them some privacy. We’ll be right outside.”

As the door closed behind the two older men, I hoped Andreas would return to his seat but instead he stood, towering over my frame and roughly breathing over me as if we’d already been fighting for fifteen to twenty minutes like we usually do. Before we could make it past a longer time frame than that, he would have already locked himself in his den or grabbed his car keys and left out for a couple of hours; sometimes even for the rest of the day or night. I’ve spent more nights alone in our bed than I’ve spent cuddling with him because of the team being on the road, him traveling for business, or our feuds. I grew so accustomed to him not being in the bed to the point of it sometimes being uncomfortable when he was along side me. As the distance continued to grow between us and within our marriage, I found myself sleeping on the edge of the bed whenever he’d join me. Though our king size bed was sizable enough to keep a decent extent of space between our bodies, he had the tendency to roll into the middle of the bed and just about on my side, so being on the edge kept me away from him. I don’t sleep in the bed with anyone at all now and yet I still sleep on the very edge because of my habits with him.  

“Getting me alone isn’t going to help you convince me to take that settlement. You constantly talk about how stubborn I am but here you are not taking no for an answer. Now who’s the stubborn one?” I purposefully pushed my chair back to garner some space between he and I. As he backed away, I quickly stood up and stepped away from the table.

“Because I want to help you.”


“Bullshit. You want your conscious clear. That’s really what this is all about. You want to be able to walk out here knowing that you made sure I was alright, so you can move on with your life without guilt tripping over everything that happened to get us to this point. I wasn’t perfect but we’re not going to stand here and play like the blame balances out. Your part in this is far bigger than mine. You think that you can pay me to make this right?” With a sigh, he ran his hand down his face and shook his head in clear frustration. He couldn’t possibly feel any more frustrated than I do.

“This isn’t about me. This is about you. You have to start over and get back on your feet and you cannot do that with nothing. You’re currently residing with your parents. Don’t you want to be able to move out? Do you have a car in New Jersey because if I remember correctly, you don’t. You’re going to have bills to pay. You want to go back to school. Universities aren’t free. Graduate degrees aren’t free. You need the basic necessities and so much more beyond that. Instead of being stubborn, do this for yourself. Do this for the sake of your own happiness.”

“So that you can know and say that you’re responsible for it? This isn’t about me, it’s because you. I don’t care how you try to map this out. If I walk away with that settlement, literally anything that I do you will accredit to yourself and I don’t want that. I want to be able to say and know that I earned it, whether I have to struggle and bust my ass to be able to have it. I don’t want your charity Andreas.” As he took steps towards me, I took more than enough steps backward to leave me nearly on the opposite side of the room. The frown on his face was harsher than my own.

“You’ve been married to me for six years. When the hell have I become that arrogant? I have never thrown anything back in your face. Are you kidding me?”

“You didn’t have to say it. It was your actions. How don’t you understand that? Your demeanor said it all. I am beneath you. You have done and accomplished far more than I ever have. You are the bread winner. I was in a position of dependency which allowed you to damn near run all over me whenever you saw fit to do so. I had to stay in my place on so many decisions that you made for the both of us because I was merely your stay at home wife. That’s not arrogance. It’s control. You had all of the control and I’m not going to allow you to control my subconscious by doing this. I’m tired Andreas. I have fought for you, I have fought for our marriage, and I’ve fought to save myself in the midst of all it and I’m mentally exhausted. I reached the point of physical exhaustion and had a stroke. Stop fighting me. I don’t want to fight you anymore. I’ve given you so much of myself and now I’m giving you one final request. Give me something. Let me walk away with a peace of mind.”

“You don’t feel like I’ve given you anything in these past six years? Nothing?” For the first time in the past couple of years, I saw a glimpse of the kind hearted man I fell in love with during the final teen year of my life. Those beautiful eyes softened, the hardened expression on his face dissipated, and the undeniable charm that I immediately latched myself to on the evening we shared our first cup of coffee together in our favorite little cafe swarmed me and thickened the tension radiating between our souls.

“Lessons. I learned so many in these past six years. Our glory days were beautiful. It’s almost laughable to look back on that timeframe and then to fast forward to where we are now. It’s unbelievable but I should have known better. The signs were there. You didn’t want this. Your hesitance, questions, and fears were all there and I tuned it out; you did too. All of this isn’t on you. As I said, I have my part in it. I became so addicted to you and the love. I couldn’t slow down, turn back, or let it go. I believed you’d continue to give me a never-ending emotional high until the end of my days and I should have never given you that much responsibility. I put too much on you. I pressured you. You just didn’t put a stop to it. You saw all of this coming from the very beginning and you didn’t stop it. Our relationship turned into this speeding train and we finally crashed; leaving fatal damage. I learned a lot about myself. I have some growing up to do; certainly. I don’t have it all together and I need to work on myself for a while. I have quite a bit to figure out. You took care of me. I cannot deny that. I was housed, fed, clothed, and I had the finances necessary for leisurely fun but I don’t think you considered me to be your wife, Andreas. I was a responsibility; a bill. I don’t want to become a twenty million dollar bill. Take the money and put it into a trust fund for your unborn child. Just let this go. Please.”

Silence fell between the two of us as we solemnly stared into one another’s eyes. The minimal strength I’d mustered up earlier gradually began to unravel as my eyes began to ache and fail the battle. The stinging followed with a flush of salty water and the stream began to flow down my face with no sign of halting. A knot formed in my throat at the sight of the sea of blue suddenly being surrounding by a hue of red. As weakness entrapped him, he suddenly glanced away and gave me his back to see. His head seeped lower with eyes panning to the floor and his confidence faded into the abyss.

Without a second of hesitation, I opened the door and signaled for our counsel to return to the room. There was nothing more either one of us needed to say to one that mattered, would change our fate, or would heal the gaping scars we’ve left on one another over the years.

Our fate is sealed.

“We’ve chosen to go with what we originally settled on.” Andreas made the announcement of our final choice as I pulled a piece of tissue out of the box to the left of me and dappled the corners of my eyes. It became a pointless task as my abdomen tightened and another set of parting tears rapidly cascaded down my face.

“Okay. We’ve placed a sticker that says sign here next to every single place that needs your signature. Once you’ve placed your signature on all of the documents, you’re done here.”

My fingers reached for the maroon pen as Mr. Trope slid the packet directly in front of me and I spent just a couple of seconds staring at the first page of our ending before I began to sign page after page until I finally reached the very end. In one final step, I slipped my hand into the silk pocket inside of the Chanel bag and retrieved the two rings I donned on my left hand ring finger the past six years and carefully placed them on top of the packet before sliding it in his direction.

His eyes set on the rings and finally, on me. He then slightly nodded his head as I stood up and used the back of my legs to push the chair away. He opened his mouth to speak but his words remained stuck in his throat while I placed the strap of the bag over my shoulder.

“Goodbye Andreas.”

Those were the final words I said to my ex-husband as I exited the room and his life.

“All of the gifts go right over there on that corner table with the lavender lace.”

My eyes panned over the sea of pastels covering just about the entirety of the villas backyard space and I nodded my head in content of what Janice and I had done to appease Heather on one of her many special days. Though she slyly scolded me every now and then for slacking on my maid of honor duties, little did she know, her mother and I had been going back forth over multiple phone calls, text messages, and e-mails to get this bridal shower together in a timely manner. We already had the color scheme figured out. Heather is by far the most feminine woman I know. She basks in whimsical shades and gleams at all things dainty. What we couldn’t agree upon for a few weeks was the theme. We bounced around from website to website picking apart what has been done before and eventually settled on one of her favorite pastimes as a child: a tea party. The vintage materials and pastels as well as the outdoor setting were my ideas. We envision lacy umbrellas, tons of garland, glitter, personalized desserts and tea bags, tulle table skirts and pastel tissue tassels. Though she’ll tell you it’s cliche, her favorite flower is the rose so we made sure one of the best florists in Miami collaborated with the decorating team to cover every single area of the dreamy garden in peach, yellow, salmon, cream, lavender, and pink roses. The two murals of her childhood to adulthood and of her engagement photos were her mother’s added touch and mine was a table specifically dedicated to cosmetics since that’s her field of work. Whatever touches the guests needed to do to their make up before stepping inside of the photo tent would be at their disposal and if they arrived barefaced, the table would serve as tons of fun. There’s a candy bar, an actual bar for alcoholic and non-alcoholic cocktails, and a station filled with many desserts; my favorite being the cake pops shaped like teapots. We weren’t absolutely sure if we’d be able to pull this off flawlessly but I must say, we’ve been proven wrong. Heather’s been squealing and waltzing around since the event started.

“You look amazing Autumn. I love what you’re wearing. Also, long time no see.” Adrienne wrapped her tiny arms around my waist and I politely pulled her in for a hug. It has been quite some time since I’ve seen her. Usually we’d greet one another at the home games and share a small conversation before heading to our seats. Andreas and I also attended she and Chris’ wedding. At this point, she’s more of Heather’s friend than mine. I never mingled with the wives of the players much but now that she’s becoming one of them, she might as well form a few friendships.

“Thank you and yes, it has been a while. How are Chris and the children?”

“All is well. The kids are sprouting non-stop and don’t get me started on those little personalities. Trinity is five, Jackson is two, and Dylan just turned one.”

“Wow. Trinity is officially in school now.”

“Yes. She’s in the kindergarten and is loving it. How’s everything been with you?”

“All is well.” That’s the only response I could muster up while I silently prayed that she didn’t make this extremely awkward by treading into my personal life. The last person I want to speak about is my ex. You don’t have to hear it from me to be familiar with the story. The details of my divorce settlement are already circulating around the internet and the ink hasn’t even dried on the papers yet.

“Good. I’m glad to hear that. You make sure you keep in touch. You have my number. Whenever you’re in town, lets grab a bite to eat or head out to shop a bit.”

“Will do.” I most likely won’t. Actually, I know I won’t.

“And save that dress for me.” I nodded as we shared a small laugh over my choice of attire. The nude and mahogany Zimmerman dress wasn’t exactly the look I had in mind for this bridal shower but it was the perfect shade of nude to blend in decently with the pastels and most of all, it was cut and created in a manner to be cool enough for the Miami weather. I favor the Christian Louboutin pumps and all of their intricate laser detailing far more. If anything, they’re the stand out piece.

“I’ll do that too. It was great seeing you Adrienne.”

As I jealously eyed the open bar, I took yet another sip of the passion fruit flavored tea I’d been holding in my hand while silently wishing it would give me the side effects of loud giggles, overly done touchiness, and carefree vibes as the alcohol is already doing to the guests. Instead, I’m left with dry mouth; a side effect of the Lipitor I’d taken before I left the hotel. They can care less about the puffed pastries, the strawberry and cream tea sandwiches, the prosciutto crostini with fennel slaw, or the smoked salmon and egg canapés. They’ve been drinking and mingling since their arrivals while showering Heather with alcohol influenced marital advice; most of it being about sex. I even overheard Lauren spilling a bit of gossip about she and Issac’s spicy bedroom life, which nearly left me regurgitating the mixture of salmon, mayonnaise, and herbs. I internally cringed and nearly felt like an adolescent as all the women, including Janice and my ever classy mother, chimed in on intimacy and I took a vow a silence while the yard full of married women bestowed their expertise on Heather. Despite the topic, I’m pleased that she’s having this moment to speak with women who’ve gained more than enough experience to be offering sound advice. I didn’t have that and honestly, I didn’t want it. I dived in head first, believing that I’d figure it out along the way and didn’t need the support or guidance from anyone. I was fooled.

“I sent your father a photo I snuck of you today and he said that you remind him so much of myself when I was around your age. I think so too but you’re just so much more stronger and beautiful.” As she sat along side me, she ran her long fingers through my hair and planted a kiss on my cheek. The glow on her face matched the nude pencil dress she chosen to wear for the afternoon; most likely designed by Victoria Beckham. Our matching wasn’t intentional nor was it surprising. We tend to think alike in the fashion department from time to time. I learned all of what I know from she and Shane.

“He always says that.”

“He does. He knew that you’d be somewhat of another version of myself when I found out I was pregnant with you. I didn’t think I’d ever have a daughter but a blessing came when I least expected it. My little girl.” Another kiss followed her response and I withheld the sigh I so badly wanted to let out. I love her dearly, but the affection isn’t helping. If anything, the hugs and kisses from these guests and my tender mother were breaking me down. I’ve been swallowing knots in my throat, quickly patting my eyes dry, and forcing smiles on my face since I walked out of that lawyers office and the difficulty to keep myself together is worsening.

“Hm.”

A few seconds of silence fell between us as she buried herself into her thoughts and suddenly she solemnly leaned her body toward mine.

“Autumn.”

“Mom, please don’t. Please.” I’ve omitted a lot from her, including my coming down her to finalize my divorce. I left her with the truth that I needed to be here for the preparations of this bridal shower but withheld everything else. I got myself into this alone and I didn’t want to hold anyone’s hand as I got myself out of it. She’s helped me more than enough and I love and cherish her for it. There is nothing she could have done for me earlier today nor did she need to be there to face him or my struggle.

“Okay.”

I left her at the table before she could press the issue again and to distract myself from my inner most thoughts, I began the Bridal Pictionary game Janice and I planned out. We split the guests into the two teams, with myself being on Heather’s and Janice being apart of the opposing one and we nominated one person from each team to be the designated artist. From a bowl, we pulled out phrases related to weddings and spent sixty seconds guessing for each turn. Our team took the lead until a tipsy Heather couldn’t figure out what was supposed to be a picture of her jumping the broom. Luckily, we won the Bridal Shower Bingo. The gift opening portion of the afternoon may have been the best part. To watch the bashful expressions on Heather’s face with each piece of sexy and provocative lingerie she held up for us to see was my highlight. Though I enjoyed watching her nearly fall out of her chair at the sight her most desired Tiffany holiday china my mother and I purchased as a joint gift, it was her facial expression when she held up the flimsy pink Agent Provocateur playsuit and the rose gold pasties I’d gotten to go with it. It was by far the worst of all of the sexy attire she’d been gifted and I took pride in that. It was payback for all of the moments she’s made me uncomfortable around some guys or said something extremely outlandish in front of my mother or brothers.

“So, I want to hug and kiss you and kick your ass all at once. All of this was so incredible. I can’t believe I ever slightly doubted you. You always come through for me. A tea party? Yeah, you’re my soulmate for sure.” Heather wrapped her arms around my waist and tightly hugged my frame from the side as she buried her face into the side of mine.

“I forgot to tell people everyone to wear those ugly hats that the white women wear at their tea parties but overall, I think it all came together well. I’m glad you enjoyed it. I can tell. Your breath reeks of vodka and cake.”

“I wish you had some vodka in your system for the bomb I’m about to drop on you.” As I turned to look at her, she grimaced in preparation for whatever annoying or bad news she had to give me. She’s never been great with bearing bad news. In most cases, she’ll avoid it until she cannot do it anymore and this is most likely yet another one of her cases of doing so.

“Mario invited Andreas to the wedding and you know that the RSVP comes with the option of a plus one, so of course he’s bringing Amber.” I can only imagine the whispers and stares when we’re all in the same room of two hundred guests, who are all familiar with our story whether it’s because they personally know both he and I or because they kept up with it via some credible gossip blog or sports site. I’m going to have to become an actress; outshining the likes of Viola Davis in her craft the entire night while also doing my best to keep my grudge holding mother from verbally lashing him until he combusts into a pillar of dust. We’ll avoid one another of course, or maybe he’ll purposefully greet me and pretend like we’re friendly despite our bitter parting. Either way, though I expected this to happen, I didn’t want or need her to confirm it.

“I figured. That’s his coach. Why wouldn’t he invite him?”

“You’ll be okay?”

“Sure.” No, I won’t, but it’s not my wedding. It’s Heather and Mario’s day and I’m willing to compromise just about anything for her wedding to be perfect. I love her enough for that.

“Oh and one more thing.” I finally let out that sigh I withheld at the table as I sat with my mother and she gave me a reassuring squeeze to let me know that this wouldn’t be as bad as the first.

“Please don’t tell me that he’s the best man.”

“No. He’s not. I was going to tell you that I changed your dress. I didn’t like the other as much, so I got you another one. You’re going to love it.”

“Heather.”

“Oh shut up. You hated the bow on the other dress anyway. This new one is sexy. It’s Elie Saab and it falls right in line with the different shades of pink concept that I wanted for my bridesmaids and maid of honor. Wait until you see it. Actually, why don’t you come and spend the night with me at the house tonight so that you can try the dress on. I’ll have Mario pick up Chinese from that place we love so much when we’re drunk, we’ll actually get drunk, and I’m thinking movies. We’ll do our favorites.”

“We’ll see.”

“Hey! It’s my day and if I want to have a slumber party, then you have to agree to it.” I thought about it for a couple of seconds and eventually nodded my head. She’s somewhat correct.

As quickly as she planted a kiss on my cheek is as quickly as she squealed and ran in the direction of her final surprise of the afternoon; Mario. We invited him to come at the very end of the bridal shower to brighten her day even more while also giving commentary of thanks to both he and Heather’s family and friends for coming out to celebrate their up and coming nuptials. As I looked on at the two, the idea was a brilliant one. The love radiating between the two as they stand wrapped up into one another’s arms and sharing kisses like they’re the only ones in the room is good enough proof that all of this is deserved and worth it. Most would say it’s too soon to tell but those two are going to go the long haul. They’re going to be just as in love when they’re old and grey with children and tons of grandchildren keeping them busy. She deserves this, they both do, but I’ve been on her comical, bumpy, and sometimes stubborn journey to find this kind of love and it’s finally proven to be worth it. A part of me feels like I’m losing her but overall I’m excited to see what comes of this. I’m looking forward to becoming a God mother.

Autumn, are you okay?

As I retrieved my clutch bag from the table, I thought about an answer to Dante’s question as it remained in my inbox unanswered and the trembling of my hands answered for me. Early today, I quickly signed those papers and left out of there because I couldn’t bare to watch him walk away from me again but it didn’t make much of a difference like I thought it would. He’d already done that early on. I thought celebrating Heather would temporarily cease all thoughts of him but being surrounding by everything that represents love and unity only served as a continuous kicks in the back and vicious slaps to my face. Not even the medication is helping this.

“Hey. Are you okay?” Lauren grabbed my shoulder and stepped close enough to close the gab in between us. As she used her hand to gently caress me, I stared at my sister-in-law who I’ve refused to connect with in a manner that neither one of us expected. For the first time ever, I appreciated her.

“Yeah.” She could sense the lie but she didn’t push it. Instead, she nodded her head and finally stepped back.

“Tell my mom I’ll see her later. I’m heading out.”

“Back to the hotel?”

“Yeah. I didn’t sleep much last night and I’ve been up since early this morning. I’m tired.”

“Can I check on you later? Or I can just send your mom if you want.” The hesitance in her tone softened my approach with her yet again.

“Sure.”

“Me?” Her eyes widened as she pointed at herself and I gave her a head nod to reassure what I meant.

“Yeah, sure.”

If I’m going to change, I have to change my approach overall and I’ve taken the wrong steps with Lauren. She’s never done anything wrong to me and yet I’ve sort of used her as an outlet for my unresolved issues with Issac and the ones beyond him. I’m not sure how severely I’ve hurt her or if even hurt her at all but I won’t do it again. She’s family and I need to treat her as such.

While sitting in the back of the chauffeured SUV, I began another session of patting and wiping at the corners of my eyes. This time I wasn’t working hard to preserve my make up. I finally let the tears ago. Now, I just want to keep the stains of mascara off of my dress.

No.

I gave him the honesty that I’ve yet to falter on thus far.

I figured that you wouldn’t be. No one is okay after something like that. Are you still at Heather’s bridal shower?

As the rays of the sun began to slowly disappear into the sky, I glanced out at the beauty of the sunset and did my best to bask in it’s serene nature.

No. It’s over with. I’m heading back to the Mandarin.

Somehow, I could picture him sitting back in his posh office, clothed in a Tom Ford three piece suit, while glancing out of his large windows at the unparalleled New York City skyline. The visual eclipsed the sunset. The sense of tranquillity that rushes through me whenever we’re in one another’s presence or connecting through some means of communication is by far the most confusing and yet addicting feeling I’m currently facing. I barely know this man and yet I’ve already fooled myself into believing that it doesn’t matter.

You want to talk about it?

Well of course you don’t want to talk about it. You probably don’t even want to think about it even though you can’t help but to do so. We always wish the hardest parts of our lives could just erase themselves from our mind once we’re in the midst of the aftermath but it never works out that way.

He’s accurate.

Wishes don’t always come true.

I learned that the hard way.

They don’t because wishes are desires without an attempt. You’re going to be okay. Soon enough, you’ll believe that and knowing you and how much of an intelligent, strong, and hard working person you are, you’ll began to work on actually attaining what you wish for. For now, stop going through this alone and lean on someone. You need that.

I paused and reread all of his words of encouragement, including his accuracy towards the very end.

What makes you so sure that I’m going through this alone?

I never mentioned or even alluded to that when speaking with him.

Because you shut me out. I’m sure I’m not the only one.

I glanced up as the SUV came to a halt. We ran into the traffic that I was wishing for earlier. The city failed me.

I apologize. I just had to get my mind right. You understand that, right?

I’m sure he does. He rubs me as the type of person to do the same thing whenever he needs to figure things out.

I do. There’s no need to apologize. I’m not holding that against you. You can’t get through this on your own and you don’t have to. Start opening up about this beyond Dr. Jill. Everyone may not experience the same hardships but we’re human so we do have the capability of understanding.

This man has become my own personal Buddha or motivational book. Like Shane, he always has a logical answer to everything. I don’t know how he does it.

Lately I’ve been around you far more than anyone else. I think my mother’s slightly jealous and she doesn’t even know you.

I know she’s scolded Issac for giving me that job. She won’t say that she hates it but I know she does.

You want to take some time off?

Absolutely not. I can’t bare sitting up in my bedroom anymore. I’ll go insane.

No.

I kicked off my pumps for comfort and tossed both of my legs up on the backseat. Suddenly, the traffic didn’t matter.

Well, my shoulder’s ready then. I play basketball a lot but I suck at working out so it’s kind of soft. You can talk my ear off, cry, slob, sneeze or whatever else. Now snot is gross but you get one pass for that. Just one.

For the time time today, I let out the most genuine and loudest laugh I could muster up. I don’t think I’ve ever slob, sneezed, or blew snot on anyone but the thought of embarrassing myself by doing it to him tickled me.

I don’t slob or drool. I’m not snotty either. No need to worry about that.

As I imagined doing it, I giggled even more. I’d never.

Well then the shoulder’s yours.

I smiled. I know I’ll cry again today, tomorrow, and for some time to come but it feels so good to just freely smile right now.

Thanks for letting me rent your shoulder.

Now I can see him walking around his office as he texts me, effortlessly turning his charm into words as he types away on his iPhone’s screen. His blazer is most likely resting on the back of his chair and his broad shoulders are standing tall.

Rent? No take backs. It’s yours to lean on whenever you need to. So I guess that means you own it.

My head fell against the window as I read that text three times, prompting the driver to glance back at me through the rear view mirror. He’d officially thrown me off course; off track. Whatever you want to call it.

Okay, well thanks for letting me have your shoulder.

I’m not sure if I’ll actually lean on it, but it’s nice to have the offer extended and it be genuine. He’s a great person and he continues to prove that time and time again despite our differences.

You’re welcome. I’m here if you want to talk. I’m here if you don’t want to do that as well. Alright?

I nodded my head as the thoughts of Dante in his office slowly vanished. I returned my attention to the horizon, allowing the last of the faint rays to illuminate my face before the faintly twinkling stars took over the skyline. Peace surrounded me and suddenly my shoulders didn’t feel as heavy. The weight of my burdens temporarily subsided.

Alright.

[officialaemondtargaryen]

Dog Days Are Over

Summary: You were already having a bad day, and then in walks Mr. Perfect and his best friend’s puppy. Oh, and he needs you to hurry because he’s got a blind date tonight, and he’s really nervous.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 2,993

Author’s Note: Do you know how long this has been in my drafts? Anyways, here’s more fluff. Sorry I’ve been the Ebeneezer Scrooge of fluff, but I can’t help it that I’m a cynical, angsty bitch who likes to make people suffer.

There were certain rules to being a veterinary technician.

Number one, waterproof mascara and eyeliner always! When the customer cries, you cry. Number two, carry a lint roller on you at all times; it’s best to get the pocket-sized one, because Mr. Twinkles sheds a lot! Number three, iron your scrubs! And it’s probably best to keep an extra pair in your car, because Mrs. Comier’s Jack Russell likes to pee on people.

Even though you knew these rules by heart, and you followed them every single day of your work-life, today was an exception. It was just one of those days that absolutely nothing- no matter how hard you tried- was going right. You were covered in fluffy cat hairs, Mrs. Comier’s Jack Russell peed on your leg twice, and you had run out of waterproof mascara; so when Mr. Langley brought in his thirteen year old Labrador to put her down, he cried, and so you cried, and in the end you looked like the raccoon that liked to sneak into the office dumpsters at closing.

Today just wasn’t your day.

It was fifteen minutes until closing time, and you could feel the excitement in your bones. You needed to rest, go home, take a shower, crawl in bed and watch B-rated romantic comedies on Netflix until you passed out. If only you could snap your fingers and make those last few minutes fly by. But that was impossible, and manipulating time wasn’t in your skill set, so instead you swept the floors for the sixth time that day.

And that was when you heard it.

The tiny bell over the door chimed, signaling that a customer had just walked in, and you could hear the pitter-patter of doggie feet on the linoleum floors. As far as you knew, there weren’t anymore customers scheduled for the day. The last appointment was over thirty minutes ago, and it was a no-show. From your spot in the back hallway, you could hear your coworker talking to the patient, and then before you knew it, she was charging through the back door. Before she even opened her mouth, you knew what the question would be.

“No,” you said as you swept the dirt into the dustpan.

“Come on, Y/N!” She whined. “I really need to get out of here on time tonight! It’s just a simple check-up, and he’s really cute, and will you please just take him?”

You sighed, exhaling every ounce of oxygen in your lungs before finally giving in; slumping your shoulders and rolling your eyes as you put the broom down.

“Oh my God! Thank you so much! I owe you, big time.” She went to hug you but you stepped to the side, avoiding her embrace at all costs.

You simply nodded at your coworker as you tried to dust some of the cat hairs from your scrubs. It was no use, and you knew that, but still, you at least tried to look more professional. You should have known that clocking out on time was just too good to be true, but you still put a smile on your face as you walked up to the front desk.

The customer was on one knee as he played with the tiny puppy; rubbing it’s belly and tickling it’s sides. “How can I help you?” You asked, and the man turned around and looked up at you, flashing one of the most brilliant smiles you had ever seen, and you could have sworn that a chorus of angels were singing in the background. Or maybe it was just the classical music that your boss liked to play, who knows. When your coworker said he was cute, you figured she was talking about the dog. Not the man. 

“Hey, uh- I had an appointment for this little guy.” He said, moving to stand.

“Okay,” you replied. “What’s this little guy’s name?”

“His name is Brooklyn.” The man replied.

“Oh.” You realized that this was that no-show appointment that should have been here thirty minutes ago. It was then that you looked right past his good looks, and let the irritation settle back in. “You’re Mr. Rogers? You had an appointment with us at 5:00.”

The man rubbed a hand on the back of his neck and gave you a half smile. 

“Uh, not exactly. I mean, I did have an appointment. But Steve- uh, Mr. Rogers, couldn’t make it so that’s why I’m here. I’m his friend, Bucky, and I’m really sorry that I’m late. I hope I can still get him in, if it’s okay. If it’s a problem then I can just make another appointment.”

Your eyes widened as he rambled on and then you smiled at him. If it were anyone else, you probably would have told them to make another appointment. But this guy was just so handsome, and your hopes of getting home on time were already sacked, so you led him back to the exam room and told him that it was no problem.

“Hopefully this doesn't take too long,” he mentioned as he picked Brooklyn up and sat him on the table.

Was he really rushing you?

“I've got this stupid thing I'm supposed to go to tonight,” he continued as you checked the puppy’s weight.

He really was rushing you.

“It's a blind date that Steve, uh-”

Before he could say ‘Mr. Rogers’, you nodded your head to let him know that you understood who he was talking about.

“Yeah,” Bucky kept on, not really caring that you weren't really listening. “He set it up and I'm just nervous. I've never really been on a date- well, I've been on dates, but never a blind one. With the way this day has been going, she'll probably end up being an alien with six eyes.”

“I know how you feel,” you mumbled under your breath.

“What's that?” He asked.

“Oh, I just agreed with you-” You replied, not really wanting to go into details about your day with a guy who was about to go on a blind date, and probably fall in love with someone that wasn't the vet tech with a piss stain on her leg. “About the way this day has been going.”

“You've had a bad day, too?”

“I'm going to let Dr. Banner know you're ready, and we’ll try get you out of here as soon as possible.” You said, ignoring his question. 

“Oh, okay. Thanks,” Bucky replied as you shuffled out of the exam room.

Your boss looked up at you from his desk and raised his eyebrows underneath his glasses. You said nothing and only dropped the puppy’s chart on his desk with a thud, before turning back around and heading into the back hallway. You could hear that Bucky guy sweet talking the pup from behind the door and your expression softened for a moment. 

But that was only until you glanced at the clock and saw that it was well passed closing time, and you should’ve been walking through your front door right now; maneuvering out of your bra and kicking off your non-slip, worn out tennis shoes. Your frown came right back and you looked over the front desk, making sure everything was in order before your boss eventually called you in for an extra hand. 

You sighed as you saw that your coworker had bailed on stamping the outgoing bill statements, a job which was tedious and tiring, and usually ended in cramped hands and sticky fingertips. With a soft groan, you sat down, flexing your toes in your shoes and tried to quickly stamp as many envelopes as you could.

“Hey, Y/N,” Dr. Banner called from somewhere within the office. “Can you lend me a hand for a moment?”

You stood up, tossing the four envelopes in the mailing bin, and headed towards the back hallway. “What’s up, doc?” You asked with a forced grin as you tried to lighten the mood. Your boss, Bruce, was under constant stress ever since his partner veterinarian, Dr. Stark, quit the practice to focus on his family. 

“Can you draw me up 1cc of Nobivac?” He asked as he scribbled something down in the chart in front of him. “And I’m going to need you in the room when I administer it, there’s a note in the little guy’s chart that says he’s not very good with shots.”

“Yes, sir.” You replied as you pulled the keys to the medical cabinet out of the front pocket of your scrubs.

Bucky smiled at your when you entered the exam room. The puppy in his hands jumped in your direction, tail wagging from side to side as he whined for attention. “I think he likes you,” the man commented as he tried to hold the puppy back. 

“That’s nice,” you replied, not really wanting to make small talk with Mr. I-Have-A-Blind-Date-Can-You-Hurry-Up. “But he’s probably not going to like me very much after getting poked.”

“Probably not,” Bucky laughed. You couldn’t help but feel a little light-headed at the sight of his smile. The sound of his laugh was just as attractive, if not more so. “But who knows, maybe he’ll forgive you.”

Dr. Banner stepped into the room, cutting your conversation short to begin his own spiel; informing Brooklyn’s short term owner of the possible side effects of the rabies vaccine, and also why is it important to have one. Information that, hopefully, Bucky would pass on to the absent Mr. Rogers.

While your boss prepped the puppy for his first rabies shot, your job was to try and distract the little guy as much as possible and to keep him comfortable, of course. Bucky stood off to the side, letting the two of you work your magic, and within seconds- without even so much as a yelp- the procedure was finished and Brooklyn’s tail was still wagging. 

“All done,” you cooed, placing a kiss on the puppy’s wet nose. 

“Looks like he still likes you,” Bucky said as he hooked Brooklyn’s leash back to his collar. “I had a feeling he would.”

You went to say something, but Dr. Banner got there first, sticking his hand out to Bucky for a handshake and saying, “It was nice to meet you. Please tell Mr. Rogers that we look forward to seeing him at the next visit, which you can coordinate with Y/N at the front desk.”

“Thank you,” Bucky replied. “I’ll be sure to let him know.”

“You can follow me, this way.” You told him, ushering him and Brooklyn out of the exam room and into the hallway. Bucky stepped into the lobby while you slid behind the front desk and grabbed for his wallet. “That’ll be $115,” you told him after tallying up the total sum of the visit. 

He let out a low whistle and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Is there any way to leave a tip for your excellent customer service?” He asked with a sly grin, obviously trying to be charming.

You let out a dry laugh, and bit the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something that would get you in trouble. “While I appreciate the offer, you should probably save it for your date tonight.” 

“Date?” He asked as he signed the credit card receipt. “Shit, right, my date!” He exclaimed, thrusting the tiny piece of paper your way. “I gotta go!”

You made a face and hurriedly handed him a copy of the bill. “Good luck,” you told him as he rushed out the front door. “And your welcome,” you said with a frown after he didn’t even say ‘thank you’. 

Happy that your day was finally over, you couldn’t help but feel like you had just been kicked in the gut. As you finished stamping the monthly statements, your mind was stuck on what Bucky and his blind date- who may or may not be an alien with six eyes- were doing right now. Was she beautiful? Did he see her and immediately know that she was the one he had been searching for? Did time stop?

“Y/N?” You heard Dr. Banner’s voice from behind you and realized that you had been standing in the same spot for minutes now, holding a stack of envelopes that you had meant to drop into the bin. “You okay?”

“Yeah!” You replied, a little too enthusiastically, as you came back to reality.

“Don’t forget you’re fostering Nugget tonight to make sure that he doesn’t pull out his stitches.” He told you before disappearing back into the hallway. 

“Ah, yes, Nugget.” You replied, mostly to yourself, as you were sure Bruce was out of earshot. “The overweight Chihuahua who looks like he ate one, too many nuggets. I couldn’t be more excited.”

After you locked up, and had Nugget on a leash, you said your goodbyes to your boss; happy as ever that- even thought it was well after dark- you were finally going home. you picked the chunky Chihuahua up, making sure not to touch his freshly removed man-parts and placed him in the backseat, where he quickly made a home.

Before you even pulled your seat belt on, you pulled your hair out of it’s ponytail and ran your fingers over your tender scalp. It was the first step to comfort after what you were sure was the worst work-day you might have ever had. If you could take your shoes off, you would. But, you were sure there was some crazy law about driving barefoot, so you left them on.

Nugget stayed quiet for most of the way, until he unexpectedly started to whine. Thinking that he might need to go potty, you pulled over into the parking lot of the local year-round ice cream parlor. He hopped out of your backseat gingerly, and lead you over to the grassy area where he proceeded to squat and relieve himself. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” you heard from across the parking lot and turned to see none other than Mr. Blind Date himself, Bucky. Just when you thought this day was starting to get better, he begin walking toward you, Brooklyn in tow.

“Oh, hi.” You replied, cautiously looking around for the bombshell that would inevitably be introduced as his date. You didn’t want to ask, but curiosity got the best of you and, “How was your date?”

“Well, I was supposed to meet her here and she never showed.” He replied, looking a bit dejected. “I was just about to leave, but then I saw you, figured I say hello.”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling, unable to help yourself when you heard that there was no other woman, and that this extremely attractive stranger was somehow still single. “Well, hello.”

Bucky smiled brightly before taking notice of Nugget, who was shaking at the thought of being petted by someone new, and dropped down to a knee so that he could reach him. “Who’s this little chunker?”

“This is Nugget,” you replied. “I’m fostering him for the night.”

“Fitting name,” he laughed, standing back to his regular height. “So, can I buy you an ice cream? I don’t think I said thanks before I ran out of your office earlier, and I’d like to make it up to you.”

“Sure,” you replied quickly before you gave yourself a chance to say no. “I mean, yeah, that would be nice.”

Bucky smiled as you fell in step with each other, making your way to the front of the booth. Brooklyn and Nugget were playing with each other; romping around and play fighting; putting you and Bucky into a few awkward positions as you had to unwrap their leashes from around each other’s legs. 

You learned that he was a mechanic, who worked mostly on vintage motorcycles and cafe racers, who lived on the quiet side of the city with Steve, his best friend and roommate. And you told him all about your bad day, and what it was like working in a veterinary office, and some of your funny stories from college. 

Before you could even eat three bites of your ice cream, Nugget had coerced you into giving him most of it; which probably wasn’t what his actual owners intended for him to eat after his surgery. Bucky didn’t mind that the ice cream he had bought for you went to satisfying a fat Chihuahua’s sweet tooth, especially not when most of his own ice cream was being lapped up by little Brooklyn.

“Well, I should get home.” You told him after seeing the neon ‘open’ sign of the parlor clock off. “It’s getting late.” 

He nodded, standing up from the bench that you had been sitting on. “It was really nice running into you.” He said softly, almost as if he had suddenly become shy. 

“I agree,” you replied with a smile. 

“If you’d like to, maybe I can take you to dinner next?” He asked as he nervously ran a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to.”

“I’d like to go to dinner with you,” you told him honestly. 

“Really?” He asked excitedly. “I mean, that’s cool. I should get your number, then.” He said, taking out his phone.

You repeated the numbers twice to make sure he typed in the right ones, and with an awkward hug that was almost a kiss on the cheek, you and Nugget happily walked back to your car. As soon as the driver’s side door was shut, you let out a joyous squeal and did a small dance in your seat. 

Before you could even pull off, your phone vibrated from the cup holder. You picked it up quickly and swiped at the screen until an unsaved number popped up on your screen. Your heart soared at the message that could only have been from one person.

212-555-6789

Best blind date ever ;)

tagging:

@poe-also-bucky @asirenscalling @holydeanmon @brandybucky @unpredictable-firecracker @capbuckthor @flowercrownsandmetallicarms @angryschnauzer @darkchocolaterey @hellomissmabel @john-benderr @kinqshley @iwillendyourlifeslut @malfoy-milkovich-royalty @mellifluous-melodramas, @hardcorehippos @ballerinafairyprincess @bovaria @jarnesbrnes

[mattshorrorstories]

The Ritual

  It all began with my curiosity to uncover the secrets of the universe. I was raised Catholic and the mystical side of God always fascinated me to a point that it consumed my every thought. I could not escape this idea of a separate reality that governs our realm of existence. I began reading books on mysticism, divination, tarot, Jewish kabbalah, clairvoyance and the most foolish of them all was The Lesser Key of Soloman.  

        I began by trying to expand my mind with the use of psychedelics and other nefarious substances. With the use of these potent plants I began to realize that the world is just energy that can be taped into. My conscience is something real and can be made better like my living body. With this knowledge I then started my descent into madness.

        Most of time for the next year was spent studying my text. I became familiar with eastern mysticism focusing on my chakras and trying to open my crown chakra. I meditated for days at a time with uncovering the power of mantras. Then came western hermeticism. Alchemy research began with uncovering all the power of herbs and metals and their connection to the world. Slowly but surely, I was becoming something dark.

       In my journey to become a magician I knew I needed to see the Eternal plain to expand my mind and uncover how magic truly works. To do this requires me to Astral project my body to reach said plain.  Every night I would meditate before bed and every night slowly but surely, I felt my soul start to leave my body inch by inch.  

          One night was different from the rest I fell asleep quicker than normal. I immediately felt my soul leave my body I was above my body watching myself sleep. Then I was somewhere completely different I was in the realm I've been searching for my whole life. It was a mystical place full of energy bursting at seams. The realm was just an island it had the shape of a U. There seems to be a large structure on the right side. It was close to dusk and the sky was painted in reds and pinks with clouds like streams in the sky. In the middle there’s a cross shaped like an upper-case letter T. A large crow with the bloodiest red eyes and black feathers darker than the night was, perched on the left side of the cross. On the ground surrounding the cross black vines spread on the ground outward, they seem to be like veins with blood circulating from the ground.

       The right side of island has a huge pillar made out of marble. There is a staircase that wraps around the pillar with a snake made out of gold as the handrail. On top lies a huge pyre lit on fire, the fire is purple and seems to emulating a glow that draws you toward it. On the left side of the island seems to be a forest that feels full of evil, at this point I've began to wonder if this endeavor is a safe venture. Then a large voice was heard over head saying a phrase I could not understand and it that point I saw in my mind's eye the big bang the creation of the universe. A Large flash of light and different particles colliding together and plants and stars forming. After wards I awoke in my bed, I felt new and a sense of understanding and power consumed my soul and my mind. I then wanted to try my new approach in my spells and then needed to see once a for if this is something that works or was it all for nothing.  

         To begin where this story truly starts, I performed my first ceremonial spell. It was a full moon and clear night. I choose a spell from the Lesser Key of Solomon that involved summoning a spirt to attract wealth. I began with drawing a circle with the sigil in the middle and five black candles surrounding the circle. I lit incense and said the incantation followed by the phrase the voice had said during my astral projection. Shortly after all the candles went out all at the same time and the room became black, not just black but darker than black. I felt fear like nothing I've ever felt before. At that moment I wished I never ventured down this path and prayed to God for his love, but he forgot who I was. The room was filled with something inhuman, a force our minds can’t comprehend. I couldn’t move like something held me in place. I felt a hand squeeze my neck and began to suffocate me. As I was being choked to death by something, I couldn’t see all I could think was why does this thing smell like rotten eggs. Then it had let me go and was gone in a moment's notice. I looked over at the incense and the face of a classic devil appeared in the smoke; the face stayed suspended in the air until I put out the incense. Then at that moment the candles became lit again. Three loud bangs came knocking at my front door I ran to see who was there and big surprise no one was there.

       I was petrified, filled with a sense of impending doom. I quickly cleaned up the area washed the floor where I drew the sigil and put away the candles and incense. The rest of that night I couldn’t sleep I was filled with fear and excitement all at the same time. I had so many questions: Was this real, who was that figure, is my wish going to be fulfilled will I become wealthy, am I in danger? So, I just laid in my bed pondering all these questions.  

     The next few days after nothing happened but all that time, I felt fear. Something was watching me, secretly in the shadows waiting to pounce. I came to the decision to throw all my books and other occult items in the trash and began trying to cleanse my apartment. Then on the third day I had a terrible nightmare. A Huge figure appeared before me as huge spider creature with three heads in the middle was the ugliest evil looking man, I've ever laid eyes upon. His eyes where black and he had a sneer across his face. Either side was a frog and a cat. On his head laid a crown made of obsidian and a ruby in the middle. This was the figure that had tried to kill me, I can see his true form. I woke up at three forty at night with sweat drenched all over my bed. I was utterly terrified. I Couldn’t fall back asleep so I turned on my light to find all my occult books and stuff placed back where they were before. I flung out of bed in a panic. I felt trapped and was in a state of shock. I have gazed upon pure evil and this nightmare wasn’t ending.

      I couldn’t fall back asleep so I wondered did I fail to do something with the spell, what did I miss? So, I did research in my books which smell like sulfur now. It appears I didn’t translate the whole spell; I missed the part where I needed a human sacrifice. So, this means that now my soul was being used for the spell not someone else's. I know I'm done for now, there was nothing to do. I’m as good as dead  

        At work I was exhausted. I couldn’t tell anyone my problems for fear of sounding like a mental patient, I was alone. A new development become apparently clear to me when I couldn’t read the checks coming through the printer, I am a cook. The letters turned all around the paper and I felt I was in a haze like a sick cloud hanging above my head. I was confused and disoriented. I told my manager I was sick and went home. I was too afraid to go back to my apartment so I just drove around for hours. I ended up back at my grade school chapel, I went to Catholic grade school. It was six pm and mass was about to start. I wanted to go inside, I thought it was safe but when I see the huge cross on top of the chapel and heard the organ playing music, I felt a burning sensation and I became violently upset. I could not bring myself to even stand on the holy ground. I thought what is going on why can’t I bring myself to go to mass then I felt a wave of energy come across my body and I blacked out. Next thing I remember I was back at my apartment and it was 12pm, I lost six hours I can’t recall. I was completely naked with blood on my hands, did I do something I can’t remember did I hurt someone.        

     My apartment was a disaster, furniture was flipped over all the cabinets where flung open, pictures where thrown from the wall. There's was vomit and excrement on the floor the smell was terrible also the smell of rotten eggs seemed to go from corner to corner. I would see a dark cloud out the corner of my eye I spent the rest of the night cleaning my apartment. I ended up getting a few hours of sleep before my next shift.

          Work seemed to be better than yesterday. I was cutting peppers when my mind slipped into a void. I awoke at the hospital with chains around one of my wrists and my other hand was in an utter state of agony. I was alarmed at the amount of blood on the dressings and screamed in horror. The nurse followed by a cop ran into the room and she shot me full of Ativan and I calmed down. I asked what had happened and she told me that I cut of three of my fingers in Pieces. She proceeded to explain that my coworker found me cutting my fingers off with an abnormally wide smile on my face. When my coworker asked what I was doing she said I let out an unworldly noise that set her in a panic-stricken state, she passed out. I told them I didn’t remember doing that and asked why I had a chain on my wrist they said it was for self-protection, so I didn’t hurt myself also I was under investigation for murder of a homeless man.  

        “Was that me, where did those six hours go two days ago what did I do” I thought. I read a headline on the paper earlier at work that said: homeless man sliced to bits; occult murder puts fear into community. The flowing article explained how the man was sliced into five pieces. The head was separated along with each arm and leg. The eyes where scooped out and a large sigil was carved onto the man's chest. I asked the detective why I was under investigation and he said, “get some rest we will talk in the morning.” At that point the Ativan had taken effect and I was spinning into a deep state of sleep.

        In the morning the detective had woken me from my slumber with an array of questions; “Where were you two nights ago, why where you screaming at church goers that night, do I have connections with Satanist.” All I said was “lawyer,” and the detective said, “you better get one we will be back.” I was scared not only is an inhuman spirit taking control of my body now I got cops trying to lock me up.

       The next few days in the hospital where a blur drifting in and out of conscience I hardly remember a thing. I looked up to see on the tv it was Wednesday three days had passed. I only remember about a days' worth of time. When I beeped for the nurse for water no one came to my aid, so I tried to get out of bed when I noticed my feet where tied with leather wraps to keep me in bed. One of my hand wraps was loose-fitting and I got my hand out. So, I got loose and undid the straps. I got out of bed too find all the nurses in a huddle with a look of terror on their faces. One of the nurses saw me and looked away like she pretended not to see me. I asked what was going on I’m dying of thirst. All the nurses looked at me and one said, “looks like your back to normal.” “What does that mean” I said. She said, “go back to your room I’ll be there shortly” and So I went back and when the nurse came, she came with a doctor and a security guard.

       “What going on I don’t remember the past two days what did I do, why am I tied up,” I said? The nurse and security guard proceed to tie me back up tighter than before to the point where it hurts. The doctor proceeds to explain I've been a terror, and everyone is petrified of me. He says my room no matter how hot they put the temperature up its always cold to point where you can see your own breath. The nurses swear that there in something on the floor that came with me. Vomit and excrement appear all over the floor. Patients have bruises and scratches that come out of nowhere. The staff knew it wasn’t me because I was tied up but they knew whatever was doing this was with me. They said I was talking in a language no one knew and a shadow was coming in and out of my room. They also said I slashed my wrist and almost bleed out but magically it healed within a day that’s when I noticed the scars. The doctor said I was being discharged that day they have had enough of me.

     After I left the hospital and went to my apartment, I saw that a car was following me and I noticed it was the detectives. I went in my apartment all the while my head was spinning with questions, I heard a knock at the door. Then I blacked out. I came back into reality and there was blood everywhere. I saw the bodies of the detectives completely decimated. Blood was everywhere, there wasn’t an inch of my apartment that didn’t have blood on it. Their heads where cut off and their bodies where skinned. I was mortified I puked at the sight and knew my life was over. I checked my phone and saw a day had gone by. Then I heard “police open the door!” I was trapped. They burst in and arrested me. All the officers seemed to be in a state of shock of my apartment and started beating me to pulp. They arrested me and placed me in the back of a squad car. They took me to county and placed in a jail by myself.  

        At this point I was broken I know what was coming, my life has been invaded by something inhuman. I know my time is limited before this thing takes over for good. Or I die on death row.  My skin in falling off my body, I’m starving there's bruises all over my body my teeth are falling out and I'm missing three fingers. I barely remember my days and when I'm not in my body I have vivid nightmares of hell and torture. God has abandoned me I'm done.

[rdgpcg]

  Splish splash breathe. Splish splash breathe. The black line in the bottom of the pool passed relentlessly beneath me like it had almost every day for weeks on end. Ever since I was restricted to a boot

Not the boot I wound up using . . but same effect.

and told to rest my wonky post tibial tendon, I had racked up miles on the gyms “swim challenge” like never before. Was I in the running for the cash prize for being first to 100 miles? Heck no. There are always some nefarious shenanigans that happen whenever cash is on the line. For some folks, winning that prize is pretty important and some pretty unbelievable pool time gets logged. Nonetheless, it was respectable and honest mileage for me especially considering I have no real current motivation to train.

  The good news is I am now boot-free. I had a check in with Dr. Oller of Media Foot Care last Monday and got the all-clear with a few cautions. While there, Richard showed me pictures of what it looks like when the post-tibial tendon snaps. He had just fixed someone’s foot where this had happened and said the patient was in for a long, painful recovery.

There is lots of cutting, drilling, and screwing to fix a flat foot. (Note: This picture was not provided by Dr. Oller). 

I had also spent some time while booted reading in-depth articles about Post-Tibial Tendon Dysfunction (PTTD) and the associated surgeries. None of them sound like fun and given that, if all goes well, I still probably have another 30-40 years of walking around on this blue orb, I should probably heed the advice to give up running.

  Mentally, I haven’t yet shifted out of the mindset of being a runner. Races still pique my interest, Friday group runs are still something I think about until I remember “Oh . . that’s right. I’m not a runner anymore”. While the concept still seems foreign, I’m learning to accept it.

I’ve been waiting for a new idea. All of my motivation to stay fit and healthy the last few years has come from wanting to be the best athlete I can and the athletic events of choice were running or triathlon. More than once over the course of the last month, I’ve convinced myself there was no real need to go swim, or even eat healthy. “What difference does it make”? And that’s not healthy. I need something new.

The question is what? Many well meaning friends have suggested this:

Um. No. Trust me on this. No.

Of course there is always the ever-popular Elliptigo.

Are there Elliptigo races?

While it may be a good workout, it isn’t exactly what I’m looking for. There is also Stand-Up paddle boarding or (SUP). I actually have quite a few SUP friends including Jen Panetta

Former awesome runner now awesome SUP’r, Jen Panetta.

who was similarly forced out of running by an uncooperative body. This has real possibilities down the road and I’d like to try it someday. Right now it is a little cost prohibitive and water access is a bit limited. But I’d like to try it. I’ve also always envied rowers. In my opinion, rowers are the fittest of the fit. They use every muscle in their body and take the cardio vascular system as close to the edge of human limits as possible. I remember watching an Oxford vs. Cambridge match-up a few years ago and the contestants were completely and totally spent at the finish. They collapsed in their boats waiting the results of a photo finish that showed Oxford held their winning streak by mere millimeters. It was one of the most exciting sporting events I’ve watched. Again see SUP comments about cost, and water proximity not to mention cold winters.

  One of the biggest rivalries in sports history with some of the fittest athletes. Oxford vs. Cambridge.

I began aimlessly writing this article in the wee hours this morning. I tend to crawl out of bed at what most would find to be a ridiculously early hour. Of course, I go to bed at an equally ridiculous early hour so it works out. Sleep habits aside, I felt the need to write but the words were coming slowly. It is supposed to be slightly cooler in Hell this weekend than Pennsylvania so as soon as the sun topped the trees enough to create adequate visibility, I hopped on my gravel bike and headed out for an early ride to beat the heat.

The plan was to head East on pavement and make my way to the Schuylkill River Trail (SRT) entrance in Birdsboro. The beauty of the gravel bike is the ability to go almost anywhere including pavement, semi-improved roads, dirt, gravel, trails and light mountain terrain. I kept a steady clip rolling East at about 18 mph until I got to the trail. This was my first time jumping off-road since I picked up “Carl” (my Specialized Diverge). My only injury-plagued rides this season were a couple road loops.

Gravel biking is the second biggest surge in cycling at the present time. (In the biggest surge, e-Bikes are leading the pack and getting people out of their cars). The US in general and Pennsylvania in particular are loaded with miles and miles of rail trails most of which have a gravel or cinder surface and are unsuitable for road-biking. But many road bikers were not satisfied going from their comfortable and fast road machines to  riding mountain bikes or hybrids on the trails. Many cyclists, being tinkerers at heart began modifying Cyclocross bikes to handle longer distances and give a bit more versatility to their use. The cycling industry saw the softball pitched at them and has hit it out of the park with nearly every manufacturer now producing several models of gravel bike.

My Specialized Diverge gravel bike.

So what makes a bike a gravel bike? Well, there is a lot of cross-over from mountain biking, cyclocross, and road bikes. The geometry typically starts out as that of a comfort road bike (a roadie designed for long-distance riding), but gets a higher bottom bracket such as those seen in ‘cross, though gravel grinders aren’t quite as high as that of a ‘cross bike. It then typically gets disc brakes, extra eyelets for water bottles, fenders or packs. Gravel bikes also have wider forks built with thru axles to accept fatter tires. These fatter tires are usually tubeless or tubeless ready. Tubeless tires tend to handle the likely punctures from a non-paved surface better than road tires and inner tubes. The gravel bike market is exploding with new and cross over technology continuously providing new bikes with new features at all price points. The end result is a bike that can handle nearly any surface whether it is the paved Tuesday night group ride, a muddy river trail, or a two-track through the desert. The rider can go from one to the next without skipping a beat, changing bikes, or swapping wheels.

  As I turned off the pavement and onto the stony trail entrance I was a little trepidatious. I am mostly a road cyclist because they make you ride the bike between swimming and running in a triathlon. I have very limited mountain biking experience and wasn’t sure how my new bike with it’s 38mm tires would handle in stones and gravel. I pushed the pedals and glided up the stone driveway, on to the gravel trail and off through the woods. I’ve run this section of trail dozens of times over the years but had never been on it by bike. Familiar landmarks whizzed by. I floated along under the shade passing occasional runners, other bikers, and dog walkers.

May I pause here for a Public Service Announcement? *Ahem* . . for those who like to run, bike, or walk on public trails with your ear buds in and the music cranked up please look around now and then! Chances are there are other trail users who don’t want to run over you or scare the bejeezus out of you. On a related note, I need to buy a bell for my bike.

Now back to our story. As I rode along, the grin on my face got wider and wider. While I do enjoy road cycling it can sometimes get a bit tedious or boring. Zipping along the shady trail on my bike was some of the most fun I’ve had in quite a while. It reminded me of my boyhood when my bike meant freedom and transportation. After school I’d be off on my bike laden with hunting or fishing equipment bound for the river or woods. Even as I rode along the SRT the anticipation of using my new toy to access remote parts of hunting areas this fall leapt to mind.

You’ve, no doubt heard the phrase “If you build it, they will come” made famous by the movie “Field of Dreams”.

If you build it, they will come.

In addition to baseball, this theory also applies to cycling or, more specifically, gravel biking. The states, counties, and cities have built the trails, the bike makers have built the bikes, and now the race directors are on-board with gravel racing. It’s a big thing! There are new classics all over the country including the Dirty Kanza, The Amish Country Roubaix, and many others. These races are challenging endurance events minus the life-threatening crashes of a road criterium. These events seem similar to the marathon in running combining athleticism and and training with mental fortitude for endurance. I could do this.

An awesome gravel race somewhere.

There was a moment on the trail when I glanced down at a sign that marked the 50 mile mark of the river trail. The SRT makes it’s way from downtown Philadelphia all the way to Pottsville, Pennsylvania. As I rode past this 50 mile post, the idea came to me that one could, in theory, enjoy a beer at Yuengling in the morning, hop on their bike and finish the day with a cold one at the Manayunk Brewing Company. Now if that isn’t a worthy goal I don’t know what is. Who’s with me?

The Schuylkill River Trail

Waiting on a New Idea Splish splash breathe. Splish splash breathe. The black line in the bottom of the pool passed relentlessly beneath me like it had almost every day for weeks on end.