#interludes in a church at midnight

[fandomsbyladymelodrama]

@salzrand - MY SANSAN FEELS <3333333333333333333

[villainesses]

you’ll always be my favorite ghost, a baby billy freeman mix for his beautiful, fantasy aimee-leigh

→ listen on spotify, selected lyrics under the cut

part one

i. my favourite faded fantasy ‣ you could hold the secrets that save me from myself / i could love you more than love could all the way from hell / you could be my poison, my cross, my razor blade / i could love you more than life / if i wasn’t so afraid

ii. tonight you belong to me ‣ i know (i know) you belong to somebody new / but tonight you belong to me / although (although) we’re apart / you’re a part of my heart / and tonight you belong to me

iii. babe, you turn me on ‣ everything is falling, dear / everything is wrong / it’s just history repeating itself / and babe, you turn me on / like a light bulb, babe / like a song

iv. take it off ‣ in the back of my closet, there’s a yellow dress / the tag is still on it / won’t you give me a reason / to take it off?

v. limp ‣ but no matter what i try, you’ll beat me with your bitter lies / so call me crazy, hold me down, make me cry, get off now, baby / it won’t be long till you’ll be lying limp in your own hands

vi. i will always ‣ and when it all seems like a mistake / take whatever you need to take / leave the rest for my own sake / i will always go beside you / you will always understand it

vii. take me to church ‣ if the heavens ever did speak / she’s the last true mouthpiece / every sunday’s gettin’ more bleak / a fresh poison each week / we were born sick, you heard them say it

viii. lie to me ‣ and if there’s anything i learned that will keep me standing / if i take you at your word then i’m empty-handed / a tongue like yours should be burned and branded / so i can see you lie to me

ix. big god ‣ you know i still like you the most / the best of the best and the worst of the worst / well, you can never know the places that i go / i still like you the most / you’ll always be my favourite ghost

part two

i. 25th december ‣ and all of a sudden i’m stuck with an urge to unlock a door / with a key that’s too big for my hands / and i drop it, and it falls at your feet / come on, come on, it’s there at your feet

ii. feeling of falling ‣ it’s after midnight baby, i’m sittin’ here all alone / i tried to call your number baby / but you weren’t at home / i been a good girl baby, through with all that mess / but the way i’m feelin’ now, darlin’ / well it scares me half to death

iii. iris ‣ and i’d give up forever to touch you / ‘cause i know that you feel me somehow / you’re the closest to heaven that i’ll ever be / and i don’t wanna go home right now

iv. forget me not ‣ forget me not, my dear, my darling / forget me not, my love / i just wanna hold your hand / hang on every word you say / let’s write a song for us / and sing until we’re old and grey

v. like a river runs ‣ when i fall asleep, i can see your face / what i lost in you i will not replace / and i could run away, i could let them down / but i will remember your light / your light, it follows me in darkness

interlude: the ghost of aimee-leigh

vi. live in the dream ‣ ‘cause there’s a lot of people here who wanna do you harm / but stay with me, you fallen lamb / and i’ll keep you in my arms / but i can’t live in the dream / the dream lives in me

epilogue: free fallin’ ‣ i wanna glide down over mulholland / i wanna write her name in the sky / i’m gonna free fall out into nothin’ / gonna leave this world for a while

[catchingbigfish]

author ask tag game

thank you so much for the tag @doublegoblin! i'll soft-tag @words-after-midnight, @ragnarokproofing, @horrormama, @winterandwords, and anyone else who wants to participate!

i'm gonna use these questions to introduce a new wip i'm working on! i don't know the name of it yet lol but i'm tagging it "wip: ttb" because i was calling it i tried to bury you but you wouldn't stay dead. a rough synopsis: novella-length, depressing af, dual-POV (duet-POV?), second-person litfic about a preacher's son and a town outcast who fall in love and tell select stories of their relationship before the preacher's son went missing.

(1) What is the main lesson of your story (e.g. kindness, diversity, anti-war), and why did you choose it?

i don't really write lessons into my work, but as far as themes go: what we replace it with when we lose religion, sex-as-religion, the limitations of identity and our struggles to break out of them, hauntings, ghosts-as-wishes, and the brutality of religion

(2) What did you use as inspiration for your worldbuilding (like real-life cultures, animals, famous media, websites, etc.)?

i'm always a little unsure of how to answer this because it's not fantasy, but the setting is a small town i spent a lot of time in during my childhood in the south! it was a rural, 50k population, churches on every corner sort of place. i'm trying hard to nail that vibe as well as possible, including exploring it on google maps a ton

(3) What is your MC trying to achieve, and what are you, the writer, trying to achieve with them? Do you want to inspire others, teach forgiveness, help readers grow as a person?

i think both main characters are mostly concerned with closure; i'm really just trying to tell the story, tbh!

(4) How many chapters is your story going to have?

i have a very specific vision in mind for this wip -- i have plans for 9 chapters, around 6k words apiece, each centered on a biblical place and a related theme from southern baptist teachings. it'll be somewhat evenly split between the MCs' versions of the same story with an interlude i'm tentatively calling lamentations, which is a very short "dream" the woman has of a way the man dies (hence its tentative title)

(5) Is it fanfiction or original content? Where do you plan to post it?

original content! not sure yet -- i'm contemplating whether i want to try trad publishing or potentially release it here on tumblr.

(6) When and why did you start writing?

i'm not sure if this means generally or this story -- so you get both answers. i don't remember when and why i started writing, but my earliest clear memory of writing is when i was ten. it feels like scratching an itch tbh. for this story, i would say it has roots in a similar story (another dual-POV, second-person, man disappears type story) i wrote for my first ever creative writing course which coalesced into this via various pieces of media i was consuming at the time -- way too much lana del rey, some david lynch (particularly blue velvet), and the book of eve, to name a few. the why, though, is because it just sort of popped into my brain and i'd be itchy if i didn't, to continue the previous metaphor

(7) Do you have any words of engagement for fellow writers of Writeblr? What other writers of Tumblr do you follow?

stop caring about the market, tbh. to borrow a line from community, caring is lethal. just write the story and find the audience later

[chlodoll]

my top albums (and songs) of 2022 (with some links to my fav performances 😆)

1. le sserafim - antifragile | the live performances are so damn good! | antifragile, impurities, good parts

2. sabrina carpenter - emails i can’t send | i love when i can just depend on an artist to always put out good albums | nonsense, tornado warnings, bad for business, already over, emails i can’t send, because I liked a boy 

3. 4*town - turning red ost | this boy group is everything | nobody like u 

4. red velvet -  birthday | a hit after some misses | bye bye, on a ride

5. sza - sos | it just came out but idc | nobody gets me, f2f, conceited, shirt, gone girl, kill bill, smoking on my ex pack, good days, blind

6. beyoncé - renaissance | hey, look at us! who would’ve thought? not me! now if only we could get the visuals... | church girl, america has a problem, alien superstar, cozy, plastic off the sofa, virgo’s groove, energy 

7. taylor swift - midnights | here i am again riding for one of blondies albums | lavender haze, paris, sweet nothing, glitch, bigger than the whole sky

8. rm - indigo | it feels like the last archive of my 20s too... damn | closer, wildflower, yun, still life, change pt.2, lonely

9. flo - the lead | i have loved seeing their rise this year | cardboard box, immature, summertime

10. nayeon - im nayeon | my girl! | love countdown, candyfloss, no problem, pop!, sunset

11. summer walker - still over it | it came out in 2021, i know, but i really wasn’t vibing until 2022 | circus, bitter, insane, no love, 4th baby mama, 

12. new jeans - new jeans | i got my braids and i’ve been flipping my hair like they do in attention all the time haha | hype boy, hurt, attention

13. jhope - jack in the box | this is so him... and i saw it performed live?! | arson, safety zone, more, what if 

14. encanto ost | i was so scared this would get on my spotify wrapped lolll | what else can i do?, we don’t talk about bruno, surface pressure

15. harry styles - harry’s house | no one is more disappointed than me, but he did something here | satellite, daydreaming, keep driving, late night talking, daylight 

16. euphoria ost | shut up i know... and when s3 comes out i will be back playing the songs everyday | all for us, still don’t know my name, formula, nate growing up, forever, i’m tired, elliot’s song 

-

other songs i was obsessed with: 

black panther: wakanda forever - con la brisa (foudequesh), alone (burna boy) interlude (stormzy), no woman no cry (tems) | bts - run bts, yet to come, left and right (jungkook and charlie puth), stay alive (jungkook), the astronaut (jin), bad decisions, dreamers (jungkook) | chlöe - treat me, surprise | fka twigs - jealousy (feat. rema), oh my love, tears in the club (feat. the weeknd), papi bones (feat. shygirl)  | glorilla - tomorrow (with cardi b) | gracie abrams - block me out, better  | ice spice - bikini bottom | ive - love dive, after like | jessie ware - free yourself | latto - it’s givin, sunshine, big energy, wheelie (feat. 21 savage), like a thug (feat. lil durk) | loona - pale blue dot | kelsea ballerini - heartfirst | marren morris - circles around this town, background music | megan thee stallion - budget (feat. latto), not nice, her, plan b, sweetest pie (with dua lipa) | muni long - hrs & hrs | omar apollo - want u around (feat. ruel), hijo de su madre, tamagotchi, archetype, hey boy (feat. kali uchis) | paramore - this is why | red velvet - bamboleo, beg for me | stayc - run2u, same same | suki waterhouse - moves, good looking | taeyeon - some nights, sirens, invu, weekend, timeless | twice - talk that talk, brave

[bananakarenina]

One Line, Any Fic

Rules: Pick any 10 of your fics, scroll somewhere to the midpoint, pick a line, and share it! Then tag 10 people!

I was tagged by @daintyduck99  :D

I’m pretty sure everyone I know has been tagged, but if you interact with me at all and want to do this game, consider yourself tagged!

I’m leading with my holiday fics and ending with a WIP bc why not lol

also I cannot believe I have TWENTY-ONE fics to choose from. aaah

1. want your midnights (you and me from the night before) (the og!!)

Everyone in the bar is counting down from ten and Luke says to Alex, "you can kiss me at midnight if you want, I'm probably your best option," and Alex rolls his eyes. 

2. you and me forevermore (it’s 3 lines. SUE ME, I LOVE THIS JOKE)

“I was really focused. We played a good set that night, and Reggie had some good weed,” he says, laughing, and chances a glance at Reggie to find a blush peaking prettily on his cheeks.

“What? Reggie!” Julie gasps, and Reggie looks mortified.

“Don’t tell Ray!” he yelps, and Julie’s scandalized expression breaks into laughter.

3. not the last unknown (3 lines again. AGAIN: THE JOKE)

“Ray is letting Reggie borrow some church clothes even though no one can see him,” Alex informs her.

“What do you mean? We can,” Tía says, and Luke would pay for a photo of Alex’s constipated face right now.

“…okay.”

4. a star sweetly gleaming: christmas at silver lake

from chapter 4:

Jane’s heart may combust in this linen closet tonight, and she is utterly, completely, perfectly, fine with that.

5. heart like a wheel (my extreme niche beloved)

Len got a job at a hole-in-wall pizzeria, and he’d come home smelling like warm dough and garlic, and when she’d kiss him his mouth was sweet like tomatoes, and it was the best thing she ever tasted.

6. crescent moon

“Luke is Luke, but you’re Reggie,” she murmurs into his neck. “And I should have said this before. You are not garbage and I am going to keep you. Forever."

7. some nights be better with you (the flynn interlude!)

Julie may have been right about Luke and that lip ring, Flynn thinks, and it’s only when Willie chokes on a laugh that she realizes she said that out loud.

8. for love’s sake only

from chapter 7:

“Sometimes I forget how truly dense you can be, Reginald. Of course there are multiple kinds. And right now you are specifically love-match happy.”

9. leave the light on

“Because it makes me feel close to them!” Reggie shouts. “I miss them so fucking much and you never talk about them anymore and I just wanted to remember for one goddamn day how it felt when they were here!” 

10. from the next chapter of to love’s self alone  (I PROMISE IT’S COMING)

Reggie's smile would go crooked and pleased when Alex would reveal the chocolates he stole from the mess hall or when Luke would compose a poem for the occasion, and anyone who'd ever seen Reggie's smile would of course want to see it again, so every October he and Alex would cobble something together in their schoolboy way.

[29pageshomestuckeveryday]

Homestuck, page 3,725

[S] Terezi: Play records.

You select appropriate crime solving music to set the right mood. With this kind of atmosphere, it is highly unlikely that any crime will stay unsolved for long.

storyboards:

Songs used: Trollcops by Erik Scheele, Havoc To Be Wrought by Thomas Ferkol, Rumble at the Rink by Toby Fox, Unlabeled by Erik Scheele, XROM by Toby Fox, and I'm a member of the Midnight Crew by Eddie Morton

Song commentary for trollcops:

Erik Scheele:

(Alternate Universe Intermission)

So this pretty much happened when Radiation went "yo jit make something" and I was like "okay", and then later I was like "bluuuuuuh don't know what to write", and then Radiation went "do trollcops", and I went "no that's dumb, stupid dumb, what is trollcops even", and Radiation went "DO IT JIT YOU BUTT", and I was like "NO RADIATION I HATE EVERYTHING". And then, Mellotron samples happened, and here we are. Also, it should be pointed out that in the version with vocals, Trollcops (Radio Play), there's a name drop of the fan music piece that htis is based off of. Yes, it takes this long to re-use things, sometimes.

Besides that, I dunno, just enjoy it.

Toby Fox:

Don't tell anyone, but this is actually a remix of one of Jit's old fansongs called Under the Hat, which was a battle theme for Dad. So if your heart still pines for him... his soul and pipe are contained deep within this track.

So damn catchy and sleuthy.

song commentary for havoc to be wrought:

Thomas Ferkol:

Havoc to be Wrought was spawned from an idea for a short story I had in my mind about a man climbing the old bell tower of an abandoned church investigating strange sounds that had plagued a small town, only to be forced into a confrontation with the “King of Owls” once he reaches the top, and ending with the KoO cutting the bell rope that the man clung to and screeching in the night.

Things changed though.

Once I had actually started writing and refining it, I decided to change its message, from a mad owl thing to the mysterious demon in the troll’s session which had been recently mentioned in the comic (I wrote this sometime in Fall 2010). Also, yes, that is why there is distorted owl screeches at the end, although they were more meant to evoke the horrorterrors crying out in pain than owls by the time it was finished.

Contains some very powerful organ and some great chord progressions, but also some structural choices I am not completely proud of, which remained in the piece until its release months and months later because the original Finale file crashed on me before I had a chance to save it. So, rather than attempt reconstructing it, I went with what I had, and it stuck.

Song commentary for unlabeled:

Erik Scheele:

This is the second of the solo piano pieces on this album, at least in the main tracks, and a really late release as well, given that it first appeared in the comic some time around a year ago. I've held it back from getting released just so it could go on this record, so I'm glad it could finally go out.

This is also the only piece on the album that doesn't have a specific event to go along with it. Instead, I went for where it appeared in the comic when placing it, and see it as more of a small interlude. The intermission between Act 1 and Act 2 of a musical, if you will. The art is meant to go along with this as well, a sort of non-canon get-together of the first set of trolls and kids we know, and I can imagine them playing this record while they chill.

[deepseatime]

absolutely not disparaging people who didn't like the show but it is kinda funny that you could answer a few of the criticisms of midnight mass with 'that's just christianity is like'

'why is there so much gore' that's just the catholic experience

'why do they monologue so much' church is basically just constant monologues with brief musical interludes

'why is the pacing so slow' have you read the bible

[weirdanecdotes]

How I Met Mick Jagger

This is also how I became an Unintentional Groupie. If I hadn’t befriended a couple of DJ’s, I never would have had access to music stars. This story takes place in the early 60s. It may shock you to learn music was segregated by color. And calling people Black didn’t saturate society until a decade later. To avoid offending anyone, I have substituted polite words where needed. Nor were there any issues about cultural appropriation at the time. I must have been woke because I got upset when White artists ripped off Black artists. But my issue with it was a lack of authenticity and the literal theft. Anyway, this story actually begins...

After we moved from Brookhaven to Buckhead and there were no buses to take me to church, Papa used to drive me to Peachtree Road Methodist on Sunday mornings to attend classes and morning services. By the time I was fifteen, he decided to sleep in and shifted me to attending evening services and a youth club afterwards.

Despite the fact the youth club had a basketball court where we could dance in our socks, most of the youths skipped out soon after they were dropped off. Some of them had older friends with cars who picked them up and brought them back in time to innocently look like they’d never been away.

Others left in gaggles to wander the streets and I tagged along without being invited. There was a strip of shops next to the church and behind that on Mathieson Drive there was a rather fantastical old house built out of rough granite blocks that had a turret!

I had no idea why we going but climbed the steep driveway and the even steeper steps to the front door, which was shockingly unlocked. They didn’t even knock before pushing it open.

Inside, rock n’ roll music boomed and a sign on the wall announced we had entered WQXI Radio. Up yet another flight of steep steps, we arrived at a hallway with plate glass windows on one side. Behind a locked door on the windowed room sat a DJ doing his job. When he saw us, he grinned and waved. Then during the next musical interlude he asked what we wanted to hear.

That’s how I met my first disk jockey—Patrick Aloysius Hughes. I put the emphasis on his middle name like he always did on the radio. He practically sung it into five syllables—Al-lo-wish-she-us!

After that, I went by myself to visit him on Sunday evenings. I told him my Bill Lowery Story and he laughed like a maniac. Pat was as hyperactive as I was and I was too ignorant of the world to even wonder if his buzz was natural or snorted. I wanted to know everything about his job and he was glad to explain how everything worked. Of course, we talked about music. I also learned about The Industry that controlled everything teenagers were allowed to hear, about Payola and how new releases came with gift boxes that included tickets to VIP seating at sporting events.

It was probably a few months before he unlocked the door and let me into the control room to flip levers and twiddle dials. That dear man never made any kind of move on me. He simply enjoyed company. One Sunday evening, Pat rather ominously told me Paul Drew—the DJ who manned the midnight till dawn shift—was coming just to meet me. I naturally asked, "Why?"

"You're like a prodigy or something," Pat shrugged, "You know music better than I do."

Paul arrived and beside Pat they looked like a comic duo. Pat was a tall string-bean good ol' boy and Paul was a short, round, balding guy with a Yankee accent. Pat flat-out loved rock n' rock. Paul was cerebral and filled his airtime with “easy listening” Oldies like Frank Sinatra, some classical music and a sprinkling of cool jazz.

“I hear you know music like no one else your age,” Paul eyed me with respect.

“She’s uncanny,” Pat enthused, “If she says it’s gonna be a hit, it is!”

Rolling my eyes, I allowed, “I do recognize all the current trends built into a track but mainly—if I don’t like it—I reckon it will be a hit just to annoy me every time I hear it on the radio.”

They guffawed then Paul sat down and seriously asked, “What do you like?” He even pulled a notepad out of his back pocket & the pen from his shirt to take notes.

Feeling utterly intimidated, I answered slowly, alert for any negative reactions, “Anything by Modern Jazz Quartet, Miles Davis, his especially Sketches of Spain, Andre Previn’s soundtrack for The Subterraneans, Dave Brubeck. I’m currently hooked on Pachebel’s Canon in D, can’t stop listening to it over and over. But, here I must confess,” I breathed out in a whisper, “for fun, I listen to WAOK.”

“Of course, you do,” Paul bobbed his head and chuckled, “Chuck Berry invented rock n’ roll.”

Taking that as I dig, I insisted, “He actually did. And Little Richard…”

He held up his hand to forestall my ire, “I know, I know. What other white music do you like?”

“Recently, Jim Salle [another story] insisted I listen to a folkie debut album by Bob Dylan. He knows my tastes. I bought it. House of the Rising Sun might fit your format. I believe Dylan stole it from a couple of colored artists. I predict some rock n’ roll band is gonna steal it from him.”

It took over two years before my prediction came true but Paul Drew remembered and called to tell me he’d just gotten The Animals’ version and was promoting it. Looking back, I think was in a sense their ideal listener and articulate enough to explain my opinions. But also, I was pretty.

Shortly after I got my driver’s license, Paul called early one Sunday in an excited state. “The Rolling Stones are passing thru the airport today! Like, in a couple of hours they’ll have an hour layover. If you can get out there, I can get you into the Delta VIP Lounge.”

I replied indignantly, “I don’t like the Rolling Stones.”

“Heh,” Paul snickered, “Of course not, that’s why they’re massive stars. Their managers aren’t going to let me near them. But, sweetheart, you can get to them. They’ll probably come to you!”

I guessed, “Then I introduce them to you?”

“Exactly.”

I called my BF Ginny who was a Rolling Stone fan and a beauty. I looked exactly like this, the same dress, minus the bandanna:

The Delta VIP Lounge had two levels. Immediately inside the entrance was a bar/café area but, on a higher guarded level, actual VIPs came to rest between flights. Ginny and I easily found Paul at the bar and he ordered us Coca-Cola’s with cherry syrup. The bartender added little umbrellas. We giggled like the schoolgirls we were.

Before Paul could detail his plan to gain access, The Stones arrived, loudly shouting profanities and obscenities. Like she was iron filings and they were magnets, Ginny slipped like a shadow past security, went directly to Brian Jones, and sat in his lap! He greeted her, “Well hello, baby girl!”

The guard may have taken that to mean we were expected because he stepped aside to let me follow her. I stood there uncertainly. From over three feet away, I could smell them. They were sweaty, filthy, uncouth, drunken fools. I glanced back at Paul, gave him a helpless shrug, and primly took a seat on a nearby Mid-Century Modern sofa, all imitation leather with chrome legs and trim.

I was stunned when Mick Jagger approached, took a seat at the other end, casually threw his arm over its back to turn towards me, and politely asked, “What brings you here this fine morning?”

I was stunned because unlike the other band members he was immaculately clean and well dressed in a blue-stripped seersucker jacket, a spotlessly white shirt, khaki slacks, and white buck shoes with red rubber soles. He looked like a prep school poet who did not belong with his rowdy bandmates.

I was stunned because color photography had not accurately rendered the paleness of his strawberry blonde hair, ice blue eyes, flawless cream complexion, ruddy schoolboy cheeks, or his mouth! Good gawd! I couldn’t take my eyes off his lips. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in person and that took my breath away. I literally could not answer him.

He tried again, “Where are you coming from? Where are you going?”

“I’m just here because you are,” I whispered, “My friend is a DJ who would like to talk to you.”

He snapped, “That’s not going to happen,” breathed out his boredom in a shuddering sigh then asked, “Are you a fan?”

“No,” I gestured toward Ginny who had moved onto Keith Richards’ lap, “but my friend is.”

“Oh gawd,” he drawled at the scene, flipping delicate fingers to dismiss it from his thoughts, and turned his attention back on me. “Do you think we might have enough in common to have a decent conversation to pass the time?”

“We could talk about music." I turned a bit petulant, "I don’t like you because Little Richard did you first.”

“I don’t deny that,” he wasn’t offended, “He taught me all about performing on stage. I bet you don’t like the Beach Boys either and certainly not Pat Boone.”

I managed to smile and agreed, “Definitely not. I won’t hold your Little Richard impersonation against you personally. I’m sure he appreciates being introduced to music fans who would never know about him otherwise. Seeing you dressed as you are today it’s hard for me to imagine how you became a rock n’ roll star. Didn’t you study at the London School of Economics?”

He archly declared, “Economics is so boring.”

“I don’t think so,” I countered, “I got an A-plus in Economics.”

He stunned me yet again by gracefully sliding across the sofa to sit closer to me and eagerly shared, “Then you understand I was on track to work in a bank or, if I was lucky, maybe I’d be a stock trader. Now Keith and I go way back. We started a garage band and did covers of soul artists. We did gigs for audiences who had no idea they were listening to colored music. So while I was preparing to handle other people’s money just to earn a small share of it, I could already sing like Little Richard and saw, shall we say, a market opening.”

He paused and I inserted, “So it’s all about the money.”

Looking directly into my eyes, he insisted, “And my true love of R&B. Please don’t think of me as a rip-off artist. I’m paying homage to artists who are better than I’ll ever be and get them into bigger and better venues. We’re all getting rich together.”

I boldly asked, “May I quote that when I tell my DJ friend about our conversation?”

“Please,” he drew back in mock chagrin, “you can tell whoever you like. I’m not sharing any secrets. But let me enjoy having a real conversation with a pretty girl who doesn’t want to rip my clothes off. I feel like we’re connecting…intellectually. ”

“We are indeed,” I bobbed my head in agreement. "What I like about Economics is it creates the delusion that we control money instead of money controlling us."

I remember his eyes flying wide in surprise and how his teeth sparkled when he grinned but the rest of our conversation is a blur. It's not that I've forgotten our joking banter. My brain simply didn't imprint any memory cells while I was in the midst of a significant life-altering experience.

I relied on the etiquette lessons I'd been forced to take to maintain my decorum. In case you don't know what I mean, I kept my legs demurely crossed at the ankles, knees together, hands relaxed in my lap, back straight, chin up, and spoke softly. I was trained to be a Southern Lady.

I'm amazed I didn't quiver just a bit because I was experiencing sexual attraction for the very first time. It wasn't lust. I was simply overwhelmed by wanting a man to kiss me. I'd gotten kissed at Vacation Bible School when I was 13 and felt nothing. It was not an experience I sought to repeat until I met a man who glowed like an angel. People who have artistic souls and enough talent to become famous are not ordinary. They possess Charisma—a magical ability to enthrall others.

I have the vague impression I was witty and his laughing grin was the living embodiment of joy. I'm serious. That man's ridiculous mouth is a caricature like a Comedy mask made for Greek Theater masks.

The spell was broken when a man called his name and he turned away to hear they were cleared to board their next flight. He stood up and so did I. He looked me up and down in appraisal and I got nervous, "Um, ah, I'm so glad I got to meet you. I now admire you as an artist and a person.”

AND HE BLUSHED!

I nearly fainted but got distracted by Ginny getting French-kissed goodbye by Brian Jones then noticed how Mick stood, awkwardly fidgeting like he couldn’t decide how to say goodbye. Subtle body shifts suggested he might try to hug me. If he did, I might break down in tears.

Instead, I offered my hand and he held it gently while saying, “You’ve made my day. I’d ask for your number but I have no idea when I’ll ever be in Atlanta again. This has been an extraordinary encounter. Thank you so much.”

“The pleasure has been all mine,” I gushed then giggled girlishly.

“No,” he drawled, “we shared the pleasure.” He started away but turned back to add, “You know my mates aren’t going to remember your girlfriend but I’ll probably never forget you.”

He was wrong about that. Less than two years later, Ginny was in the UK living with Brian Jones! I never expected to hear from him and, therefore, wasn't disappointed.

[asidian]

Day 22: Open

Interlude: Nova

"Be good for your grandmother," says Iyawa's mother. "And look after your sisters."

"Yes, mother," says Iyawa. 

Her mother's face is calm, despite the pain, but surely by now she knows what to expect. This isn't her first baby, after all, nor the second, nor even the third. One hand rests on her stomach, swelled to near bursting, and Iyawa sets her hand on top of it.

Iyawa's mother smiles, and leans down to kiss her forehead.

"We'll be home before you know it," she says.

Iyawa runs upstairs to wave from the balcony as her mother and father climb into the car and pull away. She waves them off down the street, until they're out of sight, and she stands there looking after them until her grandmother comes out to stand beside her, Kamdibe clinging to her skirts and Binyelum in her arms, busily sucking at her thumb.

"Come," says Iyawa's grandmother. "Come inside and help me prepare dinner."

Iyawa comes inside and helps her grandmother prepare dinner. She cracks open the crayfish for the achicha ede, and she washes the spinach, and when Binyelum gets bored, she takes her to the living room, where a colorful blanket is stretched out across the floor with toys for her to play.

When dinner is done, she washes the dishes, and Kamdibe dries them and puts them away. Then all three of them head upstairs, and Binyelum goes to bed with little enough fussing, and Kamdibe not long after.

Iyawa watches the clock; it's eight o'clock, and then nine. Her grandmother tries to put her to bed, but Iyawa begs, and she is granted a reprieve. Then it is eleven, and then midnight, and still no text from her parents.

"Pray for a brother," says Iyawa's grandmother, but Iyawa does not.

Even at seven years old, she knows what a brother will bring. Her best friend Kessandu was an only child until just last year, but when the new baby came and it was a boy, all the talk of college changed quite suddenly to talk of marriage.

Iyawa kneels below the crucifix in the living room, and she crosses herself, the way the priest crosses himself in church. "Dear God," she says, when her grandmother leaves the room to check on the sleeping children. "Please bring me a sister."

Word does not come until 2 am, when Iyawa is half sleeping, head pillowed on her grandmother's lap on the couch.

"The baby has come," says Iyawa's grandmother, softly, and instantly Iyawa is awake again, sitting up so fast she nearly knocks her head against her grandmother's chin.

"Show me," Iyawa demands, and Iyawa's grandmother passes over the phone.

The picture there shows her father, proud and protective; her mother, with a swaddled child in her arms.

The text below reads: "Adedayo is here at last. Please tell the girls they have a new sister."

And all at once, Iyawa remembers how to breathe.

===

Iyawa is eight years old, the last time she sees Nigeria.

Her father sits them down after dinner one night, while Adedayo fusses in her mother's arms, and tells them that his job has offered him a promotion, if he'll go to head a bank branch in Japan.

Binyelum cries a little because she doesn't understand, and all she knows is that they'll have to leave. But Iyawa tells her that Japan has a day just for children, where they fly flags shaped like fish, and another day just for girls, with pretty little dolls in pretty little dresses.

That quiets her down, and Binyelum sucks at her thumb, pensive, as Iyawa's mother lays out the plans. There are a hundred things to do, and not a lot of time to do them.

Iyawa's grandmother cries, too, when she thinks that no one is looking, but Iyawa sees. She takes her grandmother by the hand, and she squeezes it, softly.

From the airplane, Port Harcourt looks like a toy beneath them, the houses all in candy hues, dotted here and there with the vibrant green of the city parks. Iyawa can see the pleasure park where mother used to take them climbing on the weekends, and the little boats that sprinkle the water near Bonny Island.

She presses close to the window to try and catch sight of her grandmother, standing in the airport and waving goodbye, but by the time she thinks to look, it's too late. Already they're so very far away.

===

Iyawa has never been shy – but here, she finds, she stumbles to find what she means to say.

She is quiet in school, and the classes she excelled at when they were taught in Igbo – science and mathematics and English – are suddenly much more difficult, in this language she has only just begun to speak.

She fills her afternoons with workbooks, and she practices her Japanese at home, with Kamdibe and Binyelum, and she tries to ignore the way the students in her classes all turn to stare when she passes, eyes wide and voices whispering. 

It is hard not to be aware that she is the one out of place here. It is hard not to learn the word they use for foreigner.

It is the third week of her new science class when the boy approaches as they pack their bags. Iyawa has not begun to pack, yet; she is still staring at her textbook, where the page contains mostly words she cannot read, in kanji she has not learned yet.

"It's a nova," says the boy, in Japanese.

It takes her a moment, to realize he's answering the question that she was not able to, when the teacher called on her to ask. Her cheeks go hot; she closes the book, to try and pretend that that wasn't what she was searching for.

She shoves the book into her backpack, and she turns to look at him, instead.

He's a scrawny thing, with bony wrists and a narrow face. She's seen him before, getting picked on by the older boys at lunch time.

"I do not know all the words yet," says Iyawa, speaking slowly to make sure the sentence comes together properly, in just the way her workbook says it should. She is painfully conscious of her own accent.

"Well," says the boy. "You're new, right? It'll come."

She expects him to leave, at that. She expects that he'll join the rest of their classmates, bustling through the door with somewhere else to be.

He doesn't. He stays instead, leaning awkwardly against the desk, until she realizes belatedly that he's waiting for her, and begins to pack her things.

"I suppose it will," says Iyawa. "In time."

The boy only watches her for a moment, dark eyes flickering across her face. She can read the way his arms are folded across his chest – the closed in posture, almost skittish.

He means to say something, she thinks, and so she gives him the time he needs to work up to it.

"I'm Shimada," he manages at last, as Iyawa packs away the last of her belongings and lifts the backpack onto her shoulder.

"Eze," says Iyawa. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Somehow, she is not surprised that he falls in beside her, as she turns leave the classroom.

===

Iyawa watches Port Harcourt fall on the tiny holo-screen in Shimada's apartment.

She's thirteen years old, and there on the television, the climbing towers at the pleasure park where she spent her childhood weekends are shattered to splinters. On the ground, where the Christmas lights used to stand during the holidays, there is a creature that writhes like a massive black slug, half as long as a train car.

"May I borrow your phone?" she says to Shimada's mother, in a voice that trembles only a little.

"Oh, honey," says Shimada's mother, in that deep voice of hers, and presses a gentle hand to Iyawa's shoulder. She hands over the phone, and she says to Shimada, "Ryota, sweetie, stop staring. Go make her some tea."

Shimada goes to make her some tea, and Iyawa calls her mother's phone. The first words that she says are, "Has grandmother called?"

On the television, the camera does not pan away fast enough to hide the remnants of a man's body, or what remains of his leg, red and wet.

Shimada presses a cup of tea into her hand, and Shimada's mother guides her carefully to a floor pillow and tugs at her until she sits down.

Iyawa sips at the tea. It tastes like water – has barely begun to steep.

"We haven't heard from her yet," says Iyawa's mother.

In the background, she can hear her sisters, talking too high and too fast, the words all running together.

"Has anyone tried to call her?" says Iyawa, and her voice isn't as steady this time.

"The line is disconnected," says Iyawa's mother. "We'll keep trying."

"I see," says Iyawa, and she thinks she does.

She sips at the tea again, and she burns her tongue. It tastes like water, and a little like salt, and she realizes, belatedly, that it's because she's crying.

[banana-with-a-bow-tie]

The Christmas truce of  Christmas Eve, 1914, was a wonderful parenthesis of respite in the animosity of what would become the bloodiest war in human history.

As reports have been collated of that mysterious peace that washed over the Western Front on that silent night, it seems it all started with well-wishing and spontaneous singing of Christmas hymns. The Germans offered their hearty a cappella rendition of Stillenacht from their muddy trenches. In good cheer, from the British side—and by some accounts even in some French trenches—hymns of praise to God resounded throughout the empty battlefields.

Captain Robert Patrick Miles of the King’s Shropshire Light Infantry division wrote in a letter that was published in the Daily Mail in January 1915:

Friday (Christmas Day). We are having the most extraordinary Christmas Day imaginable. A sort of unarranged and quite unauthorized but perfectly understood and scrupulously observed truce exists between us and our friends in front. The funny thing is it only seems to exist in this part of the battle line – on our right and left we can all hear them firing away as cheerfully as ever. The thing started last night – a bitter cold night, with white frost – soon after dusk when the Germans started shouting ‘Merry Christmas, Englishmen’ to us. Of course our fellows shouted back and presently large numbers of both sides had left their trenches, unarmed, and met in the debatable, shot-riddled, no man’s land between the lines. Here the agreement – all on their own – came to be made that we should not fire at each other until after midnight tonight. The men were all fraternizing in the middle (we naturally did not allow them too close to our line) and swapped cigarettes and lies in the utmost good fellowship. Not a shot was fired all night.”

But what happened the day after Christmas? The opponents on either side of no man’s land cocked their guns and fired at each other with an aim to kill. Captain Miles, who wrote the letter above, was killed in action before New Year’s Eve.

Despite the brief interlude of religious observance and quiet reverence for the night commemorating the birth of the Prince of Peace, the enemies’ reconciliation was short-lived as the following day all returned to “normal” business: the business of death and destruction.

I understand that the soldiers on both sides were compelled to return to arms by the cause they were commissioned to fight for. In fact, with a seemingly unintended British dry irony, Captain Miles wrote of the Germans’ tardiness to get back to the war the day after Christmas:

“The beggars simply disregard all our warnings to get down from off their parapet, so things are at a deadlock. We can’t shoot them in cold blood…I cannot see how we can get them to return to business.”

I realize the war could not have been brought to an end by sentimentality, and yet it does seem a pity that the irenic effects Christmastime has on so many do not last beyond Boxing Day.

The attendance of many churches swells significantly on Christmas Day.  But the swelling abates noticeably by the next week’s worship gathering. What happens to all these people the day after Christmas? They go back to being their unchanged selves until the next yuletide pause in their devotional apathy.

Imagine if the glimpse of peace experienced by the warring parties on the Western Front in 1914 had just kept on spreading, instead of abruptly ending the next day.  And imagine if those who showed up to a worship service in honor of the Savior of the world on December 25 just kept on coming back week after week, and just kept on wanting to worship Jesus for coming to save us, and just kept on basking in the peace and joy and hope that comes from saving faith in God. Am I beginning to sound like an evangelical John Lennon?

What we can learn from the short but sweet Christmas Eve truce of 1914 is that being at peace is vastly superior to being at war…but enmity doesn’t just go away without a hard-earned, blood-bought peace.

Christmas makes people feel at peace with Jesus for a short spell, but their true peace with their Creator can only be accomplished by unconditional surrender to him—the willingness to repent of sin, lay down weapons of rebellion, and trust in the mercy and love with which he secured our forgiveness by his own blood. That gospel message is not seasonal; it must be proclaimed in season and out by we who have experienced its lasting effects.

[dear-mrs-otome]

Quand on Parle du Loup - Ikevamp (Jean, AU)

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire Pairing: Jean x female MC Warnings: ANGST. Blood, slight gore, horror, character death Summary: When a small village in 18th century France is stalked by a beast, at what price is peace bought? (~4k words, angst, historical/horror AU) Author’s Note: Hey everyone, this was my piece for the @ikevampzine​ - the theme of the zine was ‘mythology’ and so I opted to play around with the idea of the historical folklore surrounding the story of the Beast of Gévaudan. (If you have never heard of it, go google it! It’s a fascinating little interlude in history!) I was nervous because angst isn’t my usual playground but I had a lot of fun with this. I was also blessed enough to collaborate with @beni-draw-ikemen-please​ for some amazing art to go alongside it as well, and I thank her for being such a fantastic inspiration! Please see her full piece in all its glory at the end of this story!!

It slunk between the tables and conversations, stalked on silent paws the wisps of woodsmoke that curled from the blackened fireplace, and growled in the echo of every unsettled laugh that bounced back from the oaken rafters overhead.

Not here, not in the sense that mattered, but omnipresent. On everyone’s lips and hearts and minds.

La Bête

The Beast.

“I heard it took another shepherd last week, ‘round La Besseyre-Saint-Mary,” a snaggle-toothed man said quietly to his benchmate as she walked past, laden down by a heavy tray of food and drink. “Saints preserve us.” He crossed himself, and then spat on the tacky floor as if for good measure. 

“Saints indeed. The Lord knows we need all the help we can get,” his companion agreed with a rueful twist of his lips. “I thought it was gone for sure, after the marquis’ men caught that big ‘un and showed it off. It went quiet for awhile…but the past couple of months haven’t been so quiet, have they? They must have had the wrong wolf.”

“Did you ever notice though…” The first man broke off, casting his eye about suspiciously, before leaning towards his companion conspiratorially, his voice dropping low enough that she struggled to listen in. “Things really only seem bad around the full moon? Unnatural, I tell you. They say it’s just a wolf, but I’m not so sure.”

Shaking her head at their superstition, she breezed past, angling for the darkness of a corner sequestered far from the light and liveliness of the fireplace. The table she finally stopped at was occupied by only one man - unusual at this busy hour, but no matter how many times she’d seen him come in he always sat alone. Perhaps it was the heavy air he gave off, the way his thoughts seemed walled away behind the tooled leather of an eyepatch. Or perhaps it was the gleaming sword strapped to his hip, and the fine cut of clothing above it. Far finer than any rough homespun worn around these parts.

Everyone else had given him a wide berth since he’d rolled into town some six months back in the employ of the Marquis d’Apcher - as some sort of sellsword, they all had assumed. That hadn’t stopped him from coming to the tavern regularly though, despite their disdain, a pattern that screamed of perpetual bachelorhood.

“Monsieur Jean.” She set his usual beer and bowl of stew down in front of him, along with her usual smile.

He offered her his usual reserved reply. “Please. Just Jean is fine.”

“Very well…’Just Jean’.” It was a ridiculous joke, the same exchange they had nearly every evening, and yet she continued to toss it at him because it never failed to bring a spark of something to his dark eyes. Like summer lightning folded deep within bruised thunderheads. A secret swift flash that brought her inordinate pride.

At a nearby table, voices raised again, cursing the evil that stalked their town, and she caught a wince tightening the lines of Jean’s mouth.

“They’re talking about it again. I mean, what else do they ever talk about?” She shifted her weight and leaned a hip against the scarred tabletop so that she could bend enough to keep their conversation close. “Said someone disappeared the next village over. But you’ll find it,” she told him. She was certain that hunting the beast that terrorized their land was the only thing that would bring a man like him to a sleepy village like this - and was certain he was as frustrated as the rest of them with the lack of progress.

“Perhaps.” His soft murmur of agreement barely carried over the din, and she wondered if she had only imagined the thread of melancholy stitched within it.

Unthinking, she laid her hand over his to squeeze it reassuringly, and then froze when she realized what she had done. Waiting for him to pull his own back and brick himself once more behind the bulwark of silence he always sheltered behind. There was a faint flex, the dance of tension in his fingers…but to her utter surprise he didn’t move. He didn’t turn his hand over to receive her gesture - but he didn’t reject it either. 

She looked up from their layered fingers to find his gaze, for once, fixed squarely on hers, and it was dizzying to be the unwavering subject of that midnight intensity.

“Tomorrow is the Sabbath,” he began, almost hesitantly. “After church, are you free?” There was an awkward beat where she wondered what his intentions were exactly in asking, before he seemed to sense her confusion and hastened to fill the loaded silence, slipping his hand from beneath hers to wrap them both around his mug. “I noticed you often walk alone. It’s not safe, least of all now. I thought...perhaps…I could show you a few ways to keep yourself safer.”

“You’d be willing to do that?” She blinked, taken aback by his unexpected offer. 

His gaze shifted back to the ale between his hands, the barest ripple of a shrug moving across his frame. “It was just a thought. You are free to refuse.”

“I’m not saying no,” she hurried to answer. “That’d be very kind of you. To be honest, it is terrifying. But I also wish there was something I could do too, if I came across the beast. I know it’s ridiculous to think that one tavern wench could-”

“I’ve seen stranger things.” His interjection cut her self-depreciation off, and when she searched his face there was no mockery there. Only an earnest, fervent sort of frankness that humbled her. “It takes only a single grain of sand to tip a scale. One soldier to win a war.”

She had to duck her head then, to keep him from seeing the pleased smile that plucked at her lips. “All right, then I accept. Thank you.”

------

The sun had climbed high by the time church let out, pressing down on her shoulders like the weight of a hot heavy hand. Against the golden backdrop of an autumn field, Jean stood dark like a drop of ink, as cool and composed as ever where he leaned against the low stone wall.

“You came again.”

She had to wonder at the way he sounded almost surprised. This was the third week they had met like this now, after his first offer nearly a month ago.  “Of course I came. There’s too much going on for me to just...not.” 

He made a small noncommittal sound and then crossed towards her, his long legs eating up the distance. “Do you remember where we left off last time?” he asked, immediately all business. In his hand was the spear that had rested beside him and he offered it to her, haft first, the keen edge of its spade-tipped head winking coolly in the hot sun. 

She nodded and took it hesitantly, adjusting her grip on the grain of the handle until it felt comfortable in her hand. “I think so.” The spear is the weapon of the humble, he had told her on that first day. It is the great equalizer.

There was a stack of hay nearby and she turned to it, setting her jaw as she ran over their past lessons in her mind, Jean’s calm voice echoing in her recollections.

Set your feet.

Keep your weight toward your toes.

Bend your knees, hands shoulder-width apart. 

She drew a breath that carried the sweet smell of drying grass with it and lashed out with the tip, slicing a few of the nearest blades neatly off.  

“Your balance is good. You’ve been practicing. But -” He stepped behind her, arms braced alongside hers for support, hands resting atop her own until they were cradling the spear in their shared grip. “Always keep your lead arm steady.”

He guided her again into a careful stroke to illustrate, and she was reminded that this was a man who had made a life of war. In the muted strength of his grip, in the tensile musculature of the frame that bracketed her own, was the testament to a body flayed by battle into something pure of purpose. 

Beneath their combined hands, the fluid arc of her swing trimmed another few inches from the hay bales effortlessly.

His tiny grunt of exertion brushed over the sweat-clung curls at the nape of her neck, warm and cool at the same time, and she was abruptly aware of how close they were. The slightest turn of her head brought his face into view, scarcely more than a murmur away from her own, and she froze.

His skin was flawless, almost porcelain in its perfection save for whatever flaw lay behind that eyepatch. His features classic and refined. When she had first seen Jean, in the low light of the tavern, she had mistaken him for a woman - a mistake only corrected when she had heard his mild baritone. 

Yet even under the unflinching midday sun, he was still something undefinable. Beauty freed from the restriction of labels. As transcendent and timeless as the faces of the angels she saw in church every Sunday, carved of marble and of stained glass, perched on windows and above the pews watching over the parishioners. Divine and touched by God.

Her heart forgot how to keep its own time as the dark lashes on his good eye swept up, and the night sky of his gaze warmed ever so slightly as it met hers, like the slow break of dawn.

They both stalled, and the hand curled above the flare of her hip suddenly seemed to burn her through so many layers of cloth as the thought occurred to her that all she had to do was lean and she would finally know what those elegant lips felt like against her own.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked to distract herself from the temptation, her half breathless words giving voice to the question that had plagued her the past few weeks. “Why teach me all this?”

He dropped her hand and took a swift, safe step back, raking unsteady fingers through his long hair. For long moments she thought he wouldn’t answer at all, before he finally spoke. “Have you heard of the loup-garou?”

“A man, that becomes a wolf.” It would have been impossible not to, given the wild stories that passed through the lips of drunken men. “Surely you’re not saying...” She began on a laugh, but it withered away to nothing when his face remained impassive.

“The loup-garou is a scourge. A wolf but not, a man but not. Smarter, stronger, faster than any beast framed by the hand of God. It is the devil’s work.” Jean practically spat the words as he prowled a deliberate step forward, and she had to fight the urge to take an answering one back. His eye fixed on hers, hard and dark and cutting as a flake of obsidian. “A wretched cursed thing, damned to crave flesh. They say -” He broke off, almost as if wrestling with something, before finishing his thought. “They say it kills those it loves first.”

She licked dry lips, and tried to find her voice. “How do you stop it?”

He gestured toward the weapon in her hands with a rueful lilt to his words. “A sharp blade, and a lot of luck.”

“I don’t believe in monsters.” She shook her head vehemently, as if she could wish the idea away if she only denied it hard enough. Wish away all those dark grumblings that swirled around the tavern each night. “A wolf is a wolf is a wolf. God would not be so cruel as to damn a soul like that.”

A smile crossed his face then, quick and fleeting and full of something so akin to despair that it seemed more a grimace to her. “Humor me then, mademoiselle. Believe it or don’t, as you see fit.” He pressed the spear into her lax hands, until she was forced to grip it tighter. Cold and ominous, like a length of ice in her curled fingers. “But let us both agree that God helps those who help themselves.” 

------

The moon hung high when she left the tavern late the following night. Round and pendulous, it stared at her from between the trees as she waved a goodbye to the tavernkeep and tugged on the leather gloves she’d had tucked in a pocket. 

Shadows crawled across the dirt track that led toward her house on the fringe of the small village, in time with the swaying of the trees overhead, and the breeze they danced on waltzed with the ends of her hair as well, loosened by the evening’s toils. As she turned to pick up the stave leaning beside the back door, a far-off owl let out a melancholy trill.

It was all very tranquil, and she felt more than a bit foolish as she walked, armed to the teeth with weapons she scarcely knew how to use and jumping at every sound. 

Then, in the distance - a sound that raked cold claws down her spine.

The cresting ululation of a wolf’s howl.

Even without Jean’s fanciful tales, the sound sank a quarrel of panic into the base part of her brain, the one still firmly rooted in a time where mankind was decidedly prey and not predator. She tightened her grip on the haft she held so that she wouldn’t notice her own trembling fingers, and pressed on.

Then it came again, from the next rise nearer. Echoing down the gully and wood, as if funneled straight to her. 

As if whatever dreadful throat had borne that sound were coming straight toward her.

Her footfalls turned over faster, racing the occasional scudding cloud overhead as fear prodded her on, her heart squeezing out beat after frenzied beat from within the confines of her throat. The leather of her gloves grew slick inside with sweat from her palm, and she switched her grip on the spear to her other hand, flexing away the clammy dampness as best she could. 

Almost home, almost home...she clung to the little litany, as the howling drew closer and underbrush crackled off in the distance.

She saw the eyes first.

Flickering between the bushes like flames, the faint dry-bone rasp of dead brush accompanying it as it paced her effortlessly. A time or two it disappeared and she was left running alone, her heart pounding so hard it scarcely felt as if it had unclenched enough to take another beat - only for those ghastly twin fires to reignite, moments later, on the other side. Back and forth, back and forth, until a sudden realization had the prickles of a cold sweat break out on her back.

Mother of God...it was toying with her. As if it were some great cat rather than a wolf, amusing itself with her attempts to escape. Feeding off her fear as if it were an amuse bouche. The delectable prequel to a feast.

This, more than anything, convinced her that Jean had been right. This…this beast...was no creature of God. 

This was something born of hell. Nature marred by the devil’s own fingerprints.

Maybe that was the realization that finally turned her spine to steel. Jean had been right about the wolf - and that meant perhaps he had been right about her. He knew she could handle herself.

A single grain of sand.

Her feet scuffed lightly on the dirt of the path as she skidded to an abrupt halt, the sound of her own ragged breath the only thing filling her ears. Whatever the creature was, wherever the creature was, it seemed to be content to simply watch. And wait.

"Show yourself." She hated the tiny tremor that wove itself into her voice. Hated more the ridiculous inexplicable feeling that the creature might somehow understand her. 

It came, after a breath held so long her lungs began to ache. Parting the underbrush like a leviathan breaching the sea, black as sin with brimstone eyes. A mouthful of bristling fangs and a growl that scraped painfully deep on the ears, like the slow crumble of a mountain. It paced forward until the watery light shone on it fully, and she couldn’t have stifled the gasp that left her if she tried at the sheer size of it.

Against the inside of her ribs, her heart bruised itself painfully, and the fingers that clutched at her stave gripped it ever tighter, fighting against the terror that numbed them. The first few syllables of a Hail Mary tumbled from her lips, unbidden, to spill between them.

The beast paced the liminal wash of moonlight restlessly, dappled by shadow. A step toward her and then a turn back, pausing on occasion to sway its great shaggy head. The faintest of whines escaped the cage of its teeth, its ears pinned back flat to its skull as it met her eyes and stood, nearly motionless, fine tremors quaking its back as if shaking away the irritation of invisible flies.

She held that monstrous gaze, and it felt like walking into an open flame. Scorching and breathless as if the gates of hell swept themselves open to usher her in.

“What do you want?” she asked. It remained motionless, and the repetition tore itself from her throat, her voice breaking lest her nerve did. “What do you want?!” 

It didn’t answer, of course. The only thing her voice did was to snap whatever indecisive spell it had seemed to linger under. 

In a blink, the wolf leapt, and time seemed to perch on a glassine pedestal. So many things whirling at once until the moment shattered into countless shards, past and present and future all splintered and shuffled, like a broken mirror at her feet. Offering tiny refractions without answers.

The dark shape of the beast, blotting out the moon.

A howl, mournful and defiant, raking ragged claws across her concentration to shred it.

A slavering maw gaping open like the summation of all her misdeeds, snarling and ready to swallow her whole.

Then. 

A hand over her own, firm and steadying.

The sweet hot waft of hay in the sun, and a voice like clover honey in her ear, saying -

Set your feet. Set your feet.

Set your feet.

She did, and the rest of the motion flowed unquestioningly, earned over so many late-summer afternoons. The hard wood biting into her ribcage, nearly knocking the wind out of her as she took the brunt of the beast’s pounce squarely on the point. A strange sort of resistance that shivered up the shaft she held, until it punched through on a sucking, wet-clay sound, grating nauseatingly against bone as it went. Crimson bloomed and ran down the wood onto her arms, dripping from the beast and her own elbow, red-black as the secret heart of an unfurling rose. Splashing and scattering about like crushed petals to pit the dusty ground beneath her feet.

Teeth snapped shut inches from her face, pink and frothed with blood. And above it all, the tip of the spear gleaming proud and defiant, coated in gore and fur where it sprouted from the back of the beast.

With her hands slick, she couldn’t keep her grip against the weight of the wolf, and she and the spear crashed to the ground. She rolled over onto her knees in a rush and found the wolf lying nearby, panting as it strained and thrashed, great claws gouging furrows in the dirt as it fought - for freedom from the weapon that pierced it, perhaps. For purchase, as it still strained towards her. For life, as it railed against the slow dim of that feral light in its eyes.

She watched, transfixed, as its great bulk seemed to fold in on itself. Fangs blunting, claws shrinking, limbs stretching and fur receding until in the road, gasping against a spreading backdrop of scarlet, lay the truth she knew she’d been running from this whole time.

“Thank God. Oh...thank God.” The words left Jean on a broken sigh, soft as the brush of an angel’s pinfeathers.

She crawled to his side, heedless of the pebble strewn dirt that bit savagely into her palms and knees. “Jean, I -”

She what? There were a hundred ways to end that sentence and not a single one managed to rise out of the maelstrom of emotions that gripped her, twisting hot and tight in her chest, surging to beat at the back of her eyes. Her hands fluttered insecurely above him, unsure of where to land or what to do, before she lifted his head onto her lap and brushed sweat-matted strands from his face. 

There were stars in his eyes, she saw, as his gaze struggled to find hers. Not just a reflection of those wheeling overhead, but tiny flecks of pallor in the twilight of them that she had never noticed before - constellations trapped within his unfocused stare. 

“Forgive me.” His voice was the barest tattered thread of sound, and even that small effort set him coughing, blood bubbling around the shaft still impaled in his chest like the ghastliest of blooms. “Forgive me for saying this but...I am so glad it was you. I knew it would be.”

His hand shook and tried to reach for her, falling weakly back against his stomach until she snatched it up and clenched it tight within her grasp. Heedless of the heartsblood that coated it like a glove, far warmer than the chilled flesh beneath.  “How did you know that?”

A full smile graced his lips, the first she had ever seen, achingly beautiful despite the agonized clench of his teeth. “I knew exactly who his prey would be.”

The slick fingers tangled between her own tightened, squeezing meaningfully, though the gasp that tore through him belied how much even that small motion cost - and the pain that lanced her heart at the implication of his words made it feel almost as if it were she that had been run through. 

He shivered, though the night wasn’t cold, and the pulse at his wrist fluttered faster against her fingertips. Erratic, like the shake of a fledgling's wings before flight. “If God is merciful..” His clear eyes slowly clouded. “M-may He grant we meet again.”

Before she could answer, he sighed one more breath - and then stilled.

“No. No, no, no…” But there was no denying the truth, no matter how bitterly it sat on her tongue. Mixing harsh with the salt of the tears that ran down her cheeks. She held a dead man, in wretched mimicry of a lover’s embrace, and wept a pieta over the clay that had bound him to this nightmare - the unblinking moon above the only other witness to just what price his freedom.

[palmtreepalmtree]

Alright, this one is long overdue for an anonymous friend who really wanted me to review The Healer.  So after a short pause, here is another edition of

The Worst Movie on Netflix Right Now™

Heavy sigh.

Alright.  Let’s talk about this one.  

First off, I have to do some pretty serious content warnings, cause I know some people have been receiving some bad news recently and this review goes someplace you might not expect so, I love you guys, but please be aware that this review deals with: cancer, terminal illness, kids with cancer.  

Now back to the bullshit.

This is basically a movie about a fucking dumbass dude who has trouble making obvious decisions.  

SPOILERS AHEAD (are you new here?)

The main character Alec Bailey, begins the film as a total fuckwit.  He lives in England (somewhere about) and owns a failing electronic handyman business that he calls “The Healer” (in the most pathetic stretch of narrative bullshit, but okay) and is in deep gambling debts to the Russian mob. 

As our story begins, Alec discovers that he has a long lost rich uncle who makes him an offer: the uncle will pay off Alec’s debts if he agrees to live in Nova Scotia for a year.  The uncle will make all the arrangements: plane ticket, work visa, place to live, etc.  All Alec has to do is stay in Nova Scotia for a year.

OH NO!  WHATEVER SHALL I DO?!?  WHAT AM I GOING TO DO IN REMOTE NOVA SCOTIA FOR A YEAR AFTER ALL MY FINANCIAL CONCERNS ARE TAKEN CARE OF?  

HOWEVER WILL I SURVIVE IN SUCH A HORRIBLE PLACE?11?!?

I BETTER THINK IT OVER.

*eyeroll*

He finally makes his decision after getting chased by mobsters trying to collect on his debts.  ...like I said.  He’s a fuckwit.

So he moves into this beautiful house in Nova Scotia.  There’s no internet, which is a legit bummer, but his uncle has arranged a car for him to get to town.  Seems like a pretty good gig.  Even if it is going to be brutally cold come the winter months.  

Well as soon as Alec arrives in town, everyone seems to know and be expecting him.  He puts an ad out for his mechanical engineering services, again, under the name “The Healer.”  Well........... that goes awry in ways you would expect.  Suddenly, people start showing up requesting his physical healing services.

The thing is, the people from town seem to expect him to actually be a healer.  They keep referring to a secret and to him being “the chosen one.”  There’s no explanation for this.

Then there’s like... this whole weird interlude where Alec seems to kill the town priest, played by Jorge Ramirez (can someone please find this dude a good acting gig? my dude has decent comedic timing, he’s better than this shit). And Alec gets arrested.  Even though the priest got up and walked away.  All of this seems like a weird spinning of wheels before the actual plot.  Like why is this happening.  Why?  

Eventualllllllly......... his uncle shows back up and fesses up (in the most elaborate way possible).  People in his family have a gift.  Every other generation, someone is chosen.  And they have the gift of healing.  Based solely on being near to someone who is destined to be saved.

The gift can only be activated around their 30th birthday (if this sounds unnecessarily elaborate, that’s because it is -- and I’m even cutting shit out like the secret basement and portraits on the wall, blahblahblah).  The day after the birthday, the chosen one must decide.  They can choose to accept or decline the gift of healing.  Alec is given until midnight that night to make his decision.  WILL HE BE THE CHOSEN ONE?  WILL HE BE THE HEALER?!?!1?1

I mentioned that Alec is a fuckwit right?  

*Hagrid voice* YOU’RE A FUCKWIT, ALEC!

*squints*

Annnnnnyhow.  Alec goes to the town church where everyone is gathered at midnight (with thank you signs and a big round of applause) and he dashes their hopes.  HE WILL NOT BE THE HEALER, NO!  Even though it comes with no readily apparent downsides or costs.  And he’d be able to relieve the suffering of others with no cost to himself.  No, fuck it.  He’s going to go home.

The town takes it pretty well, all things considered.  The few people who had already been healed by being near him make speeches of gratitude.  They all wish him a happy birthday and tell him he’s welcome to stay.  Like these people are insanely understanding about him declining the gift of healing.  INSANE.

It’s worth noting that we’re about halfway through the movie at this point and we haven’t met one of the main characters of the movie.  

IN COMES ABIGAIL.  Cancer kid extraordinaire.  She is 14 years old.  Her parents have driven 7 hours to see Alec.  Their daughter is dying of terminal cancer, and all they want is for Alec to spend some time with her and give it a shot.  But she’s a pretty self-possessed kid.  She convinces the reluctant Alec to just hangout with her for the weekend to buck up her parents and give her parents some hope.  She doesn’t believe in the healing, so no harm, no foul.

And finally we’ve hit the meat of our story.  Will Alec be able to save Abigail now that he’s declined the gift?  Will he regret it?  WHY DID HE DECLINE THE GIFT!?1?

SPOILERS (really can’t discuss this movie without them)

It turns out, Alec had a brother who died of cancer.  And they were incredibly close.  In Alec’s words, “he was my everything.”  But now he deeply regrets giving up the gift.  Now he’s worried he can’t save Abigail.

You know what, man?  Same.

SO WHY THE FUCK DID YOU TURN DOWN THE GIFT!??!?

Listen.  Listen, listen.  I don’t know a single person who has been touched by cancer who wouldn’t jump at the chance to have a healing gift.  I mean, what the fuck.  Death sucks.  Losing someone you love from any kind of illness sucks.  Especially when it feels even remotely too soon.  And cancer is a particular type of FUCKING BULLSHIT.  It sucks.  

So it’s really fucking hard to understand why this FUCKWIT turns down the gift to begin with.  Death and suffering is not abstract for him when this movie starts!  So why we should feel sorry for his resulting anxiety, now that he has met someone who is directly negatively affected by his fucking BAD DECISION.

Anyhow, the rest of the movie is basically an exercise in how charming Abigail is and how much fun we can have with her before she goes off to die. Which like......... OH-FUCKING-KAY!

It should go without saying that this movie has a happy ending.  The music swells where it should.  The romance is consummated.  Abigail is healed.  All is going to be well with the world.

As a movie, this one has some weird fucking choices.  First, all of the music cues in this movie are just wrong.  “Faith” by George Michael is not a song about believing in something --- unless that something is having sex with someone who hurt you before.  And the lighting in this film is so beautiful all the time, it looks like you’re in a fucking ciallis commercial, even when you’re in the freaking police station, wtf?  

And last, the writing is just weird in places.  Like why have the love interest lie about being a lesbian through 90% of the film?  Why?  It’s not a good joke!  And  It is COMPLETELY fucking baffling to me why the good news of this story is delivered off-screen instead of on-screen.  If Abigail is going to be okay, why couldn’t she come back to Nova Scotia to tell him?  Why couldn’t she deliver that news in person!?  That’s just bad writing.  What the fuck is that?

But whatever.  

On the credit side, I think Oliver Jackson Cohen knows what he’s doing as an actor.  He’s not Oscar-worthy yet, but I believed him.  When he talks about his brother, I felt that.  And that could not have been easy in such a fucking weird script.

But as much as I’d like to end this review right here, there’s more.  Cause...

..........that’s not where the movie ends.  Not entirely.

As the end music plays, the movie is dedicated to Paul Newman who established summer camps for seriously ill kids.  And then we see images and videos of the kids all over the world enjoying activities at these camps.  

And that’s where this critique stops.  Sorta.  Paul Newman was a legitimately good person.  And his legacy of caring for sick kids carries on to this day, as was evident from all the footage.

But here’s the thing: healing as it’s depicted in this movie does not exist.  But easing the suffering of others does.  I wish this movie had been about that.  I wish it had been less focused on miracles and weird family legacies and selfish fuckwits and more about the kind of healing that Paul practiced.  But I guess that movie isn’t as fun, and it isn’t as hopeful and uplifting.

In the non-movie version of this story, Abigail Bryant died in 2014 at the age of 20.  Her obituary still appears online.  And it is still receiving comments and photos from cancer survivors and fighters, many of them who found her through the film.  And they talk about how the movie touched them.

On that level, it doesn’t matter what I say here.  It doesn’t matter that there are weird parts of this script or that healing like this is a fantasy.  This movie does its job.  It touches people.  And if it inspires just a few more people to give money to help relieve suffering, then that’s all that matters.

Ronald McDonald House Charities Cancer Research Institute Hole in the Wall Gang (Paul Newman’s org) Serious Fun Children’s Network (established by Paul Newman)

[introvertguide]

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969); AFI #73

The next film for review is one of my very favorite Western style films, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969). This is an incredible film that is directed by George Roy Hill and stars the charismatic colossi Paul Newman, Robert Redford, and Katharine Ross. The film won four Academy Awards including Best Editing, Best Cinematography, Best Score, and Best Song. The AFI ranked the male duo #20 on the 100 Greatest Heroes list and the movie was ranked the 7th greatest western despite arguably not really being a Western but a semi-biography that is set in the Old West. As American as this film is, it actually did the best at the BAFTAs where it won 8 awards from 9 nominations and swept the major awards including Best Film, Best Direction, Best Actor (Robert Redford), and Best Actress (Katharine Ross). Before singing any more of the accolades for the movie, let me break down the plot. Of course that means...

SPOILER ALERT!!! THIS MOVIE IS GREAT AND DESERVES TO BE WATCHED AND NOT SPOILED!!! STOP READING AND WATCH THE FILM IF YOU HAVEN’T ALREADY!!! IT IS GREAT TO WATCH FIRST AND THEN COMPARE TO HISTORY AFTER SO GIVE IT A TRY!!!

The film is set In 1899 Wyoming, and begins with a quick sepia toned introduction to the characters. The major players are the quick talking Butch Cassidy (Paul Newman) and the quiet and short tempered Sundance Kid (Robert Redford). The color corrects and the two are riding together back to see their gang and it turns out that one of the other men wants to take over. Butch wins in a fight for the gang leader position by cheating along with the help of Sundance keeping the others at bay. Butch retains his job but he does like Harvey’s idea to rob the Union Pacific train. This robbery takes place with a comical interaction between Butch and an accountant/safeguard named Woodcock. The robbery goes well and the two celebrate at a whore house while watching the local sheriff try to enlist men for a posse. 

This is the end of act 1 and it is punctuated by a musical number. This happens throughout the film. Butch rides a bike around to try to impress the lover of Sundance, Etta Place (Katharine Ross), after stealing her away in the morning before the Kid wakes up. It is quite unusual and stands out from the rest of the film as Butch is not the love interest of the woman and the bike does not show up again. The music number is “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” by Burt Bacharach with an almost Benny Hill style circus outro. It really exemplifies the experimental nature of the film as the scene would likely have been cut today.

The train robbery went so well that the gang tries it again, but this time everything seems to be going wrong. Woodcock is coincidentally guarding the safe again and one of the passengers starts mouthing off. Butch is able to get into the safe car, but the safe is much thicker forcing him to use a bunch of dynamite to break it. He uses too much and blows up everything sending paper money blowing around in the breeze. To make matters worse, another train pulls up releasing a posse hired by the owner of Union Pacific. This posse kills two of the gang and chase Butch and Sundance into the mountains and the two can’t seem to lose them. They finally are able to jump off a cliff into a river and escape back to Etta. The two are worried that the posse is still coming so they take Etta and go to South America. Cue the end of act 2 so we have a fun musical travel montage. 

This is a travel montage shown through sepia tone still photos of the three going to New York and seeing the town before catching a boat south. Again, the music is far out of place for the genre and only works because of the overall experimental feel of the film. It is a very short interlude in slide show format and carnival music, but it does the trick and brings the group to Bolivia. 

On arrival, Sundance is not impressed at the conditions. They try to rob banks and are at first held back because of an inability to speak Spanish. Etta teaches them and the two men rob banks becoming known as Los Bandidos Yanquis (American Bandits). Here is another music interlude of all the successful robberies set to pleasant choir music that sounds like something out of an industrial instructional film, which tells the audience the mood is again about to change. After a while, Sundance becomes paranoid because he sees a man that looks like the leader of the posse that drove them out of America and the two decide to go straight and get jobs guarding the payroll instead of robbing it. Unfortunately, the are held up on their first job and Butch is forced to kill which he reveals he has never had to do before. Butch wants to have one more big score and Etta heads back north, sensing trouble with a return to crime, while Butch and Sundance complete a “jungle robbery” of the payroll.

The robbery is a success and the two take the money and the mule to carry it. This is a mistake because a local kid recognizes the brand on the mule and tells the police who also inform the Bolivian military. This is bad news for Butch and Sundance as they are pinned down in a small church by what seems to be a hundred Bolivian men. Butch makes a run for the ammo but both are shot in the attempt and it seems there is no way out. The two continue to banter about going to Australia after leaving Bolivia, but they both know they are done. They load up their guns the best they can and run out into the massive volley of fire and the frame freezes not revealing the final fate of the two. Roll credits.

This seems like a strange way to end a movie, but it mirrors the unknown fate of the real Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The whole movie is pretty historically accurate as far as what is known about the lives of the three main characters, but the musical interludes and the quippy dialogue make the film feel much more fictional. The movie is also split into definitive chapters with music breaks so it really has good pacing. Fine visual story telling. 

There is a strong connection between Paul Newman and Robert Redford, which is apparent throughout the film. Paul is the amiable people-person who likes to talk and be friends with everyone while Robert liked to keep to himself and was all business. It just worked well. Director George Roy Hill used this dynamic again when he had both men star together in The Sting, which was even more successful and garnered 7 Academy Awards. A great connection and an example of a cinematic “bromance” in which two lead male characters act almost like a married couple. 

The film seems to be strongly inspired by the works of Sergio Leone like A Fist Full of Dollars; For A Few Dollars More; The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly; and Once Upon A Time in the West. It takes the western film and gives a more complicated plot, more stylized cinematography, and great soundtrack. The Leone films were shot in Italy and didn’t have all the restrictions that American films had in the 60s, so Hollywood looked to these films for content ideas when the Hayes code was finally replaced by the MPAA rating system in 1969. The major difference was American film makers had access to big name Hollywood actors and the actual American west. Also, Leone hired Ennio Morricone who used period piece instruments to give each character a theme while Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was scored by a hipster and then shot in a way to try and incorporate the music. 

In American film history, the year 1969 was very experimental with the Civil Rights movement and the “free love” hippies affecting the box office draw at the same time. The former group preferred a more realistic filming approach while the latter wanted a more psychedelic fantasy. Many of the films blended both and America ended up with The Wild Bunch, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Midnight Cowboy, and Easy Rider. It was a year of genre mixing and experimentation that makes for some fascinating film watching. Really embodies the turmoil of the country and the new age of Hollywood films. 

So should this film be on the AFI 100? Of course. It was experimental, influential, fun, and fascinating. It was perhaps the first “bromance” in Hollywood and a well established part of Americana. It also showed that context is completely unnecessary for a song to work in a film. Would I recommend it? How could I not? It is one of the few films that I have seen more times than I can count and still have not had to check the time while watching it. It is fun from beginning to end (sometimes weird, sometimes funny, sometimes dramatic action) and gorgeous to look at. It is a little anachronistic and abrupt with the music interludes, but engaging and enjoyable throughout. Definitely a film on the list that is more than just a time capsule or a lesson in film making (although it is that as well).

[carrie-underwoods]

Cry Pretty Tour Setlist

Southbound

Cowboy Casanova

Good Girl

Last Name

Backsliding

Church Bells

Two Black Cadillacs

Blown Away

Drinking Alone

End Up With You

Flat On The Floor

Wasted

Temporary Home / See You Again / I Know You Won’t / Just A Dream / Dream On [Aerosmith cover] (Medley)

Jesus Take The Wheel

The Bullet

Something In The Water

Low

Women Of Country Medley (with Maddie + Tae & Runaway June. featuring songs by Tammy, Trisha, Loretta, Martina, The Judds, Dolly, Faith, Patsy and Shania)

Undo It

The Champion

Before He Cheats

Cry Pretty

Love Wins

That Song We Used To Make Love To, Ghosts On The Stereo used during costume change/as an interlude. (Info from here)

Women Of Country Medley songs: Stand By Your Man / Walking After Midnight / Coal Miner’s Daughter / 9 to 5 / Rockin’ to the Rhythm of the Rain / She’s In Love with a Boy / Independence Day / Wild One / Why Haven’t I Heard From You / Man! I Feel Like a Woman!

[dustedmagazine]

Raspberry Bulbs — Before the Age of Mirrors (Relapse Records)

Before The Age Of Mirrors by Raspberry Bulbs

Raspberry Bulbs’ new record Before the Age of Mirrors almost allows the phrase “blackened punk” to make some kind of sense. First track “Spitting from on High” starts with a minute of snarling, rapid-fire riffing, charged with death-rocking menace and thickened by some clever guitar tone. After that initial salvo, the song downshifts to midtempo. Band founder Marco Del Rio (familiar to some from his work with Bone Awl under the stage moniker “He Who Crushes Teeth”) mutters, then grumbles, then shouts, following his playing’s increasingly nasty charge. There’s a little bit of Crucifix in the sound, and a little bit of early Darkthrone. Nick Forte contributes a tremolo line, not quite a solo, that sounds something like the icy synths Xasthur was messing with before he went folky. It glistens, and somehow it adds to the nastiness. The rest of the record follows suit, to terrific effect.

Del Rio has been releasing music under the Raspberry Bulbs name since 2009. Starting with Deformed Worship (2013), he has recorded with a band behind him. The line-up has cohered, and so has the band’s sound. Before the Age of Mirrors benefits from that coherence. These are the best songs the band has issued, and their relative pleasures as songs dull none of the vexed edges off of the sound they established on previous recordings. Raspberry Bulbs have always been good at channeling the raw energies you hear on some early SST records (here and here) and coupling them with a dour, witching-hour sensibility. The several “Interludes” on Before the Age of Mirrors summon the coven with drama and panache: the short tracks burble with subterranean fluids and echo with strange, demonic voices. But their midnight surreality doesn’t disrupt the record’s punky momentum. They make it weird.    

That’s a good trick, and the interludes intensify the record’s performative, blackened qualities. Still, some of us want to say “blackened punk”? As opposed to what? Mauve? Hopefully all of us have grown up enough to know that metal and punk have always been kinfolk, endowed with like-minded, pranksome hostilities. They seek the darkened corners, the seamy spaces between. Raspberry Bulbs find one of those grim spaces and gambol through it. Even in its heaviest metal moments, on “Reclaimed Church” and excellent closing track “Given Over to History,” the record’s punk vibe cuts and grins. It insists on a deadly aesthetic seriousness, and at the same time, it’s tugging the rug out from under its own feet. It seems intent on a dangerous fall, with broken bones and bloodied noses the least of its hopes. The busted up and agonizing forms that result accumulate into a hell of a record. Put on your black boots and stomp around in it awhile.  

Jonathan Shaw

[ayanagiann]

January 2019 Tracklist

Blackjack - Aminé Got Muscle (feat. Peewee Longway & WaveIQ) - Goldlink Middle Child - J. Cole Where U Been (feat. Boogie) Cosmo’s Midnight Function (feat. GoldLink, April George, Cheakity (prod. by Supah Mario) - Ciscero Zloppy (Feat. Mario) - Zixxne Brk Frm Nrml (feat. Mick Jenkins) - Planet Giza Dreamer (feat. Pauli the PSM) - Cosmo’s Midnight No Mo - Chase Murphy U Say - Alex Wynn Karma - Lucky Daye I’m Alright (feat. R.LUM.R) - Brasstracks Communication (feat. DRAM) Arin Ray Exotica - A. CHAL Way Back (prod Lawrence Mace) - Rayana Jay Jade (feat. Blood Orange) - Lolo Zouaî Lost & Found - Serayah Shine (Prod. Djouher) - Aoyoru 7 Rings - Ariana Grande More Than That - Lauren Jauregui Curiosity - Asiahn Obvious - Ayelle XXX88 (feat. Diplo (Joe Hertz Remix) - MØ Better In My Head - Mickey Shiloh HML (feat. A Boogie Wit Da Hoodie) - Melii Mind off (feat. Kudu Blue) - Cosmo’s Midnight History - Cosmo’s Midnight Get to Know (feat. Winston Surfshirt) - Cosmo’s Midnight Lowkey (feat. Buddy & Jay Prince) - Cosmo’s Midnight All I Know (feat. Kes) - DaniLeigh Stay - Stefan All The Time (feat. Alanna Aguiar) - Souly Had Like I Need U - Keshi Can U Please Stay? - Isaiah Flowers TenderHeaded (feat. Smino) - Cam O’bi  Ride (prod.  False Ego) - Aaron May Justine’s Interlude - Goldlink Times 10 (feat. Lil Baby) - Sammie Candlelight (Remix) (feat. Jeremih) - Zhavia Ward I Found You / Nilda’s Story (prod. Benny Blanco & Calvin Harris) - Migue Too Much I Miss You (feat. TYLERxCORDY) - Chelsea Cutler Dancing With A Stranger (feat. Normani) - Sam Smith How You Love Me (feat. Conor Maynard & Snoop Dogg) - Hardwell I’m So Tired... (w/ Troye Sivan) - Lauv 4EVER - Clario Slowly - FALCXNE Sleep Walk (Original Instrumental) - Santo & Johnny Church (feat. EARTHGANG) - Samm Henshaw