#its just so IMPRESSIVE how such an intense feeling of dread can be evoked

[muddlemore]

as a kid this shot alone scared me more than the entirety of graveyard shift and as an adult i can actually appreciate how fucking impressive that is

[theladyspooks]

In Morte, Aerternitatis Ch. 3: Myths & Legends

Annie and Paul’s house was understandably dark by the time she got there, but after her visit with Ethan she had to see them; had to see Annie. Ethan was holding something in, protecting someone, he had to be! It was true he’d been stand offish after Coleman’s murder and perhaps irate in the face of comfort, but never had she heard him talk about murder.

Certainly not when it came to his father.

Whatever reasons he had for implicating himself, she needed to tell Annie. Maybe something he said would make a lightbulb go off if they put their heads together. Plus Paul could make a mean midnight snack while they brain stormed.

She made her way from her car to the front door and knocked, looking around at the foliage as she waited. After a minute she knocked once more with a bit more force, confused as to why she couldn’t at least hear footsteps from inside the house. Just when she was about to start searching for the spare key, the door opened to reveal Paul in his pajamas.

“Well, well, well, look who the sandman woke up.” He teased.

“Very funny, Top Chef. Do you mind if I come in? I know it’s late, but-” Paul laughed at her flustered correction.

“Get your Russian rear in here, you know I’m teasin’.” She scoffed at his amused expression and made her way inside, “So what brings yah to our humble abode at this hour?”

“I was actually hoping to speak to Annie. Just stopped by to check on Ethan and- well, something isn’t sitting right with me. There’s just something in the way he spoke that had me on edge” She sniffed the air as they neared the kitchen, “Do I smell crepes?” Paul snorted at her sudden train of thought.

“As a matter of fact, yes! Was makin’ a little dessert for the lady of the house, but I suppose I can make another for our most special guest?” He declared while whipping up another round of batter.

“I don’t mean to impose…” Anya smirked.

“Now what kind of chef would I be if I didn’t make enough for everyone?” Paul smiled and picked up his tray after setting the batter onto the hot pan, “Keep an eye on that for a minute while I run this up to Annie, I’ll let her know you’re here.” And with a flourish, he was off and running.

Anya laughed at his enthusiasm and went to work with the crepe, no way she was gonna just sit and look at it. After the top had turned a slight golden color, she flipped it over and grabbed the cream and berries from where Paul had left them. After the pastry was done, she began to spread all the fixings evenly until a smashing of glass broke her from her concentration.

Looking up in alarm she called out for anyone who would answer. When she received no answer, curiosity and concern took over.

“Annie? Paul?” She called out once more as she made her way down the long hallway only to hear the sounds of what she could describe as panic quickening her pace at the sound of Annie’s call for Paul.

Finally making her way to the last small set of steps, she froze at what she saw.

Annie stood frozen in fear, her hair disheveled and her eyes wide as saucers at the scene before her. From what she could tell, Paul was struggling and gasping in pain; restrained by the tall figure closest to her. It was clearly another man, but her first thought was of the sheer height he displayed; height that offset extremely broad shoulders swathed in a long black coat. Shit, it didn’t matter what he looked like, she needed to think quick if she wanted to get him away from Paul.

“HEY!” She shouted in the sternest voice her inner babushka could muster. At her scream, Annie’s head turned to her, fear painted onto her skin.

“Anya! Oh my god, Anya!” Annie cried as the figure turned with Paul still in his grasp to face the red head.

By the look of the man before her, she couldn’t say she recognized him. High cheekbones and intense eyes that lay on a bed of dark hickory skin, lips full yet set in a grim line with hair as black as night.

Yeah, she’d definitely remember a face as powerful as his.

Paul continued to thrash in the strangers grasp, his hands clawing at the long arm encasing him. No matter how hard he struggled against the tall man, he never once flinched; attention fixated fully onto Anya while hers zeroed in on the small smattering of blood that dripped from Paul’s clothing.

“Let him go” She kept her voice stern yet lower than her previous panicked yell, taking a slow step forward to assert her presence. The man may have been a good few feet taller than her, but from where she stood atop the steps, her head came just up to the tip of his nose, “I said...let him go, now.” God, how she was keeping her voice so steady was a mystery. Even Vadim would be impressed.

The man’s head tilted very slightly in a way that would be easy to miss if she wasn’t keeping her gaze firmly on his every move. It was hard to tell if he was amused or irritated by her display of attempted intimidation, but all she cared about was getting him away from Paul. After that? Well...she’d get there eventually.

“I don’t know who you are and I don’t why you’re doing this, but I’d really appreciate it if you could remove your weapon from my friend.” Damn, since when could she make her voice go that low?

The man's lip quirked by centimeters before the arm that wasn’t holding Paul pulled back, causing him to let out another grunt of pain before being tossed towards Annie. The stranger turned his body fully towards her only then revealing his weapon, conveniently lodged onto where his hand should’ve been.

‘Well shit.’ She thought with a growing sense of dread and realization.

If this was who she thought it was then- no, no, no, no that was ridiculous. There was no way that this was the Candyman standing before her in living flesh. It had to be some sort of fanatic, a crazed worshipper of the myth. She was broken out of her musings as he took a long step towards her, her own foot going back out of reflex.

“So polite...even in the face of death itself.” His voice was composed of the darkest chocolate thrown into a rolling wave of thunder, deadly and deep in a way that wasn’t entirely unsettling. She felt herself take another step back as he came up the two small stairs, from the corner of her eye she saw Annie run back into her bedroom without him noticing as Paul lay against the wall still writhing in pain.

When he took another step towards Anya, a strange sense of pride built inside her; she would not be cornered into submission. Stopping in the middle of the hallway, she tilted her chin up in defiance of his presence. He didn’t stop until he stood directly in front of her, only a mere few inches separating them as she willed herself to breathe calmly.

His gaze felt as if it was somehow encompassing her entire being, transporting her to a different plane entirely. His human hand came up gently and grasped a strand of her hair in his fingers, letting it glide out of his grasp like the flow of water.

“Such fire radiates from within you.” He husked as his hooked hand came up to caress her cheek.

It took everything in her to remain still as the rusted metal still coated in Paul’s blood stroked her cheek as if to evoke a lover's caress, his other coming to encase her own hand entirely. She could feel his eyes roaming over every meticulous detail of her face as the hook came to cradle the back of her neck in its curve.

“Will you still burn so brightly when all is said and done?” His hook placed the slightest amount of pressure on her neck to the point where she was pulled forward; his nose almost touching hers, “I will relish the chance to find out.” He whispered as she felt herself fall into darkness, the sound of distant sirens going off around her.

In what felt like eternity was actually two minutes as she found herself looking up at what appeared to be a paramedic as well as Annie’s worried face.

“Oh Anya, thank god!” Annie’s hands cradled her face, “You’re okay, you’re both okay. Thank god!” Annie cried as more tears welled in her eyes. Wait, where was Paul?

“Paul? Is- is he-” Her soft request was cut off.

“The just took him out on the stretcher, he’s unconscious and they’ve stemmed the blood flow. I needed to make sure you woke up before I-”

“Annie Tarrant, you go after your husband right now. I’ll be fine with Miss-” She looked up at the paramedic.

“Barker, ma’am.” She supplied.

“-with Miss Barker, alright?” Annie seemed entirely unconvinced, “Annie it’s over, okay? I’m fine. Go to the hospital with Paul and I’ll come by the hospital in the morning with Vadim.” With one final smile from Anya, Annie nodded and hesitantly stood up. Anya closed her eyes at the sound of Annie’s hurried footsteps fading, the voice of Miss Barker cutting through.

“Think you can sit up, honey?” She nodded and scrunched her face at the headache that was forming, her hands forming into fists around the soft object in her hand-

Wait, what was that?

Sitting up fully she lifted her right hand up and open, her eyes nearly bugging out at what she saw. Another amaryllis lay cradled in her fingers, the same ones that had been encompassed by the stranger mere minutes ago.

“Is there anyone you can call to take yah home, cher? Unless you think yah need to head to the emergency room.” Miss barker’s voice came in gently.

“No, no emergency room. I can- I can call my brother to come get me.” Miss Barker helped her to stand and led her over to the phone in Annie’s bedroom. She smiled graciously at the paramedic before dialing Vadim’s number.

The line rang a few times before a groggy voice picked up.

“Whoever this is better have a damn good reason fo-”

“Vadim?”

A small pause and a second of shuffling was heard before he answered.

“Anya? Anya I- Anastasia, do you understand what time it is?!” She inhaled shakily and exhaled just as bad, something that didn’t escape her brother’s notice, “Anya? Kroshka, what is it? What’s wrong?” The pet name was the thing to finally set her tears off, the mask of confidence she put on for her friend falling.

“Vadim...I really need you to come get me,” Her voice was watery, “I’m at Annie’s-”

“Say no more, I’m coming now! Five minutes, dushen’ka!” He hung up abruptly as she was left to sit there with nothing but her tears from the night's events and two flowers from a myth.

_________________________________

All her life, Anastasia Fyodorov had been told fairytales and ghost stories by her family. Tales of long haired women in towers and men with bloody fingers that would appear in your closet were the ones Vadim would tell her most often, her mother sticking to the classic prince charming riding in on a white steed. All of them would keep her up at night contemplating possibilities, even the stories about goblins who stole naughty children from their beds. Such thoughts, such stories, so many possibilities that she could fantasize about as a child. Would she be the princess or the goblin? The knight or the dragon?

Those stories stopped coming when her family had fled Russia. By the time the worst of the situation was over her mother was more concerned about getting her family acclimated to the USA and ensuring their future than continuing their nightly ritual of story time.

Anya and Vadim had to grow up by the time their feet touched New Orleans.

The people were so different to those she was used to, so jubilant and bursting with life that she often felt as if she was walking on pure sunshine. The constant flow of music that swam up and down the streets almost every day became a comfort she never knew she needed. Loud trumpets and tubas with the dancing beat of a drum inspiring everyone to get on their feet and dance with the crowd. She had already been trained into the world of dance, but nothing like this.

And the food? Oh. The food.

Flavors she never knew existed took over their everyday dinner and enhanced her palette. Never before had she eaten anything super spicy or dripping in rich sauces, so used to chicken kiev and cabbage in broth. As well off as her family was she was taught from a young age that a dancer maintained a certain lifestyle and diet if they wanted to get anywhere. Chocolates and sweets were a rarity that only came when she achieved the expectations set forth for her.

Here, sweets flew in from left and right at the twins. Her mother often had to restrict the amount of sugar they were given for later days with how often they received it. She still made sure her children knew stranger danger was different from the kindness of friends; Elena Fyodorov was not raising any fools, after all.

No matter where they went or who they met, myths and legends were the most common part of their new lives. If you could conjure it up in your brain she had heard it, everything from voodoo kings of old to Marie Leveau herself; nothing was off limits.

And that included the tale of The Candyman.

“You’re sure you feel alright? Do you need more tea? What about a snack?” Vadim had been fretting over her like a mother hen since he’d gotten her in his car, not taking his hand from hers the entire time. He’d only ever seen her in distress five times in his life, only three of them had she cried.

Tonight had been one of those times and he never wanted to see the look of pure distress in those blue eyes ever again.

“Vadim, please-”

“Whatever you need, just tell me and-”

“Vadim, I-”

“-I’ll get it for you, just say the word-”

“VADIM!” She grasped his face in her hands and shook gently, “Please, you’ve done enough for me tonight. I think what I need now is a good night’s sleep before I go visit the hospital in a few hours.” His hands came up to hold hers to his face as he sighed through his nose.

“Well I’m taking you, that’s non-negotiable Anastasia” She smiled tiredly in acceptance, “I don’t know what happened and I won’t push you, but-”

“I promise I’ll tell you all about it in the morning on our way to visit Paul, okay?” He kept eye contact with her for another few seconds before conceding to her request, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he rose from her bed.

“I’ll see you in the morning then?” He stopped at her light switch in question.

“In the morning.” She confirmed softly.

He nodded and closed the door gently, peeking back in after two seconds.

“I’ll be up if you need-”

“Vadim!”

“I’m going, I’m going!” He insisted and shut the door for a final time, finally leaving Anya to her thoughts in a safe place.

Anya sat there for a few minutes simply staring at her hands, twisting them in the blankets over and over again. What had happened tonight? What the fuck had happend tonight? One second she’d been ready to have a midnight snack with Paul and Annie and the next she’d been confronted with a threat to Paul’s life at the hands of a stranger.

‘Candyman…’

No, absolutely not. The dead could not walk and ghosts could not take corporeal form, he was a myth. A legend to frighten tourists. A man who had been long buried and left behind by the world.

The man from tonight had to have been a crazed follower who idolized the idea of Candyman, who had stalked her and Annie since the day they visited the shrine. What other explanation could there be for the flowers after all? Speaking of flowers…

She reached over for her bag at the side of her bed, pulling out the two red blooms. Normally, from her experience, men had always gifted women with generic flowers such as lilies or roses to express any kind of affection. An amaryllis was an uncommon choice that clearly expressed a flowers language.

‘Much like I did with the gardenia for-’

No, nope, she wasn’t going to go to that head space. The man from tonight had been a stalker, a dangerous one, but a stalker nonetheless; something she would rectify come morning after seeing Annie and Paul.

She should throw them out, the flowers. Yet even as she held them something in her fought against the idea of doing so, almost as if she was throwing out a piece of herself. As strange as that sounded.

She shook her head and placed the flowers onto her bedside table, turning over and tucking the blankets around her shoulders in hopes of a peaceful sleep devoid of men with hooks.

_____________________________

At the first sign of morning, both the Fyodorov twins were up and about much to Vadim’s chagrin. He’d hoped Anya would sleep a few more hours so he could make her a proper breakfast before making their way to the hospital. Unfortunately breakfast was a piece of toast and a whole grapefruit for his sister before she descended into the shower, ignoring her twin's protest.

He knew she’d be speedy and opted for a bowl of oatmeal instead of his usual sausage links and eggs, part of him also wanting to be ready for when she told him about the previous night's events.

As he predicted, Anya was back downstairs within twenty five minutes; her hair thrown haphazardly into a bun with a yellow sundress that flowed down to her knees. He chewed the last bite of his breakfast before grabbing his keys and nodding his head towards the door.

She took the hint and followed his lead as he led her out of the house and back into his black jaguar. All was quiet until Anya turned on the radio to fill the silence.

Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Now you makin' me proud, New Orleans. We are eatin' the meat raw. l tell ya what, l'm not goin' home till this is over. l'm on the air full time. Man, somebody bring me a hurricane. Somebody find this Kingfish a woman. Lent starts tomorrow, mes amis, and me, l want somethin' tasty to give up!

Vadim reached over to switch it off before addressing his sister.

“Anya, do you think we could...talk now? About last night?” He inquired gently. She laid her head back and blinked slowly.

“I went to visit Ethan at the police station, but something about what he was saying had me on edge. I don’t know what he said to Annie, but I had to see her- talk to her about Ethan” She pushed her seat back slightly in order to relax, “Paul was making Annie a snack and offered to make me something as well. ‘Course I said yes, I’ll never pass up his crepes.” She smiled at Vadim’s chortle.

“He was gone for a minute before I heard a struggle and went after him, but what I saw was far from what I was expecting” Her eyes went hazy as her brain went back in time, “There was a man I’d never seen before. He was- he was hurting Paul, stabbing him from what I could tell. Annie was terrified and I- I didn’t know what else to do, but I wanted to get his attention off of Paul.” She whispered.

“Anya-”

“I yelled to get his attention, just to get him away from them. He dropped Paul and came towards me, his hand was- it…” She stuttered over the memory, “He had a hook for a hand, Vadim” His head turned in alarm before putting his attention back on the road, “He was frightening in ways I couldn't tell you, so tall and broad with a voice that could make the devil shake.” Vadim’s hands tightened on the wheel as she continued.

“He grabbed me almost...gently, as if I would break if he even made one wrong move. And his eyes. His eyes…” She felt her throat catch as she thought of those passionate pools of molten chocolate, “His eyes were so fervent and intense that I thought he’d kill me with just one look, Vadim. He spoke to me briefly and pulled me in as if-” She stopped herself as a thought crossed her mind that hadn’t last night as Vadim looked at her once more. The light ahead turned red as he pulled to a stop, reaching over to grasp her hand.

“As if what?” He gently probed. She squeezed his hand as if for courage.

“-As if he was going to kiss me.” The light turned green as Vadim’s brow furrowed, his one hand borderline strangling the wheel.

“And then?”

“Everything went black. By the time I came around he was gone and Paul was being taken to the hospital.” She didn’t say anything about the flowers, Vadim was already mad enough without her adding stalking to the fire.

The rest of the ride was silent and maybe that was for the best, she could tell Vadim was already irritated enough. Not at her, but at the knowledge of what had transpired against his sister and her friends; how he wasn’t there to help. He’d always been that way as irrational as she’d told him it was, after all, how could anyone expect someone to be there to help at all times? That simply wasn’t logical and she wished he’d see that.

After another thirty minutes, the twins found themselves taking a brisk pace into the hospital in order to track down the Tarrant’s. Just as they turned the corner, a familiar voice had them picking up the pace.

“For the last time, I need to know where my daughter and son in law are! Is that a good enough reason?” Octavia Tarrant’s tone held no room for arguments as the nurses before her tried to maintain a sense of calm.

“Ma’am, I can’t help you without a name-”

“And I told you it was Tarrant! Annie and Paul Tarrant! Tarrant. Is that clear enough?” Anya picked up the pace before Octavia decided to start raising hell.

“Mrs. Tarrant!” At the sound of Anya’s voice, Octavia’s entire demeanor changed as she turned around in relief at the sight of the twins.

“Anya, sweetheart!” Octavia laughed and embraced her tightly, her hand stroking down her hair, “Oh thank goodness you’re here, are you alright? Annie called and told me what happened!” Her voice trailed off as she stepped back and cupped Anya’s face.

“I’m fine, really! Vadim and I were hoping to come visit them as well.” She smiled and gestured at her brother. Octavia let out a light chuckle and embraced her brother fondly.

“Vadim you get more and more handsome every time I see you.” Octavia laughed and patted his cheek.

“Tell that to my ex.” He chuckled. Anya took this moment to turn to the nurses.

“We’re looking for Paul and Annie Tarrant, please.” The nurse gave a light glare towards Octavia before writing out three labels and handing them to Anya.

“Room 456, should be awake by now.” The nurse grumbled as Octavia rolled her eyes and strutted off with the twins in tow. The white halls and fluorescent lights had always given Anya minor migraines, the smell of disinfectant egging it on even more so.

‘Best not to focus on that.’ She rubbed her temples at the on-coming feeling.

As the trio neared their destination, a familiar blonde left the very room of interest. Annie looked exhausted beyond belief, her hair frazzled and black bags hanging from her red rimmed eyes. At the sight of her mother, she turned back into a child.

“Mom!” At Annie’s whimper, Octavia picked up the pace to embrace her.

“Oh baby,” She held Annie like her life depended on it, “Shhh, it’s alright baby. I’m here, Mamas here.” She cooed as Annie cried into her shoulder, emotions finally boiling over as Anya’s had the previous night. There was something about hearing the voice of a family member that made everything feel safe, like you could react in any way without judgement.

Anya and Vadim looked at each other in silent question as to whether or not they should give them a moment, but Annie made that decision for them; initiating a hug that engulfed the both of them.

“Anya, I’m so sorry I left you! I didn’t want to, but Paul-”

“Annie, don’t even finish that sentence. Paul is your husband for god sakes, I’d be mad if you didn’t go with him” She chided her gently, “You stayed until I woke up and that’s what matters. Besides, this lumberjack here made sure I got home safe.” Vadim looked offended at the nickname.

“The one time I decide to grow out the beard...” He grumbled before looking at Annie, “Speaking of Paul, how is he?” His voice was cautious, not knowing what to expect.

“He’ll make a full recovery in time. His wound was deep, but the paramedics  managed to get him into surgery with seconds to spare.” Anya felt a relieved  breath leave her body, the sight of a hooked hand in Paul’s back still fresh within her mind.

“Oh honey, that’s wonderful news!” Octavia rubbed her daughter’s back, “Is he takin’ visitors or…?” She trailed off while silently inquiring with Annie.

“He’s sleeping for now, but I’m sure he’ll be up in an hour or two for breakfast if you all wanna stick around?”

“Well of course we do!” She smiled at Annie and began to lead all of them to the room. With a sudden stop, Annie turned to them.

“Mom, Vadim...would you mind going in ahead of us? I just need to speak to Anya for a second.” Vadim knew most of what had transpired the previous night and caught on quickly, turning to Octavia to offer his arm.

“Well Madame, would you mind if i accompanied you?” His voice had dropped two octaves lower and made Octavia chuckle in a flustered fashion.

“How could I resist such an offer?” She giggled and grasped his arm as they made their way into Paul’s room. Annie grabbed Anya’s hand and led her down the hall into the women’s room, releasing it to look into every stall inside.

“Annie what-”

“This is all my fault, Anya! It’s all my damned fault!” Her eyes began to well up again, “I didn’t think anything of it when I did it, I just thought I could make the kids feel better!” Her words hitched in her throat, rejecting Anya’s touch with a shake of her head.

“Annie, I need you to tell me what you’re talking about.” Anya crossed her arms to keep herself from comforting the distraught woman.

“The day we left the shrine, Paul dropped me off for work. Drew had gotten into a fight with Matthew, but I was able to break it up and figure out what was going on” At Anya’s nod she continued, “Matthew has been...very enamoured with the Candyman myth as of late, drawing him and acting as if he knows- well, knows what he’s feeling.”

Annie leaned on the sink, her eyes drawn to the faucet.

“He got the other kids freaked out about it and I just wanted everyone to calm down! I would never have- if I would have known I-” Anya touched her friends back in concern.

“Annie, breathe it’s-”

“I said his name…” She whispered so faintly that Anya couldn’t understand.

“Honey, I’m gonna need you to speak-”

“I SAID HIS NAME!” Annie yelled, her hands clenching the sink, “I looked into the mirror and said his name five times…” She felt her friend's hand recoil from her back.

“...Whose name?” Anya had a feeling she knew where this was going.

Annie looked up in the mirror at Anya’s reflection and felt her face crumble at the amount of concern she saw. Drawing in a deep breath, she turned around slowly and whispered her answer so softly that Anya had to lean in.

“Candyman.”

__________________________________

[spotlightjapan]

Hatsukoi - Hikaru Utada 

I want to preface this review with the admission that I am a big Hikaru Utada fan, so there is most definitely a chance that I might just be biased. I also know that I am a year late into this party but I thought that for my first music review on this blog, I might do this album that is one of my more recent favorites. So, let’s jump right into it!

Play A Love Song - The album starts with a sincere effort to move forward. The song itself is very colorful, with bright piano chords, electronic drum beats and a synth lead. The end of the song feels triumphant with the layering of choir-like backing vocals. The last line of the chorus「悲しい話はもうたくさん／好きだって聞かせてくれよ／Can we play a love song？」(We've already had so many sad conversations. Just tell me you love me. Can we play a love song?) represents the idea of thesis of the album: no matter how painful and dark, I will simply love what I have now.

あなた (You) - This song has a jazzy vibe that is so inviting. It is cozy, like sitting by the fireplace. One again, this song evokes the feeling of respite. The song talks about the “you” figure as her “home.” It’s an honest confession to the person she loves. She wants the “you” figure to understand that regardless of the many challenges and heartache they might face, it is with this person alone that she would endure it all. The brass instrument highlights in this song is such a treat as well.

初恋 (First Love) - The first thing that stands out about this song for me is the stirring strings that accompany the piano. The simple arrangement carries you through. The lyrics are straightforward, as they should be, and follow the general theme of the album so far. There is a very soft climax during the final chorus and outro of the the song. Utada is so good at creating that feeling at the end of her songs that just makes you want more. 

誓い (Vow) - This song is perhaps one of the most realistic wedding songs I’ve ever heard. It is honest and powerful in its declaration of love and commitment. This song seems to be communicating that while so many things in life are uncertain, love will sustain. Track 4 is basically a darker version of the previous song in terms of arrangement. The strings help create this feeling of suspense in the verses, like there is danger lurking, which fits the lyrics of the verse. The bridge is so powerful, I remember having goosebumps when I first listened to it. It is total surrender to the feeling of love with full acknowledgement of all that comes with it.

Forevermore - We seem to be plunging down a darker route in terms of color and tone. The music comes off as brooding for most of the song, but it has its brief moments of breaking through in the chorus. The music itself takes you on a journey of confronting the dark and succeeding, and going through that cycle again. The prominent ride cymbals create staccato-like tension with the electronic piano. I’m going to be repeating myself throughout this review, but once again, the honesty is piercing in this track. 

Too Proud ft. Jevon - This song allows us a bit of a break from the violins and the piano, and reminds us of Utada’s R&B’s roots. While this track is also presented simply, the lyrics really pack a punch. Allowing this moment to give in to her flaws, the persona admits that she is too proud. She points out the deficiencies of her relationship and there is a feeling of dread that looms over our heads throughout the song. I must say that I absolutely love this song. I actually don’t listen to a lot of hip-hop/rap so I don’t really know how to qualify rap verses and what not, but Jevon’s verse in this song is so good. This song is infectious ear worm, yet not in the typical catchy pop that plays on the radio. The lead riff that is like a fork tapping on a glass is so interesting as well. 

 Good Night - Oh god. Where do I begin? The intro does not give any hint to what kind of song this track truly is. The pleasant feeling of reminiscing and longing in the verses turns into a feeling of pain in the chorus. The simple palm-muted guitar with the reverb cranked up in the chorus with Utada’s ‘good night’s just take me to a different dimension. Everything swells in the verses and comes to a pause once the chorus hits, then the strings and the drums tears through the silence again. After that, we’re treated to a wistful send off in the outro. How she’s able to switch directions in such an organic yet surprising way, I really don’t know. If you look at the lyrics of this song, the amount of words don’t even amount to half of the number of words of the other songs in this album. But this song is able to communicate so much with so little, and that is what makes it a brilliant song. The song feels full, despite the thin lyrics. My absolute favorite in this album.

パクチーの唄 (The Coriander Song) - Yup, that is actually the song’s title. Do not skip it though. Don’t judge a song by its title! This song is much like the others in terms of arrangement. It’s very simple. It’s almost like a child’s song (and maybe it is!) at the beginning. But if you listen to the lyrics, there’s something comforting about it. It’s like a mother’s soothing song to a crying child. It’s unique in its on way, and not just because of its title or chorus. It’s has this nostalgic quality that makes you long for your childhood.

残り香 (Lingering Scent) - We are at that phase of the album where everything has slowed down. A pipe organ opens the curtain to the persona defeated and alone. She admits that things have fallen apart. It’s like she’s in shock, and can’t really come up with words to express what she’s feeling. The reality that the “you” figure in the song is gone is the only thing that the persona can think of at the moment. The brief silence during the end carries so much pain as Utada repeats 「暖かいあなたの肩を探す、肩を探す」(I look for your warm shoulder, I look for your warm shoulder). The little bit of white noise-like sounds that reverberates throughout the song paints a picture of a lonely woman in her flat, as a busy city goes about its day outside. The organ throughout this song represents the feeling of loss that envelops the persona. It has this inescapable quality to it that makes this song even more depressing.

大空で抱きしめて (Embrace Me Under the Big Sky) - This song carries the same feeling of loss in the previous track though in a less straightforward way. The carefree vibe is aided by the playful guitar riff. The song has a brighter color to it overall, but the general feeling is that of longing. That feeling of longing gestures to what is missing or gone.  It makes you feel like you’re looking out the window of a train on a perfectly sunny day. Now that things have fallen apart, what now? That’s the vibe that this song subtly gestures to.

夕凪 (Evening Calm) - This song confronts heavy feelings and realities of life and loss. The piano, the slow kicking of the bass drum, the layer of ‘ah’s humming, the simple string tying the arrangement together--all of these elements support the song’s heartbreaking message. Despite the song being that of loss, it is not sad or depressed. In fact there is this feeling of bravery. Through Utada’s singing, there is this quiet acceptance. Loss is serious and heavy and painful, yet the persona accepts it without resistance. The haunting vocalizations at the end adds so much character to the song. 

嫉妬されるべき人生 (A Life Worth Envying) - This song is not as colorful as the others. In fact you might get the impression that it is a sad song due to the dark vibe that is immediately apparent in the intro. But that’s not actually the case. The song is about professing undying love the the “you” figure. It is about proudly declaring that the persona’s life is worth being proud of despite all that has happened to her, and that’s because in this life, she met and married this “you” figure. The line 「長いと思ってた人生 急に短い」(A life I though would be long is all of a sudden short) reveals that now that she is with her beloved, the life that she thought would drag on, is now all of a sudden not enough time to spend with this “you” figure. The lyrics are just as honest as the first song of the album but the transformation of the persona is evident. I think it’s the undercurrent of death that makes this song dark. There’s also the life monitor-like sounds that periodically erupts throughout the song. The lyrics acknowledge that we will all die someday, and that's why it the music and delivery of the song is so incredibly intense. 

Overall, this album is such a wonderful journey to embark on. Utada’s lyrics contain very specific scenes and details, but it never alienates its listener. She is able to create universal feelings through her words and music no matter how simple the lyrics or arrangement may be. The album is cohesive, but there is an evident transformation from the first half to the second half. There is a bit of a lull in the middle, but ultimately, it’s an album that deserves to be listened to fully from start to finish. This album is magic.

9.5/10

[kiruuuuu]

Doc/Lion oneshot in which Lion absolutely can’t get enough of Doc. (Rating E, pure filth + fluff, ~4k words) - written for the ever so wonderful 1ce_09 on twitter ♥♥ Everyone who hasn’t already, check them out for beautiful Siege art! Thank you so much for commissioning me, I enjoyed myself :)

.

If anyone had asked Lion a year – hell, months – ago which part of the day was his least favourite, he would’ve said waking up. Throughout his life, the only consistently good thing staying with him has been how easily he falls asleep and his ability to only wake up once fully rested; he sometimes thinks it’s a genuine blessing he received, a rare show of mercy of which he’s ultimately undeserving. Even when his mind worked overtime, even when there was an oppressive weight on his soul, even when there was no reason to get up in the morning, he drifted off like a lazy, oversized house cat napping in the sun. In rare moments, he idly wonders whether this ability hasn’t saved his life at some point, granted him this little bit of energy he needed to get through the day, gave him enough hope to trudge on and eventually sparked his endeavour to make it up to those he wronged.

And then there are his dreams. They’ve always been vivid, abstract, hard to grasp, but as a child he could always pinpoint at least a location or a person, something concrete which gave him an indication of what was on his mind at the time. After – after Claire, after colourful pills and pieces of paper with cartoon characters on them and a few other things, his nightly visions became even more obscure, swirls of colour, evoking emotions whose vibrancy stays with him in this twilight between waking and sleeping, a half-doze in which he’s disembodied yet conscious. He enjoys their embrace and despised nothing more than the afterimages being violently ripped away from him by a shrill alarm.

These days, he doesn’t mind it so much. The reason for his change of mind is as fortunate as it is unbelievable because of all its facets no one could’ve predicted, especially not him: It’s someone he loves (and he’d given up on this particular idea a while ago). It’s a man (and while he’s fooled around with some of his friends before, it was largely born from spite and the thrill of the forbidden). And of all people, it’s Doc.

It took him months to come to terms with the realisation that his infuriating colleague never really left his thoughts because of a fierce desire to impress him, not because of personal dislike. Doc is revered wherever he treads and when Lion earned his ire, it was much easier to pretend the negativity dictating Lion’s remorseless remarks and actions towards the other man stemmed from disdain and not disappointment in himself, not from a knee-jerk reaction to the realisation that Doc would never see him as an equal now.

It took him even longer to finally act on it too, reach out and attempt to rebuild the bridge Doc had destabilised and which Lion had spitefully burned in response; it required endless conversations with Bertrand as well as the rest of the GIGN, a worrisome amount of self-reflection, and uncomfortable, tough admissions.

But he managed. Looking back, it’s amazing how much he turned his life around, how much he achieved with the help of those around him and indubitably help from above, and he’s humble enough to try and let his gratitude shine through in everything he does these days.

He even learnt to enjoy waking up. Though admittedly it wasn’t difficult, no, not at all, not when he knows he’ll have company, be greeted with a smile and a kiss, a brief update on global events, a cup of coffee just how he likes it. And so instead of hitting the snooze button on his phone several times, tossing and turning, dreading the beginning of yet another day, he wakes with a serenity he never thought he could achieve.

This morning, his heart feels even lighter than normal and it doesn’t take long to figure out why: there’s a warm body next to his. Doc prefers getting up early, always prefers being prepared no matter what and possesses the inhuman ability to sleep without an alarm and be on time anyway – but rarely, on one of their days off, he allows himself to sleep in, much to Lion’s delight.

Smiling to himself, he rolls on his side to dazedly blink at the spectacular view in front of him and really, Doc has no business being this gorgeous this early in the day. He’s stretched out on his stomach – and he’s the only person Lion has met who sleeps this way –, head turned away from Lion, explaining his constant neck pains, and smooth skin illuminated by the rays falling in through the blinds, painting long stripes on his naked back.

Lion doesn’t want to disturb the image yet reaches out regardless, runs his fingertips over shoulder blades jutting out, the dip of his lower back, relaxed muscles, and reaches the blanket covering Doc from the hips downwards. He should let him sleep. Really, he should, but with every centimetre more that’s revealed, Lion’s interest rises. He takes his time, pauses when he hears his lover take a deep breath and proceeds when it evens out again. Slowly, surely, he reveals plump curves and more soft skin, and then his gaze falls on the discoloured spots on the back of Doc’s thighs and the almost languorous desire playfully swaying in the back of his mind suddenly gets shoved to the very forefront, makes his heart skip a beat and his crotch throb.

Memories from the previous evening come flooding back, the end of a tedious work day necessitating some kind of release – they’d started as soon as they set foot into their apartment, Lion crowding his lover against the door and licking every bit of composure off his tongue, then wandering deeper with his hungry mouth and swallowing him whole, something he’s come to love, provided he can watch Doc’s features dissolve into helpless want while sucking on him, hard. He took his time, did so for the rest too, left Doc aching and fingered him open over the couch until he was flushed and flustered and even more beautiful, took him standing up until his legs gave in, relocated to the kitchen table, eventually landed in bed where he finished them both off with merciless snaps of his hips, listening to Doc’s desperate whines and floating on pure ecstasy.

The bruises are remnants, and now he also feels the scratches on his back again which he didn’t let the other man see, angled his body so he wouldn’t notice the damage he’s done – he usually feels bad about leaving marks though Lion can never get enough. It’s one of the many small disagreements about which they half-heartedly argue and neither of them is ready to budge, but more often than not they end with a hand in someone’s hair or quick kisses. There’s more, now that he knows where to look, Doc’s ass cheeks themselves are still tinted red and the lovebites Lion sucked onto his ribs remain perfectly visible as well.

Maybe he should add a few.

Moving carefully, he removes the blanket entirely, admires Doc’s shapely legs for a moment and then kneels between them, intending no more than to touch the sleeping beauty a little, but as soon as his palms come to rest on firm flesh, a different thought makes his cock twitch in anticipation. Doc is perfectly on display like this, the hills and valleys of his body enticing in a way that Lion wants nothing more than mould himself around them, and he decides to appreciate it all by waking Doc with something more… personal than simply covering him in hickeys.

Thumbs pull the cheeks apart a little, exposing a pink hole which looks overwhelmingly inviting to Lion, a hole he abused to his heart’s content the previous evening and so it’s only appropriate for him to make up for the rough treatment, isn’t it? He leans forward and gingerly circles the rim with the tip of his tongue, starting feather-light and increasing the intensity slowly, intersperses it with broad laps and has to suppress a moan when he feels the ring of muscle pulsing in response. He’s felt similar contractions around his shaft so many times before and the association is all he needed for a full, heavy erection – especially when he remembers Doc’s usual, elated expression whenever he climaxes.

The hips beneath his hands shift a little, and a foot lifts, powerless, and when he pushes the tip of his tongue inside, Doc lets out a sleepy groan. “Really?”, he mumbles into the sheets but makes no move to stop Lion. “Didn’t we do enough yesterday?”

He grins and forces himself a little deeper, eliciting a weak moan, before withdrawing for a reply: “Gustave, I can never have enough of you.” And to cut off any smart remark, he wiggles his tongue back inside and turns all of Doc’s protests into small, appreciative noises. Though his lover appears to be the voice of reason more often than not, he allows himself to get swept up by Lion’s passion all the time, mentioning work but riding him with abandon ten minutes later, scolding him for only thinking about one thing but asking him to come on his face the same day. Lion never minds initiating, not when this is the result: an increasingly aroused Doc meeting his mouth with subtle grinding, fisting the sheets and not even fully awake yet.

A curious finger proves Doc to be more than loose enough a few minutes later, and by this point they’re both panting and dizzy – and besides, Lion has always been more of a ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ type, so he wastes no time in grabbing the lube strategically placed on the bedside table to pour a generous amount on his stiff cock, wincing a little at the cool, viscous liquid. A few strokes for good measure coat it sufficiently and the next moment he’s rubbing his tip over the very hole he licked open just now, felt it quiver around his tongue. The touch is electrifying and the fierce need pulsing through him urges him to give in, take what’s his, ensure his own pleasure.

But he waits. Bites his lip in impatience, pushes slightly against the entrance and shivers when he feels it give way a little, squeezes one of the buttcheeks he maltreated in the sweetest way possible last night – but he waits.

And then Doc meets him, lifts his hips to allow the head to slip inside and both of them gasp at the sudden surge of pleasure. Lion accepts this signal for what it is and begins the slow slide, pushes deeper and deeper into deliciously tight heat, feels Doc’s walls contract around his dick and only stops once he’s bottoms out. Since his lover usually requires a moment to adjust, Lion uses this time to not only focus on how fucking good he feels, but also to straddle the other man properly and lean down, cover him with his own body and place a few loving kisses on the top of his head.

“Other people wake their boyfriends with breakfast in bed”, Doc grumbles under him, now less bleary than before, but the hand he places next to Lion’s contradicts his words. He spreads his fingers and Lion interlaces them with his own, holds on tight and makes no move to suppress the smile stretching his lips at the gesture.

“Their boyfriends are definitely not as erotic as mine then”, he purrs into Doc’s hair. His limbs are possessively caging the other man in and even then, it hardly suffices to sate his need to be as close to Doc as possible, feel all of him.

“What you mean to say is they have more than just a shred of self-control.” And oh, he’s going to make Doc eat those words.

Slowly, he begins grinding down, impatient erection twitching eagerly inside and rubbing against all the right places if Doc’s startled gasp is anything to go by. He loves it deep and Lion knows it, rolls his hips against his lover’s perfect ass and makes him feel every centimetre keenly. For good measure, he bows his head to latch onto that spot right below Doc’s ear which he knows drives him wild, tongues at it wetly before sucking and relishes the unrestrained moan he earns for his trouble. Over time, he’s memorised all of Doc’s weakspots and exploits this knowledge now shamelessly, bites at his earlobe and trails his lips over soft skin to the back of Doc’s neck where he nibbles, his lazy motions emphasising his ministrations.

By now, Doc is trembling against him, the deep grind stealing his breath and causing him to jerk his hips up in search of more thorough stimulation than this merciless teasing, trying to fuck himself on Lion’s cock but failing. Frustrated huffs join the quiet panting, his grip involuntarily tightening parallel to him clenching desperately around Lion’s hard shaft and it’s mesmerising to behold how his mock crossness melts away into pure lust.

Doc’s other hand reaches back and digs into Lion’s ass, tries to get him to move more, faster, anything, but when that fails as well, he pleads: “Come on, just fuck me, Olivier.”

He knows how this goes. Grinning to himself, Lion tenses his muscles to make his dick throb inside additionally to the tantalising motions and decides to have even more fun. “You look so pretty, impaled on my cock”, he whispers and throws Doc a bone, withdraws all the way and slowly slides back in, keeps this torturous pace and sighs contentedly every time Doc’s hole allows him back in, stretches around him. He meant his words – he really can never get enough of this.

Uneven breaths have turned into whines now. “Olivier, please -”

“I could fuck you, pump you full of come and then leave you, dripping and begging for it”, he continues and concentrates on the steady build of pleasure – a slow climb but oh so satisfying. Doc feels wonderful around him. “Could do that the entire day. Every time you suck me until I’m hard again, I shoot inside but you’re not allowed to come. You can ride my cock all day, Gustave.” The thought is dazzling and he probably never fantasised about someone while being balls deep inside that very person, yet he can’t help but picture Doc all powerless, frenzied, obeying him fully. He knows Doc is too proud to actually agree to anything like it, though the throaty moan Doc lets out in response tells Lion unambiguously that he’s imagining it – and actually enjoys the thought. Still, Lion’s thumb strokes reassuringly over the hand he’s still holding.

“Please, I want you, go faster -” Doc’s impatience has reached its peak now, he shoves himself onto Lion’s member in one go and pushes against him, whimpers when Lion gnaws at his neck in retaliation and rises nonetheless, lifting his lover’s body with him. The teasing has left him frantic and exactly how Lion likes it, cheeks red and gaze almost defiant when he glares at the larger man over his shoulder. Lion could spend all day marvelling at the state of him.

Instead, he relents, guides Doc onto his hands and knees and grabs his hips to steady him, fingers brushing over the bruises on Doc’s thigh, the faint purplish tinge an expression of his devotion. “You want it hard?”, he asks and is almost surprised at how breathy his own voice is. Unbridled want is pulsing through him, vicious and blinding, making his digits itch and cock ache.

Doc nods wordlessly and it’s probably good he can’t see the pure joy on Lion’s face over the admission. Even now, even with how familiar they are with each other, every confirmation of the passion, respect and love they share sparks delight.

A sharp snap of Lion’s hips later and his focus is elsewhere again. Now he’s getting serious, drives into Doc at a fast tempo, watches as his entire erection disappears inside him and tries his best not to come on the spot. The abrupt stimulation is almost too much but he keeps going through the discomfort paired with blunt need until he hears himself moan loudly in pleasure, dig his fingertips into Doc’s flesh. He’s not going to last long, that much is clear, but he’s going to make it good regardless.

A few pointed thrusts elicit more dazed whimpering from his lover, a picturesque arch of his back to allow Lion to penetrate him all the way and even another, decidedly more heated glance back at him. They’re both equally into it, tensing and moving against each other amid the sound of skin slapping against skin, the rustling of sheets as Doc desperately seeks support, leverage, anything to hold on to – and Lion shares the sentiment of feeling wholly lost yet not wanting to be found. Ruthlessly, he slams into his lover, chasing his pleasure, helping Doc pursue his own, and makes no effort to hide his enjoyment.

A sudden spike almost pushes him over the edge when Doc’s arms give in, accompanied by something that sounds suspiciously like a keen, and now he’s really pounding him into the mattress, showing him just how deep his desire runs, how comprehensive his attraction is. He can’t even pinpoint which part it is exactly about Doc that drives him this wild, fills him with the urge to claim, mark, embrace and never let go; and he revels in the knowledge of being able to make this otherwise so poised, dignified and professional man fall apart, provoke emotions from him he displays for no one else.

“Come for me”, Lion gasps in between the creaking of the bed, “do it. Come on, amour, Gustave, I want to feel it.” And the sounds he wrenches from Doc’s throat with every thrust get impossibly louder when his lover reaches for his dick, probably not able to keep up with the merciless rhythm with which Lion is driving into him but still good enough. He gets tighter, even more so when Lion’s breath hitches, followed by a growl. He’s getting closer by the second, Doc’s noises and velvety heat making up the perfect catalyst -

And then Doc orgasms, surprisingly quickly for how little he stroked himself, he must’ve been primed, possibly dreamt of Lion and this thought is a whole other turn-on he shelves away for later. Right now, he watches, utterly transfixed, as Doc spasms under him, hips rolling futilely to either increase the intensity or shy away from it as he shoots his sperm in short bursts in between the hard thrusts. Lion fucks him through it, runs one of his palms over the dancing muscles of Doc’s back and shudders at the violent contractions around his throbbing cock; fucks him through the aftershocks, too, tiny jolts which speak of a very satisfying climax. Lion isn’t there yet, however, not fully, teetering on the edge, carefully controlling himself so he can take all of Doc in and -

“Finish inside, Olivier”, Doc demands, voice shaky, and he’s gone.

His abs tense with a delicious kind of pain at the first wave of blissful release washing through him. He buries himself deep inside his lover and moans in disbelief over how abruptly pleasure explodes behind his eyelids and nearly folds in half at the intensity, gasping for air as his cock twitches and probably adding a few bruises to the existing ones. Momentary blindness allows him to be wholly aware of Doc moving against him to milk him for every drop, of overwhelming relief encompassing his entire being as he orgasms, surrounded by scorching heat and momentarily losing all sense of reality.

Coming down is a slow, gradual affair, both of them slumping a little and Lion bending so he can rest his forehead on Doc’s shoulder blade as they both catch their breath, bask in the afterglow and enjoy the feel of shared body heat, companionship and sweet exhaustion. Lion peppers his boyfriend’s shoulder with kisses once he can see straight again, withdraws tentatively and sits up to examine the masterpiece he just fucked into existence in all its glory: shiny skin, reddened cheeks, a gaping hole, dark marks and lovebites, and, after a few seconds, a thin stream of white leaking out.

Lion is definitely unable to get hard immediately after a climax this exquisite but his dick gives a feeble jump at the sight nonetheless. He reaches out and catches the droplets with a fingertip, pushes them back to where they came from, pushes them back inside and earns a quiet moan. Adding another digit, he tries to finger the semen as deep as he can and only pauses when Doc kicks him lightly.

“I’m sore enough as it is”, he complains and rolls to the side when Lion withdraws mournfully, yet there’s a bright smile adorning his face when their eyes meet.

With weak knees, Lion stalks back and forth to get them cleaned up (and is actually amazed Doc doesn’t mention the scratches he himself inflicted) but insists on doing one thing by himself: once he’s taken his rightful place by Doc’s side, entangled their legs and exchanged a few loving kisses, he catches Doc’s wrist to lift it to his face and starts to lick his palm clean.

“You’re like a dog”, his lover murmurs fondly and readily spreads his fingers to allow for better access. “They should’ve called you Husky, not Lion – they’re just as noisy and stubborn.”

Lion shoots him a good-natured grin. “Then you should be called Bunny. What was that about self-control?”

“Oh please, you’re the eternally horny one, mon amour.”

“And yet you never say no.” Their lips meet once more in a long, thorough kiss, with Doc climbing on top of Lion halfway through, ending up straddling him and stroking his face affectionately until Lion mouths at his palm while keeping eye contact.

“You really love my hands”, Doc points out quietly.

It’s true, he does – he loves how steady they are on the job, never making a mistake, never causing harm; loves how they’re calloused and scarred, lots of specks and lines lighter in colour telling tales of hard work; loves how they worship him, how gently they treat him, how warm they are when they touch him.

“I also really love you”, Lion says instead of the million other things he could say instead which would amount to the same thing. He’s learnt his lesson about being honest with himself and others and can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed when his admissions make Doc’s face light up like a Christmas tree. “And your hands do good. They’re your most important tools and I’m thankful every time I feel them.” There’s so much more for which he’s grateful that making a list would take him several days, so he tries to convey all which he’s not divulging explicitly with a heartfelt: “Thank you, Gustave.”

Doc’s features soften and he accepts the notion with one last kiss before getting up. “I’m going to brew us some coffee”, he announces, yet pauses by the bedroom door to catch Lion’s gaze and add, softly: “I love you too, Olivier.”

And while Lion remains in bed for a minute longer, stretched out and encased in soothing warmth coming from within, a distracted smile pulling at the corners of his mouth and most of his body tingling pleasantly, he thinks back to his life no more than a year ago. How unthinkable it was that waking up would become his favourite part of the day. But sometimes, the unthinkable happens all the same.

[thesinglesjukebox]

HAIM - NOW I'M IN IT

[7.54]

Hard times...

Ian Mathers: Sometimes adulthood feels like the process of realizing you've been "trying to find [your] way back for a minute" for years now. Part of that is that you can never get back (to fewer responsibilities, a younger body, a less complicated life) and part of that is that you don't need to because you've grown in ways you didn't expect or notice and part of that is just that feeling like you're in it is just the condition of being an adult (at least here and now). Of course, Danielle Haim has said the song is about depression. I'm not the only person I know for whom adulthood and depression seem inextricable. [8]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: Like grey clouds drifting slowly overhead, depression can manifest itself gradually. You may not even notice it happening. That is, until it's too big to ignore: suddenly, there's an underlying sadness that keeps popping up, and you're too anxious to reach out to others, too unhappy to look in the mirror, too tired to leave your apartment. You're just in it. "Now I'm In It" perfectly captures the moment you realize this -- and while so many songs that discuss mental health can seem condescending or sloganeering, the introspection that Haim does here is genuinely powerful. This is art about depression without wallowing, set to an undulating guitar rift that recalls the strength of "Dancing on My Own." At face value, "Damn I'm in it/ And I've been tryna find my way back for a minute" sounds so simple as to be mundane, but to me, it feels like liberation that can only come from being honest with yourself. Every time I hear it, it feels like air in my lungs, sunshine on my skin. There's a moment during the music video (at 3:20) when, after making it through a shit day, Danielle Haim musters the energy to go out with her sisters. As they cross the street, drums beat triumphantly and a sample of what sounds like cheering plays -- and then, inexplicably, she breaks the fourth wall, shooting a glance directly into the camera, almost like she's looking directly at her depression and giving it the side eye. I have yet to give a 10 since starting to write for TSJ, but that moment alone merits my first one. [10]

Michael Hong: Perhaps the best shot of the music video is the one in which Danielle Haim goes through a car wash, but the most emblematic is likely the penultimate one, where she downs a shot, grimaces and takes one breath. The song is its "before image," a tightly wound version of Danielle Haim over a tense guitar that feels synthetic as it pulses across the track. As it progresses, Danielle loosens up and regains some of that confidence symbolic of Haim. The instrumental also gradually shifts, focusing more attention on other more organic elements. The piano line on the bridge allows her to take stock of her surroundings, backed in harmony by her sisters, but it's those drums on the last chorus that deliver the track's final moment of catharsis. Like depression, that guitar vamp remains, but Haim push it to the background, mostly stopping it from overpowering themselves. It's Danielle Haim, defiantly rejecting depression and taking back control for what feels like that penultimate shot -- the ability to finally breathe after a particularly difficult episode. [8]

Isabel Cole: If it hadn't been for Danielle Haim's Instagram post, I probably wouldn't have known to read this as a song about mental health. But once I saw that it made an immediate intuitive sense: the anxious thrumming that won't relent even as the melody opens up in the chorus, stumbling-fast lyrics sketching a harried picture of isolation, an atmosphere of panic and dread like pacing restlessly in a room you can't make yourself leave. The sigh of regret in the bridge, the dawning realization that you can no longer deny. I've spent a lot of hours looking for something I knew I wouldn't find in mirrors, too. Haim build a gorgeous encasement for the sentiment, lush and textured and perfect, actually, for listening to on repeat on a long walk taken trying to get a little further back to yourself; I particularly love the moment the second verse starts and everything deepens and opens at once. Would love this even if I weren't spiritually obligated to give at least a [7] to any song that closes by layering one of its parts over the other. [9]

Alfred Soto: Whenever they use a skittering rhythm track that forces them into breathlessness, I swoon, but then I liked but then Something to Tell You more than most. The ghost of "I Love You Always Forever" haunts -- will Haim's next album study their idea of '90s-ness? [7]

Will Adams: Haim, always ones to wear their references on their sleeves, take their soft-rock aesthetic to the extreme by synthesizing "I Want You" and "I Love You Always Forever." Those choices alone make "Now I'm In It" great, but Danielle using her signature patter to evoke racing thoughts is the cherry on top. The verse barges in by the second chorus, words tumbling over each other resulting in sensory overload. And then, finally, gloriously, the bridge arrives, when everything falls away and a moment of clarity is reached. The ensuing chorus is the same as it was, but now it feels assured, confident amidst the chaos. "Now I'm In It" is a song about going through it that goes through it. [8]

Tobi Tella: The frantic, almost falling-on-top-of-each-other speed of the lyrics is the real secret of the song -- it puts the listener on edge from minute one. I wish it built to more in certain ways, but I think the tension with such little release feels deliberate -- I feel like I'm still in it too. [7]

Kylo Nocom: Never trust a man who will gleefully scrutinize a Haim track's influences as a marker of unoriginality and yet ignore any accusation you throw at LCD Soundsystem. "Now I'm In It" bubbles, springs, and thrusts forward until the sisters reach a bridge that would make Vampire Weekend circa Modern Vampires proud. [8]

Oliver Maier: Rostam and Rechtshaid's production team-up unsurprisingly results in shades of the bleary, melancholic sound of Modern Vampires of the City, notably in the bluesy piano, ambient noise and thudding drums that filter in after the second chorus. That moment also happens to be the point at which Haim often run out of ideas (even in their best songs) and resort to padding out the remainder of the track with repetition upon repetition to the point of indulgence. Here they're more economical, more conscientious of the song's arc, and the final chorus feels earned rather than copy-pasted as a result. A shame that said chorus is not quite as catchy as they're capable of, though "I can hear it/But I can't feel it" is as succinct and lovely a lyric about depression as has ever been penned. [6]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: "Now I'm In It" turns the corner well-- that slowdown after the two-minute mark, when the piano and harmonies come in and the fervent pulse of the rhythm guitar stills a little, is genuine catharsis. But the rest, both before and after, feels nervy and formless. Danielle remains a great pop vocalist, but the words she sings are sketches and the beat below it sounds like something Katy Perry and Zedd would've thrown out earlier this year. [5]

Thomas Inskeep: The song throbs and thrums, yet the Haim sisters just sound bored, and I'm unmoved. Actually, worse than unmoved: I'm annoyed. [3]

William John: While the track motors along behind her, Danielle Haim here breathlessly corkscrews her way through the awful, disenfranchising inertia that most of us are prone to from time to time. When paired with preceding single "Summer Girl", "Now I'm In It" seems to indicate that a central theme of Haim's putative third album will be the power of the collective in providing a fulcrum for those experiencing trauma. Though the lyric sheet suggests the protagonist remains in the widening gyre, the music video powerfully reinforces the notion that help is always available, even when it seems like it isn't. And maybe the gyre remains, but maybe also, with others around to lend a hand, it might stop widening, or even get a bit narrower. Haim have always been about "the sisterhood," in the most literal sense, but the image of Este and Alana, scuttling down a street and carrying Danielle on a stretcher, nursing her through the rut, might be their paradigm illustration of that concept. [9]

Kayla Beardslee: In the past month or two, as I've built up enough reviews to start referencing my past scores as a consistent standard, I've latched onto two regrets over too-low scores. One of those regrets is "Summer Girl": I was initially impressed and gave it an 8, but as the song kept growing on me in the following weeks, I realized I loved it enough to be a 10. The brilliance of Danielle Haim's restrained vocals, the quiet intensity of the lyrics, the sax riff that carries it all along -- it was quickly becoming my favorite Haim track. Well, the good news is that I was wrong: "Summer Girl" is still an 8 or 9. This is a 10. "Now I'm In It" sounds, somehow, both clean and impossibly hazy. The production is mixed clearly, but allows each bouncing bass note and subtle sound effect to shine; in contrast, Danielle's voice, as impressively agile as ever, folds itself into reverb and whispered backing vocals. Even the fuzz of static in the background of the bridge feels like purposefully crafted chaos. The sisters have said that the song is about Danielle's struggle with depression, and the lyrics reinforce that idea of being stuck in a mental fog. Like the bridge of "Summer Girl," the heart of "In It" boils down to a specific moment: in this case, it's when Danielle sings, full of longing, "And the rain keeps coming down along the ceiling/And I can hear it/But I can't feel it." I love that line, not only because it's absent from the first chorus and comes as a total surprise in the second, but because of how well it works as a metaphor on two levels. Being numb to "the rain" can signify detachment from the outside world, but it can also mean refusing to acknowledge your own depression: this track is smart and detailed enough to express both. And yet the music itself is a rejection of the lethargy of depression. With layers of instrumentation being constantly added and dropped, each section of the song is unique, and all of it builds up to that forceful, cathartic final chorus. In a lesser song, this clear sense of musical growth working against the stagnant nature of the lyrics would feel contradictory, but here, it feels instead like an intentional message of hope. Things will change, even in the storm -- and, if "Now I'm In It" is any indication, Haim will only keep getting better. [10]

[Read and comment on The Singles Jukebox]

[gyromitra-esculenta]

Synchronicity 14

F.E.A.R.!AU This is more atmospheric/body horror part.There needs to be some introduction to bombed out city. If you get the literary reference, kudos. I think it’s fitting considering some of the themes. Some interactions with probably real people. Beast is less of an asshole than usual. Kind of, dealing with block :) part.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

(...)“As long as he needs me.”

“He doesn’t. He never will. Not you.”(...)

***

(…)

He was down on the floor with his lips to a glass

Said he dreamed of a future that won't come to pass

That he once strived to excel in a world so vast

But why run a race when it's rig and he's fixed in last

(…)

“What even was that place?” Winston asks, his voice betraying his uneasiness, and Jack has to wonder how much had he seen of the site itself to shake him up enough to drop his go-to mission persona even for a moment. “There was nothing in any reports that a facility of this kind was located in Ilium, and I don’t like not knowing.”

“Talon blacksite. Probably for their Replica project,” Jack grabs the rifle and with a wince shoulders it. The platform is still slowly climbing. “I don’t think…”

“Wrong. The whole facility has been devoted to Harbinger,” Shrike unceremoniously invades their communications. Lena mutters something in the background, most likely stopping Winston from saying anything. “Creating so-called commanders and Reaper containment failsafe. The procedure all three of you underwent was to attune you to Reaper’s telesthetic footprint but Sergeant Morrison can probably attest to how well it went,” she continues, the sarcasm dripping even from the electronically modulated voice, “since he managed to synchronize with it.”

“Oh, it went very well, didn’t it, Sunshine?” The Beast’s chuckle resonates in his throat.

“Nevertheless, Lacroix thinks she can control it, and she is mistaken. It can’t be controlled, not once had they managed it during the nine years they had it sealed. One cannot claim control of a force of nature.”

Nine years. Sealed in darkness. Alone. A different kind of dread is what Jack feels when the elevator stops, the memory of someone howling in the darkness beyond the frosted glass door – the pain and the anguish forced into each and every of the animalistic sounds uttered – it still evokes a sympathetic response and threatens to cut away his breath with how his throat constricts.

He has no will left to argue with Shrike as something suffocating settles on his shoulders. White light. White room. Nothing changes. The clock is broken, it ticks but the hands do not move.

“Breathe,” the Beast’s whisper forces itself into his ear and he shakily lets the air into his lungs. With the way Lena’s voice has a note of concern to it he realizes he must have made some sort of noise to alert her.

“Jack, you right there?”

“Caught a bullet to the side, made do with a field kit. I’ll manage,” Jack winces pulling the needle out of his arm. A small drop of blood forms over the puncture site.

“Bloody hell, Jack, luv,” Lena lets out a frustrated sigh, “try to pin your position and we will try to get you…”

“This is no time to…”

“Shut it, Papa,” she sharply cuts Winston off. “We’re not bloody leaving him.” She had seen his files. She should know better. She should get as far away from him as possible.

“Good. Because now your best chance of survival and succeeding in destroying Reaper is in you all keeping together and making it to Still Island. I’ll contact you again if the need arises,” Shrike finishes.

“I’ll manage it to the stadium, Lena, worry about yourself and Winston,” Jack, turning around, inspects the area for the first time; the dilapidated warehouse is seemingly abandoned – the broken wooden crates stand alone by the walls, some of them even touched by rot and mold. A good cover for a hidden entrance, especially if it makes an impression something illicit of a mundane sort is being conducted in here.

“Feck off, you old sod, because when I get my hands on ya bloody arse…”

If Lena has any other choice words to add, they all drown in the rising static followed by a wave of something washing over him with an inaudible pop accompanied by a monstrous giggle the Beast lets out, its bulk vibrating against his side. Every surface emits sickly red glow with intensity increasing over the edges.

“You hear it, Sunshine, don’t you?” The buzzing in his communicator is voices garbled beyond recognition, incessant and changing in pitch ever so often. Jack glances at the Beast keeping to his side, his fingers idly buried in its viscous substance. He – no, they – have to hurry. There is an invisible clock ticking away in a white room. He approaches the rusted staircase and slowly starts to climb up, left palm instinctively flying to his side to brace against the pain in a furtive gesture, but the external pressure on the wound still somehow alleviates the tug and tear inside.

“I do,” Jack stops at the top to catch his breath. The roof of the warehouse is covered with corrugated sheets, some of them askew, some missing. The sky, it looks like a dawn is breaking, the light tinted with the same shade of red as everything else.

“He is calling for him but they all hear it, just as you do,” the woman with the tattoo under her eye lays a hand on his shoulder. The warmth of her touch helps to push the pain to the back of his awareness and lock it away where it does not bother him so much. “You need to be careful, rafeeq,” she whispers when the receding tide washes over them again and she melts away into black ash floating away on the air currents.

Jack moves towards the metal walkway and finally catches a glimpse of a car stuck in the wall, crashed in from the outside. The headlights are still working and flickering on and off but what stirs his attention is a skeleton half-thrust through the windshield as if it were driving the vehicle at the very moment it was thrown at the building. The sight is bizarre, maybe even more than anything he had witnessed inside the facility. Jack raises the rifle and advances, foot after foot.

Overhead, there is an incoming sound of a roar, of a burning engine, and as he snaps his head up he sees the sleek shape of a plane moving across the sky, the right jet trailing flames and smoke behind, fire licking alongside the surface of the wing. A liner. It shouldn’t be here, not after all this time. He had seen some of the coverage in the facility.

It is flying too low. Descending too rapidly. Wobbling from right to left. The pilot won’t be able to pull it up, and if he does try, he will break the plane in half. At this speed, when it touches down, no-one will survive, not in the urban environment, and the fuel...

The engine blast from the craft blows the rest of metal sheets off the roof and in seconds the shape disappears from his view only to be soon followed by torturous sounds of a crash and then, an explosion. The whole frame of the warehouse vibrates, and the car jostles forward dangerously but stays suspended. The headlights switch off after two another flashes.

Jack clenches his teeth and follows the walkway to the door on the left. He can’t dwell on it now because the clock is ticking. The hands don’t move. It measures the time that does not pass.

Inside the small darkened room his overhead display starts to act up and he holds his finger on the trigger. Nothing. It passes. Yet the feeling of a presence – of something other with him in that room – stays as he forces the door open and descends to the ground floor. The air grows colder and he can swear he sees his own breath coming out in white puffs.

“Come out, come out,” the Beast intones while curling around his legs. Prints made out of black grease mark its dance on the ground.

“Whoever you are,” Jack finishes for it, eyes searching. “Come out, come out…”

“Wherever you are,” the dark laughter runs down his back in peals and ripples in his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack notices a movement and turns shooting. Bullets pierce the air and embed in the wall. “They do leave such a foul aftertaste, Sunshine.”

The door to his right creaks and then tilts back, finally falling off the hinges into the world outside. The nagging feeling of not being alone passes far too slowly to be comforting.

“The ghosts, or the living?” Jack asks himself, eyes trained on the exit, and the alleyway he sees beyond the doorframe.

“Is there a difference, Sunshine?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“No. No, you wouldn’t,” with a somber note the Beast returns to him. Past the threshold the asphalt of the street is ripped up, he can see where the water pipes running below it exploded when the pressure of boiling water tore through them. The fact he’s probably dying of a radiation poisoning is an afterthought.

The rubble is everywhere and there is no intact window in sight. The burnt out frame of a bus stands half-crushed under the pile of concrete.

The unnatural quiet is what unnerves him, the overwhelming silence punctuated only by the crackling of the fires. Jack cautiously eyes the dead end where a side of a building collapsed and, after a short pause, sidles to the opposite wall and glances past the corner.

He pulls the trigger before his other senses catch up with the instinct guiding his hands; the grey figure – frozen in motion while running with hands raised above their head – explodes into ash gently whirling in the air until it slowly settles into a pile on the cracked asphalt.

The facility. The numerous piles of ash inside. The screaming woman that shriveled and splintered, and then crumpled into ash. Reaper will consume until he consumes all. The apocalypse. The end of the world.

Down the street there are two more ash silhouettes, one on all fours, the other standing – twisted to the side, lunging away, trying to hide, escape? It is the futility of the action that gets to him, for one cannot outrun their death.

With a thundering heart, Jack moves closer – the rifle heavier with each step he takes, claws biting into his shoulders in apprehension – his eyes never leave the figures. He licks his lips, unprepared for the sudden howl pushing another unseen tide of force tinting everything with a brownish sort of red.

The shapes made out of ash change and stir, grey transforming into flesh, cracked and sickly. The one on the ground, a woman, screaming, crawling, the skin on her exposed arms and legs bubbling and melting off, smearing wet splotches on the asphalt with each uncoordinated jerk of her body. Chunks of meat fall off her frame.

The standing one, a man, stumbling, hands outstretched – fingertips ending in dark charcoal, his face is seared into unreadable expression, lips charred and blackened, eyes oozing out of their sockets and down his cheeks like ghastly milky tears.

His communicator is screeching at him, the cacophony dizzying, and now he knows with a certainty raising bile in his throat those are voices of all suspended between life and death in the agony of their final moments here, a residue of some sort, a fleeting memory of being clinging to the crumbling reality.

“Not much more than you,” the scornful laugh comes from the doppelganger standing on top of the pile of rubble behind the tortured twitching shapes, his silhouette embraced by embers circling around him. The wraith weighs the knife in his hand, then throws it up to catch it effortlessly when it falls. “You are the same as they are, blind and stumbling, trying to grasp at something that’s not yours. Do you think he cares about you any more than he does for all the others?” He points the blade at him in his outstretched hand. “He has so many to choose from but in the end, I will make him see me, only me, and you, you will be devoured like all the rest.”

“I don’t mind,” Jack lowers the rifle, the barrel pointing towards the ground, and he smiles at the bloody apparition sneering at him over the nightmarish landscape. “As long as he needs me.”

“He doesn’t. He never will. Not you.”

The wave comes back and the pale-faced wraith fades along with the writhing screaming shapes that again solidify into bodies of ash as the change spills over them, and the myriad of voices in his comm quiets down.

“Not me,” Jack swallows back the bitter admission.

“Not yet, Sunshine,” the Beast whispers.

[theinquisitivej]

‘IT’ (2017) - A Halloween Movie Review

Well okay then; I guess this actually was pretty darn good. A surprise, to be sure, but a very welcome one.

          I read Stephen King’s ‘IT’ when I was younger, and it was one of my most memorable and gripping experiences with a novel in my teenage years. Yet since then, every time I’ve reflected on the book, I could only recall its weaker elements. The 1990 TV movie that aired in two parts was a limp retelling of what I vaguely remembered happening in the novel, and despite the horror and creeping dread feeling palpable when I read the book, Tim Curry and the rest of the TV movie’s scares fell short. Was the story that weak underneath? Did I get enraptured with a shallow pulp novel that was best left forgotten? I was convinced that this was the case until recently, when I listened to a podcast that examined the book in thorough detail. All of its strengths came flooding back, and while I was still aware of the story’s shortcomings, it was comforting to know that a book I once treasured wasn’t devoid of quality.

          Just as I was beginning to remember how much I cared about this tale of a group of kids fighting an unspeakable evil in a small town in Maine called Derry, adverts for this movie made it seem like a by-the-numbers haunted house ride relying too much on jump scares. Pennywise the Dancing Clown is certainly an important aspect to the monster in ‘IT’, but he isn’t the only form our characters had to deal with, and I was concerned that this movie was becoming too fixated on the clown on the front cover and missing the meat that made this story more than what it appears on the surface.

I am so glad to be wrong.

          What makes this movie not just enjoyable, but really work, is the likeable dynamic between the child protagonists. The film knows that this, perhaps moreso than the scary clown, is what this story hinges upon. As much as ‘IT’ manages to scare us by tapping into Lovecraftian themes of fearing something ancient and beyond our understanding, the story also manages to evoke a bittersweet longing for our childhood. All seven actors playing each member of the ‘Losers Club’, our main group of child protagonists who are troubled by varying personal problems in addition to scary visions of a terrifying presence in the town, are excellent. Inevitably, some members get less focus, but even Mike and Stan, the ones with the least screentime / dialogue, are played effectively by Chosen Jacobs and Wyatt Oleff respectively, and show nuance that marks them as distinct members of the group. The group has wonderful chemistry that makes you enjoy spending time with these characters and want to be friends with them. It reminds me of what some of the later ‘Harry Potter’ films managed to accomplish once the actors hit their full stride and the dialogue became more natural and enjoyable. Obviously Finn Wolfhard of ‘Stranger Things’ fame was entertaining as all hell as the jokey Richie and continues to show the world his talents. But I also thought Jack Dylan Grazer as Eddie had brilliant delivery, Sophia Lillis played Beverly powerfully with excellent skill, Jeremy Ray Taylor lifted Ben right from the page and made him such a sweet character, and Jaeden Lieberher was on point as Bill, handling the difficult and complex details of his character and what he’s going through expertly. This is a group effort, and honestly, watching these people both as characters and as actors work together to create something treasured and memorable is immensely uplifting.

          But for all the laughs and good times I had with the main characters, the scares were just as intense. Some people have argued whether or not this really counts as horror, which I honestly don’t get. A story’s haunting moments shouldn’t be invalidated just because it managed to make you laugh elsewhere in the film. If anything, the fact that you can share a laugh with these characters should make you more on edge when the scary stuff starts happening and puts them at risk. And when the film shows its horror side, it gets intense. The iconic scene with Georgie and the drain had excellent buildup and a horrifying conclusion. Bill Skarsgård makes Pennywise instantly memorable, managing to play him as simultaneously entertaining and terrifying in equal measure, whereas Tim Curry was certainly fun to watch, but never quite scared me as Pennywise in the 1990 version. He crafts this unsettling creature with expert precision, never over-egging the pudding or throwing something into the performance just for the sake of it, a la Jared Leto’s Joker. My favourite aspect about this version of Pennywise is how his disguise as a human clown often seems patchwork at best. His eyes occasionally drift apart slowly and look empty, like a doll with a button eye dangling by a thread, and his proportions are all off, his movements are unnatural and marionette-like, and Skarsgård’s voice is squeezed out as if it takes Pennywise a great effort just to form the words, even as he tries to lull certain characters into a false sense of security. It is a masterclass in the uncanny, and the rest of the frightening tricks this movie has up its sleeve show just as much impressive grasp on how to truly unsettle an audience, rather than just startle them.

          As adaptations go, this is an excellent example of a film understanding the important aspects of the source material, while also having enough confidence to know what to change and what can be worked around. It understands that the horror doesn’t just lie in the supernatural elements of the story, but also within the homes of our main characters. Our protagonists are under threat by monsters, but what is even more terrible is how little support they have from their families, as if the only respite from the darkness is in each other. This one element is what makes ‘IT’ so chilling as a horror, but it is also why the bonds between these main characters feel so joyous and heartwarming. It’s a balancing act which, if successfully pulled off, results in an experience that thrills you with its scares while it simultaneously inspires you with a story of friendship and banding together. True, ‘IT’ is a dense, lengthy text, so pacing and issues of what you keep, what you choose to miss out, and how you convey the same sense of epic scale will always be there in any adaptation. But this most recent version nevertheless captures all the visceral frights and feelings of bittersweet nostalgia that made the book treasured by so many people.

          One of my favourite adaptations, ‘IT’ (2017) has all of that good stuff you experience from watching a lovable group of friends in stories like ‘The Goonies’, ‘Stranger Things’, and the ‘Harry Potter’ franchise, mixed in with some truly haunting material to make for one of the best cocktails of the year.

9/10.

Terrifying and fun, this is an excellent adaptation of the childhood half of ‘IT’. I eagerly anticipate seeing whether the second half will stick the landing in two years.

[char27martin]

Emotion vs. Feeling: How to Evoke More From Readers

The difference between writing emotion and writing feeling is more one of degree than kind. Feeling is emotion that has been habituated and refined; it is understood and can be used deliberately. I know how I feel about this person and treat her accordingly. Emotion is more raw, unconsidered. It comes to us unbidden, regardless of how familiar it might be. Rage is an emotion. Contempt is a feeling.

Both emotion and feeling are essential not only in fiction but in nonfiction. However, given their unique qualities, rendering them on the page requires different techniques.

Both rely upon understanding what readers want. People don’t turn to stories to experience what you, the writer, have experienced—or even what your characters have. They read to have their own experience. Our job is to create a series of effects to facilitate and enhance that experience.

This guest post is by David Corbett, who is the award-winning author of five novels, the story collection Killing Yourself to Survive and the nonfiction work, The Art of Character. David is a regular contributor to Writer’s Digest. He resides in Northern California with his wife and their Wheaten terrier. Find him online at davidcorbett.com.

Follow him on Twitter @DavidCorbett_CA.

Eliciting Emotion

Emotion on the page is created through action and relies on surprise for its effect. That surprise is ultimately generated by having the character express or exhibit an emotion not immediately apparent in the scene.

We all experience multiple emotions in any given situation. So, too, our characters. To create genuine emotion when crafting a scene, identify the most likely or obvious response your character might have, then ask: What other emotion might she be experiencing? Then ask it again—reach a “third-level emotion.” Have the character express or exhibit that. Through this use of the unexpected, the reader will experience a greater range of emotion, making the scene more vivid.

Surprise can also be generated through unforeseen reveals and/or reversals. This technique requires misdirection: creating a credible expectation that something other than what occurs will happen instead.

Types of misdirection include:

Misdirection through ambiguity: Any of several results might occur.

Misdirection through fallacy: Something creates a mistaken belief regarding what is happening or what it means.

Misdirection through sympathy: Intense focus on one character lures the reader into overlooking what another might do.

To ground a surprise in emotion you must develop a belief that some other emotional outcome—ideally, the opposite of the one you hope to evoke—is not only possible, but likely.

For example, to push the readers toward dread, panic or terror, you need to create the impression that these emotions are in no way inevitable. The readers are trying to avoid the negative feeling. It’s hope that “the terrible thing” can be circumvented that makes them feel the dread, panic or terror once it’s presented, and actually intensifies it.

Exploring Feeling

Feeling requires introspection, which thus necessitates identification with the character and empathy for what she faces.

Remember, however, that the story’s action and its characters are vehicles through which the reader creates her own emotional experience. The goal is not to get readers to feel what the characters feel, per se, but to use the characters as a device to get readers to feel something on their own.

Recent neurological research suggests that feeling and cognition coincide, which is to say that a major factor in experiencing a feeling is the assessment of it. This means that, despite the modernist turn toward the objective mode (Hemingway, Hammett, etc.), and the constant drumbeat of “show, don’t tell,” readers need some processing of feeling to register it meaningfully.

This means allowing characters to think about what they’re feeling, which accomplishes two things:

It makes the feelings both more concrete and more personal.

It creates time and space for readers to process their own feelings. If empathy for the character has been forged, this allows readers to ask themselves: Do I feel the same way? Do I feel differently?

Such examination is best accomplished in sequel scenes, which normally occur after a particularly dramatic scene or a series of these scenes that culminate in a devastating reveal or reversal. These scenes permit characters and readers alike to take a breather and process what has just happened.

[11 Reasons Writing is Good for Your Health]

Within such scenes, the point-of-view character:

registers and analyzes the emotional impact of what has happened

thinks through the logical import or meaning of what has happened

makes a plan for how to proceed.

Readers process their own emotions and interpretation of events while the character is doing so, not necessarily in parallel or even consciously.

It’s typically best to keep this sort of analysis brief. Going on too long can bore or alienate readers who have already ingested and interpreted what’s happened and are ready to move on. Try to restrict yourself to a paragraph or two. The point isn’t to overanalyze the character’s feelings, but to clear a space for readers to examine their own.

To accomplish this, the POV character should:

Dig deeper: As with emotion, surprise is a key element. You need a starting point that seems unexpected, because nothing shuts off the reader like belaboring the obvious. Instead, seek a second- or third-level feeling in the scene.

Objectify the feeling: Find a physical analogy for it (e.g. She felt as though her shame had created a sunburn from within).

Compare the feeling: Measure it against other occasions when it has arisen. Is it worse this time? How? Why?

Evaluate the feeling: Is it right or wrong to feel this way? Proper or shameful? What would a more refined, stronger, wiser person feel?

Justify the feeling: Explore why this feeling is the only honest response for the character.

Examine the impact on identity: What does this feeling say about the character or the state of her life? Has she grown or regressed? Does she recognize the feeling as universal, or does it render her painfully alone?

[10 Habits of Highly Effective Writers]

Putting Them Together: Writing Emotion and Feeling

A character changes through the emotions she experiences, the refinement of those emotions into feelings, and the evolution in self-awareness that this process allows. This gradual metamorphosis creates the story’s internal arc, providing the character an opportunity to move step-by-step from being at the mercy of her emotions to mastering her feelings. And through the use of surprise and introspection, you provide a means for the reader to traverse an arc of her own, expanding her emotional self-awareness.

The author wishes to thank writer and agent Donald Maass for his invaluable insights on these matters.

Order Now: Creating Characters

You’ll appreciate this book if:

You want to know how to write a novel with artfully crafted character

You need help choosing point of view, developing dialogue and bringing characters to life

You’re interested in weaving in antagonists and second characters into your story

You want value by getting 40 chapters and eight sections on creating characters in novels and short stories.

Order Creating Characters here.

The post Emotion vs. Feeling: How to Evoke More From Readers appeared first on WritersDigest.com.

from Writing Editor Blogs – WritersDigest.com http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/there-are-no-rules/emotion-vs-feeling-evoke-readers

[theinquisitivej]

‘Get Out’: A Movie Review

WHILE THIS ARTICLE IS SPOILER FREE, IF YOU WANT TO AVOID ALL INFORMATION AND GO IN BLIND, READ THE FINAL SCORE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE REVIEW.

This one had been getting a lot of positive buzz, and after watching it, I can see why. 'Get Out' has creeping atmosphere, commendable use of camera, performances with a feeling of cohesive quality and tone that are brought together through the impressive directorial debut of Jordan Peele, and the subject matter is encouraging to see in a film of this quality. It's easy to get behind a film that says "racism is bad, why the hell are we still dealing with it in the modern world", but 'Get Out' addresses a different aspect of what black people, and I imagine a lot of people belonging to other ethnicities, can experience: a feeling of discomfort when you are the only non-white person in a social situation. 'Get Out' builds on that, using it to deliver both tense moments of escalating dread, as well as some much appreciated comedy. This is an examination of how toxic hatred is not the only form of prejudice that people can experience, as intense fascination with our protagonist leads to feelings that he is being exhibited. While not rooted in hatred, it is still a process that leads to alienation, and that's a theme I was very pleased to see explored in a film as solid as this.

          But while this is a film with tight writing that effectively and efficiently delivers the story it sets out to tell, it doesn't exactly enthrall me so much that I feel a need to ever watch it again. It is humourous, but I wasn't laughing at it quite as much as some reviews would have me believe, so that all-important factor in the rewatchability of a film with a comedic edge is not quite there for me. The dread evoked by the uncomfortable atmosphere is strong on your first viewing, but it definitely relies on the mystery of not knowing exactly what's going on, which you can only really experience once. The mystery itself was also not too intricate or difficult to predict the general direction it was heading in. That's not to say that it wasn't compelling or that I found the resolution unsatisfying, only that there's not exactly a great deal of fascinating puzzle pieces involved in its construction. Once you know the full picture, you just kind of go "oh. That's a cool idea, that works with the themes you've been establishing. Neat." After that, all the film has left to do is pack up its stuff and go on its merry way. It's not a bad experience, but its one that does its job and then concludes, never needing to be revisited again.

          At least that was my experience. There will be some people who will connect a lot more with this film, and they might get a lot more of a kick out of the humour than I did. I myself had a great time, but don't see myself coming back for seconds. Even now I can think of one or two scenes that, when you know the full story, don't quite make sense in retrospect. I don't exactly want to sully my experience with the film by coming back and noticing even more weaknesses with the story, especially when the themes were accomplished as well as they were.

8/10. 

Although it doesn't have a lot of rewatchability, it does give you a lot to enjoy on your first viewing. Definitely check this one out.