#late but I just finished knitting star coaster

[kairukitsuneo]

☆May the Fourth be with you☆

[gra-sonas]

Malex 5, 7 and 20 for the questions, please and thank you :)

Thank you for playing, nonnie!!! Took me a moment longer to answer these, but here we go!

5) Who sleeps on the couch when they get into a fight?

Well, Michael certainly tries to sleep on the couch when they have what he considers their “first big fight”. In the middle of their argument he walks into their shared bedroom, grabs his pillow and a spare blanket and comes back out into the living room to throw both items into the corner of the couch Alex is currently not occupying.

Alex looks at Michael, raising one eyebrow in question.

“You don’t have to say anything, Alex, I know I’m exiled from the bedroom. I’ll take the couch.”

“I didn’t say anything about you being exiled from the bedroom, neither did I ever have the intention to say it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t sleep on the couch.” The “because of your leg” is left unsaid.

Alex sighs and pats the empty space between Michael’s bedding and himself.

“Please come and sit down with me for a minute, Michael.”

Michael can’t refuse Alex anything when he calls him Michael in that soft, yet earnest voice. He walks across the room, carefully maneuvers around Alex and plops down next to him on the sofa. He doesn’t look at Alex, though, afraid of to find an expression of anger or disappointment on Alex’s face.

Alex slowly reaches out to Michael, careful, as if not to spook him. He puts a hand on Michael’s thigh, the warmth of his hand seeping through the thin cotton of Michael’s sweat pants.

“Michael, could you please look at me?”

Michael turns his head and to his surprise, Alex smiles at him.

“I just wanted to make one thing absolutely clear before we even consider continuing our earlier discussion--”

“Discussion? We were having a full blown argument, Alex, you were angry at me, it makes sense for you to kick me out of the bedroom.”

“Michael! I’m not angry with you. A bit agitated over the argument maybe, but I’m not angry. And I’m not kicking you out of the bedroom. In fact I want us to make a promise to each other right here and right now.”

Michael looks at Alex. “What promise, Alex?”

“I want us to promise, that no matter what, we will NEVER go to bed angry. We will NEVER sleep in two different rooms after an argument. I want us to promise that we will always find a way to make up before we go to sleep, and that we sleep in the same bed every night.”

Alex cups Michael’s face with his hand.

“We’ve lost more than a decade to miscommunication, wrong timing and arguments, I don’t want to lose even a single night to some argument we won’t even remember ten days from now.”

Michael looks at Alex and flings himself at him. He presses Alex into the corner of the couch, hugging him tight like he’s afraid Alex will slip out of the embrace. Instead, Alex wraps his arms around Michael and squeezes back. They stay like this for a long time, until Michael’s calmed down and they are breathing in unison. At some point, Alex pulls his head back a few inches to look Michael in the eyes.

“I want to hear you say it, Michael. It’s important."

Michael kisses the tip of Alex’s nose.

“I promise, that no matter what, that we’ll NEVER go to bed angry, that we'll NEVER spend the night apart after an argument, and that the makeup sex will ALWAYS be amazing.”

He winks at Alex. It makes Alex smile, and his eyes shine with so much love for Michael, Michael barely knows how to handle it.

“That’s an excellent promise. Would you mind if I’ll take you up on that last bit  now? I’m really rather tired of all the talking and would prefer we end the evening on a high note.”

Michael kisses Alex on the mouth before he pulls back, gets up and reaches for Alex’s hand.

“I’ll lead the way!”

7) Who said “I love you” first? and who ends their arguments in a fight with “Because I love you”?

They both say it at the same time, actually.

Their friends leave late after a BBQ Alex had hosted in his backyard. Instead of leaving with the others, Michael stays to help Alex clean up. He’s carrying all the dirty dishes inside, carefully placing them in the dishwasher, putting leftovers in the fridge and cleaning larger items that don’t fit in the machine by hand. Alex comes inside, carrying a large IKEA bag filled with throw pillows and fleece blankets. He puts the pillows and blankets away and joins Michael in the kitchen.

“Domestic looks good on you, Michael.”

“Let me tell you, I’m the king of domestic, Alex. My kitchen clean up game is top notch, my vacuum skills are unparalleled, and you should see me do laundry. Mouth watering!”

Alex laughs, and it’s music to Michael’s ears.

“You know what, I’ll take the leg off, get a fire started, and you join me on the couch when you’re finished cleaning up. Deal?”

Michael half turns around and smiles fondly at Alex.

“Deal!”

Alex builds a fire in the fire place and has it burning in no time. Then he puts on one of his favorite records and lights some candles before he retreats to his bedroom to take off his leg. When he returns to the living room, he’s clad in his favorite pair of sweatpants. He grabs the knitted blanket Isobel gave him for Christmas from the back of the comfy chair and sits down on the couch, placing his crutches on the floor.

He snuggles up under the blanket and listens to Michael bustling in the kitchen. When Michael finally joins him in the living room, it’s dark outside, and Michael’s curls shine golden in the light of the fire. He’s carrying two mugs and carefully places them on the colorful coasters Rosa made for in therapy last year. Alex leans forward and smells.

“Lavender?”

“Good guess, put a spoonful of honey in your tea, I think that’s how you like it best, right?”

Michael’s walked around the couch table and sat down next to Alex, turning half around to face him. Alex nods.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered. I remember everything about you, Alex. I know how you like your coffee, I know which side of the bed you prefer to sleep in, I know your favorite poem and many other little things. You are important to me, and knowing all these things about you, make me happy. And it gives me hope.”

Alex’s heart is beating a million miles a minute in his chest, but he tries to stay calm.

“Hope? What do you hope for, Michael?”

“I hope that one day, I can put all that knowledge to good use and love you the way you deserve to be loved. Every day, for the rest of our lives.”

There’s suddenly a huge lump in Alex’s throat and his own voice sounds more like a squeak to him when he replies.

“For the rest of our lives?”

Michael nods and smiles at him, open, vulnerable, but also full of love. There’s fireworks exploding in Alex’s chest when he bends forward, and Michael does the same (meeting him in the middle) and then they’re hugging and Michael pulls him closer and closer until he’s basically in Michael’s lap, wrapped in the most perfect hug he’s ever received.

He hears a hoarse whisper from Michael, close to his ear. “Alex.”

And he whispers back. “Michael.”

And then, as if the stars had aligned for this one perfect, cosmic moment in time, they both whisper “I love you.” at the same time. They both start crying (happy tears), whispering “I love you I love you I love you.” over and over again. Kissing, hugging, laughing.

They are a mess, but they are a perfect mess, and they both know that their time has finally come.

20) Who falls asleep in the others lap and who carries them to bed?

They usually manage to go to bed at a Reasonable Time™ before either of them falls asleep, but when it happens, it’s usually Michael who falls asleep, his head in Alex’s lap, and Alex’s strong fingers carefully carding through his curls. It’s the most soothing and relaxing experience, so really, Michael isn’t at all to blame for falling asleep. Alex won’t carry Michael to bed tho (even though he could, going to the gym with Kyle Valenti’s made Alex “bulk up” in all the right places - all in taste and good proportions, he only had to up his dress shirt size one number).

When Alex falls asleep in Michael’s lap one day, though? Michael doesn’t have the heart to wake him up when he’s ready to go to bed himself. Instead of carrying Alex, he uses his telekinesis to “float” Alex to their bedroom, carefully putting him down on the mattress. Thankfully, Alex doesn’t wake up. Michael climbs into bed, pulls up the covers up around them, snuggles up close to Alex from behind, and falls asleep with a smile on his face.

~ * ~

Ask me more OTP questions for Malex or Belmanes from this list!

[lottabank]

name: evelyn charlotte banks nicknames: charlotte , lottie , lott , char , charlie , charmander , etc. but she no longer goes by evelyn in this lifetime age: twenty three physically , sixty seven biologically sexuality: panromantic / sexual pronouns: she / her , cisfemale  species: vampire sign: gemini spotify: here pinterest: here

hello moon beams and star shines , this is late but i’ve just been busy with work ! i’ve got the time to try and finish stuff now , so i’m gonna work on trying to do my daughter’s intro. if you’d like to plot feel free to hmu via tumblr im or ask for my discord bc i’ll gladly give it. i also play rune ( shadow graced human ) so yeah it’s snottie back at it again , anything you want to know about me or lottie alike hmu or just read below to find out more about my sweet serial killer vamp princess

── the high council is prepared to hear the story of EVELYN CHARLOTTE ‘ LOTTIE ‘ BANKS , a VAMPIRE while noted as a WANDERER. we might of mistaken them as MADELAINE PETSCH. appearances may be deceiving, with immortality being so common among supernaturals. this being has walked the earth for NINETY years, and their face reflects an age of TWENTY THREE they’re a CITIZEN of estonia and will be residing in TALLIN.

during their stay of the harvest they shall work by day as a STRIPPER to blend in with the mortal crowd. however, at night you might find them as AN ESCORT / ASSASSIN. they’re UNHAPPY about the harvest, however, they plan to please the high council.

PERSONALITY.

vampire beauty queen , primadonna , self-proclaimed princess. this darling girl has always loved attention , luxury , all things beautiful and transitioning to the darkness only heightened that love. so much so that she will do just about anything to satisfy her own wants or needs. lottie is ruthless , verging on sociopathic. she is delicate , but she is dangerous. she is by no means unfeeling though , nor incapable of love. she can be sweet , she can be soft , she can be pink cheeks and bright smiles just as she can be bloody lips and deranged laughter. she is genuinely kind , loving and gentle unless your death would make her happier than your being alive.  

ruling planet: mercury — the planet of communication body parts: shoulders , arms , hands element: air good day: fascinating , original , resourceful , charming , wise , adventurous bad day: restless , distracted , two-faced , judgmental , depressed , overwhelmed favorite things: cell phones , fast cars , trendy clothes , obscure music , guitars , books , clubbing least favorite things: small-minded people , dress codes , authority figures , silence , routines secret wish: to have all the answers how to spot her: mischievous twinkle in her eyes,  humming , talking with her hands where you’ll find her: taking pictures , behind the bar , in a chat room , playing devil’s advocate keywords: communication , collaboration , synergy , cleverness , wittiness , inventiveness ,  ingenuity

charlotte’s energy circulates in a quick and frenetic way , witty wordplay and dynamic dialogue are her forte. she is great for brainstorming and socializing , but craves “ twin flame ” and kindred spirit energy and is always up for an intellectual meeting of the minds. 

under the influence she can find herself with the gift of gab , talking and conversing with others for hours hopping from pop culture trends to deep political topics. beware of when she becomes a “ gossip girl , ” as she can crank up the rumor mill. as renowned dr. bernie siegel says , “ we have the ability to cure with either ‘ words ’ or kill with ‘ swords. ' ” 

the essence of charlie’s energy is fascinating , original , resourceful , charming , wise , and adventurous. some negative manifestations can devolve into more restless , distracted , two-faced , judgmental , depressed , and overwhelmed energy. 

lottie has a tendency to ride the roller coaster of life , spiraling skywards one minute and plunging into lows the next. if you can keep up with her vibes though , you’ll have one hell of a thrill !

charlotte exhibits great creative synergy , instantly connecting people to each other. always inclined to spend time with friends and focused on changing the world one idea at a time.

a little bit older and wiser , more flexible and comfortable with change than others. she can “ chameleon ” herself to fit into a variety of situations. 

can come across as clever and quick-witted , eager to dish out the juiciest pieces of news and happenings to their friends via text message and social media. in case that’s not enough , she’ll probably send you a snapchat story for good measure.

lottie loves fast cars , trendy clothes and any wacky gadgets or games they can tinker around with. part of the fun ( and curse ) of this fiery red head is that you’re never quite sure which personality you’re going to experience. will it be the vivacious , pun-dishing jokester or the snarky , mean-spirited critic ? if you’re willing to see fifty shades of crazy , she’ll color your life in thrilling ways !

BACKGROUND.

evelyn charlotte banks was born june fourth , 1930 and was given the dark gift in the early fifties ( so you’ll definitely notice some call backs to that time period ). she has grown and developed and adapted throughout time better than most , but you can take the sock hop away from the girl but not out of her. she remembers her life before , but doesn’t dwell on nor even really miss it.

she grew up in your rather classic straight lace upper middle class suburban family and community with her perfect nuclear family. the town they lived in was small , close knit , and everyone knew everyone but especially who evelyn’s family was. 

she was in a lot of pageants growing up and was even platinum blonde for most of her human life , because she was so afraid her red hair would keep her from being successful.

when she was eighteen years old with big shiny dreams of silver screens , luxury , and eyes all on her was all she could think of. she left her family and their small generational hometown in georgia for bigger , better things in none other than hollywood. 

she was on her way ,  so desperate to be in the movies and be like marilyn monroe but shortly after is when she became ensnared by darkness and evil.  she wasn’t very successful at all in the beginning so , she started wearing tighter , shinier outfits when she was on stage when suddenly she started getting actual recognition. 

she wasn’t acting like she had intended , but it turned out her voice was good enough to land her plenty of lounge singing gigs in multiple joints. it was one particularly dark , seedy , dangerous joint that only opened once the sun set completely and closed upon the sun rise that she finally started to get propositioned to do so-called ‘ film gigs. it was also in this place where she met him for the first time. 

( tw: cult ment. ) her maker is very old and before she ever knew he was anything more than a handsome older gentleman she was fully under his control. he was something of a cult leader who for the most part glamoured his ‘ followers ‘ , but that was never necessary with charlotte. she was thoroughly and completely in love with her maker , she even ‘ married ‘ him and lived on his compound.

( tw: rape ment. , assault ment. ) it wouldn’t be for a few more years that he would finally turn her ,and only after he found her brutally beaten and raped for nothing more than a snuff film. her maker found her on the verge of death and wasted no time in saving her life by bestowing his dark gift upon her. 

( tw: murder ment. ) to say that lottie felt indebted to and fell in love with her maker to the point of obsession was an understatement , she would do anything and everything he asked of her including murder not in the name of feeding.

( tw: death ment. ) the films she was in were kept in the dark underbelly of the industry and no one was none the wiser , not to mention everyone thought she was dead after her last film.

so , she eventually did make her debut in film and was even on the silver screen finally. this only lasted for as long as she could get away with not aging before eventually she disappeared off the radar with her maker. the two traveled far and wide for a long time , but eventually went their separate ways even though lottie wanted nothing of the sort her maker commanded she live her own life without him now.

( tw: murder ment. ) she has since become something of a murderer ?? she prefers to call herself an assassin but it’s rare anyone actually pays her to murder anyone. you could even call her  a serial killer if you take into account that her victims are almost always men of the unsavory variety , but she has two sides to her personality and it’s not like she’s full maniac.

ETC.

if you know what yandere means she fits that description very well , and if you don’t know what it means well:  a common term in otaku fandom , a yandere is a person ( usually female ) romantically obsessed with someone to the point of using violent means to get them in their arms. often can be seen featured with a sharp weapon and a psychotic grin.

pretty much she comes off as this sweet , lovely , beautiful woman with lots of talent but in reality she can switch that off in an instant and literally kill you without any hesitation if it benefits her or someone she loves.

anyway she has been in estonia for only a bit now , but how long is flexible. she probably likes the scenery and the supernatural presence , but she’s honestly not a country mouse at all. 

also not that she needs money , but there is very little she loves more than attention and money. she works at a club as live entertainment on occasion , singing or stripping or bartending or occasionally doing , mostly for the attention but also if she’s in need of money.

[onestowatch]

Crowded Green Rooms, Hotel Rooms and Cars: How Julia Jacklin Made Space For ‘Crushing’ [Q&A]

On her sophomore album, Crushing, Australian singer-songwriter Julia Jacklin performs an act of self-reclamation in ten parts. She drives away, locks herself in her room, examines her body from head-to-toe in a full length mirror, and shakes the voice of an ex-lover from her head. Jacklin wrote the material for the album over the course of a two-year-long world tour while packed into “crowded cars, crowded stages and tiny green rooms” and a corporeal desire for space rings throughout.

Jacklin’s debut album, Don’t Let The Kids Win (2016), was a meditation on growing up and the mental reorientations the process demands. It established Jacklin as another star in the line-up of contemporary indie-folk-rock songwriter and storytellers from down under (including Courtney Barnett, Marlon Williams, Stella Donnelley and Aldous Harding, among others). The album supported two years of consistent touring — and when Jacklin finally settled home, she culled from the collection of lyrics and diary entries she’d put down while on the road and knit Crushing together.

Released on Feb. 22, the 10-track record sees Jacklin tightening her focus on love wearing thin, love ultimately lost and an aftermath that embraces scorn and longing in equal parts. Jacklin’s acknowledgment of the emotional incongruities of the breakdown process rings most true. The album opens with the five-minute burner, “Body,” in which we find Jacklin jumping in a cab to leave behind a partner who’s gotten them kicked off a domestic flight by smoking in the airplane bathroom. At the other end of the album, Jacklin sings “Comfort” like a lullaby to herself, repeating that her former lover will heal with time and, either way, “You can't be the one to hold him when you were the one who left.”

This push-and-pull — the tension between the comfort of space and the comfort of love — prompts us to wonder whether it’s possible to hold both. Jacklin presents us with the question, and in “Head Alone,” answers it by shouting, “You can love somebody without using your hands.” Crushing is granted a degree of relief as Jacklin observes from afar that one can manage to be both loved and liberated.

We spoke with Jacklin the morning after she’d landed in Paris from Australia, feeling, “jet-lagged and foggy.” She’d come from having a coffee and writing in her diary, a practice she’s kept up since she was ten and that makes her feel that she’s “accomplished at least one thing every day.” We discussed dancing alone, why Crushing is not a “Me Too” album, the mythical music industry roller coaster and what it means to be truly great.

Be sure to catch Jacklin on the Crushing tour at one of the dates down below: 

OTW: You wrote most of Crushing while touring your debut album, Don’t Let The Kids Win. Where and how did you find the space to write an album while on the road?

JJ: I wrote a lot of it in the car, looking out the window. Once I got used to travel and the touring lifestyle and surrounded myself with good people who understood me, knew when I needed space and who I didn't feel self-conscious in front of, I started to be able to write even when people were around. I wrote most of the record without a guitar in hand — I reckon I start writing 90 percent of my songs in the shower, actually. For every show, we’d have about forty-five minutes of soundcheck which gave me time to figure out the guitar patterns and chords while the band played along. That’s how it all began to come together.

OTW: How did the process of writing and recording for Crushing feel different from that of your debut album?

JJ: It was worlds different. The first record was a synthesis of my whole life, for which I tried to pick the best songs from all the years leading up to it. I went into it not understanding the recording process properly and feeling very intimidated by the studio. For Crushing, I felt pretty confident in the studio, and I was able to go into it with more of a voice. I didn't feel as much pressure as I thought I’d feel about the scary second record. That seems to be more of a myth than something any of us genuinely experience. It exists online and in the dark corners of your insecurity, but in your day-to-day life — you’re still the same person who loves writing the songs you’ve always written.

OTW: Did your newfound understanding of the recording studio works impact your songwriting for Crushing?

JJ: For me, the song comes first and production comes eighth. Production is important, but if you don't have the song in its core, then you’ve got nothing. There's no amount of layering or trickery that will make it sound good. It was actually the process of touring that helped me develop the songs by making me aware of what I wanted to play for another two years on the road. I realized that I didn’t want to get up there and just play quiet, soft songs every night — I needed songs that would make me feel alive and get my blood running.

OTW: The first two singles you released off the album, “Head Alone” and “Pressure To Party,” both explore the theme of ownership over one's body. How did these come to be the first songs introducing the album?

JJ: I did the same thing for my first record — released the songs in the order that they appear on the album. That's the way I want people to hear the record, sequentially from start to finish. There are definitely a lot of references to my body in the record — I listened back and realized that in the first five songs on the record I say something about my body. It’s a hard thing to talk about — I’ve been doing a lot of press lately and keep getting asked, “Is this a ‘Me Too’ album?’ and it’s like, “No, it's just the album that I've written about my experiences.” Women have been speaking about these things forever, it just so happens that the world is paying attention right now. I spent two years in shared beds, tiny green rooms, crowded rooms, crowded stages and crowded cars. The album formed once I finished that tour and finally just threw my arms out wide and emerged from that claustrophobia.

OTW: On “Head Alone,” it does feel like you're literally breaking out of the expected song structure when you arrive at the bridge — it feels like a different song entirely. Did the bridge surprise you when you wrote it?

JJ: On this record, I was trying to find ways to express these feelings without shoving them into a typical song structure. Initially the bridge was the chorus, and I was going to repeat it. But when we were recording, I realized that I didn’t want to say it again. Sometimes in songwriting the power can be in giving people something once — then they want it again, so they listen again and it’s more impactful. I always think about that with Joanna Newson, one of my favorite songwriters. She’s someone who manages to write a twelve minute song, and she’ll say something once, but you’ll remember it and it’s so powerful. It’s the classic “less is more.”

OTW: You’ve directed or co-directed (with longstanding creative collaborator Nick Mkk) all of your music videos for both Crushing and Don’t Let The Kids Win— when did you decide you were going to take on that role and how did you learn the ropes of directing video?

JJ: It was definitely a learning curve, but there’s a lot of stuff in the creative world that you just have to learn by doing. People often don't realize that. They think, “I need to go to school, I need to be perfect at it before I try it.” Making the music videos made me realize that, in the world of creative work, nobody knows what they're doing and everybody learns from doing it. It’s like that thing when you become an adult and you’re like, “Oh, nobody knows what’s going on.”

OTW: In about seven of your music videos, we see you dancing alone. What’s the story behind this means of expression?

JJ: I’ve started thinking recently that music videos are kind of dumb. I appreciate that some videos are incredible, but a lot of the time, it seems so crazy for me to take a song that has its own life, narrative, and meaning, and then to try to squish a whole other narrative on top of it. That's where the dancing comes in. Every time I think, “How I can represent this song in a simple way?” I’m like, "Oh, I'm going to dance! I’m going to dance in front of a star, I’m going to dance over here, I’m going to dance over there." My label and my manager have said to me multiple times, “Do you reckon you're going to do something else, maybe other than dancing by yourself? And I’m like, “Well, maybe…” and then I deliver the next music video and they’re like, “Ah no, here we go.”

OTW: Now that you’ve been steeped in the industry for a while, what have you found about it that you appreciate and that you need to take yourself away from as a means of self-preservation?

JJ: The industry is great in that it allows me to do what I do. It's driven me into a global community of people and made me feel I really belong somewhere. There is strange thing I’ve realized about the music world — it seems like you’re either up-and-coming, or you've made it, or you're irrelevant. There’s this set trajectory and you've got to figure out where you fit into it. Leading into this second record, I’ve been doing all this press and media and it’s all, “up-and-coming” and “next biggest thing” and you’re just like, “I thought I was just doing my thing, I didn’t realize I was on some strange ascent on a roller coaster.” It’s strange how we try to stick artists into some box where we perceive them to be at their career trajectory, when most of us are just going, “Oh, I thought we were all just playing music and doing our best.”

OTW: You speak about your musical contemporaries with a sense of camaraderie. I think it’s great how you acknowledge your musical influences and recognize that it's a part of the folk tradition to be guided by the work of others. Will you tell me a bit about how you experience music as a listener?

JJ: I think it’s odd when an artist puts a song up on the Internet and people hop on to say, “You sound like this or that person” as a means of dismissing their creativity. Of course we’re all borrowing, especially in the folk tradition— that was the whole point of the genre. I think it's a beautiful thing to be so inspired by someone that you write a song based off of what you listen to. Watching the artists I tour with is my music school. I toured with Andy Shauf for a month last year, and that was the most influential music school I've ever been to. We played 17 shows and 17 festivals together, and I literally would run from my set to go watch his. I’d just stand there, just drinking it in — of course it's going to come out your own music.

OTW: Speaking of artists whom you admire, in “Motherland” you have this line, “Will I be great? Will I be good?” If we’re trying to get outside of the narrative of the emerging, the successful and the declining artist, what does greatness in an artist look like to you?

JJ: At this point, it’s the artists who have clearly stayed true to themselves that I see as great. Like Japanese Breakfast — she works really fucking hard, she tries all these different mediums and I'm sure she’s failed a lot, but she just put her head down and pounds through. She doesn’t have to pour her heart out in every interview, but at the same time, she seems totally able to control her narrative. It’s great to see artists who — even though this industry is crazy and tiring and there are so people involved in your career, so many things that can slip out of your grasp and misrepresent you — manage to rise above that environment and represent themselves truly.

[jinris]

moon tangerine

(ao3)

Most nights at home are quiet just like this, the singular, amplified sound of a sharp pencil scratching skillfully against a paper surface permeating the room. Time extends, the air stifles with warmth, and the outside world disappears in this space. Late autumn rain patters melancholically against the window, cascading down the glass, blurring city lights into indistinct spots. To Keith, it is white noise, no more distracting than the static buzz of the dull light emanating from the lamp on the nightstand.

He stares blankly at his open sketchbook, propped up against his knee, and distractedly picks at the small binding ring at the edge of the page. The begrudging draft in front of him – a recent landscape commission – is uninspiring. Despite the relatively commonplace subject matter, the strokes feel forced after two concentrated hours and the willow tree still doesn’t look right. After impatiently tapping his pencil against the pad, Keith falls back against his pillow in resigned frustration, deciding to leave the draft for a new day.

Without lifting his head, Keith surveys the state of perpetual, accumulated clutter in their room. Old scientific journals stacked on the armchair, discarded drafts and open books scattered on every possible flat surface, he finds stability in the organized disorder. He’ll carry the small mountain of worn sweaters, jeans, socks, and knitted stockings draped over the chair next to the dresser downstairs to wash in the morning. On the opposite nightstand, the unfinished mug of chamomile tea resting on a woolen coaster is nearly cold. Finally, he rolls his head along the edge of his pillow, his eyes falling instantly on the messy spread of silver hair over the thick, white comforter, and a small smile emerges on his tired face.

Allura had fallen asleep over an hour ago after finishing an engrossed review of her most recent lab findings, succumbing to polyatomic basis sets in the end. She’s curled in his direction and buried deep under the blankets, clutching tightly onto the top sheet and revealing just enough of her face to breathe. A remaining token from late evening flirting, the fragile stem of a small, white jasmine flower picked from their potted tree clings loosely behind her ear.

Dreaming of clouds and the sun, she sighs, so softly and pleasantly, and in that instant leaves Keith breathlessly in love with her. His heart, beating furiously, swells with an aching passion. His grip on his pencil tightens – something switches on – and he turns the page, devouring the exhilarating sight of a fresh, blank canvas. He begins with the familiar, gentle curve of Allura’s cheek. Next, sure enough, the flow of her sleepy, disheveled hair is easy, every trace of loose locks and curls precisely drawn. He takes care to match on paper every detail – the angle of her thin, relaxed brows, the plush of her full lips, and the length of her side-swept bangs. She is still the most beautiful girl he has ever seen.

And then she shifts and momentarily stirs, adjusting her head against her pillow and tugging the sheets closer. Allura’s bangs fall forward, and the flower behind her ear drops down. Careful not to let its cool, metallic lining chill her exposed temple, Keith uses the very edge of his pencil to lift the flower back in place. He allows a few moments to pass, until he thinks Allura has fallen back into deep sleep. Then he silently reaches over to gently brush and fix her bangs.

Her sudden, muffled giggle into her pillow startles him, and he abruptly draws his hand back, immense guilt quickly overtaking his conscience.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” he asks quietly, apologetically.

Allura shakes her head, keeping her eyes closed.

“Not really,” she answers wearily, not yet fully awake nor wanting to be. “Are you drawing me because you finished the draft of the commission?”

“Uh.”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Allura laughs airily. She lets go of the sheet and runs her hand affectionately across Keith’s waist, warmly snaking it under his shirt. Locking her arm around him, she pulls herself closer and hides her face against the side of his chest. She inhales deeply, breathing in the faint scent of soap and peppermint.

Keith grins sheepishly and sets down his sketchpad against his raised knee. Adjusting the pencil in his hand, he extends his arm around her, reaches down, and idly combs through Allura’s long hair.

“I got distracted,” he insists. “Something else caught my attention.”

“You couldn’t possibly mean me?” Allura teases, speaking into his shirt. She pauses and sighs pleasantly, briefly taking in the slow rhythm and gentle touch of Keith’s fingers running through her hair. Almost reluctantly, she turns her head and looks up at him.

“Let me see.”

Allura pushes herself up, pressing her palms into the bed. Keith’s eyes flicker toward her before he remembers that she’s still wearing his favorite shirt, and he tries to hide his stare as the dark, oversized neckline casually falls off her shoulder, exposing her collarbone. In the act of sitting up, the flower wedged delicately behind Allura’s ear, now pressed and awkwardly bent, falls into his lap. He picks it up and spins the stem between his fingers as Allura eagerly leans over into his space to review his unfinished work.

Her bleary blue eyes study the modest drawing and shyly follow the graphite lines so well-versed in the shape of her. A faint blush spreads across her cheeks and her lips curl upward in a tiny, introspective smile. Keith has drawn her a thousand times, but every version is like this, soft, indulgent, and cherished – the wordless language of his love for her. Allura turns to meet Keith’s indigo eyes, caught in a storm of racing emotions. All she can hear is the fast beating of her heart pounding in her ears.

He’s expecting her reaction and smiles fondly when Allura looks at him. He tilts her chin up ever so slightly, and then he whispers, in the addictive low voice that timelessly sends shivers down her spine, “You’re beautiful.”

Just as Allura cracks a silly grin, ready to tease, Keith captures her lips with his, closing the gap between them and stealing a kiss. When he pulls back a moment later, Allura’s eyes are adorably wide and Keith smirks.

“Not fair,” she pouts.

“How do I make it up to you?” Keith answers without a second thought.

She lifts her hand and grabs his arm in earnest.

“Sleep. It’s so late.”

“Is it?” he genuinely wonders, glancing at the digital clock on their dresser.

Allura snatches the pencil from Keith’s hand before he can protest and leans over to place it on the nightstand. The pencil, still warm from Keith’s hard grip, rolls freely until it’s stopped by the sharp corner of an old notebook. Keith easily concedes, relinquishing his sketchpad to her as she takes it and the jasmine flower from his grasp. Gazing down pensively at her impulsively-drawn likeness, she presses the flower’s petals lightly against her lips. Then Allura lowers the flower, smoothing out its bent edges, and gingerly positions it in a blank corner of the page. She carefully closes the sketchpad with the flower inside, and sets it aside as well, away from their bed.

Watching her attentively, Keith leans back lazily against the headboard, and after she draws back from the nightstand, Allura rests her hand on his thigh. With his two hands, he embraces her face and stares fixatedly at her like she is his entire world. Because she is.

“You’re right. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Suddenly, Allura’s cheeks burn with rising heat and she blushes modestly. She quickly glances away from him, distracting herself enough to suppress a smile, but Keith, knowing Allura’s every quirk and habit, catches her in the act. By the time she looks back at him again, she has overcome her fluster.

“Don’t be so romantic when I’m too tired to fully appreciate it.”

“Then am I allowed to be romantic in the morning?” Keith asks suggestively, releasing her from his hold.

“Depends on how convincing you are,” she responds, as she slowly, enticingly runs her hand up his thigh.

Keith inhales sharply from the motion as Allura gets up on her knees and climbs into his lap, bedsheets peeling away from their bodies. The fresh bite of cold air makes Keith shiver. His rough, artistic hands find Allura’s slender waist and pull her forward as she assertively grabs his head, eyeing his lips for the briefest of moments, and kisses him deeply, breathtakingly like a shower of a thousand stars. Keith kisses her back, parting lips and intensifying their shared desire. She fiercely tangles her fingers into his hair and Keith reaches out to the nightstand, hastily feeling for the lamp switch, colliding with his pencil that falls to the floor.

The lights go out. In the heady darkness, the sound of heavy rain drums in the distant background. Allura’s snow white hair, reflecting light and faintly glowing, absorbs outside luminescence from the window. Keith toys with the idea of reclaiming his shirt and slides his hands underneath the thin cotton, then possessively up Allura’s back. Allura smirks at the heated touch, and before Keith’s hands can go any higher, she abruptly breaks off the kiss and yanks him down into bed with her, twisting at an angle and letting herself fall on her back.

Keith grunts in mild frustration and Allura giggles, scrambling to return to the head of the bed. As soon as she rolls onto her back, Keith climbs on top of her, seizing and throwing the comforter over them at the same time. Flashing an unsuspecting grin, Allura looks up at him impishly, only to meet Keith’s soft, infatuated eyes gazing down intently at her.

They take her breath away.

Just like they had when she first agreed to marry him, that one night at home after she had graduated. And countless times before and since.

She returns his entrancing gaze with a shy smile, but her eyes burn from exhaustion. She reaches up and timidly cups his cheek. Keith responds with an affectionate smile of his own. His head droops down then, and his wavy, unkempt black hair covers his dark shining eyes from her line of sight. He leans in as Allura slowly wraps her arms around him, and he presses his lips against the crevice of her neck.

“Trust me,” he says quietly while indolently peppering kisses up her neck, “I can be very persuasive.”

Allura bites her lip, forcing down an indicative smile as she clutches and digs into the back of his shirt in response.

“Oh, I know.”

[edc-creations-blog]

When a late life love affair blooms between Mr. Forrest Payne, the owner of the Pink Slipper Gentleman’s Club, and Miss Beatrice Jordan, famous for stationing herself at the edge of the club’s parking lot and yelling warnings of eternal damnation at the departing patrons, their wedding summons a legend to town. Mr. El Walker, the great guitar bluesman, comes home to give a command performance in Plainview, Indiana, a place he’d sworn—and for good reason—he’d never set foot in again.

But El is not the only Plainview native with a hurdle to overcome. A wildly philandering husband struggles at last to prove his faithfulness to the wife he’s always loved. And among those in this tightly knit community who show up every Sunday after church for lunch at Earl’s All-You-Can-Eat, are the lifelong friends, known locally as “The Supremes” —Clarice, facing down her longing for, chance at and fear of a great career; Barbara Jean, grappling at last with the loss of a mother whose life humiliated both of them, and Odette, reaching toward her husband through an anger of his that she does not understand.

Edward Kelsey Moore’s lively cast of characters, each of whom have surmounted serious trouble and come into love, need not learn how to survive but how, fully, to live. And they do, every one of them, serenaded by the bittersweet and unforgettable blues song El Walker plays, born of his own great loss and love.

  Edward Kelsey Moore Book Reviews

“This lusty novel sings with life, saluting friendships through dreams, marriage and long-held secrets.” —Minneapolis Star Tribune, “Summer Books”

“Moore’s bluesy, breezy novel takes readers through life’s highs and lows and in-between times when no one knows what is coming next; its air of folksy optimism should appeal to fans of Alexander McCall Smith and Fredrik Backman.” —Library Journal (starred review)

“Edward Kelsey Moore, besides being laugh out loud hilarious, has a profound understanding of human nature. This gift, combined with his clear love and affection for his characters, makes him a truly remarkable writer. This book is a joy to read.” —Fannie Flagg, author of The Whole Town’s Talking and Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe

“Spending time with the Supremes is like slipping into a warm embrace of love and laughter, soul-searching and sass. There’s nothing these three strong women can’t handle, and that includes the legacy of the pain inflicted by fathers to sons, mothers to daughters. Edward Kelsey Moore has crafted a novel that beautifully illustrates the healing power of forgiveness.” —Melanie Benjamin, author of The Swans of Fifth Avenue and The Aviator’s Wife

“The arrival of Edward Kelsey Moore’s new novel had me singing anything but the blues. Even better cause for celebration? Odette, Clarice, and Barbara Jean are back . . . and what a supreme encore it is!” —Julia Glass, author of A House Among the Trees and Three Junes

  Chapter 1 (Excerpt)

It was a love song. At least it started out that way. The lyrics told the tale of a romance between a man and the woman who made his life worth living. Being a blues song, it was also about how that woman repeatedly broke the man’s heart and then repaid his forgiving ways by bringing a world of suffering down on him. The beautiful melody soared and plunged, each verse proclaiming rapturous happiness and gut-wrenching pain. Here, in a church, this piece of music couldn’t have been further outside its natural habitat. But the tune’s lovely mournfulness echoed from the back wall to the baptismal pool and from the marble floor to the vaulted ceiling and settled in as if the forlorn cry had always lived here.

As the song continued and grew sadder with every line, I thought of my parents, Dora and Wilbur Jackson. The blues was Mama and Daddy’s music. Nearly every weekend of my childhood, they spent their evenings in our living room, listening to scratchy recordings of old-timey blues songs on the hi-fi. One of those might have been as sorrowful as the dirge ringing through the church, but I couldn’t recall hearing anything that touched this song for sheer misery.

Mama preferred her blues on the cheerier and dirtier side—nasty tunes loaded with crude jokes about hot dogs, jelly rolls, and pink Cadillacs. The gloomy ballads, like this one, were Daddy’s favorites. I never saw him happier than when he was huddled up with Mama on the sofa, humming along with an ode to agony. He would bob his head to the pulse of the music, like he was offering encouragement to a down-in-the-mouth singer who was sitting right next to him, croaking out his hard luck.

Sometimes, before sending me to bed, my parents would allow me to squeeze in between them. They’ve both been dead for years now, but their bad singing lingers in my memory. And, because I inherited their tuneless voices, I remind myself of my parents every time I rip into some unfortunate melody. Whenever I hear a melancholy blues, I feel the roughness of Daddy’s fingertips, callused by years of carpentry work, sliding over my arm like he was playing a soulful riff on imaginary strings that ran from my elbow to my wrist.

I’d be ordered off to bed when Mama’d had enough of the dreariness and wanted to listen to a record about rocking and rolling and loving that was too grown-up for my young ears.

Even though the song rumbling through the sanctuary would have been a bit dark for Mama’s taste, she’d have loved the singer’s wailing voice and the roller-coaster ride of the melody. And she wouldn’t have let this song go unnoted. If she had been in the church with me, she’d have turned to me and declared, “Odette, your daddy would’ve loved this song. Every single word of it makes you wanna die. I’ve gotta write this in my book.”

My mother’s “book” was a calendar from Stewart’s Funeral Home that she kept in her pocketbook. The cover of the calendar showed a gray-and-white spotted colt and a small boy in blue overalls. They were in a meadow, both of them jumping off the ground in an expression of unrestrained bliss. Above the picture were the words “Jump for Joy,” and below, “Happy thoughts to you and yours from Stewart’s Funeral Home.” Whenever Mama ran into something that she felt was remarkable enough to merit celebration, she wrote a note on that day’s date so she’d never forget it.

Mama’s book first appeared on a Sunday afternoon about ten years before she passed. We’d just walked out of our church, Holy Family Baptist, and Reverend Brown stood at the bottom of the front steps saying good-bye to his flock. Mama strode up to him and said, “Reverend, you’re the best preacher I’ve ever heard. I’ve been thinkin’ about your Easter sermon all spring. It was truly a wonder; really opened my eyes. I want you to know that you can consider this here soul a hundred percent saved.”

Reverend Brown, who was more than a foot taller than Mama, bent over and took her hand. “That’s so kind of you, Dora,” he said. “I’m just doing what I can for the Kingdom.”

“I mean it,” Mama said. “You’ve won this battle for the Lord. And I wanted to make sure to thank you, since I won’t be comin’ back.”

Reverend Brown hung on to Mama’s hand and waited for her to deliver the punch line to what he assumed was one of the peculiar jokes she was known to tell. But Mama wasn’t kidding. She explained, “Remember how you preached that if we really wanted to be closer to God, we should look at the world around us and write down a little thank-you to Him for all the things He gave us? Well, I took your words to heart and I’ve been doin’ that ever since.”

( Continued… )

Copyright © 2017 by Edward Kelsey Moore. All rights reserved. Book excerpt reprinted by permission of the author and publisher, Henry Holt and Co. Do not reproduce, copy or use without the author’s written permission. This excerpt is used for promotional purposes only.

Purchase books by Edward Kelsey Moore https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1250107946 http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781250107947?aff=henryholt1

      Intimate Conversation with Edward Kelsey Moore

Edward Kelsey Moore is the author of THE SUPREMES SING THE HAPPY HEARTACHE BLUES and the New York Times and international bestseller THE SUPREMES AT EARL’S ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT.

Edward’s award-winning essays and short fiction have appeared in the New York Times and a number of literary magazines, including Ninth Letter, Indiana Review, African American Review, and Inkwell. He currently writes a series of essays for Minnesota Public Radio.

In addition to his writing, Edward maintains a career as a professional cellist. Edward Kelsey Moore makes his home in Chicago, Illinois. His web address is http://www.edwardkelseymoore.com.

BPM: What made you want to become a writer? How long have you been writing? I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was very young. From the moment I got my first library card, I loved fantasizing that my name was on the books on the library’s shelves. I started writing stories as soon as I could hold a pen and I never stopped. But I was sidetracked by a career in music and I didn’t get around to actually finishing any of my many writing projects until I was forty years old. That was when I gave myself a kick in the rear and started taking writing seriously.

BPM: How do you think you’ve evolved creatively? I ask considerably more of myself now than I used to. Earlier in my writing career I thought it was enough to be funny, or sad, or just to get my point across. Now I want to challenge myself with everything that I write. In addition to producing good work, I want to be proud of the effect my writing has on the lives of the people who read it. As I try to become a better writer, I want to become a more responsible one.

BPM: Do you view writing as a kind of spiritual practice? I wouldn’t describe writing as a spiritual practice for me, but I would say that writing fits into a broader belief that all the things in my life must be in harmony with my personal spirituality. That’s one of the nice things about having begun my literary career in middle age. Experience has taught me not to waste my time on anything that brings disharmony and negativity into my life. If writing weren’t the right thing for me, I wouldn’t do it.

BPM: How has writing impacted your life? Writing has had such a powerful impact on me that it’s hard for me to think of an area of my life that it has not affected. On the day-by-day level, since writing replaced music as my primary focus, I see my surroundings differently. It’s natural for me now to immediately set about translating the things that I see and experience into words. I used to do that after a long period of reflection. These days, it’s my first reaction to the world around me.

Also, because of the success of my first novel, people react differently to me than they used to. I was shocked to discover that having “bestselling author” attached to my name meant that people were far more inclined to actually listen to the things I said. I have to think more carefully before I open my big mouth now and that has taken some getting used to. But, as problems go, having people pay attention to you is a high-class problem to have.

BPM: What was one of the most surprising things you learned in creating your books? I’ve been surprised to discover how little my view of the world has changed over the decades. Because I saved so many of the unfinished stories and essays that I gave up on during my younger days, I occasionally go back to them for ideas. When I do, I find that I laughed at the same things forty years ago that I laugh at now and that the same topics frighten or move me. There’s not a lot of difference between me in my fifties and me at fifteen.

BPM: Tell us about your most recent work. Available on Nook and Kindle? My latest novel, The Supremes Sing the Happy Heartache Blues, continues the story of the friendship of three women from a fictional small town in southern Indiana that began with my first novel, The Supremes at Earl’s All-You-Can-Eat. At the start of The Supremes Sing the Happy Heartache Blues, Odette Henry and her two best friends, Barbara Jean and Clarice, the Supremes of the title, are in a church, listening to a song that is very much out of place there. Within days, that song, “The Happy Heartache Blues,” and its singer, El Walker, will impact the lives of Odette and her friends in distinctly different, but very powerful, ways. Soon fearless Odette is frightened to find that she no longer understands her beloved husband. Beautiful, wealthy Barbara Jean is forced to relive memories of her painful and humiliating childhood.

And Clarice, a former musical prodigy, finds herself on the verge of a career breakthrough. But her panic over possibly achieving everything she ever dreamed of can only be soothed by hopping into bed with her husband, whom she can otherwise barely stand to be around. Now the Supremes have to rely upon their friendship more than ever as each of them is forced to re-examine her most intimate relationships and to wrestle with the importance and the meaning of forgiveness.

Along the way, they also encounter a wisecracking, gender-fluid nightclub performer, some pesky old adversaries, and the ugliest baby in the world.

BPM: Give us some insight into your main characters. What makes each one so special? The novel is told primarily from the points of view of Odette and her friends, Barbara Jean and Clarice. Odette is funny and fearless, but as the novel progresses, she sees a side of her beloved husband that she can’t joke away, and it terrifies her. After a life shaped by loss, Barbara Jean is happy for the first time in her life, but her difficult past hasn’t prepared her to accept happiness. Clarice finds herself with the perfect husband for the woman she used to be. But the woman Clarice is now can’t stand the man she spent decades hoping her husband would become. Each of the Supremes has a special connection to El Walker, an elderly blues man whose talent for composing a sad song is only surpassed by his knack for making a mess of his life and the lives of others.

BPM: What was your hardest scene to write, the opening or the close? The opening scene was considerably more difficult to write than the final scene. Asking a reader to step into a world you’ve created is tricky. There are so many ways to mess it up and cause the reader to turn away. The ending, on the other hand, felt natural as I was writing it. If the preceding chapters accomplish what they’re supposed to, the ending should have a feeling of inevitability. I hadn’t planned on the novel ending exactly as it did, but when I got to the closing scene, it felt like the only way for the book to end.

BPM: Is there one subject you would never write about as an author? I won’t go so far as to say that I would never write about any subject. But I will say that there are subjects that I’m not currently interested in adding my voice to. I feel that literature about African Americans is too often about oppressors and the degradation and injustices they perpetrate, instead of being about the Black characters who are ostensibly at the center of the books. I understand why writers return so often to these topics, but I also feel that having this as the default mode of writing about African Americans limits the variety of ways in which Black people are portrayed. I don’t see the need for my words to be added to that particular pool.

BPM: What projects are you working on at the present? I’m working on a novel about a family trying to cope with two tragic losses. I believe that no one truly survives a catastrophe without humor, so it’s a funny novel about people dealing with horrible circumstances.

I’m also tinkering with a play that I started a long time ago. Right now it’s mostly an excuse to procrastinate while I’m supposed to be writing the new novel. But I’m having so much fun with the play that I just might finish it.

BPM: How can readers discover more about you and your work? Readers can find the most up-to-date information about me at http://www.edwardkelseymoore.com. I’m on Twitter at @edkmoore. Readers can connect with me on Facebook at Edward Kelsey Moore, author.

Connect with Edward Kelsey Moore: Twitter: https://twitter.com/edkmoore Website: http://www.edwardkelseymoore.com Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/EdwardKelseyMooreauthor

    The Supremes Sing the Happy Heartache Blues: A Novel by Edward Kelsey Moore When a late life love affair blooms between Mr. Forrest Payne, the owner of the Pink Slipper Gentleman’s Club, and Miss Beatrice Jordan, famous for stationing herself at the edge of the club’s parking lot and yelling warnings of eternal damnation at the departing patrons, their wedding summons a legend to town.