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mrs-gray · 3 years ago

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MIDNIGHT GRAY – Part III

Michael Gray x female reader (OFC / OC) – A Peaky Blinders™ fanfiction

Summary: You needed a drink after the meeting with Tommy Shelby and Michael Gray. Unfortunately some drunk men harassed you...will someone save you?

Characters: Michael Gray, OFC, Tommy Shelby, Lizzie Stark (Lizzie Shelby), Isaiah Jesus, Finn Shelby

Word Count: 6k

Status: Incomplete

Warning(s): English is my second language, melancholy, smoking, drinking, strong language, non-con elements

Published: March 2022

Part 3 of the ‘Midnight Gray’-saga

Author's note: Slow burn, (Fr)Enemies to lovers

Song recommendations for this chapter:

She Remembers – Max Richter

Oh My God – Adele

In a Sentimental Mood – Ella Fitzgerald

Music To Watch Boys To – Lana Del Rey

Just When I Thought – Jacob Banks

WTF – Sasha Alex Sloan

Pervious Chapters:

Chapter 1 – Serendipity – a fortunate happenstance

Chapter 2: Zemblanity – the inevitable discovery of what we would rather not know; the opposite of serendipity

꧁ ________________________꧂

Chapter 3:

Drapetomania – an overwhelming urge to run away.

What a troublesome night, haunted by bad dreams you thought once you opened your eyes after a very sleepless rest. You needed a moment to adjust to the still foreign environment. Then it hit you like lightning, your whole body shivered in return.

Realization like an avalanche – Shelby Mansion, my new gilded cage. Furthermore the meeting with Thomas and Mr. Gray. What a nightmare and you just woke up from one…

You sat up in your canopy bed, starring out of the window for several minutes. You hugged your knees and your head rested on top of them. The grey sky so gloomy and drab, resembling your own inner mood.

You couldn’t decide what will turn out to be worse today – signing over your property, your goods and chattels, to Thomas Shelby or enduring Michael Gray while doing so?

Your heart felt torn even though a little spark of joy kept on resonating within your stomach but you decided to ignore it and let it drift by like the cloudy weather waiting outside.

He betrayed you. It hurt, badly. Don’t trust him again! Keep yourself locked from his charisma and the undeniable chemistry the two of you shared. It will be for the better...you thought.

You decided to go for a ride. Feeling the warm horse skin galloping under your saddle was a pleasant distraction. Once you came back after a couple of hours you took a bath, ate and enjoyed a few cups of tea while finishing Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd – you always enjoyed reading this novel, no matter how many times you’ve already delved into this fictional masterpiece.

It was time to get dressed you thought after observing the watch hanging on the forest green wall. You chose a black dress, tight around your waist with a pleated skirt. A white collar and matching wristbands should be suitable for today.

You mascaraed your greenish blue eyes, added some rosy blush and lipstick. You tied your gold-coloured hair back in a ponytail, little curls swinging in the back around your rips. Modest pearl earrings would be enough for this meeting you thought and took a look in the mirror.

Your reflection showed a perfect image but it was the exact opposite to your troubled mind. Luckily you always seemed calm and firm on the outside, never allowing others to know how you really felt – today would be a good day to use this special boon.

You walked down the stairs and asked one of the servants for Thomas. She informed you that he left the mansion hours ago and you were told to wait for one of his men to drive you to Birmingham.

It’s funny how all the things that used to be ordinary and so very taken for granted seemed to become way more important once you’ve lost your freedom – you loved to drive ever since you got your first car; however you gave in to this strange, almost comedic situation and let one of Thomas’ men drive you to his city office.

If only you could get rid of his henchman in the driver's seat and escape – out of Birmingham, out of this perdition. The vehicle abruptly stopped in front of the meeting spot – The Shelby Company Limited.

Your driver got out of the car, lit a cigarette and attentively watched you while opening the door of Thomas’ city office. Liberty, more like self determination lost.

You walked down the wooden corridor and a beautiful raven-black haired woman sat in front of you. She stopped writing and looked up.

‘Miss Huntington-Coldwell?’ She assumed, navy blue eyes studying you.

‘Yes. I am about to have an appointment with Mr. Sh…’ You said and she interrupted you.

‘Mr. Shelby will arrive a little bit later than scheduled.’ She stood up and added. ‘Please follow me.’

The secretary was a very tall and attractive lady, no wonder that Thomas hired her. Guardedness aside, he still is just a man after all.

You came along an empty office, the inscription on the door saying ‘accountant’.

Assuming that Michael Gray would most definitely be in his office by now gave you some hope and you inwardly sent up a quick prayer that he won’t attend the meeting.

She gestured to the door that was left ajar and your eyes instantly locked with his. It seemed like someone cheered too soon.

‘Mr. Gray.’ You greeted him, not out of joy but out of manner.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Coldwell.’ He rose to his feet and walked over to the bar.

‘What's your poison?’ He asked while pouring himself whiskey in a crystal glass.

‘You!’ You thought. His eyes met yours again and it seemed like the severity of your hatred towards him got the better of you.

His signature brow lifted in a suspicious way, the other side of his mouth formed a smirk.

‘Did I just say that out loud?’ You asked yourself and started to panic.

‘I can’t blame you, Miss.’ He said casually, almost sounding amused.

Fuck! I said it out loud.

‘It’s shortly after 5 o'clock and you’re already drinking?’ You asked him, wanting to distract him from your awkward remark.

‘Wakeful night.’ He drank some of the whiskey and continued. ‘Helps me to endure the long days.’

You stared at him, wanting to read his body language, slightly tilting your head while doing so. Apparently I haven’t been the only one having troubles sleeping tonight? He surely deserved it…you tried to persuade yourself. He indeed looked tired. It didn’t made him less handsome but the dark circles under his midnight blue eyes were a testimony to long working days and probably nights as well – you almost felt sorry for him...

‘…it might help you to endure me, Miss.’ He cockily stated.

‘Right enough!’ You replied.

‘Whiskey?’ He asked again.

‘Scotch.’ You retorted.

He wanted to pass you the glass filled with Scotch but you pretended to be occupied with something in your handbag. He sighed but he still had a smugly grin resting on his face.

You grabbed the crystal glass from the table and raised it in the air.

‘Here’s to cheating, stealing and drinking.’ You uttered mockingly.

‘Cheers.’ He raised his glass in approval, fully aware of your spiteful undertone.

The taste of the Scotch was heady and now you had to agree – day drinking might become your new passion. It will most definitely help you to endure the upcoming months.

‘Miss Coldwell.’ He started and slowly strode a few steps inside the office. One hand still holding his whiskey glass, the other one nonchalantly resting in his pocket.

You weren’t in the mood for his speech, he didn’t even gave you enough time to let the alcohol work and reach your blood – you exhaled deeply. He put his glass down on the table and his hands leant on the chairback, opposite from you. He avoided your gaze for a few silent moments.

‘I know I’ve hurt you.’ Then his eyes pierced yours, gleaming with truthfulness.

‘I know that.’ He insisted so very intense.

‘I…’ He arose again and rubbed his temple.

‘It wouldn’t have made any difference.’ He declare himself.

‘On the contrary! It would have made a difference…to me.’ Your voice broke. You needed to swallow and drank some more of your Scotch.

‘The moment I knew who you were…I.’ He paused and looked away, lost in thought. He deeply exhaled and regained his posture.

‘I couldn’t dare to put you in danger.’ He reached for his drink and took another sip of his whiskey.

‘It would have made everything worse, trust me.’ He laughed in a cruel way to himself, starring into the distance and lightly biting his full bottom lip.

Thereafter he fastened his eyes with yours again and they begged for your forgiveness. You sat there in silence, studying him and trying to judge the trueness in his words.

‘Sure, I could have smuggled you out of Birmingham, perhaps even the country…but Miss, I know what my family is capable of.’ His blue eyes matched his sad smile.

‘I couldn't reconcile your destiny with my conscience and move one like I wouldn't be the one to blame for your death sentence.’ He lit a cigarette and audibly exhaled the first drag of tobacco, then absentmindedly shook his head.

‘Not after I met you.’ He confessed, just above a throaty whisper.

Your eyes locked again and you knew that he was telling the truth and it almost tore you apart.

‘I know.’ You breathed and looked down, not longer able to hold his gaze.

He came closer and sat down in the chair next to you, knees almost touching.

‘Now I can do everything in my power to keep you safe, Miss. To protect you.’ You looked up again, apprehending his face – sincerity written all over it.

‘Like I said yesterday, I will make up for it.’ He repeated sternly.

‘I promise.’ He breathed calmly.

This moment was intimate. No physical touch needed, to feel connected to him... Suddenly the door opened and Tommy entered his office.

‘Miss Coldwell, Michael.’ He shortly greeted and exhaled deeply while removing his coat and sat down right beside you.

Michael once again caught a fleeting glimpse of your greenish blue eyes and you wondered – how could he affect you like this? He was right. It would have made everything worse…hearing that he truly cared for you isn't helping matters.

Thomas spread dozens of documents all over the table.

‘Miss Coldwell, you know that once the signing over is officially confirmed, your father’s hereditary debt is repaid. It becomes legally binding on your next birthday.’ Thomas informed you and it upset you but you kept your stoic facade.

He kept on talking like you didn’t know that you would have to sell your soul to the devil, simply because your father made one wrong choice; trusting his friend who betrayed him in the end. One fatal decision let to this moment.

‘If only your father didn’t get involved with the Shelby clan!’ You let your thoughts spin around in your head...

Surely they ended the feud between your father and his former friend but the Shelbys weren’t there to protect your father from being killed by one of his old friend’s followers.

Down to the present day you couldn’t believe that your father agreed to this covenant. Transferring everything to Thomas Shelby in exchange for their help. That was very unlike him – he would rather die than shaking hands with some notorious gypsy gangster…

‘Let’s begin with the properties.’ Thomas decided and lit a cigarette, smoke tarnished the yellowish lamplight.

Michael cleared his throat and laid down one paper after the other. Starting with Gosford House in Scotland, Drumlanrig Castle in Scotland next, Dyffryn House in Wales, followed by Bodrhyddan Hall in North Wales...

You’ve stayed silent the whole time, signing countless of papers and just like that your estates vanished. Funds, cars, stocks as well as art and paintings weren’t yours, not any longer.

You felt an overly forceful stare coming from Thomas and you looked right back into his sky blue eyes.

‘Is there a problem, Mr. Shelby?’ You held his gaze straightfaced.

‘You’re surprisingly calm, Miss Coldwell.’ He acknowledged, his brows a bit furrowed – a sign of suspicion.

You didn’t response but your eyes kept on saying everything you wanted him to know.

‘Jewellery next.’ He said and his eyes ogled down to the platinum charm around your neck.

‘No!’ You implied.

‘You can take everything but you certainly won’t take this away from me!’ You insisted, your eyes ready to fight, your hand around the charm, gripping it so tightly as if your life depended on it.

‘It’s my mothers. It’s the only thing she left me.’ You said sternly, eyes drowning in wrath now.

How could he be so greedy?

‘You can have everything else…but not this.’ You were trapped in a hopeless situation but wouldn’t go down, not without a fight.

‘Tommy!’ Michael appealed urgently, subtly admonishing his uncle.

‘I respect that.’ Thomas replied and lit yet another cigarette.

__________________________________________________

Hours passed, ink dried.

‘Alright, seems like we’re done for today.’ Thomas declared and looked at his gilded pocket watch.

‘What about my Cousin?’ You asked Thomas, eyes wide open.

‘We will discuss this topic another time, Miss Coldwell.’ He replied dryly.

‘This topic?’ You said disgusted by Thomas Shelby’s arrogance.

‘But you said you would agree to get him out of captivity, once I cleared my father’s debt.’ You almost shouted.

‘So it will be.’ He replied so calmly, you felt the infuriation heating up your entire body.

‘You will get him out...right? I signed over all that I had. You said you’re a man of your word, Mr. Shelby!’ Your eyes full of pleading and also temper.

‘Miss Coldwell, the signing over covered the contractual conditions. Your cousin wasn’t a part of the deal.’ He said and lit a cigarette.

‘You’re kidding, right?’ Your voice filled with fury, your rib cage raising from suppressed tension.

‘Everything I have ever owned is yours now… What could I possibly offer you to get him out?’ You looked at him perplexed.

You could barely contain yourself anymore, being on the edge of your seat. All of a sudden you felt Michael’s left hand on your thigh, resting on top of your pleated skirt, trying to calm you down – you closed your eyes and took a deep breath.

Thomas stared at you wordlessly and it felt like half an eternity until he finally responded.

‘I will try to get your cousin out of his captivity and you will fulfil tasks for me?’ Thomas finally answered.

‘What kind of tasks?’ You asked and crossed your arms, brows furrowed.

‘It depends on upcoming events. Once you’ll be needed, you will comply with my wish.’ He declared.

‘Settled!’ You stood up, grabbed your handbag as well as your coat and walked down the corridor.

You pushed the front door open, not caring about the loud slam. You put on your gloves and the cold air was surprisingly refreshing, cooling down your nerves and mind.

The man who drove you to Birmingham approached you.

‘God!’ How much you hated this insanity. Your whole body stiffened and you couldn’t regain control over your mind. It was overwhelming, simply too much for you. Tears slowly building up and you didn’t want to show this kind of emotion, not in front of one of Thomas’ henchmen nor anyone else. Everything seemed forlorn, tears kept on running down your blushed cheeks.

It felt harder to breathe. Each gasp hurt more than the last one. Suddenly two hands grabbed your arms from behind.

‘Miss Coldwell.’ A familiar velvety voice lingered in your ears.

You turned around and Michael repeated his gesture, now facing you while his hands found their way around your upper arms.

He kept some distance between the two of you in order to make you feel comfortable.

‘Thomas wants me to driver her back.’ The driver said non empathetically.

You shot him a questionable look – he couldn’t be serious?

‘Fuck Tommy’s orders! I will take care of her.’ Michael gave him a warning and the man finally drove off.

You couldn’t stop the tears from falling down your reddened cheeks. Your feeling heart betrayed your otherwise usually emotional cold and reserved composure – how much you hated yourself for being so vulnerable, so very lost in this moment. You wanted to be the strong young women you always aimed for others to see, each and every single day – and there you stood in a complete turmoil.

You walked a few steps back in order to evade his touch and create distance between the two of you. Suddenly you felt bricks behind your back.

Michael came closer and closer, ignoring your personal space which would have been more than appropriate and embraced you, tightly. You just stood there, unable to move, unable to think but still able to feel - and it scared you. It felt so right standing there, in his arms.

Mixed feelings overwhelmed you and you suddenly pushed him away.

‘Don’t you dare touch me!’ You screamed in a hoarse voice. You wept bitterly and his eyes softened. You wondered if he honestly cared?

‘Just leave me alone!’ You whispered scarcely audible, your head hung low.

He couldn’t endure to see you like this – looking like a picture of misery.

‘Come here.’ He said so self-evidently.

This time you couldn’t fight back and truth be told, you even welcomed his tight embracement. It made you feel surprisingly safe, as if he prevented you from falling apart entirely.

You smelled the rich smell of his musky cologne and inhaled it deeply. One of his hands holding your back, the other one resting at the back of your head, in the utmost gentle way.

You didn’t know how long he held you in his strong arms but he made sure to hold you as long as you needed it.

‘Thank you.’ You breathed, so very sore from crying.

You ended the embrace and reached for your handkerchief, wiping away your fluid sadness.

‘I don’t know if you should keep it or if I want it back?’ He said with a cheeky smile, never leaving your eyes.

‘Pardon me?’ Your eyes widened in bewilderment.

‘Your handkerchief. I mean...actually mine.’ He said showing you his perfect teeth now.

‘Oh.’ Your glazed eyes looked down at the tear-flooded fabric in your hand.

‘I will clean it and give it back to you…this time.’ You replied shyly, your voice sounding innocent.

‘No! Keep it…though I hope you won’t ever need it again.’ He replied compassionately.

Your eyes locked with his blue ones and you gave him a sad smile in return before you absentmindedly let your head fall again.

He put his leather gloves on, drew closer to you and his now gloved finger tenderly raised your chin, his action demanding you to look at him.

‘Want to drown your sorrow, Miss?’ He raised his signature brow and awaited your answer.

‘I bet you won’t want to waste your whole life listening to my melancholy woe, Mr. Gray?’ You couldn’t hold back a small smile.

‘I think I could spare a lifetime.’ He jokingly remarked and his facial expression reassured you.

He led you through a few of Birmingham’s streets, his hand never leaving the small of your back.

‘Thank you, Mr. Gray…’ You struggled for words, not looking at him, yet you continued. ‘…and also for letting me vent, again.’

‘That goes without saying, Miss.’ The corner of his mouth forming an honest smile.

‘If you please…’ He opened the door of a pub called The Garrison.

You walked in first and he helped you out of your black fur coat.

‘Thank you. I’m about to powder my nose.’ You spoke out and disappeared in the pub’s lavatory.

You refreshed your maquillage and wanted to rebuild the perfect mask – powder, lipstick and some blush would definitely help to recreate your formerly neat appearance. You put some perfume on both sides of your neck, gently applying it by using the back of your wrist.

You observed your reflection and were surprised that once again the old saying is indeed true – Appearances are deceiving.

There was no evidence left of your emotional outburst, except for the mournfulness in your eyes but no make up in the world could possibly hide it.

You headed back to Michael, past dozens of men who eyeballed you, yet you didn’t pay attention to their staring nor comments, also a few whistles now and then – both of your eyes fixed only on one another.

Michael’s hand casually rested in his pinstriped suit pants pocket, the other one holding a glass of whiskey. He looked so very attractive and his intense stare made you wonder what he thought about…

Michael lifted his head and he let his captivating blue eyes wander from your eyes down your body and up again, taking his time observing you – like a hunter and his prey.

You didn’t mind his attention, in fact you liked the idea of making him aroused, swinging your hips a little bit more than usually, while approaching him.

You saw an unfamiliar man standing next to Michael. He was tall, dressed just as dapper as the other Shelbys and his skin was tanned, shimmering amber-brown.

‘Well, look who it isn’t!’ The stranger addressed me, visibly delighted.

‘Princess Harlow, right?’ He smirked smugly.

‘I am not a princess. I’m Harlow.’ You calmly mentioned.

‘Isaiah.’ He introduced himself and placed a kiss on top of your delicate hand, never leaving your eyes.

‘Well...you can be my princess any time.’ He said and he was so charming, you couldn’t be mad at him. His golden brown eyes winked at you in a flirtatious way.

You smiled but didn’t replied anything.

Michael stood there watching you and his friend Isaiah silently while sipping his whiskey.

‘Your eyes are mesmerizing.’ Isaiah asseverated truthfully.

‘I just wanted to say the same! I have never seen eyes that golden…like the sun is shining through them.’ You said sounding innocently.

‘Not as hypnotizing and beautiful as yours, Miss Harlow.’ He refuted.

‘Beautiful eyes?…I bet she never heard that before.’ Michael snorted and shook his head in annoyance.

You shot a glance at Michael and didn’t understand his constant moodiness.

You decided to focus on Isaiah and also Finn, who just came back from the bar; a beer mug in one hand, a champagne flute in the other.

‘Thank you Finn.’ You said with kind eyes.

‘I didn’t know what you wanted and I guessed you would like some champagne?’ He said a bit nervous, his ears reddened.

‘Yes, that‘s so kind of you!’ You gratefully replied.

‘She prefers Scotch!’ Michael said even more displeased than before.

You bit your lip, trying to contain the aggravation inside of you. You couldn’t believe what he just said – your blood began to boil in your veins.

‘I also like the taste of champagne, Mr. Gray…and you aren’t my spokesman, are you?’ You stated levelly but your eyes certainly showed the ire you were trying to hide.

Both of you started a staring contest.

Isaiah spoke again and you faced him instead.

‘Your eyes, Harlow, are they grey or green?’ Isaiah asked but it sounded more like a statement.

‘Blue!’ Finn interposed.

Isaiah came closer and closer until you felt his breath on your skin. You knew he would jump at the chance to be this close to you.

‘Her left one is silvery blue, her right one icy green.’ Michael interrupted him and shot his friend Isaiah a warning glance, while his jaw tensed.

You furrowed your brows and pierced Michael, not understanding why he suddenly acted like this.

‘I would say…’ Isaiah came even closer now and you guessed he did on purpose, also enjoying to provoke Michael even more.

‘He’s right.’ You declared, addressing Michael.

Michael raised his brow, smugness written all over his face.

‘I know.’ He added shortly, his voice so very self-pleased.

The mood was so tense, thanks to his arrogance.

You drowned your champagne with one gulp, the little bubbles tickling your throat in a refreshing way.

‘Two things are missing in here, gentlemen...’ You started to say and looked around the pub, all 3 men listened to you.

‘…some music as well as a goddam Scotch. Therefore I am about to go to the bar and get myself one, now!’ You facetiously exclaimed.

‘…unless someone…’ Your eyes locked with Michaels again and you continued. ‘…disagrees with my reckless and bloody deed?’ You smiled so very alluringly in order to mock Michael knowingly and also willingly.

His tongue slid over his lip and he gave you a daring glimpse. You knew that he didn’t want you to carry this joke too far.

You went to the counter of the bar and your pent-up tension might added to the swing of your hips - and it seemed to work. Several men whistled at you and tried to gain your attention but you focused on the pecan brown liquid. Still you felt flattered, mainly because it drove him mad.

His jaw clenched constantly on your way back to the them.

‘As far as I can gather you already turned every poor blokes head in here.’ Isaiah commented buoyantly.

‘Guess we’re not the only ones fancying you?’ He joked and smiled coquettishly.

You laughed out loud and and shook your head.

‘No!’ You stated and narrowed your eyes to underline your honest negation.

‘Or she simply enjoys to tempt all men?’ Michael retaliated, his dark blue eyes sharp as a blade.

‘All men?’ You repeated slowly, your voice broke slightly. His rude comment hit so very deep and he knew it.

‘I need some fresh air.’ You blurted and avoided everyone’s gaze, while you put on you leather gloves and raven-black fur coat.

Finn wanted to accompany you, same as Isaiah but you denied.

You pushed the door of the pub open and closed your eyes, inhaling the cold air of the night. How much you hated him!

‘Bastard!’ You spoke out to yourself.

You felt ashamed for trusting him, again – crying in his arms not even one hour ago. Why did he do this to you? It seemed like he wanted to tease you in such a callous way. He enjoyed this game, his game. But why? You asked yourself.

Buried in thought two men approached you. One of them made you move back, till you felt the hard bricks of the house wall behind you.

‘Today’s your lucky day, kitten.’ He reached for your hair and closed his eyes smelling the light scent of peonies and roses.

You smelled the alcohol in his boozy breath, then you heard the clang of church bells in the distance.

‘Seems like my fortunate day just ended, gentlemen.’ You stated and walked past him.

His other friend came closer and blocked your way.

‘Where are you going, kitty?’ He firmly grabbed you by your hair and pulled you back. He opened your coat and it made you shiver. One of his hands grabbed your rip cage now, the other one squeezing your bum.

‘Let me go!’ You pushed him away but he stood his ground and both men laughed menacingly, as his grip tightened even more.

‘Don’t fucking touch her.’ Michael came into view, his hands rested in his coat pockets.

It worked! Due to the distraction the man loosened his solid grip and you freed yourself from his touch.

‘Well, look for another slag, mate!’ He spat out.

‘I won’t say it again.’ Michael threatened him overly composed.

Isaiah and Finn joined the situation and their footsteps became harsher.

‘What's going on here?’ Isaiah’s voice blazed.

‘I think we need to teach those fucking bastards a lesson.’ Michael addressed both of his friends.

The other drunkard saw Finn and his mimic changed instantly.

‘Fuck Pete! These kiddos are Peaky Blinders!’ Fear was visibly inked on his whole face.

Michael exchanged a few words with Isaiah and turned to you again, his hand on the small of your back guiding you out of the street – his pace way faster than before. You turned around and wanted to see what would happen to the two drunk men.

‘Come along! Let’s go to the car.’ He uttered resolutely.

‘What are you about to do to the…’ You questioned him uncertainly but he interrupted you right away.

‘We take care of them.’ He answered vaguely and you turned into the left alley, where his car parked, not very far from you.

‘You don’t kill them...do you?’ You asked obviously alarmed and searched for an answer, scanning his profile.

Michael stopped dead in his tracks.

‘Are you serious?’ His tone full of disgust and he drew nearer to you until you felt his heavy breath on you face.

‘You tell me!’ You countered and mirrored his rage.

Your eyes stayed locked for moments – then he regained his composure, lit a cigarette and his jaw tensed, yet another time.

‘What difference will it make, if those bastards live to see the next dawn?’ He distanced and turned his back on you.

‘They don’t deserve to die!’ You protested and ran after him.

His right forefingers pointed at you and his eyes narrowed.

‘Such unworthy rabble…’ He pointed in the direction of the men now but kept his eyes fixated on you.

‘…they won’t deserve the air in their lungs!’ He yelled out every single word.

‘…but death? I know they were dishonourable but…’ You began to speak.

‘Dishonourable?’ He spat out in disbelief and threw away his burning cigarette.

‘…but they only did what they did due to the alcohol!’ You responded in defence.

He came closer again, eying you with squinted orbs.

‘It’s true.’ He testified.

‘What?’ You asked annoyed and frustrated.

‘You really want to tempt every men.’ He smiled but his eyes told a different story.

‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ You shouted equally hurt and outraged.

Your gloved hand found its way on the left side of his chiseled face. Surely, you were mad at those men but you hated Michael even more – nonetheless you whispered an apology straightway.

His head turned to the side, once you hit him and Michael laughed cockily.

‘Son of a gun!’ You thought – he liked it!

‘A little fire in you? I like that!’ He scoffed haughty.

‘Really?’ Your brow raised but you remained serene.

'In that case I will never hit you again.’ You promised, your eyes showed your incomprehension.

He reached for your gloved hand but you pulled away.

It physically hurt to fight back the tears, swelling in your eyes.

‘Fuck!’ He cursed and took a few steps back, both palms of his hands resting on either side of his temples.

‘Miss Coldwell. I am sorry.’ His expression changed.

‘I can’t stand to…’ He started to say but inhaled and it seemed like the oxygen tamed his grudge.

‘The way those bastards…’ He pointed in their direction again. ‘… as well as all the other guys in the pub undressed you with their filthy eyes.’ His jaw didn’t stop clenching and he looked away and stared into the distance.

‘Even the way Isaiah looked at you!’ His tone became sharper.

Your eyes met and his mimic was imbued with revulsion, disapproval and even...jealousy?

‘You looked at me even more blatantly, Mr. Gray.’ You laughed out of frustration – he nodded.

‘That’s true.’ He agreed and his proud overconfidence bothered you even more.

‘You should not provoke their reaction like this!’ He exhorted you as if he had the right to do so.

‘...and now you will kill them?’ You asked him again, this time even more irritated.

He turned his back on you and his exhaled breath overclouded the weak streetlamp light.

‘Are you serious? You better shoot me right away too! Problems solved once and for all.’ You shouted, your body shuddered and it felt like you were on the verge of collapse.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ He disgorged, visibly scandalized.

‘I would never want to hurt you!’ If looks could kill, his eyes would have.

‘You are doing quite a fantastic job doing the opposite, Mr. Gray!’ You smiled at Michael in a taunting way and even clapped your hands.

‘If you were mine I would…’ He retorted but you stopped him.

‘…lock me in a cage? Too bad! Your family already did that!’ You eyed him up and down and mirrored his angered mimic.

‘I trusted you! Unfortunately again!’ The annoyance in your shouting voice filled the whole alley.

‘Funny how I lost your trust, even though I never betrayed you. How tragic!’ He mocked you and showed his perfect teeth in an evil half grin.

‘You are also a liar!’ You counterattacked while your hands profusely gesticulated.

‘A liar?’ He furiously asked the truth behind your accusation, almost sounding hurt. ‘You can't be serious!’

‘Yes! A fucking liar!’ You repeated stoically. ‘You lied and told me that you would take the next train to Southampton and still you came from London!’

He guffawed but not in a heartfelt kind of way. He turned around and came back to you, even closer than before. His lips were so close to your ear that the heat of his breath ran shivers down your spine.

‘…it never crossed your mind that I had business in Southampton first and London afterwards?’ He raised his brow and his smile became cocky but also unusually charming.

‘Oh.’ You closed your eyes for a few seconds, shame written all over your body.

His blue eyes searched for yours and when you opened them again he looked all the way down to your soul.

‘I’m not a fucking liar, Miss.’ His voice was soothingly even again as he repeated excessively smug.

You looked to the floor, then up through your long lashes again. You gazed at each other – lost in this tense, almost intimate moment. He looked away, wetting his bottom lip and clenched his jaw thereafter.

Out of nowhere he forced you to walk a few steps back until you hit the wall behind you. He supported his weight with both of his arms, fists resting on the bricks – his body encircled you.

The intensity of his steady gaze was inexpressible. You instinctively moistened your plump lips, while his eyes followed your unconscious gesture. Michael bit his own in return and his eyes shot back to look at yours. He drew even closer, your foreheads nearly touching.

Lips only a knife blade apart – you could almost taste the whiskey in his breath. Your heart was beating so fast and erratic, he must have heard it. All at once he let his right hand fall, shortly after the left one too – yet he didn’t walk away, didn’t take a step back nor loosed the closeness between you, coat hems already touching.

Both of you leered at each other. You were furious with him as he drove you mad – but still you wanted to carry on this heated dispute, more like battle. It would have been so easy to grab him by the collar of his coat, pull him even closer to you and kiss him. Let your tongues continue this war.

A few heartbeats past by and he abruptly slammed his right fist against the wall, right next to your head. He inhaled deeply, not even blinking once and sternly kept a straight face – all while the blood ran down and covered his fingers crimson red.

You reached for your, well, his handkerchief and observed the fresh cuts on his knuckles. You wanted to stop the bleeding and gently pressed the fabric against his wounds.

Your eyes met and shared meaningful glances...

__________________________________________________

The ride back crowned it all.

Not a single word came out of your mouth, Michael emulated your deeds.

‘Thank God!’ You finally arrived at Arrow House and you would have never believed that you would actually be happy to be back at the Shelby mansion – just the absurd thought was ridiculous and beyond your wildest dreams.

He parked next to the waterspout fountain, in front of the entrance. You reached for your handbag that you placed on the rear bench seat. The car door opened – of course he had to open it and you tried your best not to roll your eyes.

You walked the few steps to the front door and before you could even think through your next action, your head turned. Your gaze met his and you stared at each other – a mixture of regret, sadness, so much temper and also longing in each of your eyes.

You couldn’t stand his glare anymore and opened the door and shut it close behind you, the sound of tires rolling over the pebbles caught your ears.

You hated him with every single fibre of your whole being – if only it wasn't for that damn unnecessary little thing called heart...

꧁ ________________________꧂

To be continued...

Thank you so much for reading my third chapter – sending you all much love & positivity! ✨💕💫

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wallofweird · 4 years ago

Note

1 and 4 :)

20 FANDOM ASKS MEME

Sorry it took so long to answer, I reblogged it and accidentally fell asleep because I hadn’t slept the previous day and am a loser lol. Thank you for the question <3

1. If you could hit any character without repercussions, who would it be?

I actually have three:

Fitzgerald Grant III (even his name sucks, this sounds like a colonizer name yuk)

So I gave up watching Scandal because the characters just became too dark and I couldn’t defend or root for anyone anymore. Howver, in the beginning I loved and it became my favorite show. Still, I’ve always hated Fitz. He’s white cishet man trash, he is a terrible father, husband, president, he doesn’t respect women, he’s responsible for countless deaths, the list goes on...He is a terrible person in general and it looks like the writers gave him a happy ending with Olivia or something? Ugh, that man deserved prison or death. And there was NEVER a moment when I was able to empathize with him. Maybe when he son died, but that would be all... I hate the way he was performed, I don’t know if I have something against Tony Goldwyn that just doesn’t make me like his face or if he intentionally wanted to make Fitz that unpleasant for the audience, but I’ve always hated him. Sometimes there are characters that are problematic but you still warm up to them a little bit because of their charisma, but Fitz is not the case. And I watched Tony Goldwyn a second time on Lovecraft Country and hated him there too, but again, his character was terrible there as well, so who knows. Just thinking about this dude annoys me.

Rafael Solano

There was a time I actually empathized, liked and rooted for him (even though I’ve never shipped him with Jane), but he showed his true colors and proved to be the ultimate trash on season 5 and I completely despise him now. And he’s also a shitty father. Bye.

Lea Dilallo

God, I hate her. She is an ableist, self-absorbed and arrogant. The writers tried to make a personality transplant and basically gave her Claire’s personality on some episodes, but it never stuck and this moment above just proves who she really is. And unlike Fitz or Rafael who were terrible, but still served a purposed on their shows, she brings N O T H I N G. The show spends more time at the hospital and she initially was only Shaun’s neighbor/roommate. The show took a lot of time that should be spent in the hospital and with the doctors to prop her and they ultimately gave her a job at the hospital, her scenes that would’ve made more sense if they had been Shaun and Claire’s, gave her Claire’s personality and basically changed a lot of their show because for some reason they find her interesting. And I’ve also never liked her, I don’t like her voice, I don’t like her face, whenever she is sad or something I couldn’t care less... And this show has amazing performances and touching moments, like whenever Shaun has a meltdown I can feel it and it makes me emotional, but the way she is written and the way she is performed doesn’t keep up with the quality of other characters/actors on the show. Plus, she is useless and doesn’t any anything to the plot.

I have more characters that I hate, but haven’t said or done such terrible things, it is mostly because I find them incredibly useless and painfully annoying, but the ones above I have no defense for.

4. Are you likely to blush when a sex scene comes up or can you read/watch it with a straight face?

It really depends on the scene? If it isn’t too graphic or too long, I can watch it with a straight face, if is something more on HBO and Netflix level, that is a little longer, steamer and has some nudity, I can get a little uncomfortable. I have nothing against sex scenes, I actually like them, but I do have preferences regarded their execution. I don’t like when it feels graphic just for the sake of being graphic or when it feels like they’re exposing the actors for no reason. Or when it is something like 5 minutes of sex, because it just feels weird to be staring at the screen that long only to see two people doing nothing besides forplay, kissing and penetration? And here in Brazil a lot of the sex scenes are steamer, they can even include nudity, they add elements I find tacky like slow-motion and cheesy love songs and they are about five-minute long and I always roll my eyes 360º because it is just bizarre and disturbing to watch that for over 2 minutes, lol.

The one exception I have is this one time when I watched a sex scene that was more revealing, but it didn’t have nudity and the reason why I liked that one was because the man was an amputee and we barely get to see these characters, specially having sex. Let alone SHOWING the act of sex itself instead of just a post-hookup scene, so it felt pretty refreshing.

I also blush when the scene feels intimate in general, even if it doesn’t expose the actors as much. Like the scene after Kevin and Madison slept together on episode 5x01, this is kind of silly but I only watched by the corner of my eyes, it took me like two days to actually pay attention to it, because it felt like such a private and intimate moment.

Like, this is such a quiet, silent, intimate scene where Kevin is caressing, admiring her and savoring, revering and valuing this moment and it was just so convincing to me that at first I felt like I walking into their bedroom and invading their privacy. It really felt like I was doing something I shouldn’t and that moment was supposed to be theirs and only theirs and I should leave. Like, it is ridiculous that it took me two days to watch a fictional moment without feeling embarrassed and guilty about it, but I think it just proves that the scene was executed well and beautifully? And now I can see it and appreciate with a straight face and this is exactly the kind of scene I love the most, because I love raw moments, I love scenes without dialogue, eye contact or touch and that the actors have to bring the emotion solely with their eyes, gestures or voices, but not all of their bodies, you know? Most of my favorite scenes are silent scenes or phonecalls because the excellence of the eye contact or the amount of emotion we get when they’re only using their voices to evoke it just hits different.

#anon #anons #answered #answers #answer

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scandalmistress · 6 years ago

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All Olitz Fics on Hiatus - Stepping away from writing...

My Dear Readers…

It’s with a heavy heart I write this author’s note to my faithful followers – writers and readers alike. Since the airing of 5.09 I have been struggling whether to keep writing my stories. At times I have almost given in, thrown in the towel, and stop. Yes that episode made me wonder why I kept writing but I stuck with it.

My dearest friend and fellow writer gave me a great pick me up speech, reminding me that my type of writing, the romance, slow-burn, Hallmark movie style, so distinctive of me was needed to keep Olitz alive and well. I have a certain style, with many readers who love it and are drawn to it. I write them the only way I see fit.

I felt it was my job as a loyal fan of Olivia Pope and Fitzgerald Grant, to give them happy, fluffy stories seeing it did not happen on screen. I stayed away from B613, Jake, Mellie and any of the other bull shit portrayed on TV. I wrote Olitz with problems but not ones that couldn’t be overcome with talking, trust and love.

The fandom at a large has also changed a great deal since I started writing a year after Scandal began. We were vocal, and supportive group, willing to help one another and not attack another’s opinion.

I was hesitant to join twitter but doing so was one of the best choices I ever made. Through twitter and my writing I’ve not only met some of the truest and nicest souls I’ve ever met but made friends who would ride and die for me.

Not only that…you became my family.

My Scandal sisters. The sisters I always wanted but didn’t realize how much I truly needed. I grew up not having sisters. Thanks to Scandal, Olitz and Tony Goldwyn I have them now.

This is what makes this decision even more difficult.

I have been wrestling with the decision to stop writing Olitz or keep going for a long time. I am finally going to stop, put all my fics, entire fanfic profile on hiatus. This is not easy choice but it’s the right one for me. Before anyone jumps to any conclusions, no one has attacked me, belittled my writing style, lack of updates, or been mean (even though that has happened more times than I care to admit.)

This decision to stop writing Olitz is not due to some guest reviewer whose words hurt my feelings, readers bugging for updates, or a troll who believes I have no clue what I’m doing. I’m making this choice stepping back, giving myself a needed break, in the hopes the joy I once felt writing Olivia and Fitz will return.

Like I wrote above, I’ve been struggling whether to stop since 5.09. I pushed through it before, continuing to write and update regularly. When I wrote, I felt the butterflies. Now I open a fic and my heart is heavy, uncertain, in the dark. I do not make this decision lightly knowing how many of you will probably be hurt, upset, and a little ticked off.

If you are I am sorry but I have to think of me and what’s best. The joy I felt…is just not there any longer. As I write this good-bye letter, I fight the tears brimming in the corners of my eyes.

My choice to stop writing has nothing to do with the show going off the air, Tony finishing Network, or a slew of other reasons – if my heart is no longer in it, then I cannot write. This feeling is beyond writer’s block. I open my laptop to either finish a chapter I started or begin a new one and I just can’t do anything. I sigh, get frustrated, and close the computer. If I force myself to write, the update will be crap and I cannot in good conscience put something out I am not pleased with.

It’s not me.

Who I am, or want to be remembered for.

Now before anyone questions whether my stories will remain on the fanfic site, THEY WILL. My profile will not be deleted. If I make that choice, I’ll be sure to warn you all ahead of time. I know how many of you love my version of Olitz so they will stay up as long as fans want to read them. I will also still be on social media (tumblr and twitter) as @ScandalMistress.

Also I do realize I have one final chapter of #CoveredBridges to post. I will do my best to finish the story over the summer but I can’t promise anything. Summer break will be busy because my Little Gladiators will be keeping me busy and wearing me out.

And if I make the decision to start writing again, it will be only one fic until it’s completed. I do not want to leave any of my fics unfinished but as of right now I have no choice. I hope my heart leads me back to Fitzgerald Grant and Olivia Pope but as of right now, it’s a no. I cannot nor will not make a promise to return because it will be unfair to you and myself.

I will always love Tony Goldwyn for bringing a fictional character to the screen that changed my life forever. He gave so much of himself to play Fitz. If it was not for him, I would not have started writing to begin with. He is my inspiration, and an incredible man. I am so fortunate to have met him and seen him in Network.

I’d still like to hear from you and truly hope you can forgive me for placing Olitz on the shelf. It’s just something I have to do, and what is best. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

But like someone very wise once said, “in every ending, there is a new beginning.”

Peace, Love and of course lots of pumpkin spice….

Da Prince’s and Me’s - @ScandalMistress

@douxbebearchives

#olitz fanfiction #olivia pope #Fitzgerald Grant

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staticscreenwriting · 6 years ago

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the beginning and end of everything - one

Synopsis: Roger likes books and coffee and pretty girls. Part 1 of ?

Inspiration: My love for books with long pretentious words and a post by @briansclogss called “A Concept: Going to the Bookstore with Roger”. Gotta give credit where credit is due :)

Note: I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please. If you liked this part and wanna help me out, please consider a reblog. Thank you.

“I love her, and that's the beginning and end of everything.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald

When people think of London, they don’t usually picture vibrant blue skies and sunshine that covers the whole city in gorgeous hues of golds and oranges. And today was anything to go by, Roger could see why that was.

The sky was covered in dark grey clouds, heavy with rain. Winds were coming in from east and west, blowing his blond hair in every direction making it look even more unruly that it naturally did.

He could feel the first drops of water crashing down onto his shoulders as he maneuvered his way through yet another narrow alleyway. He wasn’t home in this part of the city and it all looked kinda similar. Bricks on bricks on bricks. Really, it was his own fault. They’d played a gig last night and, Roger being Roger, he’d caught the eye of some gorgeous redhead by the bar. So a few shots down and he found himself in her bed somewhere in the east side of London. And though he’d been around here a few times, her flat had been nestled in the back end of some unknown alley. The street name he hadn’t been able to pick up in his drunken haze either.

So here he was, hungover, bit lost and about to be soaked.

His eyes wandered around the nearby buildings, all looking slightly the same. There had not been a single tube station in sight since he’d left the girl’s flat and at this point he started to desperately crave some kind of breakfast and a drink to wash down the taste of last night’s whiskey still pelting his tongue.

And as if god had heard his silent pleas and decided to mock him just a little bit more, the skies opened up to a thundering storm. Rain kept falling faster and harder, soaking through his jacket and making his hair cling to his face in wet streaks.

Turning down yet another street, Roger was faced with yet more brick walls and shop windows of various antique stores selling artistically designed door knobs and lampshades. Until his eyes landed on a brightly lit sign above one of the stores.

In warm yellow light, breaking through the grey of the sky, the sign advertised “ the little lantern café and bookstore”. And Coffee sounded like a heaven sent right now.

Picking up his step a little, Roger hurried towards the door, making the bell chime as he entered the little shop. The first thing he noticed, was the smell of freshly brewed coffee flowing through the building. A homely warmth wrapped around him as he stepped inside the main room. The place wasn’t huge, just a few tables and a bench by the window, but it seemed comfortable and cute. The furniture was made of dark wood and there were shelves over shelves going down the entire left side of the place, stacked with books, some of which seemed brand new, some of which seemed like they had been through a few hands in their lifetime.

The ceiling, he noticed then, was painted a dark blue color, almost exactly replicating a night sky. Nylon strings were attached to the ceiling and hung from them were lanterns in all shapes and sizes emitting a warm glow.

Roger liked the place, he decided. It felt oddly familiar. Like something he would see in some cheesy romance movie only it looked way less cheesy in real life.

“ I’ll be with you in a second “ a voice called out from behind a counter in the back of the place, where Roger assume was the kitchen. “ please take a seat. “

So that’s what he did. Sitting down on the bench by the window and watching the rain pour down outside.

“ Sorry it took me so long I — oh dear, you’re soaked “ turning back around, Roger came face to face with a girl who seemed to be around his age. The lanterns cast a ring of golden light around her and Roger couldn’t help but let a smile tug on the corner of his lips. Maybe god sent him rain as a punishment but it seemed like he also sent him an Angel and he thought that truly made up for it.

“ I uh — it’s alright. “

“ You’re gonna get a cold. Let me just — “ and before Roger could even answer, she was already gone again, fumbling around the counter. “ There’s a menu on the table feel free to pick out what you like. “

He thought he voice fit her. It sounded warm and gentle. Her voice sounded just like this placed felt.

Thumbing through the menu, Roger decided on a black coffee. Maybe that would finally wake him up a little. As the girl kept doing whatever she was doing, Roger took it upon himself to walk over towards the bookshelves. Some of them, the ones holding the newer books, were labeled. They went from historical fiction to science fiction to romance and non-fiction. The ones with older books, were what really caught his attention though. He couldn’t help but wonder what these books had been through. What roles they had played in other people’s lives. How they had influenced those people.

He often found himself wandering down a mental road that lead him nowhere. One in which he wondered just what kind of influence his music had on people. What influence it would have one day. If it would ever mean as much to people as these books did at some point. He wondered if his music would ever be someone’s personal soundtrack. If his songs would ever make people think back to certain memories in their lives that lay long forgotten in the back of their hearts. He wondered if his music would ever make people feel — something.

“ Here you go. I can not watch you shivering, it breaks my heart. Please dry yourself off. “

The girl exclaimed and reached out towards him, holding out a fluffy white towel.

“ Sorry that’s all I can offer you. But I’m sure a warm drink is gonna do the trick. Have you decided on anything ? “

“ Just a black coffee please. And uh — thank you for this. “ Roger replied, holding up the towel before ruffling his hair to get it to dry at least a bit.

“ It’s nothing, really. Would you like anything to eat ? “

The thought of some greasy bacon or a good helping of scrambled eggs, made Roger’s stomach grumble. He could really go for some of that. Though he knew for a fact that the money he had with him was just about enough to cover the coffee and a ride home if he ever managed to find a tube station.

“ I don’t really have enough money on me right now. Left my wallet inside my friend’s car, you know. Thank you though. “

She just nodded, a smile on her face that was radiating with warmth. “ Alright, coming right up. “

Roger took one of the used books from the shelves and sits back on the bench by the window. The storm was still raging outside with unprecedented fury, creating a complete contrast to the utter calm and undeniable warmth he found in this little café at the end of an alleyway made of bricks.

“ There you go “ the girl showed up again, placing before him a steaming cup of coffee and a plate full of eggs and bacon.

“ I said I didn’t — “

“ It’s on the house.”

“ Love, you don’t — “

“ I know I don’t have to. But I want to. You look cold and hungry and, no offence, a bit hungover. Let me do my good deed of the day, please. “

And when she gave him a smile so radiant it put the lanterns to shame, Roger couldn’t help but nod and smile back, “ thank you “.

“ You’re welcome, oh Frankenstein “.

Roger glanced down at the book in his hands, to be completely honest, he hadn’t really paid attention to which book he had grabbed from the shelves. All he noticed was how old and worn out the book had looked and the creepy black trees on the spine.

“ Is it any good ? “

The girl just shrugged her shoulders and granted him a half smile. Usually Roger thought half smiles were absolute shit. A smile should mean something right, and if you only had it in you to smile halfway, maybe don’t smile at all.

But her smile, even if it was only half of it, seemed like it was worth a hundred full-on smiles from other people.

“ I mean, it’s a classic. It’s not for everyone. Guess it depends on what you like the read. You read a lot ? “

Roger thought of all the books stacked in the corner of his room. Ones that he had read what felt like a million times and ones that he had never touched again after he had purchased them. He used to have a book basically glued to his hand at all points of the day. But then adult life swooped in and things got exponentially harder. Juggling university and the band and keep up a social life ? Those things keep you busy. And little joys like reading a good book, just had to take the back burner.

So he just shrugged in reply “ what is much ? “

And that made her laugh. Roger thought that that must’ve been one of the best sounds he’s heard in a while.

“ I mean, it’s the story of Frankenstein and his monster. It’s not a bad books I just — I’m a fan of cheesy romance novels with long pretentious words. But I can appreciate the art of Mary Shelley’s writing and her significance in shaping the science-fiction genre. Especially as a woman. “

He wanted her to keep talking. To hear what she thought about all kinds of things. About her favorite books, her favorite music. He wanted to know every little thought swirling through her head. Her mind, he thought, must be a terribly fascinating place. And he knew then, that he shouldn’t place such unreachable expectations on her. That he shouldn’t make her out to be this ethereal, magical being of a women. But when you fall so deep in adoration with someone, there’s just not stopping your heart and your mind from going places.

Roger didn’t believe in love at first sight. Love isn’t an instant thing. It’s something that grows. Something that needs work. Something that needs a foundation to be built on. Roger, however, did believe that some people can ignite a spark inside of you. And he could feel that spark burning deep inside him, brighter and brighter with every word that roller off her tongue.

“ Why are you looking at me like that ? “ she asked, raising her eyebrow in confusion.

Crap. Way to be smooth and subtle, Roger.

“ I like to hear you talk. You seem — passionate about this stuff. “

And maybe that was what it was. Roger loved to take the piss out of Brian but he could honestly listen to him ramble for hours about music and guitars and new lyrics and riffs he came up with. Because passion, he thought, was a virtue. One that made people interesting. Lovable. Admirable.

“ I am. The bookstore was kind of my idea. The café’s been here for year. My mom and dad started it. Then uh — then life happened and I had to take over. Thought I should bring in some of myself. The little lantern café turned into the little lantern café and bookstore. “

“ It’s a really nice place. Also, this bacon ? Just the right amount of crips. So good. “

“ Yeah, you gotta get some greasy stuff in you. Best hangover cure. “

“ Truer words have never been spoken. “

And just like that they fell deep into conversation about books and hangovers and what exactly was the right amount of crisp for a platter of bacon. Like two old friends catching up after not having seen each other in a while. Like two souls finding each other again. Like two lights in the dark.

And as the storm was raging on outside the café, time seemed to slow down. Time stopped. Time was completely forgotten.

- OOO -

“ Oh shit ! “ Roger exclaimed as his eyes fell onto the clock placed by the counter. The storm had calmed down a little but rain was still pouring from the heavens.

His breakfast had been devoured long ago and he had just finished his second cup of coffee as the realisation hit. He had band practice and the guys would surely have his ass if he didn’t show up on time.

“ Fuck. Love, I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation and I loved the bacon but I really gotta run. Can you tell me how on earth I can get to the nearest tube station ? I’ve been looking around for hours before I stranded here, this is the literal end of London is it ? “

She chuckled at that and pulled out a little notebook and a pen. “ Look, let me write down the instructions. It’s not far from here but it’s a bit hard to find. “

As she scribbled down the directions, Roger couldn’t help but admire her. The way her hair fell into her face, the way she scrunched up her nose thinking about the best way to write down instructions so he would understand them. She was beautiful. Gorgeous.

“ Okay, this should do. But please, let me get you an umbrella “.

“ I can’t ask that, it’s bad enough you don’t let me pay for my food or coffee. “

“ You paid for it plenty with your company. No one listens to me ramble about books, usually. “

He wondered why anyone would ever deny themselves of such a pleasure.

“ Well they should. I think you have a lot of fascinating things to say. “

“ Yeah ? “

“ Definitely. “

He thought he could see her blush at those words but maybe it was just wishful thinking.

She handed him a bright red umbrella and the worn out copy of Frankenstein.

“ Read it. Make up your own opinion. And don’t let my words spoil it for you. Maybe it’ll become your favorite. “

He doubted that but he would give it a try, if only to remember her by it.

“ Thank you for keeping me company. “

“ Thank you for — all of it. “ Roger chuckled and placed a kiss on her cheek. Maybe he was overstepping boundaries here but he just couldn’t help himself. Roger was a lover of nice things. Of fast cars and loud music and pretty women. And you don’t get nice things if you don’t risk a rejection every once in a while.

But a rejection was not what he got then. No, what he got was a kiss on his cheek in return.

As he moved towards the door, towards the storm and the cold, he glanced back towards her.

“ I’m sorry, I completely forgot to ask for your name. I’m such an asshole” .

“ You’re not. You’re very sweet. I didn’t ask for yours either “ she said and smiled.

“ It’s Roger “

“ Nice to meet you Roger. I’m (Y/N). “

And that made him smile, for whatever reason. It was just a name.

But it was her name.

So with the that, he opened the door and stepped into the rain. Just a red dot in a sea of grey.

When people think of London, they don’t usually picture vibrant blue skies and sunshine that covers the whole city in gorgeous hues of golds and oranges.

Maybe, Roger thought, those people were just looking in the wrong places. Maybe they had to search harder.

Because sometimes that sunshine, those hues of gold and orange, that warmth, could all be found in a little café at the edge of the city nestled between brick walls. And in the smile of the girl who worked there.

#roger taylor imagine #roger taylor x reader #ben!roger imagine #ben hardy x reader #ben!roger x reader #ben hardy imagine #borhap!roger x reader #borhap imagine #borhap!roger imagine #thebandefic #roger taylor fanfic #ben hardy fanfic #ben!roger fanfic

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achraf1149 · 5 years ago

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7 Books I Wish I’d Read Sooner

If I’m being honest, the total maintaining With The Penguins project is based on the thought of browsing all the books I want I’d read sooner. This post may simply be the total list of 109 books I’ve challenged myself to browse, and that we may all head home happy. Still, as I work my means through them, I realize there square measure a few that, for one reason or another, I particularly want I’d return to earlier in life, books I ought to have to browse long before I finally got around to them. So, here’s my highlights reel of books I want I’d browse sooner.

7 Books I want I might browse Sooner - Text Overlaid on Dark Image of sandglass Half-Spent with inexperienced Sand - maintaining With The Penguins

The Book stealer by Markus Zusak

Now that I’ve to browse The Book stealer, I desire I see it everyplace. Granted, there’s in all probability a bit confirmation bias at play there, however, I don’t suppose that’s the total story. My Instagram and Pinterest feed square measure crammed with gushing, adoring reviews from (mostly) teenaged fans. I think, for tons of them, this is often the primary WWII story they’ve showing emotion connected with, the primary one to show them the human impact of military conflict. Had I browse The Book stealer as a young teenager, before encountering Anne Frank’s Diary of a girl, I seemingly would have had an equivalent reaction. I want I’d browse it then before I engaged with various agonizing real-life stories of the Second war. because it stands, with The Book stealer and historical WWII fiction normally, I’m a small amount misanthropical and sometimes notice that on behalf of me they don’t rise to truth accounts.

We square measure All fully Beside Ourselves by Tibeto-Burman language Joy Fowler

Long-time Keeper-Upperers arasure} in all probability fed up hearing me observe we tend to square measure All fully Beside Ourselves, however, I don’t care: I’ll be recommending this book with my previous breath. I can’t believe I’d ne'er even detected it before starting the KUWTP project, despite it having been shortlisted for the 2014 Man booking agent Prize. It’s an exquisite story of family, secrets, and humanity, that in my mindsets the quality for up to date fiction. I dearly want I’d browse it sooner, so I may have started recommending it sooner, and sold a lot of individuals on it! I assume I’ll simply have to be compelled to do my best to form up for lost time…

Pride And Prejudice by author

I’ve had a protracted and fraught relationship proudly And Prejudice. the primary time I picked it up, I believe I used to be in high-school, and that I abandoned it concerning thirty pages in. Between then and currently, I will recall a minimum of 5 further attempts, all of that over a lot of an equivalent means. It’s solely terribly recently that I’ve managed to complete the total factor, and that I haven't any plan why I place it off for therefore long, or why I struggled such a lot with it! it was wonderful! i enjoyed it and located the romance extremely consolingly acquainted, choked with what we tend to currently recognize as archetypes of English literature. I want I’d copped onto myself sooner and simply forced myself to keep on with it, as a result of its familiar tons of my reading and significant analysis ever since.

Fahrenheit 451 – Ray Douglas Bradbury

Fahrenheit 451 is another one I want I’d need to in high-school, back after I 1st started obtaining an interest in politics, government, power, police investigation, and management. It in all probability would have felt sort of a revelation previously, particularly if I’d browse it aboard my now-all-time-favorite Nineteen 84. I do know tons of teenagers square measure forced to browse Gabriel Daniel Fahrenheit 451 for English categories, however somehow I at liberty that exact ceremony of passage, and intrinsically I didn’t return thereto till terribly recently. It extremely didn’t evoke any robust feelings from Maine, except for a way of a let-down once hearing it overrated for therefore long. I felt equally upon my presentation of Lord Of The Flies.

David Copperfield by Dickens

My reason for this one could be a very little indulgent, however, I couldn’t place this post a long while not as well as it (forgive me!): I dearly want I’d browse David Copperfield, or the other Dickens, whereas my gramps was alive. He was an enormous fan of Dickens, he adored each word the person wrote, and although I wouldn’t have gotten the maximum amount out of it in person had I browse it previously, I might have loved the chance to speak it over with him. we tend to have several long, rattling language concerning alternative books and literature normally, and although he ne'er outright pressured Maine to choose up something from Dickens, I do know he would have loved to share his thoughts with Maine. So, here’s my devout suggestion for all of you: if Associate in Nursing older person in your life incorporates a favorite book, browse it currently thus you'll be able to discuss it with them, and share that memory, before they pass on!

Gentlemen like Blondes by Anita Loos

Here’s another book I unashamedly plug at any opportunity: Gentlemen like Blondes. I want I’d browse it thus one so I may have brought it up in each unpleasant language I’ve ever had concerning the good Gatsby. I’ve listened to such a big amount of individuals opine concerning Fitzgerald’s supposed genius, and spent hours of my life I’ll ne'er revisit hearing all concerning however he definitively captured life within the Jazz Age. Ugh! Had I browse Gentlemen like Blondes sooner, I might have had a counterpoint able to provide. It’s a so much superior book, and as so much as I’m involved it ought to be needed reading on a minimum of an equivalent scale as stinkin’ Gatsby. this is often another one I’ll be recommending with my dying breath.

The White Mouse by city Wake

The White Mouse was a quiet very little book, not one that several readers have detected of, however, it’s the biography of an unbelievable girl. It lives within the shadow of a so much longer, a lot of elaborate, a lot of “literary” history of her life and exploits, written by Peter Fitzsimons, that is additionally a good browse. But for me, nothing quite compares to reading someone’s story in their own words, albeit they’re not a naturally proficient author. I want I’d browse The White Mouse whereas city Wake was still alive, first so she would have received a bit royalty cheque from my purchase, however second so I may have had the possibility to lobby the Australian government on her behalf to pay her the pension I feel she was well and owed by our country. That said, I feel lucky to possess browse it in the slightest degree.

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prayersfromlilacveins · 8 years ago

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a short fiction exercise

Marie had been thinking about the moon lately. Its shapes and colors weren’t as varied as they’d surely been in past Augusts or Septembers of her life, but there was something simple in its whiteness and distance that recently seemed attractive to her. This was the moon most people thought of when they heard the word, she thought. Disc-like, but smudged. Rounded, but distinct. A gentle, steadfast presence, universally acknowledged, unquestioned. She was determined, lately, not to take it for granted. She remarked to her husband that it had risen and that it seemed to be shining brightly now. They were driving home after dropping their daughter off at college. “Mhm,” he said. He didn’t look up from the road. That’s okay, she thought. He had been interested in the moon at other times in their marriage. Earlier that day, when evening was first coming on, she had told him it looked like a circular wisp of cloud. Very weak. Not shiny at all. To that comment, he had also replied, “mhm.” That’s why its current brightness was worth commenting on now. Marie liked the idea of stories beginning with the moon. She imagined herself a storyteller, sitting on the edge of her daughters bed when they were both young, fixed eyes and baited breath in both their lungs. “Now,” she would say, and the room would hush. “The moon…” she’d begin. She would draw out the “o” sound in moon, not so much as to sound like a cow, but enough to remind a linguistics scholar of the “u” in “lune” and “luna”. She’d pause and glance out the window, and her daughter’s gaze would follow hers, and for a moment, they’d both be captured by imagination, suspending disbelief, open to all creation. But Marie was far too reserved to ever create even subtle theatrics like the ones just mentioned. In her deepest heart, she wished simply to be the beauty, not to mediate or articulate it. As her husband drove on, the rolling hills flattened out, and the road soon seemed a perfect triangle through the windshield. He had, she knew, a mysterious liking for such a scene. The attraction mystified her, but she suspected he enjoyed the geometry of two lines of perfect symmetry converging on the horizon line. With discipline, she could appreciate such scenes. But it was not an organic flavor of beauty, and so she felt it second-rate. Some Ella Fitzgerald was playing on the radio, and her husband sang along, “the way you wear your hat, the way you sip your tea.” The moon was out of sight, but Marie leaned her chin on her palm anyway, and tilted her head to look out the passenger window. The stars seemed friendly. She was in the mood to be charmed by things, and consequently was charmed by it all. The stars, Ella, her husband’s private aesthetic preferences, her own differing tastes in beauty. “It is nice to be alive,” she thought, as Ella sang, “they can’t take that away from me, no.” She smiled absent-mindedly. “No, they can’t take that away,” she sang along.

#writing

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healthnotion · 6 years ago

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Books So Good I’ve Read Them 2X (Or More!)

Given the fact that there are over 130 million books in existence, it’s easy to despair of ever having the chance to read even the smallest fraction of them. And given how little headway you’ll ultimately make on that number, even if you’re a regular reader and live to a ripe old age, it can be hard to justify reading the same book, not just once, but twice (and even multiple times!).

But I think there are several good reasons to do so.

The first is that each time you read the same book, you come away with new insights. You get different things out of a book when you read it at 36 than you did at 16 (and you’ll find different things at age 76, too).

Second, even when you’ve learned and affirmed the principles of a personal development or philosophical-type book, you have to revisit them regularly to keep them at the forefront of your mind. Humans are slothful, forgetful creatures; even when a book’s insights initially made your spirit soar and unlocked a new dimension in your thinking, without regular reminders, you’ll be taking them for granted in a very short time!

Third, sometimes re-reading the same book can become a special tradition (e.g., you look forward to re-reading A Christmas Carol every December), and even a cathartic ritual (see my note about The Road below). When you read the same thing on a cyclical basis, you find that rather than suffering “the horror of the Same Old Thing,” the practice can actually help you overcome it.

Finally, favorite fiction books become like old friends. When you open one up, you feel like you’re reconnecting with a beloved cast of characters who you’ve missed and are glad to be reacquainted with all over again.

Plus, few of the millions of books you could be reading for the first time are any good — and it can be more beneficial to re-read quality than to read mediocre slop anew! (I read 125+ new books a year in addition to my perennial favorites, so it’s not an either/or equation; as I know someone will ask, I have to read so many books for my work on the Art of Manliness, but you can read, or re-read more books too, using the tips I’ve outlined here.)

Below you’ll find a list of some of the books I’ve re-read at least twice, and often many times more. While I read books for both work and pleasure, and many of the books below I’ve read for both, I only re-read the books that have provided fodder for articles, that have also given me personal enjoyment.

The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People by Stephen Covey

I first read The Seven Habits of Highly of Effective People back in high school and was blown away by Covey’s ability to create fresh, compelling angles on common sense principles — put first things first; begin with the end in mind — and show how they can be implemented to create a flourishing life. Since then, I’ve re-read The Seven Habits every few years to remind myself of these important fundamentals that I already know, but that are so easy to lose sight of.

For my distillation and take on the 7 habits, read this series that covers each one.

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

The first time I read F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Great American Novel, I was a sophomore in high school. But it didn’t really resonate with me then. That changed when I took a class in college called “American History Through the American Novel” with Professor Danney Goble. He made that book come alive for me by subtly illuminating its rich metaphors and highlighting Fitzgerald’s superb style. Since then, while I haven’t read The Great Gatsby as many times as literary critic Maureen Corrigan (who’s read it 67 times; you can listen to my podcast interview with her about that here), I have re-read it so many times I’ve lost count of the number. And every time I re-read it, I uncover a new symbol or metaphor that I never noticed before, and welcome the chance the re-contemplate the theme of wanting vs. liking. This book never gets old.

The Road by Cormac McCarthy

The Road has been called by some a love story between father and son, and nothing could better describe it. The book powerfully puts the beauty and sorrow of fatherhood in stark perspective, revealing paternal love intensely close to the bone.

The first time I started it, I read it all in a single flight coming home from a vacation. While I didn’t have kids at the time, and was surrounded by strangers, I was blubbering like a baby by the time the wheels hit the tarmac in Tulsa.

When Gus was born, I decided to re-read The Road again since I figured it would have more meaning now that I was a dad. Indeed, it made me cry even harder the second time. Since then, I’ve made it a personal tradition to read The Road once a year. It’s a cathartic ritual: I read it, cry as my heart gets squeezed in a vise of emotion, and then hug and kiss my kids while they wonder what’s wrong with Dad.

The Road makes me re-evaluate how I’m doing as a father. It forces me to ask if I’m preparing my kids so they can survive without me — not only physically, but spiritually.

It forces me to ask myself “Am I teaching my children to carry the fire?”

As the answer is always, “I could do a little better,” it’s a question worth reflecting on annually.

After Virtue by Alasdair MacIntyre

In After Virtue, Scottish philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre argues that we’ve lost the idea of having a telos — an ultimate aim — as well as the language needed to talk about the virtues required to achieve it. One of the results is that our discourse on morality has become increasingly shrill.

After Virtue is a really hard book to read and fully understand, but it’s the enjoyable kind of hard. When you put in the effort to grasp what MacIntyre is arguing, you’re rewarded with fresh insights about our current age. And because he’s writing about such a broad and deep topic, every time I read After Virtue, I walk away with some new idea to contemplate.

The Odyssey by Homer

I’ve read Homer’s The Iliad multiple times, but I did so for school and work. It’s mighty good, but it doesn’t grasp me by the heartstrings. It’s a different, ahem, story with The Odyssey, which I’ve read dozens of times for pure pleasure. There are a couple of reasons I turn to one of these ancient tales much more than the other.

First, The Odyssey is just a grade A adventure story. Just a plain fun book to read.

Second, and more importantly, the character of Odysseus is a lot more relatable than Achilles. Achilles is a demigod; Odysseus is fully mortal. Achilles doesn’t seem to miss his family, of whom we learn little about; Odysseus just wants to get back to his family — in fact, he gives up spending eternity with an ageless sex nymph so he can return to his mortal wife Penelope. Achilles only wants glory; Odysseus wants that too, but he wants to survive and make it back home more.

A mortal dude who’s just trying to survive in a crazy, topsy-turvy world so he can spend time with his family? I can relate to that.

The book has taken on different meanings for me when I read it after getting married, after having kids, and now that I’m approaching middle age.

Antifragile by Nassim Nicholas Taleb

Nassim Nicholas Taleb is a former trader and current intellectual provocateur (see his Twitter and Medium accounts) who writes about philosophy and probability. He’s the guy that popularized the idea of “Black Swan” events in history. Wikipedia succinctly describes a Black Swan event as one “that comes as a surprise, has a major effect, and is often inappropriately rationalized after the fact with the benefit of hindsight.” The Great Depression. The Great Recession. Both World Wars. These are examples of Black Swan events.

In his book Antifragile, Taleb offers heuristics for businesses and individuals on how to not only survive a Black Swan, but thrive in it.

I’ve read all of Taleb’s books and they’re all great, but Antifragile is the one that I go back to over and over again. Taleb’s ideas are often counterintuitive and iconoclastic, but he makes great cases for them. I think the biggest reason I keep re-reading Antifragile, though, is that it’s just so damn fun to read. Taleb’s pugnacious and doesn’t suffer fools. The literary punches he throws at those he deems “imbeciles” not only crack me up, but the way he presents his ideas as a debate between a street smart spokesman (Fat Tony) and his traditionally smart, yet clueless rival (Dr. John), helps make the ideas more understandable. I also enjoy the occasional digressions he takes throughout the book. They’re fun, and always illuminating.

Nicomachean Ethics by Aristotle

Thanks to famous entrepreneurs and digital influencers, Stoicism has become the ancient philosophy of choice for many young people today. But there’s an ancient philosophy that I think is even more useful and life affirming than Stoicism: Aristotelian virtue ethics. I think part of the reason Stoicism is seen as the “cool” philosophy and Aristotelian virtue gets overlooked is that Aristotle’s writing doesn’t really have any pithy, quotable maxims like the writing of the Stoics does. But it’s richly rewarding for those who dig into it.

Aristotle’s answer to the question how to live a good life is “it depends.” In his Nicomachean Ethics, he lays out how to live a life of eudaimonia, or flourishing. It requires a person to use their practical wisdom to figure out what the right thing to do is in whatever situation they find themselves in. There are no iron-clad rules, which makes deciding how to act more challenging, but I think more wise.

Should you get angry at a business rival who copied your idea? The Stoics would say “Don’t get angry because that disrupts tranquility and could lead to poor decisions.” Aristotle would say “Well, maybe you should get angry because it’s just to do so, it will spur you to take action, and if the rival is directly confronted, he’ll back down. Or maybe in this particular instance, direct confrontation will end up damaging you and it’s better to hide your emotions and quietly best the rival from behind the scenes. Use your judgement.”

I love Aristotle because he understood that life is complex and there is no one right answer for the situations we find ourselves in. His Nicomachean Ethics provides a flexible framework for navigating these complexities, which is why I’ve re-read it multiple times.

Roman Honor by Carlin Barton

Roman Honor is a book quite unlike any other I’ve read. It’s one part history, one part philosophy, and one part insight into the modern age. Altogether it adds up to quite possibly the most interesting and incisive book I’ve come across. Even the footnotes are utterly fascinating.

Barton traces the way Rome’s honor culture dissolved as it moved from a Republic to an Empire, and how its original definition of dishonor transformed into the new definition of honor along the way. That is, whereas Rome’s traditional honor culture elevated being fiery, passionate, thin-skinned, and competitive, and disdained being independent, immovable, and callous — someone who didn’t care what anyone else thought and was literally shameless — honor in the Empire became the exact reverse, where only personal integrity mattered, having a rock-like disposition was celebrated, and the philosophy of Stoicism rose in popularity. It’s a fascinating lens by which to see how the same factors that led to the dissolution of traditional honor and the rise of Stoicism in Rome, have led to parallel trends in our own time.

The book has greatly influenced my perspective on the world, and I’ve re-read it multiple times both for pleasure and for work; I’ve gotten more than half a dozen article ideas from it, and as we’ve only covered a couple so far, look out for more in the years to come!

The Way of Men by Jack Donovan

I’ve read a lot of books about the anthropology, psychology, and biology of manhood written by top rate experts in their field. The Way of Men by Jack Donovan distills all of that into a highly potent and highly readable ode to sweaty, muscular masculinity. Do I entirely agree with the philosophy of manhood laid out in the book? Nope, which is why I like re-reading it so much. The Way of Men challenges your assumptions and makes you think hard about what it means to be a man.

While media pundits, and academics, and pop culture influencers debate and endlessly dither on about what it really means to be a man, and a hundred disparate definitions of manhood get thrown around, this book cuts through the noise to locate the central core of masculinity.

Meditations by Marcus Aurelius

Just because I’m not all-in on Stoicism and have some critiques of the philosophy, certainly doesn’t mean that I find nothing redeemable or useful about it. While I don’t think the philosophy is one you should center your whole life around (I think Aristotelianism is better suited to that purpose), I do think it is extremely useful, and even indispensable, when strategically employed as a tool in certain situations. I see Stoicism as proto-cognitive behavioral therapy — a way to challenge incorrect, detrimental thinking about the world, and to find peace in circumstances you truly can’t control.

My favorite book of Stoic philosophy is Meditations by the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius. It’s short so it lends itself well to re-reading, and it’s packed with pithy maxims you can use as practical heuristics in navigating life. And because the book is basically Aurelius’ private journal, Meditations gives you a firsthand look at a prominent figure in history trying his damndest to be stoic and grappling with the tensions that come with seeking to mold your life to an ideal.

Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl

I read Man’s Search for Meaning after seeing a reference to it in The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. I was 16 or 17 years old. This book blew me away the first time I read it and was my gateway into existential philosophy. I printed off quotes from this book, framed them, and gave them as gifts to friends.

The big takeaway from Man’s Search for Meaning is arguably life’s most important lesson: there is one freedom that no one can ever take away from you, and that’s the freedom to choose how to respond in any given circumstance. If a man can choose to be happy while imprisoned in a concentration camp, as Frankl did and was, then a man can choose to be happy in any situation. This radical autonomy is what makes us human.

I’ll re-read this book whenever I feel helpless and need a reminder that I do in fact have control over my life.

Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry

Lonesome Dove is the greatest cowboy story ever told, and my hands-down favorite book of all time. It’s the American Odyssey. The story follows two long-time friends on a cattle drive from the Rio Grande to Montana. Along the way they encounter outlaws, Indians, and old flames. I love this book so much, I even named my son Gus after one of the protagonists, Gus McCrae.

Despite being over 700 pages long, I’ve read this book four times in the past 10 years or so. It never gets old. Each time I start it again, it feels like I’m catching up with old friends. I still laugh out loud and cry at the same parts.

Are there lessons on life from Lonesome Dove? Sure, but I can’t say I re-read it for them. I read it over and over again because I like it. A whole heck of a lot.

Click here for more of AoM’s book lists and reading recommendations.

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christophertheodore-org · 7 years ago

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REBECCA SOLNIT: THE LONELINESS OF DONALD TRUMP

Once upon a time, a child was born into wealth and wanted for nothing, but he was possessed by bottomless, endless, grating, grasping wanting, and wanted more, and got it, and more after that, and always more. He was a pair of ragged orange claws upon the ocean floor, forever scuttling, pinching, reaching for more, a carrion crab, a lobster and a boiling lobster pot in one, a termite, a tyrant over his own little empires. He got a boost at the beginning from the wealth handed him and then moved among grifters and mobsters who cut him slack as long as he was useful, or maybe there’s slack in arenas where people live by personal loyalty until they betray, and not by rules, and certainly not by the law or the book. So for seven decades, he fed his appetites and exercised his license to lie, cheat, steal, and stiff working people of their wages, made messes, left them behind, grabbed more baubles, and left them in ruin.

He was supposed to be a great maker of things, but he was mostly a breaker. He acquired buildings and women and enterprises and treated them all alike, promoting and deserting them, running into bankruptcies and divorces, treading on lawsuits the way a lumberjack of old walked across the logs floating on their way to the mill, but as long as he moved in his underworld of dealmakers the rules were wobbly and the enforcement was wobblier and he could stay afloat. But his appetite was endless, and he wanted more, and he gambled to become the most powerful man in the world, and won, careless of what he wished for.

Thinking of him, I think of Pushkin’s telling of the old fairytale of The Fisherman and the Golden Fish. After being caught in the old fisherman’s net, the golden fish speaks up and offers wishes in return for being thrown back in the sea. The fisherman asks him for nothing, though later he tells his wife of his chance encounter with the magical creature. The fisherman’s wife sends him back to ask for a new washtub for her, and then a second time to ask for a cottage to replace their hovel, and the wishes are granted, and then as she grows prouder and greedier, she sends him to ask that she become a wealthy person in a mansion with servants she abuses, and then she sends her husband back. The old man comes and grovels before the fish, caught between the shame of the requests and the appetite of his wife, and she becomes tsarina and has her boyards and nobles drive the husband from her palace. You could call the husband consciousness—the awareness of others and of oneself in relation to others—and the wife craving.

Finally she wishes to be supreme over the seas and over the fish itself, endlessly uttering wishes, and the old man goes back to the sea to tell the fish—to complain to the fish—of this latest round of wishes. The fish this time doesn’t even speak, just flashes its tail, and the old man turns around to see on the shore his wife with her broken washtub at their old hovel. Overreach is perilous, says this Russian tale; enough is enough. And too much is nothing.

The child who became the most powerful man in the world, or at least occupied the real estate occupied by a series of those men, had run a family business and then starred in an unreality show based on the fiction that he was a stately emperor of enterprise, rather than a buffoon barging along anyhow, and each was a hall of mirrors made to flatter his sense of self, the self that was his one edifice he kept raising higher and higher and never abandoned.

I have often run across men (and rarely, but not never, women) who have become so powerful in their lives that there is no one to tell them when they are cruel, wrong, foolish, absurd, repugnant. In the end there is no one else in their world, because when you are not willing to hear how others feel, what others need, when you do not care, you are not willing to acknowledge others’ existence. That’s how it’s lonely at the top. It is as if these petty tyrants live in a world without honest mirrors, without others, without gravity, and they are buffered from the consequences of their failures.

“They were careless people,” F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote of the rich couple at the heart of The Great Gatsby. “They smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.” Some of us are surrounded by destructive people who tell us we’re worthless when we’re endlessly valuable, that we’re stupid when we’re smart, that we’re failing even when we succeed. But the opposite of people who drag you down isn’t people who build you up and butter you up. It’s equals who are generous but keep you accountable, true mirrors who reflect back who you are and what you are doing.

“He is, as of this writing, the most mocked man in the world.”

We keep each other honest, we keep each other good with our feedback, our intolerance of meanness and falsehood, our demands that the people we are with listen, respect, respond—if we are allowed to, if we are free and valued ourselves. There is a democracy of social discourse, in which we are reminded that as we are beset with desires and fears and feelings, so are others; there was an old woman in Occupy Wall Street I always go back to who said, “We’re fighting for a society in which everyone is important.” That’s what a democracy of mind and heart, as well as economy and polity, would look like.

This year Hannah Arendt is alarmingly relevant, and her books are selling well, particularly On the Origins of Totalitarianism. She’s been the subject an extraordinary essayin the Los Angeles Review of Books and a conversationbetween scholar Lyndsey Stonebridge and Krista Tippet on the radio show “On Being.” Stonebridge notes that Arendt advocated for the importance of an inner dialogue with oneself, for a critical splitting in which you interrogate yourself—for a real conversation between the fisherman and his wife you could say: “People who can do that can actually then move on to having conversations with other people and then judging with other people. And what she called ‘the banality of evil’ was the inability to hear another voice, the inability to have a dialogue either with oneself or the imagination to have a dialogue with the world, the moral world.”

Some use their power to silence that and live in the void of their own increasingly deteriorating, off-course sense of self and meaning. It’s like going mad on a desert island, only with sycophants and room service. It’s like having a compliant compass that agrees north is whatever you want it to be. The tyrant of a family, the tyrant of a little business or a huge enterprise, the tyrant of a nation. Power corrupts, and absolute power often corrupts the awareness of those who possess it. Or reduces it: narcissists, sociopaths, and egomaniacs are people for whom others don’t exist.

We gain awareness of ourselves and others from setbacks and difficulties; we get used to a world that is not always about us; and those who do not have to cope with that are brittle, weak, unable to endure contradiction, convinced of the necessity of always having one’s own way. The rich kids I met in college were flailing as though they wanted to find walls around them, leapt as though they wanted there to be gravity and to hit ground, even bottom, but parents and privilege kept throwing out safety nets and buffers, kept padding the walls and picking up the pieces, so that all their acts were meaningless, literally inconsequential. They floated like astronauts in outer space.

Equality keeps us honest. Our peers tell us who we are and how we are doing, providing that service in personal life that a free press does in a functioning society. Inequality creates liars and delusion. The powerless need to dissemble—that’s how slaves, servants, and women got the reputation of being liars—and the powerful grow stupid on the lies they require from their subordinates and on the lack of need to know about others who are nobody, who don’t count, who’ve been silenced or trained to please. This is why I always pair privilege with obliviousness; obliviousness is privilege’s form of deprivation. When you don’t hear others, you don’t imagine them, they become unreal, and you are left in the wasteland of a world with only yourself in it, and that surely makes you starving, though you know not for what, if you have ceased to imagine others exist in any true deep way that matters. This is about a need for which we hardly have language or at least not a familiar conversation.

A man who wished to become the most powerful man in the world, and by happenstance and intervention and a series of disasters was granted his wish. Surely he must have imagined that more power meant more flattery, a grander image, a greater hall of mirrors reflecting back his magnificence. But he misunderstood power and prominence. This man had bullied friends and acquaintances, wives and servants, and he bullied facts and truths, insistent that he was more than they were, than it is, that it too must yield to his will. It did not, but the people he bullied pretended that it did. Or perhaps it was that he was a salesman, throwing out one pitch after another, abandoning each one as soon as it left his mouth. A hungry ghost always wants the next thing, not the last thing.

This one imagined that the power would repose within him and make him great, a Midas touch that would turn all to gold. But the power of the presidency was what it had always been: a system of cooperative relationships, a power that rested on people’s willingness to carry out the orders the president gave, and a willingness that came from that president’s respect for rule of law, truth, and the people. A man who gives an order that is not followed has his powerlessness hung out like dirty laundry. One day earlier this year, one of this president’s minions announced that the president’s power would not be questioned. There are tyrants who might utter such a statement and strike fear into those beneath him, because they have installed enough fear.

A true tyrant does not depend on cooperative power but has a true power of command, enforced by thugs, goons, Stasi, the SS, or death squads. A true tyrant has subordinated the system of government and made it loyal to himself rather than to the system of laws or the ideals of the country. This would-be tyrant didn’t understand that he was in a system where many in government, perhaps most beyond the members of his party in the legislative branch, were loyal to law and principle and not to him. His minion announced the president would not be questioned, and we laughed. He called in, like courtiers, the heads of the FBI, of the NSA, and the director of national intelligence to tell them to suppress evidence, to stop investigations and found that their loyalty was not to him. He found out to his chagrin that we were still something of a democracy, and that the free press could not be so easily stopped, and the public itself refused to be cowed and mocks him earnestly at every turn.

A true tyrant sits beyond the sea in Pushkin’s country. He corrupts elections in his country, eliminates his enemies with bullets, poisons, with mysterious deaths made to look like accidents—he spread fear and bullied the truth successfully, strategically. Though he too had overreached with his intrusions into the American election, and what he had hoped would be invisible caused the whole world to scrutinize him and his actions and history and impact with concern and even fury. Russia may have ruined whatever standing and trust it has, may have exposed itself, with this intervention in the US and then European elections.

The American buffoon’s commands were disobeyed, his secrets leaked at such a rate his office resembled the fountains at Versailles or maybe just a sieve (this spring there was an extraordinary piece in the Washington Post with thirty anonymous sources), his agenda was undermined even by a minority party that was not supposed to have much in the way of power, the judiciary kept suspending his executive orders, and scandals erupted like boils and sores. Instead of the dictator of the little demimondes of beauty pageants, casinos, luxury condominiums, fake universities offering fake educations with real debt, fake reality tv in which he was master of the fake fate of others, an arbiter of all worth and meaning, he became fortune’s fool.

He is, as of this writing, the most mocked man in the world. After the women’s march on January 21st, people joked that he had been rejected by more women in one day than any man in history; he was mocked in newspapers, on television, in cartoons, was the butt of a million jokes, and his every tweet was instantly met with an onslaught of attacks and insults by ordinary citizens gleeful to be able to speak sharp truth to bloated power.

He is the old fisherman’s wife who wished for everything and sooner or later he will end up with nothing. The wife sitting in front of her hovel was poorer after her series of wishes, because she now owned not only her poverty but her mistakes and her destructive pride, because she might have been otherwise, but brought power and glory crashing down upon her, because she had made her bed badly and was lying in it.

The man in the white house sits, naked and obscene, a pustule of ego, in the harsh light, a man whose grasp exceeded his understanding, because his understanding was dulled by indulgence. He must know somewhere below the surface he skates on that he has destroyed his image, and like Dorian Gray before him, will be devoured by his own corrosion in due time too. One way or another this will kill him, though he may drag down millions with him. One way or another, he knows he has stepped off a cliff, pronounced himself king of the air, and is in freefall. Another dungheap awaits his landing; the dung is all his; w

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vitalmindandbody · 7 years ago

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Tragic, fascinating, brilliant- life of’ wild child’ Zelda Fitzgerald revisited

Two films and a TV series out soon portray the life of the jazz-age novelist and spouse of F Scott Fitzgerald

She is thought of as the original wild child, a pearl-twirling party girl who died at the age of 47 after a flaming broke out in the North Carolina sanatorium where she was a patient. Now Zelda Fitzgerald, the countries of the south belle changed jazz-age protagonist, dubbed the first American flapper by her husband and partner-in-drink Scott, is to have her own Hollywood make-over two cinemas are in the pipeline and a television series will air on Amazon Prime early next year.

All three programmes have starry mentions affixed: Jennifer Lawrence will take the lead in Zelda , a biopic directed against Ron Howard and based on Nancy Milfords best-selling biography; Scarlett Johansson will bob her fuzz for The Beautiful and The Damned ; and Christina Ricci will play the young and impetuous Zelda in the Amazon series Z: The Beginning of Everything. The name of the Tv succession comes from Scotts awestruck provide comments on satisfy Zelda: I cherish her, and thats the beginning and result of everything.

So what is it about Zelda that mesmerizes virtually 70 years after her tragic intent? In persona it is that the disturbances the couple lived through find an resemble in our own hectic times.

Interest in the Fitzgeralds has definitely been on the increase not only since Baz Luhrmanns film of The Great Gatsby in 2013 but likewise from the many similarities between their lives and operate and the period were living through right now, says Sarah Churchwell, author of the critically acclaimed Careless People: Murder, Mayhem and The Invention of the Great Gatsby .

Its a floor of boom and bust and it reverberates as “weve been” grappling with our own boom and bust, our own worries about the cost of our excess and our own social loss. The lives and fates of Scott and Zelda peculiarly simulated their eras: in the 1920 s they were roaring for all they were worth, but with the crash in 1929, everything fell apart.

It helps, more, that Zelda was so vibrant a anatomy. It begins with her elegance, says Churchwell. But too with the stories told in the 1920 s about the high jinks and fun she and Scott seemed to have. Parties really liked her: she was surprising, intelligent, astute, funny and adoration a good party. She likewise liked to be the center of scrutiny, and so had her detractors too. These stuffs combined to draw her a legend.

Scott frequently returned to their relationship in his myth, most notably in his second fiction, The Beautiful and Damned , which details the heady early days of their matrimony; and his mournful fourth, Tender Is The Night , in which the gilded daydream has faded into a more tawdry world. Zeldas exclusively novel, Save Me The Waltz , presented the relationship from her side.

They were arguably Americas first luminary pairing: a carefree golden couple who wrote their practice into the spotlight, developing their own mythology of gin-soaked dates and fun-filled nighttimes, simply to persist too long once the light-footed had started to dim. Their recklessness acquires the floor exciting and stunning, says Churchwell. But they paid a the highest price.

After a few giddy times, all the boyish promise crumbled away, leaving Scott a stunned and drunk jobbing hack in Hollywood and fetching Zelda to breakdown at the age of 30, a diagnosis of schizophrenia , now widely thought to be a bipolar affective disorder, and their own lives in and out of sanatoriums.

Her story is both fascinating and unfortunates, says Therese Anne Fowler, on whose novel Z the Amazon series is based. Here we have a woman whose knacks and vigour and ability should have stirred her a brilliant success, who was determined to be an fulfilled creator, columnist and ballet dancer in an era where married maidens were supposed to be spouses and moms, interval. Her devotion to Scott was, in many ways, her undoing[ although] he was just as imprisoned as she was. Had they cherished one another less, they might both have come to better ends.

The idea of Zelda as a bright woman captured by her duration has gained traction in recent years, with a number of occupations re-evaluating her through the prism of feminism although it is not always the easiest of fits. As early as 1974, the couples daughter Scottie balk such claims, writing the purpose of which is to vistum her father as a classic put-down spouse, whose efforts to express her sort were frustrated by a typically male chauvinist spouse were not accurate.

Writing in the New Yorker in 2013, Molly Fischer concurred , mention: Saving Zelda Fitzgerald is no easy proposition …[ she] does not want to be anyones domesticated, and theres something mortifying about the literary readiness to domesticate her, to transform an irritating girl into an appealing heroine.

The new cinemas may well further Hollywoodise Zelda, sanding away her bumpy boundaries and reinventing her as a relatable heroine for our modern times. The molding of Lawrence so often described as Americas Sweetheart in the Howard biopic is no accident.

A report about the upcoming Johansson film in the Hollywood Reporter showed it would draw on previously unreleased textile to indicate that her husband misappropriated his wifes opinions as his own.

Mark Gill, chairwoman of Millennium Films, the yield companionship behind The Beautiful and The Damned , concurs : She was massively ahead of her time and she took a vanquish for it. He plagiarized her ideas and threw them in his works. The matrimony was a codependency from inferno with a jazz-age soundtrack. The movie has, nonetheless, fastened the co-operation of the Fitzgerald estate.

Fowler agrees that there is a changing predisposition to refer our own concerns to Zelda. We do anoint her as a kind of proto-feminist heroine, even though she didnt hear herself as a feminist and didnt fully replace at anything, she says. But her original reputation is based on conventional paternalistic the terms and conditions of what the status of women, father and partner ought to be and do. Her ambitions and her insistence on engaging them were considered inappropriate and unhealthy; after her psychopathic disintegrate she was literally told that this insistence had created her divide recollection and that the path to a cure lay in giving up all aspirations that didnt conform to the paternalistic ideal.

Scarlett Johansson, Jennifer Lawrence and Christina Ricci are all set to play Zelda Fitzgerald in the forthcoming products The Beautiful and the Damned, Zelda and Z: The Beginning of Everything. Composite: Getty Images

The backlash against this image is intelligible given that popular opinion of Zelda was initially driven by Ernest Hemingways notoriously caustic descriptions in A Moveable Feast , published posthumously in 1964, in which he dismissed her as insane and accused Scotts developing dependence on booze on his wife.

Our perception has very much changed, says Churchwell. We have come to sympathise with her frustration, to recognise her talents and to be more fair-minded about her selects. That said, she carefuls against attempts to create a Team Scott/ Team Zelda subdivide, as is so often the occurrence in far-famed literary partnerships. Its important to say that they always loved one another and wouldnt have appreciated parties taking surfaces Fitzgerald wrote a few years before he was dead that it was a moral responsibility that their friends understood the latter are a duo, a group and would abide that practice, even if her illness intended they couldnt live together.

Churchwell is likewise scathing about attempts to suggest Zelda had a larger role in her husbands operate than previously presumed. “Theres” those wanting to recognition Zelda with Scotts work, which is just silly and doesnt do females any preferences, she says. Its not a zero-sum activity: we are in a position recognise both of them for who they were.

Zelda had many abilities, but where writing was pertained she was probably more ill when she started to hone her knacks, and while it is true that Scott didnt especially want her to write partly out of territoriality but partly because medical doctors told him it was bad for her its too true-blue that her work isnt in the same class as his. Her individual sentences are often lovely, and she can create a mood and has clever revolves of word but her studies tend to be sketches rather than full fibs. If they had induced different options, maybe she could have been an important scribe, but the reality is that she wasnt.

Perhaps, then, the real key to Zeldas continued pull on our imagery lies not in her study but in her modernity. I dont want to live I want to adoration firstly and live incidentally, she proclaimed and it is that vitality and avarice for all of lifes knowledge, both good and bad, that extends down over the decades, granting each generation to see something new.

Z: The Beginning of Everything will air on Amazon Prime early next year

THEY SAID

I have rarely known a woman who uttered herself so delightfully and freshly: she had no ready-made words on the one handwriting and no striving for gist on the other. Critic Edmund Wilson

I fell in love with her spirit, her candour and her blaze self-respect, and its these occasions I would believe in even if countries around the world indulged in wild ideas that she wasnt all that she should be.

F Scott Fitzgerald

I did not have a single pity of insignificance, or shyness, or suspense, and no moral principles.

All I crave is to be very young ever and very irresponsible, and is of the view that my life is my own to live and be happy and succumb in my own way to please myself.

Other publics ideas of us are dependent mainly on what theyve hoped for.