#mostly due to the angle on reveries face

[teethkid67]

happy @mcythorrorgiftexchange , @haunted-here !!!! sorry it took so long to get to u :P i wanted to go ahead and draw clem and reverie from your (and @stemms , which thanks for the help btw hehe) CD au !!!! so . here they are teehee :3

i had a really good time participating in this exchange !!! thank u mods for hosting and haunt i hope u like it !!!! :3

[find-the-eyes]

I’ll Try Anything Once: Chapter 17

Written by: ss, Sol Edited by: Allegra, ss, Sol

Alex arrived outside of the entrance to the music school fifteen minutes early and sat on a nearby bench. He opened his sketchbook and started flipping through all of his drawings to kill time, pausing on the drawing of Paul that he had done while he was modeling for the life drawing class. He carefully traced the lines he’d created not long ago. It was a piece he was quite proud of. The way he had captured Paul’s expression, the subtle curves of the man’s body, how the light hit him in all the right places...

A shadow passed over his own version of Paul he’d created, pulling Alex out of his reverie. He looked up and saw Nick had sat himself down next to him without even saying a word.

“So, how was it?” Alex asked.

Nick completely ignored the question and pointed to the sketch Alex was looking at. “Paul?”

“Yeah, he modeled for my class a few weeks ago.”

Nick nodded thoughtfully, looking back up at the students passing by.

“It wasn’t that bad, right?” Alex asked again.

Nick shook his head.

“Good.” Alex smiled and got up from the bench. “Want to get lunch?”

“Can we just go home?”

Alex frowned. He was quite looking forward to a plate of the town’s famous fish and chips but he didn’t want to force Nick into doing something he didn’t want to. “Alright, then.”

As soon as they got back to the flat, Nick immediately flopped down on the couch with Steckrübe. He eventually started falling asleep, despite the fact that it was the middle of the day. Alex smiled and shuffled next to him, careful not to bump into Nick’s legs. He had his sketchbook with him and started scribbling over the sound of Nick’s soft snores.

-

Bob didn’t have a project due the next day, or an environmentally conscious sculpting class, for that matter. He actually didn’t have any reason not to go with Alex to pick Nick up from class, other than his bitter jealousy biting at him. Bob had never dealt with these kind of feelings before. In the past he’d never been too upfront with his crushes, so he wasn’t prepared for the large pang of jealousy he felt coming his way. He tried to calm himself, breathe in... breathe out... breathe--

“Hey Bob,” the front door opened and a familiar voice greeted him, interrupting his brief meditation. He cracked his eyes open to see that Paul had joined him on the couch, taking off his jacket. Bob tried not to stare as Paul’s skin was exposed. The shirt he was wearing was rather form-fitting, with sleeves short enough to reveal most of his upper arm area.

“Hi,” Bob managed to reply back as normally as he could. He looked away from Paul before he could get caught staring and reverted back to resting his head on his hand, mouth pulled into a small pout.

“Home early?” Paul asked. He was right - Bob usually spent the evening on campus to work in the studio but his bitter feelings had made him want to hole up alone. Bob only managed a nod in reply. “Thought you went to hang with Alex.”

“Oh, no, Alex went to pick up Nick.” Bob explained shortly. He tried not to wince at the mention of Alex’s name.

“Really? That’s kind of him to do,” Paul said, stretching his legs on the coffee table in front of him.

“Yep,” Bob agreed. He figured acting all bitter in front of his flatmate would do him no good - and it might make Paul suspicious. So he asked the question that had been bothering him ever since their first jam session. “What do you think about Nick?”

Paul was silent for a while, trying to look for an answer. His thick brows furrowed in concentration. Bob found that adorable. “He’s alright,” was what Paul finally settled on. Bob nodded in acknowledgement. He wished he was as casual about it as Paul was, but even if he had tried to convince himself to be chill about it he knew the jealousy would still be there.

“What’s his deal?” Paul asked, tilting his head in confusion. “I mean...Alex looks after him or something?” Having lived mostly independent from the people around him, he had become used to doing everything himself. The fact that Nick had so easily leaned on Alex felt strange to Paul, though he wasn’t really in a position to complain as he was also accepting Bob’s help.

“I think so, yeah. The guy’s a nervous wreck.” Bob remembered how shaky Nick had looked during their first meeting.

“I’m kind of jealous,” Paul admitted. This response made Bob whip his head around to Paul. What was he trying to say?

“What?”

“I mean, I totally understand what the guy must be feeling. You know, anxious and all that jazz,” Paul said, waving his hands.

“You? You’re the most laid back person I’ve ever met.”

“Well, I mean, I wasn’t always like this.” Paul idly played with a detached string on his ripped jeans. “I’ve been there.”

“Ah...” Bob never knew that side of Paul. In a weird way, it was nice to learn something new about his friend. He wanted to probe but figured that the subject might be heavy, so he saved it for another day.

“I wish I had someone like Alex to lean on, you know?” Paul continued, “To help me get back on my feet, perhaps simply someone to offer a roof over my head.”

“I can understand that.” Bob wished he had Alex to himself the way that Nick did. He shook his head, trying to chase the ugly feelings away. Paul’s reminiscing about his rough past, this isn’t the time to think about boy crushes. And what does he mean? Doesn’t he have me to help him?? Fortunately, Paul didn’t want to linger too long on the topic of his past.

“Anyways, Nick is really good at this whole music thing, I think he’ll be fine.” Paul steered the topic back to its initial track. “The independent music industry here is quite thriving. If he’s willing to, he might make it.”

This was true, the Glasgow creative scene was what had caught Bob’s attention in the first place. He was willing to move all the way from the comfort of his hometown to pursue his artistic dreams. As he looked over to Paul, who was now chatting amiably about Glasgow’s music scene, his heart did a little jump. His feelings for Alex and Nick slowly diminished everytime Paul glanced over at him, making sure he was still listening, and gave a quick smile once in a while. Bob watched intently, quite smitten, though he was only half listening.

“...And that’s how I think he might be successful,” Paul finally finished. This snapped Bob from his staring.

“Uh, yes,” he responded, trying to make it seem like he had been actually listening and not daydreaming about how soft and pink the older man’s lips had looked.

“I mean if Nick’s music career took a turn--I sure hope not, he’s packing some mad talent--he could always try what I did.”

“What would that be?” Bob asked in genuine curiosity.

“Nude modelling,” Paul grinned. Even though he was joking, Bob blinked his eyes in surprise. “Well, it doesn’t have to be nude, but just think about it!” Paul quickly explained.

“He’s got a nice face,” Bob said, picturing the sharp angles. He vaguely remembered a nice strong jawline and chin on a person who was seemingly so soft.

“Blue eyes,” Paul continued. Bob pictured the pair of bright blue eyes that had glanced his way during his brief bass coaching.

“High cheekbones, decent profile...” Paul had made his point. Bob sat silently, lost in thought. Now that Paul had put it that way, Nick was actually...kind of cute. Bob tried not to scream in frustration. He couldn’t believe that now he thought Nick was attractive, too. He couldn’t even fall asleep peacefully with Paul snoring on the other side of the room, lying on the cheap mattress they had recently bought, he hadn’t even fully wrapped his head around his feelings for Alex yet, and now he was starting to think Nick was cute? Nick, who he had been bitterly jealous of just earlier today? He tried not to picture Nick and Alex together, blushing at the suggestions his brain had come up with.

“Pah! Nick’s too short though. And the cameras and the stares would probably scare the poor guy,” Paul dismissed his idea as quickly as he came up with it. Bob only squinted his eyes in annoyance, though it went unnoticed by the other man. He felt it was wise that he try to cool off alone, afraid Paul might unintentionally feed him more...fantasies. Bob even dared himself to call it that.

“I’m gonna go walk Alvy,” Bob said, a little too quickly, standing up.. He grabbed the leash that was hung near the door. The familiar clinking sound of the leash buckle put Alvy on alert. He ran to Bob, knowing that very soon he would be out enjoying the fresh air with his beloved owner. As Bob exited his flat, he glanced back inside out of habit, making sure everything was alright before he left. The last thing he saw before he closed the door behind him was Paul standing up and stretching. His shirt rode up and the bit of pale skin underneath was revealed. Bob gulped before he hurriedly ran down the stairs, eager to try and walk his thoughts away.

[khadorek]

WENT DOWN IN HISTORY-

(at long last I am posting this! This is my first major piece in a while, so it might be a little flimsy at parts haha. This was also asked by @safrona-shadowsun, enjoy!)

The Hinterlands, ~37years after the current date

“C’mon grandma, I want to Uncle Og!” The little boy, who wasbarely older than eight exclaimed as the grey-haired woman in question hurryingalong behind holding the hand of a much smaller girl who staggered along inthat curious way toddlers do.

“Slow down, Michael, Angela and I can only go so fast.”Katherena laughed softly, though deep down she couldn’t shake the feeling ofmelancholy that was always with her when she came to this place; so manymemories in this quiet little tavern for that was what the Blue Raven mostlyserved as these days. Though the Brotherhood had not disbanded by any means, inthe days following the final battles against the shadow, and the beginning ofan age of peace between nearly ever faction of Azeroth and beyond, the demandfor mercenaries had fallen dramatically. As such, the Brotherhood of Valor hadmostly become a gathering hall for veterans and their families the world over,and General Ogrimskar, or ‘Uncle Oggy’ as a small army of children had taken tocalling him, spent much of his time regaling these children with stories of thegreat battles of the Brotherhood, much to their continued delight, andoccasional chagrin of their elders, as for better or for worse, Og rarelyskimped on the details and personal opinions. Kath had bore witness to her fairshare of these stories as they happened, so they didn’t have much appeal toher, but she promised the young ones that she’d take them out to the Raven forthe first time today; she couldn’t bear to let them down, despite her ownpersonal reservations. Still, as they passed along the Walk of Valor, the stonewalkway that lead up to the front doors of the inn, her feelings only grew moreintense in the shadows of the heroes of the Brotherhood, many of which had castoff their mortal bonds in the long years of conflict prior, now foreverimmortalized in the stone and metal figureheads that now towered above themalong the walkway. She felt small under their unflinching gaze, and she washesitant to meet it or read the names at their bases, though by now she knewthem well; Cyrus Bain, Dare Cogspanner, Field Medic Arexzia, Kurt…

“Hey who’s this guy?” Michael calls out, and Kath turned tothe direction of his voice, and her heart sank; of all the statues of allthe heroes, he had to notice the one that was closest to her heart. Wrought ingleaming metal and ageless stone, this statue stood head and shoulders overmany of the other human statues on the walk, blade extended on an angle towardsthe sky, helmet held in his shield hand letting his sharp features and longhair be exposed for all to see. Kath shuddered softly as she approached,reading the dais at the base of the statue to herself as she did so.

(Mood music, enjoy the feels)

Knight CaptainKhadorek Perceval Blackbyrne, the Unyielding, Champion of the Valarjar and ofthe Brotherhood. Disappeared in the Battle of Blackheart’s Rift.

“That” Kath began, trying to keep her words steady, “is Khadorek,he was a knight, like one pulled straight from the story books.”

“A knight? Was he strong? Where did he get that fancy sword?Was it magic? What happened to him?” Michael asked, excited to hear about thisnew figure.

“One of the strongest,” Kath replies, placing a hand at thebase of the statue, “and yet… also one of the gentlest; he was brave and kind,and utterly loyal to those he cared for…” She went on, starting to get a littlechoked up. “I’m not sure you want me to tell you that, ‘Uncle Og’ can likely doit better.” She suggests half-heartedly, and Michael, his excitement preventinghim from entirely noticing his grandmother’sinternal strife, nods eagerly. Kath looked down to the little girl, letting goof her hand. “Go on ahead with your brother, Angela, I’ll catch up with yousoon.” She tells the little girl, who nods and moves to follow him.

“Ok!” Michael exclaims as he runs down the path, Angeladoing her best to keep up, and soon Kath was alone with the statues. She smilessadly, running her hand along the base.

“Oh Khadorek…” She whispers, a single tear rolling down hercheek as she looked up to the statue’s face, a face she remembered so painfullywell. It was so full of life back then, and now this was all that remained; a coldimitation of the proud, grinning visage he wore in life, as grey as the hairthat fell from her scalp. She closed her eyes, thinking back to those halcyondays. “If only you could see what you’ve become.” She remembers it like it wasyesterday, their last night together before that final battle; he went off tospearhead the charge, while she elected to stay behind to aid the wounded, ofwhich there were many. By the end, they had won, but at great cost, and she hadto say goodbye to many friends as the reports and remains flowed in. She nevereven considered that he would be among their number, though none could becertain of his final fate, he seemed to have just vanished, and all that couldbe recovered was his spear, found planted in the neck of a massive aberration.Those who saw him before he vanished said he fought with courage worthy ofThoradin himself, saving the lives of many others through his actions; someeven say he saved the life of the King himself, though the questionable sourcesmake this heavily disputed. Either way, his deeds drew much attention to himand his life, and people desired to know more about the life and history ofthis largely unknown man. The following weeks were a blur, as someone who wasvery close to him, she had to put up with people asking many questions aboutthe fallen hero, and while the accompanying deals she had gotten to write abouthim and the other lesser known heroes she knew from those days made her apretty penny, it made grieving somewhat of a challenge in the days leading upto the collective memorial ceremony. She remembered little of the ceremonyitself, as she had some rather shocking news revealed to her just prior to theproceedings; though she did know that it took place in Dalaran, and was fundedby all the major powers as a sign of international goodwill before peace talkscould properly begin. Something that stuck with her, however, was the strangewoman who stood in the shadows off to the side, staying away from the maincrowd, as if ashamed to approach in public. ‘Serves her right…’ she’d thoughtto herself in a moment of uncharacteristic coldness, assuming she was who shethought she was. After that, things had quieted down considerably, leaving herto her grief, and to her thoughts about what she was to do alone now,especially with…

“Ahaha, hullo there, ye two!” Kath’s eyes popped open as shewas snapped out of her reflections by the jovial greeting of the familiardwarf. She looked over to see Angela moving as fast as her tiny legs can carryher, burbling happily all the way, while Michael full on runs to meet him. “By meancestors, you’re both getting big, aren’t ye?” He remarks with a chuckle, andKatharena can’t help but smile at the sight of her old friend. Ever since themiracle of psychosurgery that allowed Death Knights to shed their sadistic conditioning,many Death Knights had succumbed to the melancholy and ennui that spawned fromthe accompanying loss of drive that came as an unexpected result, though thegood General was not one of them, in large part due to the hordes of youths whowant to hear all stories of war and glory they assumed he’s accumulated over hislong life. Ogrimskar had more than enough to share, and having such a largegroup not just listening to what he had to say, but actively seeking him out tohear more, awoke something in him like a sign from the gods. He’d found a newcalling in this humble role as storyteller, and the fact that many of the childrenwere born of the people who he so struggled to impart his hard-earned wisdom uponmade it all that much sweeter. He felt happiness like he hadn’t felt for years,and seeing these children show up to listen to him, and leave wiser, and a bit moredwarf-like in mannerism never ceased to make him smile.

“Hello Uncle Og! I’m so happy to see you!” Michael cheers ashe jumps up to hug the former general. Ogrimskar laughs again, giving him a paton the back, allowing him to hop down so he can pick up his little sister withpracticed care.

“It’s good to see ya both too, lad.” Og replies. “You gothere just in time, I was just about to start me tale; I was thinking aboutstarting with tha one about Lyanelle and Kurt. That was always yer favourite,wasn’t it?” He goes on, even now chuckling at the thought of Kurt. Katharenajust shakes her head with a soft giggle.

“Same old Og…” she muses, about to go join them, but notbefore looking up to the statue one last time. Her mind dwells on him again,and the news she received so long ago. “They don’t know…” She thought. “Theirparents would have let me if they told them the truth; Hell, he would have told me, he’d have been soexcited.” She assured herself this was all a coincidence. She never had achance to remarry after her first husband, and had kept the Graeson nameever since, so they never would have had the chance to find out about who theirgrandfather was. She wanted to be the one who told them, but to this day, shejust hadn’t found the heart to talk about it. They would have to find outsooner or later, it was inevitable. She took a deep breath. “Soon…” She toldherself. “I’ll tell them everything as soon as…” Her reverie was cut short by achild’s voice from near the door.

“I want to hear about him!” Michael calls out, and Katharena’shead snaps over to see little Michael doing exactly what she was afraid she wasgoing to do. Ogrimskar follows the way he was pointing, and seeing the statuethat he was pointing at, gives him a confused look.

“’im?” He asks, prompting a vigorous nod from Michael. “Yamean yer Gran ain’t talked your ear off about him already?”

“Nope, just noticed him for the first time today! Did GrandmaKath know him or something?” Michael asks. Og looks over at Katharena, who waslooking at them wide-eyed, giving him the universal expression for ‘please no,’and just grins, gives a half-hearted shrug as if to say ‘sorry, but now I haveto’ and looks back to Michael, turning to take them both the children in tojoin the group.

“Ohoho, laddy… ye and ye sister are in for a treat!” Ogrimskar declares, trying tocontain his excitement at what was about to come. Katharena was about to speakup, but stops herself, remembering that she brought this on herself withoutthinking.

“I suppose this might be for the best…” She thinks, lettingout a gentle sigh as she looks back to the statue. She smiles sadly, and wipesaway her errant tear before putting on a braver face. “He deserves to know,they both do,” she says aloud to the statue, “Angela will probably not rememberthis, but Michael… he has your fire, I just know it; if he learns his legacynow, it’ll encourage him to put it towards great things, like you did…” shereaches out to touch the dais once more, her smile growing broader and morehappy at the thought, closing her eyes as she embraces this rare moment ofsilence. “I know you’re out there somewhere, Khadorek, watching over us likeyou always did for me; I just hope you know how happy you’ve made me, and howproud I am of all you’ve given me. I hope you are proud too, dear, because youshould be; your actions made the world a better place, just like you wanted towhen you were young.” She steps away, opening her eyes to gaze upon his face. “Farewell,my love, until we meet again.” She whispers, before turning to fully face theinn and walking towards the door. Og might be telling the story before shewanted it told, but that wasn’t going to stop her from making sure he told it right.

(Mentions: @quipsbykath @ogrimskar and soft mentions to @lofaspack)

[ec-sanderssides]

April Showers

So this one is dedicated to @obviouslyelementary whose incredibly sweet words gave me the inspiration to write this little ficlet. I hope you enjoy it, and that it makes you smile the same way your words did for me.

“Hey, careful! You’re getting me wet.”

“I’m getting you wet? You’re the one hogging the umbrella!”

“The only thing hogging this umbrella is your enormous ego, Princey.”

“Whatever,” Roman snapped. “Let’s just keep moving. We’re almost out the forest anyway.”

This wasn’t how he’d expected the afternoon to go. After a rather spectacular argument between him and Anxiety earlier in the week, Morality had put his foot down and insisted that the two sides try and get along better. Which apparently included forced bonding time.

The first attempt hadn’t gone so badly, as they’d just watched a Disney movie. There had been some initial bickering as to what they should watch, but the eventually compromised on the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Roman enjoyed the songs, and Anxiety enjoyed the darker themes of the movie.

But then Morality had come up with the idea of Roman taking Anxiety along with him on one of his quests. The fatherly trait had exclaimed that it would be just like camping, and that the two would surely end up best friends.

Logic had seemed much less optimistic about the second point, but had still agreed with Morality’s idea. Anxiety had speculated that he went along with it to try and get some peace and quiet with them out of the house, and for once Roman hadn’t been able to disagree with him.

So out to the woods they had gone. Mindful of Anxiety’s less than cooperative nature, Roman had picked a simple quest. All they had to do was find a missing crown and deliver it back the princess it belonged to. And to be fair they had done it. With much complaining on Anxiety’s part, but they had done it.

But then as they were walking back to the house, it had started raining. Hard. Which brought them to their current situation.

“Hey, look. I can see the house.” Anxiety’s words brought Roman out of his reverie. Squinting through the rain, he could indeed just barely manage to see the house.

“Excellent,” he replied. “I, for one, cannot wait to dry off- agghhhh!”

Excited by the prospect of reaching home, Roman had forgotten to keep an eye out for where he stepped, and as his foot slipped on the wet root, he reeled backwards, arms frantically windmilling in an attempt to keep him upright.

Unfortunately, the only thing he succeeded in doing was dragging Anxiety down with him, the two of them landing heavily in a puddle.

“Nice going, Sir Klutz,” Anxiety groaned. “Now I’m really soaked.”

“Excuse me,” Roman grumbled, face flushing in embarrassment. “At least you’re wearing black. Do you know how hard it is to get mud stains out of white clothes?”

“Is that so?”

Roman could hear the smirk in Anxiety’s voice, but he reacted too late. A large ball of mud hit him directly in the face. With a laugh, Anxiety sprung to his feet, racing towards the house.

“Oh not so fast, my emotionally challenged friend.” Roman called out, quickly pushing himself up and sprinting after him.

Despite Anxiety’s head start, Roman was still faster and more athletic due to his combat training. He caught up with Anxiety just as he reached the tree line, and grabbing him around the waist, he spun the other around before letting them both fall onto the muddy field.

Anxiety was laughing even harder now, more openly than Roman had ever seen before.

“Alright, alright, I give” he said, having calmed down slightly. “You win.”

Roman only smiled in satisfaction before letting his head fall back onto the grass. The rain was still falling, thousands upon thousands of tiny droplets soaring down from the sky.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully. “Despite the cold and mud, the rain is actually quite beautiful.”

“Eh, it’s no so bad,” Anxiety replied, his voice only sounding mostly indifferent. Roman knew that coming from the darker side, that might as well have been enthusiastic agreement.

He glanced down at the other, who thanks to the angle of their fall, was now resting against his chest, and felt a surge of affection. While he knew that they had to get up soon, to warm up if nothing else, he was content to lie there a little longer. No, the rain wasn’t that bad, and neither was Anxiety. Perhaps there had been some sense to Morality’s plan after all

[wanderlust-journal]

Faithfully Seeking Franz: Back at the Office

In November 2015 my husband and I were in Prague on an ‘indoor leg’ of my ongoing Franz Kafka quest. I’d booked a room at 7 Na Poříčí Street in the neo-Baroque building that had once housed the Workers’ Accident Insurance Institute—the semi-governmental company where Kafka held positions as an insurance lawyer. The building now houses the Hotel Century Old Town and Room 214 is designated as Kafka’s office suite.

I was thrilled to be staying in a room where Kafka had worked as a much-admired and respected civil servant for 14 years—longer than he lived and wrote in any of his many residences around town. By the time he was pensioned off at 39, due to failing health, he’d been promoted to the eminent rank of senior secretary. Yet in his correspondence, he’d called the office “a dreadful impediment” to his real life’s work—his writing—and complained that “writing and the office cannot be reconciled.”

In fact, the office and Kafka’s writing could not be unreconciled. He lived and breathed the Institute so deeply that his writing—which he labored over at night—became suffused with its stamp and language. The office provided a trove of images, associations, and scenarios that made their way into his fiction. The posthumously published novels The Trial and The Castle, in particular, present refractions of the senseless, pedantic, frequently cruel and absurdly comical bureaucratic work-world that Kafka knew well, and that came to be characterized by the author’s name ‘adjectified’: Kafkaesque. Kafka’s restrained, legalistic, elliptical yet crystalline language can, to a large extent, be traced to the office.

Taking a cue from French philosopher Gaston Bachelard’s lyrical work, The Poetics of Space, my aim during our 2015 stay was to check out the physical features of Kafka’s erstwhile workplace for what they might reveal. Bachelard held that there is active interplay between the mind and its surroundings, that the spaces we live and work in have great power for the integration of our thoughts, and that rooms a person spends time in can be put to what he termed “topoanalysis.” “Topoanalysis” asks: Is the room large? Is it cluttered? How is it appointed, and lit? Does it afford reverie? Reverie was important to Bachelard—as the state for seeding poetic creativity. Kafka would have concurred. For Franz, the boundary between dream, reverie and reality was constantly eroded.

Bachelard’s Poetics became the ‘hook’ for a creative nonfiction piece I wrote titled, “Faithfully Seeking Franz: The Office Stop,” that was published in the 2017 Summer Issue of New Madrid – journal of contemporary literature. The piece contained a blend of observation, evaluation and imagination. In the absence of photographic evidence, I imagined, for example, what Kafka might have had on his office walls. Diplomas maybe, a painting or two … I was reminded of Chapter 7 of The Trial,the comedic scene featuring the wily court painter Titorelli. The protagonist and Kafka-cipher, Josef K., purchases one, then two identical ‘Sunset over the Heath’ landscapes that Titorelli pulls out from the dust under the bed in his studio, sensing an unwitting buyer in the chief financial bank officer. “They’re beautiful landscapes,” says the bewildered Josef K. of the gloomy paintings. “I’ll buy them both and hang them in my office.”  Titorelli, eager to unload his surplus, then extracts all the identical heath paintings he has under his bed and Josef K., nonplused, agrees to take every one. Ha!

Making sure that I would not be without photographic evidence, I photographed the room—the layout, appointments and furnishings—from all angles. Then, standing at the tall open windows, imagining myself like Kafka—fresh-air zealot that he was—inhaling the cool autumn breeze, I was struck by what I saw on the neo-Baroque building across the street: a stone relief sculpture of a beautifully-hewn sheep, sitting realistically on an altar-like mound. Noble profile, solemn body—gray stone against a golden background. Relief sculptures are common in Prague. Many of the neo-Baroque buildings feature animals on their façades, too, and the buildings are often named for these decorative emblems—as in ‘House at the Unicorn’, ‘House at the Golden Pike’, ‘House at the Blue Goose’, ‘House at the White Swan’. Creatures are familiar features in Kafka’s work as well: dogs, horses, apes, jackals, mice, moles … There are few authors in whose work creatures play as prominent a role as they do in Kafka’s. Creatures that speak, whistle, sing, investigate, burrow into the issues important to the author: the nature of power and authority, alienation, the strangeness of modern life, the inescapability of cruelty and guilt.

I couldn’t—I wrote in that piece—recall any sheep in Kafka’s fiction. In a 1913 diary entry, however, Kafka writes obliquely: “I am really like a lost sheep … or like a sheep running after this sheep.” Thissheep. I stared at the sheep on the building before me, a building of the same vintage as the former Workers’ Accident Insurance Institute, that Kafka would have viewed from his office window whenever he looked onto Na Poříčí Street. And I wondered if I was apprehending some thread of connection between the world of the office and Kafka’s ‘private’ diary-writing. (Kafka could not have imagined that the body of his meant-to-be private writings would be published and so closely scrutinized by generations of scholars and avid readers.)

“Imagination augments the value of reality,” writes Bachelard in The Poetics of Space. A part of me wanted to believe that this particular sheep-in-relief spoke to Kafka personally, and that I, all these years removed, was tapping into that connection. This part of me wanted to interject insight, to augment the literary value of the sheep for the sake of my search. I wanted to be addressed. I wanted there to be a message ‘out there’ for me, one that others may have missed. But plainer thoughts and questions prevailed: What can really be culled from a mutual view? And what can we truly know of the links between the seen, the perceived, the dreamed, and the written-down. These are mostly covert processes, obscured and unknown—even to writers themselves.

I looked long and hard at the sitting figure—the solemn, regal sheep. I took several photos. The stone did not disclose a thing; it remained as enigmatic as Kafka. I started to feel warm, thirsty, slightly addled. Then a shadow of doubt descended: that this room was ever Kafka’s actual office. Wouldn’t a senior civil servant have earned a room on a higher floor …

I wrote in closing my previous piece. The editor who selected the essay for publication in New Madrid liked my open ending, which he saw as extending a Kafka-like literary ambivalence. Thing is: I ended on that note because I really did doubt that Suite 214 had once housed Kafka’s office.

Last summer, 2018, my husband and I were again in Prague—our base for a trek to Kafka destinations east of the capital. Once again I booked us at the Hotel Century Old Town, though this time I asked for a suite on the top floor, facing Na Poříčí Street: I wanted to see what view Kafka might actually have had.

The hotel had undergone renovations—the foyer now shiny and modernized, with ambient lighting, chrome-back chairs upholstered in green chenille, matching green carpets and low-standing round-mirror tables. The bronze sculpture of Kafka’s head, set on a stand in an enclave near the original, ornate staircase railing, seemed at first glance to be all that remained the same from our previous stay. “Yes,” says the receptionist—a tall friendly young man named Jan—as we’re checking in, “It was decided to give the hotel a more contemporary look.” I mention my Kafka-quest; tell him I’m not convinced that suite 214—still being advertised as the Kafka Suite—was in fact Kafka’s actual former office. “Wouldn’t a senior employee at the Institute have commanded an office on the top floor?” I ask. “You’re right,” Jan confirms. “Kafka did have an office on the top floor. But when he was starting out, his office was on the lower floor. Both locations are actual. Also,” he continues,” the Kafka Suite at 214 is currently being upgraded. It’s not as yet open to guests, but perhaps you’d like to see it as it is,” he offers. Well of course we would!

So there on the spot, Jan emerges from behind the reception desk and takes us up to Suite 214 for a tour of the renovation-in-progress. (Almost as if Kafka himself had arranged it.)

The suite looks nothing like it did back in 2015. Now much enlarged—two or three suites combined—with a sitting room, dining area, entrance nook, separate bedroom, spacious bathroom, built-in bookcase (containing only one title by Kafka as far as I can see). The décor is putty grey, black and white, the overall look—cool, minimalist. The renovation is close-to-complete. A painter is standing on a ladder by the window, applying finishing touches. There’s a large black and white portrait of Kafka on the floor, propped against the wall of the sitting room; behind it a larger, framed facsimile of a page from Kafka’s story, “The Judgement.” On the wall: a big decorative smear of black paint.

How much will it cost to stay here for a night?” my husband asks. “About 16,500 Czech crowns,” Jan informs us. I can’t figure out, in the moment, how much that is in dollars but it sounds way beyond our budget. I’m feeling fortunate to have had the opportunity, in 2015, to stay in the more economical model of Kafka’s office; fortunate, too, to be having this surprise glimpse into a renovation-in-progress that I’m able to document in photos.

As it turns out, the rooms at Hotel Century Old Town have all been renovated. The suites feature a swishy K logo on the walls; the main floor hallway a fragment of a Kafka text. Management is evidently banking on Kafka cachet. The hotel has been converted into a kind of ‘Kafka central’, with a Kafka lounge, accessible from the street, and conference rooms named for women in Kafka’s life: Felice, Milena, Dora. There’s still a vitrine on the main floor showcasing old photos, writing accoutrements and a typewriter from Kafka’s time. The hotel breakfast room is no longer called The Felice Patisserie, but Kafka’s “favorite cake”—Bábovka—is still being served. (During our 2015 stay, different versions of favorite” were offered up each day. How many favorites did Kafka have?!)

Upstairs in our small suite, I lean out the window to photograph the regal sheep relief-sculpture on the building across the street … And now I’m wondering if that building was actually standing when Kafka worked in this one. Maybe when he stood at his office window, inhaling the crisp city air, he saw an open field instead …

BIO: Elana Wolff is a Toronto-based writer of poetry and creative nonfiction. Her work has appeared in Canadian and international publications and has garnered awards. Her most recent Kafka-quest pieces appear in Humber Literary Review, Cargo Literary Review, and Nashwaak Review. “Kafka-in-Between” was published in Wanderlust Journal on March 8, 2018.

  Faithfully Seeking Franz by Elana Wolff Faithfully Seeking Franz: Back at the Office In November 2015 my husband and I were in Prague on an ‘indoor leg’ of my ongoing Franz Kafka quest.

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The NFLs plan to protect America from witches | Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

The NFLs cheerleader problem demoes exactly whats wrong with the tournaments handling: They insist on being the self-appointed keepers of Americas mythological dream of itself

Witches, being. Only when you thought we were safe from their malignant force on America’s virtue, the NFL has proven we are still in real danger from their dark superpowers. It is fortunate for our country’s moral fiber that the NFL has continued current in their reading, channeling Heinrich Kramer’s 1487 book, Malleus Maleficarum (” The Hammer of Witches “), which was the go-to DIY text in many countries for attending witch experiments and public hangings. As a make, an estimated 40,000 to 50,000 hags were put to death, about 80% of which were females. Why so many dames? Kramer explains that it’s because a woman” is more carnal than lover, as is evident in connection with many filthy carnal ordinances “. He believed that the sexual desire lovers find while examining the status of women who was not their wife was due to the vixen giving magic spells to invite them. As penalty, these sex sirens is necessary, if not beheaded, drowned, or hanged, at the least fired from their cheerleading jobs.

Bailey Davis, the 22 -year-old onetime New Orleans Saint cheerleader, was lately shot for infringing squad social media rules by announcing an Instagram photo of herself in one-piece lingerie that proves as much bark as a one-piece swimsuit in a Nordstrom’s ad, and a lot less than their cheerleading attires. She has since entered individual complaints with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission for gender discrimination. When she spoke to a representative from the Saints’ human resources function agency, he complained that in her photo she had a “dirty face”( clear proof she was shedding her incantation impelling honourable soldiers to” filthy carnal achievements “) and that he’d never earmark his granddaughters to announce something like that.

Grandpa’s boastful Lord Tywin Lannister answer encapsulates exactly what’s wrong with NFL management: They insist on being the self-appointed defenders of America’s mythological vision of itself. Malt supermarkets on every angle, Pat Boone crooning on the jukebox, and modestly garmented maidens be standing with knees fixed together waiting to be asked to prom. This 1950 s, Father Knows Best soundstage fantasy doesn’t stop with paternalistic and puritan gender stereotypes, but likewise promotes naive notions about hasten and patriotism. The NFL’s anachronistic reveries aren’t just a unwise is making an effort to pander to what they see their diehard love demand, but likewise assignments the hard-core republican values of the mostly rich, white-hot one-percenters who own the teams. We must live in their Disneyland- or else.

These powerful Citizen Kanes- isolated from contemporary American culture by opulence and self-importance- still think of the country as it appears in old-fashioned Archie comics, where teen hijinks guideline the day , not the current version in the TV succession Riverdale, where Archie has fornication with Ms Grundy. Where the Parkland students single-handedly extend a nationwide government coup. Where young girls and women launch #MeToo and #TimesUp shifts that totter high-powered gropers in business and government- perhaps even a president.

In their Pleasantville fantasy, athletes still ” Shut up and dribble “( or, in their case,” Shut up and tackle “). That’s because the majority of those jocks who speak up or stoop down in the real world are people of color calling attention to profound life-and-death unfairness across the country, daily demeaning and life-threatening bias that most these owners never have to face and therefore had not yet been personal stake in. Strives to silence musicians who refuse to accept their designated personas fits right in with owners’ smarmy manipulation of the status of women cheerleaders through discriminatory Jane Crow ” rules “.

The country “wouldve been” scandalized if a team’s principles stated that if a black participate was eating at a eatery and a grey player strolled in, the black participate would have to leave the restaurant. Yet, those are the rules for Saints’ cheerleaders, who must leave a eatery they are eating at if a Saints player arrives. We would be equally outraged if an enterprise demanded that position personnels address top executives exclusively with “hello” and “you’re wonderful”. Yet the Saint’ cheerleaders are restricted to saying only “hello” and” great game” to musicians. Other regulations about force, makeup, body mane, tampon use and forbidding sweatpants in public make it seem as if the Saints watched The Handmaid’s Tale and reckoned,” They exactly don’t go far enough .” In other statements, shut up and jiggle.

These highly trained and skilled girls are being told that the NFL really wants to protect them from sex predators, peculiarly NFL players. Like the grouchy granddad in human resources who wouldn’t “allow” his granddaughters to announce photos he doesn’t expressed support for, the NFL wants to be their( creepy? pimpy ?) daddy. These are adult women who should be permitted to make their own decisions about who they contact and who they don’t, extremely since the players have no such restrictions. A cheerleader constitutes in meagre lingerie and she’s shot; a player thumps out his wife on video and is suspended for two activities. Boys will be boys, but girls must be what the NFL tells them to be.

For required flows like #MeToo and #TimesUp to thrive, Americans have to recognize that how we are dealing with girls in high-profile recreation contributes to the adverse perception that walls them in and diminishes their contribution to society. Less compensate contacts less appreciate. Action patterns that treat them like brats humiliate their ability. Yet, the NFL doesn’t mind exploiting the sensual the characteristics of these women for monetary advantage. Because nothing reads healthful household entertainment than lithe young women in stingy short-liveds and throwing pinnacles doing the separates. I’m sure 13 -year-old Jimmy and his leering father are watching their industrious action seeing simply the purest of concludes. So, this moral umbrage over an Instagram photo is the height of hypocrisy.

The NFL continues doddering down the road leading to artistic irrelevancy. Ticket auctions are down, video audiences are smaller, nervousnes of concussions is causing more mothers are maintaining their adolescents from dallying football, and four nations are considering banning attack football for participates under 12. Instead of cuddling the real world, crew proprietors mistakenly think they can hold on to their supporter cornerstone by holding back the mitts of progress. Apparently, they never watched Get Straight( 1970 ), set in the days of national riotous student complains. In it, grad student Harry Bailey( played by Elliott Gould ), with furious students rioting all around them, informs his frightened and oblivious profs,” Let move! Stop trying to hold back the pass of the clock. It’ll tear your arms out !”

* This article was modified on 6 April 2018 to correct a section mentioning Lord Tywin Lannister. The original version invoked Lord Tyrion Lannister.

Read more: https :// www.theguardian.com/ play/ 2018/ apr/ 06/ the-nfls-plan-to-protect-america-from-witches