#new song to loop endlessly for a week straight just dropped

[hypmic-translation]

Don’t Pass The Mic

ALL: Don’t-don’t-don’t pass the mic! (Gi-gi-gi-gimme the mic!)

Say what?

RAMUDA: Yo, say, say, say what? Diggity-do-do-don’t pass the mic Sorry to keep ya waiting out here long, ladies With complete control over candy and whip (1) I’ll sneak into your earphones with just a touch Fling Posse bespoke new coordinates Constantly cutting edge is Ramuda’s flow An all-you-can-eat naughty buffet My drops are Shibuya’s guidance

GENTARO: Mm, chrysanthemums blooming in one’s bedside dreams (2) As if within Dogra Magra, the world appears to be infinite (3) Like being dragged into an antlion pit (4) It’s so incredibly natural for the heart to invite abnormality Fragile, you’re so easily teasable The dreams I paint upon the town are all ghost stories, a sweet honey (5) It’s a secret (shh!), but that’s really just a lie

DICE: Three-seven, what the hell? From heaven Endlessly winnin’ pools of cash to jump into, wahoo! (6) I ain’t like the rest, I hate takin’ things slow (7) By the end of the night, all your cash’ll be mine Boom-shakalaka-boom-shakalaka-boom Full stack, raising bets on my luck Only half-serious, Dead or Alive Dice are what I’ll stake my life on, y’knyow? (8)

ALL: Don’t-don’t-don’t pass the mic!

CHORUS: Wack MCs, get rid of them all Thrust out these daggers (say what?) Understand intuition, an instant conclusion Connect dots with my words East side, west side, lock, stock, barrel Scatter crowds, rule the stage Division Battle life, etched into our minds I won’t just pass my mic to you!

Oath be made! There’s no escape! Unbeatable thugs who can’t be shaken Now our words become machine guns Or a compass guiding us into the future, uh Three become one It’s showtime Carve it into history, our style Roaming life and death, genetic power Just put your trust into your instincts, say what?

ALL: What, say what? (x3) (RAMUDA: Don’t pass the mic!)                                   (GENTARO: Don’t pass the mic.)                                   (DICE: Don’t pass the mic!) Welcome to the division!

JAKURAI: Impropriety writhes and coils about all of these howling fools Blood and tears flowing throughout this city, caused by rampant verbal abuse Even the hope we tell ourselves to believe in has curled up and died in our throats Why does mankind rush towards death like the falling of cherry blossoms? (9) Helpless… A pomegranate trampled on a silent night (10) In this wasteland we build Matenrou’s paradise The words I breathe out are clear and serene Prepare to expose one’s self to a shower of taunts

HIFUMI: Hi, hi, hi! Can you hear the call? Bow, bow, bow! The excitement’s not enough If the princess can drink there’s no reason why the prince shouldn’t too! Champagne! (Bang!) Hugging kittens from behind will surely make them scream Eternally calling out for this yellow rose Tacky, ugly men are to be kicked out Gigolos and graceful women only in this jet bath

DOPPO: Aah, I really don’t want to do this anymore Getting caught in the automatic turnstile again (11) “Crap!” Power harassment, moral harassment, a painfully repetitive loop Being beaten to produce results is hip All those walking the city seem like hard workers But I’m a corporate drone, always gritting my teeth through loneliness I can’t do this much longer, my SNS is erased Let me run away and disappear into a parallel world!

ALL: Don’t-don’t-don’t pass the mic!

CHORUS: Wack MCs, get rid of them all Thrust out these daggers (say what?) Understand intuition, an instant conclusion Connect dots with my words East side, west side, lock, stock, barrel Scatter crowds, rule the stage Division Battle life, etched into our minds I won’t just pass my mic to you!

ALL: What, say what? (x3) (JAKURAI: Don’t pass the mic.)                                   (HIFUMI: Don’t pass the mic!)                                   (DOPPO: Don’t pass the mic!) Welcome to the division!

JINPACHI: It’s Edo Asakusa, you ready to begin? (12) Infernos and fights, I’m good at starting both Master, leader, I’m Demon’s Fire (13) Onigawara Bomber’s Jinpachi (14) The hell’d you say! Shutting down geisha and ladles (15) Oi, dumbass! Sharp words cutting through thick bastards Trendy, stylish demons and lanterns Wash your face with miso soup, then never come here again! (16)

MASAMUNE: The perfect kind of saké is saké that’s cool The original drunkard has arrived (17) Recklessly drinking, this red-faced Bacchus (18) The drunker I get, the smoother my flow It’s scale is simply too big for you foolish amateurs You have good reason to fear, drawing back like an oaf I’ll be the one to sew your mouth shut Then celebrate victory with some high-grade booze

DOSHIRO: Carp streamers are flown in May (19) Yet somehow you don’t even know the flavour of soba (20) Expect a war if you damage Sensō-ji, ‘kay (21) The unrivalled NiHachi stands guard in Shitamachi (22) I, an efficient yet obstinate person Brazen with the force of blooming fireworks With confidence in my skill and pride in my work It is my duty to knock people like you horizontal

ALL: Don’t-don’t-don’t pass the mic!

RAMUDA: Big trouble is the price of life JAKURAI: It is inevitable that those who prosper will fall JINPACHI: The rebellion arrives, eliminating false things ALL: A revolution of words, don’t pass the mic!

CHORUS: Wack MCs, get rid of them all Thrust out these daggers (say what?) Understand intuition, an instant conclusion Connect dots with my words East side, west side, lock, stock, barrel Scatter crowds, rule the stage Division Battle life, etched into our minds I won’t just pass my mic to you!

The end is near The greatest conflict Roaring into my Hypnosis Mic Straight hit to your soul, self-customised These words that’ll burn up your synapses Three become one It’s showtime Carve it into history, our style Roaming life and death, genetic power Just put your trust into your instincts, say what?

ALL: What, say what? (Don’t pass the mic!) (x3) Welcome to the division! It’s kill or be killed, oi!

NOTES

“Candy and whip”, AKA carrot and stick. Basically, offering rewards to someone as an incentive to do good and punishing them if they don’t.

“Bedside dreams”, or the space where your dreams reside. The chrysanthemum is the imperial flower of Japan, but in hanakotoba white chrysanthemums usually mean truth/grief, and are incredibly common at funerals. Tldr, you aren’t dreaming, you’re dead.

Dogra Magra is a surrealist, psychological thriller book written by famous Japanese author Yumeno Kyūsaku (actually a pen name), in which a man wakes up in a hospital with amnesia. He might be a murderer, but he also might not be, and everyone else in the book might not be who they say they are or even as dead as they’re supposed to be. It is, mostly, a book about psychoanalysis.

The antlion is a type of insect that, surprise surprise, eats ants. The larvae, which is the more popularly known form of the antlion, achieves this by digging pits that ants fall into. Another name for the larvae of antlions is doodlebug, but that seemed out of character for Gentaro to say… you can pretend he does if you want to, though.

The literal translation of “ghost stories” would be “demon play” (鬼物), which is the fifth and last stage of an Edo-era Noh play.

Dice uses onomatopoeia here to signify the act of jumping into a pool, like he’s doing a cannonball.

More onomatopoeia here, read as chimachima, which signifies someone doing a task in a less effective, much slower way when it could be done far more efficiently.

Dice finishes this line with a very obvious “nya” sound, but he also phrases it as a question? So I merged the two and made a pun instead.

It’s traditional in Japan for people to get together during spring for “flower viewing parties” in which they appreciate the transient beauty of cherry blossoms, because of how quickly the flowers bloom and then fall away. That phenomenon is what Jakurai is referencing here.

I’ll be honest I have no idea what this means. The pomegranate is a symbol of fertility and femininity in Japan, however, so maybe it represents Chuuoku?

Automatic turnstiles/ticket gates, like the kind you’d find in railway stations.

Asakusa was a popular entertainment district during the Edo period, but has since been surpassed by Shinjuku and other districts/wards thanks to the damage dealt by bomb raids during WW2.

Jinpachi’s MC name. Just so I don’t have to do this every time, all of Asakusa say their MC names in English.

An ‘onigawara’ is actually the name for a type of roof ornament in Japanese architecture, which is a statue/tile depicting the face of an oni (demon), intended to ward away evil (and bad weather). They’re commonly found on Buddhist temples. The “bomber” part of the division name probably has to do with the aforementioned WW2 thing.

This guy has the thickest Edo accent. His “the hell” is an shortened version of an old retort/catchphrase of Tokyo citizens (“what the hell are you saying/talking about?”). “Geisha” and “ladle” are both references to cultural aspects of Asakusa, as it is currently Tokyo’s oldest geisha district, and in the Buddhist Sensō-ji temple located there (the oldest in Japan) you purify yourself with ladles of water.

The expression “never come again” stems from the more literal phrase of “come the day before yesterday” - essentially, a day that won’t ever exist again.

A reference to an old song from the 1960s by the Folk Crusaders. It tells the story of a man who dies in a traffic accident while drunk driving and goes to heaven, but gets kicked out and comes back to life for spending too much time drinking with beautiful women.

Bacchus, the Greek/Roman god of fruit, vegetables, ecstasy and wine. Also known as Dionysus.

A reference to Tango no Sekku/Children’s Day on May 5th in Japan, in which carp streamers are flown to celebrate. This is the last day of Golden Week.

Ni-hachi (Doshiro’s MC name) is a kind of soba. He’s essentially saying “it’s so late in the song, but you haven’t had a taste of me yet”.

“Sensō-ji”, or Asakusa Temple. It is the oldest temple in Tokyo.

Shitamachi is the name for the geographically lower half and (once) lower-class of Tokyo, which is considered more traditional than its Yamanote counterpart.

[applsauss]

Read My Mind

Description: “That’s strange,” you say as you push him into his apartment (with a careful hand on his chest), “because last night I…” you breathe – breathe – breathe, “had the same dream.”

Fandom: 
Star Trek: TOS

Pairing: James T. Kirk/Reader

Word Count: 1.8k+

Warning(s): None

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-


“Last night I had a dream where we were birds, and we flew up and up until we were in space, and then we kept going, flying farther and farther from the known universe and into the unknown universe, past the edge, until the black of space became a familiar blue again and we realized that we were right back where we started, only this time we were beetles.”

“Last night I dreamed I was stranded in a marketplace on a familiar planet, but I couldn’t speak the language and no one would sell to me because of it – and then the sea of patrons dissolved into a real ocean, with waves for city blocks and ships for stands and I would have drowned if it weren’t for you hauling me up and over, onto your raft.”

“Last night I dreamed I was exploring a cave, and it was so dark I couldn’t see the ceiling or walls, and I walked and then I ran, chased by unseen terrors and the sound of my own footsteps, which grew louder and louder as if running towards me, disembodied, and then I tripped and slipped and fell and I was cold and lost, completely, until I looked up and caught sight of your smile, the light at the end of my tunnel,” you slide your hand down his stubbled cheek and wiggle his chin teasingly.

“Last night,” Jim laughs and swats at your hand, “last night I had a dream where we were two olives in a martini glass at a Starfleet function, on the tray of a waiter who never showed for his shift, and so we kept each other company until the drink was warm and flat and all the guests left and as we laid there, forgotten and wholly unimportant, we never drowned and never felt bad because we still had each other to talk to – and in that moment, that was all we could ever need.”

You try and tamp down the undeniably stupid grin that wants to erupt across your face, but you’re so high on the jetlag and the being with Jim that it’s impossible. Your clock is ticking on ship time and your heart is beating with his in time and Lieutenant James T. Kirk has class in a couple of hours ‘cause you’ve looped the night, but his cheeks are flushed and he’s wearing that dimple that makes you want to kiss his face to pieces and so you don’t find it in you to care that much about anything that isn’t right here and right now.

The air is soft and still where you sit, and the voices from the heart of the party carry easily across the garden because of it. You’re off to the side, lounging on some oversized deck chair, and Jim thumbs a burn on the back of your hand and you tuck yourself farther under his arm, trying to ward off the lingering distaste and nerves that always comes with speaking at Starfleet functions, appearing in front of uniformed officials as you spout off technical terms and point at a presentation screen with deliberately smooth transitions screens.

It never fails to make your skin crawl, the posing and posturing, the dance for funding, like you have to sell yourself, convince everyone in the room that you and your work are worth it on showmanship rather than merit; your badges pinned, collar pressed, shoulders sore from endlessly standing at attention and an plastic smile plastered across your face.

Your head lab technician stepped forward to explain the practical applications of your research, and you finally let yourself breathe, eyes seeking Jim out in an indistinct crowd because he’s the glow coming from under the door in a dark room. Then you stepped off the stage.

The conversation was a constant rumble, the lights were nauseous, an admiral shook your hand, a military history grad offered to buy you a drink, then Jim was guiding you towards a table circled by his colleagues with an easy smile, “Haisrus would never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t introduce him to you,” he’d said, “he’s been obsessing over your work ever since I mentioned you were a friend,” and you laughed and followed him through the crowd because if you knew anything about Jim Kirk, it’s that he always manages to surround himself with the most intriguing and pragmatic people he can find – and then someone said something about a Mexican restaurant – and then you found yourself sitting on a couch in a living room lined with Arcturian art, trading fibs and unprofessional opinions, Jim leaning towards you, laughing in your ear – and then Jim covered your retreat to the garden, sneaking out a minute later for fresh air and a rehash of shared memories – and now he says –

“Let’s go home,” Jim runs a thumb across your cheek, and you know he’s fussing over the dark circles under your eyes, “you deserve some sleep.”

He splits off to thank the host for the drinks, you tug at the collar of your uniform to keep it from cutting into the base of your neck, fabric thick and unyielding as you begin to pick your way through the house towards the front door.

The house is far from crowded, but it’s warm and the laughter is rich and the conversation easy. Your boots hit fuzzy carpet, and you wave goodbye to your lab tech, who’s reclined against the kitchen counter with a Betazed leaning flirtatiously over her. She raises her glass in salute, Jim rounds a corner, pulling on his overcoat, then someone cracks a joke, and it’s that laughter that chases your heels down the front steps and out into the night.

Your silhouettes are forced against a building by the headlights of a passing car, and Jim hikes you higher on his back as he hops the curb onto the sidewalk. You drape yourself over his shoulders, not really paying attention or holding on to anything other than his voice as he sings some song that was popular last year. You drop your chin to his shoulder, and let your arms hang loosely around him – and then his voice cracks and you both laugh.

“Last night,” you begin without much thought, “I dreamed I found you in the ground, and when I tried to pull you out, I fell through it with you – and as we descended through existence itself, we came face to face with the beginning and the end and we discovered the true meaning to life, the universe, and everything.” You hide your nose in the hood of his coat and bite back the anticipation.

He stutters a laugh, unaware, “Forty-two?”

“No, writing scientific reports for Starfleet.”

His shoulders shake with laughter, and it’s easy for you to reap the reward, to take the leap over the edge and join him. He clutches your legs tighter around him in a direct response to almost dropping you, curls forward, giggling, and you hold onto his neck and stifle your own delirious laughter through a close-lipped smile.

“Oh,” he says as he finally slows and turns to make his way up the steps to his apartment building, “don’t remind me this late – or early. Whichever it is, I have still have papers to grade.” He stops in front of the door.

“I can’t believe you’re one of them, Jim,” you say as you pull his wallet out of his coat pocket, “we used to complain about your type, remember? The professor who always has a fresh excuse for why grades aren’t out yet?” With some shuffling, you reach around him and swipe his ID, then boost yourself with one firm hand on his shoulder and grab the door handle as he walks backwards. The heavy door, thankfully, complies, hanging open just long enough for Jim to slip in with a straight back.

“I know,” he moans then, the door hissing shut behind the two of you, “I’m the worst of the worst – I even assign group projects.”

“No! Jim!”

“I know! I know – Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Stop making me feel old.”

His footsteps echo in the empty lobby, approaching and approaching from the back wall, until they’re muted by the carpet (you can’t see the ceiling), and then he steps into the elevator and informs the computer of his floor. You pat his shoulder twice, re-adjust your legs, and he loosens his hold until you slide off his back.

You’re both still as you let the silence blanket the small space. Side by side, surrounded by something soft and physical, Jim bumps his shoulders with yours – and you’re both staring at your reflection in the metal of the door, matching grins, when your communicator chirps.

You fumble to pull it out, the elevator dings, and you follow Jim down the hallway with a hand on his back as your department head informs you that shore leave is being cut short by a week, the reasoning vague and not important; She signs off and you pocket the device.

The floor is black and synthetic, and you’re watching your feet when Jim comes to an abrupt stop in front of a door, presumably his. He reaches out, but his hand stalls in front of the keypad. You can’t see his face, a shadow falling over his expression.

“Jim?” you place a careful hand on his upper arm, “are you alright?”

His hand closes into a fist.

“Jim,” you give his sleeve a firm tug, and he turns and wraps you in a hug, arms loose, but his hands wound tight, pulling at your uniform. You close your eyes and let your hands glide around his middle, pulling him closer and farther towards you until he has no choice but to yield and hug you proper, melting like butter on warm bread.

“I’m just happy you’re here,” he says, pulling away just far enough so you can see his small smile.

Your fingers are carding smoothly through his tamed hair before you can think about doing anything else, “I am, too.” You tug him down for a soft kiss, and his lips move slow and smooth against yours.

“But I’m also happy you’re leaving in a week,” he confesses quietly.

“Jim,” you lose your voice.

You’ve loved others and love others and will love others and he’s loved others and loves others and will love others and this is nothing new – but sometimes it’s hard to see past the moment when the moment exists as something like this: soft and shared and beautiful and promising (“and in that moment, that was all we could ever need,” he says) – but you have a ship waiting for you in orbit and a yearning for something greater, “I am, too.”

He begins to grin, “good,” he punches in the code, and then the door behind him opens, “because last night I dreamed that even as I stood on the edge of the galaxy, that even though the odds were shot, you were standing there, somewhere else, far away, looking at the exact same stars I was.”

One day, you’re sure, this will all fall apart and you’ll have nothing but the notion that there are still questions begging answers, out in the deep of space, but until that day comes, you’ll bathe in whatever sunlight is offered and prepare to deal with that storm when it hits. For now, it sits on the horizon, a dark promise.

“That’s strange,” you say as you push him into his apartment (with a careful hand on his chest), “because last night I…” you breathe – breathe – breathe, “had the same dream.”

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-


A/N: I remembered that Kirk was a professor at the academy for a while and I just…. Had to write this…....

Masterlist in blog desc.

[buttermybooks]

HI HELLO IT’S ME AND I AM BACK WITH ANOTHER AWESOME POST! I am so excited to have the opportunity to share a playlist from the amazing Emily Barr; inspired by her upcoming book THE ONE MEMORY OF FLORA BANKS. 

This book first hit my radar when an arc showed up in my grab bag from YallFest in November. Immediately after we got the book, @thebookblr started reading it, and LOVED it. Taking her word for it, I dove right in and also LOVEDDDD it. I absolutely flew through this book, finishing in 4 hours, and then cursing myself for not savoring it more!!! 

I will leave a link to a playlist inspired by her time writing this book, as well as a little background from Emily on each song that was included. Buy links and Synopsis below the cut!!

(To listen to the playlist on spotify, click here)

Flora Playlist

I listen to a lot of music when I write: it’s best when played loud. Music helps me block out the sound of the outside world: it’s too easy to be distracted by letters dropping on the doormat, the slamming of a car door, a conversation in the street.

When I need to blast out words to beat a deadline, I blast out opera. It helps that I don’t speak Italian or German so no stories impinge on the one I’m writing. The operatic voices become beautiful instruments. If I need to sink into a deep and meditative period of concentration - to iron out troublesome plot wrinkles - I drift over to sweeping classical music: Brahms, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, Shostakovich or Chopin. I played the cello for year, and cello music is my comfort blanket.

However, early on in the process, when a book is beginning to take real shape, when ideas are bubbling faster than I can type them, when my characters can be anything or do anything, and I simply have to follow the threads and see what happens; this is when certain songs and certain albums become addictive. They start to soundtrack the novel. I played the songs on this playlist throughout the process of writing Flora Banks. I played them when I stopped writing, closed the laptop and had to get on with the day to day domestic chores. I can never quite switch off from thinking about the book I am writing, so all the while these songs were playing, a little bit of my brain was thinking about Flora Banks.

1: Glacier / John Grant / John Grant and the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra: Live in Concert

This whole album is sublime. Witty, tender, hugely melodic songs and a full orchestra. Some songs are dark and some are romantic. John Grant is a wonder. He writes songs from the heart and sings them beautifully. He has had his demons and been close to the brink. He is also a huge lover of Scandinavia. In fact, I used him as the inspiration for the character of Toby in Flora Banks. Glacier is actually a song about the conflict between the church and gay rights, but the message is clear: be brave and find your own answers.

“Don't listen to anyone; get answers on your own 

Even if it means that sometimes you feel quite alone

No one on this planet can tell you what to believe

People like to talk a lot, and they like to deceive”

And when one is brave in the face of adversity, wonderful things can happen:

“This pain

It is a glacier moving through you

And carving out deep valleys

And creating spectacular landscapes

And nourishing the ground”

2: Looped / Kiasmos / Kiasmos

I played this album endlessly while writing this book. Every note of it matches Flora’s adventure. It is subtle and it reveals more with each listen. I love the pulses and the swooping strings and the periods of calm and the bursts of danger. The album is full of looped musical phrases that build and fall away and build again. There are some structural similarities to Flora in this respect. This particular song soundtracks Flora’s boat trip, away from the town and out in to the Arctic wilds.

Kiasmos is a duo and features the legendary Icelandic composer Ólafur Arnalds. Which leads us on to…

3: 3055 / Ólafur Arnalds / Arnalds: Eulogy for Evolution

I first listened to this album just before I first travelled to Svalbard in 2013. It’s by turns elegiac and joyous. This song in particular hits the spot. You can hear those Scandinavian winds and the piano is so delicate. Then in come the drums when you’re least expecting it.

4: Everybody’s Talkin’ / Iggy Pop / Après

I love Iggy Pop: seventy this year and as charming and as charismatic as ever. Thankfully he managed to survive the 2016 (Cohen! Bowie! Prince!) In 2012 he put out this album of covers. Most of the songs are French and Iggy croons throughout in his deep and croaky tremolo. Nobody could have predicted an album of such melodic easy listening. In it’s own way, it’s a pretty punk thing to do. I play this album a lot while cooking and it always made me smile. This song feels Flora like, especially when she is leaving Penzance.

“Everybody’s talking at me

I don't hear a word they're saying

Only the echoes of my mind

People stopping, staring

I can't see their faces

Only the shadows of their eyes

I'm going where the sun keeps shining.”

5: Where is my mind? / The Pixies / Surfer Rosa

I love this song. This song is playing in the opening scene, in which Flora is feeling out of place at a house party. The title is apt but completely unintentional - I just love the song. A dose of Pixies is good for the soul. Frank Black’s voice blows away the cobwebs.

6: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (Reprise) / The Beatles / Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

I adore The Beatles. How did they do so much in so little time? Aside from their massive cultural impact, they simply knew how to construct a song and perform it perfectly. When The Beatles hit Spotify for the first time, I binge listened. It soundtracked the whole of Christmas. Flora listens to this album when she’s left home alone. The album also contains the song ‘She’s leaving home’ - something I only noticed while compiling this playlist.

7: Atmos VIII / A Winged Victory for the Sullen / Atmos

This album is hypnotic. It’s sort of ambient, droning, glacial, electronic classical. It hums and purrs and scrapes and whooshes. It’s meditative and clever. This song sounds like it’s echoing in a cathedral. Play it as loud as you can and let it hit you in the chest. To me this is what Svalbard sounds like.

8: The Beigeness / Kate Tempest / Everybody Down

I am in awe of Kate Tempest! She was born in 1985 and has already achieved more than most do in a lifetime. She is an award winning poet, an insightful novelist and a gifted rapper. She writes about real issues and is a fearless role model for young women. I love this song. And I like the message: stand up for yourself and don’t fade into the beigeness. Be heard and be seen. I think Flora has some of that spirit. Tempest’s follow up album ‘Let them eat chaos’ is a masterpiece. I am following her career with interest: I can’t wait to see what she’ll do next.

9: How Long? / Julia Holter / Have You in my Wilderness

Again - an album I played over and over. Julia Holter is brilliant and this is such a polished album, simultaneously complicated and accessible. It feels like looking into somebody’s mind and not quite understanding the thoughts and feelings that are there. This song gives me goosebumps. It is woozy and intimate and her voice is spellbinding.

10: Northern Lights / Ola Gjeilo - Voces8 / Ola Gjeilo

Gjeilo is a young Norwegian composer and his work is gorgeous. Last summer my partner Craig and I spent a week in Tromsø, which is in the Arctic Circle in Northern Norway. There’s a cathedral in Tromsø, and it’s s a magical place beside the water with spectacular acoustics. Through the summer they run midnight concerts: we went to one and heard a mixture of Bach, Mozart and traditional Norwegian music. It was still light when we got there, and just a little bit dusky as we walked back over the bridge to our hotel. This piece - although it’s called Northern Lights and so is from the opposite end of the year - takes me straight back to that evening.

About The Author: 

Emily Barr (www.emilybarr.com) began her career as a journalist at the Guardian before realizing that she was drawn more toward books. After taking a year to go backpacking for a column assignment, she returned home with the idea for her first book, the New York Times bestseller Backpack, and never looked back. She has since written 11 additional books for adults. The One Memory of Flora Banks is her young adult debut. Emily lives in Cornwall with her partner and their children. You can follow her on Twitter @emily_barr. 

Synopsis:

Seventeen-year-old Flora Banks has no short-term memory. She lives under the careful watch of her parents, in a town she is familiar with, among people who are equally familiar with her story. She has not been able to recall any part of her past since she was ten, when the tumor that was removed from her brain took with it her ability to make new memories. That is, until she kisses Drake, her best friend's boyfriend, the night before he leaves town. Miraculously, this singular memory breaks through Flora's fractured mind, and sticks. Flora is convinced that Drake and their shared kiss are responsible for restoring her memory and making her whole again. So when an encouraging email from Drake suggests she meet him on the other side of the world, Flora knows with certainty that this is the first step in reclaiming her life. With little more than the tattoo "be brave" inked into her skin, and written reminders of who she is, how old, where she lives, and why her memory is so limited, Flora sets off on an impossible journey to the land of the midnight sun--Svalbard, Norway. There she is determined to find Drake, and to explore the romantic possibilities and hopeful future that their reunion promises her. But from the moment she arrives in the arctic, nothing is quite as it seems, and Flora must "be brave" if she is ever to learn the truth about herself, and to make it safely home. Rich with psychological twists, powerful moments of hope, despair, and confusion, and a landscape very much a character unto itself, FLORA BANKS is an emotionally compelling and immersive read that celebrates the resilience of the human spirit, the depths of the human heart, and the power of the human mind.

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Enter for a chance to win one (1) of five (5) copies of The One Memory of Flora Banks by Emily Barr (ARV: $17.99 each). NO PURCHASE NECESSARY. Enter between 12:00 AM Eastern Time on May 1, 2017 and 12:00 AM on May 22, 2017.  Open to residents of the fifty United States and the District of Columbia who are 13 and older. Winners will be selected at random on or about May 24, 2017. Odds of winning depend on number of eligible entries received. Void where prohibited or restricted by law.