#new york serenade

[yellowbugifs]

125/365 days of regina mills

[dinneratgrannys]

ONCE UPON A TIME 3.12, New York City Serenade

[brucespringsteencomments]

[a-happy-beginning]

You remember.

—David, Once Upon a Time, “New York City Serenade”

[enchanted-keys]

Unity Phelan and Russel Janzen in Serenade (New York City Ballet 2023)

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

Christmas Reruns 2024–Day 27: New York Christmas Serenade (1/4)

Merry Christmas if you celebrate it and happy holidays if you don’t!  One of the things I love about Christmas is watching reruns of all the old classic Christmas movies–Christmas is a big time for nostalgia.  A few years ago, I decided to incorporate that tradition into my fandom life and post my CS holiday reruns.  So here you go!  Enough holiday (mostly) fluff to get you to New Year’s Day. (With a new story posting on Christmas Day.)

Word Count: 1346

Other chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 28 29 30 31

Tagging a few people who may be interested (Let me know if you want to be added or taken off the list):

@jennjenn615 @laschatzi @snowbellewells @iamanneenigma @kmomof4

@linda8084 @searchingwardrobes @hollyethecurious @winterbaby89 @facesiousbutton82 

@therooksshiningknight @lfh1226-linda @tiganasummertree @jrob64  @anmylica 

@booksteaandtoomuchtv @i-will-sing-no-requiem @bluewildcatfanatic @laianely

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Written in 2016, this CS canon divergence is a re-imagining of what New York City Serenade might have looked like if Killian had found Emma’s NY apartment just before Christmas. Can the magic of the season help Killian bring back Emma’s and Henry’s memories?

CS Genre: Canon Divergence (missing year between 3a and 3b)

A/N:  I don’t really know what time of year it was when Killian showed up at Emma’s New York apartment door, but for the sake of this canon divergence, I’m saying he showed up the day before Christmas Eve.

Emma shouldn’t complain; she really shouldn’t.  She had a job she loved, she had a roof over her head (a really nice roof at that), plenty of food to eat, a son she loved more than she thought it was possible to love another person, and it was the day before Christmas Eve.  She should be perfectly happy.

But she couldn’t help but think something was missing.

At first she thought she was just dealing with the inevitable melancholy that comes after the breakup of a longtime (well…longtime for her.  When you’re used to one night stands, having a boyfriend for eight months seems like an eternity) relationship, but that wasn’t quite it.  Honestly?  She’d barely even thought about Walsh since she broke up with him just before Halloween.  He’d been okay she guessed, but…well, there was no spark there.

No, it was more than breakup blues.  It felt more like loneliness. She glanced over her shoulder at Henry who sat at the breakfast table garnishing their mugs of hot cocoa with both cinnamon and little mini candy canes (in honor of the season), and the guilt hit.  She loved Henry, of course she did, but she couldn’t help but feel like someone…maybe several someones…were missing.

Emma had just passed a plate of chocolate chip pancakes to an excited Henry when the knock came at her apartment door.  That was…odd.

“We expecting someone?” Henry asked, already beginning to dig into his breakfast.

“No,” she said, her brow furrowed.  “Just…stay here kid while I see what this is all about.”

Emma didn’t know what she expected to see when she opened her door, but a pirate in full black leather and guyliner wasn’t it.  Nor did she expect the look of utter joy—like she’d just given him the best Christmas gift in the world—that crossed his face at the sight of her.

“Swan,” he breathed, blue eyes lighting up.  “At last.”

The pirate stepped forward, looking like he was about to embrace her.  For a moment, her mind went blank.  There was something familiar about this man, although she was pretty sure she’d remember meeting him before.  Aside from his odd choice of clothing, he was hot.  Not just kind of hot.  Like burn-all-of-New-York-to-the-ground hot.

For half a second, she almost let him envelope her in a hug, and then common sense returned.  Emma Swan did not just stand there and let crazy guys touch her.  She put a hand to his chest, warding him off.  “Do I know you?” she asked in a voice she determinedly made hard and unyielding.

“I’m…an old friend,” he said.  He wasn’t being entirely truthful, though he wasn’t lying either…not exactly.  What was going on here? 

“Look, Swan,” he said urgently, taking a tiny step forward once more, “I know you don’t remember me, but I need you to trust me.  Your family is in great danger.  They need you; they need the savior.”

“Look buddy,” Emma said, “I don’t know who you are or what kind of delusions you have, but my whole family is right there at that breakfast table.  My son is the only one who needs me.”

“You simply don’t remember, love,” he began, “I can help you…”

“It’s time for you to go,” she said, giving a little push to his chest until he’d crossed her threshold, “go peddle your crazy to someone else.”

With that she shut the door in his protesting face.

“Who was that?” Henry asked around a bite of pancake.

“No idea,” Emma said.

“Really?” Henry asked.  “Are you sure?  It’s just…something about him seems really familiar.”

“Must be a coincidence,” Emma said with a shrug as she sat down to her breakfast.  “But enough about psychos who show up at our door.  Let’s talk about the weekend!  We’ve got a lot of Christmas-ing to fit into the next three days that I have off.  What do you want to do first?”

Emma tried to forget the handsome pirate, she truly did.  She tried to forget him as she and Henry went ice skating.  She tried to forget him as they rolled out Christmas cookies and cut them into festive shapes.  She tried to forget him while Henry played his video game and she covertly wrapped his presents.  She tried to forget him when she and Henry sat down to watch Elf that night.  She tried to forget him as she lay in her big, lonely bed.

But somehow mystery pirate man wouldn’t leave her thoughts no matter what she did.  When she woke up on Christmas Eve morning after having a weird dream where she and the pirate guy were in this weird jungle place and she kissed the living daylights out of him, she gave up.  Clearly she was going to get no peace until she found him again and heard him out, found out what the hell he’d meant by “your family needs you”.

As luck would have it, Emma didn’t even need to dig into her bail bonds person bag of tricks to locate her target.  She’d promised Henry she’d take him to the zoo in Central Park that day to see the Christmas festivities. And who should she see sitting on a park bench just outside the zoo’s entrance, but pirate man?

The man got to his feet as soon as she was in sight.  “Emma!” he said in excitement.  “Fancy seeing you here, love.”

“Seriously?” she asked, adding extra briskness to her voice to counteract the way the butterflies had started to swoop in her stomach the moment she saw him.  “You are a stalker.”

“Not at all,” he said.  “It was you who followed me here.  Perhaps you, Swan are the stalker here, aye?”  Turning to her left, the man nodded at her son.  “Henry!  Good to see you!  Enjoying your Christmas holidays?”

Henry gave the man a suspicious glance and then broke into a smile.  “Yeah, it’s been great!  Three full days with mom before she has to go back to work…amazing!  But…do I know you?”

The man ruffled his hair.  “I’d wager not, at least not to your knowledge.  Killian Jones at your service, lad!”

“Cool!  Where’d ya get the pirate costume?”

The man looked down at himself and then shrugged.  “I’ve been wearing this attire for such a long time I don’t recall where I acquired it.”

“So, Killian, would you like to come to our apartment for Christmas Eve tonight?” Henry asked before Emma could stop him.  “We’ll light up the tree and watch Christmas movies and hang our stockings and everything.”

The man…Killian…shot her a questioning glance.  “I don’t wish to impose on your family traditions, lad, but if your mother doesn’t object I’d like nothing in all the realms more than to accept your invitation.”

For long moments, Emma stood in indecision.  Her brain was screaming at her to run away as fast as possible.  People did not invite strange men dressed in crazy attire into their homes—not unless they had a strange desire to be murdered, that is.  But her heart…well, her heart kept (illogically) insisting that not only could she trust this Killian Jones, somehow she actually knew him.

What came out of her mouth surprised even her.  “Sure.  Come by the apartment around 7?”

But really, no one should be alone on Christmas Eve, should they?

Killian’s brows rose almost to his hairline.  Safe to say that was not the answer he was expecting either.  “I shall look forward to it, love.”

[allaboutjmo]

[miss-mollys-ballet-blog]

Indiana Woodward and Aaron Sanz in Serenade.

[balanchine-ballet-master]

Suzanne Farrell Teaching

Above: students at Florida State University rehearse Balanchine's Serenade, staged by Suzanne Farrell. Photo by Meagan Helman for the Florida State Univ. News

Suzanne Farrell is Krafft Professor of Dance at Florida State University in Tallahassee. She gave an interview to the FSU News that was published on November 16, 2023.

Legendary ballerina Suzanne Farrell reflects on career, 20 years as Krafft Professor at FSU

BY: ANNA PRENTISS, JAMIE RAGER, JASMINE HUR

Florida State University’s School of Dance Krafft Professor Suzanne Farrell, an internationally recognized New York City Ballet principal dancer, a 2005 Kennedy Center Honoree and the founder of Suzanne Farrell Ballet, has long been regarded as one of the most extraordinary and influential ballerinas of the late-20th century.

Farrell, who performed with the New York City Ballet for 28 years, is considered the last muse and protégé of choreographer George Balanchine, founder of the New York City Ballet.

This year, Farrell set an excerpt of “Divertimento No. 15,” a choreographic piece by Balanchine. This classical ballet was featured in the school’s annual “An Evening of Dance,” which highlighted a diverse lineup of seven live works restaged by retired and current faculty.

“One of my dreams as a dancer was to perform the choreography of George Balanchine,” said Associate Professor Ilana Goldman, who served as the rehearsal director for this work. “When I finally did, it felt sublime, as if I was the physical embodiment of the music. I am so thrilled that our students had the opportunity to not only perform Balanchine’s choreography but to have been coached by his muse, Suzanne Farrell — it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Farrell has been a member of the School of Dance faculty for more than 20 years and continues to work with and mentor students, hosting master classes and workshops at FSU each semester.

“The opportunity to work with a legendary performer like Suzanne Farrell is an amazing experience for our students,” said Anjali Austin, professor and chair of the School of Dance. “Her dedication to our program throughout the past 20 years has made an indelible mark on many.”

In an interview, Farrell re-lived her history with the New York City Ballet, working with Balanchine and how she came to Florida State University to teach.

“Initially, I was not going to teach at a college level,” Farrell said. “I had just been giving young dancer auditions in Miami but came to FSU on my sister’s request and met many nice dancers that made me rethink. It’s a beautiful atmosphere, and I love working here. I give everything when I teach.”

Even early in her career, Farrell thought teaching was not a path she intended to take.

“When I was a young dancer, I thought I had forever,” she said. “Mr. Balanchine once said, ‘One day, you will all teach.’ I thought to myself, ‘I’m not going to teach. All I want to do is dance.’”

That moment of retirement came sooner than Farrell thought, so she began staging and teaching Balanchine’s ballets around the world.

“In a nice way, it extended my dance life,” she said. “I’m not dancing, but I’m still doing what I love to do.”

Farrell noted that the transient nature of a dance career instills a sense of immediacy in a dancer.

“Dance is a young profession; we retire at a young age because the body has to stop,” she said. “Therefore, you have to positively profit from everything you do and every moment you do it. You can’t say, ‘I’ll do it tomorrow’ because before you know it, it’s time to retire.”

Farrell explained, “In ballet, we are our own technology. It’s not like sending someone a text and it’s done — it’s a constant evolution of getting the choreography to where it should be.”

“I like bringing my stories into my teaching because it’s not just the technological aspect, it’s also passing on stories from one person to the next,” she said.

Farrell learned to use visual aspects to provide dancers with a mental image when correcting inaccuracies.

“I’d say ‘move your arms like the leaves when the wind comes, the leaves turn over, they don’t resist.’ Moving with nature is what ballet is all about.”

When asked about the evolution of ballet since she first began her professional career, Farrell highlighted the inheritable legacy left by previous generations.

“We are the beneficiaries of every dancer that came before us. Nobody can do it by themselves,” Farrell said. “There are stories you inherit from someone who maybe danced it first or before you were alive. There’s so much legacy and it’s not just in the past. Just because someone isn’t alive anymore doesn’t mean they are not influential and inspiring in spirit.”

This academic year, the School of Dance is celebrating 90 years of dance, 60 years of dance degrees and 20 years of the Maggie Allesee Center for Choreography at FSU. Recently ranked as one of the top five dance programs in the nation by Backstage Magazine, the School of Dance is dedicated to providing the highest caliber of training to its students.

Suzanne Farrell and George Balanchine, 1963. Photo: Fred Fehl for the Associated Press via the NY Times

[miss-m-calling]

Indiana Woodward and the New York City Ballet corps in George Balanchine's Serenade

Photo by Erin Baiano

[princess-and-the-swan]

MC Fic Rec: Unbreakable

By xHookedonKillianx | Rating: M

What if Hook was able to go with Emma and Henry when they left to escape Pan’s curse? With no memory of each other or Storybrooke, Emma and Killian meet in New York as complete strangers, both with broken pasts, and both with clean slates for their future. Complete.

Read it on AO3

[yellowbugifs]

emma swan in 3.12

[dinneratgrannys]

ONCE UPON A TIME 3.12, New York City Serenade

[brucespringsteencomments]

[a-happy-beginning]

We just don’t know what. The whole year is gone.

—Mary Margaret, Once Upon a Time, “New York City Serenade”

[raebrialc]

A Syracuse Serenade: Blossoms and Cigars

Story Mansterlist / A Syracuse Serenade Masterlist

A Syracuse Serenade - In a new town, a girl seeks refuge in her relationship with her boyfriend, the only source of familiarity. Yet, their connection is marred by toxicity. As she grapples with loneliness, her boyfriend's tendency to ignore her intensifies during conflicts, leaving her in emotional isolation. The story delves into her struggle to find solace, navigate toxic dynamics, and yearn for connection without revealing too much.

Chapter 1

My footsteps echo through the hallways click, click, click. In the midst of my thoughts, I am distracted by the sound of my shoes filling my ears. Being busy with my classes at the University of Syracuse keeps me from being alone for long periods of time. The feeling of being alone is one I like, but it's much different when you are alone in a big city compared to being alone in a small town. It’s like you’re wrapped in a cocoon, the small towns of Oklahoma are warm and filled with love like a giant woman wrapped her arms around you. Your head in her hands, the familiar smell of her never leaves your heart. The cocoon of Syracuse is different, colder. It's as if the city itself is an intricate tapestry, beautiful and complex, yet each thread seems to unravel in isolation. The embrace is not that of a nurturing woman but rather the distant hum of millions of lives intertwining, a collective heartbeat that both includes and isolates. The city lights flicker like distant stars, and the symphony of traffic becomes a constant background melody. The streets, once bustling with the pulse of urban life, now echo with the footsteps of solitary wanderers like me. The anonymity of the crowd intensifies the solitude, making each step a silent assertion of individual existence in a sea of faces.

The city's heartbeat is a blend of diverse rhythms, a cacophony of stories and dreams colliding and merging. Yet, in my solitude, I find myself yearning for the warmth of those Oklahoma plains, for the simple embrace of a tight-knit community where everyone knows your name. Where people will say, “Oh, your David’s Little girl?” where everyone knows you, where you feel seen. The memories of the giant woman's arms linger, the smell of home etched into my soul. Here, in Syracuse, I navigate the maze of my thoughts, the city lights casting long shadows on the sidewalks. The occasional passerby becomes a fleeting companion, a transient connection in the vast expanse of urban life. The cocoon feels both expansive and confining, a paradox that leaves me caught between the desire for connection and the comfort of solitude.

The quietness, once a solace, now felt like an echoing void waiting to be filled. As I wandered through the hallways, the subtle creaks and sighs of the aging structure seemed to mimic the sighs of my own solitude. I find myself in the school library, the shelves lined with books, standing as silent witnesses to my solitary musings. In their pages, I sought refuge, escaping into worlds crafted by the imagination of others. Yet, even among the bound companions, the shadows of loneliness lingered, reminding me that the characters on those pages couldn't bridge the gap between me and the quiet ache within. Seeking solace in the written word or the stroke of a paintbrush. Literature becomes my refuge, a realm where characters unravel their tales and the confines of reality yield to the boundless landscapes of imagination.

In the quiet corners of the library, I find companionship in the whispers of poets and the musings of novelists. The world of books, with its myriad stories and voices, becomes a realm where loneliness dissipates in the company of kindred spirits. The weight of isolation is momentarily lifted as I lose myself in the artistry of language, each word a brushstroke painting the canvas of my thoughts. The city pulses with life, and I, in my own quiet way, dance to its rhythm. The journey through loneliness becomes a pilgrimage of self-discovery, a pursuit of connection through the brushstrokes of art and the written whispers of literature. And so, in the heart of Syracuse, I navigate the delicate balance of solitude, finding solace in the pages of a book and the strokes of a painting.

The city lights had long replaced the afternoon sun as I navigated the streets. It’s Thursday, the day that brought a bittersweet mixture of anticipation and reluctance. Thursday evenings meant dinner with Lucas and his family. His house, a place of contrasting energies, held within its walls the intricate dynamics of familial relationships. Lucas's family home stood as a silent sentinel, its exterior a blend of warmth and stoicism. As I approached, the porch light beckoned, casting a gentle glow on the swing that had witnessed countless family gatherings. The door creaked open, and I stepped into a world that was both familiar and unfamiliar.

Lucas's father, a man of few words, exuded an air of formality that cast a subtle chill in the air. The distance he maintained spoke of unspoken expectations and unexplored complexities. In stark contrast, his mother greeted me with a warmth that felt like a comforting embrace. Her eyes sparkled with kindness, a stark departure from the reserved demeanor of her husband. The lively chatter emanating from the dining room revealed the presence of Lucas's siblings—two brothers and a sister, each with their unique energy. Frank, the elder brother at 26, carried an air of responsibility, his gaze often drifting to the patriarch of the family. Nick, the 20-year-old, was a beacon of youthful exuberance, while Melody, the sister at 25, exuded a quiet strength.

As we gathered around the dinner table, the air buzzed with a blend of familial warmth and unspoken tensions. The clinking of utensils against plates harmonized with the exchange of pleasantries, creating a delicate balance that hovered between connection and constraint. Lucas, ever the mediator, navigated the familial terrain with practiced ease. His eyes, stormy and reflective of the familial complexities, sought mine briefly, offering a silent reassurance that I wasn't alone in this intricate dance.

Yet, with every passing moment, I couldn't shake the feeling of being an outsider peering into a world that was both inviting and elusive. The dinner table became a stage for unspoken narratives, where glances held hidden meanings, and the space between family members seemed to widen. As the evening unfolded, I found myself caught between the warm embrace of Lucas's mother and the subtle frostiness emanating from his father. The laughter and stories shared between siblings became a mosaic of shared histories that I, as an outsider, could only observe.

I have known Lucas for two years now, but have just met his family. There are times when I find myself reminiscing on the first Thursday dinner. His mother's welcoming smile and his father's stoic acknowledgment had set the stage for an intricate dance of connection and divergence. In those initial moments, the chatter and laughter of siblings had resonated with familiarity and a subtle undercurrent of history. Frank's watchful gaze, Nick's infectious energy, and Melody's composed presence had all added layers to the mold of Lucas's life.

The tradition of bringing flowers for Lucas's mother and sister, and a box of cigars for his father and brothers, had become a cherished ritual. The blooms and the rich aroma of cigars had woven themselves into the fabric of our Thursday dinners, becoming symbols of connection and acknowledgment within the intricate dynamics of their family. The flowers, carefully selected each week, carried the language of appreciation and warmth. As I presented them to Lucas's mother and sister, the vibrant petals seemed to reflect the unspoken beauty of their familial bond. The flowers, arranged with care, became messengers of gratitude and a silent acknowledgment of the role they played in Lucas's life.

His mother's eyes would light up at the sight of the blossoms, and Melody would offer a gracious smile, creating an ambiance of shared appreciation around the dinner table. The flowers, in their ephemeral beauty, became vessels of unspoken sentiments, enhancing the warmth of familial connection.

On the other side of the spectrum, the box of cigars for his father and brothers introduced a different cadence to our Thursday gatherings. The rich scent of tobacco filled the air as I presented the gift, a nod to the shared moments of relaxation and camaraderie that unfolded over cigars. The box, replenished monthly, became a symbol of continuity and shared indulgence. The ceremonial opening of the box marked the beginning of an evening where conversations flowed freely amidst tendrils of smoke. The ritual of sharing cigars became a bridge, a language of bonding that transcended words.

Hopefully, as weeks turned into months, the flowers and cigars transformed into more than mere gifts; they became tokens of our evolving connection with Lucas's family. Each bloom and every puff of cigar smoke became part of the shared narrative, binding us together in a language that resonated with the unspoken nuances of familial ties.

In the quiet moments between sips of coffee and the gentle swaying of the porch swing, the flowers and the cigars served as anchors, grounding us in the shared rituals that defined our Thursday dinners. In the dance of petals and the curling tendrils of smoke, I found a language of connection that transcended the complexities of familial dynamics, weaving a tapestry of shared history with each passing Thursday. In those quiet moments of reflection, I recognized the significance of those Thursday dinners. They weren't just meals shared around a table; they were glimpses into the complexities of Lucas's past, present, and the intricate tapestry that bound us together. The memories of that first dinner lingered, imprinted in the corridors of my mind like a vintage photograph capturing a moment in time.

Authors Notes: HIIII!!! OMG I'm so excited and scared to share this story with you guys. I know that this is a shorty story, but it is only they start. I will be posting new chapters every Friday! (Hopefully). This story is my baby I would love your opinion and thoughts on my story and my writing, but please be nice about it. I promise that the next chapters will be longer!!!!!!!!! Also I want to thank my two friends for reading my story and boosting my ego!

While you are waiting for new chapters go check out @sammysbiggestwhore!!!!!!!