#not only is her husband cast out from his family and thrown into poverty

[roobylavender]

i feel like the problem with so many pakistani dramas is they're like. a totalitarian exercise in relenting to the parent and forgiving them for all of their mistakes regardless of the severity of them. and i imagine it is funny to see me say that considering how often i wax rhetoric about how many of our parents are the products of violent cycles and there are times where we can't wholeheartedly blame them for being anyone other than who they were trained to be. but i also think there's a difference between forgiving your parents for not being able to escape their upbringing, and simply accepting that you will always have a subservient role to them, even in that process of forgiveness. like i don't think children have to go peacefully when they're being violently abused or cast out from their families or derided for entertaining dishonor. and this mindset we have wherein children have to be the perfect victims—broken, demure, never expressing any sort of outcry at the way they're treated—otherwise they're ungrateful and prone to derision by an audience for how much pain they've caused their parents, as if they haven't been caused extensive pain as well, really bothers me. like it's soured sooo many old dramas focused on parent-child conflicts for me bc of the way audiences villainize non-ideal trauma responses from children who are either forced into marriages or outcast from their families for refusing to be forced in the first place

[frickyea-guacamole19]

Also, just to add: Leaving them alone implies that the royal family cares about what others say. I doubt that. And I highly doubt the royal family uses tumblr.

Thank you for making it clear in your previous ask that your distain was not directed at me. I appreciate it. And the same goes for you. I’m just mourning the loss of a leader and I apologize if my comments or any part of my response comes off as harsh or biting. I also apologize if I’ve misquoted anything from the New York Times in my response. I’m just writing this response to explain why I do not view the late Prince Philip as evil or the Royal Family as uncaring. And, for clarification, I never said Prince Philip’s death was shocking. He was 99, and has been hospitalized on multiple occasions in recent years. Of course it was expected, you’re absolutely right.

In addition, as far as the references to his life are concerned, please feel free to refer to the article on Prince Phillip’s death, published by the New York Times. The history channel also published an interesting piece on his involvement in the Invasion of Sicily. They were truly very informative. Before I read it the other day, I was also one of those people who wrote Prince Philip off as a bad person.

I completely agree with your points, save calling the late Prince Philip evil. As a child he was smuggled out of Greece in a fruit crate during the Turkish attacks on Greece. He lived in poverty, having to keep his identity a secret for years, keeping in mind he was in line for the thrown in Greece and came from the Royal Danish bloodline.

Throughout his youth, he was sent to various schools across Europe. And while most royal children were home school, the schools he was sent to were to harden him. You can fact check me on this but at the schools he was given a bed with no mattress of any kind (if you’ve slept on hardwood alone for even one night, imagine doing it for an entire school year at boarding school), and the only kinds of showers he had access to were cold. In his five years at a particular school of which I do not remember the name, his family never came to visit him. They just dropped him there. I can’t imagine how difficult not seeing your loved ones for five years must’ve been.

As he grew older, he chose to take part in World War II. He was the outstanding cadet in his class at Dartmouth and fought on several ships including the USS Missouri, the battleship that was the final stone cast leading to the Japanese surrender in World War II.

Prince Philip spent a lot of his time and resources having playing fields and other amenities built for impoverished youth in Britain and always put his wife first. Even though she was descended from Queen Elizabeth and Victoria, he still was in a position where he could have taken power from her and claimed responsibility for changes she made, but he didn’t.

The late Prince was also the reason for success in the allied invasion of Sicily during World War II which, at the time, was overrun by Germans. He was the one who identified their Italian ships in the dark.

Moreover, when it came to Buckingham Palace, he modernized it. He was the reason intercom‘s were installed at Buckingham, so they weren’t running messengers ragged to the bone day in and day out. He had a kitchen installed in the Royal Suite and bought a washing machine, encouraging his children to partake in normal activities such as cooking for themselves, doing their own laundry, etc. Prince Philip was always seen opening his own doors, carrying his own luggage, and doing other day-to-day mundane activities himself.

I am unsure to what you are referring when you call him “evil“. But doesn’t everyone in their lifetime say it and do things that are neither respectable nor kind? Obviously there is record of him being unkind or too brash with his words. For some people, that is just their personality. And yes, it is rude and harsh, but there’s always room for forgiveness. And look at all the good he did. 

There were problems in his marriage early on, yes. But he remained loyal to Queen Elizabeth II for all 73 years of marriage. He sent prince Charles and maybe prince Andrew, if I remember correctly, to the same schools that he attended. He subjected them to those environments so they wouldn’t become comfortable with having everything handed to them on a Silver Platter. So that they learned to work for themselves and not take advantage of the prerogative of status. He wanted his children to remain grounded and self-sufficient. Though none of them wrote their own speeches, as he did.

All of us as humans are products of our circumstances. It’s really a miracle that he didn’t become harsher or colder as a father, considering what he went through. 

Now, to address leaving Buckingham palace alone. The Royals are celebrities. This means that most likely they have managers for certain aspects of their lives. People to control what exposure is given/received. I would certainly be shocked if the Royal Family didn’t have employees who kept eyes on every social media platform for content regarding them. regardless of whether or not they are actually used by members of the Royal Family. This includes Tumblr. Every upper level celebrity has people to do that for them. It’s how rumors and scandals are handled in modern media. With grace from those receiving the backlash, with the help of mediators and the like. So the odds of the Royal Family or someone working for them seeing these comments and remarks about the late Prince Philip are high.

Also, at the most basic level, someone has died. A man well loved by a good part of his country, a husband, a father, a grandfather, a friend. It is out of place and rude to assume the Royal Family doesn’t feel anything. We are all human. And, whether we like it or not, it doesn’t feel good when people have things to say about us that aren’t good or kind. Goo Hara and Sulli were both incredible women who committed suicide, overwhelmed by the hatred and criticism they received from the media and thousands of people every day.

Hatred is pointless. It’s not fair to say that someone who you perceive as mean or evil is impervious to unkind words. Never judge a book by its cover. The royal family appears standoffish and cold on occasions because of the image that is portrayed. But that is only what people are allowed to see. We are all human and it is unfair to say that the royal family doesn’t care about the comments based off of what you see of them. There is no one on earth who’s ever lost a loved one and not been deeply wounded by that loss.

Prince Philip was a good man. He had his downfalls, like any other human word. We can’t extrapolate those moments of unkindness over someone’s entire character. If we did that, no one would have any friends and we’d all be perceived as evil. On that same token, it is equally as unhealthy to deify anyone, or perceive them as perfect or without flaw. I’m sure there are things that Prince Philip has said and done that I have not heard of that are less than savory, unkind, mean, and any other negative adjective you’d like to use. regardless, again, at the most basic level, someone has died. It’s disgusting and repulsive to be so mocking of someone’s death.

A man just died. Let’s show some human decency and respect, please.

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 12: Half-Hanged (Transcript) - 7th August 2015

tw: violence, death by fire, medical details, ableism, child abuse, torture, unsanitary procedures

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

Simeon Smith was one of the early settlers of New Hampshire in 1772. He built a farm there, on the border between Wentworth and Warren, that held the local office. By trade, he was a tailor, but like a lot of men of that decade, he fought with the continental army. It’s easy to look back at Simeon Smith as the typical pioneer from the late 1700s – he was patriotic, and a stereotypical New Englander, sure, but few people in town liked him. Why, you might ask? Because Simeon Smith, according to the local stories, was a sorcerer. It was said that Simeon would saddle and bridle a random neighbour, and then ride them all over the countryside, just to spite them. When women were having trouble churning butter, and it simply wouldn’t work, it was because, they said, Simeon Smith was in the churn. If children in town behaved badly, it was because he had bewitched them. He could become as small as a gnat and move through the keyholes of your locked doors; he could become larger than a giant and would stomp through the forest at night – or so they said. Stories like these were common in early America. They were a mixture of fact and fiction, of historical truths and hysterical superstition. In an effort to explain the unexplainable, sometimes neighbours and prominent figures were thrown under the proverbial bus. The era between the mid-15th and late 16th centuries was precarious for many people. This wasn’t the age of Harry Potter – witchcraft wasn’t something that was spoken of lightly, or with a sense of wonder and excitement. It caused fear. It ruined lives. It made good people do bad things – all in the name of superstition. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

Superstition was common in the late 1600s. If something odd or unexplainable happened, the automatic response from most people was to blame the supernatural. But most scholars agree that these beliefs were merely excuses to help people deal with neighbours and family members that they didn’t care for. If you didn’t like somebody, it was common to accuse them of witchcraft. In the most famous historical example of this, the witch trials of Salem, Massachusetts, we can see a clear pattern in the events. Many of those accused of being witches were wealthy and held religious beliefs which were different from their accusers. Once a suspect was convicted, their estate would be confiscated by the court, and in a community that was known for property disputes, grazing rights and religious arguments, that became a recipe for disaster. What happened in Salem, happened elsewhere, all around New England, just on a smaller scale. Neighbours accused neighbours constantly, stories were told, lives were ruined. It was the way of things, I suppose – not ideal, but not uncommon either. In one story from Exeter, Rhode Island, a farmer was said to have been carting his lumber to market, when a cat ran across the road. For some unknown reason, the farmer immediately jumped to the conclusion that the cat was actually a neighbour of his, a woman who he insisted was a witch. She had transformed herself into a cat in order to meddle in his business. Now, this farmer was fast on his feet. Not only did he see the cat running, and then make the connection to his witchy neighbour, but he managed to pull out his gun. He was said to have fired a silver bullet at the cat, something well-known at the time to be effective against witches, and struck his target. At that very moment, according to the story, the suspected witch fell in her own home, breaking her hip. In the town of Salem, New Hampshire, a man decided that his cow looked strangely different from how he remembered, and he made the most logical conclusion he was capable of: his neighbour was a sorcerer, and the man had bewitched his cow. Folklore dictated the solution. He cut off the cow’s ears and tail and then burned them. Soon after, the farmer’s neighbour was found dead, victim of a house fire. In West Newbury, Vermont, a farmer had settled in for the evening beside his fireplace. Perhaps he was enjoying something alcoholic and refreshing, or maybe he was trying to read a book. While he was there, he witnessed what he called “spectral shapes” that danced and moved in the flames. This farmer immediately thought of one particular woman in town, a woman known to be a witch, and he took some tallow and beeswax, and sculpted a careful likeness of her. Then, taking a branch from a thorn bush, he pierced this little figurine before tossing it into the fire. At the same time, across town, the suspected witch apparently tripped on her own stairs and broke her neck. Back in the town of Wentworth, our friend Simeon Smith received his own fair share of retribution. It was said that a local boy named Caleb Merrill was struck deaf by the sorcerer. After that, he began acting strange, running up the sides of the house like a squirrel and writhing in agony. After some trial and error, Caleb’s parents put the perfect combination of ingredients into a “witch bottle”, a sort of homemade talisman designed to combat sorcery. They buried the bottle beneath their hearth, and soon after, the town was burying Simeon Smith. These stories of neighbourhood witches and ways in which the good citizens of the towns defeated them were common all across New England. They border on the cruel, and cast these people, often simply the poor or non-religious among them, in a horrible light. For many people, suspicion was a convenient excuse to hate your neighbour and wish them ill. In no other place was that attitude more pronounced, more dominant, and more extreme, than a town of Hadley, Massachusetts. In Salem, the townspeople worked within the legal system. In Hadley, however, the people took matters into their own hands, and the results were horrifying.

When Philip Smith was dying in 1684, the town went looking for answers. It was hard to blame them – Smith was a model citizen and leader in the community. He had been a deacon of the church, a member of the general court, county court justice, and a town selectman. He was respected, trusted, and maybe even well-loved. The sole suspect in the crime was an old woman named Mary Webster. She and her husband were poor, and lived in a tiny house in the middle of some of the pasture land outside of town. Sometimes, when things got tough, they even needed assistance from the town – colonial era welfare, so to speak. It was easy to blame Mary Webster. She and Smith had not been on the best of terms, although few people in town were on good terms with her. She was cranky, you see – accounts of the events report the almost sarcastic comment that her already-poor temper had not been helped by poverty. She was a sour and spiteful woman, and she had a tendency to shoot her mouth off, a lot. Her fierce temper and stinging tongue had earned her a reputation as the town witch. Apparently, she wasn’t much of a church-goer, and that did little to help her case. But the clincher was that she had just gotten back from Boston, one year before. Why? Well, she’d been on trial there for witchcraft. She’d been taken to Boston in chains, some time in late April of 1683. Mary, an old woman with a foul mouth, had been accused of having congress with the devil, of bearing his children and suckling them. These children looked like black cats, they said. She had strange markings on her body, they said. It was conclusive and obvious, they said. There were other stories of Mary Webster. It was said that when teams of cattle were driven towards her property, they would panic and bolt in the opposite direction. They claimed that when this happened, the men would approach the house and threatened to whip her, and only then would she let the animals pass. Once, a load of hay toppled over near her home. The driver of the wagon went to Mary’s house, literally went inside, and was about to give her a piece of his mind when the cart magically righted itself – or, so they say. Another story tells how she entered the home of some local parents, and when she set eyes on the infant in the cradle, the baby levitated out and touched the ceiling, not once, but three times. There is even a story about some people who were inside one evening, boiling water and getting ready for dinner. All of a sudden, a live chicken came down the chimney and landed in the pot, only to escape from the house moments later. The next day, it was discovered that Mary herself had been scalded that night, though she wasn’t telling people how it happened. And so, Mary was transported 100 miles to Boston, along with the sheaf of those eyewitness accounts that had been written by her accusers, and brought before a judge and jury. The jury listened. They read those papers, and they looked everything over, and did their best as impartial, rational individuals. They discussed it amongst themselves, and when they returned to the court, they had a verdict. Mary Webster was not guilty. Maybe this pissed off her neighbours. Maybe they thought they were finally done with her when she had been taken away. I can almost imagine their surprise when she rode back into town, smile on her face and a fire in her belly. She had beaten the odds. But when Philip Smith, her old adversary in Hadley, took sick just a few months after her return, that newly won freedom looked like it might be in jeopardy.

The winter after Mary’s return from Boston, Philip Smith began to look ill. The people of Hadley didn’t know what the cause was at first; what they did know was that Smith was in a bad way. He had frequent seizures and seemed delirious most of the time. The people caring for him - his family, friends and nurses – were all deeply concerned. Whatever it was that he was suffering from, it didn’t appear to be normal. In fact, it appeared to be the work of the devil. What else could possibly cause a man to suffer fits, and scream and babble for hours in an unknown language? When Smith could be understood, he cried out that someone was pricking his arm with nails, hundreds of them, over and over, painfully. His nurses looked for the nails, but they never found anything that could have been causing the pain. He claimed a woman was in the room with him. Some of the young men in town had a theory, though. They had been talking about it for a while, and they decided they needed to give it a test. You see, they thought that Mary Webster was behind the man’s illness. In their minds, there was only one way to find out. One of the men stayed with Smith while the other’s went to Mary’s home. Three or four times, they knocked on her door and bothered her, thinking that if she was indeed casting a spell over Smith, this would break her concentration. When they returned, the man who had been tasked with watching over Smith claimed that the sick man was at ease three or four times while they were gone. There were other things they noticed: the small pots of medicines that had been laid out for Smith were mysteriously empty, as if someone were stealing their contents; they frequently heard scratching beneath the man’s bed; some of the men claimed to have seen fire on the bed, that when they began to talk about it, it would vanish. The details of the events surrounding Philip Smith’s illness are rife with superstition and fear. These young men even claimed that something as large as a cat would stir under the covers near the sick man, but whenever they tried to capture it, it would slip away. Other’s said that the bed would shake enough to make their teeth rattle. All of this was just too much for them. Convinced that they knew who was causing Smith’s illness, the group of young men returned to the home of Mary Webster. This time, though, they had more than just disturbing her peace on their mind. They dragged Mary from her home and out into the snow and cold of the New England winter. They beat her, they spat on her, they cursed her in whispers and in shouts, and then they carried her to a nearby tree. One of the men slung a rope through the branches, while another fashioned a noose, and there, in a snow-covered field outside of her own home, Mary Webster was hanged. When she stopped moving, the men cut her down, they took her body and rolled it in the snow, burying her. And then, they left. They walked back into town, back to the home of Philip Smith, back to the others who knew what they had done, and they waited. They waited for Smith to get better, for the curse to lift and for their lives to return to normal. They waited for safety, for their superstitions and fears to fade away now that Mary was gone. But, oh, how wrong they were.

The world of the 17th century was tensive and harsh, especially for the people trying to carve out an existence in colonial New England. The Protestant Reformation of the century before had left most Europeans with the belief that bad things happen because of the devil. Everything that went wrong, and I mean everything, was caused by something supernatural. This was a time when misfortune, loss, and even a simple illness would be blamed on the work of witches and sorcerers. Because of this, everyone in town was on the look-out. If something went wrong, there was always someone to blame - it seems there was a devil in every community. History is full of people who took things too far. The events that took place in Hadley in the winter of 1685 are just one of the countless examples of what superstitious people are capable of when their fear gets the better of them. Sadly though, it didn’t work. When friends arrived the next day to look in on Philip Smith, he was dead. What they found, though, gave their suspicions new life. It was said that his body was still warm, despite the winter cold, that his face was black and blue, and fresh blood ran down his cheeks. His chest was swollen, and his back was covered in bruises and holes from something like an awl or nails. Now they had more questions than answers. Who beat the man overnight, who kept his body warm against the creeping chill of winter, and who put those holes in the flesh of his back while he lay dying in bed? I imagine the people who visited him that morning were disappointed. He was respected by most of the town - many people there most likely depended on him for something. They’d done so much to take care of him, even gone as far as to murder another person, and yet it hadn’t worked. Philip Smith was dead, and all they had left were questions. Something else would soon disappoint them, though. You see, although Philip Smith had died, Mary Webster hadn’t. Even though she had been beaten and hung from a tree, before being buried in the snow and left overnight, Mary had somehow survived. In fact, she went on to live 11 more years before passing away in her 70s. And it turns out that Mary was also an ancestor of the well-known novelist Margaret Atwood. In 1995, Atwood published a poem entitled “Half-Hanged Mary”. It was written in sections, each one covering an hour of her torture, beginning with the hanging and ending with her return from the dead. The poem, written from Mary’s point of view, ends with a line that makes a person wonder. “Before, I was not a witch, but now I am one”.

This episode of Lore was produced by me, Aaron Mahnke. Learn more about me and this show over at lorepodcast.com, and be sure to follow along on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Tumblr, @lorepodcast. This episode of Lore was made possible by you, the most creative listeners I have ever met. [Insert sponsor break]. And finally, a reminder. These sponsors, they pay the bills so I can write and produce Lore fulltime, but the only way they’ll do that in the future is if you wonderful and amazing listeners actually check them out, so please, visit the sponsor websites and take advantage of their generous offers. Let them know you’re listening, and they’ll keep the lights on here in the studio. Links and information on how to do all of that are on each episode page over at lorepodcast.com/episodes. Thanks for listening.

Notes

Many of the stories in this episode came from the book Entertaining Satan by J. P. Demos, which has no public access.

[dannimogen]

Undeniably Yours (pt. 1/3)

Pairing: Annabelle x MC (Evelina Emani) 

Word Count: 1.6k 

Rated: G (the rating will drastically increase during the last chapter though)

Tagging: @perfectcrystallinity @anxiousdepressedintrovert @annabellesparsons @queerchoicesblog (if you wanna be added to the tag list for the rest of the series just lmk! 

Description: With the season coming to a close, Evelina knew that she was running out of time. Now with only one night left before she must find a husband at the Duke’s ball, will Evelina finally be able to confess her heart’s desires in time? Or will their love forever remain unspoken? 

Disclaimer: Slight AU- in this fic, the events taking place at the end of the book (The Countess locking MC and Briar in, the horse ride to London, etc.) happen one day earlier than in canon. When they arrive in London, the Duke’s ball doesn’t take place until the next day. 

The Season was quickly coming to an end, the Duke’s ball the only notable event left before they would return home to Edgewater, her father’s estate. Evelina gave a small shake of her head before mentally correcting herself. No, they would return to her estate, where she would finally be recognized as Countess Evelina Emani--no longer the bastard child of the earl, but a sophisticated lady fit to rule.

Unless the Countess were to get her way, of course. If Countess Henrietta succeeded with her nefarious plot to discredit the late earl’s will, Evelina would be forced to return to Grovershire, no doubt, and live the rest of her days in shame and poverty. Even worse, she would never see her dear Annabelle again.

Evelina’s eyes filled with tears and her heart felt heavy with sorrow. Briar turned her earnest gaze onto Evelina, worried eyes seeking hers. “Evie, I know things seem grim, but you simply cannot give up. We will not let that wicked woman get away with this. Have faith!” Evelina sighed and leaned against the wall of the pantry they were hiding in while anxiously awaiting Mr. Woods’s return.

After the Countess locked Evelina and Briar in Evelina’s quarters and abandoned them, Evelina didn’t think much else could surprise her when it came to her ghastly step mother. However, after a frantic horse ride to London to stop the Countess, they had discovered that she had changed all of the locks to their London townhouse! Thank Heavens Briar knew another way inside, or else they’d be wandering the London streets in the dark. While they hid in the pantry, they plotted ways to subtly take revenge against the Countess as they ate a small dinner Mr. Woods had prepared for them.

Finally Mr. Woods returned, a small smile upon his face as he locked eyes with Briar. The two made quite a sweet match, Evelina had to admit. “Well,” Mr. Woods said. “I’ve relayed the plans to the rest of the staff and they are all in agreement. We will begin immediately. The Countess shall regret making an enemy of the most beloved lady in Edgewater.” Mr. Woods’s eyes flit to Briar’s and he smiled warmly. “Nor her beautiful companion.” Briar’s cheeks flushed pink at the flattery and she bit back a smile.

“Thank you ever so much, Mr. Woods,” Evelina said sincerely. “I am forever in your debt.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Woods replied, making a dismissive motion with his hand. “You do not owe me anything but for the promise you will return to Edgewater victorious.” Evelina smiled widely and clasped Mr. Woods’s hands in her own. After nodding her goodbyes, Briar stepped up to Mr. Woods, planting a soft kiss upon his cheek.

Mr. Woods lead them safely outside of the townhouse, and as soon as the door shut behind him Evelina found herself feeling a tad queasy. Briar picked up on Evelina’s disposition and squeezed her shoulder warmly. “No need to fret, dear Evie. I know just the place to go.” She grabbed Evelina’s hand and began to drag her towards the horse. “Now, let’s away!”

After a quick moonlit horse ride across the city, they came to a gradual stop across from a large townhouse. Evelina’s face scrunched in confusion before finally her eyes lit up, recognizing the estate. “This is the Parsons’ estate, is it not?” she questioned Briar, her heart suddenly beating quicker than before. Briar grinned slyly, a hint of mischief in her eyes.

“It certainly is. I had a hunch that Miss Parsons would be unable to say no to you.” Evelina felt her face warm slightly and she quickly dismounted her horse. Briar followed suit, taking Clover’s reins in her hands.

“Go on, I’ll take care of Clover and meet you inside.” Briar shot her a quick wink before leading the mare to the stables near the townhouse. Evelina swallowed, wiping her palms across her dress and trying to find the courage to approach the imposing door. After a few deep breaths, she approached cautiously, rapping the knocker a few times against the large door.

After a few tortuous moments of waiting, the door opened a crack and a pair of large, gray eyes came into focus. They lit up with recognition and soon the door was being thrown open, revealing Annabelle standing in the threshold donning only a nightdress.

“Evelina, what on earth are you doing here?” she questioned, eyes wide with bewilderment. When Evelina opened her mouth to speak, Annabelle rushed ahead, stepping from the threshold and gesturing towards her. “Oh, please come in, we’ll talk in the foyer. My family is out visiting my sister and her husband and won’t return until the end of the week, so it’s just us.” A displeased lady’s maid stood behind Annabelle with her arms crossed. “Oh, and the staff. Miss Mills isn’t pleased that I got to the door before her,” she said with a wink.

As Evelina stepped into the foyer, she glanced behind around to find Briar rushing to catch up. “Briar’s here as well. I do hope we’re not imposing, it’s just…” As her voice trailed off, Briar quickly jumped in.

“We have nowhere to stay the night,” she stated matter of factly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind her. Annabelle raised her eyebrows in alarm and stepped towards Evelina, resting her hand lightly on her shoulder with concern.

“Oh Evelina, what happened?” The concerned look in Annabelle’s eyes caused Evelina’s heart to swell with affection.

“It’s the Countess,” Evelina murmured, eyes cast downward. “She’s plotting to discredit my father’s will and secure the inheritance for Mr. Marlcaster.”

Briar jumped in. “She trapped us in Evie’s quarters and then had the audacity to change all of the locks at the London townhouse!” Evelina shot her an annoyed look and continued speaking.

“We’re planning to confront her at the Duke’s ball tomorrow evening, but I’m afraid we have nowhere to stay until then.” Annabelle stood speechless, mouth agape as she processed the information they just gave her.

“That absolute witch!” Annabelle exclaimed, her face contorting in rage. “Did she care nothing at all for the earl and his wishes?” She threw her hands into the air in frustration and began pacing the room. “Oh, Evelina, of course you can stay here. You can stay as long as you must!” She paced back to Evelina and took her hands in her own, gazing sincerely into her eyes. “I’m truly sorry. You don’t deserve this slander, nor does your father.”

Evelina smiled and tried to concentrate despite the feeling of Annabelle’s soft hands in her own. “Annabelle, you are too kind,” Evelina murmured. Briar glanced between the two and a mischievous smile slowly grew across her face.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Briar said with a grin. “I should really get some rest after our long journey.” Before either could reply, Briar had turned and rushed up the grand staircase, giggling. The older lady’s maid let out a long sigh of annoyance as she followed Briar up the stairs. Evelina could feel her cheeks warm at the implication and suddenly found herself feeling quite shy in Annabelle’s presence.

Annabelle laughed, shaking her head. “Have I ever expressed how fond I am of your lady’s maid?” she asked with a slight smile. Evelina glanced downward, realizing that she was still clinging to Annabelle’s hands. She quickly let go and took a step back, clearing her throat.

Annabelle watched her with amusement, not seeming to notice the sense of awkwardness that Evelina certainly felt. She finally lifted her head to meet Annabelle’s gaze and her heart seized with emotion at the softness of Annabelle’s brilliant gray eyes. Annabelle smiled at her fondly, and Evelina couldn’t help but smile back.

“So,” Annabelle murmured, smoothing her nightdress and smiling demurely.

“So,” Evelina replied, chuckling quietly. “That nightdress certainly is flattering.” She couldn’t help herself as her eyes drifted down Annabelle’s body and back up again.

Going as red as a tomato, Annabelle folded her arms over her chest and bit back a smile. “Evelina!” she admonished, unable to contain a laugh. She rested one hand on her cheek. “Are you trying to make me blush?”

“Maybe,” Evelina replied, feeling slightly emboldened by Annabelle’s reaction. “I really do appreciate you letting us stay here. You are truly a life saver.” “Some way to thank me, making me turn red as a tomato!” Annabelle laughed, shaking her head. “Shall I escort you to your quarters?”

Nodding, Evelina hooked her arm with Annabelle’s as they ascended the staircase. The townhouse wasn’t the largest, but it certainly had more than enough room for Briar and Evelina to stay the night without trouble. Annabelle pushed open a door, revealing a simple yet refined bedroom. It was modestly furnished, but still a thousand times nicer than she could have imagined back in Grovershire. Evelina stepped inside the room, turning to look at Annabelle.

Annabelle smiled and took a step back. “Well you must be positively exhausted. I can’t imagine being on horseback for so long.” Evelina’s heart seized with panic as Annabelle turned to leave.

“Wait!” Evelina exclaimed, her hand shooting out to grab Annabelle’s arm. Annabelle turned around, an eyebrow quirked with curiosity. Suddenly feeling impossibly shy, Evelina frantically searched for words. If she were being truthful, she had not a clue to what she was doing, and she certainly hadn’t planned on stopping Annabelle from leaving. All she knew was that, in that single moment, she couldn’t fathom doing anything else.

As Annabelle waited patiently for Evelina’s response, she could only think one thing: It was now or never.

[hackett-out]

I took a swing at jotting up some character info for my current royal bisexual wip, Etiquette, bc I really love this plot a lot and I need to info dump about it.

I have no names yet so everyone is just defined by roles.

The Prince - main lead #1

Adopted son to The Queen and brother to The Princess, The Prince has grown up in his older sister’s long shadow, eager to be a kind, caring royal who helps all he can, especially those less fortunate. Charming and warm, he’s the ideal face for a royal line overshadowed by tragedy and cheap tabloid fodder, even as many only see how free he is with money as a sign of frivolity and luxurious excess. In truth, The Prince is more of a philanthropist, giving himself to others sometimes to the point of exhaustion. He’s shadowed by The Assistant, who acts as a go-between, butler, and general servant to the Prince’s needs, though their introduction to romantic interest The Lady changes their relationship from professional to something more. 

The Assistant - main lead #2

The only surviving child of Korean parents, The Assistant has spent nearly 20 years as a servant/assistant to numerous wealthy and important families. Leaving his home after the death of his parents, he joins the royal family as the assistant to The Prince, initially butting heads due to his cool, reserved demeanor against the warm and outgoing charm of his charge. Increasingly lonely with no family he clings tightly to his work, taking on nearly any task for The Prince without question until they both meet The Lady. When a single kind gesture on the Prince’s part turns into an ongoing ruse, the Assistant finds himself in the middle - wrestling with his growing affection for The Lady every time he delivers a gift on the Prince’s behalf, and a blooming jealousy that grows every time he reads romantic words written by The Prince. 

The Lady - main lead #3

A working-poor commoner living a reclusive life, The Lady lives her adult life purely to survive comfortable and safe. Though she has dreams of flowing creativity and world-wide travel, a childhood of poverty and the weight of considerable debt tempers both. Wary of kind gestures, especially from those with a lot of wealth, she tends to spend her time shouldering her burdens alone, only letting her worries out through a set of diaries hidden in her cozy little apartment. A regular of a local floral shop where she buys dying flowers for small creative projects, she finds joy in the little ritual, and it’s there that she catches the eye of The Prince and The Assistant. Though she’s at first wary of the anonymous, kind gestures of The Prince, it slowly becomes a welcome change from her every day life, leading her to two very different men who both capture her heart.

The Princess, supporting role #1

Biological daughter to The Queen, The Princess has been the dark shadow thrown over the royal family since her teenage years. The rebellious royal in her youth, she is the reason journalists spend so much time trying to cast The Prince as a frivolous party boy. Though she’s redeemed herself from her former temper as an adult, her relationship with her brother is fractured due to her decision to pursue medicine instead of taking up after her mother, leaving the royal life - and her family - behind. A hard-working doctor, she spends her time attending to the less fortunate in her own way, while putting up strong walls to keep out those who would drag her back to the life she hated. 

The Queen, supporting role #2

A young woman when she gave birth to The Princess and shortly after lost her husband, The Queen is an aging matriarch slowly coming to terms with her own prejudices toward her son as a ruler and successor in place of her daughter. Though her daughter’s work as a doctor makes her proud, her disappearance from and avoidance of the family has created a strained relationship (eventually repaired in a separate plot line). While she was married and affectionate with her husband out of duty, she’d never considered remarrying at the behest of advisers, mostly because she’s a lesbian. 

[exilevilifyrp]

                                                file: introduction

full name: pyre coren age: 28 identifies with: we are not only what we’ve been before by moth and the flame genesis: organic gender: cismale (he/him) portrayal: alexander koch

                                                                              file: biography

In his adolescence, Pyre Coren would dwell on stories of heroes. They all seemed to go the same way, beginning in poverty and horror and ending in happiness and glory, and Pyre used to look at the smoke-filled sky and wish he could’ve had that version. Instead, he was granted the flip: a few years of happiness and prosperity he could not remember no matter how hard he tried, followed by a never ending parade of terror. He was born in the Heart of Wrotham to his father, a prominent figure in a corporation, and his mother, beautiful and young, happy to have something warm and beautiful to keep her company while her husband was away at work. And so was the story, until it wasn’t. “This will be wonderful for us,” Pyre’s mother smiled at him; he was four years old and seeing their dingy and crowded apartment in the Crest for the first time. His father had been let go from the corporation, and this would be their new life. “Your father will see you more, and we’ll all be happy together.”

Many spend their days pondering whether it is to be better to be lonely and wealthy or popular and poor. Pyre would answer in a single moment: the former. For a time, his mother’s optimism kept him positive about this new world. She diverted any questions Pyre had about the authenticity of the greatness of this new life: why his father reeked of alcohol, why he never really left the apartment except at night, and why she sent Pyre out so much. Pyre’s mother protected him for as long as she could from the truth: his father turning colder than ever with a new, brute violence. It began for him when he was seven, coming home from the apartment of the woman down the hall whom his mother had been paying to teach him to read. He had walked in on his mother crying, his father standing over her, one hand holding her hair and the other raised in a fist. When they saw him enter the room, his mother began begging, for him to run, for his father to leave him alone. “Your mother has let you gone soft,” he shouted at Pyre as he lay curled up in the corner later that night. “You need to learn how to be a real man.”

And try he did every moment he could to teach Pyre what it meant in his eyes to be a man. It was all violence and anger and power, and when he wasn’t learning it at home, he was being educated among the neighborhood boys he spent his days with, who demonstrated this behavior as well. Eventually, Pyre got quite good at playing along–it was better than getting a slap in the face from his father, but if being a man meant watching his mother curl up and cry every night, Pyre didn’t ever want to grow up. And yet, for all his talk to himself of being brave and standing up to his father, he still couldn’t muster the courage. All day, he would stay away, riding circles with the boys he dared to call friends, loved by them all for his loyalty to their causes, even the terrible ones, only creeping into his home when he knew his father would be gone. His mother never blamed him for it, kissing him on the forehead and ignoring his pointed look at a new bruise when he walked through the door. The guilt ate at him every time he saw her hurt; she was the one person who had ever made him feel whole, and he couldn’t ever protect her. As long as you are better than him, you can not blame yourself, she would urge Pyre, her arms wrapped around him as he cried. He would nod, only because it was easier to agree than to fight.

Pyre knew he couldn’t stay there. If he did, he would never be more than what his father was, a man cast down from society to work shady odd jobs, angry at the world for what he couldn’t control. The path to take was so obvious; it had been suggested to Pyre by most adults in his life, and was a common escape for boys like him. He needed more than fleeting moments of happiness consumed by violence, and the police force seemed to be his only opportunity for stability and structure. But, joining the military meant leaving his mother with his father, and although Pyre had never been the best at protecting her from him, once he left, she would have no one to watch over her. Leaving her to enlist was the hardest decision Pyre had to ever make, and though he never regretted leaving that world of violence, many of his last thoughts before he fell asleep in the years to come would be of her sad face the last time he ever saw her. She told him she was proud of him, and he smiled and said that he would come back for her. He wondered later if they had both been lying that day.

As it turned out, the military appeared to be just the place Pyre belonged. Although he lacked the patriotism many of the others had, he exceeded expectations for the life of poverty and minimal education he came from. Particularly impressed by his unwavering loyalty and willingness to carry out orders without question, Pyre noted all of his superiors that asked him more questions than the other trainees. One in particular practically guaranteed Pyre a future as an Overwatcher once his final test results came through, and to come later to his office to receive them in person. Who would ever think that showing up a few minutes early to a meeting with a military officer would end up crushing the second chance at life he had worked so hard for? When he arrived at the office, he had been stopped in his tracks at the sound of voices inside. Pyre should have knocked on the door or turned around and ran–another regret to add to his ever growing list, but instead he stayed and listened. The men were talking of who would move up in ranks based on family donations, who they were going to send off to the Mining Colony for questioning what they saw. It was all corruption and greed, things that disgusted Pyre to his core, things he knew immediately he shouldn’t have heard. When the words started to jumble into things he didn’t understand, something about a Myriad, Pyre finally turned to leave. But, he was caught before he could by a man leaving the office. Even after smiling the best he could, lying and saying he had just arrived and not heard a word, Pyre knew something was wrong. And sure enough, the next day his assignment came through to reflect that. Not to the Overwatchers. Instead, to a base on the edge of Crest, a life filled not with excitement and wealth, but more of the same.

At first, Pyre found himself determined to prove his superiors wrong and make them know their mistake. He volunteered himself for missions unnecessarily and followed every order he could without hesitation. And yet, he remained where he was, watching others who worked half as hard as he ever did rise up while he was lost in the dirt. As the months of service turned to long years, his life of stopping petty thieves and catching runaways convicts turned into the only constant thing he had. The letters he would send to his mother every so often dwindled from a few a month to her’s left ignored in a pile, half of them unread. The thought of returning home without fulfilling his promise to make their lives better, to see her left alone and broken, haunted him, and he while he could muster the courage to go on a man-hunt for a murderer or search burning buildings, he could not face it. He found himself wondering often why they had exiled him and not just killed him for the things he heard, and as his hope dwindled that his life could actually be great again, Pyre found himself wishing that they would have. All he really had to live for were the few and far between thrills, no family, no wealth, no nothing.

And then came the invitation to a grand building in Harbor, and a proposal that would change his world: a third chance to make his world whole.

                                                                            file: known associates

HERC RAVAN - you’ve changed a lot in the year you’ve been with the crew. however, no change was so sudden as being thrown in purgatory. in your months in the prison, you’ve grown to understand a fallen crew member, and the fact that you will never get to make things right with him eats at you the longer you go without seeing them. somehow, despite not knowing or acting like your lost crew member, you plucked herc out from the crowd as someone to support and try to understand, even if they don’t seem to understand, or always want, your help. 

                                                                        THIS CHARACTER IS TAKEN.

[singingfirefliess]

marriage of convenience; historical au

So @silversundown2​ and I were talking earlier about some random TV show and suddenly felt inspired to write a Caryl arranged marriage AU. Only she refused to write it so she basically forced me to write it instead and I still hate you a little for that.

I couldn't really come up with any scenario where anyone would arrange a marriage between them, so it became a marriage of convenience instead. This is set in the early 1900s. I hope the plot makes at least a little sense since this is so short. Here's the quick version: Carol and Daryl have known each other since childhood, he inherited a farm from Dale, she worked at Ed's family's farm and they had an affair - when she gets pregnant he throws her out. Carol asks Daryl for help (by marrying her to cover up her pregnancy and giving her a place to stay), and he agrees.

send me a caryl prompt? ❤

Carol's palms feel clammy, the lace of her wedding dress itching against her throat. She can barely breathe in it. It's too tight - even though she has not yet put on much weight, the buttons and hooks of her grandmama's dress had been a challenge.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she looks around the small and sparsely furnished living area of the house. She's been in here before, but always as a guest. Now, it's her home. Her duty is to keep it tended to now.

“Why'd'ya look so scared?” Daryl's voice startles her and she turns with a gasp she can barely hide. He looks so handsome in his suit, no matter how worn it obviously is, mended in many places. “Ain't gonna hurt ya,” he promises, shrugging his coat off and placing it over the back of a chair.

A smile curls her lips, and still she feels uneasy, her heart stuttering in her chest. “I know that,” she says softly, turning away from him again. Slowly, she trails her hand over the mantelpiece of the fireplace, weathered wood and dusty bricks rough beneath her touch.

She can hear Daryl’s heavy footsteps behind her, the floorboards creaking. “This is ya home now,” he mutters, and the idea of that still feels so foreign to her. “Don't want ya to be scared all the time.”

She wants to tell him so desperately that it's not him she's afraid of. That she trusts him. That she's beyond grateful that he agreed to this marriage - that he saved her from scrutiny and poverty.

Instead of saying all this, she gathers what little courage she as left and steps into his space. Her hands press into his solid chest, the flicker of the oil lamp shimmering in the ring he gave her earlier.

She can show him her gratitude instead. This is their wedding night after all. Even if the reasons for their marriage are far from honorable and even further from love - but how many people get the luxury of marrying out of love, anyway?

Slowly, she leans in closer, cups his warm cheek in her hand. Is ready to press her lips to his and let him take what's his right. But instead, calloused fingers curl around her wrist.

“We ain't gotta do nothin' ya don't wanna do,” he rasps, his breath warm against her skin and a shiver runs down her spine that feels unfamiliar and confusing.

Her brows crease and she lets go of him. “But I'm your wife- It's your right...” she trails off, feeling rejected and confused. “Do you not want me?” she asks, her hand hovering over her stomach - over the child that isn't his but that he willingly accepted as a condition for this marriage.

Of course he wouldn't desire her like this. Or maybe Ed was right all along when he told her how plain she was and how nobody but him would ever want to be with her. And then he hadn't wanted to be with her, after all - after she told him she was carrying his child.

Instead of a proposal, she'd gotten a palm to the cheek and had been thrown out, dismissed and cast out into the rain.

Feeling insecure she looks down at her feet, the hem of her cream colored dress kissing he wooden floor. She shudders a little when Daryl gently touches his fingers to her chin and lifts her head. “Ain't got nothin' to do with that,” he reassures her, and the half-smile he gives her is too precious to resist. “We ain't gotta rush this. No more than we already did.”

She doesn't deserve him. Doesn't deserve any kindness in return for her own youthful foolishness but here she is with a roof over her head and a kind man taking her hands in his. “Thank you, Daryl,” she breathes through the tears that dwell in her eyes. “Thank you so much.” He has done so much for her in the last month, so much more than simply agreeing to marry her to cover up the mistakes she's made. “I can't- this is more than...”

“Carol,” he interrupts her, his throat bopping as he swallows deftly. There's a nervousness to him that she knows all too well - fond memories of childhood days on her father's farm blur in her mind, a little boy ducking his head whenever she smiled at him. Never would she have thought to call that boy her husband one day. “'s all right.”

The shutters rattle in the wind, and suddenly Carol is all too aware of the slight April chill. Gooseflesh erupts on her skin, not going unnoticed as Daryl's gaze briefly flickers down to where her arms are left exposed - the silk gloves she wore earlier folded neatly on the dresser by the door.

“I made up a room for ya, down the hall,” he explains, pointing down the dimly lit hallway. “'s next ta mine.” A blush tints his cheeks in the sweetest shade of pink, and Carol can't help but smile a little even through her own nervousness. “'s got a nice view of the woods,” he continues, ducking his head before continuing. “Thought it would make a pretty nursery.”

Her heart clenches to the point of pain and she can't help the tear that spills over and trails down her cheek before soaking into the lace of her dress. He is so considerate, so unbearably kind that it's not an easy thing to accept.

“Do you really think you can accept this baby?” she asks, picturing her child in his arms, maybe outside on the porch overlooking the rich green forests and the fields. He looks up at her with an uncertain expression. When he nods, she knows it's not quite this simple, but she'll take this sign of hope.

Another thought weighs heavy on her mind, something she hasn't dared to address yet. “Will you want children of your own?” she asks with a small, fragile voice. To everyone else, the child she'll birth in a few months will be his. But it's not, and now that she's his wife she'll accept her duties.

He shrugs, letting go of her hands to bury his own in the pockets of his trousers. “Never thought about it.” There's a sadness to his voice that spikes her curiosity but she doesn't press the matter. For now, it's nothing to be concerned with. “Ain't gotta think about it now.” She nods in agreement, releasing a shuddering exhale and wiping the tear trails off her cheek. “Rest,” he murmurs, nodding towards the end of the hall. “'s been a long day. Ya look a little pale.”

For a moment, he reaches out almost as if to trail his fingers over her cheekbone but then he drops his hand again, taking a step back.

“Good night,” Carol whispers, leaning in just enough to press a light kiss to his cheek. He smells of pine and tobacco and she allows her eyes to close for a moment before pulling away.

The floorboards creak under her slow steps and when she closes the door to her new bedroom behind her, she allows her tears to fall freely.

[anastpaul]

Saint of the Day – 6 June – St Norbert – also known as St Norbert of Xanten – Bishop, Confessor, Founder, “Defender of the Eucharist” and “Apostle of the Eucharist”, Exorcist, Reformer, Preacher – (c1080 at Xanten, Germany – 6 June 1134 at Magdeburg, Germany,  relics in Prague) – Patron for peace, invoked during childbirth for safe delivery, of infertile married couples, Bohemia (Czech Republic), Archdiocese of Magdeburg, Germany – Attributes – monstrance, cross with two cross-bars.

St Norbert was a German from illustrious Frankish and Salic German stock.   Offered as a youth to the collegiate church of St. Victor in Xanten, he was educated both in literature and the ways of the court and the world.   At Xanten, he became a Subdeacon and at this period of his life, showed no inclination to pursue the dignity of the Priesthood.   Rather, St. Norbert, who was wealthy, handsome, thin and somewhat tall, sought approval in the courts of the great and of the emperor. Known to be an eloquent speaker and possessed of an affability that won him admiration and friendships, St. Norbert used these natural gifts, not to seek the glory of God but to gain the love and esteem of men.   His biographer describes him at this period before his conversion as one who “had no time for piety and quiet” and that he “lived his life according to his own desires.”

But soon life became one of interior strife for St Norbert.   He had witnessed Emperor Henry V’s mistreatment of Pope Paschal II in Rome in 1111, when he traveled there in Frederick of Cologne’s retinue.   These events left St. Norbert with a sense of uneasiness he could not dispel.   The man who had been so happy to live at court no longer felt comfortable in that atmosphere of intrigue, where the emperor’s arrogance took the place of law.   He left the court and returned to Xanten, where we find him in 1115.   In late spring of this year, St. Norbert, accompanied by a single servant, was traveling on the road to Freden when a storm suddenly came up.   A bolt of lightning struck the ground before his horse’s feet and he was thrown to the ground.   Shaken, he asked, “Lord what do you want me to do?”   In response, he seemed to hear these words from Psalm 34, “Turn from evil and do good; seek peace and pursue it.”   St. Norbert underwent a profound conversion.   Under the influence of grace and led by the Gospel, he became sure of one thing:  he wanted to put on the new man (Eph. 4:24; Col. 3:10) and live a life of perfection in the service of the Church, according to the Gospel of Christ and in the footsteps of the Apostles.

From the beginning of his conversion, St Norbert aimed at a life of priestly perfection through imitation of the Apostles.   He sought ordination to the priesthood and gave his considerable wealth to the poor, in order “that he may follow the naked cross naked”  ( Vita Norberti B, IX 22).   Inflamed with the zeal of divine fervour, St. Norbert went about with “no purse, no sandals nor two tunics,” (Mk. 6:8) proclaiming by his words and example the necessity of poverty of spirit in order to enter the kingdom of God.   As Christ had sent out his Apostles not only “to proclaim the message,” but also “to have authority to cast out demons,” (Mk. 3:15)   St Norbert was well known as an exorcist and his biographer records many instances when he was called upon to exercise this office. Regarded as a “minister of peace and concord,” he had the gift of reconciling people and establishing peace between feuding parties.   At the center of St Norbert’s spiritual life and ministry was the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.   Contrary to custom of his times, he celebrated Mass every day and it was after offering the Eucharistic sacrifice that he loved to preach, while his heart was overflowing with the love he had drawn from intimate contact with Christ.   The Acts of the Apostles record how the first Christians “devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers,” (2:42) and that “the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul” (4:32).   St Norbert sought to realise the fullness of this Apostolic ideal in the founding of a new religious family.

In 1121, St Norbert established the first monastery of our Order in Prémontré, France.   He had a great talent to speak to people, to fill people with enthusiasm for the kingdom of God, so much so that in a short period of time he was able to attract many men and women to the Apostolic Life and to start many foundations of religious communities of this “ordo novus”.   Liturgical prayer held a central place in the life of Norbert and his first companions.   The Eucharist, the heart of liturgical prayer occupied such a place at Prémontré and in the life of St. Norbert that later tradition made Norbert the Apostle of the Eucharist.   His order, the Premonstratensian or Norbertine Canons and Sisters are today in Europe, the US, Canada, South America, Zaire, South Africa, India and Australia are involved in education, parochial ministry, university chaplaincy and youth work.

In 1126, St Norbert was elected archbishop of Magdeburg, Germany.   He worked for the kingdom of God on all levels and ready to commit himself to peace and justice, did not shy away from arguments and conflicts, neither in his own diocese nor in the conflict between emperor and pope, as he courageously defended the rights of the Church.

St Norbert died on June 6th 1134, the Wednesday after Pentecost.   By order of the emperor, his body was laid at rest in Abbey Church of St. Mary’s at Magdeburg, where he had installed the confreres of his Order.   St. Norbert’s body was transferred to the Norbertine Abbey of Strahov in Prague in 1627 after numerous attempts were made over the centuries by the Abbey of Strahov in Prague to retrieve the saint’s body.   Only after several military defeats at the hand of Emperor Ferdinand II was the abbot of Strahov able to claim the body.   On 2 May 1627 the body was finally brought to Prague where it remains to this day, displayed in a glass-fronted tomb in the Royal Canonry of Strahov, Prague and is venerated by his sons and daughters from all over the world.   As mentioned above, St. Norbert is venerated as the “Apostle and Defender of the Eucharist”.   He is usually depicted with a ciborium or monstrance in his hand on account of his extraordinary devotion to the Most Blessed Sacrament.   St Norbert is also a patron of childbirth/expectant mothers, as well as traditionally invoked by married couples who want to conceive a child, with many favours attributed to his intercession.

Why is St Norbert Patron of Expectant Mothers & Infertile Married Couples?

A pious woman once approached St. Norbert asking whether she and her husband ought to separate and enter monasteries because they lived in an infertile marriage.   St. Norbert prophesied that they would be blessed with children, the first of whom would be dedicated to God.   This child, Nicholas, did indeed become a Norbertine at Prémontré.    St. Norbert is traditionally invoked for a good childbirth. The Norbertine Canonesses at Doksany (Czech Republic) in modern times promote this devotion to St. Norbert as patron of infertile couples or endangered pregnancies and report hundreds of families now blessed with children, the sisters having well over 3,000 spiritual children as of 2012.

A Prayer to St. Norbert for a Good Childbirth

St. Norbert, great and faithful servant of God! You venerated the holy and miraculous birth of our Saviour, Who His Mother, the purest Virgin Mary, conceived without the loss of her virginity and gave birth remaining a virgin. You connected the origin of the Premonstratensian Order with the day of the birth of Jesus Christ. I humbly pray to you, St. Norbert, as a great protector, so that God will give me the grace, through your intercession, to give birth to this conceived child. And so that He will give me also the grace that this child will join the Church of Christ through the sacrament of Baptism and that he/she will serve Him, Our Lord, the whole of his/her life so that in the end we both will reach eternal salvation. Through Jesus Christ, Our Lord, Amen.

(Translated from The Little Hours, 1749, by one of our Norbertine Sisters at Doksany)

[newyorktheater]

FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover sent an agent to see the out-of-town tryout of “A Raisin in the Sun” to determine if the play had Communist content. The FBI did not do this with every show that was planning to open on Broadway in 1959, but the author of this one was Lorraine Hansberry.

Hansberry is generally remembered nowadays (if at all) as the first African-American woman playwright on Broadway, the author of one of the most popular, influential and moving plays in the history of American theater. But, at the time, the FBI knew her only as a Communist. She had been under surveillance for years.

Hansberry was just 28 years old when “A Raisin in the Sun” opened on Broadway — 60 years ago next month – and lived only six more years, dying of cancer at the age of 34.  Yet her short life was extraordinarily full and varied. She was the privileged daughter of an affluent, politically active Chicago family whose father’s anti-segregation lawsuit was resolved in his favor by the United States Supreme Court. She was a radical activist and anti-colonialist who gave speeches on Harlem street corners. Her mentors included the great performer and activist Paul Robeson; Robeson founded the newspaper Freedom, where Hansberry worked as a journalist. She was an intellectual who studied with the legendary scholar and activist W.E.B. DuBois and debated with novelist Richard Wright; a bohemian who lived in Greenwich Village in an interracial marriage; a closeted but active lesbian who wrote short stories about lesbian life under a pseudonym; a celebrity who formed close friendships with both writer James Baldwin and singer Nina Simone. Her play made her so famous that the FBI backed off, according to her FBI file, “since the possibility exists that the Bureau could be placed in an embarrassing position if it became known to the press that the Bureau was investigating the subject and/or the play.”   Shortly afterwards, the State Department and JFK and RFK were inviting her to meetings in Africa and in the White House, as a representative of America or of her race. At one such meeting, she confronted Attorney General Robert Kennedy about the inaction of the U.S. government in the face of white violence in Birmingham, and urged him to make a “moral commitment” to civil rights.  Less than a month later, President John F. Kennedy gave his speech characterizing civil rights as a moral issue, and proposing what eventually became the Civil Rights Act of 1964.

Lorraine Hansberry was a remarkable woman “who has had far too little written about her, about her other work, about her life…She sparked and she sparkled,” writes Imani Perry, a professor of African American Studies at Princeton University, in Looking for Lorraine: The Radiant and Radical Life of Lorraine Hansberry

“Looking for Lorraine” is not a conventional biography, which the author acknowledges, telling us it’s “less a biography than a genre yet to be named,” and then suggesting that the book could be categorized a “third person memoir.”

Whatever else that description is supposed to mean, the book is occasionally tinted with autobiography; it could almost be entitled “Looking for Imani via Lorraine.” The author explains her feeling of personal kinship with her subject, referring to her as Lorraine rather than Hansberry throughout, and threading the narrative with parallels to her own life, including some odd coincidences:  Perry’s father, who idolized the playwright, happened to have the same birthday as Hansberry.

Why this approach matters is because the book’s focus seems to reflect the interests of its author….and Perry doesn’t seem all that interested in the theater. Fewer than 15 percent of the book’s 204 pages are devoted to “Raisin” and Hansberry’s other plays, “The Sign in Sydney Brustein’s Window,” “Les Blancs,” and “To Be Young, Gifted and Black” (which her ex-husband put together posthumously from her writings.)  We get just scrimpy or scattered recaps of the plots, usually recounted not for the pleasure of their stories but as illustration of some larger analysis of Hansberry’s life or beliefs, and we learn little about how they were written and next to nothing about how they were staged.

The book offers what feel like perfunctory versions of the dramatic moments that theatergoers have come to expect in a biography of a theater artist.  Ok, these moments may all be clichés – landing on the inspiration, struggling with the script, putting together the creative team, scrounging for financing, the anxiety of opening night, the standing ovation, the rave reviews, the portrait at Sardis(?) — but what  theater lover can resist them?  And they are especially savory in “A Raisin in the Sun,” given what seemed initially as the insurmountable challenge of mounting on Broadway an unprecedented serious dramatic play about black life by the first-ever black female writer, a black director, and 10 out of 11 black cast members.  We get the fuller flavor of these theatrical moments in “Lorraine Hansberry: Sighted Eyes/Feeling Heart,”a 2017 documentary (currently available on Kanopy, a streaming service that is free to anybody with a public library card.) Ironically, Imani Perry is one of the talking heads in that documentary.

Perry would surely maintain that Hansberry was more than just a playwright, and that the rest of her life and work has been ignored.  That may be why, for example, Perry seems to communicate more enthusiasm for Hansberry’s unknown essays and short stories on lesbian themes and characters. But Hansberry’s plays were certainly a part of her life; indeed, it shouldn’t be controversial to argue they were a central part.

Still, though they’re not emphasized, there are enough passages in “Looking for Lorraine” to piece together a portrait of the artist as a young playwright.  She was seven years old when her family moved into a house in a white neighborhood,  which led to attacks by an angry white mob; one thug threw a chunk of cement through the window that barely missed Lorraine’s head; it was thrown with such force that it lodged in the living room wall.  Hansberry wrote about this moment numerous times in fictional form, and it seems obvious it helped inspire her first play. As a student at the (nearly all white) University of Wisconsin at Madison, she read and performed in plays (such as Federico Garcia Lorca’s Yerma) and was especially taken with Sean O’Casey’s “Juno and the Paycock,” noting (as Perry puts it) that playwright’s “poetry in everyday expression.” She early on wanted to be a visual artist – she took painting classes at a summer art program after her sophomore year in the “bohemian enclave” of Ajijic, Mexico — and her stage directions are “works of art” that “beg to be painted, hence the magnificent stills that remain from the Broadway production.”

Hansberry felt it a fault in “A Raisin in the Sun” that it has no central character (Perry disagrees: “Master of the ensemble form was perhaps her greatest gift.”) But the playwright made an interesting comparison between her character Walter Lee Younger and Arthur Miller’s character Willy Loman in “Death of a Salesman.” Perry cites an essay that Hansberry wrote, “Willie [sic] Loman, Walter Younger and He Who Must Live.” Perry says that the appeared in the New York Times.  This is not only a mistake —  it was actually published in the Village Voice, on August 12, 1959 – it’s a missed opportunity to offer one more aspect of Hansberry’s personality, given the back story of the essay, as recounted by Raisin’s producer Philip Rose in his 2001 memoir “You can’t do that on Broadway! : A raisin in the sun and other theatrical improbabilities

The New York Times requested an essay on any subject from Hansberry, but after she handed it in, the Times main critic Brooks Atkinson edited it in a way that incensed her, and she refused to allow the paper to publish it.   The Voice found out about the story, and offered to print the original version in its entirety.

It is an exquisitely insightful essay, which, among other things, points out why it is that only one critic saw the connection between Willy Loman and Walter Younger – too many still see any black man as an exotic.

“We have grown accustomed to the dynamics of ‘Negro’ personality as expressed by white authors. Thus de Emperor, de Lawd and of course Porgy still haunt our frame of reference when a new character emerges,” referring to The Emperor Jones, The Green Pastures, and Porgy and Bess. America, she continues, “long ago fell in love with the image of the simple, lovable and glandular ‘Negro.” We all know that Catfish Row was never intended to slander anyone; it was intended as a mental haven for readers and audiences who could bask in the unleashed passions of those ‘lucky ones’ for whom abandonment was apparently permissible…Nobody really finds oppression and/or poverty tolerable. If we ever destroy the image of the black people who do supposedly find those things tolerable in America, then that much-touted ‘guilt’ which allegedly haunts most middle class white Americans with regard to the Negro question would become unendurable. It would also mean the death of a dubious literary tradition, but it would undoubtedly and more significantly help toward the more rapid transformation of the status of a people who have never found their imposed misery very charming.”

These elegant, erudite, well-reasoned and angry sentences – none of which are quoted in “Looking for Lorraine” — demonstrate Hansberry’s equally masterful command of the history of American theater and of American racial attitudes, and why her activism and her intellect and sexuality and her playwriting are all together, inseparable, in this one woman who made such a difference.

  Looking for Lorraine: The Radiant and Radical Life of Lorraine Hansberry FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover sent an agent to see the out-of-town tryout of “A Raisin in the Sun” to determine if the play had Communist content.

[books-n-wine]

~**~ ARC Review: Tangled in Texas (Texas Rodeo #2) by Kari Lynn Dell ~**~

***4.5 “I seem to have run out of f*cks to give” Stars***

~ 4 Stars for Delon & Tori’s journey,  .5 Stars for Shawnee, Beni, Fudge and Muella ~

After finishing Reckless in Texas there was no doubt in my mind that I’d be picking up the next book in the series. I loved the writing and characters that populated it. Admittedly I wanted Wyatt to be next up on the chopping block because, well, it’s Wyatt, but was more than happy to see what Fate would throw Delon’s way after what happened to him and I wasn’t disappointed. Tangled in Texas is more than a simple second chance romance, it’s about two people coming to terms with what Fate has thrown at them and deciding if they will take make a concerted effort to live the life they want or not.

With his bronc riding future up in the air, the family he’s made with the Jacobs clan changing it’s composition and his uncertainty of his place at Sanchez Trucking, the family business, Delon feels as if his entire world is crashing down around him and turns him into someone even he doesn’t recognize. It took me a while to warm up to Delon, I understood and empathized with the uncertainty he felt about where he was in his life, but man could he hold on to a funk like a pro. Thankfully he does pull his head out of his ass with a little help from outside forces, it’s a slow and painful process, but it happens and what is uncovered is a sweet, thoughtful, sexy man who will go that extra mile for those he cares about.

Tori has spent the majority of her life being viewed through the lens of those she is connected to instead of for who she is on her own. She has accepted that fact and rolled with it, but has also made sure to march to the beat of her own drum when she could. With the unexpected death of her husband, she has decided that it is finally time to truly stand on her own two feet and live the life she wants. I adored Tori. She was sweet, outspoken and I loved how she was doing the things that made her soul happy as she works to figure out just who she is and where she wants to be.

This is a second chance romance, but if you are expecting, and wanting, any sort of insta-ness to happen then you’ll be sorely disappointed. What goes on between Delon and Tori falls firmly on the slow burn side of the coin and I quite frankly loved that fact. They both had things they needed to sort through and were in no way ready for a romantic relationship, but thanks to their professional relationship they have the opportunity to get to know who the other is now and find that the connection they felt all those years ago hasn’t disappeared and that they really like who the other is now. But as with their first go around, communication is not their strong point, thankfully they have quite a few people ready to step in and kick some sense into them when they didn’t know they needed it. They both make mistakes and end up doing stupid things, but I loved how things worked out in the end.

As with the first book, I loved the supporting cast of characters, but my favorite this time around was Shawnee (I really do want to be her when I grow up, though I think we’ll leave the roping to her). Her lack of edit button and telling it like it is was a breath of fresh air and I am thrilled that we’ll be getting her book next. Beni was precocious as ever and Fudge and Muella’s antics had me chuckling. Wyatt, who was my favorite from Reckless, does get a little page time in this one and yet still made an impact. I loved getting to know Gil better, spending time with the Jacobs clan, and meeting Tori’s family.

The writing was engaging and though the pacing at times dragged a bit due to the inner monologuing of the characters, I can’t help but respect the author’s dedication to giving the characters time to grow and figure things out in a realistic way. While I’m not well versed in all that goes into the various rodeo events and will admit that some things went right over my head, but it’s obvious Ms. Dell knows her stuff (check out her FB page if you don’t believe me) but also knows how to bring it to vibrant life on the page. If you’re looking for a slow burn, character driven cowboy romance with well developed characters that you won’t want to say goodbye to when the book ends, then give this series a go because you won’t be sorry

~ Copy provided by the author via NetGalley ~

It took 32 seconds to end his career. But it only took 1 to change his life.

Thirty-two seconds. That’s how long it took for Delon Sanchez’s life to end. One minute he was the best bronc rider in the Panhandle and the next he was nothing. Knee shattered, future in question, all he can do is pull together the pieces…and wonder what cruel trick of Fate has thrown him into the path of his ex, the oh-so-perfect Tori Patterson.

Tori’s come home after her husband’s death, intent on escaping the public eye. It’s just her luck that Delon limps into her physical therapy office, desperate for her help. All hard-packed muscle and dark-eyed temptation, he’s never been anything but a bad idea. And yet, seeing him again, Tori can’t remember what made her choose foolish pride over love…or why, with this second, final chance to right old wrongs, the smart thing would be to run from this gorgeous rodeo boy as fast as her boots can take her.

Book Summary

Genre: Contemporary Western Romance

Published By: SourceBooks Casablanca

Release Date: February 7th, 2017

Series: Texas Rodeo #2

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Kari Lynn Dell is a native of north central Montana, a third generation ranch-raised cowgirl, horse trainer and rodeo competitor, most recently the 2013 Canadian Senior Pro Rodeo Association Breakaway Roping Champion. She attended her first rodeo at two weeks old and has existed in a state of horse-induced poverty ever since. She currently resides on the family ranch on the Blackfeet Reservation, loitering in her parents’ bunkhouse along with her husband, son and Max the Cowdog, with a tipi on the front step, a view of Glacier National Park from her writing desk and Canada within spitting distance.

Come visit at Kari Lynn Dell.com, hear what's next on the publication front, learn firsthand about ranch life on the east slope of Rockies and laugh at the tales of woe and wonder that come with living on the northern frontier. Really, someone should be filming this stuff. Occasionally, we do.

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