#not the idea that its a whimsical name for something mundane

[dustedmagazine]

Spice World — There’s No I In Spice World (Meritorio/Tenth Court)

There's No I In Spice World by Spice World

Spice World comes alive in starts and stops. “What a Pity What a Shame,” the first song on the band’s debut LP, crawls its way forward at a snoring tempo, dozing off to sleep and then snapping back awake like it’s lounging on the living room couch. And in fact it was written on one, late at night in the house that guitarists Jonny Burrows and Lyndon Blue share in Fremantle, Australia, where the album was also recorded. The song could be mistaken for just getting going, or finally petering out, at least a dozen times during its five-plus minutes: its intertwining acoustic guitars starting their short climb and then collapsing into final-sounding strums, the skeletal, ticking drums going momentarily still and then picking up again. “Oh what a pity, what a shame. You barely made it to the starting lane,” Burrows and Blue sing in sighing, off-kilter unison in the chorus, their way of acknowledging, perhaps, the song’s strong aversion to steady motion.

The band, which also consists of Julia Suddenly, Rhian Todhunter and Layla Martin, got off to a similarly fitful start. Originally forming as a quartet in early 2021 (with Martin joining more recently), Spice World played a single but well-received show in Perth before drummer Suddenly had to return to Melbourne, all the way on the other side of the continent. Band activities were mostly put on hold, as a result, until about a year later, when she returned over the Christmas holiday and they decided to document the band’s songs. And so, with limited time before Suddenly was due to leave again — and even less recording experience — Spice World took the live approach to recording their debut album, capturing 10 tracks in just five hours and bottling the ramshackle synergy that had made their first show so special. 

The result of that recording session, There’s No I In Spice World, is the sound of dolewave colliding with the K Records spirit. There’s just something about the enthusiastically scrappy manner in which these songs are delivered, and the homespun warmth of the recording, that brings visions of Beat Happening — and the enduring DIY label’s early years, in general — to mind. The pleasingly clunky drumming, the unselfconsciously off-key vocals, the party-in-the-living-room vibe of the thing — it’s all very 1980s Olympia. But Spice World will no doubt remind you even more of the many disaffected jangle bands pouring out of Australia in the early 2010s, especially Lower Plenty and Bitch Prefect, with their offhanded musings on everyday mundanity and the ways one might escape it. Like on “Dying To Go,” when Burrows, in their endearingly nasal tone, ponders “spicing up” their life by faking their own death so they can leave the drudgery of the daily grind behind (the idea hits them while they're struggling to get moving with their day and jamming to some Spice Girls, hence the band name). “Where'd Jonny go, I haven’t seen them in a while?” they envision everyone wondering when they disappear, their bandmates’ voices all piling on top of one another to help pose the question. It’s the dolewave ethos of “less work and more play” taken to an absurdist extreme. 

As shambly and whimsical as these songs are on the surface, they also hit with surprising poignancy at times. “Mountain Pony 20,” the album’s most downbeat offering as well as its best, epitomizes this. On first impression, the song’s wilting guitar work and simple, shaky beat lend it an underbaked aura. But give it a few replays, and some time to settle between your ears, and you’ll find that it packs the kind of gut punch you’d more expect from someone like Townes Van Zandt. Beginning with a lyric about getting high on the couch, “Mountain Pony 20” slowly reveals itself as a meditation on an incongruous relationship, where the couple in question can’t even agree on the color of the mold on a loaf of bread. In the chorus, Burrows’ narrator is confronted by their partner with the question of whether they believe in love. “Because I’m not wasting all my time with you if you don’t,” they warn him. Burrows’ answer, delivered atop the flagging thump of the bass drum as the song is winding down, doubles as a withering self-realization: “Don’t give (your love) to me cuz I’ll tear it down / If you give it to me, I’m going to tear it down,” they sing, and it feels like the ground being pulled out from underneath you.

 Elsewhere, “Trouble” is as relatable a song as you’re likely to encounter about the modern malaise. It’s a midtempo jangler, like most of There’s No I In Spice World, but distinguishes itself with the addition of Blue’s violin playing, giving it some high-lonesome shading. Over its verses, “Trouble” unfurls its list of the many things that Burrows is having a hard time with these days ranging from the everyday (“staying away from the screen”), to the interpersonal (“trying to love you”), to the existential (“trying to see an end”). It might have been easier, and no less accurate, for them just to say everything, but that would be missing the point: shit’s hard right now, man, and we’re all feeling it. Metaphorically at least, Burrows seems to acknowledge this when they sing about walking by a friend’s house that’s “overgrown” and “falling down.” Spice World, on the other hand, seem to have found strength in the struggle on There’s No I In Spice World and it’s a beautiful thing. What’s harder to gauge, based on the band’s minimal web presence and general modus operandi, is whether this is the end or just the beginning? 

Chris Liberato

[abyssalpriest]

8/12/23

Commentary on a place in Lev's mindapace.

There's a particular valley. Do you remember the first time you ever stood in front of a plane? It's one thing to see them in the sky, tiny, whimsical, but your first holiday where you stand in front of one of them, after the long journey out to it, where it hums and breathes and it becomes not just a fun idea but a grounded machine, huge, present, looming, real, its wings dwarfing all your imagined preconceptions with their heavy, outstretched reality? This valley stretches like that. Holds like that. Great mountains stand like a distant jury of gods, moss browns all over, rich rocks, wind-worn yet fertile, pregnant with bitter cold.

The flat valley fills the gap like the courtroom silence.

Running down the middle of this flat valley is a thin stream, no raging river; it's a whisper compared to the chatter of a busy street. I've always wondered why it was so thin. He often meets me beside it, in fact I don't think I've been anywhere else in these mountains and valley... Cloud-grey rocks smooth and slate-like - flat - interspersed with other shades of mundanity. Tiniest little hardy grasses, or something, small specks of life burning with the Name of his lover.

It's so cold, but it isn't. It feels like how the ocean feels to him, when I've possessed his body and found that the depths of cold and the heights of heat mean little more than suggestions to him. It feels like the sky.

There, that mountain, looking out to a direction that means nothing to you, the reader, that mountain on the left. That's the one, in my head at least, that I see that sacred vision: He lies over it propped up by swords piercing through his back, pieta-esque if he were Jesus and the mountain Mary and yet not, because they don't touch except where his legs drape within her, the tense friction of metal holds him above her so that they could not touch. The handles are decorated with some sort of red tassels, or something, ceremonial...

It's always been in the back of my mind though, the lingering question of why, in this expansive valley, wider than any valley I've ever seen, this stream is so thin and shallow. Maybe up to my ankle, maybe almost as wide as I am tall... Why? Glacially cold, air-clear, thread-like. A creaking mountain of ice haunts this place, a mountain of ice and restraint; I say that, I see Lev strung up by the hands vividly but in little detail beyond abstract Bacon-esque suggestions of a solemn, physically taut and twisted form... It isn't tragic, nor is it in any way painful, though. It is like mellification or self-immolation: beautiful, sustained, preserved, meditative-blissful, it is like ice, isn't it. To be the piercingly cold Day sky and its entourage of cloud-bodies - the rain picks up heaviness outside my physical window as I type - to slowly melt and drip with such self-restraint... His connection to her is the devotion of a monk to his monastery, his people, and his God.

[enha-woodzies]

➸ CHAPTER 5 | " ILLICIT AFFAIRS "

starring: enhypen ft. i-land daniel

pairing: jungwon x fem!reader x sunghoon

genres: royal au, romance, angst, slowburn, 18th century setting

word count: 1.8k

taglist: @serendipitysung @angeljungwon @en-sun @affectionaterainoflove @renkiv @softforjungwoo @jislix @fluffi @gyeraniee @stxrryemxlys

[ PREV. CHAPTER ] | [ M. LIST ] | [ NEXT CHAPTER ]

“The morning sun has come, and the evening moon is gone. Dearlings, I am elated to apprise you of the events at the debutantes’ ball that occurred as of late, and must I warn you, they're not for the feeble spirits!

The ton is abuzz with the most beefy tale as Northumberland’s jewel among the lovely rocks, Miss Y//n Park, has earned herself a ticket to glory! She danced with the most favored noblemen in the ton and surely, she went home with a hearty grace as she'll most likely expect an abundant roster of suitors in the following days.

Not only was she offered a dance by our dear second-born, Lord Yang, but she also had the privilege and pleasure to be twirled around the court by the most charming, Lord Lee, and the ever coveted nobleman among the ton, Lord Park, the next-in-line Duke of Northumberland!

Where's the beef you might ask? Well, it seems to me that these men are blindfoldedly playing fire with each other.

Not only does Lord Lee has women wrapped easily around his fingers, he has men too! With a sly steal of Miss Y/n’s hand from Lord Yang last night, he certainly left the chap earnestly plotting for a segue of intrusion- and Lord Yang intriguingly delivered!

With the timing in its most opportune, Lord Yang managed to finally dance with the young miss, in private! Ooh! This is new! My senses told me they spent their waltz in the Queen’s library, alone! How in the world did they let this happen to the ton’s jewel unchaperoned? That is something the Daily Tattle is unfortunately unable to unearth, but the mystery will continue to haunt us for long. Do take note: the more you hide in careful secret, the more people will know and hear about it.

What happened next will have you either boggled, or enchanted! The young lord abruptly rushed out the room before the music even ended! Should that be counted as a waltz at all? Before you ask about the enchanting part, Miss Y/n was seen dashing out the room moments later in tears and evident heartache. What do you think happened in the mere minutes of alone time in that large 4-cornered room?

But come now, enchanting stories aren't as they are without a knight in shining armor. In fact, in our young miss’ case, her knight wasn't clad in shining, silver sheath, but in magnificent and elegant, vintage red tailcoat draped over a loose white jabot shirt that’s cleanly tucked into the black, satin knee breeches, finished off with a pair of shiny Hessian boots. With skin as white almost akin to snow, it complemented perfectly with his ravishing fit. The beautiful marquess certainly dressed himself valiantly for the seasonal occasion. With that stunning presence, anyone would surely presume he went to the ball looking like a duke in careful search of a duchess.

Lord Park and Miss Y/n surprisingly became one of the ball’s highlights as they graced the Royal Court with the most heart-stopping, corset-itching, tantalizing waltz. All the while their faces are almost an inch apart from each other, a brooding identity was found hiding in the crowded corner of the hall! Under the bright gleam of the grand chandeliers, our dearest second-born, Lord Yang, was seen eyeing the two with such stare that even the buffy slice of vanilla cake on Lord Sunoo’s plate could almost melt in a blink of an eye!

Among the splendid tales told by yours truly, which tea do you think tastes like sweet ecstasy of oddity and fervor? It is the ton's tradition to portend the lady’s endgame by the person whom she had her last waltz with. From one man to another, should these prophecies dictate Miss Y/n Park’s fate?

Well, don't turn your heads away now! The story's just begun.”

The mid-morning sunrays peek through the large leaves and busty trunks of the hibernating redwood trees lining in disarray. Y/n is just about to plummet into her habitual readings in the Kielder forest and the autumnal breeze is keeping up with her bubbly morning approach, fortunately.

The sounds of the birds chirping and the dead leaves crunching under her shoes creep up through her puff sleeves making her tingle in giddiness and enthusiasm. She deeply inhales the aromatic forest and lets out a giggle in the process. With jumpy leaps and crispy leaves echoing in her every move, the young lady surely knows where she's going in this partly mysterious forest that is most often open only to men and men alone.

Somewhere deep in the evergreen woods, Y/n has built a fortress of her own for whenever she needs to run away from the seldom, mundane life in the manor. At the heart of Northumberland's famous Kielder Forest, lies a small, whimsical looking fort made up of translucent voile casually hanging on a tree branch. One of her lady maids helped her out with the fabric one time and it still stood prettily among the chaotic scenes that go around in the forest today.

She enters her slightly sheer fort and sits down on a pillow that she stole away from the comforts of her bedroom. Flipping the olden pages of the aged Jane Austen book she borrowed from a boy several years back, she heaves a sigh at the sight of a dead Catalpa flower resting on a particular page accompanied by a little, worn out parchment dating back to when she was a tiny ten-year-old lassie. She reads,

Her eyes drifted over the page to where the note and the old flower were situated. The pads of her fingers graze over the certain phrases that were underlined by the book's owner that says, “I cannot make speeches. If l loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am.一 You hear nothing but truth from me.一”

She suddenly feels a gush of nostalgia and loneliness upon muttering the words she had ultimately carved in her tongue way back; reciting each word with fervor while she bask herself under the brightly-lit moonlight in their garden. How can children of ten gobble up such emotions at once? So much for a pair of hopeless romantic hearts from the distant years of ten, screaming disagreements and would later huddle on a sprawled out table cloth on the flowery fields, exchanging sentimental poesies and stolen stares.

She relives the brief moments they both shared last night in the Queen’s library, and ponders on how one could be so adjacent to the changing of tides in the sea; promptly, and mostly without warning.

“Well, well, well. If it isn't the feelings I've been trying to avoid.” She whispers to the autumn air. Unfortunately, her pondering truncates as snaps of twigs and crisps off dried leaves echoes in her corner. She hastily crawls out her hand-made canopy and brushes away any pieces of tiny crumpled leaves off her dress.

“What are you doi-”

“Who are you?” She cuts off the startled chap cladded in ragged clothing, apparently embodying that of a mainland farm boy.

“Greetings, your ladyship. I come in peace and I am just here to fetch the chopped woods I’ve laboured a day prior for the farm.” The chap with a very odd accent replies with both hands hanging mid-air. “You are fully aware that you shouldn't be in this place, especially unchaperoned, right?” He continues.

“I am fully aware. But such matters shouldn't concern you.”

“Indeed, my apologies. Furthermore, I will respect your unspoken wishes if it is truly your desire to keep your whereabouts hidden from your townspeople. My lady.”

Y/n relaxes from her bold stance as she found a hint of kindness from the odd stranger. Surprisingly, she extends her hand out to the stranger for a greeting.

“Please. Call me Y/n instead.” The boy looks at her open palm for half a minute before shaking it, looking as equally surprised as the young miss with the sudden gesture.

“You live pretty far from the town, huh?”

“I do. Life's utterly chaotic over on your end?”

“Oh, you don't have the slightest idea.” They both share laughters and inside jokes of their own livelihood that made the young miss settle her shoulders down comfortably.

“I'm Jake Sim. Just Jake Sim. Apparently, my name was originally Jaeyun, but the farm folks got used with Jake and so did I. They said it sounds more Australian.”

“Why would they associate your name with something Australian?” Y/n grew more curious as it was, after all, the first time she's ever been with a person that's not of Northumberland's proper.

“I grew up in Australia.”

“That's curious. How did an Australian boy land among the ragged farms of Europe?”

“It's complicated. The story involves a lot of conspiracies so it's definitely not for your ears. Some other time, maybe?” Y/n smirks at the sudden brazenness from her newly found acquaintance.

“Is this an Australian thing where we shift from acquaintanceship to something more?” She teases.

“Certainly, if you're down to it on your next Kielder visit?”

“For sure. But as for now, I must take my leave. My presence is very much needed for the promenade scheduled for me today.” Y/n half-covers her mouth as if reaching out for a whisper, hissing the last sentence.

“Ah! Rich people things that I could never.” The chap could only roll his eyes at the fancy thought.

“See you soon, Just Jake Sim!”

“Where have you been, princess?” The young miss scoffs at the marquess upon arriving at the town’s park, with a hand immediately sliding through Lord Park’s arm.

“Down with the flirtatious remarks now, aren't we? I went to promenade with myself, Your ever handsome Grace.” Sunghoon smirks at her tiny, playful whispers against his shoulders. They go around and about, traipsing along the cemented pavements as they give away acknowledging nods and polite smiles to whomever wants their brief attention.

The ton is still in amazed shock at the possibility of these two ending up with a ring on a finger. Everyone was subtly betting for Jungwon but as a result of his loss, a much better gent carried his girl off the floor. Something he let himself do, out of cowardice perhaps, or out of pride.

“Remind me the point of all this?” Y/n carefully whispers to Sunghoon.

“To make your man jealous and spit out his genuine sentiments in the process, as well as an advantage for me as we get to keep the marriage-minded mothers of the ton at bay. Now, all we have to do is smile, nod, and appear madly in love with each other if this is to work. Is it clear enough for you?” He jerks a brow at her paired with the most charming smirk he could ever expose.

“Crystal.”

*send me an ask or a message if you wish to be added on this series' taglist!

ㅡ © ENHA-WOODZIES, 2021

[livlepretre]

hi, i'm a big-time fan of FE and always end up rereading my favorite parts every month or so <3 i was just wondering if you had influences for writing the fic, plot-wise and/or stylistically?

oh wow, thank you, that is so unbelievable!! 💜🌷💜🌷

I think at this point it would be fair to say that all of the books I've really loved have influenced this fic-- I remember when I started writing it, I was really focusing on the idea of wanting to write Madame Bovary but make it gothic-- not in the sense of the plot being similar to Madame Bovary, but wanted to write something similar in the sense of the realism of the prose, of getting down to the details both significant and utterly mundane and presenting the bizarre reality of this fic with an investigative realist brush-- including the feelings. But influences are a funny thing. I'm rereading 100 Years of Solitude for the first time in a decade, and it keeps striking me how much that novel has sunk into my psyche-- so many of the long and whimsical descriptions in FE, especially in the scenes where Elena gets to explore, feel lifted from the tone and narrative attitude of that novel-- and I would never have guessed that before this reread. Other than that, I think any of the novels I've mentioned by name in the fic were mentioned because they had stuck with me and were informing my writing style. I really parse novels apart when I read them-- looking carefully at how authors start sentences (always the bane of my existence), what gets included in paragraphs, what details excite me when I read-- and of course, I do this with fic as well. Anything by Herself is undeniably an influence, especially for the emotional stuff, and dealing with ambiguous emotions, and the action sequences were all pretty much lifted from studying how Mercurie writes about those things. As far as other stuff goes, I do remember having an epiphany back in 2018 when I was reading SJ Maas's Throne of Glass series, which often makes me ugly sob, that it was okay to just be really emotionally open and vulnerable in the writing-- to let the characters say and do and think the most extreme and violent feelings, so long as they felt true, and that I could just sort of let go of worrying that my prose were too sappy so long as I myself got something from it-- that was a big turning point for sure. Finally, the structure of the show itself usually does a lot to help me figure things out-- I really really like fics that play with the mechanisms of the show universe and take those to their logical extreme-- so, for example, in TVD, there are a few rules that seem to be true, at least about the early season: 1) the characters are going to get a lot of their information from diaries, so there's an inherently almost epistolary element to the narrative 2) plot twists-- but usually twists that simply involve taking an arbitrary assumption by the audience and turning it on its head (examples would be assuming Katherine must be in the tomb, or assuming that Elena is Katherine's doppelganger, but of course, they're both doppelgangers) 3) any overpowered magical artifact should (generally) be introduced well ahead of its moment 4) once something awful and terrible is introduced as a possibility (the sacrifice, the veil being dropped), it has to happen -- taking these premises and just twisting them about has given me a lot of the structure and rules I needed to figure out how the plot would go, once paired off with all of the emotional elements

[theholycovenantrpg]

In the beginning was RAPHAEL, an ANGEL loyal to the cause of the ANGELS. He is said to be IMMORTAL and uses HE/HIM pronouns. In this New Testament he serves as a MEMBER of the VIRTUES. Blessed be his name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

They say that he is intoxicating to be around -- enthralling in the way that he approaches all things, his mere presence instilling in those who are enraptured by it something akin to an almost demented sense of beatific awe. When he was anointed the Virtue of Fortitude, though, it seemed that something more was allotted to him; his healing abilities were amplified to the point where he is able to discern what ails a person, whether it be mentally, physically, or emotionally. If he is wrathful, it is said to be amplified ten-fold and those who have borne witness to the unfortunate occurrences often find it too difficult to recount; since that is the case, they seem to miss the curl at the edge of his lips that whispers of something unsettling. However, if he is in a benevolent mood he is said to be able to take the burdens of the pain away -- being bestowed with his presence becomes a reprieve. This innate ability, paired with his gifts for healing, are why he is largely popular with the mortals of the Holy Land. For this brief period of time, at least.

THE HISTORY.

There was something beautiful to be found within suffering -- the way the tip of the nose flushes red, the way that tears clung to lashes like fresh morning dew, the way that the heart seemed to stutter and skip in tandem with the great heaving breaths that were taken when air seemed to forsake their lungs. As Raphael looked on from his lofty view, he couldn’t help but think of the beauty that there was to be found within suffering. Of course, he knew nothing of it; only the hypotheticals, the chemical reactions it evoked within the brain, how some of it was physical, other such variations were emotional and still others were of the mental variety. God had placed His hand upon His son’s shoulder, the two of them watching on in their gilded kingdom -- enraptured by the agony that the mortals placed on themselves. Raphael never thought to question why God, in all His goodness, would allow such things, no, he was far more fascinated by the lengths they would go in order to avoid it -- or inflict it, if they felt so inclined. What a sweet sigh issued forth from him as he thought of the a million and one ways in which he could aid them in the avoidance, and a million more to make them suffer all the more. He wondered if their tears were as decadent as they seemed, if their cheeks were warmed to the touch when slick with tears. Alas, all he could do was look on and wonder.

What excitement charged through his ichor-laden veins once God allowed him to step foot upon the earth -- how eager he was for the cacophony of agony and suffering to ring in his ears, a more beautiful hymn than that which the choir of angels sung. He looked upon the mortal faces, eager to see unfold the great suffering and tragedy that seemed to cling to them closer than their own shoulders; what a disappointment it was to see something far more tedious paint across their faces. The terror at bearing witness to a celestial soul, the beatific awe that would appear on their faces once they realized that from a creature such as he, there was only the salvation of God to follow. It seemed like something of a cruel joke when any notion of suffering was wiped away as soon as he intoned the words of God and placed his hands upon their frail, fleshy frames. Still, though, he held onto the hope that God would demand of him something more stirring than the healings that he was so frequently told to perform. There were those among the heavenly ranks that were harbingers of death, that made for themselves infamy and curried among the mortals terror and fear; they were the cause of the salted tears that fell upon their cheeks, of the moaning, wailing, and grinding of teeth that were so lauded about. What did he offer but farcical acts that were meant to be displays of God’s favor and love? What did he offer but anecdotes of whimsical performances that only served to gild the name of a self-important God?

The centuries began to bleed into one another, an endless torrent of mediocrity and boredom where nothing of import was required of him except to laud the ways of a creator that was far less intriguing than He painted Himself to be. And still, he watched from his lofty place in the gilded kingdom as they murdered one another, as they rent themselves apart in determination to place themselves upon a throne that was far above their reach. It was then that he began to wonder if he might stir his brothers in much the same manner, if they might be fallible enough to do as the mortals as wont to do; if they might tear themselves apart in the hopes of some inane idea of power, righteousness, and glory. They were none the wiser as he placed a few carefully chosen words in their ear, weaving the idea of revolt into their conversations as a snake might weave through the grass -- slickly, subtly. The flames of his brothers’ anger were easy to flame, the embers long ago planted by their Father’s pride and self-important glory they were all forced to bend a knee to. He all but placed the sword in Michael’s hand, all but ripped his Father from the throne himself. What a satisfying thing it was to have God look him in the eyes and know that He had incurred His own ruin. That ruin just so happened to also be called Raphael.

When the world remade itself into something far greater -- far more chaotic, far more vicious -- he could not help but pause to admire his own handiwork; the sun rose and set in the manner that it did because of him, the earth was painted awash in its vibrant away of colors because of him, and the mortals that now fancied themselves as something powerful were only considered gifted because of him and the mechanisms of his enigmatic mind. But he finds that, with the peace that the world sits on the brink of, there is the threat of mundanity lording over him once more. There will still be the tragedy and suffering that he so loves, but it will not be at the scale that it once was. The mortals will no longer be sharpening their knives to claw at the angels, the demons will no longer goad the mortals. There will soon be no bloodshed, no wails of sorrow and cries of agony for him to listen for -- no, there would only be the gentle sigh of a world at rest and the soft laughter of euphoria pouring in through his window. The thought of falling into the mind-numbing harmony that they so long for is a tragedy that he isn’t interested in. It has been quite some time since he has bothered to dip his hands in blood, whether it be celestial or mortal, but he takes no issue in the thought of it. There was something beautiful, after all, about suffering -- and incredibly intoxicating about knowing that he is the one who inflicts it.

THE CONNECTIONS.

MICHAEL & GABRIEL: The Archangels. They were known as the three Archangels in the old world - famed and venerated. A soldier, a messenger, and a healer. They are brothers in every sense of the word: bickering over the smallest of things, needling one another, but loving one another all the same. Though, as of late, Raphael has noted a rift between them, the root of it lies within their differing loyalties -- though Raphael has always made a note to keep his opinions rather close to the chest, instead belaying any need for honesty by offering his considerations of both sides of whatever arguments may occur. Although, in truth, chasm is a more accurate word to describe it than rift. Before, their arguments would end in jest, but now Raphael has observed that each one seems to drive Michael and Gabriel further and further apart. He does not much mind the fact that they seem to be set upon their differing path -- what intrigues him is how the two others might fracture and decimate themselves from within without one another. Perhaps he is curious to see just how volatile their age-old friendship is, what it might take to weave them together and drive them into unforgivable furies. In truth, there is no end to the immeasurable excitement that he thinks this new age might bring. 

ROMILDA ALTIER: Galatea. From her, he is determined to carve the most intricate corruption so that others might behold its beauty. She came to him of her own free will, chin held high, eyes blazing with poorly disguised contempt for him and his celestial nature. But still, she was determined to make something of the Gift that she had been given, was determined to render the powers that were comparable to that of a lioness into something more gentle in nature -- coaxing it into the nature of a lamb. He would indulge her, of course, would let her think that angelic nature was something much more serene in its nature. But beneath the serene waters is something far more terrifying than even could conjure in her nightmares. Slowly -- carefully -- he seeks to see how that light within her might scorch the earth, might raze what creation has wrought. From her, he will bring forth the beauty that stirs within one a primordial fear, from her he will bring forth machinations that the likes of the long-dead God could never have hoped to bear witness to. 

ABADDON: Blight. It is very rare that he leaves himself unguarded -- but it is just so utterly captivating, witnessing utter helplessness. He had seen it once, a particularly wiry little angel had left his flank open and what was Raphael to do with the opportunity but teach him a lesson he might never forget? And so he had done as any seeking to reinforce the strength of another might do and allowed himself to fall into a frenzy that the poor welp might never forget. In doing so, though, he had left himself exposed to the rather underhanded tactics of Abaddon, brutally stealing from him the opportune moment for tutelage. And, as a result, ensured that the other angel would be softened after being aided in such a manner. It seems that every time they encounter one another, a satisfied little smirk besets her face -- how much longer she’ll be able to wear it, he can’t say. Patience is a particularly potent virtue that he has learned to cultivate and refine until it ends up cutting others like a blade. One day soon, he will be able to hold it against her throat like a knife and watch as she bleeds from how deeply he will inflict it. 

SAMAEL: Parasite. The two of them had been created to contrast one another -- one to highlight God’s benevolence, the other to inflict his wrath when the Creator saw fit. They had been irrevocably tied since their very inception, and had been intended to serve as a means of balancing the tenets of the universe. The two were knotted together, tied by a string of fate that Raphael had tantamount to the shackles that had tethered the monsters within Tartarus. He had the pleasure of watching him fall, watching the great Samael who wielded his power about so blatantly and readily that it oozed from him like fumes from a rotten bog, staining all who dared to draw near to his putrid presence. It has been an eon and a half since then, since he has had the pleasure of watching the cursed creature fall, but still the satisfaction he takes in holding the other’s gaze has not abated. He has borne witness to the undoing of Samael once before -- he will allow the demon to crawl ever-higher, just so he might have the singular joy of being there when he is wrenched from his place of power once again. If he is lucky, this time he might set in motion the condemned creature’s fall himself.

Raphael is portrayed by Ricky Whittle and was written by ROSEY. He is currently OPEN.

[crusherthedoctor]

The beach trope: another one that often comes early in Sonic's quests, and this one's no different, though expectations are very mildly subverted by making it the third zone instead of the very first. (Careful Crusher, you had the audience on the edge of their seats there.)

More importantly though, it's possibly one of the most famous and celebrated level tropes in the series. Emerald Coast is undeniably iconic, Seaside Hill is just as iconic while also merging with the Green Hill setup, and Wave Ocean... is a poor man's Emerald Coast, but it's probably better than most levels in '06 by comparison, so it too is iconic, from a certain point of view. We can't forget Jungle Joyride either, even if that's mostly because we got to see the frame rate die before our very eyes.

So how do you make your interpretation stand out? How do you prevent having a Wave Ocean 2: Wave Oceaner on your hands? Well, it's actually very simple...

Creating Zone 3: Coastline Resort

3-1: Shining Shore

Remember when I said that sometimes all it takes to make an environment feel different is the time of day, or a change in weather? This is one of the first major examples of putting that philosophy into action, as compared to previous beach levels, which were usually content with taking place in the bright sunny daytime, this one takes place under a pleasant purple sunset.

This of course contrasting heavily with not only the blue sea, but also the sands, which although given a mild touch of purple courtesy of the sunset, cannot fully hide their natural shade of white.

And of course, waterfalls.

We can’t forget the waterfalls.

Despite being a true blue beach level first and foremost, there are also a few hints of plaza, further setting it apart from the Emerald Coasts and Not-Emerald Coasts of old times past. This aesthetic in particular is based heavily on the seaside town of Whitby.

No doubt Sonic would admire this place, at least when he's not forced to go deep underwater. Maybe when the adventure is over, he can come back here and have a relaxing moment with... someone. Dunno who though. I doubt Eggman would be interested, and not just because he's actually in-character. Oh well, plenty more horses in the sea.

Speaking of, what about the underwater sections? Shining Shore does have them after all, in full 3D, as opposed to making them bottomless pits in disguise. Unsurprisingly, everything's a lot more blue than purple down there, gorgeously so, but the coral reef provides its own variety of colour.

The local fishies don't seem to mind you being in their line of sight... nor do the Badniks, but probably for a different reason.

Since we're three zones in, you might have noticed by now that each zone, regardless of their overall colour scheme, has one element in at least one act that goes all rainbow with the colours than everything else. You had the flower patches in Gleaming Meadows, you had the wood barriers in Tricky Tropics with their rusting paint jobs, and now we have the coral reef in Coastline Resort... any reason for this?

Alas, the answer is a mundane one: it's just a little way of tying all the zones in Viridonia together. As this quest revolves around the mystery of the elusive Ethereal Zone, this seemingly inconsequential aspect is a way of ensuring that it will always remain at the back of your mind. It may be relatively more subtle and easy to miss than, say, a giant moon glaring down angrily at you no matter where you go on the map as it literally comes closer and closer to killing everyone, but the intention is effectively the same: the central meat of the setting and story is always present in some form, however indirect, even if the characters aren't currently discussing it.

Also, shout out to the lighthouse that helped our heroes by inadvertently blinding the pursuing mechanized orca.

You really put a dent in Heavy Gunner's strategy.

First Section (calm): Lagoony Tunes (Crash Bandicoot 2: N-Tranced) Peach Field (Mario Hoops 3-on-3)

Second Section (adrenaline): Lost Palace (Team Sonic Racing) Hang Eight (Crash Bandicoot 2: Cortex Strikes Back)

3-2: Crazy Rapids

Being a whimsical water park, made even more whimsical to fit the video game format, this one explains itself in a lot of areas. But let's go over the finer details anyway, shall we?

As mentioned in the fic, the park has been made to fit in seamlessly with the ruins present in the area, thus creating a Good Future-esque wonderland of nature and technology in harmony. For an idea of how the ruins aesthetic would work, imagine something akin to the Sunset Beach Resort in Jamaica, particularly the long bridge and archways you can see in both of these shots:

Kind of has an Aquatic Ruin vibe, doesn’t it?

Even then, that only applies to half of the architecture, as the other half breaks up the yellow with some white, reminiscent of a certain OTHER watery location in Sonic's past...

We also have the giant fountains sprinkled around the place. There are two types of fountains to be exact, both of which may seem familiar to the attentive eye...

The difference? They're larger. MUCH larger. As in, you can actually platform your way on and around them.

As for what’s inside? It's exactly how you'd imagine it to be, albeit exaggerated even further to befit a Sonic level.

And in-tune with the beachside mood, the Chao Garden found nearby would take a page from the one in Station Square...

...with a little extra flavor of this...

...complete with miniature water slides and the like for the adorable inhabitants... the inhabitants that Eggman currently has an unexplained interest in. How do the Chao factor into his latest plan?

Heh heh, only I and those I've discussed it with in PMs know that for now.

First Section (outside): Windy and Ripply (Sonic Adventure) Ocean Palace (Sonic Heroes)

Second Section (inside): Data Select (Tee Lopes) Wii Shop Channel - Mii Channel (Super Smash Bros. Wii U)

3-3: Aquarium Gallery

Disappointed that Crazy Rapids lacked that smooth red-on-blue contrast that Aquarium Park from Sonic Colours had? Well we can’t all be in the same league as Eggman sadly, but fear not, for the similarly named Aquarium Gallery gets right in on the action, combining red walls and an overall upper class aesthetic...

...with the expected quantities of shimmering blue that comes with the aquarium setting. And with glass tanks of great size, comes great fishies to go along with them.

The black and white checkered floor would also be a must. It's a Sonic game, we gotta have a checkered pattern somewhere. It just works. /ToddCrusher

Don't worry about the living conditions for the fish here, by the way. Eggman mechanizing them aside, the people who work at the park - and those who visit it - make sure to treat all the marine life with the utmost respect and kindness. Just a shame that they're apparently not so willing to lend that same understanding to Trudy... but it does provide an early hint that despite the few genuine bad apples who are outright antagonistic towards Trudy, most of the folks ignorant to her condition are exactly that at worst: ignorant. Meaning, despite first impressions, most of them are not bad people at heart, and with a little help and persistence, it's not entirely impossible that they can eventually learn to understand and sympathise with Trudy's situation.

In other words, they have more dimension than the background characters in Sonic Boom, where they're all mostly a bunch of one-note arseholes with little redeeming qualities and don’t deserve to be saved by Sonic in the slightest.

Anyhow, eventually, after a trip through one of those sweet underwater tunnels...

...we find ourselves in the cavern area, where red is exchanged for turquoise, and there are reflected ripples galore. Since the Marble Caves in Chile already look halfway to being a Sonic level due to its unique formations, that's the best comparison I can make here.

Too blue, you might say? Well, the sunset from earlier would be poking through the holes in the wall, adding some warm to the cool once more... the giant seashells everywhere help spice it up too.

Like these, but bigger than Ken Penders’ ego.

If that’s even possible...

First Section (aquarium): Rooftop Run - Night (Sonic Unleashed) Coconut Mall (Mario Kart Wii)

Second Section (caves): Sea Shell Shenanigans (Crash Bandicoot: The Wrath of Cortex) Dire, Dire Docks (Super Mario 64)

3-4: Hydro Plant

The outside structure for this place is shaped like a giant wall, which predictably brings the Hoover Dam to mind:

And that applies inside as well, at least initially. The similarities indoors come mostly from the generators, as well as the sheer size of the place.

Since it's considerably rustier however, we have darker lighting in place, with the sunset outside preventing it from being too dark inside. There’s also a copious amount of daring graffiti caused by hoodlums... or maybe Eggman, since he'd probably be the type to do that to any property that isn't his. Some of this graffiti would look very impressive...

While others would... uh...

Look, they tried, okay?

With all this graffiti, that means there’s opportunity for a generous helping of cheeky references to previous installments if you’re able to find them... and if you can understand them. To this day, the typo in “make belif reborn” has not been corrected. Absolutely disgusting.

But as the fic dictates, the further you go on, the tidier and more high tech it becomes. Simply put, this section would remind one of Aquatic Base from '06, mainly because I've always liked the idea despite its characteristically terrible level design, so why not salvage the concept and give it a second chance?

With some added flavor to make it less monotone, mind you. Like actual water sections, some green lights to break up all the blue, giant crab robot threatening to kill you... the works.

Sonic may be glad that this zone is behind him, but little does he know, it's not the only zone with intense water action around these parts. Luckily for him, that won't be for a while, so he can breathe a sigh of relief for now. Still, we know Eggman has other ways of keeping the gang on their toes...

First Section (rusty): Wily Stage 2 (Mega Man 7) Pokey Pipes (Donkey Kong Country 3)

Second Section (high tech): Ocean Base Act 1 (Sonic Advance 3) H2 Oh No (Crash Bandicoot: The Wrath of Cortex)

[emeraldtawny]

My Ikemen Vampire OCs

Been a while since I’ve done anything with OCs and I’m not sure if I’ll be using these boyos in fics or the like. I just wanted to add my own suitors based on some historical figures that caught my attention and thought would be cool to bring back as sexy vampires uwu~

Picrew used can be found here.

Marco Polo

Thomas Jefferson

Sigmund Freud

~Details under the cut~

Marco Polo

The Wide-Eyed Explorer

Adventurous x Oblivious

“Life's all about finding something out there in this great wide world that hasn't been discovered yet. How about it, Signorina? Want to take the risk with me?”

An explorer renowned for his treks from Europe to Asia, his documentation of his travels are known the world over. Yearning for knowledge yet grounded in his ideals, he enjoys exploring this “distant future” of 19th century France and pauses to marvel at every detail and moment he can. He accepted the taste of immortality so he could further explore the world. However, the dynamic, rocky expanse of love is one journey even the great Marco Polo wasn’t prepared for.

Birthday: September 15th

Height: 177cm (5’9”)

Occupation: Merchant

Vampire Type: Lesser Vampire

Hobbies: Exploring, Collecting trinkets (hoarding), Taking notes

Dislikes: Staying indoors

Specialty: Storytelling, Charisma

Weaknesses: Lying

Favourite Food: Pasta

Hated Food: Ginger

Pet: Monkey named Viaggio

Random Tidbits

Wears two dangling coin earrings, as a symbol of the currency he knew before learning of and introducing paper money to Europe.

Responsible for bringing noodles - and consequently, pasta - back to Italy. One of his proudest accomplishments, he says.

Gets incredibly pouty when people doubt his memoirs or if he even made it to China at all.

Is endlessly fascinated by the different culture of this “new world” and will ask endless questions to gain knowledge.

Gets flustered and oddly prideful over how many other important figures of history looked to his experiences to guide them (Of course, he is most proud of the children’s game named after him).

Most of his memoirs were written in prison and by his cellmate. *A/N: hmmm, I wonder who comes back to smite him :3*

Is uncharacteristically frugal and likes to hoard any “unique” treasures he finds (most of them are commonplace items, but rare to Marco).

Favourite Place To Bite: Shoulder. He just gets incredible pleasure sinking his teeth into the flesh of the shoulder, and it works in tandem to muffle the groans that threaten to slip through his lips as he feeds. And if they bite him back on his shoulder, he is gone. His arms will always be snaked around their waist and whether he’s pressed against their back or front, he’s absorbed in his feeding so fully that sometimes he doesn’t know when to pull back until it’s too much.

Associates With:

Leonardo - The pureblood quite enjoys the boundless vibrant energy of his fellow Italian, and is more than happy to show him around the city and listen to the younger man’s detailed recounts of what he’s seen. They fuel each other’s insatiable need for new things to learn.

Dazai - Enjoys teasing him for his cluelessness about the world. The mansion’s residents don’t know whether to intervene, as both seem oblivious to the other’s intentions in their odd conversations.

Sebastian - Usually on the butler’s bad side for the constant clutter of “souvenirs” he always returns with. However, is rewarded with the whimsical story recounting of THE Marco Polo, so it isn’t all bad.

How He Met MC

After MC had attended dinner and was making her way to Comte’s room, she almost gets knocked off her feet as she collides with someone whilst lost in thought. Things fall to the floor and she quickly apologises and kneels down to help pick up the fallen items. As she lifts her head, she’s met with a head of white wispy locks and kind ice-blue eyes staring back at her behind his round spectacles. He takes the things back from her and they both return to their feet. “Grazie Mille, Signorina.” He says through a grin. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you there. You must be new around here.”

“Oh, um--”

(Is he a famous figure of history too? He looks nice enough.)

Her thoughts are cut off as Sebas comes into the hallway and seems ready to scold the young man for bringing in another assortment of useless trinkets. He pouts a little and says that these are unique and a brand new discovery that he must look into for their use. Sebas sighs, notices MC and asks if he has introduced himself to her yet. He blinks and exclaims in realisation before turning back to MC with a sheepish, boyish grin.

“It seems I forgot to introduce myself to you, Signorina. My name is Marco Polo. I’m a merchant and an explorer.”

(M-Marco Polo?!)

After MC learns the truth about the mansion and its residents, she’s on her guard as she walks aimlessly around the mansion, avoiding everyone she can for fear of them biting her. She stops as she passes the archive at the sound of a happy tune being hummed. She peeks in to see Marco cross-legged on the floor with a pile of junk in front of him. Yet the way he’s observing each piece makes her believe every single one is an irreplaceable treasure. He adjusts his glasses and inspects the map in his hands with an inquisitive gaze, his excitement of a new discovery at his fingertips vibrant and infectious. 

She’s so lost watching him that she hardly realises that she’s entered the archive, her feet naturally bringing her towards him. He stops humming and turns to meet her curious eyes with a wink.

“Oh! Perfecto! Just the woman I was hoping to see!”

He says it so heartfeltly that she feels her heart leap.

“Would you happen to know what these are? Since you’re from the future, you’d likely have a better idea than me.”

She hesitantly sits down across from him, still unsure yet compelled to help him, the kind, yearning aura surrounding him too strong to resist. [First CG of them looking over the pile of junk. Marco gesturing wide as he imagines the uses of a simple silver spoon and MC staring at him like “...it’s a spoon, not a lightning rod.”]

As she listens to him, she asks him why he finds joy in collecting these everyday items. He blinks at her...before bursting out laughing.

“Don’t laugh, I’m serious!”

“Ah, I’m sorry. Really I am. It’s just I never get tired of hearing that question. To me, that question means that there are people out there who have grown accustomed to what’s around them. So much so that something they see every day has lost its beauty to their eyes. I truly believe that everything out there - discovered or not - has a story, a meaning. No matter how mundane it may be, everything has a unique beauty in this world.”

(That’s...such a wonderful outlook on life.)

...

Thomas Jefferson

The Repentant Sinner

Awkward x Earnest

“I cannot see the merits of wanting to get to know me. So, why can’t I stop you from doing so?”

A diplomat and a scholar, the one thing Thomas Jefferson cannot say he is versed in is the art of conversation. Despite this, he isn’t shy. He simply prefers to observe and document what is around him. Intelligent and soft-spoken, he seems to be more driven in his immortal life despite his tremendous accomplishments in his human life. What so greatly motivated him to be reborn as a vampire?

Birthday: April 13th

Height: 190cm (6'2")

Occupation: Diplomat don't mention the P-word

Vampire Type: Lesser Vampire

Hobbies: Writing, Violin

Dislikes: Public speaking

Specialty: Writing documents (in silence)

Weaknesses: Conversation, His reputation

Favourite Food: Vegetables (selective vegetarian)

Hated Food: Liver

Pet: Mockingbird named Quill

Random Tidbits

Can speak 4 languages (English, Latin, French and Italian) and can communicate through writing in a further two languages (Greek and Spanish).

Wears multiple rings and a wrist cuff on his right hand, as he had dislocated his wrist in his human life yet the bones failed to set right when healing. The discomfort continues as a vampire, though less painful.

His voice is quiet, mellow and of a tenor pitch. He can barely string more than three sentences together unless speaking in private and about a topic he is knowledgeable in.

Developed mild insomnia since becoming a vampire. Coupled with his periodic headaches, some days he will be completely inconsolable.

Enjoys writing and listening to his mockingbird sing in the comfort of his room.

Completely freezes and nearly breaks down when reminded of the dark underbelly of his legacy.

Has no less than four feather quills on his person wherever he goes.

Favourite Place To Bite: Fingers. Feeding on a body part with a smaller surface area helps him pace himself and prevent more harm than necessary. But he truly enjoys piercing his fangs into the tip of the index and middle fingers, giving a cursory suck before withdrawing and taking the fingers into his mouth to suck them that way; he doesn’t wish to harm anyone with his bites if he can help it. Of course, sometimes he can’t help it when he’s lost in bloodlust.

Associates With:

Isaac - Enjoys his quiet companionship. They usually sit in the archive together, working on their different projects in complete silence.

Napoleon - Occasionally goes to the Frenchman requesting a feather from his eagle to make into a new quill. Napoleon agrees under the condition he helps him teach the schoolchildren, something he begrudgingly agrees to.

How He Met MC

The first time she meets Thomas is at her welcoming dinner. She baulks slightly at the height of him and the broad set of his shoulders being accentuated by his perfectly fitted dress shirt. He meets her gaze and nods politely towards her before taking his seat and idly staring down at and fiddling with his rings. She whispers to Napo if she somehow offended him, but he assures her that that’s just how Thomas is; not the best at striking up a conversation. 

When introductions come up, he’s one of the last to speak and definitely the least enthusiastic. He clears his throat softly and makes eye contact with MC, his gaze oddly intense as if forcing himself to meet her eye.

“Thomas Jefferson. Diplomat. A pleasure.”

(Thomas Jefferson. He was important in American history if I remember correctly. Can’t say I know much more than that.)

When Sebas (and Arthur) get it through MC’s head that she’s now in a mansion of vampires, she immediately runs out of the kitchen and just panic runs. She ends up in the foyer and almost collapses with relief because she can finally escape this place. Before she can reach the door, however, she realises there’s someone else right in front of the door, pacing back and forth as if in a trance.

(Oh great. They have someone on guard as well? Even more reason to get out of here!)

She tries to slip by, but the man notices her and stops his pacing to stare at her, saying nothing. MC feels overwhelmed by his gaze and starts to shake. His eyes widen and he goes to reach for her.

“Are you--?”

“Get away from me! Vampire! Monster! Don’t touch me!!”

She swats his hand away and makes a break for the door, but Thomas grabs her around the waist, pinning her arms down. She thrashes and begins to feel tears pricking her eyes when Sebas emerges. Thomas turns to him and asks him to take the young lady to her room. He immediately releases her from his hold and whispers a soft “I apologise for scaring you.” before walking back to his room with long strides.

Back in her room, she reflects on what happened and realises that his grip on her wasn’t tight enough to harm her and instead, he was likely as panicked as she was.

(Even if he is a vampire, it was clear he was trying to protect me. And I called him a monster…)

The next day, she asks Sebas to show her where Thomas’ room is so she can apologise to him. Sebas says to try the archive instead and shows her the way. She knocks on the door and peeks inside. 

Sitting at a desk and brandishing a feather quill, Thomas writes like his life depends on it, his eyes - while still heavy and tired with dark circles - seem focused with an intensity that leaves MC dumbfounded. [First CG of him deep in his scribing, unaware of the pretty lady who watches him with her attention rapt.]

(He writes as if he’s possessed. I feel like if I interrupted him now, I’d be ruining the very nature of his being.)

She waits until he lets out a soft sigh and sets down his quill. When he finally notices her presence, he blinks, a deer in the headlights. His mouth opens and closes, but no words come out.

“Um...can I help you?”

...

Sigmund Freud

The Cold Elitist

Analytical x Insatiable

“Such honest eyes. Yet such boring simplicity in your actions and thoughts.”

An Austrian neurologist whose work helped to shape modern psychology. His work with brains and how they shape our conscious and unconscious mind - his book The Interpretation of Dreams using his own brain as the study - made him observant and insightful; in a holier-than-thou way in most cases. He is private and distancing, yet fiercely loyal to those he deems worthy enough to be close to him. His own findings concluded that personality and unconscious thoughts cannot be so easily swayed. Until he meets you...

Birthday: May 6th

Height: 180cm (5’10”)

Occupation: Neurologist (despises the term psychologist being attributed to him)

Vampire Type: Lesser Vampire

Hobbies: Smoking cigars, People watching, Reading

Dislikes: Being referred to by his first name (Call him Freud or you’ll get one hell of a death stare)

Specialty: Psychoanalysis, Picking apart people’s thoughts

Weaknesses: Accepting defeat or wrongdoing, Smiling through his eyes

Favourite Food: Artichoke

Hated Food: Anything American

Pet: Frog named Ego

Random Tidbits

He has a pet frog because of his early work as a medical student, where he studied frog brains to determine the difference between vertebrate and invertebrate brains. And named his pet after one of the terms he coined of the human psyche, representing the balance of our desires and morality.

Used to smoke cigars heavily, so much so that he developed mouth cancer which led to his eventual human death. Picked the habit back up again after being revived as a vampire.

Had a therapy dog when he was human. Sneaks pets to Vic and King whenever he can.

Was quoted saying “The goal of all life is death.”, yet accepted the offer to be granted eternal life (he chuckles bitterly at himself over this fact).

Was a firm Shakespeare sceptic and remains so into his vampire life. Any conversation he has with Shakespeare usually ends with him bad-mouthing him in German and proclaiming that the Earl of Oxford was the true writer of his plays.

Continues to write books about his discoveries, yet keeps them unpublished.

Is joked as being sex-obsessed (by Arthur of all people), but stands by his claims that sexual wishes and desires play into how a person’s mentality is shaped.

Favourite Place To Bite: Stomach. The way the muscles flex and spasm around his fangs is exquisite in every meaning of the word. He enjoys slowly sliding the blouse up, letting his hands trail slowly to feel the goosebumps that prickle on the skin, before biting right on the curve of the waist.

Associates With:

Comte - The one man who may call him by his first name. Feels indebted to him for another chance at life.

Mozart - Short yet calm conversations between the two Austrians happen every so often; about what, who can say?

Arthur - Pesters Freud for psychoanalytical techniques he can incorporate into his Holmes novels. Gives him the bare minimum to leave him alone. Absolutely loathes the nickname the Brit gives him (“Siggy”).

How He Met MC

When MC first encounters him, Freud is at the dining table with Mozart, Theo, Vincent and Isaac. As soon as he hears the commotion and she enters for dinner, he abruptly stands and leaves without a word, only sparing a cold stare that she feels in the pit of her stomach.

Her first true encounter with him is after Sebas tries to tell her that her housemates are vampires and she runs into him in the hallway. She notes that his eyes of metal run just as cold as the first time she met his gaze, but she still tries to greet him (Comte told her about him briefly at dinner, saying his name is Sigmund). When she addresses him as such, his lips twitch in distaste and harshly tells her not to call him that.

Being MC, she bites back a little, causing him to raise an eyebrow.

”For a meek little thing, you certainly try to bark, don’t you?”

“Hey, I don’t need another person in this mansion referring to me as a dog!”

“Hm. Very well then, Rotznase.”

(Did....did he just call me a brat?!) *A/N: no, MC. He called you a snot-nosed brat*

She goes to bite back again, but something in his eyes stops her dead. Like they can see into her soul, see the exact way her brain ticks. He exudes a harsh aura that makes her want to run, but the power of his eyes on her has her paralysed, like a predator staring down its defenceless prey. He scoffs at her before asking if she knows what he is. When she doesn’t respond, he sighs in annoyance before grabbing her by the throat and pushing her against the wall, hard. [First CG of this kabedon-strangling hybrid. 2/10, not sexy and probably hurts too much.]

”You’re a foolish little girl. And unfortunate in your luck. If you had crossed paths with any of the other beasts in these halls, you may have gotten away with nothing more than nightmares.”

His hand on her throat tightens, constricting her windpipe and cutting off her air supply, the petrified horror in her eyes only increasing as he bares his fangs to her.

”I am not a lenient man, I never have been. And this is no dream. You’re just an unlucky human. No offence intended.”

Just as his hand tightens further and he leans over her, Arthur of all people is the one to save her. He grabs Freud’s collar and yanks him back, barking at him not to scare the bird. Freud only gives an annoyed huff before strolling away as if he never had any part in it. MC loses strength in her knees and passes out from fear, and Arthur brings her to her room before heading to Comte to tell him what occurred.

The following day, Comte invites MC out to the garden for a chat. He confirms that the residents are all men of history brought back from death as vampires, and he apologises for Freud’s less than savoury approach at drilling the message in.

”Listen well, ma Cherie. The men in this mansion may be vampires, but they all show restraint. Sigmund, however, is an unusual case. He is prone to frenzies, where he’s so consumed with bloodlust that he cannot control himself. For your own safety, I would suggest having as little contact with him as possible.”

[madamhatter]

how lucky it was for these two girls to spy sophie in passing! it was as if the universe had heard the two friends speak so highly of the visitor who would occasionally swing by emile’s class for show and tell. it had been a while since they had last seen sophie, so one could imagine their excitement in recognizing the other from a distance, little feet pattering against the ground as they ran towards the woman, a basket of flowers in each girl’s hand. their voices call out to her to get her attention, and almost immediately, two outstretched hands offer sophie a blossom each as gifts. “do you remember us? will you be visiting us again soon?” 

Have I gotten familiar to the floating island above? Inquiries of conformity frequented my mind, a yearning and craving they were, hinged to me as if a shadow. Have I finally anchored myself to such a place? Adaptability was once a trait I believed to possess, yet two years proven me a fool to think positive of myself.  Cries of seagulls above, not one eye needs to glance in that direction to confirm their habits. 2, 3, 4, … ., 10, 11, 12 … . . Circling overhead for opportunity, they salvage for impressionable and giving folks or food - - either of which would be found with both decision. Unfortunately, this place where I meander, in this current time, is not a place where morsels may be handed out. 

My finger waved side-to-side, a metronome to the workings of the world around me. Up to two, it was a scale of my own design that mimicked the original; dexterity may be a particular of mine, but a human I am and matching a metronome isn’t (normally) physically possible. However, what the body may lack is refined by mind; what my body precedes only the possibilities of what happens underneath this unremarkable form. 

Compulsory movement, life regulates itself to streamlined performance and rituals. Contrasting the fluidity and bind of the human spirit, that is what everyday life comes down to. Just like how the backdoor of the bakery behind me swings open at the 6th measure, pitter-pattering of feet and store restocking go on from the 7th to 10th, before the door closes at the 11th, and silence resumes. Sometimes, the the baker’s assistant rushes out earlier, breaking the pattern, but it remains relative – earlier at the 5th or rushed at the 10th.

And, again, the measure restarts, but only for that particular event. Recognizing the numbers that conduct the procedures of mundane living, notwithstanding the strange when it rears itself unceremoniously in, that must’ve been the trait of mine.  Still, a useless one. It never did serve any benefit of others, even in the workshop. All it did was aid me in orchestrating and working with or around others, quick to my feet or hands, or anything that was needed of me, appearing like a summoned ghost to their unspoken or voiced commands. 

Between the valley or above the clouds, tumultuous life continues fixed to the course of the sun and moon, creating a shift that man, who once saw it indescribable and unnamable, to time, which then was domesticated to years, seasons, months, and days. Tumult… Haha. Foolish of me to even determine that I’ve grown accustomed to this place. 

I adjusted my recline, my hand flat against my cheek and my elbow resting on top of a wooden post that belonged to a longer winding rail system. It separated this level of the district at its ledge and from below, the port.

I mindlessly pick at the wicker basket rest at the crux of my other arm. Scarred and calloused tissue brushes and accounts the wintery flowers in my collection. 

A sigh. 

Life goes on, I repeat that to myself so often, as should I. Yet, why do I feel myself hanging with uncertainty with only a line of spider silk around my ankle? Dangling yet expectant of the prey.  “Hm?”

A scratch in the pattern I’ve memorized. A pattering from behind greets my ears. A set of two pattering, to be exact. 

I turn my head, brows raised at the sight.

White dyras, they grew in a place whose name has been recently burnt from history. A collection of snow white single-petaled flowers grouped together, the pistils having honeycomb yellow stems that reach out. At the time of maturity, their pollen spreads into the wind like their perennial cousins that often mistaken as flowers, dandelions. 

Flowers of innocence, it is the first image that comes to mind when you see them. A pair of two young schoolgirls approach with pep in their feet and recognition in their eyes.

Phoebe, ruby eyes and dark brown hair, thick and intricate cornrows worked from the left side to ride, creating an elegant ponytail with teal, orange, and white beads fastened to the end of each of the braids.  Elena, orange eyes and moose hair, her head is covered mostly by a orange beanie that matches the same shade as one of the beads in Phoebe’s hair, and all that can be seen are relaxed fringes.

Two girls from Mister Claire’s class. Goodness, it’s been a while…

“Do you remember us? Will you be visiting us again soon?”  “Of course I do. Good morning, Miss Phoebe and Miss Elena. I promise to visit as soon as I can.” 

My expression softens from its rigid and tensed look, I even felt the muscles of my cheeks and shoulders relaxing at what is the first nonobligatory conversation someone holds with me today.

“How are you both doing today? Isn’t the incoming spring breeze just refreshing? Not as shiver-inducing like the ones that passed a week ago.” 

Expectant eyes, however, now look befuddled, leaving a young woman like myself puzzled over why two young students looked at me in such a way. Had I spoken too vaguely again? Had I dictated myself like an old maid again? Had I spoken too carelessly, making my accent slip out? 

Far too many questions, far too little time. Damn social interactions! 

Something catches my eyes.

“Huh?”

I look down, now to fully perceive the dress of the two young girls. As expected, in their casual wear. Had either been in their uniforms, then this Sunday would’ve been an odd day.

Ah, they carry similar baskets to my own, and just like them, the weight of the baskets had been filled with flowers. Their variety was the typical ones that grow naturally in the city, compared to the others in my clutch, being from the rooftop garden.

And, in their hands were…

“Oh, goodness! How terribly daft of me.” 

Heat coats my cheeks. Immediately I squat to the ground, an ungracious move that was covered by my long skirt. 

They had been holding out the flowers. For inspection, no doubt. That’s why they recall me so well, I was a spectator to their show and tells often. However, the events of these past weeks, and ‘late night’ shifts left me more battered and wearier than what I expected from the work. 

“These look wonderful! Are you planning on sharing this with Mister Claire and the class tomorrow? Your teacher would adore the idea and for all you have, you can even adorn the classroom! How fitting for spring.” 

I hold my closed fists in front of me, nodding my head, drinking in the image of a flower-covered classroom from floor to ceiling, embracing the change of season. I heard countless times from my peers in education that decorations were of the norm, since they had to deal with my blank expression from time-to-time about such customs.  My mind remains wrapped around the idea, but the silence itself is deafening compared to the replies that, at this point, should’ve been exchanged. Should I be worried about the gaze that still hasn’t changed? Phoebe glances to her friend and back at me. Elena remains with her eyes on me Both of them possibly doubting someone of my age and the things I’ve said. Which, still, do not come to me. And, too, which isn’t surprising or even insulting. 

Until one of them stares with such resolve, even pity, at the social barrier, finally addressing the lost elder: 

“These are for you, Miss Hatter.” A courteous inflection but bewildered expression from Elena. 

“Huh?”  The confusion remains thick, but my mind vocalizes it.  “They’re for me…?”

Relieved heads nod at the movement in conversation, silently happy at the wall was overcome.

“My apologies..–” I clear my throat. “Today is ..” Index finger taps the back of my hand, putting together the words. “Valentine’s Day.” 

A supportive nod from Phoebe.

“Ah…”

Polite obligations sets in, despite the hesitation and discomfort growing in my mind, and it is my responsibility that I must uphold. To take these flowers were necessary, no matter how I felt on the exchange. Yet, most importantly, it would make them happy – which I would not deny young children any joys they could feel.

“Both of you are so generous and kind for your ages!” 

Despite the frigidness trailing down my spine, the cold making my hands wanting to curl up, the shudder that comes with taking in this reality, I remain with some dignity in this shambled body I known as myself.

But, its name…… That depends on who needs me, requires me. I am whoever they wish for me to be. And today, I am Miss Hatter. 

“Coral bells and marbled poinsettias, what beautiful spring colors with the blushing pinks and pale whites. Ever fitting the season and the holiday, you two have such a spectacular selection.” 

Carefully, I retrieve each flower, naming any fact from my insignificant lips. I settle them into my basket. 

“Thank you.” I clap my hands together, bowing my head momentarily.

 “As well, excellent timing for I have something that’d interest you as well. ”

Their expressions of curiosity lights an already bright day. Inquisitiveness has them almost on their toes, inching closer without any qualms to how anyone would perceive it; a child’s whimsical mind, always unprejudiced and welcoming on its own.

I search through my basket and I pinch the selection I had in mind that perfectly match both Phoebe and Elena’s color coordination.

“Please have this.”

Tied together by a red ribbon is a bouquet crafted and arranged by my own hands. Sunset orange plumerias and white spider lilies bunched together, the plumerias at the forefront while the spindly spider lilies were in the background, embellishing the size of the bouquet altogether.

Two of beautiful bouquets for two beautiful spirited girls.

“I promise again that I’ll visit Mister Claire’s classroom. Tomorrow is the perfect day to do so and it would be only fair to share something for once.” 

Though softer than a whisper, both girls remain attentive of each word and their eyes wider and now dazzling. What has caught their attention away from the arrangements? 

Perhaps it was the moment of surprise that overtook them. It is a swift change in mood and something unexpected from this interaction. 

I’m not sure why but my face feels a little tired. Ignoring it is the best choice, my body falters in how ‘healthy’ it feels already.

My hand rests above my chest.

This feeling. Like when the sun hits my back whenever I set laundry on the wire for my sisters, and when the rays awaken me from my workshop bench when the shop is idle midday, and when the light grants me sight to read during the terribly rainy days back in the house between the valleys.

My cheeks are warm.

( Most unknown to her, Sophie Hatter smiles.. Had she known, she’d called herself spry in the moment, her body and mind feeling far too aged to consider it normal for her. Yet, for those witnessing,  it was something else. Not delicate like how she performed duties, not crafted as she trained it to be.

Unrestrained, exquisite, a true look of beauty underneath all she found unremarkable and felt apathetic towards. )

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

( She smiles, genuinely and simply, as Sophie Hatter. Something she should do more. )  

[theladylazaruss]

Her feelings have retracted since we made things Official. She feels a pressure. She wants to want me, but doesn’t know if she can.

Because a person can promise to love you, can promise to want you, but you can't blame them later when realise they don’t. When they’re honest with you, and tell you they don’t. And then you have to decide the metabolism. The reconciliation.

They promised they would try. And you believed them. And they did. But it still ended the same.

They don’t want you.

You didn’t look for this. You asked for it, but you didn’t look or ask in their direction. And you let yourself be fooled by their whimsical notions.

Because loving you isn’t an idea. It’s real and gross and mundane. Loving is rawly human; it’s not fantasy.

With that in mind... you can’t blame them for tuning away. You can’t blame them for that.

But you can blame them for seeking you out, with zero encouragement. I didn’t go looking for you. I didn’t ask for you. I didn’t search for you. You sought me out. You asked me. How cruel. How tasteless. How so utterly confirming of the base and gross nature of myself that someone loved the idea of me more than the real thing.

You regretted changing our status relationship status so early; I regretted believing your commitment. I regret letting myself believe you. I regret trusting you wanted me. I regret deluding myself. It was a happy, five minute dream. A dream easily manipulated in quarantine. A dream perfectly timed to have as little consequence as a messenger beep.

I can’t see you. You can’t see me.

And we remain under the illusion.

I didn’t want you. I didn’t ask for you. But you were so honest. You were so clear. You challenged the shame in me like wind over sand dunes. Like glacial water on forgotten shores. You, with your harsh and accountable self; I looked at myself as if through your view. Your view of yourself, on my self, and I saw much hidden.

You made me feel brave.

Brave enough that the darkly hidden things were meaningless without language. That those fearful things remained unnamed, and powerful for their namelessness. I wanted their power. I wanted them named. I wanted to give them to you. I wanted to be reassured you would learn them, and keep them. And... and... and unspool their deep and hurtful threads.

You would do all those things.

You would do them platonically, after I had learnt to love you romantically.

If you told me you couldn’t love me, I would give you no inclining of how much that would confirm those already formed notions of myself. They are not your responsibility. They are not yours. They are mine alone.

But it wouldn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt. Hurt in confirmation. A rigthness a loser soothes themselves with.

I hope that I helped you love yourself a little more, at least. That I had some impact. That I wasn’t just a negative image, something thatbyou’d learnt you didn’t want.

I was so worried I wouldn’t care. So worried I would be disgusted instead. My own conceit. My Narcissist nihilism.

My destruction so great, so predicable even when I see my own fallacy. Congradualting my foresight in my own destruction, unknowing (unacknowledgeing) the gratituous motivations behind in.

Every mortal is curious for the void. An absence of desire. It exists around us. We know desire by its addition to a world neglectful of it.

Desire is as natural as the tides, but as unfulfilling as the void of space. Both exist concurrently, but... but... but...

You cannot trust desire. It doesn’t trust in you. It betrays you. Firms you to seek strange bedfellows and leaves you disinterested in the act.

Desire brought you to me. And then robbed you. And then robbed me.

I’d put in a complaint, if I were you.

[two-wrongs-make-a-write-83]

A Halcyon Nightscape

Hallie yawns and stretches once again. It feels nice to spend a night out. Far away from the busy hectic city life. No horns, no crowd, no pollution, just peace. And bliss.

She should go out for late night walks more often, Hallie makes a mental note. The two hours long stroll along the logs in the midst of greenery was worth every bit.

The entire area is strangely quiet. People aren't around at this side of the tarn. But at least there is supposed to be sounds made by birds, crickets, squirrels, chipmunks, rats or any other animals likewise. As far as she knows, Jordan Pond doesn't have any presence of carnivorous beasts. So she shouldn't be afraid, right? Well, a black bear might be a rare sight. But still not impossible.

She again checks the Glock 21 in her pocket, just in case. Her dad was the one to teach her marksmanship. Hallie remembers how her dad used to train her every single day from dawn to dusk, not that she ever regretted. Besides the boring homeschooling sessions and day-and-night training, the dynamic father daughter duo also had occasional camping schedules just for fun. Here in this very Acadia National Park. This place was their sanctuary.

She misses him. She misses the times when the two used to come here at the campgrounds and enjoyed fishing and swimming all day in the ocean, having barbeque under the starry night summer sky and munching s'mores in front of the crackling fire. Also, stargazing. Not with open eyes, with necessary equipment, telescope and everything.

Her dad was the one to teach her all about the constellation. He was a walking encyclopedia when it came to guns and stars. Quite contradictory, isn't it?

Hallie and her father considered themselves lucky. Especially after that narrow escape from death, only minutes away from a rockfall accident. But even that luck was not enough to make her dad live longer. Coronary artery complications made him suffer an early death.

Hallie sighs. She feels sad because she misses him, nostalgic because the place reminds her of all those sweet memories.

Conquer your fears, Hale. Don't let them stop you from anything. Listen to your heart.

Those were his last words to her. She still can remember that day so vividly, as if it were yesterday. A sunny, bright and white yet mundane room that smelled sterile and disinfectant. His father, fragile on a cot, yet acting like he's the strongest man on earth. The hero Hallie always saw in him, the hero he felt he needed to pretend.

She wanted to tell her dad to stop trying. It's okay to let go. It's okay to show weaknesses. Her throat tightened, and in the end, no words came out. Only silent tears.

Focus on your target, Halcyon. Tighten your grip. Don't hesitate.

To her dad, she was either Hale or Halcyon. After his departure, she didn't hear either of the two names anymore. She became Hallie, just Hallie. Not so lucky any longer.

She walks up to the lakeshore as she reminisces about the good old halcyon days. It's the first time she came to visit the park after that tragic loss.

Silence seems more prominent around the shoreline. It's a bit chilly here as well. Foggy breeze is blowing gently above the water surface. The air is crisp, cold and earthy. It smells of leaves, bark and grass - somewhat tinged with a bit of melancholy and nostalgia.

Sad or not, the night sure is beautiful. Especially now during the fall, the whole park is covered in vermillion foliage.

Something seems enchanting about the entire atmosphere. And unearthly. Is it because she came here after so long or...

What can it be? It's just another ordinary night.

Nothing is ordinary. Nothing is coincidental.

Her father used to say. She concentrates on warming her hands, rubbing them together continuously.

First the silence and now this outlandish steamy breeze. No, it's nothing unusual. Hallie crouches down near the shore and looks at her own reflection in the water. Under the midnight blue sky, she can see her faint reflection moving in a slow rhythm along with the gentle flow of the lake-water.

The color in the water surface starts to change ever so slowly. Then the pace fastens exponentially. The midnight blue turns into hazy dark mauve, then magenta and then into coral, to the faintest of crimson aiming for a brighter scarlet. It's not even dawn yet. The silence seems to be ceasing as well. At first, the sound was distant. The faint sound is now getting louder and clearer.

Alert, she stands up looking at the sky. No sign of the sun. Instead she catches a shooting star crossing the sky. But... The direction...

Why is it coming down? Is it gonna fall down here? It can't just land here. Or it can...

And once she thought she was lucky to be saved by minutes from a common rockfall. This huge chunk is freaking falling from the sky. Maybe she was destined to die this way. The rockfall accident in the past was only a reminder.

Now, the gun inside her hoodie pocket seems useless. She's surrounded by dark woods, stark mountains and a motionless tarn. Even in this vast space, she's feeling claustrophobic. Perhaps, that's how deaths are - sudden, unpredictable, unapologetic. Will anybody know if she dies here? There are definitely people around a few miles away, probably enjoying dinners in the nearby inns. Closing her eyes, she braces herself and gathers the guts to face her departure.

One second, two seconds, three seconds. Like this another twenty seconds have passed. Nothing happens. Tentatively, she opens her eyes.

Nothing has changed. The reflection on water now dull, the sound no longer audible. Just like before. Of course, the sky is back to its former self, cloudless indigo filled with twinkling stars. No sign of the shooting star or whatever it was. It must've aimed for another galaxy.

All of a sudden, there's this tiniest speck of light just above the centre of the lake. It stayed only for a moment.

"What's going on here?" She says to herself. Her voice echoes in the mountains.

Hallie feels lightheaded. But at the same time, excitement begins to build up inside her. She stands still, waiting for the speck to reappear.

And her wish comes true. The light came back, only wider this time, just a little bit. It's coming closer towards her. One might think of the source to be a firefly but the color is so different. It's not golden, it's more than that. It's all the colors she has witnessed a few moments ago reflected on the lake surface and beyond.

Hallie is so mesmerized by it that she has forgotten to move away. The idea of it being something threatening does not occur to her.

The little circle of brightness begins to dance around her. As if Hallie became its new buddy. Everytime she tries to catch it, it slips away from her. Such a tease. After several attempts, she gives up, tired.

As she's busy panting, the sphere approaches her gingerly, like a child. She understands the ball-like particle is telling her to touch it. Hallie gives it a wry look.

"Now you're telling me? After all the chasing?" She complains, crossing her arms.

The two have been communicating as if both the parties were human beings, not just one. Hallie seems to have forgotten it as well.

She feels curious, but the next moment she's hesitant. Should she touch the ring of light? Won't she get burnt?

Conquer your fears.

Don't hesitate.

Listen to your heart.

The voice in her head is telling her to take a leap of faith. Thus she shakes off her doubts and fears and at last comes to contact with the mysterious luminous little sphere.

At her touch, the sphere acts like it's going to burst. Hallie, long forgotten about the danger, stands there holding her breath. Ready to see what it turns out to be. What it has to offer.

It's like fireworks. Unearthly, eccentric, ethereal fireworks. Shimmery golden hued spots have started to swirl, twirl and waltz around her. It's like the little speck got multiplied into millions. As if the little specks have taken the form of the starlight of the galaxy.

Hallie is gaping at this whimsical but spectacular performance, both marveled and dumbfounded. Is she dreaming?

The colors have started to take a different shade. Now they're no longer golden. It has been divided into shades of blue and red. Just like how the sky was previously. The tiny little particles of light fly altogether up in the sky and accumulate. The colors, the shape, they seem so familiar.

Halcyon.

Just like the bird.

It's her favorite bird. Well, aside from songbirds and kookaburras.

Are they really doing it for her?

"That's impossible," her voice was barely above a whisper.

After the almost shape of a mythical bird has been formed, the cluster flies higher and higher until it disperses and transforms falling down as rain. Rain of stardust.

Hallie has been showered by it. She tries to catch some of the specks. Too bad, she doesn't have a jar with her to contain these. So she rubs her hands inside her pockets hoping the memories would stay there. After she returns home, maybe she might be able to collect them in a container. If she's lucky enough.

She pulls her hands out to inspect them again. Some of the dust is still on her palm. But another peculiar thing occurs, as if the night couldn't get any stranger. Her palms begin absorbing the dust.

There's the earth, the stars and the planets. And there's the human race made from clotted coagulated blood which is actually earth! Honestly Hale, everything is more connected than we can ever imagine.

If only her father was with her tonight. Maybe he is with her. Not in person, but the memories of him are alive in her mind, warm and fresh. Hallie buries her hands around hugging herself, full of gratitude. She hasn't realized it until now, that she's crying.

Rubbing her eyes with her sleeves, she views her surroundings in a new light. As if she's a new person. Different not altogether, the core is still the same. But she's been awakened and enlightened.

The lakeshore looks tranquil and serene. The waves are calm. The sky is clear. The stars are bright, like glittering jewels.

Halcyon.

Placid. Joyful, peaceful, blissful.

She doesn't realize she's been standing in one place all this time. She drops on the ground and stares up at the sky smiling. Inhaling the fresh salty air, appreciating the breathtaking nightscape.

There are sounds of people around. Realizing, she gets up to find the source. She doesn't have to walk very further because people are coming in her direction. Many of them are carrying tripods with cameras, some are holding their phones, some are just chatting.

"Is something about to happen?" She asks one of them. In her mind, she thinks something has happened already. What else could there be?

"Haven't you heard of the news?" The nearby person asks back. When Hallie shakes her head slowly he says, "There's news about the arrival of the Northern Lights. Within a few minutes."

Hallie stares at the dude, brows knitted in concentration. "But I thought if the Northern Lights would be displayed… Shouldn't everyone be here way earlier?"

The guy nods repeatedly, "That's the thing. Nobody knew about it. It's unexpected. We all were in the camp houses when we heard of the news. We got notified half an hour ago. See?" He gestures around. "Everyone came here running."

Hallie acknowledges nodding. She takes in the information.

Within a few minutes, it happens as the news predicted, Aurora Borealis. At first the sky turns gray, there are barely some distinct lines of hazy gray. Then there's a little bit of movement followed by striking green, red, blue, pink and purple layers vibrating beneath one another. They're like rippling curtains. The colorful columns make rhythmic waves. The sky is a literal disco ball. The cloudless sky has turned technicolor, with an eerie glow. The overall feeling is full of magic and charisma.

Everyone is awed. Some may probably have seen it thousands of times but each time the beauty mystifies them. Hallie is no exception. Some are shouting, some are capturing the moments on their cameras. Some are running, trying to follow where the hazy band of light is going towards.

Hallie remembers her father once told her that the excited oxygen atoms are responsible for the green shades while the nitrogen atoms are responsible for the blue and deep red hues.

Just think about it, Halcyon! If the magnetic fields weren't there to deflect the solar storm, we would've been dead!

Magnetosphere saved us from such a catastrophe! And not just that. It tamed the plasma and turned it into this spectacular display! Aren't we so lucky?

"Yes Dad, we're very lucky. You were right, the universe is remarkable indeed." Hallie mutters under her breath. She glances at her side, everyone is busy cherishing mother nature. Her eyes fall on Jordan Pond again. The water is reflecting the colorful carnival. But it's ever calm. Just…

Halcyon.

Hallie is glad once again that she came here tonight. She shoves her hands into the pockets to check the stardusts. They're there. She smiles broadly. It feels like a little secret between nature and her.

Who knew, this fated night would be full of so much serendipity?

[artmutt]

Julia Fish at DePaul Art Museum

Being on the campus of DePaul University also provided an opportunity to visit the current exhibit of work by Julia Fish at the DePaul Art Museum. I have known Julia’s work for many years, and have always admired its meticulous attention to detail and surface. This show focused on three different bodies of work, but they all demonstrated the same subtle surfaces, and sensitivity to color.

I’ve always felt that what really distinguishes artists from other people is the intensity of their observational skills. Artists notice things, and examine things, with a greater sense of patience than most people are prepared to bestow (especially in these attention deficit times). How the artist then translates those observations into his or her or their work can vary greatly. On the one hand, you have the attempt to perfectly imitate nature, as in a still life by Pieter Claesz, where attention is given to the light reflecting in a glass of wine or on a slice of lemon peel, and the artist has done everything possible to remove any sense that one is looking at a painting. On the other hand, even the large, colorful minimalist works of Ellsworth Kelly were often inspired (according to the artist) by a splash of color on a bird’s wing, or by a walk in the woods near his studio. So I like to think that a fascination with observation is what makes an artist, and how that individual translates those observations into something is what makes the art.

The work in Julia Fish’s exhibit reasserted that idea to me. She has been looking very carefully at things that most of us might consider too mundane to justify our attention. The pattern of the floor boards in her home, and how that pattern changes when the floor moves from one room to another. The way the moldings around a door extend into a space, and cut an irregular pattern into the regularity of the floor. How the light playing across a surface changes depending upon the time of day, and the season of the year, and the direction in which one is facing. Yet in many cases, those are precisely the things that form the inspiration for her work. Combine that with a whimsical love of color, both as it exists in nature and in the imagination, and you get lovely images that Julia has created here (please note that I’m using her first name here because I know her personally).

And while I love the subtle depth of her painted surfaces, I also love her smaller drawings as well. These contain some of the same concerns as the paintings, but color is given a much more playful role in some if these pieces, and I feel like they stray a bit further into the realm of the imaginary from their very specific real world starting points. 

To go along with her exhibit, Julia has curated a side exhibit of works from the museum’s permanent collection. And just as her own work has references to architecture, so do the works she curated into the side exhibit. These include scores by Andrew Norman, for his work The Companion Guide to Rome (2010), musical works inspired by visits to nine different churches in Rome, in which various aspects of the architecture entered into the musical compositions. The work is presented in sketch form (as above), in final form, and then as analyzed and documented. It’s a lovely extension of ideas.

There are also a number of architectural drawings, clearly related thematically and technically to Julia’s paintings and drawings, my favorite being this drawing for a building by the late Douglas Garofalo. It saddened me to think about Doug’s premature departure - he should have been designing works for a lot longer.

And when composers and architects draw, they are typically imagining things before they come into being. Yes, Andrew Norman may have gotten his inspiration from looking at buildings, but for those observations to become a musical work required him to imagine sounds that did not yet exist, and try to put instructions for making those sounds on paper. Chinary Ung (see my previous post) said that composing required “imagining the work in greater and greater detail.” One can see that in how Norman’s sketches gain in specificity as they become the finished score. This is very different than how a painter translates visual experience onto a canvas or paper, though imagination also plays its role in the shaping of the final piece. Certainly, Julia Fish’s work shows a devotion to the kind of detail that is most often found in musical scores or architectural drawings, making these two exhibits resonate together beautifully.

[treatiseongrace]

She took the midnight train going anywhere

When i first bought my house, there were a couple added bonuses that I appreciated more after moving in. This included the first time I drove home from work in the morning after my 12 hour shift and my sleepy body walked through the door after a mere 5 mins on the road. The ability to walk to a multitude of places like WaWa, the post office, a towny bar, and a Catholic Church just to name a few really had me smiling on the first few warm days in my new neighborhood. I knew these were good things before I moved into the house but I didn't realize how truly happy they'd make me and at peace with my decision to buy the home I did. There was another thing that had occured to me as a great asset to the house but manifested in an unexpected way. The train station is within eyesight and walking distance which I knew would be great as an alternate form of transport but had no idea how it would affect my soul. Thats right my freaking soul. Sure, my realtor mentioned how this would help with "resale value" but I dont think she or I forsaw the weird meditative exercise that would emerge from watching the train pass by my house.

I have lived in this house for almost a year and have not gotten used to the train going passed my window all day every day. It literally happened dozens of times a day and it takes me outside of myself every single time. I HAVE to watch it. Sometimes it goes by really fast (express train), other times it crawls into the station. Occasionally the brakes squeal and squeel, other times all you can hear is a soft clickety clack as it chugs along. Many times, especially late at night, it lets out a classic "choo choo" that gives me (a 26 year old woman) more delight than it should.

The train has become this charcater that takes me out of my mundane life into a childlike, whimsical experience at random times throughout the day and I love it. I have never had any interest in trains prior to living here but I have come to realize that it really has nothing to do with the train and everything to do with where I am at right now.

In this season of my life, I am constantly feeling stagnant: in my job, my relationships, my personal development, and my spiritual life. I think a great fear every human has is that this is all there is or ever will be. We are made to move. Our entire life on earth is a movement or series of movements that takes us in all different directions but always towards something. And in this season where I feel like nothing is moving, the train reminds me that I have a God who moves unseen around me all the time if I would take the time to recognize it.

"He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end."

It is a hard thing to remember that God is moving when our lives seem meaningless and the desires of our hearts feel untainable and ignored. We ache for more and feel like we are met by a God who doesn't care, or even worse, doesn't notice us. The verse from Ecclesiastes states that God makes everything beautiful "in its time." Just as I have no control over (the lovely) times when the train goes by, I also dont get to decide God's timing in my life or when I get to see Him move. Also, even though I dont see the train moving in my yard at every moment I look for it, doesnt mean it is not somewhere from the Burbs to Philadelphia moving along the track at varying speeds carrying many people every single day. The train reminds me that God works in a similar way. He is always moving and calling us closer to His heart. He wants us moving towards eternity. We cannot fathom the mountains He is moving for us at any given time to get us there. We only see glimpses of His goodness. He gives us those glimpses to give us hope. All we can do is lay tracks for Him to show up. And He always does. We are called to recognize His merciful love and trust Him to provide for us, to change us, and to make us more and more beautiful in the grand scheme of His plan to take us to the eternal place He is preparing for us.

[chorusfm]

Astrologer – “Legerdemain” (Album Premiere)

Today is the perfect day to share the new EP from the garage pop band named Astrologer, called Legerdemain. Astrologer is comprised of lead vocalist, guitarist, and primary songwriter Drew Cline as well as Candy Caballero who contributes both backing and lead vocals during the EP. The sophomore set was produced by Wyatt Blair, and the EP hits the streets via Lolipop Records tomorrow. Also, as a bonus treat, I caught up with the band for a brief interview regarding the artistic steps they took on Legerdemain. lolipoprecords · ASTROLOGER – "Legerdemain (R)" What was the inspiration behind Legerdemain? What do you want your fans to take away from this EP, and what does it mean to you personally? Both EPs were influenced heavily by the death of my father, and the disintegration of my relationship with the mother of my son. By the time we began recording, the world had been plunged into the woes of a left-field pandemic. My personal grief and fear for the future informed every part of these recordings. At the time, I didn’t know if I wanted to make music anymore, and, even if I did, I was unsure I would ever get another chance. With all that in mind, Wyatt Blair and I seized upon any and every idea we had. I hope everyone who listens to it will see a new side of us; a fun and whimsical side. Recording the Legerdemain EPs represents a transitional period of my life and, incidentally, the life of our society. Making it was cathartic and personal and I hope it comes across as hopeful and light in the face of rather dismal times. Can you share a bit about your songwriting process? What do you think makes a good song? Tell me about the making of the EP, including how you got Candy and Don involved. I am always making up songs but I don’t sit down and write them until it feels necessary. Most of my time writing is actually just daydreaming. I will spend days or weeks thinking about a song before I ever pick up my guitar and pen. I work mundane jobs and spend that time imagining things. Words, turns of phrase, images, chord progressions and melodies… I let it all just float around upstairs for awhile until I feel good about it. Only then will I bother writing. I also don’t typically make demos. If I write something and forget it, my stance is that it maybe wasn’t worth doing in the first place. Inspiration and intuition guide me. A good song must have a point. It must justify it’s existence. As a listener, I am not excited by genre exercises and placeholder lyrics. Substance and purpose are important to me. As a writer, I suppose I need something to keep me interested. A novel chord progression or a good melody, a good play on words maybe. Candy and Don came into the fold around the same time. Candy and I met at the Monte Vista hotel in Flagstaff. It was a whirlwind romance, emotionally and creatively. We are partners in every sense. Don and I knew each other a little bit several years ago, we kept in touch. Eventually, he and I agreed we had something creatively worthwhile to work on, he started hanging out with us at the studio. We listen to bubblegum and glam singles at his place sometimes, and also avant-garde records. We enjoy singing together and I continue to learn a lot from him. How has LA influenced the music you make? I am a bit of a recluse, I don’t particularly like going out. Candy is from LA, but I am from Phoenix. I am from the Wild West! LA is its own monolithic icon, one that I view as an outsider. On one hand, LA to me is sunshine and pop music. On the other hand, it’s druggy and kinda gross. I think of LA like a Hollywood movie. A city of style and glamour that betrays the harder truths and realities of the actual physical place. How have you been spending your pandemic time? Doing the same thing I always do, daydreaming. --- Please consider becoming a member so we can keep bringing you stories like this one. ◎ https://chorus.fm/features/astrologer-legerdemain-album-premiere/

[creativenquiryebonycocozza]

Critical Review

My work explores the concept of transformation. In the beginning it was my intention to capture the ephemeral, an idea which I had whilst on a walk. Walking had become a kind of therapy for me during the lockdown as I had been confined at home - I have been saying in jest for the past year I’m on house arrest and my walks are my yard time, but I concede that’s an over exaggeration, even if it felt like it sometimes. The act of walking was my slice of the day where I could be on autopilot; it allowed me the time to just walk and think. Being in nature, I was observing the plants and flowers and began collecting them. I wanted to preserve my collection, to shift them from ephemeral to permanent objects. I primarily used air drying clay to achieve this, which I pressed my flowers into to create moulds from which I could take a positive cast. I had spent a few months perfecting this technique and working to this process and had eventually stockpiled a collection of botanical tiles in different colours and sizes, but my concept had stagnated somewhat by this point, similarly my daily walking route which I had enjoyed had begun feeling like an obligation. The repetition became tedious and is analogous of how I was feeling during lockdown; autopilot had lost its novelty. I had realised that my daily practice was like a production line, where I was manufacturing my art in batches from a mould and repeating the process. I began thinking about the modern world and particularly how technology and mass manufacturing had played a vital role in the worldwide response to the pandemic. I was interested in where the line is drawn between functional design and a work of art and sought to explore this in my project, which saw its own transformation going forward. The everyday object reimagined as fine art has been a subject of intrigue among artists and art lovers since the early Twentieth Century. Since the ready-made’s of Marcel Duchamp, the bounds of art have been redefined. The subject expanded in the 1960’s with the emergence of the Pop Art movement, with such artists such as Claes Oldenberg and Andy Warhol who created whimsical replicas of common household items, transforming the functional object into ornamental sculpture. In particular, Warhol’s work was a response to consumer culture, which transformed certain household brands into art world icons synonymous with his name. By looking at Dadaism, Surrealism and Pop Art, we can see some of the varying ways in which objects have been used in the past. The object form has been used as a means of expression of self, as a form that can be metamorphosed into things created from imagination, as a technical means of expression, as a social statement on society, and as a means of creating art which questions art itself. (Hanna, 1988) Today, the everyday object as art remains a pervasive subject in contemporary art. Tokyo-based artist Makiko Azakami is one such artist who transforms everyday objects by using only paper for her lifelike sculptures; ‘through careful cutting and meticulous handcrafting, Azakami breathes new life into humdrum objects and creates pieces that are deceptively fragile and extraordinarily detail-oriented’ (Richman-Abdou, 2016). Korean artist Do Ho Suh creates lifesize object-replicas of fittings and appliances around his apartment using wire and polyester fabric netting. The use of these materials transforms the objects from functional to ornamental whilst retaining their defunct detail, reframing the domestic object, and wider domestic space, as sculpture. ‘The transparency of the fabrics…is important conceptually because I’m trying to communicate something of the permeability in the ways in which we construct ourselves’ (Suh, 2020). Other contemporary artists use found objects in their work, which serve a specific purpose that the artist abandons, choosing to elevate the mundane to the realm of fine art, and dissolve the boundaries between “high” and “low” forms of culture. (Artnet News, 2017). In my own practice, I chose to study the everyday object of the lightswitch, the idea of which was suggested to me during a presentation of my work.  I had built my installation around a lightswitch on my studio wall, an unconscious choice on my part, perhaps going to show just how on autopilot I was. I was interested in replicating the lightswitches around my home using subversive materials and experimenting with installations. I began by taking clay impressions of the lightswitches around my home from which I could make positive casts. This made me think about automation; I felt that the repetition of taking casts from a mould was similar to a production line, and I was the machine, similar to Warhol’s production line process of silkscreen printing, as Bergin writes: ‘The Machine is, to the artist, a way of life, representative of a unique field of twentieth-century experience, and all of Warhol’s art is striving to express the machine in the machine’s own terms’ (Bergin, 1967). Perhaps all art has an agenda; is any art made just for the joy of it? Or is it just to fulfil some demand? I began to wonder if all art, except for the earliest cave paintings, was produced purely to be consumed. If Warhol’s brillo boxes represent the collapse of the boundary between artistic creation and mass production (Baum, 2008), then where exactly is the boundary? I came to the conclusion that any commodifiable artwork is a product, and creating art is just another form of production for consumption. When I had my finished clay tile with a porcelain effect painted finish, I installed it on my kitchen wall and it at first glance appears to be a standard lightswitch, however when examined up close the viewers expectation is subverted, as you can see that it is a handmade replica. The functional design of the lightswitch is reimagined through the materiality of natural clay, transforming the object from a functional design into an ornamental replica. I had made many clay lightswitches already, and wanted to explore other subversive materials to utilise. Inspired by Rachel Whitereads resin replicas of doors, I began making coloured resin casts from my existing silicone mould, adding a different coloured resin pigment each time. Displayed as stacked on backlit shelves, the work invites the viewer to peruse as though they were in a supermarket, highlighting that art is another form of production for consumption in the modern world. I then began thinking about scale, but this time I wanted to use the intangible material of light itself as my medium. Using my transparent coloured resin tiles and a light projector, I projected onto my studio walls. This opened up a door to working digitally, working with media such as video and photoshop. Working in this way allowed me to explore scale as freely as I liked without time or space constraints. I began thinking that digital media is an imitation of the real thing. My projections, for example, are not really lightswitches, they are replicas of lightswitches made from the material of refracted light waves. My video gifs and my photoshopped site specific work are just information converted to binary numbers and translated into pixels on a screen. I think in this way, digital and electronic media are the ultimate subversive material. Overall, my project experienced a dramatic transformation. In the beginning, lockdown had only just begun and it was a new experience. Fourteen drudgerous months later, I am not the same person I was then. The whole world has had its own dystopian transformation, where we now so heavily rely on technology to survive. We have surrendered authentic experience for a pale imitation of the real thing. Our New Normal is just a replica of the life we left behind, subversive in the way that at a superficial glance all remains the same, but on closer inspection is just a substitution. As I made my tiles I was a machine, so too have we become machine men; just pixels on a screen or voices on the end of a line, a replica of the blood and cells and sinew and breath and acne that made us really human.

 Artnet News In Partnership With Cartier, (2017) ‘11 Everyday Objects Transformed Into Extraordinary Works of Art’, artnet.com. Article published May 9, 2017. Available at: https://news.artnet.com/art-world/making-art-from-mundane-materials-900188.

Baum, R (2008) ‘The Mirror of Consumption’, essay published in Andy Warhol by Andy Warhol . Available at: https://www.fitnyc.edu/files/pdfs/Baum_Warhol_Text.pdf. p.29.

Bergin, P (1967) ‘Andy Warhol: The Artist as Machine’, Art Journal XXVI, no.4. Available at: https://www.yumpu.com/en/document/read/8274194/andy-warhol-the-artist-as-machinepdf-american-dan. p.359.

Hanna, A (1988) OBJECTS AS SUBJECT: WORKS BY CLAES OLDENBURG, JASPER JOHNS, AND JIM DINE, Colorado State University Fort Collins, Colorado, Spring 1988. Available at: https://mountainscholar.org/bitstream/handle/10217/179413/STUF_1001_Hanna_Ayn_Objects.pdf?sequence=1

Richman-Abdou, K (2016) ‘Realistic Paper Sculptures of Everyday Objects Transform the Mundane Into Works of Art’ , Mymodernmet.com. Article published October 20, 2016. Available at: https://mymodernmet.com/makiko-akizami-paper-sculptures/?context=featured&scid=social67574196&adbid=794911171832901632&adbpl=tw&adbpr=63786611#.WB3vIQMclAU.pinterest.

Suh, D H (2020) HOW ARTIST DO HO SUH FULLY REIMAGINES THE IDEA OF HOME, crfashionbook.com. Article published MAY 22, 2020. Available at: https://www.crfashionbook.com/mens/a32626813/do-ho-suh-fully-artist-interview-home-korea/

[samstar1990]

The Circus Shadows

 Vanitas Victorian circus AU

All are human in this AU

Luca never had the chance to act his own age. From the moment he was born he was molded into the perfect candidate to take over the family. When the circus came to town, the bright lights and colours drew him in and promised a life much better. Shame he never saw what was waiting in the shade

              Luca sighed at the carriage rolled into town as the sun rose to its highest point. The young boy was frustrated beyond belief for someone of his age, outside the window of his transportation he could see boys and girls playing together in the street. Many were splashing in the puddles or skipping stones along the cobbled streets. All laughing and living up their lives before the weight of responsibility came crashing down upon them. Oh, how he envied them.

His family life from the moment he was born, was structured, full of lessons and the constant reminder of the disappointment he was.

Alongside him was a young woman with short blond, dressed modestly and smiling gently. Luca looked over at her as if in an attempt to distract himself from the bright lights of the outside world but he found that the view had changed but his emotional state remained the same. She was his carer, after all, she was sweet and kind and truly cared for him, but in the end, she was also another reminder of his life.

“Is something the matter Master Luca?” She asked as the wheels stopped and the door was opened revealing the marketplace beyond. The boy thought a moment and his lips parted as if he wanted to speak but what could he say that hadn’t already been said.

“Same as always Jeanne…” He muttered getting up and stepping out onto the pavement “Just imagining a chance to leave this life behind”

Jeanne smiled gently and sympathetically “It won’t be so bad Master Luca, you have a wonderful life ahead of you”

She meant well, She always did.

               The marketplace was pretty bare that day, there was no outdoor market so the only traffic was for the shops that lay around the edge of the large paved courtyard. Each of the stores held a grace and air about them, it was a performance from start to finish as Luca was well aware. The dinging of the bell was just the announcement that the show as the door swung open. He hat and coat were taken from him in one graceful movement as the staff made their way to their starting positions.

“Ah Young Master Luca, we have been expecting you!”

“I’m here for the new suit” Luca muttered a little looking at the floor

“Yes, your father alerted us, a big day is coming up” He smiled “To think you are about to set off on the big adventure of adulthood”

He was led through the grand metal archways and tall ferns revealing the large spacious room with tall mirrors and wooden floors. It was always a little weird, each set of mirrors were like their own little rooms reflecting you from every angle and exposing everything. Then a man with a handful of pins and an understanding of the placement of their hands check over the whole body. Luca didn’t like this bit, it was weird and invasive but he put on a…somewhat neutral face whilst Jeanne looked on.

The idea of the reason why he was there was laying heavy on him though. Soon he was going to be taken away from anything and everything childish and thrust headfirst into a permanent life of stress and adult responsibilities. But this time there were no teachers, no advisor, he wasn’t even sure if Jeanne would be there. Any dream or care he had was flying away. Soon the man’s hands were taken from his body and adjustment were made.

“Well, we should have the suit ready for you just in time for the big day.”

“That is wonderful I will alert the Master” Jeanne assure him taking the tickets and proofs of receipt as she heard the bell go again. The sound caught her attention and she realized that Luca was no longer in the shop and was speeding off across the pavement. She panics a little and curtseying rushed out and ran after the other.

“Young Master, Please slow down, I can’t keep up!” She yelled, “Where are you going!?”

Luca stopped and spun on the spot looking the other in the eye. She saw anger and sadness in his eyes

“I was hoping I could just walk away from this life”

“But why?” Jeanne asked crouching down by the boy “What’s on your mind?”

His mind was racing as fast as his heart was. A thousand fears and worried built up behind his tongue until they came flooding out.

“It’s not fair! I never got a chance in life! I was born because Loki failed! Because Loki decided, he wanted freedom, I was born in a cage!” He felt tears try to form as he looked at the woman

He wanted to speak more but the words caught and lost meaning before they could fall into the air. Eventually, he managed to splice something together.

“Just realizing that I was never a child” He balled up his fists “I never got my chance to be happy or whimsical or anything!”

“Would you like that chance?”

The two froze and turned to see a man towering over them. Jeanne pulled Luca into her body and stood up creating a barrier between the two of them. The young boy felt shocked but was intrigued by the newcomer. He peeked out from behind his carer.

The man before them was dressed in a blue waistcoat with long raven hair tied over one shoulder, long gloves covered his hand and his body seemed to be drowned in a large black coat. On his face was a mask. It was white and covered the eyes and nose, the eyes were blacked out and the bridge of the mask was shaped into a long beak. The man smirked and bowed low to them.

“What did you say?” Jeanne demanded, growling a little at the man. She sensed danger, no one ever approached young nobles for anything other than mischief and misfortune.

He looked at her as he stood up before smiling brightly and looking back to the younger

“Would you like a chance of whimsy?” He asked

The chance? Luca wanted the chance more than anything. The excitement, the wonder, it was the first time he had felt his age in so long. “Y-yeah!”

He pushed past Jeanne who tried to pull him back but he was already under the spell of the mysterious man.

“Don’t worry! Customer satisfaction is our number one!”

The man pulled what looked like a glistening star from his coat and showed it to the other. Luca looked on in awe at the sparkle, it was like nothing he had ever seen. The man in blue chuckled.

“This is only the beginning”

               The star was thrown into the air and as it arched to fall back down to earth it turned to pinkish purple smoke that exploded as it hit the ground. From this explosion, elephants seemed to burst as if from nowhere with acrobats’ perched on their backs.  Knife throwers and fire eaters and others emerged to delight and amaze. The crowd was forming but Luca was in the middle of it and it was amazing, a masquerade where each and every performer’s face was hidden.

The man in blue stayed nearby and knelt by the boy despite Jeanne’s attempts.

“Is this good enough?” He asked watching the twinkle in Luca’ eyes “Because just when you think that’s all…” The man pointed skyward and suddenly there was noises and shouts as a man in a leotard seemed to be walking on the air itself. Luca felt faint, everything was amazing and wonderful and was overwhelming compared to his normal mundane life.

“And if you want to witness more miracles” Now the magician was addressing the crowd “Then we have just the place for you!”

In a flash it was all gone, the animals, the performers, even the man in blue. In their place, the sky rained paper, posters of a show that had come to town, a promise of marvels and miracles. Greedy hands grasped the paper and pulled to his chest. A chance for this feeling again. Luca didn’t want to give that up.

               Evening came swiftly but the Young Master still felt the adrenaline of excitement of the day. His twitching and shuffling throughout the entirety of the evening’s supper. The weird quirks in his behavior did not go unnoticed either. Father carried on as best as he could until he neared the end, the plate was almost empty when the knife and fork were laid down.

“I heard you were seen with circus folk today” He muttered, “Is this true?”

Luca looked up to meet his father’s disapproving eye and shrunk into his chair. How was he meant to answer that in a way that didn’t get him into more trouble than he apparently already was?

“Erm Master…It is not Master Luca’ fault” Jeanne spoke up from the sideline. Both looked at her with confusion.

“Oh? And pray tell what happened?”

“The charlatan came up to Master Luca and pulled himself into their charade of an advertisement”

There was a long pause as father seemed to mull over the claim.

“Very well…It’s a good thing too” He muttered taking his teacup to drink

“Why is that?” Luca asked breaking the silence. There was a small slice of rebellion in his voice.

“Simple, if you fraternize with such scum it would ruin the family name” He addressed him “Our name is everything”

There was a long pause as the thought sunk in. It was always about their name, not the people in the family. Jeanne looked over to the Young Master in worry and saw the pain in his expression. Sensing he was about to do something he regretted she stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Young Master you need to bathe this evening so we should get going”

Luca looked up at the other and nodded. She meant well and they both knew blowing up in their family’s faces would only cause pain in the short and long run of his foreseeable future. It was only as they left the room he put his foot down.

“I want to go to that circus!”

“Master Luca! That place will just be full of gypsies and evil and is no place for us!”

“Please” He muttered, “Soon my life will be over for good…this could be my last chance to experience something as an honest to God child…would you really take that from me?”

He knew he was playing with her emotions a little but the words still rang true. If today had inspired him was that he had to take the now or never get it again. She stayed firm for a moment before her resolve broke and she sighed

“If I take you…will you promise to never do something like this again”

He smiled and nodded

“I promise!”

               Although the moment they arrive Jeanne instantly regretted it. The area was full of people, children running around and screaming whilst throwing food and being generally disruptive. This was a world away from the nobles life and frankly, Jeanne would rather be there right now then among the common…whatever this was. But Luca was happy for the first time in a long time and she couldn’t deny the other that.

The actors and acrobats were dancing around the crowds, throwing confetti and sparklers into the air. The fantasy element of the circus was alive in the night and could have even rivaled the stars in flashes of bright colours. Luca was already madly in love with the entire atmosphere when a familiar face drifted through the crowd.

“Well if it isn’t the boy who took a chance” The Blue man was wandering around but this time his mask was not around revealing two brilliant blue eyes. Luca rushed over and Jeanne tried her best to follow “So are you here for the show?”

Luca nodded “Yep! This place is the greatest ever! Ah, I wish I could be a part of the circus.”

There was a flicker of something in the Blue man’s eyes, Jeanne could have sworn she missed it for a second, was it excitement? Happiness? Anger? The question plagued her as the two males bounded together until the sound of a cannon filled the air.

“Ah sorry little chance taker, better get to your seat the show is about to begin”

With that, the Blue man bowed before disappearing beyond the tents into the staff area. Luca couldn’t contain his excitement and tugged on Jeanne’s hand, he had never felt this before and the inner child within him was begging for more. The woman snapped from her stupor and smile

“Ok Young Master, let’s go sit down”

They managed to get seats in the middle of the pews looking down on the center ring, the hustle, and bustle of people waiting buzzed like bees. Jeanne continued her puzzle to figure out the emotion she saw in the Blue man’s eyes. It continued to plague her until as the lights went down until like a flash she remembered it. It was something she had seen in her own eyes a long time ago when she was being trained by cold teachers with unfeeling motives.

Fear.

A single light shone down to the center of the ring illuminated a tall man with broad shoulder and long red hair. He removed his top hat and bowed, his face carried a confident smirk and a strong sense of pride.

“Ladies and Gentleman” He began leaning on his cane “Boys and girls, welcome to our humble circus. Prepare to be amazed, shocked and filled with wonder all under my guidance”

It wouldn’t be until much later, that the true show would begin.

[broadwaybydesign]

Totale Finsternis: Costuming “Tanz der Vampire,” Part I (UPDATED)

As noted, I made an error in attribution in my previous review of the Vienna revival. While the analysis is the same, the name of the designer (Kentaur) has been updated along with removing my commentary on Sue Blane. For an analysis of the Blane designs of the Paris production, stay tuned for tomorrow’s post!

Welcome back, everyone! As promised, we’re going to be diverging quite a bit from the shows and costumes I’ve looked at in the past in order to try something completely different. There are a lot of costumes here, so I’m going to structure this a little differently and try to look at a whole production in each of the two posts, rather than splitting them up by character. There’s a simple reason for this: the costumes are so detailed and so original, that they either need to be taken as a collective, or else each costume needs a full post…and I don’t think I could manage that!

But what I can manage is to look at the overall Vienna production and give my thoughts on this über-eclectic production with its classic camp, gothic horror, and rock musical elements. I’m really glad to have been turned onto this musical, because as those who follow the main blog know, one of my other hobbies is a vampire-themed RPG. I admit that I had never seen the original Roman Polanski movie upon which the musical is based, but the musical is apparently a pretty good take–and for good reason, since Polanski himself created and directed the original production.

I linked the plot summary Sunday in the preview post, so I’m going to just jump in to some of the amazing costumes that were conceived by Kentaur, a Hungarian costumer who has worked on a number of European productions (many the equivalent of off-Broadway, but quite a few mainstage), with inspiration from the original Vienna designs of Sue Blane. Let’s take a look!

Where to even begin with designs like these! To start with, I absolutely love that the 19th century inspirations are on full display: we’ve got hoop skirts, we’ve got riding cloaks, we’ve got morning coats, we’ve got (in the background) large and decorative hats, and on the main character (Graf von Krolok as played by Thomas Borchert) at stage left there is what appears to be a hybrid of leather and brocade on a waistcoat. In fact, let’s take a little closer look at our main character in another scene:

This entire costume is spectacular, and shows the characteristic mixing of styles that makes a production such as this so utterly fascinating to analyze. The waistcoat definitely has a combination of fabric and leather, giving the Graf a hard-edged appearance that even the pale makeup and prosthetic fangs wouldn’t have accomplished on their own. The pants/trousers are leather-esque (I doubt they’re entirely leather; as I’ve mentioned before, stage costumes need to be able to breathe a little bit because of the heat of the stage lights) and give off a very masculine feel. The riding cloak (more commonly a cape, but as I recall, a cape generally doesn’t have as much luxury put into it) is simple in a way, but the rich crimson satin folds and bunches to create a mixture of light and shadow that is absolutely necessary in a dark production like Tanz der Vampire.

I also love that the color of the cape’s interior is so dark a red; remember that this is a production about vampires first and foremost. The crimson puts one in mind of the blood the creatures are compelled to drink in order to stay alive, and that’s a good choice in costumery; playing on what people expect to see is not always a bad thing, especially when you want your production to have an element of pastiche, that is to say, an element of mix-and-match that you do not necessarily find with traditional theatre. The color also provides a fantastic contrast to the rest of Graf von Krolock’s costume, which is done in shades of black (and black does have shades…try matching a set of black socks for proof!), deep purples, and a few hints of very deep blue on the waistcoat.

The waistcoat itself is quite different, and I like it. Rather than a simple, straightforward cloth cut, Kentaur has added a bit of beadwork that you might not otherwise expect in a male costume. Everything about this costume is designed to have a bit of a wow factor; it may not be the most visually appealing costume, but it will be the most visually stunning costume on stage. While this may be an homage to Sue Blane’s original designs, I have no doubt about the originality of Kentaur’s work here. It’s sophisticated and smart while still being a bit whimsical and fun!

It would be wrong, however, to say there is no overall theming and that the costumes of the Vienna production are simply a pastiche of vampire tropes. The costumes for the vampires fit that mold, but I think there is a good reason for this: in dealing with a dark subject and trying to make it a bit humorous (this is a Roman Polanski production, after all), it is important to inject that humor into the costumes as well. None of the vampires look ridiculous, as the first still shows, but they are visually different. It’s an effort to make the macabre into the mundane, and it’s done spectacularly well–all the while maintaining the Graf’s look as intimidating and frightening.

The work on the costumes for the human characters is no less impressive and visually appealing. Take, for example, the red dress worn by the female lead, Sarah (Marjan Shaki). It’s a hoop skirt that flows and bends and is in a shade of crimson that is rather similar to the cape worn by her captor, the Graf. It’s not an exact match, however, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s intentional; by making the dress a bit lighter, there’s a slight sense of innocence granted to the character that isn’t present in the vampire holding onto her. There’s a closeup from another perspective, this time of the dress resting on a chair, that lets us look a bit more in-depth (adapted from a still from the production company):

While the stage lighting here gives us a more rust-color, the image from earlier does show that it’s a bright, vibrant red. The dress overall is in satin, which is quite appropriate for the era in which the musical is set, and it has a flowing effect as a result. The bodice/bust is decorated with quite a bit of beadwork, though not much in the way of jewelled adornment There’s also a bit of fringing available, which I think is Kentaur’s way of giving a subtle nod to the stage productions of the era Tanz is set in. Early theatre’s easiest way of making a gown look fancy was to add fringing to the external portions of the dress, and in this case we see a bit of it on the hoop skirt/bell of the dress, as well as earlier on Ms Shaki’s arms where the dress is supported. I’ll have more on the Red Dress when I do the Paris review because it’s an even more spectacular example, but I thought it important to give some attention to the Vienna original as well!

There’s one more group scene I want to take a look at from the Vienna production. This one showcases quite a few of the human characters and it’s interesting to look at for a couple reasons. One, there doesn’t appear to be quite as much pastiche as there is in the costumes for the vampires that started out this review, and two, Kentaur has done something to the costumes here to give them a very muted appearance:

For those who are familiar with classic 19th century-set musicals like Les Misérables, many of these may look a little bit familiar. The common tropes of underclass clothing are present here, but through her use of color and design, Ms Blane is making quite clear just how ordinary these people are. There is little to no adornment on any of the costumes, and they are presented as they come: there are wrinkles in the barmaid’s apron, the jackets on the men appear to be dusky and dusty at the same time, and everything is just so much more simple than the costumes for the vampires or the Sarah character. That’s by design; when you want to draw a stark contrast, you need to do that through your use of color and fabric choice. Notice I didn’t say any of these costumes look cheap because they absolutely do not. Rather, they look simple by comparison, and that’s a positive. These aren’t designed to be the more memorable pieces, and indeed that helps us to remember the pieces on Sarah and the vampires. The one exception here is the Alfred character (played by Lukas Perman) in the red coat; it’s still a relatively simple, muted design, but it does stand out and ties in to the red theme we saw earlier with Sarah’s dress and the Graf’s cape.

Also, I really dig the strands of garlic that are being worn by about half the ensemble members in this shot. It’s a nice hat-tip to the classic trope of vampires being unable to stand the smell of garlic, and while it may be a part of the book of the musical, for Kentaur to somehow make them appear even more silly than the idea of garlic as vampire-bane itself is really an accomplishment.

Tanz der Vampire is a campy, raucous musical that has a costume designer and set of costumes to match. I like that the vampiric costumes are a pastiche of different designs, while for the most part the mortal designs are quite a bit more subdued. In some ways, it makes me long for the Austrian production reviewed here to do a national tour in the United States; the English translation of Tanz spectacularly flopped on Broadway, but that had more to do with the timing (it debuted scant months after 9/11 when the theatre was already seeing reduced sales) and the controversy surrounding the casting and design (read a bit on Michael Crawford’s role if you want more detail).

But I think that the musical as costumed by Kentaur could do quite well here if ever given the chance. I know any number of people in the theatre community who got their start doing Rocky Horror midnight showings and paying homage to Kentaur’s costume designs in the movie and original stage show. There is real potential for this to become a cult classic in the States if it were put on by the right people and used the right costumes–preferably an updated version designed by Kentaur himself.

That about wraps up my Vienna review. Later on this week, I’ll take a look at another of the successful productions of Tanz, this time the Paris production entitled Le Bal des Vampires, and this time costumed by Sue Blane, the costumer of the original Vienna production (but not, as I thought, the revival!). It got mixed reviews from the foreign press, but Paris Match certainly enjoyed it and heaped praise on the costume design, so I’m pretty sure it’s going to be an interesting review!

Stay tuned!

So there you have an updated review. Like I said, much of my commentary stands, but I wanted to be sure to get proper credit and attribution out to Kentaur. If you’re reblogging my Tanz der Vampire post, I’d appreciate if you also reblogged this correction, and I’ll edit a link into the original post as well!