#over a thousand words was my CONDENSED VERSION

[yardsards]

just turned in an assignment with the disclaimer "sorry, the autism ran wild this one" at the top

[00towns]

it's all true

I could say something catty about why I didn’t have many words for September, but I have the feeling that I will be unsatisfied – words will never be enough to explain a lack of them. In The Argonauts, Maggie Nelson writes that she had once been devoted to the idea that “the inexpressible is contained – inexpressibly! – in the expressed.” By this, she means that words are enough, and that inner selves that feel impossible to put in words are present anyway – of course, in a way that is impossible to be described. Does silence communicate in that same, tricky way? Could I make my silence at the very least mean something? That month was about practice over theory, acting without reflecting, macheteing through the forest without worrying about what was being cut down. 

It’s all true, by the way. Every chiding from my mom, every wholehearted recommendation, every condensed two-sentence story that was once an hours-long epic best told over dinner, or drinks. They’re all true. More than I realize, everyone is always minimizing themselves, but sometimes the fact is striking and sobering – that it’s all true, every faded feeling was once a scream, that some stories are written in blood, that all choices are thousands of years of the same lesson learned over and over. The artist who has spilled themselves into their art does so because it’s all true. Every trite love song is a feeling that you don’t understand, all the way up until you do. 

I think this has been the goal of practice over theory, straying from overcorrection. How can I understand You more? To a point, I’m not sure if there’s anything that I can read that will help me do that anymore. I’m tired of reading and feeling like an outsider to a character’s interiority. I want to live, even just in service of prose. What can I do that will make this theme sting more? This scene more heartwrenching? 

I wrote at the beginning of this summer that I wanted to cry about something, among others. This is both a very specific and very vague bucket list item, in that I was more focused on an emotional outcome of an unspecified event than an actual thing to be completed, making this item actually quite unambitious. In late September, weeks after the autumn equinox I cried watching the Great British Bake-Off. In Collection 14, the bakers are challenged to make a showstopper of braided breads. A baker shows off her experience: she wears a long, dark braid down her back, and has been braiding her twenty-one year old daughter’s hair since she was a child. She thinks of her, paused mid-action at her workstation, just for a moment. ‘Oh! My baby girl,’ she exclaims. I shake and sob on my little brown couch thinking about that feeling. I haven’t cried like this in over a year. The next day at work, I’m a mess. Between classes, I go to the English club room, lock the door, and cry a little more. A day later, I get my period. This helps things make sense, but only faintly. It feels strange that there needs to be a biological imperative in order for me to cry, it feels strange to laugh and write about a version of myself that was alive and breathing yesterday. Those feelings were real; this rationality about my hormonal system is real. It’s both me, and it’s not. It’s All true. 

In early October, I visit two more temples on the Saikoku Kannon pilgrimage. It pisses rain all day, and I get caught out in my outdoors clothes that are more style than substance. Soaked, I find shelter under the overhanging roof of the main hall of Soujiji, and feel flushed and sticky in my thin rain coat, and am struck with a flash of soul-crushing, creature misery. It’s the kind that even the can-do spirit that has turbo-charged me over the last year cannot conquer, and I feel like sitting down and screaming like a child. I’m sweaty, soaked, and tired. Maybe throwing something would help. Then I turn around, and the Goddess of Mercy, standing on a turtle’s back, peers out at me from the dark wood of the main hall. I look back at her. Her thousand hands hang steady in the still air of the inner hall. I won’t pretend that I experience a revelation here, but I do feel something. Maybe it’s the smell of the old teak and cedar. Maybe finding her has reminded me that she’s who I came to see. Maybe the rain lets up just a hair. Whatever it is, the Kannon has done something to make the frustration feel farther away, and the moment of anger dissipates. This, like everything else, is true. I press the palms of my hands together, and breathe in and out a few times. One day I’ll stop being surprised that a certain peace that has grounded people for thousands and thousands of years grounds me too. I remind myself that the solace in places that others have too is not an affront to my individuality, but a thesis asserted over and over again, in thousands of soft bodies blown here by some divine wind, relief so light I could cry out of the eyes of past giants standing here in need of something. It’s all True. 

On an unimportant Sunday afternoon, I plug in my guitar and watch a few more videos in the Youtube series I’ve decided will teach me how to play it. The instructor on the screen teaches me an exercise in changing chords quickly, which I am told I should practice for a minute before writing down the number I’ve completed on a piece of paper. He recommends this to track progress, and adds sincerely that seeing the number of changes increase over time with practice is extremely motivating for beginners. I set the timer for a minute and begin, making it about halfway before stopping. I sit for a strange beat of wired silence, wondering why I have stopped. The minute feels long. I go back to the video again, listen to the instructions again, waffling back and forth between the screen and my fingers against the metal of the strings. I end up having to force myself to do the one minute exercise and feel strange and disembodied the whole time, even though I’m alone and no one is keeping track. On Monday, I try the exercise again, and am happy to see that I’m able to complete more chord changes in a minute than I was the day before. I cannot for the life of me figure out why I am surprised. It strikes me as so absurd that this feels new and exciting, that I’m inspired to continue improving, just like he said would happen. I think I’m surprised that I have been successfully emotionally managed by someone who does not know me. I suddenly hate this trite man and his gauche techniques; they are effective and helpful. How does he know that it’s all true, and I do not? 

Why are the simplest truths the most difficult to realize? A concentrated effort will lead to a desired outcome. My emotional state is impacted by my hormonal cycle. I will be uncomfortable if I am sweaty and damp. I’m sometimes lonely. I need to write things down or I will not remember them. I need to exercise. I cannot shoulder my way through a life here. The biggest truths are big for a reason. I don’t know why I insist on having that proven to me. Words can do their best to communicate this, but some things aren’t quite true until they feel true. Am I being best served by learning this on my own? Who will teach me if I choose to listen? This is what I’ve gathered, until now: it’s all true. 

Reader, I’m lonely! I miss my parents! I miss my brother! I miss my best friends at home! It is lonely to live alone in a foreign country! I am not above it! I have resisted this truth for the longest and I am learning it now in real time, bottled up and now spilling everywhere, a year overdue. This is true! 

ref:

Maggie Nelson, The Argonauts (United States: Graywolf Press, 2015)

SIDE CORE: Concrete Planet [Exhibition]. 2024. Watari-um, The Watari Museum of Contemporary Art. Tokyo, Japan. http://www.watarium.co.jp/en/exhibition/202408/

Confusion Song - Luna Li

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Visit

(I found this prompt while cleaning out my inbox and I’m so sorry I missed it the first time, Anon! With more than 150+ messages I am finding all kinds of treasures I missed when they came in!)

Prompt:  "10. True tenderness is silent and can’t be mistaken for anything else" for Chris? <3

CW: Referenced death of whumper, referenced parental death, grief of an abuse survivor/whumpee, religious abuse, frank discussion of death, referenced past child abuse and survivor anger

Essentially a follow-up to this piece after Oliver’s death

Jake borrows Nat’s truck for the trip out to the cemetery, the old stick-shift Ford better able to handle the steep hills outside the city than his own beat-up four door. Chris sits next to him, pale and silent, and it’s a callback to a version of Chris that hasn’t existed in years, not since he was a frightened child.

This is a different kind of silence - heavier, it muffles the music from the radio, makes it seem like static and not songs at all. Jake doesn’t turn it up, or change the channel. He lets the silence draw out.

It’s not the same kind of silence, in the end.

The gates, wrought-iron and looking a mix of delicate and eerily strong, are open for them to drive inside. The rumbling engine of the truck catches the attention of an older woman laying flowers on a gravestone, who looks briefly up at them as they pass, but doesn’t wave.

She only looks.

Chris doesn’t look at her. His hands are folded in his lap, his hair caught low at the nape of his neck, the blue captured by a pale gray clip that holds it back from his face. He asked Jake to get him a suit, for this - he’s never owned one before.

Not since he left the bastard’s house.  

Jake didn’t ask why - he just took Chris shopping, and they bought the suit. It’s black, with thin gray pinstripes that match Chris’s hair clip. His button-up and tie are perfectly done - Chris had done them up himself, the vestiges of training he still remembered. He’s wearing black leather shoes, shined up just for this, and he took out all his earrings, the perfect emptiness of the skin making Jake’s stomach flip at the way Chris has removed nearly all of the ways he made his body his own.

Jake drives around a curve on the little paved road, and finally comes to a stop.

The grave is unmistakable - the dirt is still fresh and soft, and hasn’t fully settled. It’s just... dirt, and behind it a little marker stuck in the ground. A simple name, date of birth, date of death. That’s all. The real stone hasn’t come in yet.

OLIVER WILLIAM BRANCH DOB: 09/09/1966 DOD: 04/02/202X Chris stares at the pile of dirt, and Jake sees his knuckles turn white. He’s not rocking, not tapping, not humming. Just... silent, and still. Like he’s carved from stone.

Statue boy, Chris used to whisper, when he was scared. Be a good boy, statue boys don’t move, stillness is better than what I do, statue boys stay still...

“You-” Jake’s voice cuts into the silence, a knife into skin, and he flinches at the sound of his own voice. He’s just wearing a t-shirt and jeans, and suddenly he wonders if Chris wanted him to wear a suit, too, if he’s disappointed Jake didn’t think of it on his own. “You don’t... have to do this, Chris.” His voice drops, stays lower.

Chris doesn’t look at him, only looks at the grave. His beautiful face is pale, and looks young - more like when he first showed up - and the blue hair suddenly looks wrong, like he shouldn’t have it yet. It should still have its coppery new-penny shine. The roots are hinting, just a little, at the color it used to be. “Yes, I, I, I, I do.”

Jake swallows against a lump in his throat, and slowly nods, turning off the engine and sitting back. The radio continues to play, pulling on battery power, while the two of them look at a pile of soil that covers a dead man whose life is still carved into Chris’s mind. “You want me to get out with you?”

There’s a quiet, as Chris thinks.

Then he whispers, “Please,” as his thin fingers find the handle to the door and open it up. His other hand grips onto the bouquet of roses they’d picked up to bring out here, wrapped in crinkly paper and tied with a thin string.

Immediately, birdsong filters in, intrudes on the silence, demands their attention instead.

Jake is out of the truck in a heartbeat and around to meet Chris as he slowly steps down. He looks like a child dressed for a party, even with a suit carefully chosen to fit. Or maybe Jake just struggles to see him as anything else, in moments like this one.

Chris leans towards him and Jake slides an arm around his shoulders.

He doesn’t regret this man’s death, only that it couldn’t have been half so painful as what the bastard deserved - but Jake keeps that to himself, because he can see the tears standing in Chris’s eyes, and that’s not what Chris needs to hear right now.

Instead, he just says, softly, “I’m here.”

Chris nods, bumping into him once, twice, three times - a reassurance, a reminder. Then he starts to walk, clinging to the roses in his hand, and Jake walks beside him, narrowing his own long strides to match, so he won’t pull away, so they’ll move together.

There’s no one else here, in this part of the cemetery. It’s just the two of them, walking towards the grave marker, the laid-in dirt. Somewhere, six feet down, is the man who once made the width and length of Chris’s world so narrow that it was condensed to a single hallway, a basement, to the shape of tears.

Jake stands slightly back when Chris steps forward on his own. He doesn’t offer platitudes - he can’t hope that Branch is in a better place, he’s still got his fingers crossed that hell is real just so people like Oliver Branch can experience it - he can’t say everything happens for a reason and then ask himself what possible reason there could have been for Chris to lose everything and be given his own hell in return.

He can’t say it’ll get better or time heals all wounds or you’ll find a way to forgive him or God has a plan because Jake has lived with those words branded in his soul from a thousand well-meaning relatives and church people and his mother’s so-called fucking friends and none of those words did shit, they never helped, they only made it clear that no one wanted to sit in silence with the weight of what had happened, only talk over it until Jake and his mom pretended the pain wasn’t there anymore.

No one deserves forgiveness - you make the choice to forgive, and it’s got nothing to do with whether or not anyone deserves it, you forgive for yourself - not for them.

Time didn’t heal shit, and he’s never forgiven the man who nearly killed his mother and would have kept hurting him if he never got bigger, stronger, better able to fight back.

He can’t say God has a plan, because if that’s true, then it’s a shitty fucking plan, isn’t it? To steal a child from the love that should have been the foundation of his life and hand him over to wolves to be devoured instead?

He can’t say any of it, because he doesn’t believe it, and all those well-meaning words are just knives that tear you open and then demand you comfort the people who can’t stand the sight of blood.

All he can do is give Chris his silence and his presence while he watches Chris lay a dozen roses on top of freshly turned earth.

Chris speaks, and his voice carries just enough, and Jake’s jaw sets, trembles, sets again as he pretends not to hear. As he tries, and fails, not to listen.

“I tried,” Chris whispers, in his slow-stone voice, the one he was trained to use, that he can still slide into as easily as he might throw on a shirt in the morning. “I tried... to be, be good, Sir. I was... I was good. I loved you, and... I didn’t... leave because I didn’t love you-... I... I didn’t deserve to be hurt, Sir. But...” He trails off, and Jake forces his gaze to wander.

A bright red cardinal stares back at him from a tree branch nearby, flits away, lands on a different gravestone. Jake stares at it, wondering with a strange unsettled curiosity if it’s the same cardinal, if it followed them out here somehow, but of course that’s... not possible.

There are cardinals everywhere. Cemeteries just make everything seem haunted.

The gravestone the cardinal rests on has been here a while - there’s a single spray of flowers laid on one side, and nothing on the other. It’s one of those double-stones for married people, Jake thinks.

Chris is still talking to Oliver, and Jake forces himself with all his strength not to eavesdrop, just to be here, to be the strength Chris needs. So he stares at the cardinal, and the gravestone.

Each side has a little clear plastic heart, and Jake knows what those are - the gravetones where you can put a photo of the person inside, and see them, and he thinks those are creepy as hell, but... but he can see why you’d buy one.

A woman and a man. Jake squints. They have the same date of death, he thinks, and his heart twists. Car accident, maybe? That sucks. Chris said once that he remembered his parents died.

He wonders who misses these two, who left the flowers.

Life is not forever - but love is. Beloved parents of-

Jake feels Chris press up to him, cold nose against his neck, hitching in sobs that are nearly soundless, gasping for air.

“Do you want me to talk to you about this?” Jake asks, gently.

Chris shakes his head, twisting his fingers into Jake’s shirt, rocking now, for the first time since they left. His voice, broken, starts to hum to try to drown out his own tears, and Jake slides both arms around Chris’s shoulders and holds him tightly.

“D-don’t, don’t talk, don’t-... don’t don’t don’t, I just n-need, I need, I-”

Chris tenses and then lets out a wail, echoing off the trees, soaked up in the ground around them, a half-scream of stifled pain he’s carried since he was seventeen years old.

“Hurts, h-hurts, hurts, it hurts-”

“Sssshhh, I know, I know it hurts, Chris, I know.”

“It hurts!”

Across the cemetery, the old woman doesn’t look up from her careful care of the stone she is tending, giving them space, a kind of tenderness all its own in allowing them their privacy.

Jake just holds on tighter, giving Chris an anchor, a steady presence he can scream into until all the sound is out of him, until the scream is gone.

Then, it’s quiet. They stand, for a while, in silence, other than Chris’s slow avalanche slide into outright weeping for the man who did nothing but try to destroy what spark he had left, and Jake doesn’t say a word.

He’ll probably cry when his abuser finally dies, too. Assuming anyone tells him.

When Chris, red-eyed and sniffling, pulls back to get in the truck, Jake lets him go, climbs into the driver’s seat, and brings the old truck rumbling to life.

Chris’s knuckles are still white, but as they drive around the curve again, he starts to rock, back and forth, back and forth.

When Chris starts humming, Jake turns the music up a little to give him something to hum along to, and Chris flashes him a tear-stained, trembling little smile in gratitude.

A dozen roses in brown paper lay on top of the grave of a man who could never deserve the grief that Chris so freely feels for him.

The cardinal watches them go, and then hops down from the top of the gravestone to peck at birdseed scattered on only one side of the double-stone grave of two people who died on the very same day when Chris was fifteen years old.

---

Tagging: @burtlederp​, @finder-of-rings​, @endless-whump​, @whumpfigure​, @slaintetowhump​, @astrobly​, @newandfiguringitout​, @doveotions​, @pretty-face-breaker​, @boxboysandotherwhump​, @oops-its-whump​ @moose-teeth​

[yeats-infection]

Hi!!! I know its basically ancient history now but im rereading source codes again because i really do love it very very much and i wanted to ask you how you wrapped your head around all the magic theory stuff? The gold thread and resonance and things like how the latinisation of spells condensed and lessened the power of them iirc (havent reached that bit yet, i think its in part 2 of the fic). What were your inspirations/thought processes for that aspect? Also the scene with riley song in sirius’ office is one of my favourite fic scenes ever i just love every line of it wow ❤️❤️

thank you very much for asking! i say this any time anyone asks me about those stories but there is a lot that i would do differently if i was writing them now. chiefly i feel they are too gooey. but i remain very proud of the magical theory stuff and the worldbuilding around that. i honestly have little to no recollection of writing those stories though it was happening around this time exactly five years ago. i remember being very hot and being totally obsessed. it basically took me four months to write almost two hundred thousand words.

the resonance thing is totally based on a feeling i get (which you may have experienced too) of being in a beautiful place and feeling you're being watched or there's someone else with you. i have also thought of it as "the presence feeling"... i find that this feeling is very different in the places where i've experienced it... the version in new york / new england is entirely separate from the version out in the western U.S. the one in the northeast is pretty much the witch in the woods from centuries ago...

as for the stuff about latinate spells... idk putting the screws to canon a little will make you think about these things, in my experience. like are we meant to believe that the roman empire invented magic? this just seems ridiculous to me... if magic exists it must have always existed. i like thinking about how there might be a colonial politics to this (like this giant empire taking over the world and needing to regiment magic in order to understand and control it)... and then i like thinking about how a word is necessarily a condensed version of a thought... like the thought is broader and then it is corralled in words... so logically magic must be similar...

the big cool idea i had for a theoretical part 3 of this story was relating to another big worldbuilding concept/headcanon i have which is that in the 1960s at a magic college in western massachusetts a student accidentally opened a portal to death... and that this has basically informed american wizarding politics for the rest of the 20th century and beyond...

[soranihimawari]

Choosing You

Bokuto Koutaro is about to make a mistake by marrying someone who made him choose between a childhood friend and her. Luckily for him, he realizes who he wants to be with days before the ceremony.

Rating: pg-13 for themes taken from a rom-com viewpoint.

Word Count: tba

Anything to note?: this was a fun prompt I saw on a generator.

“I choose her.”

These three words were the ones that changed your life the night of a dress rehearsal for a wedding you were trying to avoid attending. You weren’t sure if the bride had even wanted you present since you and the groom were close since childhood. The argument about whether or not you should be there to witness this momentous occasion had been going on since the last couple of months leading up to the wedding. Envelopes were sent, catering packages were ordered, and even the reception hall had been booked.

The rehearsal dinner was to take place three days before the big day. You, at the request of the best man, had been added as a surprise plus one a few weeks prior. No one else in the bridal party knew you were going to attend and although the groom truly wanted you to be there, he realized you had pushed away any and all invitations dealing with the nuptials. Nonetheless, here you were in a modest three-quarter sleeved dress standing at the open bar, listening to speech after speech congratulating the picture-perfect couple.

What you didn’t know though was the behind the scenes bickering between the fiancés when it came to seeing you at the place. You swished your alcohol in the glass before taking a few more sips. The dinner was about to be served and you were sure you’d be able to get through it. After all, it’s been several years since you’ve seen your childhood friend from Tokyo be this happy. You reminisce about the day your phone rang with the name ‘Bokkun’ lighting up your screen; you listen to him rant and go on about this young lady he saw at the park where he jogs right before the MSBY morning practice. You were at home on your day off when you offered some advice although you find the resolve within yourself to tell him to pursue dating her. That morning was almost six years ago and it was the beginning of the distance you two would soon create.

Honestly, you didn’t think you’d get an invitation, but when you did, you knew you had lost. You don’t send the RSVP card back to the original senders. Thankfully,several nights ago, if the best man hadn’t called you, you were sure you’d have sent a congratulatory message to the groom in your own time. Also, huge brownie points to the same best man who added you his plus one the second he found out you threw away the invite.

“You did what?!” Akaashi practically yells into the receiver of his landline. He ran his hand exasperatedly through his hair.

“I had to throw it away. I couldn’t be reminded every day that Kou chose that demon for a bride,” you spat back. You and the bride were as opposite as night and day; you were always there in the past to cheer up the boisterous fellow and even on their worst fights, you made him go back to her and apologize. She confides in your dear friend she feels threatened by you because of the closeness you shared, so when Bokuto starts to avoid hanging out with you deliberately, you let it happen.

“Listen, the ceremony’s in a few months, I’ll talk to Bokuto-San and tell him I’m bringing a plus one: you. So you better be ready,” Akaashi says before hanging up without giving you time to reply.

Currently, you were just about to get another refill on your drink when you heard the groom gather the attention of the conjoined family and friends group. You knew the young man was either about to make a fool of himself or at the very least, make a heart-warming speech about how he couldn’t wait to spend literal eternity on earth with his fiancée. What you didn’t expect was a declaration of love aimed toward you.

The ringing chime of glassware calls everyone to draw their conversations to a close while one brave man decided to declare something a majority of the groomsmen knew about. The scowl on the bride’s face should have been a great hint, however you were on the third gin and tonic that night, so this was going to hit you differently.

“There is going to be no wedding. At least not between my new ex and I,” your friend begins. You nearly choke on your drink while there are audible gasps coming from the crowd. The groomsmen on his side seemed somewhat relieved their friend had finally seen the light. The bartender asked if you were ok, you agree. You place the glass back on the small bar table behind you, your ears listening to the various reasons why your friend is calling off the wedding. All of them were mainly shortcomings of the bride, but the main reason why was a startling one (at least to you when you thought your feelings were one-sided).

“…The main reason why is because she made me choose between her and my favorite first-first love,” he affectionately says. He seemed kind of embarrassed that it took him literal years for him to figure this one out on his own, but nonetheless, he seemed pretty fearless by this confession. Those golden amber eyes of his hyper fixated on you like you were the only being he ever needed.

“I choose her,” he concludes, raising an empty champagne flute toward the sky. “A thousand times over.”

Your cheeks are warm with a mixture of embarrassment and joy; you feel like you’re floating, but before you do, you head out of the side door of the banquet hall. This act of confession was by far the most extra thing you could think Bokuto could have done, so your feet guide you outside to the city streets where you walk aimlessly with a smile on your face. Your heels clack on the concrete until you hear hurried footsteps behind you. Your dress swishes as you command your feet to stop moving. Both of you stop moving, yet you are at arms’ length away before either of you speak.

“You’re insane,” your voice shakes with nerves. “H-how’re you going to explain that stunt you just pulled?”

Bokuto stands in front of you with the brightest reassuring smile he could muster, his cheeks a bit flushed from the short sprint he did to catch up to you.

“Easy,” he begins. “I don’t love her; I love you. ‘M sorry took me forever to figure that out.”

You fold your arms over your chest before you invade his personal space and you let him have a piece of your mind. You recall the many times you have proved you loved him and the several times you tried to push down your emotions including the one time Akaashi found out your once one sided love for his friend.

“You did all that and I was too absorbed in trying to continue to be the best version of myself that I left you alone,” Bokuto says, gently gripping your shoulders. “I promise I won’t do that ever again.”

“You better not, Kou,” you truthfully state. A sigh escapes your lips as you ask him what his plans are now since the wedding was called off.

“Well, first thing’s first,” he leans down to kiss your cheek. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

You giggle and agree right before you make sure his lips don’t miss yours; you cradle his face in your hands and his finds their way on your waist. Your eyes flutter close the moment your lips touch. In that kiss,there was sweetness of passion, a million loving thoughts condensed into a moment. He pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours. Bokuto calls you his patient lover and for the first time in a long time both of you bask in the presence of a warm Tokyo night.

[cherry3point14]

One Helluva Car

Pairing: Dean x Reader Warnings: Minor car fetish, one paragraph of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smut, a little jealous!Dean, this is crack babes’, I can’t stress this enough: car fetish Word Count: 3,500. Summary: Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world and then one day she sees Baby... A/N: @alexwinchester23​ hit me up a THOUSAND years ago with the prompt: dean x reader where she is more “in love” with deans car and it makes him a little jelly lol. And I was like, ha ha ha sure I’ll write it. It’s been half written ever since. So, I finished it. Someone please be proud of me for finishing. (Not like that you animals.)  This also fills Driving In The Impala for @spndeanbingo​

It’s Monday lunchtime when you see it. Her? It looks like a her. The best cars are ‘hers’ and even from a distance, she has curves that only a good woman could possess.

You’ve had a morning of shitty, old trucks that have been run hard for too long, and new cars that you plug into the computer to diagnose, which takes all the fun out of life. It’s easy to see a mile off that she isn’t shitty or bogged down with modern tech. She’s a well looked after classic. A thing of beauty. A freaking masterpiece. She’s polished enough that the sun bounces off of her black surface like she’s made of glass.

If only your arms weren’t laden with brown paper bags of food you’d take a detour to get a closer look. You could ghost your hand over her hood and take a look at the interior. You bet it’s the softest fucking leather your ass would ever hope to feel.

You’d generally drool over her without actually drooling because God knows spit is not good for the paintwork. Unfortunately, you do have bags filled with hot, meaty subs intended to feed your workforce. And you’re wise enough to know that making a garage of hungry mechanics wait for their lunch is not a good move. It’ll only result in some sort of unnecessary disaster this afternoon that you, their boss, will have to fix or pay for. Or both.

The only thing you can do is take one last look at her, memorize that beautiful shape while you heft the bags closer to your chest and carry on walking. It’s not like you’ve never seen a good old fashion American muscle car before, you have your own ‘70 Mustang at home.

It’s just… this is a Chevvy Impala, arguably the first car to flex its muscles. You don’t see one of those every day.

Your hobby is like a much cooler version of birdwatching. You have an appreciation for cars, classics in particular. The craftsmanship, the design, and the sounds they make as they tear through the world like moving time capsules. Nothing generated by a low emission engine compares.

That’s how you spot her for the second time, on Wednesday.

Well, you hear her first.

You’re closing up for the night. Everyone goes home early on Wednesdays, the shop closes at three, except for you. There’s always paperwork that needs to be done and you hate the idea of taking it home if you can help it. Taking a car home you’re always happy to do, but paperwork? You refuse to dirty your private space like that.

It’s just before six when you’re locking the doors and thunder screams in the distance. At least you think it’s thunder, you wonder where the clouds are until it moves too fast to be a weather condition.

The closer it gets the more the sound transforms into pure, uncut horsepower. It’s the deep rumble of an engine that demands to be heard. It tears your attention to it whether you like it or not. An announcement of the coming vehicle before it arrives.

Then she glides around the corner of Maple and Third before peeling down the street past you. It’s her again, she’s still in town. You know it’s the same car, she isn’t a vehicle made for stealth and your little ol’ town isn’t exactly heaving with beauties like her.

You know she’s not a local, it must be a flying visit, you’re lucky enough to have seen her again before she left. Not just seen her though, heard her. Heard her engine and the screech of her tires on the tarmac. Experiencing her in action is breathtaking enough that you gawp at her like an idiot as she zooms away.

It’s not a fetish or anything. You don’t exactly cuddle an exhaust pipe in bed. You appreciate cars more than your job requires you to, simple. It’s a respect that was drilled into you from a young age. Your dad owns a franchise of shops across the state and never had the boy he always wanted. He didn’t mope about it, he taught you to fix an engine instead. To appreciate every individual piece like an unsolved puzzle. And because your dad is a big ol’ softie he taught you that classic cars can’t be beaten, he favors Camaros in particular. He gave you a garage to work in until you’d labored enough to earn it for keeps and manage it as your own. Your dad raised you to bleed motor oil and sweat gasoline.

Cars are your life. Ok, maybe you’re a bit of a gearhead is all. You can’t help it if that Impala is a fine wine you want to uncork.

You watch the street lights make a hazy path for her to follow, another corner and she’s gone.

At home, you curl up on your sofa and scroll through your usual sites to see how much your own Impala would cost. In good condition, you’d have to sell one of the two cars you already have but there’s this smashed up ‘68 in New Jersey that might be worth the drive for the price. It would basically be a new car by the time you rebuild it but that doesn’t matter. All you needed were the bones of the thing and you never shy away from a project that involves weeks of hunting down original parts, that’s half the fun. For tonight at least it gets bookmarked. The decision left for another day, if it still seems like a good idea in the morning then you’ll make the call.

Hell, maybe tomorrow you’ll see something else and forget all about her. Maybe.

Good looking guys come through town from time to time but Dean is a rare treat. He’s the picture next to ‘handsome’ in the dictionary. He’s got these full lips that you’ve stared at, without an ounce of shame, while he sucks on a beer bottle. A jawline covered in scruff that you’ve already imagined between your thighs. And then there are those hands of his. It could be your line of work but you always loved a man with hands like his. Broad hands and thick fingers. Mechanic hands you’d call them, you half wish they were covered in oil and grease.

He was tapping away on the bar for a while, drumming aimlessly while you drank, but now he’s toppled in your direction. He’s standing between his barstool and yours, while you're still seated, which makes you the perfect height for him to slip an arm around you. His thumb has settled in on tracing the edge of your jeans while he talks to you, tickling your back where your tank had ridden up.

Honestly? He doesn’t even need to be a good lay to be worth the trip to bed.

“I know you said you’re in town with your brother…”

He winces at the start of your sentence, “with the things I’m thinking about doing to you honey, you can’t go mentioning Sammy at the same time.”

Underneath the stained overalls, you’re still a woman and you’re not sure if there’s anyone alive who could resist Dean’s charms. When you laugh at his ridiculous propositioning, you don’t even try to fight when it tails off into a giggle.

“I was going to ask if you had your own room? Or are we going back to my place?”

You’d almost think he’d been playing it cool up until this point. Everything had been measured and smooth. But you ask him that and he finally cracks, urgency slips through that charm offensive. He tilts his head forward as his face hardens into something intense, eyes hooded under the light of the bar. His hand slides up underneath your top enough that his whole palm skates against your skin. “How about a compromise? My car, your place?”

You lean in until you’re almost touching his lips, your tongue peeks out to wet them and flicks against his, taunting. “Deal."

He doesn’t need to know that you walked here and needed a ride home anyway. That's irrelevant.

Stumbling out of the bar is messy. Not because of the alcohol, neither of you have drunk that much, it’s his hands on your waist. They’re possessive and so there.

Maybe he’s not so bad in bed. Maybe he’s actually, pretty good in…

Oh fuck. It’s her.

You’re stopped in your tracks by the sight of your very own white whale. Well, black and shiny Impala but the metaphor stands.

You stop and Dean bumps into you, not expecting it so soon. For a brief moment, you’re frozen in awe, reverence. Even in the dark, she’s perfect. Street lights bouncing off of her smooth exterior. The night is chilly and there’s a hint of condensation creeping around the edges of the windshield which only serves to make her sparkle.

“Wow, she’s-”

“Mine?” Dean finishes, a wry grin on his face and keys dangling from those fingers you’d been drooling over moments ago. Fuck him and his fingers now.

“Shit, Dean. I’ve been seeing this car all week. She’s beautiful.” You walk towards her, carefully, in case you spook her. She’s an old soul, probably jumpy. Your hand reaches out but doesn’t touch her yet because you’re being respectful.

You’d have thought Dean might have appreciated your care. Instead, he laughs and it catches you off guard. You whip your head back around to glare at him and he encourages you, “she won't bite.”

When you finally make contact she’s cool and glossy under your touch, but even so, you don’t run your hand over her like you want to. You can feel the waxed surface that you don’t want to ruin. You know how much effort goes into a good wax job like this. Instead, you trade your whole hand for your fingertips and trace her edges as if trying to remember her shape for when you rebuild your own.

“Ahem.” In the distance, Dean clears his throat. Sucks for him. You’ve got a new love interest.

“Sweetheart?” He asks again, stepping up closer to you as if you didn’t hear him. He sounds needy like he wants you, but it’s edged with this vulnerable envy. You already noticed his bright green eyes in the bar, now you're wondering if there’s a different green-eyed monster at play.

He needs to understand, you saw the car first. She’s held your heart all week, Dean piqued the interest of your lady parts about half an hour ago. You might say age before beauty but this Impala has Dean beat on both fronts, older and more beautiful.

“Where’d you get these rims, if I didn’t know better I’d almost say they’re original,” you spare him a glance over your shoulder. “But I do know better.”

He looks like he’s struggling with not having your full attention, you’d almost say he’s pouting. Then he sticks out his bottom lip and he's definitely pouting. He shuffles from foot to foot and steels his jaw. It makes it even more difficult for him then when you ask questions that he wants to answer. You can see the cogs turning where he’s trying to work out if he should encourage your interest or not. As much as he wants sex, in the end, the gearhead wins out.

“Fixed her up a lot over the years, found those in a junkyard if you believe it.” He steps up next to you now with a proud smile.

“I can believe it. I’ve seen the stuff people throw away. They’re perfect. Can I?” You slide out your phone and wave it at him.

He nods, although a little dumbstruck.

You bend down and snap a picture, explaining. “I was looking at a sixty-eight to rebuild, maybe. Actually, yours gave me the idea, saw her and couldn’t get her out of my head. I have a friend who might be able to help me out with these.”

“You wanna build one?” He sounds interested but not enough to get him off track. The track being you.

“Yeah. I told you I’m a mechanic. Building these things is in my blood.”

The air is cool and you start to feel it, not having intended being outside this long. He sees you shiver and steps behind you running his hands up and down your arms. “Sixty-eight ain’t a sixty-seven though, is it?” He asks, voice dripping with cocky arrogance about his car.

Oh, fuck. He’s figured out the way to your heart. He’s got you all turned around and leaning against her. Back pressed against her metal and glass enough that you’ll be feeling her for weeks.

“No, it’s not…”

“Wanna ride my Baby?” Dean presses his lips to the corner of your mouth with the question, leaving enough space for you to let out an almost inaudible gasp.

You’d be inclined to say men name their cars the dumbest shit sometimes but ‘Baby’ fits somehow. It’s perfect. She’s Baby.

“Yeah,” you nod. Right now, it's all you’ve ever wanted.

He walks you to the passenger’s side door and opens it’s for you. It’s not even romantic, it’s a fucking turn on.

Maybe you do have a car fetish. You should probably figure that out, like, another day.

In the time it takes Dean to strut to the other side you have sunk into the leather and just as you imagined, it’s soft. Worn and loved, like everything else about this beauty. This is what’s makes her special and that’s why you would have to love your own extra hard. To make up the years of neglect.

“Ready to go?”

He’s looking at you, smirking in your peripheral, and you’re looking at his fingers on the keys. You know what’s going to happen when he turns them. You’re still not prepared.

“Let’s do it.” A grin slides onto your face.

She rumbles to life beneath you. The vibrations from her engine shudder through the seat straight to your core. From there you swear the horsepower zips to every nerve ending in your body like electricity powering a city. And the sound could strike you down. She somehow purrs and roars at the same time. Each rev is a scream but her engine sings between each turn.

“Two eighty-three?” You ask, bottom lip caught behind your teeth.

“Get out of here with that two eighty-three crap. She’s a three twenty-seven.” He snaps, but not really, pressing his foot on the gas again just to see you quiver. Another rotation of the engine, her power, rolls through you.

He pulls out onto the road, leaving the dive behind, and drifts a little as he does, the back of her floating into the road. You slide over the seat an inch and he’s half focused on you, half focused on driving, so you're not even sure if he planned it. You scoot closer to him and he weighs his arm, the one not currently steering, around your shoulders. You’re becoming increasingly aware that the car smells like him, or he smells like her. Leather, sweet and spicy, musky. It’s a complicated mix where you’re not sure whether it's more her or him. You want to wrap yourself up in it all the same but Baby can’t wrap you up, Dean can.

“Dean I… Next left… I really, really love this car.”

He licks his lips as he looks down at you, his pupils wide, probably has a clear view of your chest, “yeah? How much, sweetheart?”

“A lot.” You pant in his ear, teeth grazing his lobe. “Second right, then it’s the third house on the left.”

A growl comes out of him. Determined. And you’re not so sure you care about fucking Dean anymore but each time you work him up a little higher, he revs that gorgeous engine and you get to feel that thunder. It’s the best circle jerk you could imagine, everyone is truly happy.

He pulls up in front of your house in record time because Baby is gunning 285 horsepower, so she’s not exactly going to be beat.

The problem, that you hadn’t really planned on, is arriving at your destination. As soon as he cuts the engine you puncture. Missing the everything about her straight away and wishing you’d kept driving for hours. Still, you have the scent of leather everywhere, burdening your senses with the smell of a bygone era. You hike a leg over Dean and sit in his lap. A knee either side of his thighs, denting her seats and Baby’s steering wheel holding the curve of your ass. Your hands skip Deans’ shoulders in favor of the seat behind him, the cushioned bench under the pads of your fingers, as you attach your mouth to his. Sandwiched between Baby and Dean, and you never want to leave the spot.

Your tongue curls into his mouth at the same time that he presses his fingers into your hips so tight you’re sure there’ll be bruises. You’ve never worried about a tight grip on you before but he starts pulling you towards him and away from where you’re wedged on Baby. The more you lean your body into Dean, the less you feel his car.

“Baby.” You murmur into him. Dean must mistake it to be a pet name you’re borrowing, calling him, because he pulls you again. Actually you’re telling him where you want to be, to stay.

Here. With Baby.

“This is a nice neighborhood.” He hums in this tone that’s deep but it doesn’t go through you like the sound of a turbo V-8. “We should take this inside.”

He’s right. Carl from the damn neighborhood watch is probably already doing just that, watching. The pervert.

“Right, sure.” You agree despite the way your stomach drops at the thought of leaving her.

You’re all untangling limbs getting out and he kisses you once more against Baby before you allow him to drag you away. It already feels different, normal, boring.

Dean’s fine, he’s good, he’s handy. Like you’d thought he would be.

You wrap your mouth around his dick because you’ve always liked looking up through your lashes and seeing the way a guy goes breathless on your tongue. He works you open on his thick fucking fingers until the pressure in your stomach snaps with his thumb circling your clit. He pushes into you and the stretch, the burn, is perfect. Dean is better in bed than you’d expected him to be.

And yet, it’s empty. Dulled. It doesn’t scratch the itch like good sex used to. The whole experience dampened compared to what you’d felt sitting in the front seat of his 1967 Chevy Impala.

You slip on some oversized shirt from your floordrobe to walk him out when he leaves. Neither of you under any impression that he’s staying the night. He’s got this satisfied grin on his face that he hasn’t been able to wipe off since the first time he came. He stops at your doorstep, “thanks, sweetheart. This was fun.”

“Sure was,” you agree, not giving him the full story. Standing at your doorway you’re looking at Baby instead of Dean, again. “Let me know if you’re still in town tomorrow, I’d love to go for another ride.”

He nods and backs away a few steps until he’s in your line of sight along with his car, “will do, baby.”

He must think you mean sex. You wouldn't be opposed to it but you mean a drive. A real drive with wide roads, and opening the taps. You can break that to him tomorrow if he does give you that call. If he doesn't then there's only one thing you need to say before he leaves. One thing you can't let her leave without saying.

“One helluva car you got there, Dean.”

Second A/N: Look, this didn’t start out as a full on car fetish but I was writing it and SOMETIMES I HAVE NO CONTROL. Sometimes these characters they say, “fuck you!” and do what they want. I was going to write a nice little jealousy thing. Dean wants some attention. That’s all. You only have yourselves to blame readers!

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewill-blog @magnitude101999 @alexwinchester23 @jesseswartzwelder Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278 @bloodydaydreamer @iamabeautifulperson18 @erins-culinary-service

[askmalal]

“Can you name the twenty legions, their original names, and the Primarchs for me, please? Do you have any info on origins of the names used?”

I mean, certainly. Mortal channeling me regrets that some information is incomplete (pre-Primarch names for the Legiones Astartes are not well publicized; if you know any, feel free to let me know, and I will edit this document accordingly.)

You asked me for all twenty, so Legios II and XI may vary wildly for you, little mortal. The multiverse is a strange place.

Also, note: The mortal and I are not responsible for some of the terribly punny/badly respelled primarch’s names/hackneyed literary references. Those are -entirely- on Games Workshop.... and “The Emperor.” (Use your birth name, Anathaema!)

I. ?/Dark Angels: Lion’El Johnson (ne: Jonson)

For unknown reasons, Johnson is named for the famed English poet Lionel Johnson, Oscar Wilde’s paramour. There have been allegations that the Dark Angels were coded as gay very early on, whether as a joke or a tribute being the question. GW denies, of course, though as a matter of record a gay club called “The Rock” was located in Nottingham at the time.

The Dark Angels originally had a partly Native American theme.

II. Valedictors/Gargoyles: Eresbet, The Grey Lady”

The Valedictors really are named as one of the legions in 2nd edition, as are the Rainbow Warriors. The Rainboe Warriors have subsequently been relisted as a second founding chapter. The Valedictors, however, have not.The word Valedictor means “one who says goodbye.”

III. Emperor’s Children: Fulgrim, “The Phoenician”

IV. ?/Iron Warriors: Perturarbo

Sometimes spelled “Perturabo” in earlier sources. “Perdurabo” is a is a Latin phrase, roughly translated as “enduring to the end.” It was also the occult name of Aleister Crowley.

V. ?/White Scars: Jaghatai Khan

The Khan is now the only known Primarch of the eighteen to have no official miniature. He is quite challenging because, as with Magnus, the original sketches of the Khan are... let’s call them rough.

VI. ?/The Rout (“Space Wolves”): Leman Russ

The Russ were Vikings who intermarried with the inhabitants of what is called “Russia” in your timeline. These later served as mercenaries in the mid-late Eastern Roman/Byzantine Army.

The Varangian Guard/Varangioi were an elite group drawn from Vikings and their descendants. The “Varagyr” terminators are clearly based upon them.

VII. ?/Imperial Fists: Rogal Dorn

VIII. ?/Night Lords: Konrad Curze

Curze is named for Joseph Konrad, who wrote “Heart of Darkness” and that novel’s prime antagonist, Colonel Kurtz.

IX. Revenants/Blood Angels: Sanguinius

X. ?/Iron Hands: Ferrus Manus, “The Gorgon”

Ferrus Manus is bad Latin, erm, “High Gothic.” It roughly translates to “he with the iron hand.”

XI. Dust Raisers/Cu-Sith (“Hounds of Perdition”): Aenon, “The Blind King”

XIII. ?/Ultramarines: Roboute Guilliman

XIV. Dusk Raiders/Death Guard: Mortarion the Reaper

XV. “Thousand Sons”/Thousand Sons: Magnus the Red

The Fifteenth had no formal name before Magnus but were referred to unofficially as “the Thousand Sons” as a reference for their relatively low numbers and unselfish sacrifice. Per canon: Prior to Magnus, they had a sterling reputation for selflessness. Under Magnus, that sort of... changed, as the legion became more insular and less “reliable” as an ally from the perspective of many of the other legions.

XVI. Luna Wolves/Sons of Horus: Horus Lupercal

Lupercal/Lupercalia was an important Roman holiday; the meaning and dates changed over the s centuries, but it was essentially a New Year festival that celebrated the birth of Romulus and Remus and, later, the overthrow of the Etruscan kings of Rome. In Shakespeare’s “Julius Caesar,” Marc Antony references the attempt to have Caesar crowned as king, a staged political maneuver in which he refused the title of king and “accepted” the title “Dictator Perpetuus” (“Ruler for Life”)

“You all did see on Lupercal that I thrice presented him with kingly crown. And thrice doth he refuses. Was this ambition?! And yet Brutus says it was, and sure, he is an honorable man...”

XVII. Imperial Heralds/Word Bearers: Lorgar Aurelian

Aurelian was a Roman emperor, a rather good one, who attempted to create a new state religion dedicated to Sol Invictus, “The Sun, Unconquered.” Sol was at that point conflated with Mithras, who famously slew the black bull of Chaos, and saved the world from a reign of darkness.

We among the Dark Gods fear Mithras, with good reason. How fortunate that the Emperor’s arrogance caused him to be (mostly) forgotten.

XVIII. Dragon Warriors/Salamanders: Vulkan

Vulkan, of course, is the Roman version of Hephaestus, the humane god of the Forge.

Vulkan and his sons, the most humane of the Space Marines were traditionally depicted as predominantly men of color: an important thing for the mun as the young child of a mixed racial background, and I suspect for many non-white gamers. In a revision, GW claimed that the Salamanders were not “black” but -literally- black, as a result of a gene-seed flaw. That didn’t go over well with certain members of the community, but it is not my place to unpack that. Except to say, as someone from the outside, that it was a fairly shitty thing to do (both mun and Malal agree on this point.)

Horus Heresy literature seems to be going back in the direction of an African/Afro-Caribbean origin for the eighteenth. When released, official Vulkan model was painted as a man of color, and many gamers follow suit. Of course, given the current human population distribution, and the likely concentration of any apocalyptic war scenario leading to an Age of Strife and the rise of The Emperor, it seems very likely that a -majority- of Astartes would be men of color.

XIX. Possibly “Emperor’s Talons” or something similar/Raven Guard: Corvus Corax.

Yes. Fairly obvious here.

XX. Twentieth Legion/Alpha Legion: Alpharius Omegon

This is somewhat important as a matter of lore/canon: Only the Emperor seems to have known that (spoiler alert!)Alpharius and Omegon were twins. Valdor probably knew. Of the primarchs, Leman Russ seems to have suspected, and Corax is implied to be at about the same place, but that’s just about it.

Mun: I’ll try to post a bit later on about what little we know about the lost legions. Malal posted about the subject two years ago, but not many seem to have seen it. With his permission, I’ll try to condense the relevant points of official canon and share, if there is interest.

We sincerely thank you for your question, little mortal. Remember that you can send an ask rather than starting a private convo as in this case, but both are perfectly fine!

[papermoonloveslucy]

OLD GOLD COMEDY THEATRE

“A GIRL, A GUY, AND A GOB” ~ February 11, 1945

The Old Gold Comedy Theatre (aka Harold Lloyd Comedy Theatre) was NBC Radio’s attempt to replicate the success of CBS’ Lux Radio Theatre. It debuted on October 29th, 1944. Silent film star and producer (and Lucille Ball’s mentor) Harold Lloyd introduced condensations of movie comedies. This film happened to be one of his own. NBC programmed the series Sunday nights at 10:30PM for east coast audiences. The series was cancelled on June 10th, 1945. 

Lucille Ball had done the second episode of the series, starring in Ball of Fire on November 5, 1944. Ball took the role originated in the 1941 film by Barbara Stanwyck while Cary Grant reprised his role for radio. 

A Girl, a Guy and a Gob is a 1941 RKO film produced by Harold Lloyd and starring Lucille Ball, George Murphy, and Edmond O'Brien. Ball and Murphy reprise their film roles for radio. 

The film had previously been dramatized for radio on “The Screen Guild Radio Theatre” on October 9, 1944, also starring Ball and Murphy. 

Synopsis ~ A shy, quiet executive for a shipping firm who finds himself with a dilemma: he's become smitten with his young temporary secretary but she's the girlfriend of his Navy buddy - and the buddy is scheduled to be discharged in only a few days.

Note: “Gob” is a slang word for a sailor. This term first showed up in regard to sailors around 1909 and may have come from the word gobble. Reportedly, some people thought that sailors gobbled their food. The term also may come from the word gob, which means to spit, something sailors also reportedly do often.

CAST

Lucille Ball as Dorothy (Dotty) Duncan aka ‘The Girl’

George Murphy as Claudius (Coffee) Cup aka ‘The Gob’ ~ was in four films with Lucille Ball between 1934 and 1941. In 1959, Murphy served as guest host of “The Westinghouse Desilu Playhouse” when Desi Arnaz took a role in his own anthology series. He was also a performer in “The Desilu Revue” aired in December 1959. As the host of “MGM Parade”, he interviewed Lucy and Desi in February 1956. 

Will Wright as Pop Duncan ~ would appear with Lucille Ball in the 1949 film Miss Grant Takes Richmond, and played the locksmith in “The Handcuffs” (ILL  S2;E4) in 1952, and the Bent Fork Sheriff in “Tennessee Bound” (ILL S4;E14) in 1955.  The role was played on screen by George Cleveland. 

EPISODE

The announcer introduces the evening’s play and its stars as well as the director, Harold Lloyd. Lloyd states that he has recruited the original stars of the film version. Murphy and Ball take the microphone. Lucille’s next film, MGM’s Without Love, is briefly mentioned.  Llloyd sets the story,

Executive Stephen Herrick is taking his date to a piano concert at Carnegie Hall when he discovers people are already sitting in his usual box seats. It is Dotty (Lucille Ball) and Coffee Cup (Murphy). Lucy whacks Mr. Herrick in the head with her handbag when he threatens to call the manager. Coffee Cup admits that he did not exactly purchase the tickets legally and they decide to make a hasty departure.   

COFFEE CUP: “For my money, Count Basie’s got it all over this guy Josie Iturbe.”  

José Iturbi Báguena (1895-1980) was a Spanish conductor, pianist and harpsichordist. He appeared in several Hollywood films of the 1940s, playing himself in the 1943 musical Thousands Cheer, which also featured Lucille Ball.  Lucille Ball mentions Iturbi again on an October 7, 1949 episode of her radio show “My Favorite Husband.”  William James "Count" Basie (1904-84) was an American jazz pianist, organist, bandleader, and composer.

Next day, at Mr. Herrick’s office, his new secretary arrives - it is Dotty!  Herrick threatens to throw her out if she won’t leave and Dotty quickly explains that she gave him the money for the tickets but he lost it on a horse. Herrick reluctantly agrees to hire her anyway.

Sailors Coffee Cup and Eddie meet Dotty for lunch. He begs Dotty to allow him to get a tattoo like Eddie. She is adamant - no tattoos.  Eddie claims he can grow four inches right in front of them - with his heels flat on the ground. Mr. Herrick comes by and sees the growing crowd watching this. A bet is wagered if Eddie can truly do it. Dotty borrows five bucks from Mr. Herrick so that Coffee Cup can make the bet.  

When Eddie succeeds, the assembled crowd soon turns into a mob and there is a fist fight and a broken store window. Mr. Herrick gets knocked out by a big lug, who in turn is knocked out by Dotty’s lethal purse. 

END of ACT ONE

A live Old Gold Cigarette commercial touts that the tobacco blend includes apple honey, to prevent dryness. 

Earlier in her career, Lucille Ball was a spokes model for Chesterfield Cigarettes. Later, she would be associated with Philip Morris when they agreed to sponsor “I Love Lucy.”  Despite this, Lucille Ball herself remained a Chesterfield smoker for most of her life. 

“And remember, when the gremlins gang up on you, why be irritated? Light up an Old Gold.”

ACT TWO Eddie and Coffee Cup have taken Herrick back to Dot’s busy brownstone to calm his nerves, giving him a sleeping powder. There he is watched over by Mr. and Mrs. Duncan, Dot’s parents. Her father is listening to “The Lone Stranger” on the radio while Mrs. Liebowitz (an upstairs neighbor) is about to have a baby! 

“The Lone Stranger” is a comical reference to “The Lone Ranger.” The masked cowboy first appeared on radio in 1933 and proved to be a hit. It spawned a series of books and later an equally popular television show that ran from 1949 to 1957.

Coffee Cup comes by to check on Mr. Herrick, who is only concerned with finding his pants. Dotty comes in to help him find them. They are about to set the table for dinner - corned beef and cabbage - when Liebowitz number 9 comes in to the world. Mr. Herrick wins the baby weight pool. He agrees to go out on the town and celebrate with them. 

A few days later, Dotty is late back from lunch, showing off her new engagement ring. She tells Mr. Herrick that Coffee Cup has a wrestling match that night. If he wins, the prize money will pay for their wedding. Mr. Herrick confesses that he hopes Coffee Cup loses.  

At the wedding chapel, Eddie wonders why he asked Mr. Herrick to be their best man when he is obviously in love with Dotty. Mr. Higgenbottom, photographer, interrupts to get a photo, mistaking Mr. Herrick for the groom. The sailors need to get back to the ship, so Coffee Cup allows them to give Dotty a farewell kiss before the wedding. Mr. Herrick gets in line. Dotty suddenly feels awkward and runs out. 

Coffee Cup follows her to talk privately. She has been crying. He wonders if she has feelings for Mr. Herrick. While she fixes her face, Coffee Cup steps out and tells Mr. Herrick he should go in and console her. Coffee Cup tells Eddie to inform Dot’s mother that he went to get cigarettes. 

END of ACT TWO

Another live commercial for Old Gold Cigarettes.  The announcer reminds listeners that the men in uniform get first consideration in the distribution of Old Gold Cigarettes. 

ACT THREE

Harold Lloyd sets the scene. The bride and the best man are at the alter, but the groom is nowhere to be found. Mr. Herrick realizes what has happened and rushes out to follow Coffee Cup, who has driven away on motorcycle. Mr. Herrick yells at him from a taxi cab. 

Suddenly, Coffee Cup crashes, but is unharmed. When Herrick threatens to bring him back to the alter, Coffee Club slugs him and tells the cabbie to take them back to the chapel. He writes a note on the unconscious Herrick’s shirt front and with a loud honk of the taxi horn, speeds away toward the ship yard. Dotty and the wedding party find Herrick on the street and she reads the note: 

“Dot, this guy loves you and I know now you love him. It’s a good thing I found out before it was too late. See you next time I’m on leave. ~ Coffee Cup. PS: The wedding’s all paid for, why don’t you use it and you and him get married.”

At the shipyard, Eddie catches up with Coffee Cup, who reports that Dot did indeed marry Mr. Herrick. As they board the ship, they discuss plans for Coffee Cup’s new tattoo. 

END OF EPISODE

Harold Llloyd, George Murphy, and Lucille Ball bid audiences goodnight. He reminds them to tune in next week for Jack Haley, Jimmy Gleason, and Eve Arden in The Milky Way.

The Announcer thanks RKO, producers of Experiment Perilous.

George Murphy appeared courtesy of MGM, producers of National Velvet.

[alindae-anne]

What Makes a Book?

I want to take a break from my novel and dive into a history lesson of books themselves. Why? Well first of all, I will be honest, this blog is for an assignment. But also because the way books have evolved over the last 5,000+ years is fascinating!

Of course no one ever really thinks about THE book, just the fact that the story within its pages--the mystery, the romance, whatever they happen to be enjoying--is a great read (or maybe not so great), but have they ever wondered what materials the book is made from? Who invented it? How the book has become one of the most common and most used items of all time?

No. Of course they didn't wonder any of those things. And if they did, they probably didn't take the time to research any of these burning questions, either.

How great, then, that I wrote this post?! Today is your lucky day! (Also, it is a good thing that Keith Houston, author of Shady Characters, decided to write a whole book about it (1).) I'm going to use the pages of a classic tale to explain some cool things you probably never noticed while reading a book before.

Gulliver’s Travels was originally published in London in 1726 by Benjamin Motte. The author, Jonathan Swift, used it to satirize London society and culture, poking holes at the social hierarchies and systems, basically making out everyone living in the 18th century to be fools--but mostly the wealthy and those who were obsessed with scientific progression (2). If you have not read it, I highly encourage adding it to your reading list, or at the very least there is a 2010 movie, featuring Jack Black as Gulliver, that you could watch. (It’s Jack Black, okay?)

This 2 page spread of Gulliver's Travels pictured above is actually found in The Franklin Library edition from Franklin Center, Pennsylvania, published in 1979. This is the first printing of this edition, and its pages, the way it is printed, and the way it is bound and presented, are all features of the modern 20-21st century book, plus some extra bells and whistles. The most interesting qualities come from the publishers themselves who specifically design their books to be very snazzy--meant for collectors’ editions! They include different kinds of leather binding, exclusive illustrations, and may be signed or part of a particular series specific to a certain author or genre (3). This makes the books published here very valuable and sought after.

Gulliver’s Travels is hardcover. Specifically, “fine leather in boards.” This means the spine and front and back boards (or cover) of the book are bound in leather. The leather is fine and and delicate and able to be decorated and engraved upon.4 Above you can see how fancy it looks with the gilt gold engravements. Even its pages are gilt!

This picture shows more clearly the binding, and of course the spine, which is “hubbed,” or ridged, for added texture.

At this point you may have notice that this version is much different than the original published in 1726. That is because over time, the materials involved in making books have changed slightly or the processes have become more efficient or cost worthy, etc. Either way, the anatomy of the book has not wavered. Keith Houston has dissected the book into certain components and we can see them in each book we read:

I have attempted to label it as best as I can, so hopefully you can follow along:

Chapter Number

a) this seems to be a description, more or less of the chapter, or the Chapter Title. b) “A Voyage to Lilliput” seems much more title-like to me, although this is technically called the “Recto Running Head.” The recto running head is a condensed or abbreviated chapter title, repeating on every right-side page to the end of the chapter.

Drop Cap. This would be the first letter of the first word of a chapter, which is usually exaggerated or embellished in some way.

Opener Text

Head Margin - the space between the top of the page and text

Foot Margin - the space between the bottom of the page and text

Folio - page number

It has taken quite a while for books to become so sophisticated. Because it was published in 1726, Gulliver's Travels is technically what you could call "modern" in terms of how long ago books began their journey to what they are today, but even between 1726 and 1979 the quality has improved. This edition published by Franklin Library is a perfect model for the modern book of today.

The 2 page spread we analyzed above is made from paper. But books were not always made with paper, or even in the book form, bound with anything at all, and they were not printed either. They were written by hand on papyrus.

Papyrus was the first material used as "paper" beginning in Egypt. The reeds were stripped, strung side by side and pressed together. Papyrus was durable and sturdy, and the water of the Nile was abundant in aluminum sulfate, which brightened it so that writing and scribbles could be seen better. There is no particular origin of when Papyrus had first been invented but it must have been around the end of the 4th millenium BCE (Houston 4).  

Parchment is made from animal skin that has been soaked, scrubbed, dried, and stretched for days and days, creating a more flexible, yet still durable, material for writing. It was also thinner and could be made "cleaner" and brighter by chemical means. Religion heavily influenced its distribution; some parchment use was literally banned because the type of animal skin used to make it wasn't considered "holy" or "good." For example, the lamb or a calf was acceptable, but how dare you use parchment made from goat skin? What is wrong with you?

Besides the fact that parchment is kind of gross if you think about it (although to be fair, you can’t be too choosy in times right before the common era), it was also expensive to keep certain cattle only for paper making, and the reliability of having new cattle at the time you may need more paper was not very high.

Paper was first introduced in China. It is made from bits of cloth and rags soaked in water, and after breaking down into pulp, strained through a wire grate and pressed to dry. Fun fact-- the Rhar West Art Museum in Manitowoc, Wisconsin has held classes showing how to make paper using this exact process.

There is a trend here: the materials used to make paper (and papyrus and parchment before it) become scarce or too expensive, or they are just not “good enough.” People want their paper thin and smooth, but still strong and durable; crisp and bright, but still able to last years and years without crumbling. There have been times that processes used to ensure these preferred qualities of paper included using chemicals that ended up negatively affecting some other quality. For example, the paper would be white as snow, yet the chemical that did this broke down the natural adhesives which kept the paper intact.

Have you heard that paper grows on trees? Well, that is partly true since after rags and cloths were nowhere to be found (unless people were about to start donating the shirts off their backs), wood pulp has now since been used... the higher the demand for paper, the greater demand for those materials used for its creation. 

This brings us to printing side of things. The first ways of printing weren’t of how we think of it now. Even before papyrus, people were still writing and making inscriptions on pretty much anything they could get their hands on. The earliest forms of writing were rather indentations or markings on clay tablets. Found across the Middle East, it is a cuneiform script of the Sumerian people from 3300 BCE (Houston 79).

Similarly, the Egyptians were also keen on developing their own writing system which today we recognize as hieroglyphs. A lot of these were found carved on the walls of tombs but also began to be used on papyrus in 2600 BCE (Houston 82-83).

The Egyptians celebrated their scribes and believed those who wrote with brush and ink on papyrus to be channeling power--that it was a gift from the gods--”wielded with respect and humility” (Houston 87). The hieroglyphs not only showed the intention of the writer, visually, but often the picture would be associated with or connected to certain sounds which emerged more formal use of letters as time went on.

The alphabet we use today can be traced back to the Phoenician alphabet (used by the Egyptians) which had evolved into the Greek and then Roman alphabets (Houston 91-92). At this point in time, scribes were using water based ink which was fine for papyrus, but during the transition to parchment they realized that ink smudges quite a bit. This led to the creation of iron gall ink that would darken and adhere to the parchment as it dried due to its chemical makeup in contact with oxygen in the air.

Jump ahead to 1400s and we are with Johannes Gutenberg and the printing press! One thing Keith Houston make sure to mention is that although Gutenberg invented the printing press itself, to help moveable type and mass printing, the idea of printing had not been new. Clay pieces used as stamps and similar objects had been excavated and dated back thousands of years before the clay inscribed cuneiform tablets were made. And a primitive version of a sort of printing press is mentioned being made by a man named Bi Sheng during the reign of Qingli from 1041-1048 AD (Houston 110). Obviously nothing great came from it, most likely because he was of unofficial position. Even so, movable type was still possible, although painstakingly slow with wooden blocks used as stamps. This was common for the next few hundred years in China.

Even though Gutenberg's press completely revolutionized the transmission of knowledge, it was still quite slow in comparison to the versions which came after, only being able to print 600 characters a day (Houston 118). From Gutenberg's printing press came other types of presses that improved the speed or efficiency of movable type immensely. These all came after the original publication of Guliver's Travels, starting in the early 1800s with the Columbian press, eventually the Linotype, and then lack of precision called for the Monotype, which could produce 140 wpm (Houston 149).

The 2 page spread above then, could possibly have been printed by the Linotype, but most likely, however, the Monotype, which is the more accurate of the two. Another possibility could be "sophisticated photographic and 'lithographic' techniques" or "'phototypsetting'" (Houston 151). Houston mentions that the printing press age has died and now faces a digital future.

I'm at my 10 image limit which means I better wrap this up with some interesting facts about bookbinding. On BIBLIO.com I was trying to see exactly what "fine leather in boards" meant which is apparently how Gulliver's Travels is bound. I didn't find any phrase that matched, but from my understanding, the leather is very supple and pliable, which is why it was able to be gilt with gold, and it was able to form nicely to the hubbing on the spine.

The website also explains that the first "book binding" was technically just putting the pieces of paper or parchment together and pressing them between two boards. Literally. Like just setting them on a board and putting another board on top of that. Eventually leather was introduced, first as a cord wrapped around the book to keep the boards in place. As time progressed, the practice was improved and perfected so it was less crude. This involved the creation of the "spine" where the pages meet together and can therefore open and close in a v shape without flying away.

This website helped explain some of the other embellishments and extra flair that can be added to a book's binding. It mostly goes over leather binding which is from most animal skin but there is a unique leather bound book that can be bound with seal skin. Some of the books on the website are so expensive because of the materials they are bound with and the effects that have been created in the cover, for example, Benjamin Franklin's observations on electricity, which has had acid added to the page, discoloring it for a lightning strike effect, and includes a key to represent his famous experiment.

Gulliver's Travels, although not quite so fancy, is still a very beautifully bound book with decorated endpapers, meaning the inside cover is laden with designed paper rather than boring white or some other neutral color.

I hope you found this journey of the book as interesting and as exciting as I did while writing this post! You must really love books because even my attention span isn't this long. I will admit I took at least 3 different breaks.

I'm back to my novel for now, thanks for listening😎

Bibliography

Houston, Keith--Author of Shady Characters, which I used extensively in my TikTok “history of punctuation” project--also wrote -> The BOOK - a cover-to-cover exploration of the most powerful object of our time, 2016.

British Library Website -> works -> “Gulliver’s Travels overview”

Masters, Kristin. “Franklin Library Editions: Ideal for Book Collectors?” Books Tell You Why, 2017 (blog).

BIBLIO.com -> “Leather Binding Terminology and Techniques”

[livlepretre]

Hey! I saw you mentioned that you outline your chapters for FE! Would you be willing to share an outline of one of the earlier chapters? It doesn't matter which one but I'd love to see how you structure your outlines. Mine tend to be all over the place and I struggle with condensing things down to chapter to chapter in order to tie everything together. Any outline I've tried tends to hinder and frustrate me. It's okay if you're not comfortable though! ILY :)

Hi there! Yes, I’d be happy to share! 

This might get a bit long, because my outlining is kind of a process (but I swear by it-- I literally cannot write more than about a thousand words, total, like, there would be no more story, if I didn’t have an outline to work from). 

1. The first thing I do is I write a very general outline of the whole fic. This can be either numbered, or bullet pointed, or if it’s stream of consciousness, I just say Thing A --> Thing B--> Thing C etc. Here’s part of the original outline for FE, from 2011, which I whipped out in 2016 when I decided to really give this fic a shot: 

Obviously a lot has changed (there’s an actual plot other than the relationships, now, and certain storylines like Rebekah seducing Tyler on Klaus’s orders were dropped completely) but the broad strokes for what I wanted from the fic are there. The initial outline doesn’t have to be particularly detailed, or articulate-- it’s just to get down where you want the story to go. (I left off the last few bullet points because they’re still relevant to where FE is heading 😈) 

2. The next step is actually breaking the outline up into either chapters or arcs. FE has gotten wildly out of control size wise, so I begin by outlining the entire arc since chapter-by-chapter would be way too hard (which is why sometimes I go on hiatus for like six months... that’s me trying to figure out what happens in like 10 chapters at once). 

The first step is to divide my overall/general outline up into what goes in what arc, and then I try to think about what events would happen-- what scenes could possibly arise to make those things happen. I also like to list out any plot elements that NEED to happen, so that I don’t forget. For example, as of writing chapter 34, here was my list (color coded by what I thought might go in certain chapters): 

I also write out a very loose version of what’s going to happen-- a lot of this is actually phrased as questions, because writing out what’s going to happen usually makes me realize that there are huge gaping holes in my plan. That’s sort of the point of this-- usually I end up answering the questions as I keep flow of consciousness writing. Here, again, is my general outline for New Orleans part 2, full of typos, inconsistencies, and the occasional dropped storyline: 

As you can see, this is really informal and a MESS. It’s not even quite in order, but, combined with my list of plot events, it gives me the general shape I need to figure out what goes in chapter by chapter. 

3. Now I finally bullet point out whatever scenes I may have for the chapter. Here’s the outline for chapter 40, which is really what ended up being chapters 40 & 41 because I split the chapter in half during the writing process: 

There are some details, like whether to set it at the safe house vs the manor, which got changed for logistical reasons-- too complicated. Also, obviously, Stefan did not have his humanity turned back on here-- didn’t end up making sense with the 3 year time gap, although it would have been heartbreaking. 

4. The last thing I do is I gather any scenes I may have written earlier and not published to see if they can be recycled or reworked somehow. I keep those scenes at the bottom of my word doc and whenever I’m starting a new arc, I look through them to see if any could fit-- that’s why the outline for chapter 40 is in green; I wrote the scene where Elena flees over the lawn to make Klaus chase her around the time I was writing chapter 7 and so I had that scene in green as well to match them up in my notes. I’m very color-oriented, but it’s all about finding the organization method that works for you. 

So, that’s basically how I outline. I start with the general, and I refine, refine, refine. It’s hard to come up with the scene by scene stuff at the beginning, so start generally and work your way toward the more specific is my advice. 

Happy writing!

[trunkzbriefs]

Any Son and/or Briefs family headcanons? Spicy hot takes? Truths Toriyama and Toyotaro themselves can not handle? Straight up lies?

GODDAMN SORRY this took a while cause i suck at putting thoughts together. i apologize for my obvious briefs bias i have more hcs for them than the son family despite loving them both :pensive: anyway heres some random stuff

briefs hcs:

all of the briefs are pros at non-verbal communication. i hc that saiyans have their own language (and also in my own Mind Canon they still have their fuckin tails) and a lot of it is done through tail movement/body posture/grunts/etc. etc so theyve all sort of picked that up. even bulma, who doesnt have a tail, is pretty good at getting across what she means without actually speaking. they still do speak normally but it comes in handy sometimes considering that both trunks and vegeta are prone to running out of speaking energy or getting very frustrated with words, so having another way to communicate works very well for them

vegeta is fffffffffffffffffffurry. without getting too deep into my own General Saiyan hcs (thats why i made a whole ass four subspecies!!) i think that the entirety of planet vegeta tended to be very hot aside from the part where the castle was, where the temperature would drop. meaning that saiyans working in the palace would grow thicker fur around certain parts of their body, and in the royal saiyans theyd be Especially fluffy. he kept it down on earth, but he has thick patches of fur around the bottom parts of his arms and legs. kind of like snowy boots and gloves! he also has fur that grows in on his neck like a lions mane.

future trunks is an actions sponge, vegeta is a words sponge. vegeta will pick up words VERY quickly regardless if he fully understands the meaning of it or not (completely inspired by 'THATS RIGHT BOYS... MONDO COOL' in z) and future trunks will unintentionally mimic the actions of people - around people he looks up to he might take a few small mannerisms from but this extends to copying the disposition of anyone; he's just very adaptive. this is the most obvious (and funniest) when he's around vegeta bc it really shows like. yeah damn that sure is vegeta's son

vegeta & bulla have an intimidating bastard smirk naturally. their natural smiles are pretty frightening and they have to put effort into a 'normal' one. this also extends to current trunks, his default smile is the Vegeta Bastard Smirk but he learned to have a normal smile quicker than his father and sister. future trunks has a slightly unnerving natural smile (the fact that his pupils are always drawn so fucking small makes me hc that he just has a very intimidating look of 'cat thats about to pounce on an unfortunate trapped mouse' whenever he smiles) but he learned to look normal even quicker than current trunks since he's around humans a Lot and is sort of their uh, Hope. don't want to look scary to the people who depend on you!

bulma has some fighting knowledge and mildly good ki control. vegeta taught her it as a just in case so that she'd be able to defend herself against Bigger threats if he wasn't there and also so she could raise her own ki to alert someone to her if she had to.

vegeta is extremely clean and can not stand to have things disorganized for more than like... an hour before he has to tidy everything up. every time he goes down to the lab and bulma is passed out in a pile of bolts and circuit boards it kills him inside just a little bit

future trunks has little concept of power control. since his timeline was always in danger it wasn't really an important thing for him to learn. the amount of mugs he's accidentally crushed is impressive

vegeta tends to not sound like he's asking questions when he is. he doesn't add the proper infliction to the end of his questions and just sounds flat most of the time. it's confusing to people who dont know him well.

im not even gonna lie, im a BIG fan of the chill demon panchy headcanon so i love the idea that the briefs have a Lil bit of demon in them but just dont know it ghjnkm

[banging my fists on the 'hcs that not even got could take away from me' table] future trunks has OCD

vegeta doesn't really get labels but he's bisexual & "debatably a man", bulma is bisexal & bigender transfem (sometimes shes Wamen and other times its like "gender? no"), bulla is a nonbinary lesbian, current trunks is a bisexual trans man & future bulma forgot to explain the concept of gender and sexuality to future trunks so he's a little confused on that front and his gender & sexuality are "i have literally never thought abt these concepts in my life but i think men are nice. i refuse to think about gender though" (i actually have two main hcs for future trunks which are either gay trans man or more-feminine-presenting nonbinary bisexual)

son hcs:

goku is Not as fluffy as vegeta at all, but he does have fur on certain parts of his body. namely on the back of his elbows + ankles, down his back connecting to his tail, and on his shoulders. its inherented from gine!

gohan is learning saiyan language from vegeta! vegeta acts grumpy about it but he's glad to have someone to teach. when gohan learned that most of the history had been lost he basically wished shenron for a big ol book on saiyan culture and gave it to vegeta just as an act of kindness and vegeta was like [in an angry voice but very touched] "Ok. Sit down. You're learning." by extension gohan is also teaching the rest of his family!

i will take ox king being actually non-human to my grave so like, chichi has horns and a very short ox tail! gohan and goten both have horns, but they're hidden by hair. goten's horns are bigger than gohans.

goten also has a more ox-like tail, with a little puff of fur at the end. generally, gohan looks more saiyan-like and goten looks more ox/human-like.

although he keeps up his cheery demeanor very well, goku is still haunted pretty badly by like... everything that’s happened in his life. he still has frequent nightmares about cell & buu specifically.

gohan will freak out at worse, zone out at best, if he's even tapped on the neck. it reminds him of the whole 'getting his neck snapped on namek' so that area is pretty off limits to everyone

goten gets along really well with android 17. they both have a love for nature and 17s kind of like his chill uncle, so whenever he gets too stressed out or just needs a break you can find him face down on the ground outside of 17's place on monster island.

goku is really really good at remembering completely random shit. bulma uses this to her advantage whenever she's working and has him memorize random technology stuff. a week later goku can not remember what he had for breakfast that morning but as soon as bulma asks "hey do you remember what i told you last week" hes like "oh yeah sure i have no idea what it means but [blurts out three hours worth of technical garble]"

oh boy is this a headcanon that has a lot more depth to it than just a bullet on a tumblr post, but gohan has DID!

goku, like vegeta, doesnt get labels either, and does not even Try, ask him about any of it and hes like "i dont get the gender thing but i think lots of people look nice :)" gohan is gay and like vegeta, "debatably a man", goten + chichi are both bi nonbinary, & pan is a lesbian trans woman.

both:

bulla and pan are both into music! i think theyd mess around making their own stuff w/ launchpads

i have a general hc of ki mixing or shielding, essentially, if youre close enough to someone people wont be able to tell apart your ki and you can also 'shield' someone with your ki for a small amount of time. if vegeta has his energy low, his and bulma's energy are the same. same thing with goku and chichi! goten and trunks are near impossible to tell apart, and same thing with gohan and videl.

though goten and trunks are both protective over their younger siblings, gotenks is that protectiveness times a thousand. look at bulla or pan wrong for 2 seconds and you're going to have an angry gotenks in your face asking if you have any last words. i like to think that trunks and goten fused casually a lot, especially around the time where bulla and pan were young, so its basically goten and trunks own attachment to them PLUS gotenks' attachment to them as his own person combined.

i like to pretend end of z did not happen the way it did so uub, using nimbus, travels back and forth a lot. goku isn’t the only one who teaches him how to fight as goten, gohan and trunks all think of him like a little brother and love training with him!

fuck you letters to toriyama/toyotaro hot takes:

cell, as cool of a villian as he is, definitely should have had a creepier final form. or multiple- just something that really drives in the fact that he's made up of other's dna & fuckin ABSORBS people. also his first two forms should have had a different absorbtion method other than the tail thing (not the drinking thing thats fine) it just feels.   Weird. not good

it would have been far more interesting to keep the bitter attitude towards vegeta that future trunks had imo... in super trunks was going through a Lot granted but the fact tht he wasnt more confrontational to vegeta being a dick to him seemed kind of off considering his attitude in z i just.. think it would be interesting and far better if they had more of a back and forth 'family but lowkey hate each other' relationship

i dont want to rant about super so heres some super condensed takes, goku black arc specific because thats 90% of what ive seen of super:

mai is a fucking freak ass weirdo, why did they not just make another character to pair with trunks

trunks not flipping the fuck out at his timeline being erased feels... out of character. also trunks deserved the win against zamasu

future bulma did NOT need to die

trunks should have just stayed in the current timeline

please fucking let trunks and goten grow up. we SAW a version of trunks who looked 14 (history of trunks....) and the versions of goten & trunks we have r/n in super do not look 13/14 respectively what in the goddamn hell is going on in the character design department

super definitely should have taken place later down the line

supers version of bulma and videl look awful. why are they That stick like.

vegeta needs to kill frieza. just once.

fu has enough potential to be a very interesting mainline character and i am so sad he's not

i would actively enjoy a sdbh anime with more  budget that isnt just a promo anime and has a plot that makes sense... i think db should have more wild spinoffs

xenoverse deserved a better story that went FULL in on the 'what if' type of timelines- like they did in raging blast which is a FUCKING GREAT GAME

straight up lies:

dragon ball z is a good series

[agentrouka-blog]

What changed the finale of GOT? What makes Westeros a better place? We see Bran pulling a full Robert and not bothering to even going to his smallcouncil meetings. Leaving Tyrion as a Jon Arryn of sorts. Nothing changed from the pillot. Part 1.

Furthermore the script says that a better future awaits Westeros because Sam, Davis and Brienne are better people. Wasn't Martin the one who criricized Tolkienn for his medieval filosophy of good man=good ruler. Where is the Aragorn tax police here? Brothels? So they are good people and Westeros is gonna be well. Part 2

It reads like Jaehaerys smallcouncil with good people such as Septon Barth or ser Rryam Redwyne. But as they died they were replaced by the likes of ser Otto Hightower and ser Cryston Cole. What stops Brienne or Sam succesor from being luke these men? What stops in the next royal election a person like Alejandro Borgia from being elected? What are the countermeasures of the new system?part 3.

Martin said that the Targ flaw was building the system on dragonpower and that the smallcouncil was never a countermeasure of this. So what does the finale of thhe series accomplish on the mark Martin story? What has changed for the better in Westeros? Why does it feels like we are back politically in the pilot. Does Martin or D&D think that some "elections" magiccally fix everything and makes a better world? That's the thinking of a kid? What does the finale accomplish?

Oh dear. Where to start? Oh yes: You are absolutely right.

Honestly, I think politically, the finale has only a vague resemblance to the book ending. I would not lay this on Martin’s feet. I mean, what is he going to say in interviews “Actually, they left out all the good parts and delivered a stupid version of half the ending. The real ending goes as follows…” Hardly. 

He said 

How will it all end? I hear people asking. The same ending as the show?  Different?

Well… yes.  And no.  And yes.   And no.   And yes.   And no.   And yes.

It’s, at best, a partial ending. Most likely, a fraction. How can you resolve an issue you never introduce in the first place?

They already left out much of the physical misery the books prepare us for: starvation, sweeping illness, the roaving displaced, the siege situation around King’s Landing that may prompt political compromise. The political finagling that would lead to a Big Council in the first place. They reduced the fate of Westeros to the presence of a handful of Lords and Ladies at a meeting in a Dragon Pit. It’s condensed beyond recognition.So, yeah, politically, the finale of the tv show makes absolutely zero sense. I understand your frustration.

They will all need each other to survive the winter, most likely, but at the same time, you can’t change a feudal system over night. Maybe just replacing the central power of the Iron Throne with something multifaceted would be useful. Maybe the council could be more permanent? Who knows?? I’m not too invested in predicting it. But it is likely to make sense. GRRM has built his story around knowing the ending. It will not be stupid.

We know Catelyn suggested the Great Council all the way back in ACOK. It’s mentioned three times in the ASOIAF books, and tons more in the accompanying literature.

Jon was not entirely innocent of the history of the realm; his own maester had seen to that. “That was the year of the Great Council,” he said. “The lords passed over Prince Aerion’s infant son and Prince Daeron’s daughter and gave the crown to Aegon.” “Yes and no. First they offered it, quietly, to Aemon. And quietly he refused. The gods meant for him to serve, not to rule, he told them. He had sworn a vow and would not break it, though the High Septon himself offered to absolve him. Well, no sane man wanted any blood of Aerion’s on the throne, and Daeron’s girl was a lackwit besides being female, so they had no choice but to turn to Aemon’s younger brother—Aegon, the Fifth of His Name. Aegon the Unlikely, they called him, born the fourth son of a fourth son. Aemon knew, and rightly, that if he remained at court those who disliked his brother’s rule would seek to use him, so he came to the Wall. And here he has remained, while his brother and his brother’s son and his son each reigned and died in turn, until Jaime Lannister put an end to the line of the Dragonkings.” (ACOK, Jon)

Not sure it will go down quite like this. The dynamics are different. But Jon wouldn’t be happy on the Iron Throne. He wants to frolick in the northern Snows with a Lady wife and plentiful babies.

“Robb will set aside his crown if you and your brother will do the same,” she said,hoping it was true. She would make it true if she must; Robb would listen to her, even if his lords would not. “Let the three of you call for a Great Council, such as the realm has not seen for a hundred years. We will send to Winterfell, so Bran may tell his tale and all men may know the Lannisters for the true usurpers. Let the assembled lords of the Seven Kingdoms choose who shall rule them.” Renly laughed. “Tell me, my lady, do direwolves vote on who should lead the pack?” Brienne brought the king’s gauntlets and greathelm, crowned with golden antlers that would add a foot and a half to his height. “The time for talk is done. Now we see who is stronger.” Renly pulled a lobstered green-and-gold gauntlet over his left hand, while Brienne knelt to buckle on his belt, heavy with the weight of longsword and dagger. “I beg you in the name of the Mother,” Catelyn began when a sudden gust of wind flung open the door of the tent. (ACOK, Catelyn)

When more women have a say, things will go down a bit better, yes? Yara, Arianne, Meera, ..?

Jon was tired. I need sleep. He had been up half the night poring over maps, writing letters, and making plans with Maester Aemon. Even after stumbling into his narrow bed, rest had not come easily. He knew what he would face today, and found himself tossing restlessly as he brooded on Maester Aemon’s final words. “Allow me to give my lord one last piece of counsel,” the old man had said, “the same counsel that I once gave my brother when we parted for the last time. He was three-and-thirty when the Great Council chose him to mount the Iron Throne. A man grown with sons of his own, yet in some ways still a boy. Egg had an innocence to him, a sweetness we all loved. Kill the boy within you, I told him the day I took ship for the Wall. It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg. Kill the boy and let the man be born.” The old man felt Jon’s face. “You are half the age that Egg was, and your own burden is a crueler one, I fear. You will have little joy of your command, but I think you have the strength in you to do the things that must be done. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born.” (ADWD, Jon)

I know we all love Maester Aemon, but I actually think he was full of manure. Don’t kill the boy. Dare to dream. If it goes down in a similar way, Jon will not be giving Bran that same advice.

My own personal favorite idea is, indeed, a permanent Great Council of several independent kinddoms and regions.

To resolve the matter of his heir once and for all, Jaehaerys called the first Great Council in the year 101 AC, to put the matter before the lords of the realm. And from all corners of the realm the lords came. No castle could hold so many save for Harrenhal, so it was there that they gathered. The lords, great and small, came with their trains of bannermen, knights, squires, grooms, and servants. And behind them came yet more—the camp followers and washerwomen, the hawkers and smiths and carters. Thousands of tents sprang up over the moons, until the castle town of Harrenton was accounted the fourth largest city of the Realm. (The World of Ice and Fire: The Targaeryen Kings: Jaeharys I) 

Wouldn’t that be the sweetest irony? If the true ending to the Targaryen kingship led to a permanent council set up in the very geographic center of Westeros by the God’s Eye, making use of the castle that was just finished and doomed when Aegon started conquering Westeros? WHY have we spent so much time in that ruin if it is not meant to serve a purpose in the future? For a sort of parliament?

Let’s let King’s Landing become a port city, if it is to be rebuilt. Let the seat of power become something entirely new. I would love that. 

[nyc-uws]

The Story Behind the Famous Kiss 

The two participants in the world’s most famous kiss didn’t even know each other, nor was their photograph staged. A new book, The Kissing Sailor, tells how it came about and was captured for posterity. The following condensed version weaves together key sections of chapters 9 through 12.                        By Lawrence Verria and Captain George Galdorisi, U.S. Navy (Retired)               July 2012  Naval History Magazine

Tuesday, August 14, 1945, started off for Greta Zimmer in the same manner as did most weekdays during that year. Hurrying to get ready for work, she showered, dressed, and pinned her hair up tightly to keep her long locks from covering her ears and neck. Before leaving her Manhattan apartment she grabbed a quick bite to eat, reached for her multicolored, small purse, and rushed out the door. When running late, Greta walked briskly toward the subway station to catch a train that could get her to work on time.

Her destination was the 33rd and Lexington subway stop, approximately three blocks from Dr. J. L. Berke’s dentist office. Greta had worked as a dental assistant at the Manhattan office for several months. While she hoped to someday design theater sets and pursue other vocations in the arts, work as a dental assistant bought her some independence and took her mind off a prolonged war.

When Greta arrived at the office on the morning of August 14, she changed into her working uniform. If it were not for her place of employment, she could have been easily mistaken for a nurse. Her white dress, white stockings, white shoes, and white cap did not distinguish her from thousands of other caregivers in New York.

While Greta performed her dental assistant duties that Tuesday morning, many patients burst into the office short of breath and beaming. Excitedly, they informed the staff and patients that the war with Japan had ended. Most patients and workers believed them. Greta wasn’t so sure. She wanted to trust their reports, but the war had rained more than a fair share of misery upon Greta. Her defenses remained high. She opted to delay a celebratory mindset that could prove painfully premature.

During the later morning hours, patients continued to enter the dentists’ office with more optimistic news. While Greta tried to ignore the positive developments, the temptation to flow with the prevailing winds challenged her reserve. As the reports became more definitive and promising, Greta found herself listening, contemplating, and growing eager.

When the two dentists returned from their lunches after 1:00 pm, Greta quickly finished the business before her. Soon after, she grabbed her small hand purse with the colorful pattern, took off her white dental assistant cap (as was customary before going out in public), and set out during her lunch break for Times Square. There the Times news zipper utilized lit and moving type to report the latest news. She wanted to know for herself if the claims that had been tossed about over the past several hours were misleading hearsay, or if, on this day, the reports would finally be true.

When Greta arrived at Times Square, a holiday atmosphere was taking hold. While the celebration was subdued compared to what would follow later that day, Greta sensed a vibrant energy in the air. Suited businessmen, well-dressed women, and uniformed soldiers and sailors entered the pandemonium from all directions. Some ran with no determined direction. Others walked with purpose. Some remained stationary, as if waiting for something big to happen. Greta paid no one particular person much attention.

As she proceeded into the square she moved by several recognizable landmarks: the 42nd Street subway stairwell, a replica of the Statue of Liberty, and a large statue of Joe Rosenthal’s famous picture from a few months earlier. After walking a few paces beyond the 25-foot model of the Marines raising the flag at Iwo Jima, Greta spun around and looked in the direction of the Times Building. She focused her sight just above the third-floor windows where the scrolling lighted letters spelled out the latest headlines. Greta read the racing and succinctly worded message quickly. Now she knew the truth.

The Last Day of Leave

On the last day of his leave, Petty Officer First Class George Mendonsa paid no attention to the day’s newspaper headlines and worried little about his Japanese enemy. After almost two years in World War II’s Pacific theater, his mindset was that the war would unfold independent of his blessing or curse. On the morning of August 14, 1945, his thoughts focused primarily on Rita Petry, an attractive Long Island girl he’d met a few weeks earlier in Rhode Island.

George woke up that Tuesday morning alone in a bedroom at the Petry family’s Long Island home. After breakfast with Rita’s family, he leafed through The New York Times looking for show times in New York’s theaters. He and his new girlfriend decided to take in a matinee at Radio City Music Hall. They thought the 1:05 pm showing of A Bell for Adano would give them plenty of time to make it back to Long Island by early evening. George was scheduled to depart for San Francisco that night. In a few days he expected to board The Sullivans and prepare for what he hoped would be the last battles of World War II. He knew an invasion of the Japanese mainland was imminent. While he did not welcome the looming chain of events, he thought finishing off the Japanese in their homeland would be a fitting bookend to a war that had commenced almost four years earlier with the empire’s surprise bombing of Pearl Harbor. But all that was in the future. He still had one day left to enjoy in New York.

Preparing for that day, George wore a formal blue Navy uniform that he’d had tailor-made while on leave in Newport. Rita liked how well fitted the new uniform appeared, but she’d also noticed that “he didn’t look like a usual sailor. He didn’t have those things [rates] on his shoulder.” She’d offered to sew on the chevron, but George had insisted he would take care of the matter with a crossbow hand-stitch he had perfected affixing rates on uniforms on board The Sullivans. He never got around to it, so, in the event the shore patrol inquired as to the whereabouts of his rating badge, George made sure to carry the chevron on his person when he and Rita set out for the city.

When they arrived in Manhattan at approximately noon, the city already buzzed with rumors of Japan’s anticipated surrender. However, neither Rita nor George listened much to people’s conversations. Intent on getting to the theater for the 1:05 movie, they made their way from the subway directly to Radio City Music Hall.

For all their rushing, George and Rita never saw the climax of A Bell for Adano, the movie they had come to see. After a few scenes of the film had played on the large screen, a theater employee interrupted the show by pounding on the entrance door and announcing loudly that World War II had ended. Radio City Music Hall patrons simultaneously leaped to their feet with a thunderous applause. Though President Truman had not yet received Japan’s official surrender, and the White House’s official announcement of Japan’s capitulation was still hours away, few raised the slightest objection to the premature declaration.

Seconds after the theater attendant’s announcement, George, Rita, and most other moviegoers poured out of Radio City Music Hall into a bustling 50th Street and 6th Avenue. As they merged into the frenzied scene, they fed off the contagious excitement that surrounded them. People yelled out news of victory and peace. They smiled and laughed. They jumped up and down with no thought of proper decorum. As if caught in a magnetic field, the historic celebration moved toward Times Square. People from other sections of the city were funneled to the same crossroads where they had gathered for celebrations in the past.

At the corner of 7th Avenue and 49th Street, George and Rita dropped into Childs restaurant for celebratory libations. As in other watering holes in New York, people walked, skipped and ran up to the jam-packed counter to tip a glass or two (or significantly more) to the war that they thought had finally ended. The scene at Childs looked much like that on 7th Avenue. Order and etiquette had been cast away. Rather than placing orders for a specific mug of beer or a favorite glass of wine, patrons forced their way toward the bar and reached out an arm to grab one of the shot glasses of liquor that lined the counter. A generous bartender continuously poured the contents of hard liquor bottles into waiting glasses. George grabbed whatever the server dispensed and did not ask what it was he drank. He knew the desired result would be the same whether the contributor was Jack Daniel’s, Jameson, or Old Grand-Dad. Even Rita gave over to the reckless abandon. After several minutes and the consumption of too many drinks, George and his date made their way out of the packed bar.

Emotions and alcohol-based fuel propelled them out into Times Square where victorious World War II celebrants continued to mass. George thought, My God, Times Square is going wild. And at that point, so was George. He felt uncharacteristically blissful and jubilant. As George moved briskly toward the 42nd Street subway station, the sailor from The Sullivans outpaced his girlfriend. For the moment, no one could corral George. And no one tried—not even Rita. The realization of a triumphant war created more vigor than his large frame could hold. He needed to release the energy. Rita did her best to keep up. At most points she trailed him by only a few feet. Although she enjoyed the folic through Times Square, she wondered if George would ever stop for a breather.

In Search of the Picture

As the spirited celebration of Japan’s surrender grew, reporters from the Associated Press, The New York Times, the New York Daily News, and other well-known publications descended on Times Square to record the spontaneous merriment that was enveloping the world’s most important crossroads. Photographers added more bodies to a burgeoning impromptu gala. One of them represented Life magazine.

On August 14, 1945, the magazine sought pictures that differed from most others printed earlier in the war. On this day, Life wanted its viewers to know what the end of the war felt like. The editors didn’t know with any degree of certainty what incarnation that feeling might take, but they left it to their photographers to show them—just like they had with other events over the publication’s nine-year history. Those unsupervised approaches had rarely led to disappointment in the past, and Life’s editors trusted their photographers to deliver again today.

The magazine’s trust in its photographers was especially complete when Alfred Eisenstaedt was on assignment. He had photographed the people and personalities of World War II, some prior to the declaration of war and others even before Life existed. As a German Jew in the 1930s, he had chronicled the developing storm, including a picture of Benito Mussolini’s first meeting with Adolf Hitler in Venice, on June 13, 1934. In another shoot he’d photographed an Ethiopian soldier’s bare cracked feet on the eve of Fascist Italy’s attack in 1935.

After the outbreak of war between Japan and the United States, Eisenstaedt focused on the American home front. In 1942 he photographed a six-member Missouri draft board classifying a young farmer as 2-C, indicating draft deferment because of his occupation’s importance to the nation. For another series in 1945, he visited Washington and photographed freshman senators performing comical monologues and musical numbers to entertain Capitol reporters. During World War II, Eisenstaedt showed the world what war looked like on the U.S. mainland.

On the day World War II ended, Eisenstaedt entered Times Square dressed in a tan suit, a white shirt with a lined tie, tan saddle shoes, and a Leica camera hanging from his neck. Despite his distinctive ensemble, he traveled stealthily amongst the kaleidoscope of moving parts looking for the picture. He made sure not to call attention to himself. He was on the hunt. He knew there was a picture in the making. Kinetic energy filled the square. Eisenstaedt wished for others to feel it, too. To create that sense, Eisenstaedt’s photo needed a tactile element. It was a tall order for the five-foot, four-inch photographer. He relished the challenge.

At some point after 1:00 pm, Eisenstaedt took a picture of several women celebrating in front of a theater across the street from the 42nd Street subway station stairwell. The picture showed ladies throwing pieces of paper into the air, creating a mini-ticker-tape parade. While the photo had its charm, it was not the defining picture Eisenstaedt was searching for that day.

Shortly after closing the shutter on that scene, he turned to his left and looked up Broadway and 7th Avenue to where 43rd Street connected to Times Square’s main artery. As Eisenstaedt continued to search for a photograph that would forever define the moment at hand, he peered around and beneath, but probably not over, the sea of humanity. News of the war’s end had primed America’s meeting place for a one-in-a-million kind of picture. A prospect would present itself soon. Eisenstaedt knew that. So he looked and waited.

The Kiss

Greta Zimmer stood motionless in Times Square near a replica of the Statue of Liberty and a model of the Marines raising the flag at Iwo Jima. To Greta’s left was Childs restaurant, one of several in New York, including this establishment at 7th Avenue and 49th Street. But Greta did not come to Times Square to stare at statues or belly up to bars. She wanted to read the Times zipper and learn if Japan really had surrendered to the United States.

With the 44th Street sign and the Astor Hotel to her back, she looked up at the tall triangular building that divided one street into two. The lit message running around the Times Building read, “VJ, VJ, VJ, VJ . . .” Greta gazed at the moving type without blinking. A faint smile widened her lips and narrowed her eyes. She took in the moment fully and thought, The war is over. It’s really over.

Though Greta had arrived in Times Square by herself, she was not alone. While she continued to watch the motioning “VJ” message, hundreds of people moved around her. Greta paid little attention to the swelling mass of humanity. But they were about to take notice of her, and never forget what they saw. Within a few seconds she became Times Square’s nucleus. Everybody orbited around her, with one exception. He was drawn to her.

Fresh from the revelry at a Childs on 49th, George Mendonsa and his new girlfriend, Rita Petry, made their way down Times Square toward the 42nd Street subway station. Rita fell behind George by a few steps. Meanwhile, Eisenstaedt persisted in his hunt for the photo. After traveling a block or so up Times Square, he took notice of a fast moving sailor who he thought he saw grabbing a woman and kissing her. That sailor was heading quickly south down Broadway and 7th Avenue. Wondering what he might do next, Eisenstaedt changed direction and raced ahead of the darting sailor. To avoid bumping into people in the crowded street, he had to look away from the sailor he was trying to track. He struggled to regain his focus on the Navy man wearing the formal Navy blue uniform. As he did so, Greta looked away from the Times zipper and started to turn to her right. George crossed the intersection of 44th and 7th Avenue, lengthening the space between him and Rita. The photographer, the sailor, and the dental assistant were on a collision course.

With a quickening pace that matched the surrounding scene’s rising pulse, the sailor who served his country aboard The Sullivans zeroed in on a woman whom he assumed to be a nurse. The liquor running through his veins transfixed his glassy stare. He remembered a war scene when he had rescued maimed sailors from a burning ship in a vast ocean of water. Afterward, gentle nurses, angels in white, tended to the injured men. From the bridge of The Sullivans he watched them perform miracles. Their selfless service reassured him that one day the war would end. Peace would reign, again. That day had arrived.

George steamed forward several more feet. His girlfriend was now farther behind. He focused on Greta, the “nurse.” She remained unaware of his advance. That served his purpose well. He sought no permission for what he was about to do. He just knew that she looked like those nurses who saved lives during the war. Their care and nurturing had provided a short and precious reprieve from kamikaze-filled skies. But that nightmare had ended. And there she stood. Before him. With background noises barely registering, he rushed toward her as if in a vacuum.

Though George halted his steps just before running into Greta, his upper torso’s momentum swept over her. The motion’s force bent Greta backward and to her right. As he overtook Greta’s slender frame, his right hand cupped her slim waist. He pulled her inward toward his lean and muscular body. Her initial attempt to physically separate her person from the intruder proved a futile exertion against the dark-uniformed man’s strong hold. With her right arm pinned between their two bodies, she instinctively brought her left arm and clenched fist upward in defense. The effort was unnecessary. He never intended to hurt her.

As their lips locked, his left arm supported her neck. His left hand, turned backward and away from her face, offered the singular gesture of restraint, caution or doubt. The struck pose created an oddly appealing mixture of brutish force, caring embrace, and awkward hesitation. He didn’t let go. As he continued to lean forward, she lowered her right arm and gave over to her pursuer—but only for three or four seconds. He tried to hold her closer, wanting the moment to last longer. And longer still. But they parted, the space between them and the moment shared ever widening, releasing the heat born from their embrace into the New York summer afternoon.

The encounter, brief and impromptu, transpired beyond the participants’ governance. Even George, the initiator, commanded little more resolve than a floating twig in a rushing river of fate. He just had to kiss her. He didn’t know why.

For that moment, George had thought Times Square’s streets belonged to him. They did not. Alfred Eisenstaedt owned them. When he was on assignment, nothing worth capturing on film escaped his purview. Before George and Greta parted, Eisenstaedt spun around, aimed his Leica and clicked the camera’s shutter release closed four times. One of those clicks produced V-J Day, 1945, Times Square. That photograph became his career’s most famous, Life magazine’s most reproduced, and one of history’s most popular. The image of a sailor kissing a nurse on the day World War II ended kept company with Joe Rosenthal’s photo of the flag raising at Iwo Jima. That photo proudly exemplified what a hard-fought victory looks like. This photo savored what a long-sought peace feels like.

Alfred Eisenstaedt was not the only photographer to take notice of George and Greta. Navy Lieutenant Victor Jorgensen, standing to Eisenstaedt’s right, fired off one shot of the entwined couple at the precise moment the Life photographer took his second picture of four. Though Jorgensen’s photo did not captivate audiences to the same degree that Eisenstaedt’s second photograph did, Kissing the War Goodbye drew many admirers as well.

And then it was over. Shortly after the taking of V-J Day, 1945, Times Square, Greta returned to the dental office and told everyone what was happening on the streets. Dr. Berke had her cancel the rest of the day’s appointments and closed the office. Afterward, as Greta made her way home, another sailor kissed her, this time politely on the cheek. For this kiss Greta no longer wore her dental assistant uniform and no photographers took her picture. And as far she could tell, she had not been photographed at any point in time during that day. She did not learn otherwise until years later, when she saw Eisenstaedt’s photograph of a Times Square couple kissing in a book entitled The Eyes of Eisenstaedt.

George did not realize that he had been photographed, either. When George turned from the act he’d instigated, he smiled at Rita and offered little explanation for what had transpired. As hard as it is to believe, she made no serious objection. George’s actions fell within the acceptable norms of August 14, 1945, but not any other day. Actually, neither George nor Rita thought much of the episode and proceeded to Rita’s parents’ home via the 42nd Street subway train. Later that evening, the Petrys transported George to LaGuardia Airport for a flight to San Francisco that left at approximately midnight. Neither he nor Rita discovered Eisenstaedt’s V-J Day, 1945, Times Square until 1980.

Excerpt reprinted, by permission, from Lawrence Verria and George Galdorisi,

The Kissing Sailor: The Mystery Behind the Photo That Ended World War II

(Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 2012).

https://www.usni.org/magazines/naval-history-magazine/2012/july/story-behind-famous-kiss

[liightningchosen]

RE:  SAVITAR. 

Obviously the Savitar arc in season 3 has several issues; on this blog, that arc and how Savitar is written are completely canon divergent and ignores most of what the CW tried to force down our throats. The concept was good but I’ve worked for three years now to develop it and make it better. This is under a read more because it’s obnoxiously long, but for those interested in Savitar and fixing the CW’s bullshit, here we are. This now also includes the JOINING THE ROGUES survival au!  UPDATED: 6/5/20.

I  WAS  MADE  TO  BE  A  MONSTER.

THE  CULT,  AND  HIS  NAME:   Savitar did not choose his own name, and the role of   “Savitar”   is a persona. He has no other name because he refuses to be Barry. Throughout the main arc of season 3, he adapts   “Sav”   as a placeholder, and is comfortable with that. In the Survival AU, he changes to Malcolm / Mal   (more details to follow).   The name Savitar itself originates from Hindu Myth, and the Cult of worshipers stems from a rogue sect of those practicing but following him specifically, and is labeled a cult by other standards.

I  AM  JUDGE,  JURY,  AND  EXECUTIONER.  I  AM  THE  WEAPON  THAT  HANDS  OUT  THE  SENTENCE.

GOALS  AND  MOTIVATIONS:   Savitar’s number one goal is survival. He is forced into the role in a way, because if he doesn’t complete the cycle, he will not be created, and the timeline is a bind around his wrists. Doing this, however, includes breaking Barry Allen, which is priority one. He has to be broken to a point where he will create the time remnants to stop Savitar and to create him. The only way to truly do this is take his rock away — Iris West. No matter who Barry is in love with, no matter what the timeline is, Iris is the most important person in his life, and represents the one thing that would break him more than anything else. While building up to this point, he follows the basics laid out by his memories of the previous cycle, and hurting Barry and those around him is the secondary goal; hurting those closest to him still hurts Barry in the process. Savitar knows how the cycle should play out — key word should — as he has the original Barry’s memories before he split off into time remnants. But he knows how easy it is for the timeline to shift and bend, so he sticks to basics; using Julian and the cult, creating Wally to free him, killing Iris, and breaking Barry.

I  NEVER  HAD  A  CHANCE  TO  BE  SOFT.  I  WAS  ALWAYS  BLOODY  KNUCKLES  AND  SHARDS  OF  GLASS.

ORIGIN  AND  REASONING:   Savitar was   “created”   when Barry split off multiple time remnants   (creating several versions of himself in the present day, which he learned from Zoom and used in the fight against Zoom)   to fight against the original Savitar of that cycle. Still calling himself Barry, he is the only remnant to survive, and he sustains a massive injury from the lightning from Savitar’s attacks, burning the right half of his face and damaging his right eye. While his eye healed to function almost completely, the scar remained. Because he wasn’t the original Barry, Team Flash didn’t treat him the same, making him believe he was a broken copy that shouldn’t even be alive. It wasn’t the Team Flash he held in his memories, and he’s so hurt and angry and wants revenge but he doesn’t know how to take it and — and they weren’t his memories anymore. He realized then that Savitar could only be one person. Himself. Savitar had talked about how this had happened a thousand times and would continue to happen over and over, and that they’d never see him coming. The broken version of Barry Allen realizes this, pretends to run off to the other side of the globe, but instead takes the Savitar suit, starting the cycle. Unfortunately, he doesn’t fully realize the consequences, and Barry is prepared, throwing Savitar into the Speedforce Prison that had been prepared for this occasion as soon as he sees him. Savitar sits there for thousands of years, and while it breaks him down, he builds himself back up. No longer is he Barry Allen — he steps into the role of Savitar, god of speed, and the Prison unintentionally imbues him with more power than he’d ever had as the Flash. There, he plots his revenge fully, from his own memories he can put together the nightmare that he wants to enact. While hurting Team Flash is a side goal, the main goal is hurting Barry, who created him and tossed him aside after everything — a Barry Allen who’d lost Iris was a monster, and he was only embracing his role.

I  DON’T  RISE  FROM  THE  ASHES;  I  MAKE  THEM.

CORRECTED TIMELINE:   Now, from the out of character standpoint, it really grinds my gears that the show waited until 3x20 / 3x21 to reveal that Savitar was Barry. It was cheap, meant to shock us, but then was given no room to actually develop as a plot in general. In my version of canon, 3x15-3x20 are condensed into a much quicker sequence of events, happening in days rather than months, allowing for the Savitar reveal to be in early March of 2017, rather than May. Then, the events of 3x21-3x23 progress over the course of two to three months, rather than two to three weeks. This allows for Savitar to have several unmasked moments with a majority of the team. He enjoys seeing them to torment them, as he is faster and more powerful, so they can’t stop him one on one. Though, those little moments are self indulgent as well, as he’s getting to see the people he called family once — that Barry called family once. He has to keep reminding himself of this. Overall what this means from a plotting standpoint is Savitar is running around without the need for hiding in his suit for much longer than 3 episodes, and he causes plenty of turmoil while he’s at it. This also means that Barry doesn’t need to go to 2026 for information on who Savitar is, but instead for information on how to stop him.

BUT  WHO  PRAYS  FOR  SATAN?  WHO,  IN  EIGHTEEN  CENTURIES,  HAS  HAD  THE  COMMON  HUMANITY  TO  PRAY  FOR  THE  ONE  SINNER  WHO  NEEDED  IT  MOST?

SAVITAR’S  POSSIBLE  “REDEMPTION”  AND  HIS  HEART:   I also refuse to believe that Savitar is too far beyond redemption. There is no physical way that he has Barry Allen’s golden heart — starting off the bright shiny optimist who wants to save the world no matter how much it kills him — would turn into a heartless monster. No matter how much he went through, hate and love are too close. If Savitar were to truly be too far gone, he would be indifferent to Iris, and he wouldn’t hate her or Barry. Hate is too close. No matter how small, there is a sliver of Barry left, and I also think this is seen with Jesse Wells, who Barry sees as a little sister. His line of   “I have big plans for you, Jesse Quick.”   is such bullshit, because he doesn’t have plans for her — he’s using it as an excuse not to kill her right there, because he doesn’t want to. I also think there is hesitation to hurt Joe and Wally, as that is his foster and found family as well. But he won’t let them get in his way, that’s the only time he attacks them. I really think that given a proper arc, the   “redemption”   that they played on in 3x23 could have been more full fledged, but as it was rushed, Savitar still chose to go after Iris. He would still do this unless someone truly offered him a way out — in his mind, this is also the way to create his survival, in order to reset the cycle once more. His redemption does not come in the form of being a “hero” and he certainly wants to be nothing like Barry, and instead comes with him choosing autonomy instead of referring to himself as the throwaway. This means though, that he will never border into a   “good”   alignment and instead will neutral, focused on his own survival.

I  RULE  THE  STARS,  NOT  THE  OTHER  WAY  AROUND.  I  LIVE,  I  LIVE,  I  LIVE.

ALTERNATE  ENDING  /  SAVITAR  CHOOSING  TO  BREAK  THE  TIMELINE:   In any arc where Savitar chooses not to kill Iris, it is a choice he makes himself because he wants to embrace the good in him, not because the Team stopped him; his heart may be gold but it is far from clean. He is already choosing to go by the name Sav at this time, because it’s distancing from Savitar, which he doesn’t enjoy as a name. In this arc as well, Sav joins the Rogues, and gets a great deal of help from Leonard Snart   (@cvldthief​​)   as he develops his autonomy and creates a life as a separate person from Barry. Over this time, he becomes less brutal, and while he still does kill, it’s only when he finds necessary to defend himself or the Rogues. He doesn’t wear a mask, because no one would be able to tell who he is   (the scars have marred him from video recognition, and only those who knew Barry would recognize even a little similarity).   Additionally, he begins to remember that Nora and Henry mentioned if Barry were to have had a twin or brother, they would have named him Malcolm. He adopts this name for his own, opting for Mal more often than not. Mal, meaning bad or evil, represents a reclamation of the past atrocities, but his own personhood and healing along with it.

TRUE EVIL, ABOVE ALL ELSE, IS SEDUCTIVE.

EARTH  302  DIFFERENCES:   Earth 302 is a verse i developed with @resurrecticn​​​​ and we’ve been building for three years, and there are significant differences that I just want to outline. In this verse, Savitar cannot be redeemed. Before he truly became Savitar, he went back in time to see Iris himself, meet her and make a memory for himself, truly have a memory that isn’t Barry’s. But she treats him so disgustingly, unintentionally. She cares about Barry, but at the time she still believes she is meant to die. After all of the hate and being cast aside, Savitar shuts off his humanity in a way. After millennia in the Speedforce Prison   (longer than normal Savitar, as he struggled to free himself),   he manipulates Iris against Barry, using her to satisfy his own anger as well as hurt Barry even more. He gives her speed — more than Barry but less than himself, to put her in a position of power against Barry but not himself. He could kill her, but it’s so much more satisfying to use her. He is toxic and evil and cannot be saved.

[crushedbyhyperbole]

Promises - Chapter Five

Chapter Summary:  Salaciously the seduction goes down.  The situation and the proposition have Bucky feeling uncomfortable.  What can he do when he's simultaneously offered something he's always wanted and put in a position to lose it all?

Warnings: Drunkenness and bad flirting.  Did I mention the flirting is terrible XD

PROMISES MASTERLIST  |  MAIN MASTERLIST  |  MOBILE MASTERLIST

Belated Prologue Pt 4 - The Proposition

In the morning, Bucky woke up to the smell of coffee brewing.  Izzy stood in his open-plan kitchen hunched forward and leaning against the counter for support.

She must be feeling real rough, Bucky thought.

“Morning.”  His voice was croaky with sleep.

“Morning.”  Izzy didn’t even have the energy to be startled. “Coffee?”

“Please.”  He sat up and allowed himself a moment before standing to go to the bathroom.  The last thing he needed was to be exhibiting morning wood to his guest.  “There’s bagels in the fridge.”  He said from the bathroom before closing the door.

 Izzy looked cute with her hair all tousled, and ridiculously comical with mascara smears under her eyes. Bucky smirked at her when he accepted the mug of coffee from her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”  He smirked again as she checked her reflection out in the chrome surface of the kettle.

“Oh, fuck you!”  She rolled her eyes and turned her back.

“How you feeling?”  He asked after his cup was half gone.  His caffeine levels were directly proportional to the amount of socialising he was prepared to do first thing after waking.

“Peachy.”  Sarcasm exuded from her tone.   “I had a wonderful night.”

“Yeah you seemed to be enjoying yourself until some point down the I495.”  Bucky smirked into his cup.  “Wanna tell me what happened with Brad?”  He’d gotten the drunk version last night but the sober version would be more reliable.  “Was it really that bad?”

“It’s not bad like ‘I propositioned my best friend for sex’ bad or anything like that, but it’s pretty bad.”

Bucky didn’t know whether to laugh or be shocked.  So he did both.  Practically inhaling his coffee and spluttering into the cup.  It wasn’t exactly a voluntary choice.

Izzy looked concerned for a moment until Bucky held his hand up to say he was ok.  He wiped the coffee off his chin before looking at her with a sad smile.

“I’m so sorry, Bucky.” She had tears in her eyes.  “You were so good to me and I had to go be a pathetic, whiny, needy mess.  I didn’t mean to push any boundaries.”

“I meant what I said.” He spoke quietly.  His heart was hammering in his chest; excitement, terror, and more.

“Huh.”  It was more a surprised noise than a query.

“I said I’d think about it. And I would still do that.”

“You also said you’d get a pinky promise tattoo so is that still on the cards?”  She laughed mischievously.

He could tell it was a deflection and he didn’t care.  He’d have her however she chose to be with him, obviously the more of her time he got, the better.  He’d get a tattoo for her, no questions asked.

“What if it is?”  He teased back.

She laughed, grinning big. “Oh Barnes, you’re so gonna regret saying that.”  She tried to hide her amusement in her cup just like he had, but her smile made her eyes twinkle in just the right kind of way that had him staring at her, wishing she’d look at him like that for ever.

“Yeah, yeah, bring it on!”

 The tattoos became a reality.  They both got the word promise tattooed on the inside of their right pinky finger in the Izzy’s cursive handwriting.  Steve became part of the pact too, which made Bucky feel it was a little less special but he approved nonetheless, and it did take some of the tension out of it for him. Having her handwriting tattooed on his skin bound her irrefutable to him.  He needed only to glance at it and he got a tingly feeling in his stomach. It was like her mark on him, permanent and heart-felt.

It was a couple of weeks after that when the whole friends with benefits thing came up again.

 Izzy was at Starks with a few of her girlfriends from the office.  The tall blonde with a huge rack had been hitting on him at the bar all night and, although Bucky had no qualms bedding someone who pursued him that hard, he didn’t want to mess with any of Izzy’s friends or colleagues.  He loved and respected her too much to do that. Despite the blonde being salacious, he had to decline.

Bucky came over to the table to collect empties and to check in with Izzy.

“You good?  Need anything?”  He asked, leaning over to scoop up a few bellini flutes.

“We’re getting table service from bar manager Barnes?”  Izzy was practically flirting with him.

“You came over to see me, didn’t you, sugar?”  The blonde, Claire, said as she seductively trailed her finger around the rim of her glass.

Bucky laughed short and nervous, his adam’s apple bobbing slightly before his tongue made a quick pass of his upper lip.  He felt so damn uncomfortable.  A quick glance at Izzy revealed her amusement.

Well, this is going to get more awkward before it’s over.  He thought with a sigh.

“Would you be a darling and rustle up a couple of my favourite cocktail?  No one in the whole of New York makes them like you do, Buck.” She bit her lip purposefully, glancing down to his mouth and back up to his eyes.

He frowned slightly. Very confused.

What the hell kind of game was Izzy playing?  This was uncharacteristically flirtatious, forward, predatory, whatever the hell you wanted to call it; this wasn’t normal.

Bucky nodded slowly.

“You better leave me a good tip though.”  He winked at the other women, suddenly feeling like it was a game he’d been enlisted to play.  He didn’t want to make Izzy look stupid so he decided he’d bite.  “You ladies got to appreciate a man with skills.”

That got a titter of giggles from them all.

 Delivering the cocktails himself had been a bit of a mistake.  The ladies insisted Bucky sit with them a little while and Izzy was more than happy to continue tormenting him.  She teased her cocktail straw with the tip of her tongue before taking it between her lips for a sip, eyes fluttering closed in pleasure, a little nasal moan escaping before she swallowed.

His palms were getting sweaty just watching her.

“You’re so hot.”  One of the ladies said, leaning in to touch his thigh.

Bucky laughed, looking down and shaking his head, embarrassed.  Women had told him that before but he’d never sat at a table with the girl of his dreams and had other women try to bed him.  This was all too much.

“That’s the cocktails talking.”  He deflected.

“Cock-what?  Yes, please!”  Someone said, earning themselves a round of lewd laughter.

There was no hint of jealousy in Izzy’s face or her body language.  It was like a neon sign to him that she didn’t feel anything other than something platonic for him.  She was watching him, intrigued and mischievous.

“Just feel how hard that is.”  The woman said, inviting the others to touch his leg.  “All that perfectly toned muscle.”  She sighed.

“What would it take for me to have you in my bed tonight?”  The blonde, Claire, was relentless.

Bucky blushed hard, laughing again as his nerves got the better of him.  Izzy shouldn’t be okay with this, he was supposed to be her friend and he was uncomfortable as hell in this situation.  He wished he hadn’t played along in the first place.

Shaking his head and with a bashful smile he could barely make eye contact with any of them. Blushing hard he protested. “Stop… You’re making me blush.”

That earned him a round of ‘awww, so cute’ from them all.  He really couldn’t win.

Izzy’s eyes hadn’t left him and when he stood to leave, making excuses of tending bar and cleaning up, she followed him to the bar.

“Can I get you something?” He was a little short with her but she didn’t notice.

She had seemed only tipsy at the table but now he saw she was pretty damn drunk.

“Remember that conversation?”  She said playfully.

“Which one?”  They’d had thousands of conversations over their many years of friendship, he probably could remember all of them but he was clueless as to what she was getting at without a pointer or two. “The one about the end of the world? Who we’d have on our team?”  That was one from a couple of days ago.

“No.”  She was deadly serious now, it gave him chills.  “In your room, the night you picked me up from Long Island.”

“Oh.”  Suddenly the air was oppressive and his mouth dry. “Um, okay, yeah.  What about it?”

“I’ll be wanting your answer now, Barnes.”

He kind of liked this side of her, boldly asking for what she wanted.  The way she looked at him then sent a tingle over his scalp and down his spine right to his cock.

This can’t be happening.

“Right now!?”

“Right now.”  Her lips curled subtly in a lopsided but flirtatious smile.

“You’ve been drinking and I would hate to take advantage…”  Bucky trailed away as Izzy shook her head.

“Who’s taking advantage?” Her laugh was bright and completely her.  “You did not just see yourself get torn to pieces by that pack of lionesses over there.”

She had a point but still, he wouldn’t feel right about this at all.  It had to be sober or nothing.

“What about the rules?” He became aware of a customer waiting. “One sec.”  He gave Izzy a placatory look.

 Bucky filled the order and came back to her a few minutes later.  She’d finished her drink and pushed the glass towards him, slowly, her fingers trailing up the stem through the condensation on the side to the rim where she circled with her index finger.  Her tongue slowly traced her upper lip as she stared him down.

Christ!  She was trying to seduce him.  Not trying.  Succeeding.  What the hell was this?  What had changed?

“Rules, you say?” Even her voice was pitched lower, more sultry.  “I can do rules.”

Maybe he should just tell her that she didn’t have to make all this effort, that he was hers already and always would be, for as long as she wanted him to be.

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.”  He chuckled ironically.

“So it’s a ‘yes’ then?” Was that hope he saw glint in her eye?

Had he said ‘yes’? His answer should be no.  Their friendship might get ruined and then he’d be without her in his life at all.  But then again what if she grew to love him, was that not worth a risk?

“Conditional approval, pending suitable rules.”  He couldn’t help the playful smile that spread across his face.  “And sobriety.”

Izzy was smiling too and she looked stunning, stood there with flushed cheeks and twinkling eyes. Maybe drunk was a good look on her, hell every look was good on her.

I’m so fucked.

“You’re gonna make me wait for it?”  She teased but seemed more than a little disappointed.

“Damn right I am.” Bucky flirted.  “I’m not the sort to put out on the first date.”

“You totally are!” Her head dipped forward as she laughed, snorting like a pig in the middle which made them both laugh harder.

“Alright, alright, so maybe I am.”  He chuckled as she came down from her laughing fit.  “But you shouldn’t.”  And he was serious again.  “Text me tomorrow when you’re not drunk.”

Izzy actually groaned in frustration.  What had gotten into her?

“Now, go on!  Scoot.” He flapped her away from the bar with both hands.

His face burned but not as much as the fire in his chest.  Simultaneously terrified and excited, he could barely focus on his work for the rest of the night.  Tony grumbled that he wasn’t giving the customer his full attention, and the old man was right, Bucky wasn’t.  He put on a smile when his whole soul was racked with bewilderment.  He didn’t know if he wanted her to forget what she’d asked of him or if he wanted her to take this idea of hers in both hands and never let it go.  One thing Bucky knew for sure, he was never going to be able to say no.  Not to her.  Not ever.

Continue to chapter six >>>

A/N:  I just want to say thank you to anyone who is reading this.  I kind of feel like this things is a giant flop or that Tumblr still hates me and won’t let any of the chapters for this show up in searches.  But if you are reading, I won’t let this be a forgotten work because the story is so close to my heart.  If I do lapse though, feel free to kick me up the arse.

Tagging @renxzs​ because you are so invested already and I love you for your dedication to this thing <3

[ramckinnley]

The streetlights were dim tonight, nothing new. The cities power grid had been awful for years now and the church was in an older part of town.

Father John Martin made the trek back to his Parish from the shelter he had been volunteering tonight. The stench of stale bread and body odor soaked into his vestments like blood into an old carpet. Walking up the steps leading to his rectory he noticed the lights had been shut off. He didn't remember switching them off and the power seemed to be on, albeit faint.

He tugged on the door open; it creaked and moaned open revealing a dark void. No color, no objectivity. Father Martin navigated the room through familiar instinct. Enroute to his sleeping chambers he passed his office, a quaint little place to catch up on paperwork and plan that weeks sermon. He has walked past it a million times before, lumbering the same tired shuffle...the enthusiasm lost years ago. Yet tonight the air seemed heavier, almost as if he was moving through a dense fog.

Straight to bed...none of the normal, habitual hygienic pleasantries tonight. No, this was a man far too exhausted to worry about such menial tasks. For tonight at least.

The fathers rest was short lived as the smell of smoke filled his nose like waves crashing in the ocean. He jumped out of bed, running desperately to escape the sweltering inferno. With each step he took, he could feel the air being drained from his lungs. Falling to the floor he peered a blurry gaze around him...no fire, no ash...not even a bit of smoke. Father Martin stood up, visibly baffled by the events that had just transpired.

Room to room he searched, checked, ventured. looking aimlessly, hopelessly for a shred of logic or reason. Perhaps he was merely having a dream that bled into his waking mind and confused him...yes, yes that must be it. Simply a dream.

Walking back toward his chambers, the priest glanced over into his office again. To his shock and fright, a small shadowed figure of a child sat on his desk, tapping her heels against the aged walnut. She appeared to be no older than 8 or 9 years old and her features became more noticeable as he entered the room. Her long blonde hair was pulled tightly into a braid, porcelain skin was tainted by the spatter of freckles across her nose and cheeks...her eyes were a color he had never seen before. Something beyond...

"...Jessica..." He chocked out in disbelief.

"Tunc suus 'experrectus es." She stated gently. "Ego erat exspectans."

"Waiting for what." the good father asked the rigid child.

"You." She perked up in distorted English. "I've been waiting for you."

A shiver ran up the priests spine as he heard the child's words. What was this child, surely she wasn't of this Earth.

"Foul demon, give me your name." A mighty bellow from the shaken priest.

"O quaeso, est ut vos have optimus. Infirmi agresti nationis Dei." The girl chuckled back.

"Your Latin is weak demon." Father Martin announced. "I command you back to hell!"

"Not my first language Padre." The girl laughed. "And Hell is no place for me...Hell is a vacation compared to me."

The priest staggered backward, a sharp pain ran up and down his legs. The smell of smoke returned and the sensation of heat scorched his body. fear enveloped Father Martin and he fell onto the floor. Looking up to the child, the universe seemed to shift...distort.

Father Martin's office became a swirling maw of chaos and despair. He couldn't see but a foot in front of his face or hear his own thoughts over the cacophony of discordant echos, screaming in all directions.

Suddenly a voice...not the voice of the child. not the voice before. It was something different...

John began to pray.

"N'ektar ver romshuma Martin. Your time is upon you." A deep growl gurgles deep within John's mind. "Here Priest...here in the Other, your worthless God is one of my many slaves. Damned to die, rot and be reborn until the sands run still. Praying to him now only increases his pain."

A wind howled through the maddening, impossible vortex. John was thrown back, his body hurled at speeds that seemed to defy physics. Disoriented, he lay crumpled over a large rock on a suspended platform in the middle of the inescapable blackness. A stiff wind cut through the priest like a spray from the ocean; constant, unrelenting.

"For everything you tried to be, for every lie you passed as real, for everytime they had to suffer through you." A moan came from the darkness.

John stood up, fists clenched screaming into the hallow void of indescribable eternity.

"I FEAR NO EVIL, YOU SHALL NOT CONQUER ME." His voice echoed into the timeless malevolent filth.

"Evil...maybe not." The sinister voice called from John's left. "You know evil well priest, but what of innocence, what of purity."

John swallowed hard, a quiver came over him as the acrid taste of decay filled his mouth. Looking down he saw his flesh boil and bubble and peel. A spume of puss and blood seethe from his newly opened wounds. Falling to his knees, John erupted with a howl of pain so ear shattering, the hollows couldn't contain out.

"It seems I have your attention." The voice called. "I was wondering when we could get down to business."

Whipping and lashing, a festering, slime covered tentacle shot around John's body from the depths. Tiny lancers pierce into his exposed flesh an hold him firmly in place while the ground beneath him dissolves.

The rope like appendage retracts into the time space vacuum at speeds fast enough to agonizingly liquefy John's bones. What felt like a torturous eternity was condensed into a mere second as the Father was transported into a small room. a room he had seen before.

Lilac walls with daisies painted in the corners, a dense berber rug and the scent of camomile and cane sugar enthralled the priest's senses. his body now intact, pain free and vibrant.

"...Jessica?" A woman's voice called from beyond the room. "Father Martin is here to see you."

The clatter of footsteps thundered into the room and ended in a deafening silence. the door slowly opened and John's mouth went slack as he watched himself enter the room. The scene grew cold and John felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Waaaaaaaatch." That brooding voice from the beyond cried inside John's mind.

The man, dressed in priests clothes who was in everyway Father John Martin walked over to a young girl of no more than eight or nine, crying at the foot of her bed. John remembered this moment...suddenly he understood why he was here.

"STOP, OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP!" John pleaded with this second version of himself, in vain.

"We cannot alter the past priest. We must atone for the transgressions we commit." The young girl spoke in a guttural tone. "Even a man of God isn't absolved from his unconscionable actions."

He watched in horror as he relived a dark moment in his past.

John shuddered as he watched himself run his hand up young Jessica's skirt, exposing himself to her and ultimately taking her innocence. A single tear left John's eye.

"I've changed..." He begged. "I'm not that man anymore."

"CHANGED?!" The dark voice became enraged. "YOU'VE CHANGED?"

In that instant John was taken to another scene. Another young vulnerable girl taken advantage of, desecrated, raped. Scene after scene, girl after girl. The flashes continued into the futures of these girls, these young women. A mural of drug abuse, abusive relationships, destroyed self worth and suicide became an all encompassing ocean of despair, depression and death.

"Change can only come through sacrifice, hardship and pain." The echo rang. "Your existence has proven only that you used any and all of the pithy authority you could command to further your sick desires and destroy the innocence around you."

John fell to his knees. The weight of a life erroneously lived, the lives tormented, the blood on his hands finally took its break.

"I'm...I'm sorry." He wept.

"You will be." It grunted

With that Father Martin fell through the room floor, cascading through a near infinite vortex for what felt like razor wire, acid and flame. As his skin was flayed, piece by piece, the filthy priest was forced to eat the rotting chunks. Maggot ridden muscle was exposed from underneath as he was torn apart slowly, agonizingly by a force unseen.

An intense pressure compacted his head from within. Unable to withstand the punishment, his eyes burst. Foaming vitreous gel saturated his face. the contents of his stomach erupted out from within him. Flesh and bone, bile and blood covered what remained of his body and ate away the remaining rotting husk as he was hurled into oblivion.

Suddenly John awoke, sitting straight up in bed. a cold sweat beading down his face, ready to vomit he ran to the washroom. Clutching the bowl, retching over and over.

"What...was...that...dream?! He pondered aloud as the vomiting slowed.

He stood up and left the bathroom, headed back to bed. Except this time as he passed by the office he closed the door. A simple enough action, but one that made him feel a thousand fold better.

Walking into his room he stopped dead staring breathless, lifeless, horrified at young Jessica staring back tapping her feet against the end of his bed. Eager to start her dream...her eternal revenge all over again.

© 2020 R.A. McKinnley