#remember a recently deceased loved one and serve as a reminder that death is never far away)

[spellmage]

my Nevarra headcanon is that they love Memento Mori rings

[cosmic-dichotomy]

Necomancers hate them! Local half-orc has huge ass and even bigger heart

The Stormbringers were a tribe of orcs that were, for centuries, feared. Their warhorses were said to bring a fear into your heart like you were facing a tempest.

The leader was a powerful wizard named Ferin. Her style of necromancer was particularly heinous: she drained the life of her victims, using them to fuel her own life, and then puppeted their bodies in battle. Those she drained were utterly destroyed, not merely killed. Their very souls fueled her.

It was into this tribe that Golnar was born. Its life was already storied, for its mother was a noblewoman, Zoreh Tilki, who had eloped with its father shortly before its birth. Its father was Ferin’s own son, Fregga.

A band of adventurers, led by the paladins Selna and Sturm marched on the Stormbringers to “liberate” the noblewoman Zoreh among others. Led by their own self-righteousness, they slaughtered almost the entire clan, sparing only the other elves and humans they believed had been kidnapped and bewitched by Ferin. Selna also refused to allow the young children to be killed, a choice that nearly brought her and Sturm to blows. Only Golnar and its infant brother Firouz survived the night.

During that night of death and justice, Death looked upon the child Golnar, and Loved them. While it has been maintained that Golnar was made to serve Death, it was on this night that, despite every warrior swearing that they kept their blade from the children, Golnar received a wound over their heart. This is Death’s mark upon them, for their heart beats despite the deep hole.

The orphans were raised by Selna, or at least were allowed to live in her house. When a sickness went through their community, Golnar became truly enshrined with Death. They began working as a healer at fourteen, learning at the shoulder of Selna. Even after the plague was gone, Golnar chose to heal. But their focus was on the elderly, the ill, the frail, the dying. As time went on, they began to dream of the gods of death, and became dedicated to them.

In its dreams, Golnar serves Death still. While it sleeps, its soul is transported to Death’s domain where it tend the souls of the recently deceased as a soul gardener, digging grave-plots for the souls to slumber until their next step. Over the years, it seems that Death became truly fond of Golnar, doting on it and favoring it with magic and gifts. When it dies, its soul will return to his domain for eternity, to serve him in death as it did in life.

As an aspiring Gravedigger Paladin, Golnar’s adventuring life is primarily that of a monster hunter. They target the undead and those who raise them, as well as those who cause great amounts of unnecessary death. These types of jobs are not very frequent, so functionally Golnar is a traveling healer. They tend to the sick and dying, but also ease the pains of birth and broken bone with holy magic, a gentle hand, and an even gentler manner. They never stay in one place for long, both due to their calling.

Unfortunately, the way it’s lived its life has led to Golnar being a recluse. It is so preoccupied with death that it’s lost sight of what makes death worth it all: the life you’ve lived. It has no friends, no close family, nothing to look forward to or care about besides the dead and dying, and see no value in its own soul except for what it’ll be when it dies.

Golnar is also a romantic, a devoted soul who has a great deal of love inside that has only ever been aimed towards the dead and dying. It has a strong sense of politeness and chivalry, and loves stories and song. It doesn’t remember its surname, but has taken the moniker “Strifeslayer” to remind itself what it aims for. Its heart and kindness are obvious to any who speak to Golnar, but said heart is guarded and uncertain. Though it has had quite a few flings and dalliances, the one intended long-term romantic entanglement Golnar allowed itself in its youth ended when its partner abandoned it and the community they had been defending to a grim fate. Golnar prevailed, but it never sought out its first love again. It fears that its purpose and dedication have left them with a heart incapable of experiencing deep lasting love.

[wangxianficrecs]

Follower Recs

There are nearly FORTY THOUSAND AO3 stories in the MDZS universe, and I am just a single person with limited time, so....  Here’s a bit of y’all doing my work for me!

~*~

Mojo, I know it'd probably be recced before, but I have to recommend stiltonbasket's Twelve Moons and a Fortnight. It has made me squee of cuteness, hold my breath with suspense, marvel over the worldbuilding and character interactions, and just awed me at how well every original piece of lore and HC ties back to canon. I cried over it, only to cry laughing the next chapter. it kept me going through an entire year of lockdown and is finally coming to an end, and the resolution was magnificent.

*[I’m subscribed to this and keep waiting for Part One to be completed, but instead later parts keep getting posted:  is it completed but not marked?  I am confused.  And eager to read!]*

Twelve Moons and a Fortnight

by stiltonbasket (G, 267k, wangxian, WIP)

Summary:  "Let me get this straight. You really want me to stand in for you while you help Jin Ling settle in at Koi Tower?"

"Who else do I have?" Jiang Cheng snaps, ears turning scarlet as Jin Ling tries to pretend he isn't listening. "Father trained you to serve as my deputy, didn't he? And don't say you don't remember, or I'll break your legs."

"Well, yes," Wei Wuxian manages. "Uh. I'll just let Lan Zhan know I'll be at Lotus Pier until you're back at home, then."

Or, the one where Wei Wuxian spends the year before his wedding as Yunmeng Jiang's acting sect leader, and the cultivation world's greatest love story finds its happy ending with the help of three juniors, a teenage romance, and one very involved (and exasperated) younger brother.

~*~

May I recommend fielty by milkpunch a sort of AU where lwj in order to save his sect from being destroyed by nine after wen rouhans assasination goes to work as a guard to Jin zixuan where he meets wwx the right hand of Jin guanguao... ~ @pastashouldbeeatenwithafork

Fealty

by milkpunch (E, 84k, wangxian)

Summary:  Before, there had been two reigning kingdoms. Both claimed to be blessed by the sun, but with vastly differing views. One, under the name of Wen, was washed red with blood and violence, its soldiers fierce and stoked with a fiery blaze. The other, under the name of Jin, was bathed in golden light and glory, its soldiers proud and heavy with coin and prestige. The two kingdoms went to war for the true honour of having the sun’s blessing, fighting for many long years with many lives lost.

Jin Guangshan, emperor of the Golden Sun Palace, found that the sun favoured him more.

To prevent his kingdom from being crushed, Lan Zhan, second heir to the Lan kingdom, exchanges his freedom for that of servitude to the Jin kingdom. He is appointed as Jin Zixuan's personal guard, but there's more on his plate than just keeping the Jin heir safe. The Golden Sun Palace is not all that it seems, and the dazzling lives of the royals are less perfect than they appear.

~*~

Hey, I was wondering if I could rec a fic to you. My bestie wrote it for the Lunar New Year Wangxian gift exchange and it definitely did not receive the attention it deserves. It's a really fun mermaid/arranged marriage au! ~ @leahlisabeth

More Than This Provincial Wife

by ApprenticedMagician (T, 6k, wangxian)

Summary:  The negotiations surrounding the Lan & Jiang alliance through marriage encountered a few snags in the beginning.

~*~

I love your blog! I saw a recent post where you listed some rec's from other people? [Thank you!  And yes, I always appreciate and am happy to share your recs!]  I just read the WIP A Corpse Called By Name jaemyun and LOVED it! It's a zombie apocolypse AU, where Wei Ying gets bitten by a zombie.... and I don't want to spoil anything from there, but it is amazing! No pressure to put it in your blog, but wanted to send a note just in case. Thanks for all you do!

A Corpse Called By Name

by jaemyun (not rated, 37k, wangxian, WIP)

Summary:  A continuation of zombie drabble!

She loses her brother in a hoard of the undead.

She finds a corpse wearing his face in a convenience store.

The corpse calls her name.

~*~

Hi! I was wondering if I could rec this short fic that I recently found and really liked! The narrative is an inner monologue and I think it captures lwj really well :)

binding me in spells (till my heart's devoured)

by gaysgaysgays (G, <1k, wangxian)

Summary:  His scars are a reminder of his hurt, a reminder that he had healed.

(or a study of lan zhan's scars)

~*~

I found a fic I had recently asked you about, so I thought I'd share it with you: Seasons of Falling Flowers by merakily (http://archiveofourown.org/works/28522326). I rediscovered it completely by accident after listening to spinifex's excellent podfic adaptation. This is the fic where Lan Qiren despises Wei Wuxian until Wei Wuxian catches a cold and Lan Qiren find out about his golden core. That part is about 3/4 of the way through. The fic is wonderful and shows a rigid but surprisingly introspective Lan Qiren. ~ @clmoryel [Oh!  I just read this one yesterday!  Here’s my bookmark.]

Seasons of Falling Flowers

by merakily (G, 40k, wangxian, lan qiren & wei wuxian, podfic)

Summary:  Like a parasite, Wei Wuxian has this way of growing on people when you least expect it.

Over the seasons, Lan Qiren slowly pieces back together his relationship with Wangji and learns to like Wei Wuxian in the process.

(“Will you rejoin your sect?” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Lan Qiren regrets his wording.

He is not surprised when Wangji’s eyes narrow, flashing with offence. “There is no need to rejoin what one has never left. I did not turn my back on my sect. My sect turned their backs on me.”)

~*~

Hi! Can I rec a fic? "bring you home" by Alasse_Irena on AO3 is a modern AU and is one of the most beautiful and atmospheric fics I have read. Thanks for you work running this blog! I have new Wangxian fics to read <3

bring you home

by Alasse_Irena (T, 28k, wangxian)

Summary:  Wei Ying rents a run-down cottage in a small town by the sea, looking for a quiet place to hide after the war.

Lan Zhan has always dreamed of the ocean. He returns to the town where he was born, and where his parents died, to find out why.

Instead, they find each other.

~*~

Good morning lady mojo, I hope you’re having a good day! I wanted to rec a fic, Breathing Firestorm by ladyshadowdrake. It’s 111k and great but barely has any love, which is unfair. You mentioned it in the last ‘in a mood for’ post but I think it should have more of a shoutout because it’s a lot of fun and I liked it a lot. Have a great day ♥️  [Oh!  I was subscribed to this one and saw it had been recently finished.  It’s def. on my list!]

Breathing Firestorm

by ladyshadowdrake (M, 111k, wangxian)

Summary:  After years of a mad quest, Wen Ruohan is finally given proof of a powerful creature living among mortals. He is delighted to find that it truly believes itself to be only a boy named “Wei Wuxian.”

While Wen Ruohan tries to unlock Wei Wuxian’s secret, the sects unite against him. If he can achieve his goal before they arrive, even the combined might of the cultivation world would not be enough to humble him. Meanwhile, Lan Wangji dreams of Wei Wuxian in the Cold Pond Cave, and works tirelessly to rescue him from Wen Ruohan’s clutches. No one is prepared for what awaits the allied sects in Nightless City at the conclusion of the war, and it very well might mean the end of the world as they know it.

~*~

Hi Mojo, firstly thank you for all the hard work you put into running this blog, I’ve found so many fics that I probably would have never come across if it wasn’t for your fic finders posts and your personal review posts.  [Aw, thank you!]

I don’t know if you’ve read this fic before or if it’s been mentioned before on your blog (I’ve done a quick search of your blog and couldn’t see it, so if I’ve missed it I apologise!) but if you’ve got a fic rec post coming up, I would suggest “The shapes a bright container can contain” by litbynosun.

It’s a case fic about 16k words long and set after canon. Whilst it’s not the main focus of the story it does delve slightly into chronic illness of wwx (the ailments of mxy’s body) and lwj (his continuous treatment of his scars) which might cover a few requests in the IITMF posts in future.

Thanks again for all the hard work you do! ~ @dulachodladh

the shapes a bright container can contain

by litbynosun

M, 17k, wangxian

Summary:  "Lan Zhan, look at this," Wei Wuxian calls. "They don't have organs, but they're all… fuzzy."

He gently strokes the corpse's arm -- it's covered in soft, pigmentless downy hair, like a rabbit. Lan Wangji crouches next to him and nods. "Lanugo," he says. Wei Wuxian raises one eyebrow. "They were malnourished for quite a while before death," Lan Wangji elaborates. Wei Wuxian scans the bodies again. Indeed, they both have sunken cheeks, and their abdomens are empty of both organs and fat padding. “That’s a question,” he says. “Did they starve to death, and have their bodies desecrated after they were already deceased? Or were they murdered, and simply starving at the same time?” "We should stay," Lan Wangji tells him. This is not an answer to his question. It is an offer to search for answers.

Or: Wei Wuxian and his family solve a ghost haunting. Wei Wuxain's old enemy, societal injustice, rears its head again.

[seilune]

Blood for Blood

The <Duskwatch Saberguard>, along with Casimir LeCheval and Ambassador Seilune Astrande, delved into the fel corrupted barrow dens of Jaedenar to rescue Nouvel Auburge LeCheval, who had been held captive for the past few months. 

But the young librarian was not the first person to bear witness to the horrors that lie deep within these caverns. A year prior, Seilune and Loviattar had found themselves victims of the same villainous group led by a felborne named Dvoraak, who had preyed upon them during their time within the agency. Returning to this place was undoubtedly difficult for the two of them and Adheles, who had been part of the original rescue team, and traumatic feelings and memories resurfaced, particularly for the diplomat. Now in charge of and associated with new organizations, evil has continued to follow them and threaten to destroy those they hold dear.

Tensions continued to rise as the group delved deeper into the dens, stumbling upon a chamber littered with cages and a single sarcophagus. As each of the elves peered into the cages in hopes of finding the lost Nouvel, they were either met with a captured Kaldorei from a group of Ashenvale sentinels or with something much more sinister.

Demonic shades lunged out from two of the cages, only seen by Seilune and Ladrova who each cried out in horror. They were convinced that they saw them possess the bodies of their allies, leaving the others puzzled as to what trickery was afoot. Soon, the others found themselves spellbound. But rather than become manic and afraid, they quickly turned on each other. Arguments broke out, pitting the elves against each other that quickly became violent. Weapons were drawn, spells were thrown, and hurtful words were exchanged. Ardelle, Leyloria, and Korlith tried desperately to rouse the others back to their senses, but it was to no avail. But with a thunderous crash from Loviattar, the effect wore off and left everyone alone drowning in immense guilt for the things they did and said.

As the group continued their descent, following winding staircases and crossing narrow bridges, they entered a room that was all too familiar to Loviattar, Seilune, and Adheles. It was a dungeon, the same one where Seilune was subjected to psychological and physical torture. The same one where Loviattar had lost her life. Standing before them among the stench of death and decay was Nouvel. They acted peculiar, speaking in a fashion that was atypical of them, and the others wondered if it truly was the Nouvel they all knew and loved. When Loviattar attempted to speak to Nouvel and rouse them to their senses, she was met with hostility from both of the LeCheval siblings in the form of sneers and sorcery. A fiery bolt left the warlock’s hand and streaked through the darkness, crashing into the sentinel and sending her flying backwards and leaving her unconscious. Seilune rushed over to tend to her friend, worried that history might be repeating itself. But as she did, a dark presence made itself known...

The sound of jingling chains echoed throughout the chamber and a dark mist slithered across the floor, dispersing to reveal a monstrosity. What was once a Shal’dorei man was now a felborne, his body altered with chains that could be manipulated at his command. With their lives threatened, the Saberguard and friends moved to thwart their enemy as he advanced. A flurry of chains lashed out at the elves, leaving only few unscathed from the heavy onslaught. But even as their bodies were battered and bruised, their determination never wavered. Attack after attack and spell after spell was launched towards the felborne, slicing into the empty spaces between the coiled chains that were wrapped around his body. Through the elves’ relentless courage and bravery, the felborne met his demise. Now this place would serve as his tomb, sealed with the terrible memories of what had happened there and the stench of his rotting corpse.

With their threat now put to rest and with everyone relatively unscathed, they were finally able to breath a sigh of relief and rejoice in the safe return of Nouvel. Tender moments were shared with them, particularly between them and their sister, Casimir, who had been restlessly searching for her lost sibling. But while the others reveled in their victory, Adheles and Seilune tended to Loviattar who, aside from faint singing, was alive and well. 

Well...sort of. 

The three of them recalled the last time they were there and the tragedy that had fallen upon them. Seilune found solace in knowing history had not repeated itself, with nobody having met the same ill fate as Loviattar had, but Adheles reminded her that more of Dvoraak’s minions were out there and that this was just the beginning.

As the others prepared to leave, Seilune excused herself for a moment. She approached the block where she, Director Harleena, and Silan Reaux were chained up together a year prior, slipping into a private vigil. Dried pools of blood stained the ground, serving as the only reminders of the hell that had transpired. And with the Director missing and Silan recently deceased, they were all that remained of two people Seilune had held most dear. After several moments, she conjured two, glowing bouquets of leyblossoms and placed one at two of the pools of blood. “Quel’vala thonos,” she murmured, bowing her head. “We didn’t yield.”

Once Seilune had finished paying her respects, she, Loviattar, and Adheles shared a warm embrace, thanking the stars above that they had each other. Through the good times and the bad, the three of them had been at each other’s side, and this time had been no different. The painful memories that had accumulated over the past year would never leave them, but it was because of them that they had made it this far. Loviattar reminded them that nothing is truly lost if it kept within the heart, and those words comforted Seilune and Adheles as they remembered the people they had lost. With newfound strength to face whatever horrors await them, the three elves departed Jaedenar and rendezvoused with the others at Ladrova’s vessel, promising never to tell a soul about Loviattar’s moment of tenderness.

@duskwatch-saberguard @sentinel-lovi @adheles @casimir-lecheval @nouvel-auberge @ms-mary-macky @leyloria-falanore @shalandrassil

[butterflyinthewell]

Autistic people and grief after a death.

Uncomfortable subject, but an important one. Especially if the death is someone who was integral to an autistic person’s routine.

The autistic person is not being selfish or uncaring if they ask “but who will drive me to school now?”

Their routine has undergone a permanent disruption, made worse if the death was sudden and unexpected. They’re trying to look for something, anything they can predict or make sense of in all the chaos of loss.

Never assume the autistic person isn’t grieving or doesn’t care. Asking about routines or “who will...?” is an act of self-preservation. Getting all mad at them only serves to make them feel worse and more alienated and may convince them that their feelings don’t matter.

If you don’t know the answer, don’t get snippy. Just say something like “I’m sorry, I don’t know right now, but I’ll find out as soon as possible and let you know.”

Don’t be surprised if they perseverate and keep asking about “who will...?” because they may be looking for reassurance that you’re working on it like you promised. (I do this a lot, personally. I know it’s annoying, but the need to ask is compulsive.) This is where you have to be really patient and remind them that you’ll let them know. Then follow through!

But please understand that death is just as devastating for autistic people as it is for neurotypical people, and we may manifest grief differently.

Sometimes I impulsively tell funny stories about someone who recently passed away. I want to help other people think of them or remember them in a funny circumstance, but sometimes it upsets them instead. That isn’t because I don’t care, I just tried to share and it didn’t work.

Grief may also manifest as more behavior outbursts like meltdowns, wandering, losing speech or changes in cognition. There may be changes in appetite and sleeping habits, too, which may exacerbate behavior issues. This is especially true for nonverbal autistic people who can’t make their communications understood-- so don’t hold them to their usual standards of behavior while they’re grieving. 

Expect outbursts and crying and even a lot of avoidance behavior if you’re taking them somewhere that painfully reminds them of the deceased.

It’s also entirely possible for an autistic person to show no outward reaction at all, yet be grieving deeply inside. They may grieve more over someone integral to their routine than someone who wasn’t because of the added stress caused by the change; there is a bit of grief that part of a routine is lost forever and that needs to be respected too.

All these things related to grief can happen over the loss of a pet, too. It’s never “just a / an (animal)” and don’t say that even if that’s how you feel about it.

Expect there to be strong reactions on anniversary dates if the autistic person remembers those. They may react as if the person just died all over again, and they may relive it-- especially if they witnessed the death. Be there for them and be sympathetic. “I miss them, too. I’m sorry.”

(December 17 is the hardest day of the year for me after having my dog unexpectedly euthanized in 2012. It was a month of literal hell trying to find out what was wrong and it turned out to be heart failure that manifested in such an atypical way that it was too late to save him by the time it was figured out. It was very traumatic for me. My behavior tanks so bad on December 17 every year and I have to blacklist / avoid dogs at all costs to avoid meltdowns.)

Sometimes behavior is rooted in very strong emotion. If you wouldn’t expect a neurotypical child to be on perfect behavior after someone they love died, don’t turn around and expect that out of an autistic child. Don’t demand an autistic child show grief “appropriately” because it shows different in literally every human being. Some of us get quiet, others cry loud, others withdraw and still more want to talk about the deceased or look at pictures of them. 

That’s what it means to be a person.

Respect that autistic people may grieve differently than a neurotypical, and give us a break, okay?

[maryxglz]

The only indication that this is where the hottest ticket of this year, for one of the most exclusive theatre events is happening, is a modest sheet of A4 paper hung on the glass-fronted building. It reads: “HAMLET. Doors open one hour before the performance.”

No posters, no production photos, nothing else.

There’s no need: the 3-week run of Hamlet with Tom Hiddleston in the title role and directed by Kenneth Branagh, staged to raise funds for a new-build RADA theatre, is sold out.

Ever since opening night the press has clamoured for the production to be streamed live in cinemas so that a wider audience can see it. There are no plans to do so, and this adds to the tingle of privilege and excitement one feels walking into the tiny horse-shoe shaped auditorium that seats a mere 160,  knowing that you are one of the lucky few to bag a ticket. Even at £95 a throw.

This excitement at being at an exclusive super-star event is enhanced by the sheer physical closeness to the actors. If I reached out my hand, I could touch them. But from the moment the play starts, the actors touch me, emotionally. Hiddleston is magnificent: his range stunning. The excellent, diverse ensemble cast shines and Branagh’s direction throws fresh light on the emotional complexities of the play.

Two particular aspects of the production deepened my understanding of the dramatic possibilities of the play. The first was the emotional vulnerability Hiddleston brought to the role of Hamlet.

As the lights come up Hamlet sits centre stage at a small piano and tentatively picks out a half-remembered bluesy tune of such melancholy sweetness that it feels as if he hesitates to play the notes for fear they will evoke too much unbearable pain. Quietly mellifluous, he half-sings, half-speaks the slow, grief-filled words as they come to him, as if from far away

And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead; Go to thy deathbed; He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll. He is gone, he is gone.

When he sings these last words his warm voice thins and cracks and tears wet his cheeks – and we keenly feel his fragility, his loneliness, his vulnerability. Shakespeare didn’t write this scene – he has us meet Hamlet for the first time in a scene characterized by brittle hostility – and I was struck by the boldness of beginning the play with what appeared to be entirely new material. But the feelings with which Tom Hiddleston imbues this song creates in the audience an empathic alignment with Hamlet’s state of mind, and this forms a bedrock of understanding that informs all that follows. When he is spiky or enraged, vengeful or cruel, we know the emotional devastation that underlies it.

I felt deeply affected as Hiddleston deftly moved through changing states of mind. When he meets Polonius he’s reading Matt Haig’s brilliant Reasons to Stay Alive, the book that like no other shows the complex thought-patterns and fluctuating mindsets that are ongoing underneath the dull exterior of depression, whilst also reminding us of the possibility of recovery. Indeed, when Hamlet engages with death beside Yorick’s graveside, he comes to life. He bounces delightfully off Ansu Kabia’s light comedic touch as the Gravedigger.

The second revelation was the genesis of Ophelia’s madness in her relationship with her father Polonius. New light was thrown on Ophelia’s character for me, not only through Branagh’s incisive direction, but also Sean Foley’s brilliant work as the oily, obsequious Polonius. The verbose character loves the sound of his own voice and has often become tedious to watch for that very reason. But Foley finds the humour in the role and makes us love to loathe him. Importantly, the insights that this production provides result from the way Foley’s Polonius engages with his children. I want to expand on that a little.

Ophelia’s brother Laertes’ injunctions as to how his sister should comport herself in his absence are rife with florid sexual references and double-entendre-laden warnings, whilst he himself tucks away a packet of condoms to show her what he will be up to whilst away. Then Polonius arrives to bid his son farewell – and presses a large carton of condoms into Laertes’ hands, in a way that demonstrates parental sexual intrusiveness. Polonius too talks to Ophelia in queasily intrusive sexual overtones.

When Ophelia comes to her father for comfort after a shocking encounter with the grief-stricken, anxious Hamlet, Polonius offers no containment to her, but rather amplifies her confusion and distress by insisting that the prince was expressing “the very ecstasy of love”. Rather than recognize that Hamlet’s grief over his recently deceased father troubles him, Polonius convinces Ophelia that she is the cause of the madness: by rejecting his love. Thus he imprints on her that her sexuality is damaging.

He does not comfort her – in fact,  even as she sits distraught on the ground, he neglects her state of mind entirely and excitedly rushes to the King and Queen to tell them all about his new, titillating discovery. In Shakespeare’s original version, he goes alone, but Branagh has Polonius take his daughter with him. The shame and embarrassment to the poor girl to hear her father read Hamlet’s love letters out loud is palpable and we see her begin to fragment. This worsens as the royal couple gratefully accept Polonius’s reasoning that Ophelia’s sexual appeal is to blame for Hamlet’s “hot love” (her father’s lasciviously uttered phrase sees Ophelia cringe); that she is the cause for his descent “into a sadness, then into a fast, thence to a watch, thence into a weakness, thence to a lightness, and, by this declension, into the madness wherein now he raves.”

Polonius’ description of Hamlet’s decline serves as a template for Ophelia’s own descent into madness later on, but this particular scene reminded me powerfully of Freud’s Dora: as in her case, here too, parents and long-standing adult friends of the family blatantly connive to use and abuse a fragile teenage girl as currency in maneuvers that are designed to paper over the cracks in the adults’ own complex and unscrupulous sexual relationships.

Kathryn Wilder’s Ophelia’s slight, waif-like frame betrays how little she wishes to ‘take in’, and one can easily see why. Her father’s thoughts turn by default to her sexual collateral, and he is persistently sexually intrusive. This is combined with emotional neglect of her when she is disturbed: he walks away from her and disregards her when she is in distress. He meets her with misrecognition of her lived experience, and tells her that her perceptions are incorrect, whereas it is actually he who consistently misreads the emotional temperature. And he is manipulative: when he, Claudius and Gertrude plot to lay a trap for Hamlet, with Ophelia as bait, he makes her complicit by having her present, and therefore guilty – yet at the same time it renders her even more powerless.

The innocent and loving intimacy that exists between Hamlet and Ophelia appears to be the only affectionate relationship in her life, and one which is firmly rooted in genuinely felt reality. When Hamlet turns against her, that too is lost. When he roughly rejects her, he too misrecognises her intentions, her very essence; and he too says one thing when he feels another. This misrecognition is what undoes her.

In previous stagings, Ophelia seems to ‘just go mad’, and her madness seems inexplicably sexual in its origins and utterances. When she is mad, she sings of flowers and these are often played as sexual metaphors. But this production highlights a potential other, deeper cause. When she sings, she sings the very song that Hamlet started with. It caught my breath when I recognized the words, and it sparked my imagination. Perhaps she’d heard him sing this sad song, once? Perhaps they’d sung the song together? It reminded us, the audience, of their lifelong friendship with each other; it links her to him in a way that shifts our thoughts to her distant history. The link to the song amplifies that both youngsters lost not only a father but also each other: their friendship, their comfortable closeness, and their hopes of love.

The elements that Branagh and Foley have highlighted in Polonius’ way of being with his child, shed light on why Ophelia’s internal world would have been so fragile, so as to fragment in the way it does. It is the first time I have noticed the profundity of this constellation.

The play features many different ways of relating, notably between Hamlet and his friends, who in this production are all women. Rosacrantz and Guildastern convey the immediacy of the camaraderie between fellow students, which warms the cockles of the heart but quickly unravels in adversity. His friendship with Horatia on the other hand strengthens as time goes on: she has the capacity to listen, to recognize, and above all, to bear his experiences, unfazed. This listening relationship, in which someone can digest what you divulge to them, and think about them with you, is one of the most valuable relationships in life.

I feel privileged to have been at this performance, not because the tickets were like gold dust but for the sheer joy of being present at such a thoughtful creative process. The lack of press and the small scale of the place make for a safe space in which the players can explore the story and the feelings that arise from it. The absence of ego and of external pressures provides a sense of  freedom and breathing space.

I was deeply moved by Hiddleston’s Hamlet. Branagh’s direction has thrown new light on the characters’ storylines by enriching the chains of association, and there are stand-out performances by the whole ensemble

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Double Review: The Mummy 1999/The Mummy Returns

Since I saw The Mummy recently, I decided to look at the last reimagining of the classic monster movies, The Mummy (The Brendan Fraser one). These ones are pretty well-remembered and well-liked, and there’s a good reason for that; they’re fun, pulpy Indiana Jones-style adventure movies with plenty of jokes, action, and excitement. As someone who loves pulpy Indiana Jones-style adventure movies, these definitely appeal to me. Still, as much as nostalgia has made these films into memorable modern classics, they definitely have some problems that I feel nostalgia has blinded people too. And so, here today, I have come to talk about The Mummy and its sequel, The Mummy Returns.

What is this series bringing to the table? The series begins in the 1920s, where archaologist Evelyn Carnahan and her brother team together with former legionnaire Rick O’Connell to find the lost City of the Dead: Hamunaptra. Upon finding the city, they inadvertently unleash an ancient evil known as Imhotep, a man who was cursed with immortality and mummified for his blasphemous acts in ancient times. Over the span of the first film, they work to defeat him before he can use Evelyn as the vessel to resurrect his long-dead lover; in the sequel, they must stop him from fighting and killing the Scorpion King, another ancient being who made a deal with Anubis and commanded his armies. If Imohtep can kill him, he will gain control over the most powerful army in the world.

The first film, The Mummy, is a very strong if somewhat cheesy film. It’s got the Indiana Jones vibe down pat, with good comedy combined with pulpy action and plenty of thrills and likable protagonists, including our lovable rogue Rick, who is likely Brendan Fraser’s strongest performance ever (with apologies to George of the Jungle). The antagonists too are entertaining; cowardly jackass Beni is hilariously pathetic and pitiful, and big bad Imohtep is a surprisingly tragic and complex villain for this kind of movie. Arnold Vosloo’s performance definitely helps cement him as one of the coolest cinematic villains ever, and the early CGI only serves to enhance his creepiness with how unnatural and corroded he looks. Then we have the incredibly handsome and incredibly badass Ardeth Bay, who manages to take on a room full of mummies alone and survive somehow. He was originally slated to die, but he was so cool the director changed his mind.

The sets look pretty good… the CGI, though… It’s kind of easy to be forgiving since this movie came out in 1999, but then you remember that Terminator 2 and Jurassic Park exist and you just kind of sigh and shake your head. Still, as fake as some of the effects look, the movie is still impressive as a spectacle, and the movie has good pacing so you’re having far too much fun to care about that. That’s another shocker; this film is paced quite well, with about an hour of solid buildup before Imohtep rises from the grave. It’s a very slow and suspenseful build to his release, which makes it all the cooler.

You know what isn’t cool, though? How inaccurate a lot of this film is. From showing the Pyramids of Giza and the Sphinx near Thebes in the opening to the fact Hamunaptra is actually a real place in India to the ignorance of the true final plague of Egypt (which is the death of all firstborn sons of Egypt, not the plague of boils), there are a lot of geographical, mythological, and historical fuck ups in this movie. The plague thing is actually the biggest ones, since it was the Hebrew god who sent the plagues upon Egypt, making it very strange that a cursed Egyptian man would be using them. Thankfully the movie runs so much on coolness and charm that it’s easy to let this slide, but still. With such a rich mythology and country before you, there’s really no need to pull shit out of your ass like this.

Still, as far as cheesy action adventure films go, this one is very solid, and I’d rank it alongside films like the Indiana Jones movies and National Treasure in terms of enjoyable, pulpy, archaeological fun. Despite its flaws, it’s very easy to see why The Mummy is so well-loved these days.

Next we have The Mummy Returns, and boy is this one stuffed sequel! I’d compare it to Dead Man’s Chest in terms of how bloated and over-the-top it is, and I mostly mean that in a good way. This is a pretty fun, action-packed film, though this does come at the cost of a few things, most notably pacing. Instead of a slow buildup to the big plot, we get tossed into action almost right off the bat, though we at least get some warming up and reestablishment of the characters from the first film as well as an introduction to Rick and Evey’s young son. Yeah, that’s right, this one takes place in the FUTURE! …of 1933. Not too much time has passed since the first one. Anyway, the pacing isn’t so much a problem, as we already know most of these characters, allowing you to toss them into the situation and watch how they react and play off of each other. The problem with this action-packed fast-paced plot is that it ends up leading to a lot of spectacle, but not ones you’d like to see. Imohtep doesn’t do nearly as much as the first movie, and in fact one of his biggest scenes – in which he creates a wall of water to crush the heroes – is a rehash of the sandstorm scene of the first film. And when we finally get to the thing the movie has been building up to – an awesome showdown between Imohtep and his god-like powers and the equally powerful half-man half-arachnid Scorpion King – Imohtep is stripped of all power and becomes a mortal. This is such an absolutely wasted opportunity that it kind of stings, even if the final confrontation has some cool moments mixed in with some absolutely cheesy ones.

Since we’re on the subject of cheesiness and the final battle, let’s talk about the Scorpion King. He appears twice in the film: once during the prologue, where he is played by Dwayne Johnson in his big breakthrough into film. He’s pretty cool here, badass too… but this apparently conflicts with his heroic portrayal in The Scorpion King spinoff movie, where he is a traditionally heroic character. This would be a problem I’d discuss normally, but I only bring it up to point out that Word of God is that this is merely a descendant of Mathayus (which is the heroic Scorpion King’s name). So yeah, no problem there. The REAL problem comes from the fact this cool character played by a cool actor who got huge billing is really only in this one short prologue at the beginning and gets five minutes of screentime, and that may be being generous. But he appears in the final battle right? Yes and no. While a monstrous scorpion/human hybrid that looks like Dwayne Johnson appears, it is not the man himself, but a creation of the most unsettling, uncomfortably real early 2000s CGI you will ever see. The Scorpion King of the finale is an absolutely ridiculous nosedive into the uncanny valley, and squanders the big name they got. This final battle is just one disappointment after another, huh?

In a lot of ways, this film reminds me of A Nightmare on Elm Street 4, in that it seems more concerned in being a special effects spectacle than being a great sequel. To its credit, though, despite definitely being a spectacle film, it’s actually still pretty good. The armies of Anubis especially are a badass sight to behold, and it’s a shame they aren’t around much either. There’s also the sinking of the Scorpion King’s oasis at the end, which is like the ending of Jumanji when everything is sucked back into the board on a grander scale (pretty amusing, since the temple was that of Johnson’s character, and he is now starring in a Jumanji continuation). Overall, it’s pretty good spectacle, even if the special effects are not quite as impressive as the first film’s to the point of being distracting at times; again, this is most prominent with the entire final battle.

But speaking of Anubis… hoo boy. The first film had some minor mythological miscalculations, but THIS movie just straight fucked mythology up the ass. And they did it from the very opening of the movie! The problems begin with the concept of selling your soul to Anubis. Let me walk you through the reasons why this entire plot is bullshit from the get-go:

1. The entire concept of selling your soul is a Christian folklore concept. No, not even a main Christian concept; Satan is not the ruler of the damned in the Bible.

2. All deceased are destined to meet Anubis, so the Scorpion King selling his soul is just nonsensical for Anubis to accept, because he’d get the Scorpion King’s soul regardless of whether he lived or died. And the Scorpion King was making this deal to avoid death. There’s a huge conflict of interests here.

3. The biggest problem is this: Anubis is not an evil god. Anubis in this movie is very much the same as every depiction of Hades in every movie about Greek mythology: because he is dark and rules over the dead in a way, clearly he’s evil! In reality, Anubis is one of the good gods; a true god of evil in Egyptian mythology would be Set, or even the serpent Apophis. In fact, criticize The Mummy of 2017 all you want, but it was actually mythologically accurate in that regard, as Ahmanet in that movie makes a deal with Set to overthrow the pharaoh. It’s actually a much more sensible deal, it makes more sense mythologically, and Set is actually getting some personal gratification there as he himself overthrew and usurped his brother Osiris.

So yes, the entire basis for this plot is mythologically bullshit. Maybe this all would be easy to accept like some examples of Hades like the ones in Disney’s Hercules and Kid Icarus: Uprising if Anubis actually showed up and had some sort of screen presence, but no, he’s just a vague shadow hanging over the movie who never once appears. This was such an easily solvable problem, I’m not sure why they didn’t have him show up if only for one scene.

Still, I can’t say the movie is totally bad or unenjoyable or anything. It’s fun and solid action, and while Imohtep is not used as well as the first, by the film’s end you’ll feel really bad for him if you didn’t already. This film cements him as a tragic villain, and if for nothing else I enjoy it for that. If I’d say one other thing was truly great, it’s Brendan Fraser’s acting during Evelyn’s temporary death scene, a showcase of his often underutilized acting chops.

All things considered, when it comes right down to it, the first movie is definitely the better film. It has more solid pacing, better humor, Imohtep at his best, and a very solid story. Still, the second film is a fun ride, and not really bad so much as a bit overstuffed with special effects and really weird choices. Still, I definitely recommend both films heartily, as they are both fun fantasy adventures in the vein of the Indiana Jones films, and the world definitely needs more movies like that.

Shame there were never any sequels to this. Oh sure, there was the Scorpion King spinoff prequel film, but that’s it. They never made a third one. What a sad state of affairs that is. So much potential for more stories. But can you imagine making a third film without Oded Fehr. Arnold Vosloo, or Rachel Weisz, and just had really shitty CGI and a horribly underutilized villain? That would suck, right? I’m glad they never did that.

[kp-reading-blog]

One Summer Day: A Short Story by LG O'Connor

One Summer Day is a prequel novelette to L.G. O'Connor's novel Shelter My Heart. It serves as a standalone offering to introduce new readers to the world of her Kindle Press Book. Check it out and learn more about the romantic world of Shelter My Heart!

You can also check out the feature of her book and find out more about characters of that world and pick up your copy!

Author's Note

Meet Jenny and Devon ten months before their story begins in Shelter My Heart. This short prequel gives you a glimpse into three of my favorite characters: Jenny, Devon, and his twin, Lettie. These characters have flaws, doubts, and in some cases, shattered dreams, but they also have hope and determination. This story, like all of the stories in the Caught Up in Love series, has a central theme of love, loyalty, and the meaning of family. Welcome to my Kindle Press world!

About One Summer Day

Recently dumped by her long-time boyfriend and still looking for her first job out of college, Jenny is grieving the recent loss of a family member, the fourth in six years. Her aunt thinks their family is plagued by death, Jenny doesn’t disagree. She only wishes she wasn’t partially to blame for the first one.

In remission for the last twelve months, Devon won a battle for his life to sacrifice what’s left of it to protect his family. Groomed since birth to step into his deceased father’s shoes as CEO of the family’s multi-billion-dollar conglomerate when he turns twenty-five, Devon has fourteen months left to prepare with the help of his twin sister Lettie…if he lives that long.

She's haunted by nightmares of the past.

He's bound to a future he can't escape.

All they want to do is forget for One Summer Day.

One Summer Day

Chapter 1

Jenny

“THEY’RE BACK.” I slide deeper into the plush couch across the desk from my therapist, Dr. Graham, inside her sleek, modern office. Like an addict admitting a slip, I whisper, “The nightmares…they’re back.”

Not that shocking, since I lost someone else I love two weeks ago. The perfect trigger for unhinging my coping mechanisms and opening the Vault of Black Doom to prey on my grief and drag back me into its macabre maw.

My aunt Jill thinks our family is cursed by the specter of death. Maybe. Someone close to me has died every two years since I was sixteen, Great-Aunt Vee makes the fourth. Right on time. I’m twenty-two.

The guilt I carry over the first death, my friend Brittany, and knowing I’m partially to blame, is what brought me to Dr. Graham six years ago. That, and the near catatonic state I was in after finding her body. Nightmares and other PTSD-like symptoms have plagued me on and off ever since, along with an unnatural fear of the people I love dying. After Brittany, the other deaths felt like punishment.

So here I am, on the heels of my great-aunt’s memorial service. A total mess. Again.

Unlike before, someone new haunts my dreams. A guy I’ve never met. His face remains out of view, though I’ve seen the back of his sandy-blond head and a sliver of his profile. Not enough to pick him out in a crowd.

Dr. Graham, a slender and attractive woman in her late thirties, lifts a perfectly shaped brow and scribbles a note. “The same dream as before?”

I chew my lip and shake my head. “No…I don’t know this person, and I didn’t see his eyes.”

That’s the other thing that’s different. I never see his body. I wish I could say the same about all the others.

I shiver and remember the morning I found Brittany. Cool mist hanging in the early morning air at the campsite just past sunrise. Brittany, lips parted, lying in her sleeping bag. Her sightless eyes wearing the filmy, white calling card of Death. My screams…

It’s a memory I can’t expunge from my brain no matter how hard I try. In my nightmares, the dead eyes are always there, it’s only the person who changes.

My hands tremble with remembered panic as I run them over my shorts. “I was trapped on a plane, far away. They kept us on the tarmac and wouldn’t let us take off. I couldn’t save him.” Phantom pain, raw and bottomless, assaults me and raises a lump in my throat when I think of failing him over and over, every night for a week. My lip quivers and I brush away an escaping tear. “This hurts more than the others. I don’t know why.”

There’s an odd intimacy between me and the faceless stranger. Something important is at stake. Whatever it is, his survival hinges on me. And I fail him. Every. Night. Just like Brittany.

Dr. Graham gentles her voice and relaxes the hold on her pen, tapping it on her notepad. “Given the plane, perhaps this new man is a metaphor for Russ’s departure. How do you feel now that he’s been gone a few weeks?”

Simmering anger replaces any weepiness over the blond guy and a heavy scowl settles over my lips.

Russ. His name sits silently on my tongue like a lead weight. He’d been my boyfriend since high school, and my ex-boyfriend ever since he accepted a job in California—three thousand miles from Summit, New Jersey—without me. We’d graduated in May from NYU. His tech degree scored him an offer in July at a start-up in Silicon Valley, while my communications degree… Well, let’s just say I’m still waitressing and living off tips.

Abandoned. That’s how I feel.

My jaw tics. “How am I supposed to feel?” I pick at my chipped Posey Pink polish, my new favorite color until it became a reminder of the night Russ and I broke up.

Bastard. I’m not even close to being over it.

I try to stifle a replay of our beach weekend at the Jersey shore almost a month before Great-Aunt Vee died. I lose…

****

I hold up my champagne flute. An excited flush fills my cheeks as I smile, ready to celebrate my upcoming job interview at a prestigious media company in New York City. “To our bright future?”

Instead of picking up his glass, Russ flinches and takes my hand across the candlelit table. He’s been distracted ever since we arrived at the bed and breakfast this afternoon. Even our pre-dinner lovemaking fell flat.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, reaching the limit of my patience and trying to ignore the uncomfortable buzz traveling over my skin.

The flickering candlelight dances over his dark curls and sends shadows across his face. The set of his jaw and the distant look in his swoon-worthy green eyes puts me on edge.

“I have something to tell you,” he whispers, and then kisses the back of my hand before releasing it.

I sit up straighter and a shiver travels down my bare back. “What is it?”

Taking a deep breath, he lowers his gaze to the table. “I got a job offer from a company called Nanotekx.”

I lean into my chair and frown. “When was this?” And why didn’t I know about the interview?

His face flushes a light pink. “Recently…”

My instincts fire, sending my stomach into free fall. Liar.

My brain rapidly snaps the puzzle together, and the distance between us widens into a cavernous gorge. My voice turns hollow. “Where are they located?”

“Silicon Valley,” he whispers, still not looking at me.

My lips part as the last piece falls into place. “You’ve accepted,” I whisper back. An icy numbness settles in the center of my chest, knowing the answer to the next question before I ask. “And you’re going alone…”

“I’m sorry…,” he whispers, peeking up to meet my gaze. “This doesn’t mean… I just need to get established first…”

I can’t speak. I’ve lost the ability to form words. Yeah, a bright future, but not for us. For him. He plans to leave me behind.

At least he has the good sense to look regretful. “I love you, Jen. That hasn’t changed.”

Bile and the bitter taste of betrayal rises in my throat. I push back my chair and drop the napkin on the table. “Obviously, not enough,” I grit out. “I thought…”

Angry tears collect in my eyes and I brush them away. I thought we’d get an apartment, have some fun, and plan our future together.

“Please, Jen,” he whispers, his pleading eyes glitter a green that used to weaken my knees. “I’m not saying we should break-up, just see how things work out.” He reaches for my hand, but I snatch it out of reach.

“And how’s that supposed to work?” I snap. “I thought we were doing this together. What happened to that?”

He sighs, and his shoulders collapse forward. “My parents think I should go alone.”

I knew it. They always wanted him to find someone with more potential than me. Translation: someone from a wealthier family. It’s been a bone of contention in our relationship since day one.

“No,” I whisper. “Let’s not do that. You’ve made your choice, and it’s not me.”

Before I realize what I’ve done, I’m halfway across the dining room, taking whatever dignity I have left with me. I’m not going to waste any more of my life on someone who doesn’t have the strength to choose me.

“Wait! Jen…”

I don’t stop.

****

Dr. Graham gives me a pointed look and taps a finger to her lips. “Doesn’t this separation give you an opportunity to test your love?”

I grimace. “How do you figure that?”

She tents her hands and leans towards me. “Do you miss him?”

I shake my head. “I’ve been too mad.”

“Maybe that’s your answer,” she says gently.

“What answer is that? That I’m not important? That I don’t matter?” I’m unable to hide my bitterness. “I gave him six years of my life, for what? So he could run off without me? I thought���I don’t know what I thought.” Whatever it was, he’s no longer in my nightmares. He’s no longer someone I’m afraid to lose because I’ve already lost him.

I study my nails and admit the truth. “He betrayed my trust, and I’m not sure I can ever forgive him for that.”

Dr. Graham smiles and asks, “So who’s the stranger?”

Great question. I run my hands over the gooseflesh suddenly covering my arms. “No clue…Whoever he is, he’s someone I’m afraid will die.”

Chapter 2

Devon

MY PAINTBRUSH hugs the canvas like a lover’s touch as I take refuge in creating whatever the hell it is I’m creating. Nothing about the painting felt right until I added her. Why my landscape needs a woman crouching at the water’s edge, I’ll never understand. But something about the way my brush sensuously caresses the curve of her neck sends my mind heading in a much different direction.

I lean back and soak in my monthly therapy assignment—to create a place of solace—and a smile creeps onto my lips.

My concentration breaks with a rubber band snapping and the sting of it hitting the back of my head.

“What the—?” I snarl, spinning on my stool in the light-filled studio to find James grinning like an idiot next to his easel. We’re the only two who showed up today. Not that I can blame everyone else. It’s a sunny Saturday in early September. According to some, it’s the perfect time for an end of summer holiday. Wish I had the time to take one, but with the little time I do have, I’d rather paint.

James wiggles his eyebrows and points to my canvas. “Dude, you want to go clubbing tonight? Looks like you need to get laid.”

I snort and give him a cocky grin. “Tempting, but I don’t need to go clubbing to get laid, man.”

Yeah, well, maybe I do, or one of those dating apps, but I’m not about to admit it. Besides, that would involve contact with a real woman, and right now, I have all I can handle keeping my own counsel to retain my goddamn sanity outside the sanctity of this studio. It’s my safe place. A place I can escape everyone else’s expectations and do what I love. Today, that’s painting a tranquil place I once visited in England’s Lake District.

Our painter’s loft is on the top floor of a ten-story, pre-war building near Mount Sinai Hospital on New York City’s Upper East Side. The studio occupies a corner unit with high windows on two sides. Just shy of nine hundred square feet, the space has twelve-foot ceilings, a kitchenette, bathroom, hang-out area with a sofa and two chairs, six work stations, and a storage room.

I share it with James and four of our cohorts as part of a hospital-sponsored experimental arts program. All of us are cancer survivors in varying stages of remission. My chemo ended a year ago. I’m in full remission, but I’m not out of the woods. Not by a long shot.

Chemo nearly destroyed my kidneys, putting a major crimp in my life. I’m getting by for now on diet, exercise, and meds. But that won’t last forever. Whatever happens, dialysis isn’t an option for reasons that aren’t medical.

Outside of here, obligations of gargantuan proportions lurk, ready to coil around my neck and throttle me to death. With the help of my twin sister Lettie, every second of my life is absorbed in learning all there is to know about Kingsbridge Industries.

As heir to my father’s global conglomerate, in eighteen months when I turn twenty-five, I will take over as CEO from the board that’s been running the show since my father died.

If I live that long.

If I don’t, we could lose everything. And I’m not only talking about money.

I hop off my stool and walk over to take a gander at James’s work. He’s got a hot nude going on that’s painted in black watercolor brush strokes of varying thickness. It’s good but borders on pornographic. I cock a brow and stare harder. I take that back, it is pornographic. Hidden within the folds of fabric pooled between her thighs is a rather large phallus.

“And you think I need to get laid?” I snort and give his shoulder a friendly shove. James, standing a few of inches taller than my six feet one, throws out a foot to keep his lanky frame from slipping off the stool. Like me, he’s done with chemo and has been N.E.D. (no evidence of disease) for the last twelve months.

Sweeping a piece of shaggy brown hair from his face, he shrugs and smiles broadly. “Never said I didn’t. Can’t think of a better place of solace than that. Just looking for a partner in crime.” He points at my canvas. “What’s with the chick by the lake?”

I rub my chin. “No clue. She just kind of popped into my head, so I added her.”

He gives my landscape a dubious eye. “Need something better than that to submit to the ArtExpo SOLO show next spring.” He’s been obsessed with that show since we were in treatment. Having hope and aspirations is a beautiful thing, especially when you’re sick. Even better when you’ll live long enough to make them happen.

I don’t want to come off like a conceited dick, so I don’t tell him about the body of work I have in storage and the art shows I exhibited at in England when I was still too young to realize I’d never be allowed to have my own dreams despite my talent.

I point at the hidden penis and smirk. “You should talk.”

The alarm on James’s cell phone chimes. “Crap.” He taps it, grabs a pill bottle, and heads to the kitchen area.

I lean against James’s station and glance at my picture, assessing it. Not my best work. My mystery girl is the only thing good about it. “Hmm. You’re right. It’s absolute rubbish.”

He chuckles and opens the refrigerator. “Your Briticisms kill me.”

“Yeah, well, see how you speak after spending your formative years in an English boarding school.” I mindlessly pass a hand through my hair and realize too late that I have paint on my fingers. I look behind me to find a discarded palette, and then glance in the mirror affixed above James’s work table on the wall. Multi-colored streaks cut a haphazard path through my light hair, which borders on sandy whereas Lettie’s is pure cornsilk. “Bollocks,” I mutter and look for a clean rag.

Behind the stainless steel door, James chuckles again, followed by pills rustling and the pop of a soft drink top. “Maybe you should go full-on James Bond and speak with a British accent. Girls love dudes with accents.” The door slams shut and he takes a long draught from his soda as I head to the small bathroom to check the supply cabinet.

“That could definitely help us in the getting-laid department,” he yells after me.

I roll my eyes and scrub at my head in front of the tarnished mirror. My efforts just make it worse. Dammit. “May I borrow your baby oil?” I yell back. Better choice than mineral spirits.

His muffled laughter filters through the wall. “What’s the matter? Can’t wait? Need a little tension relief?”

I stick my head out the doorway, glare at him, and point at the multi-colored streaks. “Hardly. Pull your mind out of the gutter. I need to get the paint off my hands then out of my hair.”

His brows shoot up and he takes the can from his lips. “Dude, you look like a peacock.”

I scowl. “Thanks.” Before I can do any more damage, my cell phone rings. James gives it a toss, and I catch it one-handed.

I eye the display. It’s my sister. “Hey, Lettie. What’s up?”

“Hey, Dev. When will you be ready to leave?”

I roll my neck and suppress the urge to snarl at her. “Why?” We have an unspoken agreement: I’m her willing slave for everything Kingsbridge twenty-four-by-seven, except for the time I carve out to be here.

“It’s a surprise,” she says too sweetly, tripping my alarms. Lettie may look underage and deceptively innocent, but looks are deceiving, and there’s nothing sweet about my sister. My condolences to anyone who underestimates her.

“I hate surprises.” Especially the Lettie variety, since her motives aren’t always apparent at first blush. Although we’re close and fiercely loyal to each other, she has no shame when it comes to manipulating the hell out of me to get what she wants.

“You’ll like this one.”

Doubtful. I glance at my watch. It’s half past three. “I’ll be home by six.”

“Wrong answer. A car will meet you downstairs in thirty minutes. Ta!” She hangs up. I grit my teeth and swear under my breath.

Classic freaking Lettie.

I text her. “I’m covered in paint. I need a shower and clothes.”

She texts back a crazy face emoji with a winking eye and tongue sticking out. “Have some faith, little brother.”

I roll my eyes at the reminder of our three-minute separation in pecking order. I text her a middle finger emoji and stomp back to my station to clean my brushes.

She texts two pink hearts followed by blond prince and princess emojis.

James holds out a plastic bottle of baby oil. “Leticia?”

“Who else could annoy me this much?” I retort, and wave off the Johnson & Johnson. Screw it. I’ll keep the Technicolor hair. If for no other reason than to annoy Lettie, because God knows, it’s not like I have any plans to get laid.

Chapter 3

Jenny

“HOW WAS the headshrinker?” Dad asks and chuckles at his own joke. He does that a lot, laughs at his own jokes. Whether they’re funny or not, I can’t help but smile. What can you expect from a guy who works with numbers all day? Like my mom, he’s in financial services.

As far as dads go, he’s the best. Just shy of six feet, he’s kind of geeky in an endearing way. Smart, bespectacled, and a little paunchy, he has a warm smile and the same blue eyes as me.

Oh, and he collects classic cars and has decent taste in music.

I belt myself into the passenger side of his ’75 Mustang GT, and mock groan. “Like my head’s three times larger than when I walked in, and it’s about to explode.”

Dad throws the car into reverse. “Sounds like you could use a little Magic Fountain to set you right. Do you have time before work?”

Ice cream for lunch? Sold.

I sit up straighter. “You bet.” I’m not due at the diner until two o’clock for a short shift. I’m filling in for one of the other waitresses until six. “Where’s Mom?”

“Your aunt Jillian asked her to meet with Raine to consult on an investment plan for his inheritance.”

That’s right. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own crazy town that I haven’t made time to check in on Raine. He lost his father the same week Aunt Vera died. Though rumor has it, his father was abusive and a total bastard. Still… Now that we’re finally friends after a rough start and my eventual apology, I need to reach out.

I’m ashamed to admit that when we first met, I accused him of only being interested in my aunt for her money. Who could blame me? He’s eighteen years younger and she’s, well, a rich and famous romance author. Yeah, not one of my finer moments. But we’re passed that now.

Dad parks and we join the end of the line at Magic Fountain. There’s always a line no matter what time you go. It’s an institution and has been around forever. Case in point, my mom used to go there when she was a teenager.

“Hey, hey, hey!” A girl a whole head shorter with blue-streaked hair tackles me into a hug.

“Hey, Crystal. What are you doing home?” I ask, smiling at the expected surprise. She moves from me to my father, “Hey, Jenster’s dad.” He chuckles and gives her a squeeze.

Voted “Most Outrageous” in high school, Crystal has always been a little out there. We used to work on set design together for all the school plays. She’s an artist now and lives in New York City on the Lower East Side. We both went to college in the city, so we’ve stayed in touch.

“Came home for my sister’s baby shower,” she says. “How’s Russell?”

I blow out a breath, shake my head, and gag on the words. “He broke up with me.” Okay, so maybe I broke up with him, but he’s the one who left. Jerk.

Crystal squints and give me a look like someone peed in her soup. “What’s wrong with that boy?” Then she lights up. “Come to the city with me tonight. We’ll go out and you can crash at my place. My friend’s band has a gig. It’ll be fun.” She nods vigorously and shakes my arm. The multi-hued blue streaks swishing over the blonde underneath. Then she looks at my dad. “She should come, right?”

Dad cocks his head and shrugs. “A change of scenery might be good for you. It’s been a rough couple of weeks.” Understatement. More like a rough summer.

Hmm. It’s been a while since Crystal and I spent time together…Why not?

“I won’t be able to leave until seven, will that work?”

Crystal high-fives me. “Perfecto!”

I shrug and wink at Dad. “You and Mom have the house to yourselves tonight…Go wild.”

He laughs and shakes his head as if there’s no chance of that ever happening.

“Here. Put this on.” Crystal thrusts a plastic hanger into my hand with a tiny black dress dangling off it.

I frown and give her a look like she’s gone mad. “In what universe do you expect me to fit into this?” I glance at the tag and roll my eyes. “A size four? It won’t even cover one of my thighs.”

Crystal runs an assessing eye over me, snatches the dress, and disappears back into the melee inside her closet. She squeals and comes out with another hanger and another black dress. “This should work. It’s from my fat days.”

My head jerks back. “You’ve never been fat.”

“Have so.” She breezes by and grabs a glittery top and skin tight shorts.

I fish out the tag. It’s a six. I discard the dress on Crystal’s queen-size bed, and plant my hands on my hips. “What’s wrong with what I brought?”

She stares heavenward. “Help me!” Then she looks at me like I’m dimwitted. “Duh. Jeans aren’t slutty enough.��

“I’m not trying to look slutty.”

Crystal blows out an exasperated breath. “After dedicating your whole dating life to Russell, you need to rustle up—” She giggles and snaps her fingers. “No pun intended—some new male attention, stat!”

I glower but she ignores me.

“It’s the only way to get that look of misery out of your eyes, Jenster. Face it, you’re hot. Men want you.” Then she puts the tip of a finger to her lips. “And at least one woman I know.” Then she shakes her head as if to clear it. “Never mind. My point is there were guys in high school that would’ve sacrificed small animals just to get a date with you. They prayed that you would dump Russell Montieth.”

Huh? “What are you talking about? And by the way, that’s disgusting. I’d never date anyone who would harm an animal.”

She rolls her eyes and tosses herself, back first, onto the bed. “That’s not the point. It’s only a metaphor. Real conversation, ‘Oh, Crystal, do you think Jenny Lynch will ever break up with that dick Montieth?’”

I stare at her, stunned, and then let out a nervous laugh. “Who said that?”

She purses her lips, lifts onto her elbows, and raises a brow. “Hint: nickname Delish.”

My jaw drops. “Michael Delicious Dawson.” Captain of the varsity soccer team. Sweet. Smart. Gorgeous. Taken.

A maniacal smile stretches over her lips and she tosses me the dress. “He’s coming tonight.”

“Wait, but what about—”

She waves me off. “Old news. They broke up ages ago. He’s ripe for the pickin’.”

Is that so?

I chew my lip and eye the dress. The top part won’t be a problem. God knows most of what I have upstairs is the clever disguise of Victoria’s Secret pushup technology. My curvy hips are another story.

There’s only one way to find out. My shoulders slump and I grab the scrap of black fabric.

We totter into the small bar on Avenue A at ten o’clock. I say “we,” but I mean “me.” I’m the only one in heels. Crystal has on long socks that reach her knees and a pair of bedazzled Converse high tops.

We pay a cover charge on the way in. Half-full, the space is dark and casual, on the industrial side with a black-painted ceiling and aluminum bar stools. Other than a long bar and twelve tables, there’s not much else except a stage on the far wall. From the looks of the place, I’m woefully overdressed. Or underdressed, depending on how I look at it. I’ve already spent the better part of the walk over from Crystal’s apartment tugging at my hem to keep the dress from flashing my underwear.

Chrystal propels me up to the stage, where four guys are hanging out. One of them is tuning a guitar.

“Hey, guys!” Crystal greets each of the band members with a hug, and then turns to introduce me. “This is my friend, Jen.”

I get a combination of waves and smiles. A guy with shaggy dark hair pairs an appreciative glance with his smile. My cheeks flush and I’m suddenly wishing my dress was a few inches longer.

Shaggy Hair makes his way over. Dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a casual button-down that’s open and rolled up sleeves to expose his tattooed forearms, he’s on the skinny side, but not half bad.

“Hi, I’m Rick.” He gaze lingers on my lips as he tips his head toward the bar. “Buy you a drink before our first set?”

Crystal steps in between us and pokes Rick in the chest. “Back off, Hound Dog. I said she’s a friend.”

He throws up his hands and glares at her. “What’s the problem? I just offered to buy her a drink.”

Crystal gives him the evil eye. “Uh-huh.” Then she pivots and gives him her back. Widening her eyes, she moves her lips without speaking, S.T.D.s, and ushers me away.

“Nice to meet you,” I say over my shoulder and follow Crystal to the bar. I heave a sigh of relief and collapse onto an empty bar stool.

“Kip! A round of tequila shots with salt,” Crystal yells at the bartender, then sits down next to me. “Sorry, I should’ve warned you about him. He’s a walking petri dish.”

I cradle my head in my hands. “This was a bad idea. I’m going to hate dating,” I whine. For the first time in a month, I feel something other than anger toward Russ…I miss him.

Crystal rubs my back. “Don’t worry, Jenster. It’s easier than you think.” The bartender pours the shots, and Crystal slides one in front of me. “Lick the back of your hand and give it to me.”

I do as she asks. She sprinkles salt on the wet spot, then hands me the shot. I take it and she holds a slice of lime.

“Lick, drink, suck.”

I lick the back of my hand, down the tequila without choking, and suck the lime dry. “Holy crap. Do me a favor?” I pant.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t let me drunk dial Russ tonight.”

Crystal snorts a laugh. “Deal.”

The band is well into the second set when someone taps me on the shoulder. My head swims and my vision is fuzzy from the four tequila shots, but I feel good. Real good. Too good. Dancing-all-night-long good.

I spin and almost lose my balance, right into Mike Dawson’s arms.

He keeps me from taking a spill on the makeshift dance floor.

“Jen?” he asks, wearing a tentative smile.

“Mike. How are you?” Oh my God, did I slur his name?

“Crystal said you’d be here…It’s good to see you.” He points toward a table. “Get a drink?”

I nod. A table? Yes. A drink? No. Make that, a “Hell No.” I signal to Crystal, who’s dancing with some guy she picked out of the crowd. She salutes and turns back to her partner.

Mike laces his fingers through mine and leads me to an empty table in the corner. There’s something unsettling about the familiarity of his touch. He’s even better looking than I remember. Dark hair, light eyes, muscled, a nice smile. Delicious. An object of teenage worship, but not someone I know well.

He flags down a waitress, and raises a brow when I order a club soda. “I’ve had enough already.” I fail to tell him I should’ve started on club soda two drinks ago. A fleeting look of disappointment travels over his face.

Our drinks come and we trade news about ourselves and then mutual friends. It’s nice. Then he takes my hand and puts it to his lips. There’s a hunger in his eyes that wasn’t there a moment ago. If it was, I missed it. “I’ve had a crush on you since high school,” he says.

Heat burns a path to my cheeks. I smile. “Really?”

He nods and his lips quirk to the side. He stares at my mouth, and I lick my lips. Not to entice him, but because my mouth has suddenly gone dry.

Instead of answering, he leans in and kisses me. His tongue feels foreign in my mouth. But it’s not until his fingers slide up my inner thigh that I go dead still.

Only a heartbeat passes and I scream. “Get away!” I wrench his hand out from under my dress. Blind panic fills my chest, and I scramble away from him. This is wrong, all wrong. He’s not Russ. He’s not…The faceless stranger.

I can’t breathe. I push my way through the dense crowd to find Crystal. She’s on the dance floor right where I left her. I’m shaking violently by the time I tug on her arm.

One look at my face and she drags me to the bathroom.

“I’m sorry…” I mutter, a moment before the tequila roils and makes a hasty exit.

I can’t do this.

I’m not ready.

True to her word, Crystal takes my phone, and that’s the last thing I remember.

Chapter 4

Devon

WHEN I EXIT the building, a suit-clad driver with clasped hands, stands next to the black Lincoln Town Car idling at the curb.

I soak up the sun for the few yards of sidewalk it takes me to reach the limo and give the driver a friendly nod as he reaches for the back door.

Inside, I glimpse Lettie wearing a pair of Jackie O. sunglasses, her fine, blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun at her nape. Crap. She’s in full makeup. Bad sign. This is more than a casual jaunt.

I toss my backpack on the floor and climb in. The air conditioning chills my skin as I slide onto the cool leather and the door closes us into semi-darkness.

Lifting a brow, Lettie slides down her glasses to reveal pale blue eyes. “What’s up with your hair?”

Mirroring her raised brow, I counter, “What’s up with sunglasses in the dark?”

Her red-painted lips curve into a mischievous smile that on anyone else would look playful. On Lettie it radiates vigilant intent. She pushes the glasses up to perch atop her head. “Why so pissy, little brother?”

“Where are we going?” I scowl, still annoyed that she interrupted my afternoon and probably my night.

“The Hamptons. Howie wants to meet you. He invited us for the night and sent his jet to Teterboro to pick us up.”

I cut Lettie with a glare. “What? How about a little more notice next time?” I snap, glancing at my grungy clothes and the paint still embedded in my skin. At least I had the foresight to toss the baby oil into my bag on the way out. “I can’t show up like this.”

Appearances have taken on a new importance since I went into remission and started the grooming process for CEO. Lettie’s new boyfriend���a term I use loosely—Howard Cato III, happens to be the chief operating officer of a large shipping conglomerate, a privately held family business like ours.

Like it or not, tonight we represent Kingsbridge. In Lettie’s case, inside the bedroom and out. Though I’ve no doubt Howard is the disposable party in this equation once she gets whatever it is she wants. No-strings sex has never been a problem for Lettie. Wish I could say the same.

Lettie releases what I recognize is a patient—and slightly patronizing—breath. “Relax. You can shower on the plane.”

Gritting my teeth, I make another feeble attempt at slipping her hold. “I can’t just leave. I need my—”

“Meds,” she cuts in and waves her hand as if she’s batting away a horde of insects. “I know. I packed you a bag. Live a little, Dev. Your life could use some excitement.”

Not her kind. I’m happy having all my limbs intact and a clean arrest record.

“What—”

She holds up a hand and cuts me off a second time. “About Mom? She said to have a good time.”

My mouth snaps shut. Great. She’s enlisted our mother into her “force Devon to have fun” campaign. Though I’ve no doubt this trip to the Hamptons is a weakly disguised Trojan horse for a business meeting.

She pokes my side with a perfectly manicured red nail. “Relax. Gladys is with Mom.”

I fend her off with an elbow and mutter, “Not the point.”

Our mother, though vibrant and alive, is bedridden and requires around-the-clock care. Until it went bankrupt, she had been living in an all-expenses-paid, luxury Kingsbridge facility where my father had ensconced her when he was alive. Now she lives with us, and I make a point to visit the west wing every night. Besides Lettie, she’s all I have. She’s the only reason I’ve agreed to pledge whatever’s left of my potentially very short life to taking on a birthright I never wanted.

Exasperated, I slump back into the seat, brush a hand across my face, and admit defeat. “Fine. So why are we really going, and what’s your plan?”

***

By the time we touch down at Southampton Airport, all traces of paint are gone from my hair and skin, and I’m dressed in something suitably professional yet casual: pressed khakis, a Vineyard Vines button-down, and Italian leather loafers. Lettie selected the Breitling Superocean from my watch case. All I’m missing is a tan, which Lettie doesn’t hesitate to comment on.

“You really should get a little sun this weekend,” she says in a light, breezy tone, before descending the stairs onto the sun-baked tarmac.

I bite back a snide remark about her spray tan, and bring up the rear like a good pack mule, carrying an overnight bag over each shoulder. Fake or not, the bronzing on her legs works for her, along with the clingy dress and high heels.

A ruggedly handsome guy, almost a decade older than us and the size of a linebacker, waits with a driver next to a Rolls-Royce. He’s sheer muscle and power with dark hair that touches his collar, piercing blue eyes, and a strong jaw dusted in shadow on a head with no neck. The kind of guy who needs to shave twice a day and can pound you into dog meat without breaking a sweat.

I’d be afraid of him if he wasn’t wearing pink shorts with tiny whales and a bright green polo shirt. His mouth tips up in a smile revealing a slash of white teeth when he homes in on Lettie.

“Howie!” My sister almost squeals as she throws out her arms and accelerates into a high-heeled sprint.

“Hey, Baby,” he says in a low, affectionate growl, opening his arms. A second later, her delicate frame is swallowed inside his embrace and his mouth is on hers.

I shove down a pang of jealousy half wishing I had someone like the girl by the lake for the same kind of greeting. But I’m not that stupid. There’s no happy ending to my fairy tale.

Resisting the urge to clear my throat and remind them I’m here, I wait patiently until they come up for air.

Lettie spins in his arms and extends her hand, palm up, in my direction. “Howard, my brother Devon. Devon, Howard.”

Keeping one arm locked securely around Lettie’s slim waist, Howard reaches out a meaty hand. “It’s a pleasure. Lettie says amazing things about you,” he says in a gravel-filled voice that reminds me of whiskey and cigars.

I resist a snort as Lettie stares up at him and glows. He blazes just as bright, his smile reaching his eyes. Poor bastard. Only I can see through Lettie’s doe-eyed gaze. He’s a means to an end, I’m just not sure which one. Lettie sidestepped my question on the plane, but I’m sure I’ll have an idea by the end of the night if not sooner.

I shift the weight of my bag, extend a hand, and give a genteel smile the way I was schooled. “The pleasure’s mine.” Despite myself, I like him already. His handshake is firm and confident but not crushing. “Thank you for the invitation.”

“Let me take those,” he nods at our luggage, then takes the bags and hands them to the driver. “I’m glad you could make it for the beach party tonight. Lettie says you’re not much of a partier, so I’ve had a guest room prepared in case you want to turn in early.”

Lettie winks to confirm my secret’s safe—that fatigue puts me in bed most nights by ten. I quirk a brow at the singular room reference, and assume that means Lettie won’t need one. We trade a glance. Her answering smirk tells me she doesn’t expect me to defend her honor.

Fine. I hadn’t planned on it. She’s a big girl and can make her own decisions. It’s when she makes mine that I have a problem.

Howard gives me a crooked smile, and herds us toward the waiting car. “You guys must be hungry. We’ll grab a bite before the party.”

Ah. There it is. The business meeting.

***

“So what’s your position on Kingsbridge’s Russian shipping concerns?” Howard asks as he leans back in his chair with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc from one of the nearby North Fork wineries. He and Lettie share the bottle while I drink sparkling water with lime.

We’re having a quiet dinner on a private upper deck of Howard’s massive cedar-shingled beach house, away from the caterers buzzing around preparing for tonight’s party.

Prime Hamptons real estate, the house sits tucked at the end of a narrow lane with a sweeping view of the ocean over the dunes. It’s serene and beautiful. I forgot how much I love being near water.

“Hmm.” I breathe in the refreshing salt air, pensively stare over Howard’s shoulder, and pretend to ponder his question. Instead, I admire the view. My gaze sweeps over the water’s edge and the colors painting the sky as the sun meets the horizon. Caterers wind down the stairs below us to the private beach where stacks of wood are tented and set up in an open pit ready for tonight’s bonfire.

After a long pause, I stick to the script that Lettie and I discussed before dinner, and shrug. “They’re turning a healthy profit. If memory serves, they grew by seven percent last year. Why? You want to buy them?”

Lettie stays uncharacteristically quiet. She doesn’t want Howard to know she’s running the show as much as I am.

Howard chuckles and sips his wine before his gaze sharpens. “And what if I do?”

Feigning nonchalance, I raise the bubbled water to my lips and drink. “Why do you want them?”

He pinches the stem of his wine glass and swirls the liquid inside. “Cato Shipping needs to expand its Eastern European routes to cover our growth in the oil and gas sector. The number of barrels is more than our fleet can handle long-term. We may not want to buy, just rent some capacity. Kingsbridge has the second largest fleet, and Maersk already turned us down.”

I purse my lips and nod, as if considering, then say, “Give me a call in eighteen months.” After I assume the mantle of CEO.

Howie holds up his glass for a toast and tips his chin. “I’ll send you some projections and a proposal. I won’t need it until then anyway.”

My glass meets his. “I’ll take a look.” I hate getting his hopes up, but there isn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell I’ll give him the Russian trade routes, or use his company for shipping of any kind. Given what Lettie dug up on Howard’s father, chances are high he’s looking for an unwitting partner to smuggle illegal goods into the United States. The only thing she’s not sure of is Howard’s involvement. No matter. Lettie’s using him as an insurance policy for something else entirely. That’s one of the things I love most about my sister: she’s always three steps ahead.

I play my part well. His eyes carry a triumphant gleam. “Good man.”

***

As midnight approaches, the party is still raging in the house and on the beach. There must be over two hundred people blanketing the property. The steady beat of dance music and chatter ride the mild breeze, comingling in the night air. I lost Lettie hours ago somewhere inside.

Breaking my own dietary rule, I grab a beer at the nearest bar, and then skirt the edge of the crowd on the lower deck. I’m not exhausted, but I’m talked out and no longer in a partying mood. Holing up in the guest room seems lame, so I make my way to toward the wood plank stairs leading down to the beach.

I’m almost there when a female voice behind me slows my pace. “Devon? Devon Soames… is that you?”

Bloody hell. A vaguely familiar English accent. Oxford, more specifically. I cringe and rapidly contemplate whether to keep walking and let whomever it is think she’s staring at someone else’s retreating back.

The decision is made for me when delicate but firm fingers grasp my arm. “Devon?”

Inhaling deeply, I slip on a pleasant smile and turn.

My pulse quickens and not in a good way. Painful memories batter my chest in unceasing waves as I stare into Isla’s face. The sister of the only woman I ever loved.

An attractive, statuesque brunette with the same slanted green eyes as Tessa, Isla smiles broadly. “It is you!”

Before I can react, she’s got me wrapped in a hug. “It’s so lovely to see you,” she says, holding me uncomfortably close. Her thin frame warms me and I fight back revulsion when my body unconsciously tingles with awareness.

I wiggle out of her grasp and move aside. “Issie, what are you doing here?” I ask in a heated whisper.

“I’m on holiday in New York…I’m here with a friend. How are you?” Her gaze turns to the one thing I can’t tolerate: pity.

 My mask of cool confidence slips back into place. “I’m well, and have been for some time.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Her smile wavers and she looks away but makes no move to leave.

Rather than ask the question I’m sure she expects, I give her arm a gentle squeeze. “Good to see you. Enjoy the party.”

I clutch my beer harder and pivot, eyeing the stairs like a convict about to make a prison break.

“Devon, wait!”

Cursing under my breath, I stiffen and press my eyes shut.

“I’m sorry…for what she did. I’m sorry she chose Phillip.”

My teeth gnash at the mention of my bastard half-brother. I can’t turn around and look at Isla for fear of exorcising my pent up rage over her sister’s betrayal. I hate myself for still caring.

“Goodbye, Isla,” I say without turning or betraying a hint of the emotion roiling around inside me. I reach the stairs and descend at a steady clip.

The heat of the bonfire’s flames hits me when I reach the bottom. Pulling off my shoes, I tuck them underneath the stairs. The sand cools my feet as I move unnoticed past the edge of the crowd and head for the stretch of empty beach to the north.

Beer in hand, I take a long draught of the hoppy, amber liquid. The alcohol hits my bloodstream by the time I finish the bottle. After no alcohol for nearly three years, I’m a cheap date.

I drop down in front of a dune and lie back on the sand, not caring that I’ll be covered in it when I get up.

“Dev…” Lettie’s voice and near-silent footsteps travel over the sound of gently crashing waves. “Where are you?”

“Over here,” I say, staring up at the stars. So bright, so welcoming. “How’d you find me?” Though I’m not sure I care…about anything right now.

Lettie drops down next to me. “Hey,” she says gently, “I’ve been looking for you…to warn you about Isla. I was too late. I followed you from the house.”

I give a mirthless laugh. “Out of all the people on the planet I’d like to avoid…”

Lettie touches my arm and gives it a small squeeze. “I’m sorry, Dev,” she says with an unmistakable ache in her voice.

“I hate this…,” I whisper, not talking about my past, but about my future. “All of it.” I don’t want it. Everyday puts me closer to being a prisoner in my own life, or dead. Not much of a choice.

“I know.” Her voice is small and there’s a quiver I only ever hear when we’re alone. She lays down next to me and rests her head on my chest. “I love you, Dev. I’d make it all go away if I could.”

A lump rises in my throat as I stare at the stars, and wrap her in an embrace. We’ve clung to each other for comfort since we were toddlers. I can’t imagine doing any of this without Lettie by my side. She feels fragile in my arms, but it’s her strength that’s gotten me through. “I know.”

She sniffles and brushes at her eyes. Then she bolts upright and lets out a devilish chuckle. “You know what might make you feel better?”

Clearing my throat, I slip back into my mental armor and lean up on my elbows. “I’m afraid to ask.”

She snickers and claps her hands with giddy abandon. “Seduce Isla! Poetic justice and all that rubbish.”

My lip curves up at her use of the same British slang. Lettie spent her formative years at an English boarding school, too. Just not mine.

I snort. “No, thanks. That’s not who I am and you know it.”

“Oh, come on, Dev. When was the last time you got laid?”

Seriously? That’s the second time in one day.

“None of your business!” I sit up, incensed she would ask, and start to wonder if I’m giving off some sort of desperate scent.

She laughs. “Now that’s the Dev I know and love. Having you pissed at me is much better than watching you mope.” She stands, grabs my hand, and pulls me to my feet. “Come on. Let’s go back.”

“Fine.” I give the stars one last look, and think about the girl I painted by the lake. I’m not sure who she is, or where she lives in my imagination, but there’s one thing I do know…she’s nothing like Tessa.

The Next Day

Jenny

A DULL PAIN thuds behind my eyes in a mad staccato beat, and every step jostles my brain inside my skull. Payment for all those tequila shots. Sunglasses barely help as I step out of the train station into the heat. Taking out my phone, I text Dad to pick me up in ten minutes then amble across the street to the Starbucks on the corner.

Nothing less than a triple espresso will do this morning. Wait, I mean this afternoon. I glance at my phone. Yup. Almost two o’clock.

Most of the umbrella-covered tables outside are taken. I shift my backpack higher on my shoulder and sidestep a Rolls-Royce limo with tinted windows that’s double parked halfway in the crosswalk. A white-gloved driver stands next to the back door.

Okay, that’s over the top even for Summit. I’m shaking my head as I walk into the cool interior. The line extends almost out the door. I scan the fifteen or so people in front of me. No one in particular stands out. I’m still gawking when someone accidentally brushes passed me.

“Sorry,” a woman’s voice whispers.

Startled, I twist to see a blond, casually dressed couple pass behind me. I catch a glimpse of her pulled-back hair and sunglasses, but she’s blocking him from view. I don’t catch his face. A moment later, they’re out the door.

Through the window, I see the limo driver pull open the back door. They duck inside and my skin pebbles with a sudden chill. My gaze is glued to the limo as it pulls away from the curb.

I blink and remember. My dream. It was different last night.

The faceless stranger; I saw his eyes this time.

They were blue, and he was very much alive.

Shelter My Heart

Check out Shelter My Heart, the Kindle Scout novel by L.G. O'Connor where this novelette is set!

Summer Solstice

One Summer Day short story is also featured in the Kindle Press Anthology Summer Solstice. You can get it from Instafreebie for free!

[recentanimenews]

FEATURE: Aniwords – The Best Anime Families of Spring 2017

  Lately, it seems there's always at least one anime each season that explores the idea of family – whether traditional, non-traditional, or found. Last season we had Miss Kobayashi's Dragon Maid, the season before that we had March comes in like a lion, and the season before that we had sweetness & lightning. As a trend, it's certainly one I can get behind. We humans need community to survive, need those people in our lives that we can call our family. And everyone finds family differently, so it's nice to see anime exploring such a variety of interpretations of what it means to be a family.

  This current season, in particular, has given us a bounty of anime about family—from the rather traditional take that The Eccentric Family 2 depicts to the heartwarming focus on a child's place in a family in Alice & Zoroku to WorldEnd's wistful fantasy depiction of a family in the middle of a war. And that's just the shows that have family as a central element, with others like Sword Oratoria and My Hero Academia using family as a peripheral thematic element (yes, I'm ignoring Eromanga Sensei on purpose).

  And so, tonight's project is to take a deeper look at those three shows in which family is part of the central appeal, breaking down their specific interpretations of this idea of "family," what it means, and how it impacts the people who are part of it.

  The Idiot Blood of The Eccentric Family

The Eccentric Family's idea of family is probably the one that aligns most closely with out traditional concept of the social unit, although as we find out, there are... complications. But nuances aside for now, the central family of the show is unambiguously that of the Shimogamos—Yasaburo, Yaichiro, Yajiro, Yashio, their mother, Tousen, and their late father, Soichiro. With the Shimogamo patriarch deceased before the beginning of the show's first season, The Eccentric Family makes clear that his loss, although it has divided the family in some ways, has not broken their familial bond. The "idiot blood" of the tanukis holds them together, and does so throughout the entire first season of the show.

  As we've come to The Eccentric Family 2, this same idea of family has persisted. If the nature of family for our beloved crew of taunkis is "those who share your blood," then the application of family is that families stick together and help each other out. We see this in the way Yasaburo takes care of Yashiro, in his and Yaichiro's visits to Yajiro, and even in the gentle way Tousen chides Yasaburo into assisting Yaichiro with his courtship of Gyokuran.

  But, of course, no family is perfect, and so we also see in parallel Yasaburo blowing off Yaichiro's requests for help in setting up the tanuki shogi tournament or, more dramatically, all of the events of the first season—which have their source in Soun Ebisugawa (who my fellow features writer, Nick Creamer, recently wrote about). In fact, it is because Soun is family that his scheming and evil are so detestable. Delivering his own brother to his death and seeking to ruin the rest of the Shimogamo family, Soun's atrocities serve as the ugly foil to the warm unity that the Shimogamos always return to. Where the Ebisugawas seek to divide, the Shimogamos join together—sometimes bringing others, like Akadama, into their circle. Even if they argue or go their separate ways at times, the idiot blood they share always brings them back together when it really counts—and, for them, that's what being a family means.

  The Gravitational Pull of a Child in Alice & Zoroku

In contrast to the communal loyalty and aid that the Shimogamos act out, Alice & Zoroku (my favorite show this season, by the way) has a different focus. It's not until episode 6 that protagonist Sana gets officially adopted by Zoroku into the Kashimura family, but as early as episode 2 we see the impact Sana's arrival makes on the lives of Zoroku and his granddaugher, Sanae. The effect Sana has is huge, drawing tons of attention and energy from both of them—causing them trouble, making demands, and otherwise disrupting their peaceful established existence. In structural terms, it's actually quite at harmony with the time-honored trope of the child with unbelievable magic powers; the family revolves around the child just as the story revolves around the magical prodigy.

  So what, then, is Alice & Zoroku's conception of "family?" The key to unlocking that answer lies, cleverly, within the show's fantasy elements. In episodes 6 and 7, Sana has gradually begun adjusting to life outside the research facility (and outside magical battles). She comes into contact with the outside world, learning new things (like math), and experiencing things she's never experienced before. And, as life goes for a child, it all begins to overwhelm her.

  But fortunately Sana doesn't have to go through all this alone. She's got the fantastically kind and patient Sanae to listen to her talk through her "frazzled" feelings, Zoroku acting as a solid anchor of common sense, and even the ever-cool Ichijo to act as her teacher and mentor. Around Sana they form a cocoon where she can navigate the difficult shift from being a magical girl to a human one. And this, I think, is what family means in Alice & Zoroku: Family is the place where we learn to be human. For Sana, this is true in a very literal sense, but the way her evolution from precocious bundle of intelligent magical energy to a being who can feel confused, upset, and sad is influenced and guided by the people around her mirrors the way children learn from their families. And what's perhaps most gratifying about Alice & Zoroku's use of this form of family is the way those people gravitate towards Sana, going out of their way to give this child the kindness, love, and wisdom she needs. That's a good family.

  WorldEnd & the Place of Return

Of the three shows I'm highlighting here, WorldEnd is probably the closest to being a stretch with regards to the family theme, but there are some specific reasons why "family" is the word I think is best suited to capture the idea. At the start of the show, our viewpoint character, Willem, begins his new job as the caretaker of a collection of living weapons. Officially, he works in a warehouse, keeping watch over the fairies as one might care for a fleet of expensive warships. But, of course, things aren't that simple, as the fairies are sentient beings with their own thoughts, emotions, joys, and worries. And so, for Willem, long an aimless wanderer in a world where he's the last of his species, this odd community of children who live only to die slowly becomes a place that he can call a home.

The importance of the "family" of the fairies and their two caretakers is underscored by WorldEnd's wartime setting. Although Willem is no longer able to battle, through Chtholly he relives (and remembers) his own experiences of fighting for the survival of the world. As we see in his flashbacks, Willem was also once a young warrior in a group of other young warriors who functioned as a family unit. But now the tables have turned. Willem is no longer the human brave who goes out to battle with promises of butter cake awaiting him when he returns; instead, he fulfills that role for Chtholly, giving her a reason to live. And in that waiting, he finds a new place for himself. He finds a home.

  For both Chtholly and Willem, family are the people you go home to. This is the defining quality of "family" in WorldEnd. The story's graceful use of its (often) distantly portrayed war-torn world simultaneously brings the family into the focus, while also emphasizing its necessity to our characters by way of its constant reminders that death and despair are right around the corner. For Chtholly, Willem, and the rest of the fairies, it is their family – unusual as it may be – that gives them respite, gives them peace, gives them hope. And sometimes, that's all you really need to go on.

  Wrapping Up the Rest

As I mentioned before, the use of family as a theme this season extends beyond these three shows that use it as a major focus. We've got My Hero Academia's portrayal of Uraraka's family as her source of inspiration and motivation for becoming a hero and Deku's mother as his source of constant, unconditional support. We've also got Sword Oratoria, which, while far less proficient at making its unsubtly named avatar for family – Familias – feel like a place of genuine love as the original Danmachi series, still can't help but possess a shred of its predecessor's charm in that area. And, although I said I wouldn't mention it, we do have Eromanga Sensei, a cautionary tale of what happens when families get too close.

  Anyways, that's all from me! I hope you've enjoyed diving deep into the identities of the season's lovely anime families. Let me know down in the comments which anime family is your favorite this season!

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Isaac eases his compulsive need to write about anime on his blog, Mage in a Barrel. He also sometimes hangs out on Tumblr, where he mainly posts his drawing practice as he seeks to become a renowned idol and robot fanartist. You can follow him on Twitter at @iblessall or on Facebook.

By: news+feed@crunchyroll.com

[politicalfilth-blog]

Henry Kissinger Writes A Love Letter To David Rockefeller

We Are Change

Henry Kissinger, the former U.S. secretary of state and wanted war criminal, penned a goodbye letter to his recently deceased friend David Rockefeller.

Article via Activist Post by Derrick Broze

David Rockefeller, head of the Rockefeller dynasty, former Chase Manhattan Bank Chairman, and member of the Council on Foreign Relations, Trilateral Commission, and Bilderberg group, died earlier this month at the age of 101.

After a career of promoting eugenics, global government and totalitarian dictators, Rockefeller has finally moved on to the next realm.

The deadstream media celebrated Rockefeller as a philanthropist while completely glossing over the darker aspects of his life. Perhaps no review of Rockefeller’s life is more disturbing than the reflection taken by former Secretary of State, prominent “globalist,” and wanted war criminal Henry Kissinger.

The Washington Post released the disgusting piece of propaganda on Thursday under the title, “Henry Kissinger: My friend David Rockefeller, a man who served the world.” The letter reveals an incredible honesty in describing the role both men have played in geopolitics for the last 50 years. The letter makes it clear that presidents and prime ministers are hardly the most powerful movers and shakers working behind the scene.

“He saw his life as an obligation to enable the consequential issues of our time to be pursued by the most talented and committed men and women, for the sake of our society and the peace of the world,” Kissinger writes.

Kissinger then describes his initial meeting with Rockefeller at a meeting of the Council on Foreign Relations, another institution that has galled for global government. “Shortly afterward, he encouraged a discussion group, which later was developed into what is now known as the Bilderberg Group, an annual meeting of European and American leaders to explore their challenges and common purposes.”

It is fascinating how open Kissinger is about the creation of the Bilderberg Group. They may be fairly well known today, but only 5 to 10 years ago the group was completely unknown to mainstream society. Media denied the group existed and politicians ran away when questioned about the group. Now, Bilderberg has a website and their meetings are reported on, although the topics are still not publicly discussed.

A decade later, David called on me, at the time secretary of state, to inform me that, in the view of some of the colleagues he had brought with him, the scope of U.S. foreign policy needed broadening. A truly global study to include Asia was required for that challenge. His associates, in fact, included Jimmy Carter, Walter Mondale and Zbigniew Brzezinski; in other words, a government in exile waiting to replace the administration in which I served. But David’s combination of dedication and innocence was such that the thought never took hold. Instead, I became a founding member of the Trilateral Commission, which thrives to this day.

Again, Kissinger is openly admitting influencing geopolitics, specifically U.S. foreign policy. He mentions Rockefeller, former U.S. President Jimmy Carter, and Zbigniew Brzezinski, a former adviser to many presidents and one of the men responsible for creating al-Qaeda.

In another section Kissinger writes that Rockefeller was “received around the world like a head of government.” Kissinger then explains how Rockefeller was able to use his power and influence to bring together heads of state and other important players to make policy changes, including nuclear proliferation.

On one occasion, in the late 1980s, I accompanied him to the Soviet Union for a visit to Mikhail Gorbachev to discuss nuclear issues. David had invited former French president Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, former Japanese prime minister Yasuhiro Nakasone and me to produce a document on dealing with nuclear proliferation. Only David would have been capable of bringing about that combination of participants or, for that matter, conceiving the idea.

In another example of attempting to rewrite history, Kissinger describes Rockefeller as a man who was devoted to his family. He remembers that in 1979,”when the Shah of Iran was being exiled, some close friends appealed to David to help find refuge for a ruler who had demonstrated his friendship with America in various international crises.” Kissinger says Rockefeller ultimately helped the Shah despite any negative commercial impact to Chase Bank.

What Kissinger fails to mention, is that the Shah was exiled from Iran during the 1979 revolution because he was a puppet who had been installed via a CIA coup in 1953. Rockefeller was simply helping out a brutal dictator who had been tasked with undermining his own people in order to carry out a Western-friendly regime. Great guy, this Rockefeller.

Kissinger concludes by stating that Rockefeller “will remain a reminder that our ultimate legacy will be service and values, not personal ambitions.” Perhaps Rockefeller’s legacy will be a reminder to service and values, but only by studying who he truly was and knowing his motivations can you understand what those values are.

To gain that understanding I suggest the new documentary The Unauthorized Biography of David Rockefeller from The Corbett Report.

One final note: While many Internet commentators took the opportunity to laugh or celebrate the death of a man that promoted such darkness, I propose that perhaps we can find a way to have compassion and empathy for these super elites.

The people who are even wealthier than Rockefeller, more hidden than Kissinger – these people have been raised to believe they should inherit the world.

They may have been duped into believing false eugenics and race science that justifies their views on population control and war. If we choose to celebrate their death, or even initiate violence against these sick souls are we not stooping to their level? Are we so blind to believe that violence could bring peace?

I believe our species will have an opportunity to awaken and confront those who have held us back and held us down. We will have the opportunity for forgiveness, accountability, and healing.

How will we choose to act in those moments? Does an eye for an eye truly make us all go blind?

We must determine what path we want our species to take on our journey to a higher state of consciousness. Especially when confronting darkness.

Derrick Broze is an investigative journalist and liberty activist. He is the Lead Investigative Reporter for ActivistPost.com and the founder of the TheConsciousResistance.com. Follow him on Twitter. Derrick is the author of three books: The Conscious Resistance: Reflections on Anarchy and Spirituality and Finding Freedom in an Age of Confusion, Vol. 1 and Finding Freedom in an Age of Confusion, Vol. 2

Derrick is available for interviews. Please contact Derrick@activistpost.com

This article may be freely reposted in part or in full with author attribution and source link.

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from We Are Change https://wearechange.org/henry-kissinger-writes-love-letter-david-rockefeller/