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reddeadreference · 3 years ago

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Colter: The Aftermath of Genesis

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Full Transcript below ([...] placed where a gap of silence is for the same person speaking.)

[Arthur walks into a small open room connected to the barn with a kind of fireplace towards the back. Embers glow but no actual fire.]

Pearson: *coughs* We’re gonna starve to death up here, Mr. Morgan.

[Pearson stands, rubbing his hands together near the embers.]

Arthur: We’re okay….

[Pearson moves from the heat to a table nearby and starts chopping something as he speaks]

Pearson: We have a few cans of food and a rabbit… for what, ten, twelve people? When I was in the Navy…

Arthur: I-I do not wish to hear about… what you got up to in the Navy, Mr. Pearson.

[Pearson adds something unrecognizable to a cauldron on the table]

Pearson: We were stranded at sea… for fifty days.

Arthur: And you unfortunately survived…

[Pearson puts down the knife and turns to Arthur]

Pearson: When we ran away from Blackwater… I wasn’t able to get supplies in.

[Pearson picks up the cauldron and brings it to the heat, hanging it on a hook. As Arthur speaks he grabs a ladle from the table.]

Arthur: Well when government agents are hunting you down sometimes shopping trips need to be cut short. We’ll survive… we always have… and if needs be, we can eat you, you’re the fattest.

Pearson: I sent Lenny and Bill hunting and they found nothing.

[Charles walks in from outside as Arthur speaks]

Arthur: Well, Lenny’s more into book learning than hunting. Bill’s a fool. Unless those mountains are full of game that wanna read ain’t no wonder they found noth-…

Charles: Enough of this. We’ll go find something. Come on, Arthur.

Pearson: Wait a second, hold on. [He moves to the table to grab something] Here… you’re gonna need something to eat out there.

[Pearson tosses something to Arthur]

Arthur: "Assorted, salted offal." Starving would be preferable.

Charles: Come on, let’s go.

Arthur: You can’t go hunting. Look at your hand.

Charles: I can’t stay here listening to you two. Look, if there’s game in those hills I’ll find it… and you can kill it.

Arthur: You need to rest, Charles.

Charles: You think this is rest? Come along.

[The two head to the horses hitched outside]

Charles: Here, you take this. I can’t use it and you’ll have to.

[He gives Arthur his bow.]

Arthur: Oh, you’re joking…

Charles: Use a gun… and we’ll scare off every animal for miles around. You’re never too old to learn… I imagine.

[The two mount up and it switches from cutscene to gameplay]

Charles: Alright… Let’s head out.

[...]

Arthur: How are you holding up, Charles?

Charles: I’m okay, apart from this hand. Stupid mistake.

Arthur: Still bad?

Charles: It will be fine in a day or two. I just can’t pull a bow right now.

Arthur: I sure hope I can. I never really got the hang of it.

Charles: You’ll be fine.

Arthur: *takes a breath* So… you reckon we’re gonna find something to kill that ain’t an O’Driscoll?

Charles: There’s meat up here for sure. Pearson doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Now the weather’s eased off a bit, they’ll be needing to feed. [...] We’ll head up this way. Find some higher ground.

=If you do this mission first=

Arthur: Been a wild few days alright. That ride north from Blackwater, getting stuck in this storm, going out for John…

=If you do this mission second=

Arthur: Been a wild few days alright. That ride north from Blackwater, getting stuck in this storm, going out for John, that thing with the O’Driscolls.

Charles: You’ve had a lot put on you. I wish I could have done more.

Arthur: I didn’t mean it like that, just… a lot to think back on.

Charles: I still don’t really know what happened on that boat.

Arthur: Me neither… well, Javier told me a bit, but… it sure weren’t good.

[A few shots of Charles and Arthur riding through the snow.]

Charles: There’s some patches of grass here, this is good. (He could also say: See some of the ground uncovered here.) Come on, let’s try this way. Keep your eyes peeled for movement. [...] The wind’s died down too.

Arthur: And that’s good?

Charles: No wind at all is bad, but if it’s too strong, they won’t move. Now, shh… stay quiet. [...] Hey… stop here a second. I see something.

[They stop along the river and both dismount. Charles crouches on the ground.]

Charles: There’s deer been here… recently.

Arthur: How can you tell?

Charles: How can you not? Let’s walk it from here.

=If you don’t have the bow equipped already=

Charles: You’re going to need the bow, don’t leave it on your horse. A gun will scare everything around. Keep down. Move quietly and slowly.

=If you already have the bow equipped=

Charles: Quiet as you can. Stay low and move slowly.

[Arthur takes the lead, crouched, walking through the snow.]

Charles: You see the tracks?

Arthur: I think so… maybe not.

Charles: Focus.

[This is where Arthur/Player learns how to activate Eagle Eye but not for shooting]

Charles: It’s easier in the snow but, once you get your eye in, you’ll be able to track nearly as well in grass and woods.

(Ignore the fact I forgot where the tracks went…)

[When you get close enough to the deer Charles will stop you. Pretty sure the next bit of dialogue is determined either randomly or by if you have eagle eye for shooting.]

=No Eagle eye/ this mission first=

Charles: Shh, down there. You see them? Quick, get that bow out, Arthur.

[Arthur shoots a perfect shot]

Charles: Nice. See if you can get another one.

=With eagle eye/this mission second=

Charles: Shh, down there. You see them? Are you ready with that bow? Try to hit them in the neck or head. Quick and clean. You can pull back quite hard, [Unspoken but pops up for a split second: “you’ll feel when it’s too much.”]

[Arthur shoots with eagle eye]

Charles: Good shot. Now, let’s try for another.

[Arthur moves up to the second location for deer.]

=Perfect shot with eagle eye=

Arthur: Got it.

Charles: Well done. I think that’s all we can carry.

=Missed shot=

Charles: That’s okay… try again.

=Partial hit/hit doesn’t kill=

Charles: That didn’t kill it, you should go finish it off. (Inaudible but subtitled on screen:) Go and use your knife on her. It’ll be the quickest.

Arthur: That’s it. Done.

Charles: Okay, that’ll do it. I think that’s all we can carry.

Alt.

Charles: Okay, you pick up one, I’ll get the other.

Arthur: You sure your hand’s okay?

Charles: It’ll be fine once I get it on my shoulder. Okay, I’ll go grab the other one.

[Arthur brings the deer back, whistles for his horse]

Charles: I’m gonna get this packed on my horse.

[Arthur secures the deer on the back of his own horse]

Arthur: (to horse) Not bad boy. [mounts] Alright, Boy.

[Arthur rides over to Charles.]

Arthur: Ready to head back when you are…

Charles: Sure, I just need to finish (the audio cuts out but the subtitles continue with “up here.”)

[Charles mouths up and Arthur approaches]

Charles: Come on then, let’s head back.

Arthur: (to horse) Nice boy.

Charles: Nice work, Arthur. Should be enough meat here to keep us all fed for a few days.

Arthur: You found ‘em.

Charles: I knew you’d be okay with that bow.

Arthur: It’s easier when they ain’t shooting back.

Charles: *laughs* We’ve seen enough of that.

Arthur: Considering how things were looking a couple of days back, maybe our luck is finally on the turn.

Charles: Seems to me we should be putting our effort into getting off this mountain now.

Arthur: Soon. People are still weak and you’ve seen how Snowed in those wagons are… they ain’t going nowhere until we get some more thaw.

Charles: You’re probably right. And, even if we do get off here… what then? We’ll still have a big price on our heads.

Arthur: This is a big country… we’ll find somewhere to lie low. Dutch and Hosea will have a plan. [...] You noticed how Pearson’s had a bottle in his hand ever since we fled Blackwater? We give the camp cook five minutes to grab the essentials and go, and he doesn’t even bring a crumb of food.

=This mission first=

Charles: Good that we caught more than one. A lot of mouths to feed.

Arthur: And that girl from the ranch now too, but… not sure she’ll be eating much.

Charles: She has a wild look in her eye.

Arthur: You would too. She lost her husband, her home, everything she had.

Charles: So what do we do with her?

Arthur: Once we get out of here, and we’re back on our feet, we’ll see. She might have family somewhere.

Charles: So it was O’Driscolls you ran into there?

Arthur: Yeah… last thing we was expecting.

Charles: What is it with the O’Driscolls?

=This mission second=

Charles: Good that we caught more than one. We’ve only been up here a few days and have already picked up two more mouths to feed.

Arthur: One more. We ain’t feeding the O’Driscoll a damn thing, except maybe that can of salted offal Pearson was kind enough to give us.

Charles: The girl, she has a wild look in her eye.

Arthur: Of course. She lost her husband, her home, everything she had.

Charles: So what do we do with her?

Arthur: Once we get out of here, and we’re back on our feet, we’ll see. She might have family somewhere.

Charles: Who knows, maybe she’ll deal with the O’Driscoll for us.

Arthur: *laughs* I know who my money’s on in that fight. He’s weak, but that makes him much more useful. Maybe we can get to them before they get to us.

Charles: What is it with the O’Driscolls?

Arthur: You ain’t dealt with them? I suppose we ain’t run into them much the last six months. I guess because they’ve been over this way.

Charles: Yeah… I’ve heard a lot of talk about them…

Arthur: Well… we’ve been scrapping over scores with them for years.

(Note: If you do this mission first there’s more time for the following dialogue since the previous dialogue about “mouths to feed” wasn’t as long. That or we didn’t travel as fast.)

Arthur: A bg gang, nasty sons of bitches. Their leader, Colm, and Dutch go way back, and not in a good way. A proper blood feud.

Charles: So I heard.

Charles: Watch out! Bear up ahead. Let’s see if we can find another way around.

=”Bear?”=

Arthur: He’s got a lot of meat on him.

Charles: We’ve got enough here, no need to push our luck.

Charles: He must be real hungry, stay well back. Spring storms like this are the worst for animals that sleep all winter.

=Attack the bear=

[Arthur pulls out his rifle and aims at the bear]

Charles: That’s a bad idea… have you seen the size of it?

[Arthur shoots - and misses causing Charles to ask “What are you shooting at?” as an auto AI response since it seemed as thorough the shot was random. The bear reacts which is what prompts the subtitled lines - The bear charges over.]

Charles: What are you doing? Look out!

[Arthur continues to shoot at the bear until it runs away.]

Arthur: That thing was huge.

Charles: Are you crazy? You’re lucky it scared that easy. Come on, let’s get back before it changes its mind.

=Leave the bear alone=

[After a few moments the bear starts to walk away, Charles moves forward slowly.]

Charles: Cut up here, off the trail.

[Arthur’s horse gets spooked by the nearby bear]

Arthur: (to horse) It’s alright, boy.

[They make it safely away from the bear.]

Arthur: We ain’t ever talked that much, you and me. How long have you been with us now? Five, six months?

Charles: Something like that.

Arthur: Bet you didn’t expect this.

Charles: What?

Arthur: Any of this. The Blackwater mess, being up here.

Charles: Ah, sooner or later a job’s going to go wrong. Nature of life.

Arthur: Just thought you might have moved on by now.

Charles: You want me to move on?

Arthur: No, no, not at all, I just… I know you could run it alone, no problem.

Charles: I did that for a long time. I’m done with it. Always wondering if someone’s going to kill you in your sleep.

Arthur: *with a chuckle* I still wonder that most nights.

Charles: *chuckles* I reckon you’re okay… This suits me. Sure, I could fall in with another gang, but Dutch… you know… Dutch is different.

Arthur: Oh yes. Dutch is certainly different.

Charles: He treats me fair. Most of you do. And for a feller with a black father and an Indian mother that ain’t normally the case.

Arthur: Well… we need you now, more than ever.

Charles: Good… and how long have you been with these boys? Why ain’t you run off?

Arthur: Me? Twenty years, something like that. Since I was a boy.

Charles: Twenty years?

Arthur: Yeah, he taught me to read. John, too. Taught me a few other things, him and Hosea.

Charles: I’m sure.

Arthur: Dutch saved me, saved most of us. That’s why we need to stick by him through this. He always sees us right.

[...]

Charles: How’s that new horse?

Arthur: He’s alright, he’ll do for now. I appreciate you letting me take Taima the other night.

Charles: She’s a strong one. It’s been as hard on the horses as on the rest of us. I don’t know what Dutch would do if something happened to the Count.

Arthur: Same with Bill and Brown Jack. He’s a drunk, miserable bastard, but… he loves that horse.

Charles: I hope they all make it.

Arthur: I tried to ride the Count once… bucked me faster than a bull. Won’t take nobody but him.

[They get back to camp.]

Charles: I’m going to hitch Taima over here.

Arthur: *yelling* Brought some food back, boys.

[The two dismount and hitch their horses.]

Arthur: Come on, let’s get these over to Pearson. Oh and, thank you, for showing me how to use the bow properly.

Charles: I only showed you a little. Takes a lifetime of practice to master.

[Arthur enters with the deer on his shoulder and dumps it on the floor. He sees Uncle has joined Pearson]

Pearson: Well, well, well…

Arthur: What a surprise… to find the camp rat loitering around in the kitchen.

Uncle: Is that any way to greet an old friend? I feel like we haven’t spoken for days.

Arthur: I do my utmost to avoid you.

Uncle: He loves me really… it’s his sad way of showing affection.

Arthur: No it isn’t. Now shoot, get lost.

Uncle: Well, see you gents later.

[Uncle leaves.]

Pearson: See you got on just fine.

Arthur: Charles is a wonder.

Pearson: Have a drink boys… you earned it.

[Pearson hands a bottle to Arthur who takes a sip and recoils before handing it to Charles.]

Arthur: Jesus, what is that?

Pearson: Navy rum, sir… it’s the only thing… the only thing. *laughs* Keeps you sane it does.

Arthur: Yes, seems to have done a treat on you. You go rest that hand, Charles.

Charles: I’ll be fine in a few days.

Pearson: You mind helping me with the skinning, Mr. Morgan? It’s easier if we do it together.

Arthur: Do I get to skin you?

Pearson: You’re always one with the jokes aren’t you? Come on.

[Pearson stands]

Charles: This really isn’t a job for a man with a burnt hand. I’ll see you both later.

[Charles leaves.]

Pearson: You skin that one y-you dumped on the floor there.

[Arthur skins the deer.]

Pearson: Not too bad, Mr. Morgan. Yeah, they always said you were a butcher. [He takes the pelt] You know you could trade these or sell these in pretty much any town… if you’re looking to make a legitimate bit of money of course.

Arthur: Right now I’m just looking to get off this mountain alive.

Pearson: Yeah, well if you catch anything else… you bring it to me.

Arthur: Sure.

[Arthur pats Pearson’s arm to get him to move out of the way and grabs the deer, hanging it up for him.]

Pearson: Thank you, Mr. Morgan. Heck, Arthur Morgan’s first decent bit of hunting, after all these years.

Arthur: Yeah well, we’re on the run now… everyone’s got to do their bit to survive. Just make a good stew, folk need it… it’s been a tough few days.

[If this mission is completed BEFORE “Old Friends” Arthur will simply walk forward and control is given back to the player. If this mission is completed AFTER “Old Friends” the cutscene fades to black and the game moves onto the next mission automatically.]

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #Arthur Morgan #Charles smith #simon pearson #rdr2 uncle #rdr2 colter

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therealsaintscully · 4 years ago

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Mary and butterflies - the inevitability of death, murderous calling cards and collectors

Some ramblings with links to other people’s excellent meta, in which I suggest that butterflies (and/or moths) symbolize Mary as Moriarty’s reincarnation and or calling card, while also hint at her inevitable death.

Disclaimers: credits are below the cut. I’m not an expert in any of these topics. Thank you, @thewatsonbeekeepers for the beta. In this post I’ll be using moths and butterflies interchangeably, apologies to any entomologists.

Mary’s appearance in the show brings with it new imagery we haven’t seen prior to The Empty Hearse - butterflies. Once Mary’s in the picture, there are butterflies in some very strategic locations, all are either visually or subtextually leading to her. The show has done that previous to season 3; Moriarty is connected to some well established symbols like magpies, apples and IOUs.

When I first started reading meta I used to think these themes were a bit of a stretch, but I’ve since accepted that this is a show that puts barely noticeable phoenixes in a restaurant scene that shows us Sherlock rising from his death.

Here are some of the butterflies I spotted so far:

Butterflies (and in the case of this piece of meta, moth) symbolize most commonly resurrection, change and renewal. Behind the symbolism stands the transformation of a small, ungainly creature into something full-grown and unbound. In that case, in the simplest way, one could argue that butterflies were chosen to symbolize her because the ‘Mary Morstan’ persona was a stillborn’s identity that was stolen and used ‘reborn’ to create a new person.

But more than this simplistic idea; butterflies carry multiple symbolisms. When it comes to Sherlock, I and many others tend to look at Victorian symbolism, considering the detective’s Victorian roots.

I find the appearance of butterflies interesting in Mary’s context, much like I find the skull interesting in Sherlock’s. The skulls, in Sherlock’s case, serve plenty of purposes, but one of them is the idea of memento mori.

Memento mori (Latin for 'remember that you [have to] die') is an artistic or symbolic reminder of the inevitability of death. These are representations that can appear in any form of art such as paintings, literature, poetry etc. It’s a concept that existed in many ancient cultures but is also deeply rooted in early Christianity. It serves to remind people of the inevitable; that even if we choose to ignore it, not think about it, it’s always there lurking, and the purpose is not to scare us but to encourage us to make good use of our time when we’re alive. Memento mori was the philosophy of reflecting on your own death as a form of spiritual improvement, and rejecting earthly vanities.

Victorians were obsessed with the concept (weren’t Victorians obsessed with everything?). They would take photographs of the dead and keep locks of hair of those who died in mourning brooches. It is said that they found these practices comforting.

Another expression of the ‘remember that you must die’ concept was vanitas art; vanitas is a symbolic work of art showing the transience of life, the futility of pleasure, and the certainty of death. The Latin noun vanitas (from the Latin adjective vanus 'empty') means 'emptiness', 'futility', or 'worthlessness', the traditional Christian view being that earthly goods and pursuits are transient and worthless. It alludes to Ecclesiastes 1:2; 12:8, where vanitas translates the Hebrew word hevel (הבל), which also includes the concept of transitoriness.

This concept reminds me, most especially, of the skull used in The Abominable Bride, which is actually Charles Allen Gilbert's 'All is Vanity' Illusion art.

Back to butterflies - butterflies are a staple component of vanitas art - paintings executed in the vanitas style were meant to remind viewers of the transience of life, the futility of pleasure, and the certainty of death. They also provided a moral justification for painting attractive objects - in a way, it’s a justification for the vanity, or the human need of enjoyment of beautiful things. Below is a vanitas by Jan Sanders van Hemessen:

But butterflies are also considered an omen of death:

“Butterflies and moths were associated with death, sometimes merely as omens, sometimes as the soul or ghost.” These butterfly omens came in many ways. For example, in the nineteenth century United States, some people thought that a trio of butterflies was an omen of death.” [x]

Oh.

But I also think there’s more to the butterfly symbolism than Mary’s imminent death; I suggest that, in keeping with @loudest-subtext-in-tv M-Theory (suggesting that Mary was planted in John’s life by Moriarty), they symbolize Mary as Moriarty reincarnated following his death in TRF. That Moriarty had indeed not disappointed Sherlock - there was a posthumous game after all! That Sherlock was supposed to understand that while one form of Moriarty died on that roof, another had emerged, continuing the mission of burning Sherlock’s heart. Mary is Moriarty’s calling card, left behind in the crime scene. They’re different, but not separate, which is why Sherlock is so obsessed with Moriarty between HLV-T6T; he’s both wrong and correct at the same time.

So far, what I’ve suggested is that in Sherlock, skulls are Sherlock’s symbolic memento mori - the skulls are associated with Sherlock in some very significant ways.

However, Mary’s character was doomed from the start - she dies during Sherlock’s hiatus in ACD canon. I believe many fans assumed Sherlock’s Mary expected the same fate when she was introduced to the show. Although the story of Samarra is told by Sherlock, who expects his own death in T6T, Mary is the one who ends up dying.

Butterflies in ACD canon

Searching for the significance of butterflies in the ACD and BBC canon led me to a number of interesting directions in meta written by others.

The first and probably the best place to start is this meta post by @tendergingergirl, which I strongly suggest you read in full: Butterflies, Sexual Deviancy & The Bloodline Theory in The Hound of The Baskervilles.

Stapleton also has a hobby. He collects bugs…Butterflies, to be exact. This can often be seen as purely academic, but depending on the actions of the hobbyist, they can indicate more disturbing things. That of holding something vulnerable captive, treating it as your hostage, pinning it down. The torture of animals has come to be a good indicator of someone who would do this to a human. He had already shown callousness by laughing as he recounts to Holmes of ponies wandering onto the Moor, becoming trapped, and dying. In 1974, there was a release of a new edition of Sherlock Holmes stories, with the forward of The Hound of The Baskervilles written by British author, John Fowles. He is responsible for several well-known works, including The French Lieutenant’s Wife. Another, was a novel that Mason finds himself wondering why Fowles doesn’t mention in his introduction, since the villain is such a close parallel to Stapleton.(but as we have learned through the study of ACD, most writers will not come right out and say where they got their inspiration. They like for you to guess!)

A lonely young man, works as a clerk, and collects butterflies, becomes obsessed with a pretty young girl, Miranda, an art student. He chloroforms, and kidnaps her, taking her to his cellar basement, to add Miranda to his collection. That book was called The Collector. But what else does it sound like?

“So yes, I googled. From an article on the release of the movie’s Documentary. "The docu proves a poor reference point for anyone who wants to understand the literary and movie links for “Lambs.” There’s no mention, for example, of how Harris partly based the butterfly-loving Bill on John Fowles’ kidnapper in “The Collector” …And here I thought Mofftiss added allusions to Silence of The Lambs into Sherlock just for fun. SMH.”

@tendergingergirl also added this photo to their post:

So what we have here is a chain of metatextualities/inspiration, starting with ACD’s THOB, where Jack Stapelton inspires a book about a disturbed butterfly collector (The Collector by John Fowles), which inspires a the author of Silence of the Lambs in creation of his character Buffalo Bill, a serial murderer who inserts a death's head moth into the victim's throat because he is fascinated by the insect's metamorphosis. Silence of the Lambs served as inspiration for Sherlock as analyzed by @garkgatiss in Bond, Hannibal, and Holmes (I suggest you read the whole Hannibal section) .

Let’s look again at some imagery from His Last Vow. Mary shoots Sherlock’s heart, essentially burning his heart out, and who does Sherlock meet in his Mind Palace in a very cocoon-like straightjacket? Yes, the dead dude who encourages him to die already (“one more push, and off you pop”).

What’s the next thing we as an audience see once Sherlock opens his eyes? Mary coming to the hospital to hear that Sherlock had, in fact, survived. And what is she wearing? Her butterfly scarf, one which will another appearance later in the episode, during the tarmac scene.

I also find it interesting that in the context of Sherlock and Silence of the Lamb, there’s an element of gender-switching between Moriarty and Mary. Buffalo Bill, the murderer from Silence of the Lambs, skins bodies of women to create himself a woman’s 'suit’; in Sherlock, Moriarty is a man-villain who transforms into a female-villain in the form of a bride and/or Mary.

By the way, who else is obsessed with his suits?

Also, let’s not forget the worms, maggots and other such crawlers in the grave scene:

Now, let’s go over some of the photos I included in the beginning of this post a bit further.

Mrs. Hudson’s butterfly tea set is first shown in TEH - she uses it to serve John tea when he comes visiting her and tellis her about Mary. We also see it near John’s chair on the day of the wedding. This isn’t Sherlock’s set - his set is different, featuring the British Isles. Moriarty drinks from it in TRF. The next tea set we see, now that Moriarty is dead, is the butterflies one. In TLD, Mrs. Hudson uses Sherlock’s tea set - the butterflies are gone.

Mary’s bedroom wallpaper is very feminine, with flowers and butterflies, both complementing symbols while also very common in vanitas art. Much like Mrs. Hudson’s wallpaper in Baker Street, Mary’s wallpaper is supposed to show the contrast between Mary’s flat/Mary and Sherlock’s flat/Sherlock.

There’s an interesting moth reference in The Empty Hearse, which in my opinion, is Mary & Moriarty related. In short, in a previous piece of meta I wrote, I suggested that the Jack the Ripper case in TEH is subtext alluding to Mary’s skeletons, which Sherlock ignores because he’s upset by his reception by John. And what’s one of the first things Sherlock notices about the skeleton? New mothballs smell, hinting at an attempt to get rid of moth/butterflies - maybe a hint to the fact that Sherlock has a chance to discover the truth about Mary but misses it. Also, in the context of Mary and the Jack the Ripper case, notice this transition:

Transitions are important on Sherlock - they’re nearly always there to draw our attention.

This, I think, is perhaps the most telling about a possible connection between Mary and Moriarty: we have both magpies (a Moriarty hint) and butterflies together here. This isn’t the only hint of Mary’s past we get in the wedding; there is, after all, the telegram from CAM.

Mary’s scarf is colorful, and it appears by the time Sherlock’s subconscious suspects Mary. Mary’s black butterfly dress - an ominous dress, I’d say - is the one she wears during the labour scene in the car. The third photo is a behind the scenes photo uploaded by Amanda Abbington, although I’m unsure whether this necklace is AA’s or Mary’s (but I couldn’t pass on including this).

Interestingly, the butterflies do not appear in Rosie’s context - either because it’s a telling sign that Mary won’t be with us much longer, or because Rosie is spared being considered a part of the ‘burning Sherlock’s heart’ plan. Sherlock, on the surface, seems to love Rosie and accepts her.

Also, another BTS photograph I came across during my research which I’ve never seen before and ties nicely to the vanity topic is this one (found here):

The Death's-head hawkmoth and ‘Death with Interruptions’

You’ll recall that I referenced The Collector and Silence of the Lambs, both featuring butterflies on their cover art.

The Silence of the Lambs cover features Acherontia atropos, otherwise known as the death's-head hawkmoth. It gets its name from the sinister-looking skull shape on its back. In many cultures it is thought to be an omen of death. In a bit of another coincidental but stunning piece of symbolism, all three species of the Death's-head hawkmoth are commonly observed raiding beehives of different species of honey bee; A. atropos only invades colonies of the well-known western honey bee, Apis mellifera, and feeds on both nectar and honey. They can move about in hives without being disturbed because they mimic the scent of the bees and are not recognised as intruders.

Anyway, the use of Acherontia atropos reminded me of the book ‘Death with Interruptions’ by Jose Saramago. Interestingly, this is another book about a deathly collector with a butterfly on the cover:

In Death with Interruptions death is a woman, and she falls in love with one of her future victims. She decides to spare his life: Every time death sends him his letter [notifying him of his imminent death], it gets returned. death discovers that, without reason, this man has mistakenly not been killed. Although originally intending merely to analyse this man and discover why he is unique, death eventually becomes infatuated with him, so much so that she takes on human form to meet him. Upon visiting the cellist, she plans to personally give him the letter; instead, she falls in love with him, and, by doing so, she becomes even more human-like.

It’s pretty common to read theories about Mary who maybe was one of the assassins due to kill John both at the pool and in front of Barts. So we have a death harbinger trying to kill someone twice and failing. She then falls in love with him.

But how does the butterfly fit in?

Well, at some point in the story, death (that’s her name, sans a capital d), contemplates that using the death head butterfly, instead of a violet piece of paper, would have sent a much stronger message to those whose death is coming for.

And here’s another last bit of coincidental reference to Sherlock: I’d argue shades of purple, among them shades of violet, are associated with Mary and her secrets. There’s the purple dress she wears in TEH, her bridesmaids’ dresses include various shades of purple (including what I would argue was a violet sash) and let’s not forget:

Oh and, by the way, remember the song Donde Estas, Yolanda from TEH, about a woman called Yolanda? Always thought it was a bit of an odd choice for a song?

Yolanda is a female given name, of Greek origin, meaning Violet.

Thoughts?

Credits: thank you @lukessense for directing me to @tendergingergirl meta about butterflies. Episode screenshots are from kissthemgoodbye.net.

@sarahthecoat @tjlcisthenewsexy @devoursjohnlock @inevitably-johnlocked @shylockgnomes @possiblyimbiassed @raggedyblue @ebaeschnbliah @gosherlocked @waitedforgarridebs @helloliriels

#mary mosrtan #butterflies #silence of the lambs #the collector #meta #sherlock meta #tjlc #johnlockendgame #jim moriarty

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neon-junkie · 4 years ago

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In story mode do you ever wish you could have got more out of a character?

Like ok so, I absolutely love Sean. He’s my favourite NPC next Flaco and Kieran. And don’t get me wrong I loved his death, it was quick and over in a second. No sob story and you had to go into a gunfight so you don’t have time to dwell on it.

I just wish I could have seen more from him, he’s such a fun character, but in story mode I wish I had at least one more side quest/interaction with him. I would have liked it if I could meet him in Valintine’s saloon and you could get drunk with him. Like no side quest marker it’s just a random encounter you could stumble upon.

Kieran, I’ll admit I miss him. But I would have liked a side quest/random encounter where you could take him into valintine to get his hair and beard cut because no one trusts him to be let out of camp on his own. I think it would have made a player still dwelling on the ‘he was an O’Driscolls, still is’ mindest see that he isn’t such a bad guy. Or if you miss that encounter you could just have a horse race with him, I’d love to race against Branwen.

I understand with Flaco and online makes up for his lack in story mode so he gets a free pass from me. In online I’m glad you can do jobs for Sean, it just makes me miss his character so much more in story though. I do wish you could encounter Kieran in online though :[

Any characters you wish were utilised a little bettter?

bruh. I went off on this.... it’s long so I’ll add it all under the cut lmao

I agree with ALL of this, I would have loved more of those mini-missions, but It think R* could easily add a few more characters to online!! Kieran - You can meet him up in the O'Driscoll camp where we first find him in story. He's in the barn or whatever, and when you first stumble across him, he insists you get out of here because "this is O'Driscoll territory! y-you don't wanna get hurt, so go on, get goin'!" Kieran then realizes you're here for work, and says he can't pay much, but he can offer you a few jobs. He asks for hunting around the area, maybe there's wolves nearby that keep getting too close to the camp? he'll also ask for herb collecting missions, like collecting some burdock root for him because "I can't leave the camp, but you can! you mind gettin' some for me?" Charlotte & her husband - These two are in their home, maybe sitting on the porch when they see you approach. They greet you with a little bit of caution at first, but realize you're just another traveller who's looking to make some cash. They offer you jobs where you hunt around the area for them, maybe taking out some of the Murdfree Brood and rescuing their friends from them. Like Sadie&Jakey, one of them will be in the house at a time, and we'll get to see what their relationship was like before Charlottes husband passed. Albert and Marko - They can both have missions similar to how we see them in story mode. Albert asks you to protect him whilst he does photography, and Marko asks you to collect items here and there for his robot build. Shit, maybe Charles Chantenty could be found running around Saint Denis? and asks you to take out people he doesn't like? or steal art supplies for him? I'm also gonna add that I want MORE content for Marshal Davies. It would make sense if you randomly bump into him at the Sheriffs Office, and he explains that he switches between them to ensure the Sheriffs are all doing their job? It'd be nice to add mini cut scenes for the bounties, rather than just taking their poster off a board, so Marshal Davies could do that?! idk just gimme more of him!!!!!! We need a stranger at Manzanita Post, idc who it is, just give me a Manzanita stranger!! maybe Nils? and he gives you your missions on a slip of paper since all he can say is 'okay.' (oh and 'beechers hope?? okkayy...') Gavins friend? I'm surprised we don't see him walking around towns, but I guess it's because people would try and grief him cause they're arseholes. Anyway... story mode.... I'm REALLY surprised that R* didn't make it a thing where you can bump into other camp members out in the wild. Apparently you can sometimes see them riding about? but I've never had that pop up in my game... I'd also love to have drinks with them, or have a blip appear on my map to show they're in danger, to find that one of them has got into a bar fight looool As for your ideas of Kieran, YES. A lot of people don't even mourn Kieran because there's not much of him, and you don't see his character develop, not unless you hang around camp a lot. I think more people would have fallen for him if you 'helped him get back on his feet', so like you said, taken him out for a haircut and some new clothes, helped him build himself back up after being beaten down by the O'Driscolls. I think the women should have had more missions too. I'm surprised that Karen and Susan aren't brought out onto the odd heist, Karen especially seeing as shes so eager. It would have been nice to see more camp interactions with them, especially ones where maybe they're all playing with Jack, or ranking all the camp guys xD

There needs to be a filler encounter between Micah and Javier. I know we see them drinking together, but Javier suddenly trusts Micah enough in Chapter 6? I need more of Micah sucking up to him, along with most of the other camp members, as a lot of them just suddenly take his side when it all kicks off.

Trelawny magic tricks. That's all I need to say.

More of Bill and Javier, some nice camp interactions? or maybe we see them drinking at the Saloon and Javiers like "yeah Bill's an arse but he apologized so I'm giving him a second chance." Since Javier is find bailing Bills ass in RDR1, so I'd like to see how they got to that point.

It would have been nice if R* did decide to keep the camp member buddy thing, you know where you were able to pick somebody to come out into the open world with you? I think that would have helped show each camp members personality a LOT.

Okay. I'll stop rambling now, but these are my suggestions<3

#long post #rdr #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #Anonymous

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carewyncromwell · 4 years ago

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How about 28 and 29?

28. …Olivia Green is a teacher or teacher’s assistant while your MC is at school?

After Duncan’s death and Jacob’s expulsion and disappearance, Olivia was desperate to continue what she and her friends started, not just to protect the school from the Vaults’ curses, but to find her missing friend and keep R from getting their mitts on the Vaults’ “treasure.” And so, somewhat reluctantly, she put her dreams of joining the Wizarding Wireless Network on hold and took a job at Hogwarts as a Care of Magical Creatures Teacher’s Assistant under Professor Kettleburn. When Carewyn arrived at school, Olivia didn’t immediately seek her out or mention her connection to her brother, as she had a feeling (from what Jacob had always told her about Carewyn) that she’d sacrifice anything she had to in order to take care of others...and sure enough, Olivia found that was indeed true when Carewyn and her friends went behind the teachers’ backs and successfully broke the curse on the Ice Vault. Dumbledore was pleased by Carewyn’s efforts and pleasantly refused to punish her for it since “there was no proof that she and her friends were ever actually there,” but Olivia was much less pleased. She pulled the three students suspected of going into the Vault (Carewyn, Ben, and Bill) aside separately, warning all of them that seeking out the Vaults would only put them and the ones they cared about most in danger and assuring them that she’d take care of the Vaults so they didn’t have to. Ben was initially prepared to take Olivia at her word, but both Bill and Carewyn were a bit less sure, a sentiment echoed by both Rowan and Penny when they learned about it. Carewyn of course was not the sort of person to trust anyone else to rescue Jacob, so she stubbornly persisted regardless of Olivia’s warning. She, Bill, Barnaby, and Tulip dealt with the Fear Vault, only to be confronted by Olivia in the hallway afterwards. Olivia again told Carewyn to stay away from the Vaults -- her voice was never harsh or cruel, but very somber and grim.

“I know you want to save your sibling, Carewyn. I don’t doubt he would too, if your positions were switched. But your involvement with the Vaults has caught the eye of some very dangerous people...some of which are on their way to Hogwarts as we speak. Trust me...as good as it is that you want to save Hogwarts and the ones you love...the Cursed Vaults are like Charybdis -- a monstrous whirlpool. Once you swim into it...there’s no escape for you, or for those you care for most. Jacob wouldn’t want you to end up in the same trap that ensnared him. ...For your brother’s sake, Carewyn...stay away from the Vaults. Keep your head down. And beware the witch called Rakepick.”

The following year brought Patricia Rakepick to the school. Instantly there was a sharp tension between philosophical, soft-spoken Olivia and the blunt, methodical Rakepick, and it didn’t take long for Carewyn’s friends to be split down the middle about who Carewyn should trust. People like Tulip and Ben were more likely to trust Olivia since her temperament was more level and she seemed less morally dodgy, while others like Merula and Bill were more likely to trust Rakepick since she was a professional Cursebreaker and both more active and willing to let them help her in dealing with the Vaults. Others like Rowan thought they both wanted to be helpful, but might not know how best to do so. Carewyn herself didn’t trust either woman because she could sense they both had information about what had happened to Jacob that they weren’t sharing with her, which the young Cromwell greatly resented. Her opinion was changed ever-so-slightly when Olivia actually helped Carewyn, Bill, Charlie, Torvus, and Hagrid deal with the Forest Vault, and Torvus greeted Olivia like an old friend. It was this that proved to Carewyn that Olivia had indeed been hiding something about Jacob -- namely, that they had been friends.

The following school year, Rakepick became and thrived as the DADA professor and Olivia introduced Carewyn to Duncan Ashe, who she’d remained friends with even after he became a ghost. Carewyn continued to distrust both Rakepick and Olivia the entire year, but as time went by, she found that each of them were more than how they appeared. Olivia in a lot of ways was like her mother, Lane -- patient, modest, and wise beyond her years, but always a bit out-of-step with the world and people around her and detached and self-sufficient to a fault, to the extent that she had difficulty taking charge or inspiring confidence. Rakepick, meanwhile, was a lot like Carewyn herself, inspiring her students with a lot of the same traits that Carewyn’s friends admired in her. It was in the Portrait Vault when it became crystal clear who was truly trustworthy -- both witches had R’s scarlet mark on their cheek during that final confrontation, when their physical contact made the marks visible...but only one had followed the group to the Vault with the help of Pitts Apparating with her after them and protected them from the other when she attacked her students.

“After going on a mission with you, Patricia, Jacob disappeared without a trace,” said Olivia, her normally level, misty voice rippling with an odd amount of ice. “If you think I’m going to let you take Carewyn away from her friends the way you did Jacob...then you’re wrong.”

29. …Your MC is involved with R before attending Hogwarts and decides to rebel against them?

I think this scenario would fit best in a world where Lane was killed and grandfather Charles Cromwell raised Jacob and Carewyn instead. In that situation, Jacob would’ve been old enough to remember his mother and so always would’ve nurtured some rebellion against Charles and R, even while being among their ranks. After he tried and failed to escape the Cromwell mansion with Carewyn in tow, Charles took measures to ensure that Jacob and Carewyn were kept apart and that Jacob was properly punished. The Cromwell patriarch deliberately sent Jacob to the Portrait Vault knowing he’d likely be imprisoned in one of the Portraits, and then set about magically modifying Carewyn’s memory so as to remove all of her memories of Jacob.

From that point on, Carewyn was raised in the same suffocating kind of home as her mother Lane was, without any memory of the brother who’d always tried to protect her. She did everything she could to do what was best for herself, which ended up being what Charles wanted her to be. Carewyn received her scarlet “R” mark (invisible on one’s cheek unless touched by another member of R) before even attending Hogwarts, not just because of her great magical potential but as a reminder that she belonged to R, the Cromwells, and most importantly Charles.

Despite Carewyn finding some small satisfaction in her unpleasant life, however, her dreams were haunted by the face of a young man with dark curls and eyes just like hers...someone she’d never seen in her life, and yet spoke to her with such desperation and affection as if he knew her. The young man was a thorn in Carewyn’s side even as she set about breaking the Vaults’ curses on R’s orders, even sometimes enlisting the support of fellow students like Rowan Khanna, Ben Copper, and Bill Weasley. Eventually it got to the point that Carewyn confided in Rowan about her dreams. Rowan couldn’t find any information about dream symbolism or Divination that could answer Carewyn’s questions, but as Carewyn pursued the Vaults, the young man’s voice and face became clearer and her need to understand what or who he was grew stronger.

Then, in her fifth year, Carewyn stumbled upon a ghost called Duncan Ashe in the Prefects’ Bathroom, who spoke with such resentment about “her brother, Jacob.” Carewyn was bewildered, since as far as she knew, she didn’t have a brother -- but Bill and Charlie, who were both with Carewyn that day, did some investigation on their own and found out from Madame Rosmerta that, yes, indeed, there was once a Hogwarts student named Jacob Cromwell, who’d been expelled and disappeared under unusual circumstances seven years previously. All pictures of him and nearly all mention of him, however, had been ripped out of every Hogwarts yearbook in the library. Carewyn begged Rosmerta if she knew of anyone who might have a picture of Jacob, and learned that Professor Flitwick had been his Head of House. Miraculously, the once-Dueling Champion was able to track down one picture of him at the Hogwarts Dueling Club. Sure enough...this “Jacob” was the boy Carewyn had seen in her dreams as long as she could remember...the one who said he was trapped in the Portrait Vault.

It was this point that made Carewyn decide that she’d have to take matters into her own hands. Knowing Rakepick was involved with R, Carewyn decided to subvert R’s orders, steal the Portrait, and go to the Vault without her, taking only Bill, Merula, Charlie, and Ben with her. After they took down the dragon, Carewyn used her Legilimency to open the Vault and rescue Jacob. Jacob threw his arms around his little sister, tears of relief and pain streaming down his face, as he apologized over and over for failing her and tried to explain everything. Bill, Ben, Charlie, and Merula were horrified by what they heard, but decided to stand by Carewyn. Bill immediately proposed that they go straight to Dumbledore and tell him everything -- although Carewyn and Jacob were both uncertain, he eventually convinced them, and the group returned to school. As soon as they arrived, Rakepick was there to confront them, with a small mob of scarlet-robed R members accompanying her. The students were outnumbered ten to one...and yet Carewyn, for once in her life, decided not to look just after herself. Jacob -- Bill -- Charlie -- Ben -- even Merula -- in that moment, she was surrounded by people who cared about her...even after all of the lies she’d told them, even with how scared they were. Now it was her turn to care about them.

HPHM AU Ask!

#HPHM AU ask #carewyn cromwell #jacob cromwell #olivia green #duncan ashe #patricia rakepick #charles cromwell

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scullymakesmefeelautopsyturvy · 5 years ago

Text

Several Times Scully Got Locked Out Of Her Motel Room In Her Scanties (First Time Smut Ensues) Chapter One

Space (Season One)

They sat on the city steps in the midday sunshine awaiting another of Mulder’s mysterious informants. She, eating a sad little excuse for a sandwich: cucumber-dampened white bread encompassing roast chicken lovingly Saran-wrapped and pressed into her hand after Sunday lunch at her parents’ house. An awkward lunch, during which her father had accomplished the stellar feat of not asking her about her work once. I should have cheered everyone up by asking if anyone had heard from Charles lately, Melissa had joked, darkly, over the phone afterwards.

The sandwich stuck in her throat a little as she swallowed, and out of nowhere, everything felt so… insufficient.

Was this really her life now? Crackpots and conservative suits and no sex since Jack? Reading journals alone on Friday nights and eating her mother’s leftovers?

She was still stashing a fastidiously initialed brown bag in the Bureau staff kitchen fridge each morning, as she had been in the habit of doing at Quantico.

Dana Katherine Scully, you’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore, she told herself.

Perhaps it was time to graduate to lunch in the cafeteria, like one of the big kids.

Mulder nibbled on his inescapable sunflower seeds. Rental car cup holders. The top drawer of the basement desk. The bottom drawer, and the middle. Even loose, once, inexplicably, in her suitcase when she arrived home from a three-night case in Iowa. They were everywhere, pervading her entire life with their woody scent and their easy charm just like the man who unceasingly consumed them.

He was close, now, his knees spread wide and swinging with casual rich-kid confidence as he began to lose patience with his anonymous NASA tipster. Scully kept her stockinged legs primly pressed together, her well-lined heavy linen skirt draping over her kneecaps, preserving her modesty. His fingertips brushed her own as he handed her the informant’s note, and she was glad of the excuse to break his gaze, to look down and away from his face; the inevitable thrill she was coming to know so well shooting through her body from tip to toes.

When the Space Program whistleblower did arrive, it was a she; a development Scully could well have done without. Especially one as… developed as this.

Long and lean, blonde, finessed; Michelle Generoo looked exactly like the full-sized version of the girls Scully imagined Mulder growing up with on Martha’s Vineyard, summering in Rhode Island, picnicking on lush lawns by sparkling waters while she herself played hopscotch with scavenged pebbles on Navy base blacktop, or avoided cracks in uneven paving slabs as she skipped along in hand-me-down pleated skirts and fraying hand-knitted sweaters. This was probably exactly the WASP-y horsewoman type Mulder’s parents had always envisaged him marrying, with her tweed jacket and her long silky locks and her mirror-lensed aviators.

Not a squat, pale, Irish Catholic Navy brat with full cheeks, wiry russet hair and stubborn freckles that were probably popping exponentially with every second spent sitting in this sunshine. Who still brought homemade sandwiches to work.

Michelle Generoo: Mission Control Communications Commander for the Space Program in Houston. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me now, for I must have sinned, and am being punished with the early-afternoon arrival of Fox Mulder’s ideal woman, sent from heaven to enact my own personal hell.

Scully hated this feeling: this creeping sense of little sister inferiority. It was the mid-semester first day at a new school all over again, having been transplanted with her father’s latest deployment; Bill laughing and joking with the jocks or the prettiest clique of girls he could find, she hiding with a book in the library. It was enviously watching Melissa tame her curls into elaborate braids when all she could manage was a stubby ponytail with lumps at her crown, aged seven, twelve, twenty-nine.

What was it about prepubescent inadequacies that made them so infuriatingly unassailable? Successfully reinterpreting Einstein and near-perfect pistol qualification scores had only ever compensated for so much.

At the mention of a fiancé - a Shuttle Commanding astronaut fiancé, no less - Scully relaxed somewhat. For once, she was glad that Mulder’s particular obsession with certain matters of the universe was a little less than impressive to the casual observer.

Mulder disappeared off into the city on some unspecified errand, and sent her back to the Hoover Building to arrange flights and accommodation, agreeing to meet her at the airport.

On the plane, he seemed disappointed when she didn’t want to read his brand new copy of NASA: A History of American Space Travel, and peppered her with trivia instead.

“Did you know, all twelve men who walked on the moon agree, the surface smells like spent gunpowder?”

“Oh really,” Scully said. “And what did the women say?”

Mulder looked a little uncomfortable. Having made her point about why she might, perhaps, feel a little excluded from his spaceboy enthusiasm, Scully pondered this fact.

“They can’t remove their helmet on the moon; there’s no atmosphere.” She countered. “How do they know what it smells like?”

“From the dust left over on their spacesuits,” Mulder was clearly happy to be able to inform her.

Scully frowned at him.

“You think they’re so cool, don’t you Mulder?”

He looked personally injured. “Scully, how can you be the one person in the universe - a physicist, no less - who doesn’t think space travel is cool?”

She turned her torso in her narrow seat to face him.

“Mulder, when I was five years old, for Apollo 11, I was just as excited as you are now. My older brother and sister and I followed the news of the mission; we watched the moon landing just like everybody else. Bill and Melissa dressed up as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin for Halloween that year; they made me be the Stars and Stripes so we could all pose for photos together. I had to stick my arm out and wobble the flag. We were just as space crazed as anyone. And over the years, as the missions continued, I read everything, I mean everything-” Mulder nodded, he could surely believe that of Scully at any age - “and I found out some trivia of my own.”

Mulder titled his head, curious.

“You know, a spacesuit is a sealed environment. It has to be airtight, right?”

Mulder nodded.

“And spacewalks last between five and eight hours on average.”

Mulder was listening intently.

“Well, there’s… nowhere to… go. When you have to go,” she gestured euphemistically. “And in a zero-gravity environment - or any environment, in fact - you don’t want to just relieve yourself inside the suit.”

Mulder frowned.

“So they wear these… things. It’s called a MAG: A Maximum Absorbency Garment,” she enunciated carefully. “You just… let it go, and it… absorbs it.”

Mulder looked perturbed.

“So basically, underneath that cool, space-exploring exterior,” Scully continued, “you’ve got a bunch of highly trained, hero-worshipped men - and now, women - floating around wearing adult diapers.”

Mulder swallowed hard.

“You know, I have a little brother. Charles. When he was still wearing Pampers I would watch my mom changing him, and I’d smell those foul odors and witness the frankly terrifying contents in some detail, and I just - I could never look at astronauts in the same way again after I found out about the MAG. I don’t know, it just ruined it for me.”

Her partner sat back quietly in his chair, more than a little disturbed.

Scully smiled at him weakly, and decided to take a nap.

On the tarmac in Houston, the cabin lights, dimmed for landing, switched back to full brightness as the seatbelt indicator dinged off. Mulder sprang out of his seat, already reaching up for the overhead bins to retrieve their luggage.

Scully sat calmly with her forest-green briefcase on her lap, not willing to pointlessly stand for ten minutes while the passengers in rows A-R filed interminably slowly up the aisle, huffing and checking her watch as though that would change the physics of the aircraft and hurry anything along.

No, patience had always been her friend; she would await her turn peacefully, could wait for anything forever, so long as she knew for certain it was coming to her.

Alighted, they bypassed the checked baggage carousels, Mulder carrying the suitcases and Scully toting only her leather satchel. The pair walked to the Lariat desk, where Scully hung back, and Mulder flirted with the smiling clerk working the night shift.

In the car, Mulder questioned her again about the arrangements.

“Intercontinental, Scully? It’s probably the furthest possible airport from the Space Center.”

“...and all requisitions would let me book at such late notice. The flights into Hobby were almost double the cost. It would be a waste of taxpayers’ money.” She signalled right, checking both directions.

“Are we heading further North, Scully?” Mulder asked, checking the constellations through the windshield.

She tsked and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “It’s late. If you want to make all future travel bookings, be my guest, Mulder. But as it stands we’ll stay up here tonight, drive down for our eight-thirty a.m., and stay down there from tomorrow.”

At the mention of the morning meeting with Lt. Belt, Mulder brightened, and stuck his head back in his book for the remainder of the journey to their motel.

When they arrived at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, she threw him a look. A warning shot.

Don’t say a word, Mulder.

The motel took shabby to a whole new level: the paintwork was more chips than oil-based matte; the blown bulbs outnumbered the working ones, the woodwork of the bare-bones portico looked like it should have been condemned alongside the Rosenbergs.

The sign on the office door declared, ‘Desk open 7 a.m. - 10 p.m. ONLY ring bell outside of opening hours for ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.’

Scully checked her watch. It was approaching midnight. A handwritten Post-It stuck at an angle underneath read, ‘Scully booking, rooms # 8 & 12. Doors open. Keycards inside.’

“Always nice to experience that famous Southern hospitality,” Mulder deadpanned, peeling the note from the glass. They moved along the walkway, counting up as they went.

The door to number eight was propped barely ajar with a rotting two-by-four. Scully could see the square of exposed woodwork where an old lock mechanism had been removed: replaced by a newfangled electronic keycard system. She ran her eyes over the crumbling porch roof and thought, Really? This is where they chose to invest their refurb budget?

Mulder pushed the door open for Scully and held her gaze as she stared at him momentarily. He looked like he was about to follow her into the room.

“Thanks,” she gulped, taking her suitcase from his hand.

But he stayed put outside, grabbing the handle to pull the door shut, double checking their plans for the morning. “See you at seven-fifteen then? All checks complete and ready to strap ourselves into the command module?” He grinned.

Scully dropped her case onto the bed and sighed. He was going to be insufferable tomorrow.

***

After showering, hanging up her burgundy pantsuit for the next day, then losing a fight with the room’s overactive heater, Scully unravelled the tightly rolled pink satin pajamas from her suitcase. You get fewer wrinkles if you roll rather than fold, her mother had taught her.

Stepping into them, she could already feel herself perspiring lightly, and wondered if it would be better to do without the pajamas or the comforter. Her mind flashed to the various possible emergencies that might see her fleeing her room in the middle of the night: a fire, a tornado, an intruder.

Keep the pajamas, lose the comforter, she decided.

But she suspected she’d need more to keep herself cool. She remembered passing an ice machine a few doors down, and grabbed a metal bucket left on the dresser for just such purposes, tucking her keycard into the breast pocket of her nightwear as she went.

She was so warm and the ice machine was so close, she didn’t even bother with shoes as she tiptoed the few feet along the walkway. The machine hummed and clanked as she lifted the front and noisily plunged the bucket into the crisp, dry cubes.

Ice.

The Arctic Ice Core Project. Alaska. A sparsely appointed supply closet. Mulder crouching down to her level and hissing his balmy, furious breath directly into her face.

I don’t trust them. I WANT to trust you.

He’d been angry and sweaty and ripe, and it had been the two of them against the others. They’d made what felt like a binding pact, whispering conspiratorially; sealing it with their laying on of hands.

If she’d been asked prior to that about the most intimate part of a person’s body, she might have given the same answers as anyone else. Reproductive organs her studies had given her medical names for. Mammary glands meant for feeding young but warped by western culture into symbols of sex and shame. Perhaps the cushiony swell of the gluteus maximus, so favored by jocks, and creeps in bars.

But she’d finished that case on the Icy Cape with the discovery of more than a new species of worm; she’d learned for the first time about the deep, heady, overwhelming intimacy of touching another person at the back of the neck.

Jesus, she’d already been so wet when he’d grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back to inspect her spine. She feared her unguarded gasp had given her away. And when he’d brushed aside her hair and lain his whole palm against the nape of her neck, awaiting the telltale wriggle of the homicide-inducing parasite, it was she who had squirmed beneath the hot, unrelenting pressure.

Oh god, what he’d be able to do to her with those big, strong, capable hands.

Alaska at that latitude had average winter temperatures of less than zero degrees Fahrenheit. November on the North Slope saw little more than three hours of sunshine a day. They regularly experienced impenetrable blizzards that could freeze a person to death in under an hour.

But when Dana Scully thought of the Icy Cape, all she could feel was searing, blazing, pulsing heat.

She filled the ice bucket, slammed the machine shut, and carried her personal cooling system back to her room, balancing it on her hip like an infant as she swiped the keycard for entry.

She got a red light.

Furrowing her brow, she swiped again.

Red.

Again.

Red.

Sighing her frustration, she ran the card through the slot several more times, resting the bucket on the floor and jiggling the handle as she tried over and over for green, listening for the buzz of the latch electronically pulling back.

Nothing.

She threw her hands up in the air and tried twice more to no avail.

She looked about her for assistance, finding none. No one was about. She started off towards the office and slowed as she reached the door. She re-read the sign.

ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.

Well, she couldn’t get into her room. Surely that was an emergency. She pressed the bell and waited, but no one came. She pressed again, and again, nothing. This was ridiculous. She tried once more with the bell, and after two minutes, sighing furiously, strode back along the walkway, her bare toes starting to go numb. She’d successfully cooled off, at least.

She continued past room eight, doubling back to try the lock three more times then kicking the door with great vexation before jogging up towards number twelve, wrapping her arms around her breasts to warm herself. The ice bucket stood sentry, dripping condensation.

She lifted her knuckle to knock on Mulder’s door, then hesitated slightly. She stole a glance down at her pajamas. They were not thick, and clung to her curves, puckering at her bare nipples. Mulder had seen her wearing far less - had checked her for mosquito bites clad only in what her maternal Grandmother would have called her smalls on their very first case - and remained professional, but that had been a rare exception, borne of her neophyte panic. She worked so hard to be taken seriously, to be seen as a colleague and an expert and a peer, and not as a sexual object. It was hard to project an air of authority in pastel pink satin with your breasts announcing themselves to anyone within five hundred yards. But Jesus, it was freezing out, and she had to be up and dressed in less than seven hours. She wasn’t about to spend a frostbitten night out in the cold and give herself hypothermia for the sake of avoiding a little embarrassment. She was a fully grown woman; Mulder, a fully grown man. They were both adults here. They could be mature about this.

She knocked, hugging her chest again afterwards.

Mulder opened the door still in his shirt and tie, although his jacket was hung over the desk chair in the corner. The NASA book lay face down, open on the bed. He chewed on one of his infernal seeds.

“You okay, Scully?” he asked, frowning. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Couldn’t get back into my room,” Scully explained, huffing. “I went out for ice and my… the keycard doesn’t work.”

“You should ring the bell for the owners,” Mulder suggested, unhelpfully.

“I did,” Scully said, pointedly. “No answer.” She looked up at him and pressed her lips together apologetically. “Can I come in?”

“Of course, of course,” Mulder said, standing back to let her enter. He stood with his back to the door after it was closed. “You can sleep in here; it’s no bother. I’ll crash on the floor.”

“Thank you,” Scully said, perching on the desk. Mulder sat himself on the end of the bed and gazed over at her.

“You cold?” he asked.

Actually, Mulder’s room was as toasty as hers had been, and her toes were already thawing out.

“Warming up,” she said, thankfully.

“Just that you’re… hugging yourself,” he explained, gesturing at her arms, still clamped across her unsecured bosom.

“Oh,” she said, self-consciously, but let her arms drop slowly to her sides, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands for security. “I’m not… wearing very much, is all.”

“Oh,” he echoed softly, his eyes scanning the length of her nightwear all the way to the floor and back up again. Yes, she was certainly feeling some heat once again.

“What you are wearing is… very nice though.” His eyes settled on her own for a few seconds, then flicked down to her breasts, and she inhaled sharply, silently, she hoped in retrospect. When he looked back at her face, her mouth was hanging slightly open, and she caught herself, licking her lips for discipline, her chest heaving. He looked down again.

She felt her cheeks burning, and averted her eyes to the book on the bed, a change of focus for her mind, which was racing with thoughts of candlelight and shower-wet hair, of thermal shirts and platonic supply closet fumblings: Mulder and his fingertips the common denominator in these scenarios.

She forced herself to look back at him. He was comfortably staring now, his face giving nothing away, but she knew he was quite aware she’d seen him appreciating her exposed form. He was leaving this up to her.

She wrestled with her conscience.

She shouldn’t do this. They were partners. It was against Bureau policy. It was unprofessional. It could ruin her career if it ended badly. Worse, it could come between her and Mulder, drive a wedge between them and prise apart their newly cemented friendship.

But…

She thought of Oregon and hands and Alaska and ice, and she knew what she wanted.

You’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore...

She stood up slowly, wordlessly taking a few steps towards Mulder on the bed. Yes, they were both fully grown, and she had some very adult ideas about what they could do together.

She paused one or two paces from his knees, and held his gaze for a moment. She let her lips fall open once more, her breathing labored, and she saw his breath was keeping pace with her own.

She thought of Michelle Generoo, and of her own jealousies and insecurities, and second guessed herself momentarily. She’d always suspected she wasn’t Mulder’s type. Yes, he had moments ago brazenly taken in the sight of her nipples brushing against the silky confines of her pajama top, but he was a red-blooded straight male, and they had been right there, still standing at attention from her time out in the cold. And yes, he was looking at her intently now as she crossed the room, the propulsion of months and months of unverbalized, unresolved sexual tension at her back, but his expression was blank, and he might be nervously wondering how the hell he was going to abort this mission.

There was one way to be sure. He had done his fair share of looking; it was her turn to be brazen.

She dropped her gaze to his lap, seeking a different kind of green light.

In the dim glow coming from the slightly open bathroom door, she found exactly what she was seeking. The bulge that tented Mulder’s pants cast a promising shadow. She was go for launch.

She took another step, and found his eyeline once more.

His pupils were dilated, his lips pillow-soft and pouting, the ridge growing noticeably larger even in her peripheral vision.

She reached down for his left hand and brought it to her breast, pressing it against herself over the pajamas.

“Make me see stars, Mulder,” she whispered, breaking into a lazy smile.

His momentary expression of disbelief gave way to a grin, and he looked up at her with reverence. She let go of his fingers, dropping her arm to her side once again, and his palm moved with feathery softness over her breast, centering her nipple in the smoothest spot, where you’d clutch a baby’s fist, or a prized possession. The heat of his hand radiated through the satin, the friction of skin on fabric even more erotic than direct contact. Their gazes were locked. His mouth fell open a fraction, mirroring hers, and he raised his other hand to work both breasts, his fingers held up and away from her body as he traced circles with her hardened peaks against his deep volar arches. She closed her eyes and moaned, low and soft, letting her head fall backwards. Her knees went limp, and Mulder steadied her with one hand, docking her at the hip.

His grip sent shockwaves to her core, her pulse now strongest between her legs. She knew she was already leaving a damp mark on her pajama bottoms.

She lifted her head back up and looked down at Mulder, still seated on the edge of the comforter. They panted together in the quiet, each awestruck by the other, and Scully reached up to her top button, deftly pushing it through the opening with her delicately manicured fingertips. She did not avert her eyes from Mulder’s as she worked her way down to her waist, finally letting the shirt hang open at the front.

She took his left hand once more and tucked it inside the front panel, his massive palm easily encompassing the entire fleshy mound there. He squeezed her hip gently, cupping her and pulling her towards him at once, guiding her between his knees. Checking her eyes for continued consent, he brushed the center of her shirt to one side and revealed half of her chest to his vision for the first time.

“Oh, Scully,” he said in a hushed voice, and - permission silently granted by Scully’s hungry gaze - lifted his mouth to her nipple and latched on, sucking, circling his tongue around her hot, pink bud. She moaned again and grabbed the back of his head, twisting her fingers into his hair, her nails scratching at his scalp.

His mouth broke contact with her delicately pale skin, and he pushed the satin from her shoulders, letting it whoosh to the floor.

He was gazing up at her again, and she leaned down to kiss him now, finally allowing herself to experience in the flesh that which she had longed for, imagined, fantasized about for some time. Their lips met; wet, fervent, ravenous. Their shared craving drew them together, suctioning them to one another at the mouth as though they could consume one another entirely, and meant to. His salted breath mingled with her own, and their tongues tangled and danced. He ran his hand up her naked back, and her breasts pressed against his collarbone.

He pulled away, and she held the side of his face tightly to her bare chest, breathless, eyes closed.

“Scully,” he ventured, “are you sure about this?” He looked up at her with his soft, beautiful, hazel eyes. She didn’t know what had possessed her for so long, being able to resist those eyes all these months.

She straightened up, and took his hand once again, reaching behind herself to slide it down the back of her waistband, over her rounded ass, and into the molten cleft of her body. She spread her thighs as his fingers found her desire, parting and probing her on their voyage of discovery. He dipped a single digit inside her body, and she exhaled on a low moan.

“I’m sure, Mulder,” she murmured, smiling again. “Take me to the moon and back.”

He relaxed a little, his shoulders dropping, “Oh is that the game?” he teased, “Space puns?”

She shrugged playfully.

He smiled wide at her, or she thought he did; it was hard to see with her eyelashes fluttering closed. Her head dropped back once more as he pumped into her, his thumb resting fortuitously against the base of her perineum, that dark, forbidden, blissful spot. She felt alive, animal, raw. She let her breath come out ragged, allowed her rasps and moans to escape unbridled. Mulder paused his efforts for a second or two, leaving two fingers curled inside her, using his free hand to yank down her pajama pants. She helped, kicking them loose from her ankles as he grabbed a handful of her ass with his spare hand and pulled her toward the bed, reclining face up on the mattress and encouraging her to crawl on her knees up to his shoulders and sit back. Only then did he remove his fingers from inside of her, and her body sucked at them as he did, protesting their departure.

Scully was giddy with want, and Mulder looked up at her just then with such veneration that her heart burst with renewed affection for him. She’d never been made to feel more worthy in her life. This was so Mulder. She had not specifically realized it before, but this was how he often made her feel, in his best moments.

At the insistence of his hand pressing gently on her lower back, his fingers sticky with her own yearning, she lowered her sex to his mouth.

As soon as his velvet tongue met her clit, she cried out, almost lifting herself up on her knees at the shock of it. He held her steady, lapping at her hardened bundle of nerves with the flat of his tongue, softly at first, then applying more and more pressure as she sunk further down onto him, his chin pressing up into her heat, her slick juices gliding her inner walls against his light stubble. Oh Jesus, it was divine, and she called out his last name as she rode his face, her breath hitching in her throat as her trajectory was set to climax.

Scully chanced a glance downwards and saw that he was watching her in her ecstasy.

She was wanted. She was valued. She was enough.

She smiled down at him, not halting her movements, and reached up to pinch her own nipples with her dainty, expert hands. Mulder groaned his pleasure into her body, sucking and licking and holding her down so she could not get away.

“Fuck,” she gasped, and was lost; her face lifted to the heavens, her body and mind spinning and soaring in concupiscent formation, her voice clamorously invoking two thirds of the Trinity with various, stertorous monikers as she rocketed into her own private orbit.

Mulder massaged her hips and kept his chin tilted up into her as she twitched and panted and called out for God, and she felt her inner muscles contracting around his way-past-five-o-clock shadow. The humid air of his heavy breath rushed from his nose, tickling her pubic mound as his lips remained clamped over the hood of her clitoris. She exhaled the last of her shudders and sat back on her haunches, resting on his solid pectorals, running her tongue over her lips, wetting them with exhausted delight. Mulder’s chin glistened in the dim room, drenched, and she laughed, reaching down to wipe him off.

He let her, but then caught her by the wrist and held her soaked palm against his mouth, kissing it, hard, and smearing the residue of her arousal all over his lips once again. He licked them clean, unblinking.

She buried her face in her other hand and laughed shyly.

Mulder chuckled along with her, resting his hands on her still-spread thighs, his thumbs dipping close to her parted labia. She bit her lower lip and looked him in the eye once again, unable to hide her happiness.

“Luckily, out here, no one can hear you scream,” he joked, a question in his eyes suggesting he was worried he might not get away with this, and she pushed him away teasingly but giggled as she climbed off the bed. She picked up her pajama pants from the floor.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Mulder asked her as she stood up.

“I’ll be right back,” Scully responded, flinging the bottoms over her shoulder and sauntering off to the bathroom, looking back at him to make sure he was getting a good look at her receding form. “Don’t move.”

She glanced down at the enormous bulge in his pants once again, and knew she needn’t worry. He wouldn’t be going anywhere with that thing.

She returned a few minutes later, now wearing the satin pants, and sporting a dark gleam in her eye as she crept across the carpet towards him. When she reached the bed, he leaned up on his elbows and reached for her to pull her onto the bed, but she shook her head. Instead, she reached for his belt buckle and deliberately undid it, sliding the leather through the metal loop before reaching for his fly. As she unzipped his pants, Mulder lifted his hips, and his erection bounced up, pushing the flaps of the zipper to either side, straining against his boxer briefs. This was one shuttle she wouldn’t mind watching blast off, and she was ready to fire up the booster rockets.

She helped him remove his pants, then tugged at the waistband of his underwear. He removed it and lay himself back down on the bed, looking almost anxious.

“Mulder,” she reassured him. “Relax; I want this. I want you.” She whispered the last part, lowering herself to kneel at the foot of the bed.

His manhood loomed large, worryingly large for such a petite person, but Scully had never met a challenge she didn’t want to face. And face it she did; this hard, quivering invitation to wantonness inches from her mouth. He smelled like the Mulder she had come to know, only stronger here; that musky, spicy pheromone blend that brought her to her knees - now, finally, literally - and she breathed him in with abandon.

She gripped him in her hand, taking his tip into her mouth, sweeping her tongue around the head of his cock as he exhaled forcefully. She slid her closed palm up and down the base of his shaft, letting her saliva drip down to lubricate her ministrations, then working him further into her jaws so that the top of his penis rubbed just against her soft palate. She bobbed her head against him. He filled her mouth easily, and she thought of all the times she’d surreptitiously stolen a glance at his lap. Her curiosity had been satisfied, and then some. He was every bit as big as she’d always suspected, and her small oral cavity made for a snug fit as she worked him into a frenzy on the bed.

He clutched at the covers and murmured her name, encouraging her efforts all the while. He slowed her at one point, just managing to explain through his moans that he wanted to enjoy it a little longer, but his thighs were soon flexing again and she accelerated her pumping with her fist, sucking a little harder, working the tip of her tongue against his popping veins.

Mulder reached out and grabbed at her shoulder, clumsily pushing her back. “T-minus... T-minus five seconds and… and counting…” he sputtered, and she risked another tongue swirl, another deep thrust towards her throat.

“Scully!” Mulder choked out, and she pulled her mouth away. She kept her hand in place and he wrapped his own around it, working his erection skillfully as he delivered his impressive payload over their ten conjoined fingers and down onto his stomach. A coy smirk plastered itself across Scully’s face as he collapsed back onto the bed.

She raised herself from the floor, rolling her neck from side to side, and grabbed the box of tissues that was sitting on the nightstand. She held them out and sat on the mattress, one foot tucked under the opposite thigh, her breasts sitting proudly on her chest with the pert insouciance of youth.

Mulder cleaned himself up and aimed the balled up tissues at the wastebasket, missing. He sighed, but didn’t get up, so Scully laughingly dragged herself over and retrieved the errant missiles, dropping them into their intended target. She returned to the bed and lay herself down in the crook of Mulder’s arm.

He kissed her temple, a peck, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, then lifted her chin with one finger so that he could plant a full kiss on her mouth. She breathed in the scent of herself on his lips, their musky scents intermingling on both their tongues.

“Wow Scully,” he smiled. “That was fun.”

She nodded, grinning herself.

“Although, it was a bit of a close encounter, if you know what I mean,” he said, and she buried her face in his shoulder and laughed, any residual worries she’d had about this changing the fundamental nature of their relationship flying away on her huffing breath and disappearing into the vacuum of the mattress.

Mulder lifted his head. “Oh god, it’s past two,” he announced. He must have been checking the display on the alarm clock. “You should get some sleep Scully; you gotta drive us down to the Space Center in the morning.”

“Hey, it’s your turn,” she whined, sitting up and pulling the covers back to climb beneath. Her pajama shirt lay forgotten on the floor. Tornadoes and fires be damned, she’d already had her ABSOLUTE EMERGENCY for the night. It was too hot for more clothes, especially with Mulder’s intense body heat so close. And she did intend to hold him close tonight. And other nights, if he wanted her.

“Talk about a waste of taxpayer’s money, Scully,” Mulder droned, sitting up and shaking himself alert. “The two of us sharing a motel room while another sits empty.”

“Oh,” Scully replied sleepily. “Believe me, I’m demanding a refund on my room.”

“Demanding a refund, Scully?” Mulder queried, now folding his pants and setting them on the chair by his suit jacket. “You weren’t happy with the level of service you just received?”

She squinted one eye open to look at him. “Mmm, you? You did good, Mulder. I’ll be sure to leave a generous tip for you at check out.” She patted the mattress next to her.

“I’ll be right there,” he assured her, disappearing off into the bathroom.

She was asleep before he even turned out the light.

***

Scully had witnessed Mulder ejaculating for the first time at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, but she genuinely worried she might see an impromptu repeat performance when they arrived at the Space Center the following morning. Walking to their meeting, they bantered for the benefit of their NASA escort, Mulder practically bouncing off the walls and once again bombarding her with facts and figures.

“You remember all that stuff?” she asked, wearily, suppressing a yawn.

“You never wanted to be an astronaut when you were a kid, Scully?”

“Guess I missed that phase,” she sighed, mouthing ‘adult diapers’ at him behind their guide’s back.

She couldn’t help but make fun of him for his adulation of Lt. Belt, either. “Didn’t you want to get his autograph?” she teased as they left the Space Shuttle Program Director’s office, and when Mulder caught up with her he tapped her lightly on the ass in retaliation.

At some point in the afternoon, Mulder slunk off and made some phone calls, and when they drove to their accommodation after the successful launch that evening, it wasn’t the motel Scully had booked but a ritzy hotel with bellhops and room service. They finally made it back there in the middle of the night, following the complications with the mission and Lt. Belt’s questionable press conference.

At the reception desk, Mulder retrieved two keys, but when he held one out to Scully and she grasped her forefinger and thumb around it, he didn’t let go. She looked up to meet his smoldering gaze.

“What’s the matter Houston; do we… have a problem?” She managed to keep a straight face, just about.

“What do you say we waste some more taxpayer’s money tonight, Scully?” he grinned, his voice hushed, seductive. “Maybe we can cross... the final frontier?”

She halfheartedly rolled her eyes at his pun, but her insides were already aflame. She drew her mouth into a tight, shy smile, and nodded her agreement.

nb. I want everyone to know that I watched the Falcon 9 launch and I managed to refrain myself from using the phrase ‘good orbital insertion’ in this fic. And that was a struggle.

AO3 link here.

#xfsmut2020 #mulder and scully #mulder #scully #the x files #x files #x files fanfic

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kaimerala · 5 years ago

Text

A Very Red Dead Christmas

Merry Christmas @spursthatgojinglejangle from your @rdrsecretsanta! I hope your holidays are as fun as a night on the town with the Van Der Linde gang! Just don’t get arrested ;)

I got a bit carried away with your request, but who can resist Arthur being a big softie around cute animals? Hope you like it!

Friends in cold places

Summary: After Arthur is sent on a mission to find a Christmas tree for the gang, he gets caught out in a blizzard in Tall Trees. He finds shelter in an abandoned cabin, where he befriends another lost soul.

Word count 7k+

“You want me to do what?”

Arthur had been enjoying a quiet afternoon on watch duty before Dutch appeared. The leader of the Van Der Linde gang glowed with excitement at his latest brilliant idea.

“I want you to get us a Christmas tree!” Dutch repeated.

“Two days ago you told me to beat up a man for money,” Arthur said after a drag on his cigarette, “and today you want me to get you a fancy tree?”

“It’s for your family, son,” Dutch said, stars in his eyes. “What better way to boost morale than to get a real Christmas tree and decorate it?”

Arthur chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Dutch asked.

“I know I don’t have no choice in the matter.”

“Oh come on, Arthur! Think of what it would mean to young Jack.”

Arthur rolled the cigarette between his fingers, not meeting Dutch’s gaze. Sure, Jack was a good kid, but was his happiness worth the wolves and frostbite?

“Dutch, we just spent a year in the goddamn Grizzlies. Plenty of Christmas trees there. You sure there’s nothin’ else you need me to do? Nothin’ more… important?”

Dutch removed a cigar from one of the pockets on his vest. Arthur struck a match for him. “You can take one of them O’Driscoll horses we acquired last week,” Dutch said through a cloud of smoke. “That chestnut one is bigger than Alfred MacAlister’s ego. He could be a decent pack horse.”

“Hmf. As long as he doesn’t annoy Boadicea.”

Arthur sighed in resignation. Dutch would not be dissuaded.

“Fine. I’ll go tomorrow. If I don’t come back, remember you was the one who sent me to the mountains in the middle of winter for a tree.”

Dutch smiled victoriously. “That’s the spirit, son! The Christmas spirit!”

His task accomplished, Dutch turned and walked back to camp, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts and a cigarette stub.

The Van Der Linde gang had just settled in West Elizabeth, next to the Upper Montana River. They were less than an hour’s ride from Blackwater, their camp well-hidden in a grove of trees. The climate was milder in the south, but Arthur missed the solitude of the mountains. With no lawmen willing to follow their trail, the gang had enjoyed a freedom they had not tasted for years. But Dutch had big plans for Blackwater.

Charles appeared at dusk to swap shifts. The newcomer had already proven himself as a deadly gunman and brawler, but he never raised his voice or drank to excess. He possessed a quiet strength that Arthur admired.

“Dutch said you’re heading out tomorrow,” said Charles. His eyes were fixed ahead, on the plains of West Elizabeth rolling before them. “He mentioned something about Tall Trees.”

“Yeah. Not my first choice this time of year,” Arthur replied. “I take it the whole gang knows I’m on a very important mission to get a Christmas tree?”

“Dutch couldn’t contain himself. Everyone knows except for Jack and Abigail; he wants it to be a surprise for them.”

Arthur smiled and shook his head.

“Sounds about right. See ya later.”

Arthur shouldered his rifle and followed Charles’s footprints back to camp. Even now he still looked for Copper, but no-one ran up to greet him. He missed having a dog around.

The camp was nearly empty: most of the Van Der Linde gang were out scouting for opportunities or having fun in Blackwater and Strawberry. The soft glow of a kerosene lantern inside Dutch’s tent indicated that he was sharing a private evening with Molly. Abigail and Jack were in their tent too, already asleep. Pearson and Susan were standing together a short distance from camp, smoking and gossiping in the rapidly fading light. Which left the usual suspects sitting around the fire: John, Bill, Uncle, and Micah.

“Mister Morgan!” Micah drawled, his voice slurred with whiskey. “Seen any fairies today? Or Sasquatches?”

“Just the ones I’m seein’ now.”

This earned a drunken guffaw from John, but the others weren’t impressed.

“Think you’re so clever, eh Morgan?” Bill said thickly. “Well you ain’t smart.”

“Never said I was,” Arthur replied, walking past the campfire to Pearson’s stew pot. “But I do more work than any of you cowpokes.”

This led to an outcry from Bill, Micah, and Uncle. It was almost too easy to rile them up. John laughed: he was too far gone to care about anything.

Arthur ignored them, scooping Pearson’s stew into a bowl. There was meat in it today, but he couldn’t tell what species had made it into the pot.

“Dutch said you was goin’ to get us a Christmas tree,” Micah jeered. “You’re goin’ to freeze your ass off up there, Morgan.”

“Least I got an ass to freeze, Micah.”

The others howled in drunken laughter, and Arthur could hear Pearson and Susan joining in nearby. Micah shot him a dirty look. Normally, Arthur would have enjoyed a night of drinking and singing by the campfire, but not with this lot. He walked around them, back to the ammunition wagon, and sat on his cot.

The other gang members quickly forgot about him, allowing Arthur to enjoy his dinner in peace. That was, until Miss Kitty found him.

“Hey, Kitty.”

The tabby cat meowed in reply, and jumped up onto his cot. She eyed his bowl expectantly, without shame. Arthur picked out a piece of lamb, or whatever it was, and gave it to her. Miss Kitty wolfed it down, and meowed for more.

The gang had found her in Montana, or more precisely she had found them. Miss Kitty enjoyed her employment as Camp Mouser and Foot Warmer. She was surprisingly confident around humans, including little Jack Marston, but nonetheless discerning with her affection. Copper had been a lovable dumbass who adored anyone who even so much as looked at him, but Miss Kitty chose her friends carefully. She avoided anyone who was drinking, or shouting, or acting out. Otherwise she enjoyed games and cuddles with most of the gang. And Miss Kitty knew Arthur was a soft touch when it came to food. There was usually plenty in the pot, so he didn’t mind sharing.

“Leave some for me, Miss Kitty,” he chided, offering her another piece of meat.

Once the bowl was empty, Arthur wrote in his journal. He even sketched the tabby cat, curled up in a contented ball on his cot. He washed his face and hair, and trimmed his beard. In the absence of better company, Miss Kitty stayed nearby, exploring in and around the ammunition wagon.

When he finally lay down for the night, a book in hand, Miss Kitty jumped back up onto Arthur’s cot. She stepped onto his chest.

“I don’t have any food.”

But Miss Kitty ignored him, settling down and purring up a storm.

“Well, ain’t you a nice kitty,” Arthur said, rubbing her cheeks and ears. Miss Kitty was so relaxed she began to knead his undershirt. In the end Arthur gave up on reading and fell asleep, soothed by Miss Kitty’s capable paws.

When Arthur woke in the morning a thick fog had settled over the campsite. Miss Kitty had vanished, probably to hunt for some breakfast. He roused the coals of Pearson’s cooking fire and set about brewing some coffee. The camp was silent except for snoring from a few of the gang members: it was a miracle that the law couldn’t hear them from Blackwater.

Arthur warmed up a can of baked beans, which he enjoyed with a much-needed coffee beside the fire. Around him the gang began to stir. He poured Susan a cup, which she gratefully accepted.

Once his morning chores were finished it was time to saddle up. He would be riding for the best part of a day to get to the edge of Tall Trees, but not just any old tree would do: he would have to travel deeper into the forest to find the best-looking ones.

Boadicea was hitched at the gang’s horse station, on the outskirts of the camp. The dapple grey Andalusian nickered a greeting to him, which brought a smile to his lips.

“Hi girl,” he murmured, stroking her neck. “We’re headin’ out for a few days. You can thank Dutch when we’re freezing our rumps off.” She blinked, watching him with her dark eyes. She kept both ears trained on Arthur as he brushed and saddled her. Boadicea was a special horse: beautiful and clever and courageous. A warrior queen, just like her namesake.

The big chestnut gelding was next. Someone had the foresight to hitch him next to Boadicea, so they would get used to each other’s company. The chestnut was seventeen hands of solid muscle, better suited to a cart than a saddle. He stood as tall as a mountain, so the first name that came to Arthur’s mind was Hagen.

The gelding pinned his ears at Arthur’s approach, but his apprehension switched to curiosity when the man spent some time introducing himself. A few oatcakes and a brush all over had Hagen calm and responsive. Arthur despised folks who treated their animals like unfeeling lumps of horseflesh.

“Alright, feller,” he soothed. “Let’s see if you’ll take a pack saddle.”

Hagen stood quietly while Arthur tightened the cinch and adjusted the straps. Boadicea secretly watched them the whole time, pretending to be fascinated by something in the fog. She was the jealous type, and failed miserably at hiding it.

Arthur finally mounted up, Boadicea’s reins in his left hand and Hagen’s lead rope in his right, and guided them through the trees. Charles was still on watch duty; Bill had not yet woken up after the night of heavy drinking.

“Good luck, Arthur.”

“Thanks Charles. Give Bill a kick for me, will ya?”

Charles smiled, his eyes dull with exhaustion. “I’ll give him two.”

Arthur tipped his hat and rode out onto the prairie. He nudged Boadicea into a smooth lope, and they enjoyed an easy ride across the plains. Hagen kept up at first, eager to make a good impression, but with his great size he tired faster than the mare. So they slowed to a steady jog, all the while heading west towards Tall Trees.

The fog burned up by mid-morning, revealing a crisp, clear winter’s day. Arthur followed the muddy roads that scarred the prairie, humming to himself to pass the time. The gang were still new here, and as such they weren’t wanted in West Elizabeth - yet. He greeted the farmers, hunters, and fellow travelers that he passed on the road. Most of them were friendly enough, while others just wanted to be left alone.

Arthur stopped hourly to rest, letting the horses graze for a few minutes before moving on. Around midday he found a sheltered spot on the banks of the Upper Montana River, and built a small fire. The sun was out but the wind blowing down from the mountains leeched the warmth from his bones. Arthur spent a good amount of time by the fire, defrosting his numb face and hands. The horses also enjoyed the break from the relentless wind, grazing together on patches of green grass.

After a lunch of pan-fried, freshly caught bluegill, Arthur knew it was time to push on. In less than an hour the sky had turned from clear to overcast with the threat of a storm. He wanted to reach the forest before it hit as the trees would provide some protection.

The clouds turned steely grey as they rode west. The wind didn’t let up, rising to a howl as they sighted the first stands of spruce and fir. Arthur checked the time; it was past three when thin, watery snowflakes began to fall. They dissolved on the grass and soaked into Arthur’s jacket. He almost lost his hat after a massive wind gust, and stowed it safely in a saddle bag.

Boadicea snorted uneasily. It wasn’t a predator scent that worried her, so it must have been the weather.

“Almost there, girl.”

Hagen didn’t look too happy either, and he stuck to Boadicea like glue. Arthur knew that only a big storm would upset the horses. Finding Dutch’s Christmas tree would have to wait.

They pushed against the wind, tracking deeper into Tall Trees. The snow began to settle on the ground now, and quickly buried the road. At first Arthur could figure out where the trail was, but soon everything began to look the same. There were no road signs out here. He only figured that they were lost when Boadicea stumbled over a hidden rock.

Arthur dismounted and led the horses forward, looking for any shelter from the weather. They were now lost outside in a blizzard, soaked and freezing, with night rapidly approaching. They wouldn’t last long if they didn’t find a windbreak.

He almost didn’t hear the snort from Boadicea, even though her nose was next to his ear. It was hopeful sound, and it gave Arthur hope too.

“What is it?”

He could hardly see a few feet in front of him, and it was only thanks to Boadicea’s keen senses that they found the cabin. She pulled on the reins, guiding Arthur to the left. A small building materialized in the storm, and the three hurried towards it.

Boadicea had brought them to a log cabin and a lean-to that looked like a stable. The cabin’s shutters were closed and no smoke rose from the chimney.

Arthur led the horses into the stable. It was a crude building, with three walls and a hitching post inside. No animals had been stabled there for a while as there was no fodder or tack. It had been cleaned out, either by its former owners or thieves, but at least it offered respite from the wind and snow.

He removed the saddles from both horses, using a sweat scraper and his own blanket to dry them off. Next, Arthur opened a bag of provisions on the pack saddle, tipping vegetables and oatcakes into the food trough. The food had been for him, but the horses would not be able to graze any time soon.

Once Boadicea and Hagen were secured to the hitching post and happily munching away on their dinner, Arthur drew his revolver and walked to the cabin door. It was slightly ajar, and dark inside, but he wouldn’t be taking any chances.

He pressed his shoulder against the door, aiming inside. Arthur couldn’t hear anything over the wind so he shoved it open. Once his eyes adjusted to the gloom he discovered a bed with a stained mattress, an empty fireplace, and a writing desk.

Arthur exhaled in relief and stepped into the cabin, closing the door. It muffled the wind’s howl and he could finally think properly. He struck a match and lit his oil lantern.

Like the stable, the cabin had been cleared of anything remotely valuable. There was a tattered photograph of a married couple on the wall and a few orphan pieces of cutlery, but that was it. It smelled musty with disuse. There weren’t even any logs for the fireplace, so he hacked up the desk chair with his hatchet and used the pieces for kindling. The desk would be sacrificed next.

The cabin and the stables, though rudimentary, were both in reasonable condition. Arthur wondered if something evil had befallen its owner. Perhaps it had simply been abandoned, or it served as a seasonal retreat for an author or artist.

As he built up the fire, his guard lowered, Arthur heard a high-pitched whine from somewhere behind him. He jumped up, knife already in hand.

There was no-one there, but he knew he had heard something. Arthur picked up the lantern and checked under the bed.

He found a dog hunkered down in the corner. The frightened creature avoided his gaze, cowering and trying to make itself as small as possible. It had shaggy fur, but Arthur couldn’t see the dog well enough to tell if it was purebred or a mutt.

“Hey there,” he said softly. “Come on. Out you come.”

The dog shivered, sticking to its corner. Arthur realized it could have hydrophobia, so he didn’t try to touch it. At least there was an easy way to find out if it was sick or not.

Arthur ducked out into the storm retrieve the saddles, and once the fire had reached a good size he melted a pot of fresh snow. After taking a draught himself he placed the pan under the bed, holding up the oil lamp to see. The dog was either too terrified or sick to drink. So Arthur decided to start cooking, hoping that the smell of meat would entice the dog out.

As he prepared his dinner, he heard the dog slurping up water from the saucepan. Definitely not hydrophobia! Arthur didn’t turn around, concentrating instead on heating the contents of the skillet. His dinner was a mess of tinned food: corned beef, peas, and kidney beans. He also had half a bread roll left over after fishing for the bluegill, and a tin of peaches for later. But what he was most looking forward to was the coffee: the percolator was already working its magic and he poured himself a mug.

Arthur sighed after his first sip. By the time he reached the grit at the bottom he felt human again.

He removed his gloves, hanging them by the fire to dry. The dog’s eyes were on his back, but he didn’t turn around so as not to frighten it further.

Once his dinner was piping hot and bubbling, Arthur removed it from the fire and ate straight from the skillet. If Susan Grimshaw was nearby she would have boxed his ear! After a few mouthfuls he decided to try his luck with enticing the dog out. He picked out a juicy piece of beef and flicked it under the bed, turning back to the fire.

“Come on, feller,” he soothed. “Got some more for you here.” He could tell from its rough-looking coat that the poor creature was starving.

But the frightened dog didn’t come out, and Arthur figured he would just leave the skillet for the dog overnight. With nothing much else to do he set about cleaning up and getting ready for bed. He walked outside one more time to check on the horses. Boadicea and Hagen watched him approach, hopeful for more food, but all Arthur could offer them was a conciliatory pat. The storm might last for days, so the remainder of his supplies had to be rationed.

He walked around to the cabin and pushed the door open. The dog had snuck out from its hiding spot, wolfing Arthur’s leftovers. It froze and shot him a wary look before scuttling back under the bed, tail tucked firmly between its legs. It looked like some kind of sheepdog.

“It’s okay, boy!” Arthur said, closing the door behind him. He did not move. “Come on out.”

After a minute of waiting he was about to give up and walk over to the fire, until the timid dog emerged. Clearly its hunger was greater than its sense of self-preservation.

The sheepdog devoured the rest of the corned beef, licking the skillet clean. The dog looked up at Arthur for more.

“Well, I guess I can find something else.”

Arthur rummaged through his satchel and retrieved a wedge of cheese in wax paper. He broke off a bit and tossed it to the dog. The cheese was gone in a second.

“Between you and Miss Kitty I’m gonna starve, you know that?”

He broke off more tidbits of cheese for the dog, and discovered a few crackers crushed up inside their box. He knelt down, offering the food in his hand. The sheepdog approached slowly, still wary, but starvation was a powerful motivator. Despite the scruffy coat the dog looked like it was young, maybe two or three years old. Still a pup.

The hungry dog licked up the crumbs from his palm, but darted away when Arthur moved.

“What happened to you, feller?” he asked. “I’m sure someone used to care for you.”

He stood up and the dog flinched, but it didn’t retreat under the bed this time.

“I’d say that’s progress. We’re friends now.”

The dog stayed back as Arthur tidied the cabin and built up the fire with a few more planks. Although it was scared, the dog had definitely lived with humans before. So what was it doing out here all alone?

Arthur’s pocket watch read 7 p.m. - still too early to sleep. So he grabbed a bottle of bourbon from one of Boadicea’s saddle bags and sat on the edge of the filthy bed. It smelt like the dog had been using it for a while.

He wrote in his journal first, in case he forgot or drank too much to write legibly. He mentioned his success with Hagen, getting trapped out in a snowstorm, and finding the lost dog. He filled the opposite page with sketches: Boadicea and Hagen, a sizzling fillet of bluegill on the fire, the cabin, and of course the sheepdog. He did not show his drawings to anyone, but Karen had snuck up behind him once and commented on how good they were.

The dog lay down next to the fire with a huff, keeping an ear on Arthur. It was a miracle the poor creature had not frozen or starved to death out here, but it had come close.

A few swigs of bourbon had Arthur relaxed and inspired to sing. The bawdy songs from the Van Der Linde campfire were out of place here, so he sang Poor Lonesome Cowboy. It was one of the few he knew all the lyrics to. He never thought of himself as a good singer, and even the dog closed its eyes. He chuckled at the end of the song and drank deeply.

As he stared into the fire, another song plucked at the edge of his mind. Arthur didn’t like to sing it around the others - even though it was an old tune, it always felt too personal. Not that the newer gang members knew about his life. He preferred it that way.

He sighed, and lay back on the mattress.

The years creep slowly by, Eliza, The snow is on the grass again, The sun's low down the sky, Eliza, The frost gleams where the flow’rs have been. But the heart throbs on as warmly now, As when the summer days were nigh, Oh, the sun can never dip so low, A-down affection’s cloudless sky.

He sang the whole song to himself, his voice barely rising above the crackling fire or the wind pressing against the cabin.

It matters little now, Eliza, The past is in the eternal past, Our heads will soon lie low, Eliza, Life's tide is ebbing out so fast. There is a future, O thank God, Of life this is so small a part, 'Tis dust to dust beneath the sod; But there, up there, 'tis heart to heart.

Arthur let the silence drag on after the final verse. He blinked back tears. What a sentimental fool he was!

He sat up on the bed, about to retrieve his blanket, and his breath caught in fright. The dog was standing right beside the bed, watching him. When their eyes met the sheepdog wagged its tail once. Arthur reached out and the dog permitted him a scratch behind the ears.

“You know that song, boy?” he sniffed.

The dog licked his hand.

“Don’t tell no-one.”

The latch was flimsy, so Arthur pushed the saddles against the door. He picked up the still-damp blanket from the floor, and balled up a clean shirt to make a pillow.

The bed squeaked in protest as he stretched out again. The mattress was thin and lumpy and it stank, but he couldn’t complain - at least he wasn’t camped out in this storm, and he had coffee and a fire. Just as he closed his eyes, the sheepdog leapt up onto the foot of the bed. It paused again, waiting for Arthur’s reassurance.

“Here, boy.”

The dog moved gingerly, as though walking on coals, before curling up next to Arthur’s middle.

“We’re a sight, aren’t we?” Arthur mumbled. “Heh. Keep your fleas to yourself.”

He slipped into a restful sleep, and dreamed of riding across the plains.

The wind died down sometime during the night, and Arthur woke to a silent morning. The dog remained at his side, grateful for the warmth and company.

After last night’s bourbon binge, he had to answer the call of nature, and fast. Arthur got up with a sigh and cleared the doorway to get outside. He blinked and squinted as the door opened, his eyes adjusting from the dark cabin to the white forest. The storm had dumped two feet of snow in Tall Trees, and it was still falling. The flakes drifted lazily through the canopy, alighting soundlessly on the ground. The sheepdog appeared beside him in the doorway, yawning and stretching.

The two walked out, Arthur plowing through the snow and the dog trotting behind. They relieved themselves next to the cabin. The dog cocked a leg against a bush, confirming Arthur’s suspicion that underneath all that fur it was male. Now he had to give the dog a name.

The horses were quiet, and Arthur walked around to the stable. His heart dropped.

“Shit!”

Boadicea and Hagen had vanished. There were no tracks leading out, so they had been spirited away sometime in the night. He raised his fingers to his lips and a piercing whistle rang out through the forest. Arthur listened out for any answering call, but there was only silence.

The dog appeared next to him, alert and ready for action.

“Goddamn it, I’m not lookin’ for you.”

An idea came to Arthur then. The dog was scrawny and weak, but he was a sheepdog.

“Come on, feller.”

The dog followed him into the stable. There was no sign of a struggle. Arthur squatted down in the mud, and pointed at the frozen hoof prints. The dog sniffed, and looked up at Arthur quizzically. Arthur sighed. A bloodhound would have followed it straight away.

“Ugh. Stay here.”

The dog ignored him, following him back into the cabin. So Arthur placed the saddles before the dog, letting him sniff them.

“Can you find ‘em for me?”

The sheepdog cocked his head. He was familiar with the smell of horses, but unsure of what was being asked of him. He cowered, not understanding Arthur’s anger and frustration.

“I’m sorry, boy,” he said, trying to calm down.

Arthur built up the fire again until it was blazing hot. He broke off some twigs from a pine tree outside and placed them on the fire. Fragrant smoke filled the cabin, but most of it went up into the chimney. It would help him to find his way back.

He quickly packed up, making sure that his revolvers and rifle were clean and loaded. While Arthur didn’t want to cause trouble in West Elizabeth so soon after moving in, he would do whatever was necessary to get his horses back. Before he left, he cut himself a slice of salted beef, and gave the dog some too.

“Stay,” he said firmly.

Arthur closed the cabin door, leaving the dog inside with the saucepan of water. The dog was too weak to come with him. Or so he thought.

As he pushed through the snow, he could only guess where the horses had gone. Few people lived in Tall Trees, and they either lived alone or in small camps. The only settlement here was Manzanita Post, and like everyone else in the forest they were wary of outsiders. Probably with good reason.

Arthur heard a weak bark behind him, and stopped in his tracks. The dog! It had slipped through the door, and was following his trail. He crouched down as the dog approached, and smiled despite his mood. He scratched him behind the ears.

“I can’t look after you out here,” Arthur said gently. “Let’s go back.”

They turned and followed the trail; he had not made it far. Arthur noticed the dog sniffing around and had another idea. He walked back into the cabin and brought out the blanket he had used last night, the same one he had used to dry the horses off. He crouched down and held it out to the dog.

“Can you find ‘em for me? Find.”

This time the dog seemed to get it, and he jumped off Arthur’s trail and into the fresh snow. It was higher than his shoulders, but the sheepdog courageously bounded through it. He checked the area around the cabin and stable, circling out into the trees. Arthur also figured it was better to start here than blindly walk into the forest. The bears were hibernating, but there were still plenty of other big predators around. There might even be rival gangs in Tall Trees that he didn’t know about. He checked the trees for horse hair or broken branches - there must be some clue to Boadicea and Hagen’s whereabouts.

After a few minutes of searching, a yap echoed through the trees. Arthur hurried over to the sheepdog and found him standing proudly, tail wagging. The trees were thick here, catching most of the snow on their branches. Beneath them there was a narrow, shallow depression in the snow leading away from the cabin. A horse trail!

“Good boy!” Arthur praised. “You did it!”

He rewarded the dog with a piece of cheese. The dog smiled back at him for the first time, tail wagging in a blur.

“Find! Find ‘em, boy!” Arthur pointed down the trail, and the sheepdog set off, nose down and eager to please. Arthur noticed that some of the lower twigs had snapped, and the branches were holding less snow than the ones above after the horses had brushed past.

When the trail disappeared, covered by snow, the dog’s keen nose was quick to find it again. Arthur struggled to keep up as he watched out for his horses, the dog, wild animals, and any unfriendly people.

After maybe twenty minutes, he stopped and whistled again. The dog paused, and the forest returned to silence. Then, a faint, answering cry came from ahead.

“That’s Boadicea! We did it!”

He shrugged the rifle from his shoulder. If the horses had been stolen, there could be a fight. The dog raced eagerly ahead, but Arthur called him back.

“Come here, boy. Heel.”

The sheepdog whined, obviously keen to round up the horses, but he bounded back to Arthur’s side.

“Good dog.”

They stalked through the trees, Arthur wary of a trap, while the dog listened out for danger. When there was a rustle ahead, Arthur stopped and raised his rifle. Boadicea appeared through the trees, complete with bridle and reins, and whinnied when she saw him. He lowered his gun.

“Boadicea! I missed you, girl!”

Hagen appeared after her, and both horses trotted up to Arthur. To his relief, they didn’t have so much as a scratch or bump on them. Arthur hugged Boadicea, even giving her a kiss on the nose. He didn’t know Hagen well enough yet to give him a hug, but the gelding appreciated a pat and shoulder scratch.

When Arthur’s gaze returned to Boadicea, he noticed the mare studying the sheepdog.

“Easy, girl,” he said. “He’s coming back with us.”

Boadicea was clever enough to figure out that the scrawny pup wasn’t a threat. She flicked her dark mane, ignoring the dog and basking in Arthur’s attention.

It was obvious now that the horses had escaped from the stable by themselves. Boadicea was too clever for her own good and a serial escape artist. Arthur figured that in his haste yesterday evening he hadn’t tied a decent knot. The mare had freed herself and Hagen, both leaving the lean-to during the night in search of something to eat.

“Don’t ever make me worry like that again,” he scolded, but he wasn’t really angry. Just relieved.

He gathered up Boadicea’s reins and Hagen’s lead rope, and was about to walk back to the cabin when he noticed that the dog had wandered off.

“Hey! Dog!” he called. It definitely needed a name.

He sighed when the sheepdog didn’t reappear - maybe he was jealous of the horses getting all the attention? This time Arthur led the horses on the dog’s trail. The dog had not wandered far, and was sniffing around in a tiny clearing.

Arthur couldn’t believe it. Encircled by massive pine trees stood a single, perfect fir. It reached just a little bit taller than him, with blue-green needles and a classic conical shape. Dutch’s goddamn Christmas tree.

He shook his head. “Don’t know how you did it, boy.”

The dog realized that he was not alone and looked up with a goofy smile, forgetting about whatever interesting scent trail he had found. He reminded Arthur of someone from a long time ago.

With a firm word to both the dog and horses to stay put, Arthur cut the fir tree. It was almost too heavy for him to lift, but with a bit of clever maneuvering he balanced it across Boadicea and Hagen, securing their bridles together with Hagen’s lead rope. Boadicea grumbled, but Hagen shouldered the weight dutifully.

Arthur did not need to worry about finding the cabin again, as he and the dog followed their fresh trail back. It was still snowing, but the path remained clear.

The sheepdog was definitely flagging now, his limited energy spent on tracking the horses. His long pink tongue lolled, and even with the clear trail he kept stumbling. Arthur eventually picked him up, cradling him, and the dog was too exhausted to protest.

Arthur had already lost so much time, but on checking his pocket watch he realized that he might be able to make it to the camp at night. Even if he couldn’t make it back today, there was no need to stay in the cabin when he could move the horses to decent grazing by the river.

The snowfall ceased as they returned to the cabin. It was now late morning, and Arthur wasted no time in saddling the horses. The exhausted dog lay in a dry corner of the stables, trying not to fall asleep. He was still just a pup, after all.

Arthur cleared the cabin and left it as he had found it: it could be a useful hideout in future. Finally, he heaped snow over the fire until it completely fizzed out.

Boadicea pawed the ground, impatient to leave. She was pleased to have the tree off her back. Hagen now carried it by himself, but he did not complain. He even nibbled one of the branches, but shook his massive head in disgust.

Arthur found the sheepdog snoozing in the stable, and smiled to himself.

“Guess you’ll have to ride with me.”

The pup blinked awake, and yawned. Arthur gathered him up and lifted him onto his shoulder, supporting the dog’s weight with one hand.

“Jeez, kid, you need a bath,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

Arthur mounted up awkwardly, and moved the dog onto his lap. The sheepdog looked around in bewilderment - he had probably never been on a horse before. Using his compass as a guide Arthur steered his clever, mischievous mare to Blackwater.

As the trees thinned and the snow melted away, Boadicea transitioned into an easy lope, eager to move out of the forest. Arthur allowed her to set the pace, concentrating on the dog instead so he didn’t slide off the saddle. He also released some of the lead rope, allowing Hagen to fall back slightly: he was done being smacked by the prickly branches of the fir tree!

Many of the dog names that sprang into his head were… uninspiring. Rufus. Patches. Bob. Sport. Jack. He certainly couldn’t call the dog Jack! Abigail would have a fit. The dog sighed, as if silently agreeing with him. Arthur decided to try out some names later, to see if the sheepdog would respond to any of them.

They stopped on the plains for a late lunch. Hagen and Boadicea devoured the withered grass as though they had not eaten for weeks. The grazing was not as good on the plains as by the river, but they still had a ways to go before they reached water again. The earth was muddy and the grass a dull brown, but at least there was no more snow.

After eating some of Arthur’s meagre lunch - salt beef and baked beans - the dog set about rolling in the mud. Arthur didn’t bother to stop him, as the mud would cover some of the stench.

“Miss Grimshaw’s goin’ to dunk you in a barrel of cold water when we get to camp.”

The dog snorted in delight.

“Heh. You remind me of my boy, Isaac. He used to love gettin’ muddy too.”

The sheepdog left smears of cold mud on Arthur’s snow jacket and trousers once they were up in the saddle. Despite the short rest and a feed of shriveled grass, Boadicea happily kept up a smart jog. She was eager to get back home, where she could eat as much hay as she wanted. Arthur gave her a pat on the neck. Hagen sensed the mare’s excitement, and matched her pace.

Though the overcast sky never cleared, mercifully there was no rain or snow on their ride back to camp. Arthur found a road sign to Blackwater just as the sun melted into the western horizon. They were making good time.

Arthur made it back late, close to midnight. He had lit his oil lantern, and was riding through the dark when a shout came from nearby. Arthur, the dog, and both horses jumped.

“WHO GOES THERE?!”

“It’s Arthur, ya dumbass.”

The warm light from the oil lamp lit up John’s face as he approached. He wasn’t drunk this time. How unusual.

“So, King Arthur has returned with his legendary tree.”

“Shut it, Marston,” Arthur replied sourly. “I got this for your boy.”

John snorted with laughter. “You got it ‘cause Dutch told you to.” He turned and walked back to his post.

Arthur grit his teeth. John was right, of course, but he was too tired to come up with a snappy comeback. He nudged Boadicea forward, and she took them to the horse station.

The dog, still unnamed, stuck by Arthur as he removed the fir tree and saddles. Javier noticed him laboring in the shadows and got up from his bedroll to help.

“Nice work, Arthur,” he said, eyeing the tree. “Dutch will be happy with this.”

“I hope so,” he growled. “Been ridin’ for two days.”

Javier noticed the dog then, sticking close to Arthur for protection, but keeping clear of the horses’ legs.

“Hey, you found a dog!?”

“Yeah, abandoned most likely. He was half-dead when I found him. He’s a good dog: kinda timid, but smart. And he ain’t sick neither, just dirty.”

“It’ll be good to have a dog here again, listening out for trouble. If you’re alright with the horses I can set up the tree?”

Arthur nodded. “Thanks, Javier.”

The horses were already tucking into a hay bale between them, and all Arthur had to do was brush them down and pick out their hooves.

“Good job, Boadicea. You too, Hagen.”

He gave them each a grateful pat on the neck, and walked back to his cot, skirting around the campsite with the dog at his heels. The camp was silent, most of the gang asleep, and they managed to avoid being noticed by anyone else. Arthur would deal with Susan’s wrath tomorrow.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Arthur.”

He blinked awake. He knew instantly that it was early – too early to be awake. The sun had just risen, its weak light twinkling through the trees. The still, cold air caught in his lungs.

Dutch was leaning against the wagon at the foot of Arthur’s bed. He smiled, with a warmth that reached his eyes.

“Ugh, what time is it?” Arthur mumbled.

“Early enough for young Jack. See for yourself.”

Arthur sat up on his cot, the disturbance causing the dog to wake up too. Javier had dug the fir tree into the hard ground in the heart of the Van Der Linde campsite, and Jack and Abigail were already busying themselves with decorating it. Arthur squinted in disbelief – were they actually using gold necklaces and pearls?!

“They had to improvise,” Dutch said. “We don’t have no glass ornaments. The tree could do with some candles, though.”

Arthur lay back on his cot. “Don’t ask me to get those for you, too.”

Dutch laughed. “Rest up, son. But when you’re awake I would like to hear the story of how you got that dog.”

When Arthur finally got out of bed, close to midday, Jack ran up to him. The boy had obviously been waiting. The sheepdog jumped off the cot and shook himself vigorously. Arthur rolled the stiffness from his shoulders with a few satisfying cracks.

“Hey, Uncle Arthur!” Jack said. “Did you get the tree for us?”

Arthur covered up a yawn. “I sure did! You like it?”

“Yeah!”

“Now that’s what I like to hear. You and your momma sure did decorate it nice.”

“Thanks! Can I pat your dog?”

Arthur scratched his short beard. “Um. He’s a bit shy, but he likes food. Here, you can give him some cheese.”

Abigail watched nearby as Jack held out a morsel of cheese. The sheepdog was much less frightened now, and took it gingerly from the boy’s hand.

“What’s his name?” Jack asked.

“He doesn’t have one. Not yet, anyways. Want to help me pick one?”

“Yeah! What about… Spot?”

Arthur smiled. “Not bad. But I don’t think he looks like a Spot to me. How about Jake?”

“I don’t like it.”

As they were talking, the dog sniffed at Arthur’s satchel, eager to get into its contents.

Jack hummed in thought. “Maybe Gilbert?”

“Naw, that’s an old man’s name. He’s still just a pup. Kinda like you!”

Abigail laughed. “Come on, boys. You’ve gotta agree on somethin’.”

“Well, I guess he kinda reminds me of someone I knew a long time ago,” Arthur admitted. “How about, uh, Zach?”

The dog looked up from the satchel, his brown eyes focused on Arthur.

“I think he likes it!” said Jack.

“Yeah. That’s weird…”

Zach moved between Jack and Arthur, asking for a scratch.

Moments later Susan appeared at the ammunition wagon, towering over them with her hands on her hips. Abigail quickly smothered a giggle as the blood drained from Arthur’s face.

“Miss Grimshaw-”

“Don’t you ‘Miss Grimshaw’ me! I ain’t ever seen such filth in my camp before.”

“…is the water warm?”

Susan glared at him. “No. It’s colder than my heart. Now git!”

Arthur got up with a sigh and followed her to the wash basin, dreading the water’s icy touch. Zach followed at his heels, smiling all the way.

The end!

33 notes · View notes

jgroffdaily · 5 years ago

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It’s been almost two years since we last saw Mindhunter’s intrepid FBI team, led by plucky but serial-killer-obsessed Holden Ford—played by Jonathan Groff, of Hamilton and Frozen fame. With his off-screen affability and dangerous penchant for on-set laughter, it’s a credit to the baby-faced Groff’s abilities that Holden—a character loosely based on actual agent John E. Douglas—appears convincingly world-weary at the start of season two.

As the show’s freshman outing ended, Holden was becoming increasingly invested in the real-life serial killer and necrophile Ed Kemper, which led to a major panic attack and breakdown. Between the pressures of keeping the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI afloat and his workaholic obsession, Holden was in rough shape.

Season two jumps from the late ’70s to 1980, where Holden and co. are investigating a new wave of serial killings that will eventually be dubbed the Atlanta child murders. With the support of the bureau, Holden’s team has moved out of its old basement office—but that upgrade brings with it a new sense of exposure and looming menace, especially since Holden also meets Son of Sam David Berkowitz and Charles Manson this season. We caught up with Groff to discuss the pressures of working for David Fincher, Mindhunter’s graphic sex scenes, and why serial killers aren’t actually the actor’s jam.

Vanity Fair: The two-year gap was tough on Mindhunter fans. Why did the show keep them hanging for so long?

Jonathan Groff: [Laughs] Only David Fincher has the power to do that, because he really takes his time. He worked on the scripts until he felt they were ready and they were exactly what he wanted them to be. That’s the honest, basic answer. He didn’t want to turn out a second season just because the first was successful. He wanted the story lines to be as interesting and complicated as possible. David Berkowitz and Manson aren’t the only two serial killers that we do this season; there’s a lot more that I think will be an exciting surprise. Manson has always been Holden’s holy grail in terms of serial killers that he wants to speak with, and he gets his wish this season.

Netflix got some heat earlier this year for allegedly glorifying Ted Bundy in a docuseries, Conversations with a Killer: The Ted Bundy Tapes, and a Zac Efron movie, Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile. Do you worry that Mindhunter could do something similar or open old wounds?

From the very first meeting we had about the show, David Fincher’s mission statement has always been that he doesn’t want to make comic book villains of serial killers. He wanted to show them as the sad, deplorable human beings that they are, and to explore their psychology. In no way did he ever want to celebrate the serial killer, and every single day on set operated with that mission and goal at the forefront. There is that temptation, in our cultural obsession, to make the killers powerful again by investing in them. We’re interested in taking an honest look and doing the opposite.

Do you see these men as monsters, or have you developed sympathy for them while doing the show?

I compartmentalize the work on the show, and I read as much as I can about any killer we’re about to interview—but I don’t really live for it. Serial killers aren’t my jam in that way. The thing that turns me on most about working on the show is exploring the psychology of the scenes themselves. Those long, 15-page interviews with the killers are the most fun for me as an actor, because I get to really lose myself and explore the psychology. If I stop and think about what the serial killers have done, I’d get really depressed. There is no empathy for serial killers in my mind.

In season two we meet the mothers of the murdered children from the Atlanta child murders. For the first time in the series, we’re looking at the families and parents of the victims. That was way more emotionally draining and heartbreaking for me. As the serial killer Ed Kemper said in season one, “We should all get death by torture.” I don’t think serial killers are really looking for sympathy anyway.

Do you take any emotional baggage from the show home with you?

I’m not a Method actor, so I don’t take any of it too seriously after they say, “Cut.” I go for a run every morning, and when I go home it’s pretty easy for me to shake it off. I think it might affect me in subconscious ways, because I definitely ate a lot during season two—a lot of Mindhunter emotional eating. My morning run [is] not only to stay in shape—but subconsciously, it’s my way to shake it off and mentally prepare for the new day.

Working on the show gives me so much respect for the people who actually talk to the serial killers, or those that talk to the families of the victims. It seems silly of me, as an actor playing pretend, to have any sort of damaging, emotional reaction to it when those people are out there living it every day.

Did you spend any time with real-life agent John E. Douglas when preparing for the role?

I emailed with John, but we had never met until about six months ago. He asked me to do the audiobook for his newest book, The Killer Across the Table, where he writes a little about Mindhunter and the characters Holden Ford and Bill Tench [Holden’s partner, played by Holt McCallany]. I did the reading, and then as a bonus feature on the audiobook, we did an interview with each other. The first time we spoke on the phone was really cool, and I was grateful to hear that he likes the show and what we’re doing.

Four months ago he came to New York and we had lunch for the first time. At the end of season one, my character has a panic attack and meltdown, and John Douglas did have a complete physical and emotional breakdown over the course of his career. We talked about that, and how exhaustive the work was for him. He was really encouraging, so it wasn’t awkward to meet him in any way.

In season one you had to portray a really intense sexual awakening for Holden. As an openly gay actor, were those straight sex scenes fun or daunting?

I think it was both. When I was 22, I was on Broadway doing Spring Awakening, where I had a very extensive sex scene with Lea Michele. It was the climax, no pun intended, of Act 1, and because I did that eight times a week for two years, I got really comfortable doing sex scenes. It was the routine of, “Here’s where I pull down your underwear and pretend to finger you,” and it was choreographed and blocked kind of like a dance.

Over the years I’ve heard horror stories from my male and female friends about their sex scenes. It usually stems from a lack of communication and the actors being thrown into it. When I got to Mindhunter, David is such a specific and intentional director, so there was never any wiggle room to feel weird, awkward, or afraid. There was just a lot of respect on the set—and it sounds so weird, but I end up really enjoying those scenes because there’s not a lot of dialogue to memorize. You’re telling the story physically, and there’s a natural vulnerability when you’re butt naked with another person that can’t really be faked.

What’s the most difficult part of working for Fincher?

You have to be on your A-game every second of every day, which is actually the most difficult and rewarding thing. It’s really simple, and that’s all that he requires of you. When everyone is doing it and we’re all vibing, it’s so much fun. It’s what I imagine it’s like to be on a really intense sports team, and that can be really confronting at times. We were shooting in Pittsburgh for a very long time, working long hours for nine months. At the wrap party for both seasons, when you’d expect everyone to get wasted and be exhausted, everyone said that it was the best experience they’d ever had.

Switching gears completely: With Frozen 2 coming up in November, do kids ever recognize you as the voice of Kristoff and lose their minds?

I do make voice memos for little kids because they never recognize my voice in person. I sing as Kristoff and the voice of the reindeer, and that’s when they freak out. Usually parents take video of their kids listening to it. On the street it’s usually just, “How do I know your voice?”—which isn’t as much fun.

#jonathan groff #interview #press #mindhunter #!

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davidcarner · 7 years ago

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The Kiss Ch 10, The Seduction

A/N: The seduction episode….how are we gonna handle this? I give you The Kiss Ch 10, The Seduction.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck, but I had a dream I did

"Seriously, I take a morning off, and you get us into trouble," Sarah grumbled at Chuck. She was smiling while grumbling. She wasn't mad, she was tired of the Intersect putting them in these situations. Lester had video conferenced in Chuck during an install since he couldn't do it himself, and Chuck flashed on a hundred dollar bill that he had seen. Chuck called Sarah immediately, who was enjoying her morning off, especially when Chuck woke up and she had made him late for work. "I can think of two scenarios to pull General, but if one goes wrong, we'd have to go to the second, and for the good of the team, I don't like it." Chuck looked at her, eyebrow raised.

"Because she's buttering your biscuit, Bartowski, she doesn't want to get your lady feelings hurt if she has to seduce some guy," Casey explained. Chuck turned to Casey processing what he had said . He thought for a minute and started to retort when he saw Casey was giving him the "Yeah I enjoy making you sweat numbnuts but I was telling you the truth." Chuck mouthed a thank you to Casey that made both men uncomfortable.

"Agent Walker, you will not be running any seduction mission," Stanfield said.

"Oh, I know I'm not," she replied. "I was talking about one of the Greta's having to pose as his girlfriend or wife."

"We can obtain three invites, Agent Walker," Stanfield said grinning. "Your dedication to protecting to the analyst is commendable."

"She protects him constantly, especially at night too, she makes sure she's on top of everything," Casey muttered.

"Hey," Chuck said, surprising everyone. "Sometimes I'm on top," he said. Casey looked ill. Sarah was looking at him, wide eyed. "Sorry," he said, when he realized what he had said out loud.

"I take my assignment seriously," she said staring daggers at Chuck.

"Noted," Stanfield said, trying not to laugh. "Why not send both? I promise four invites is not a problem." Sarah took a look at the General, thought about it, and nodded. "Good, then you'll be going as Mr. and Mrs. Charles. We're giving you $100 thousand to gamble, try not to lose it all."

"That's taxpayer money, numbnuts," Casey said.

"You're commitment to the American people is commendable, Casey," Chuck said sincerely. Casey nodded and grunted. Stanfield shook his head. Casey called them Team Moron, but many times their unconventional methods won the day.

}o{

"I'm just saying, they could give me the money I won," Chuck said, looking through the binoculars.

"Or, it could go to help fund the mission, numbnuts," Casey said.

"Maybe Olivia and Stacey should get it for hazard pay," Chuck countered, watching them through the binoculars. Casey took a look through the binoculars and grunted in agreement. Chuck had won 150 thousand dollars last night, but Lon Kirk had been sidetracked by the two Gretas, not that Chuck could really blame him. They were both stunning in their swimsuits, but Chuck had the good sense not to comment on that.

"Stacey does have some legs," Sarah said, grinning where Chuck couldn't see.

"Most people do," Chuck replied. "It's why we're known as bipeds." He kept looking straight ahead in with his binoculars. She stiffened a chuckle.

"Chuck, she's really attractive," Sarah replied. "So is Olivia for that matter."

"I mean she's okay," Chuck said. "I haven't really gotten to know her or Olivia that well, so," he shrugged. "I mean I know more about you and Casey, like his love for Crown Vics."

"Chuck, you've got the girl, I'm not gonna dump you because you think they're attractive," Sarah said. "I'm not that shallow. They're both quite beautiful, one reason Kirk is like putty in their hands."

"I'm not sure putty is the right word," Casey muttered. Chuck nearly choked. "What?"

"Never mind, Casey, never mind," Sarah said.

}o{

"Chuck, did you fake a flash?" Sarah asked.

"Why would I fake a flash?" Chuck asked, honestly confused.

"Chuck," Sarah said. "You didn't like seeing the two of them having to put up with Kirk."

"Sarah, I hated it," Chuck admitted. "But to fake a flash would have meant putting them through that and wasting their time. They take their jobs seriously, they promised me if it was ever too much they'd tell me, and I respect them too much to do that to them." Sarah studied him. "I don't know what happened."

"He somehow switched things up," Sarah said, shaking her head. "We're off the case. Stanfield has pulled us." Chuck shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Sarah, I let us down," he said. She pulled him into a hug.

"No, Chuck, you're right, something happened, but we do need to figure out what," Sarah said.

}o{

"They're mad at me," Chuck said softly so they wouldn't over hear him. Things had turned frosty once he had returned to the repair shop.

"They're upset we didn't get to finish the mission," Casey said, coming up behind him, making him jump, again. Chuck spun around, eyes wild. "Plus they think you treated them like they weren't capable of finishing their jobs."

"But I didn't," Chuck said. "I didn't fake a flash."

"I know, Bartowski, but they don't know you like we do," Casey said. Chuck hung his head. "It happens, you'll figure something out." Casey took off, and Chuck got a notification from Morgan and pulled up a video. He was watching his buddy, when something caught his eye. He zoomed in and saw what he was looking for. He saw the two Gretas walk toward the back of the store to go down to Castle, and then he started toward the front. He paused. Casey and Sarah would get mad, but they would understand, eventually. He rushed toward the entrance to Castle.

}o{

"Permission to kill the analyst, General?" Casey asked, glaring at Chuck.

"General, you can't let Casey kill Chuck," Olivia Greta said. Chuck gulped. He felt anger radiate off of Sarah when Greta spoke.

"If anything it's my and Olivia's fault," Stacey Greta said. Sarah raised an eyebrow.

"Great, just what we need more women Bartoskified and lady feelings everywhere," Casey said. Olivia turned to him.

"What Chuck did was respect us, and gave us a chance to redeem a mission gone bad, while everyone else wanted to pack it in," Olivia said.

"For the record, we're really sorry about your Crown Vic," Stacey added.

"Permission to shoot all three of them, General?" Casey asked. Stanfield stared at Chuck.

"So let me get this straight, I gave you an order to stand down," Stanfield began. Chuck started to shrink back, but Sarah held his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. It was comforting to Chuck, but confused him at the same time. "I was concerned you fake flashed because of your worry for the two female agents put in a situation you didn't approve of." Stacey and Olivia grimaced. "In fact,, we might as well drop the codename Greta and get backstory's built for those two, because of your insistence they have names." The two nodded, pleased. "You, the only civilian of the group, who I put in a position to make two of your colleagues mad at you, and the other two questioning you, came upon information, and defied a direct order, and have not only completed the original mission but has made the team dynamic much stronger." Chuck stood there. "Mr. Bartowski, chain of command exists for a reason." Chuck gulped.

"It does sir, but sometimes the order at the top is wrong," he said softly. Stanfield stared at him. "You went off of what you thought saw happen instead of the truth. I hated what these women went through with Lon Kirk, and I am aware there was no sex involved, but to have to do what they did, to flaunt yourself with someone you have no want to even be around, yes that bothers me. However, this is an ugly world and these two women are willing to do these things for their county, so it would be disrespectful of me to stop it because it, if you'll pardon the expression, upset my lady feelings." Casey grunted in approval.

"Mr. Bartowski, the mission was pulled because of the position we were put in, not my lack of faith in you, although it turns out by doing so, I cause a crisis of faith on your team," Stanfield said. "We both have something to learn from today, but I'm no fool, I know you're always going to do what you think is right, and while that is commendable, what happens when that is wrong choice?"

"That's why I went to the two people who were affected the most, and who would be affected the most, Sir," Chuck replied. "They knew the risks involved better than anyone." Stanfield nodded.

"Well, I was warned about you," Stanfield said, grinning. "Well done team," and with that, the connection was broken.

"He didn't say I couldn't shoot them," Casey said, hope in his voice. Sarah turned toward her team, and stared at Casey. "Request withdrawn." Sarah nodded.

"Chuck, Casey," she said, a faux smile on her face. "Leave," she said softly. Both men fled.

}o{

That night Sarah didn't say anything about the mission and the two of them spent time as boyfriend and girlfriend. Chuck made a couple of calls out of Sarah's hearing but she trusted him, and besides, it was Christmas, it could have been something to do with a present for her, and for Chuck she was trying to let him surprise her, as much as she hated surprises. The next day when everyone arrived at the repair shop, Chuck put up the closed sign. He walked over to the tree in the corner and came back with a small box and gave it to Casey. He opened it, and saw it was a key.

"Looks like a Crown Vic key," Casey said, and looked at Chuck.

"I may have used some of the 150 thousand," Chuck said grinning. Casey burst outside, and made noises that Chuck never wanted to hear again. He walked back over to the tree and pulled out two matching boxes from underneath and brought them to Olivia and Stacey. They both gave him a look and unwrapped them. They gave him questioning looks upon seeing their presents.

"You work at my shop, you help protect my life on a daily basis, so that means you're invited to Christmas at the Bartowskis, and Christmas at the Bartowskis is in PJs," he said grinning. "They were picked out by my sister." The two tackled him together, and ran off downstairs to try them on. Chuck walked over and got one more box. He brought it over to Sarah. She opened it and pulled out a bracelet. "It was my mother's," he said softly. "I know you can't wear it on missions-"

"Oh, the hell I can't," she said. "I will wear this anytime I want." He smiled at her. "About yesterday," she began. His face fell. "That is third and fourth perfectly good agent you have ruined Charles Bartwoski," she said, grinning. "Those two will go to hell and back for you, Chuck, just like Casey and I would. They will probably be in the field more with Casey while you and I stay in the van. Stanfield was impressed. Pissed, but impressed. I may be the AIC but you're the leader, and that was never more evident than yesterday."

"You know why I told them instead of you and Casey?"

"I do, I don't like it, but I do, it was the right call, Chuck," Sarah admitted. "Don't ever do it again."

"I love you, Sarah," Chuck said, pulling her into a hug. She kissed him.

"Love you, you Nerd," she said grinning. "So seriously, Stacey's legs compared to mine."

"No contest, you win all day long," he said.

"Yeah, but what about at night?" she asked. Chuck grinned, and his ears turned red. Sarah pulled away, and put a hand to her chest, faux scandalized. "Well, I've never!"

"Sarah, yeah you have with me, many times," he replied. She threw back her head and laughed, and realized she was finally going to get to enjoy Christmas.

A/N: Hoped you liked it, reviews are always welcomed…til next time.

#Chuck #Sarah #Charah #The Kiss #fanfic #fanfiction

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robertfrancisvaughn1122-blog · 7 years ago

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November 7: Top Favorite Roles

Though I've not seen all of Robert's filmography, these are my personal favorite roles...

1) Napoleon Solo - Robert stated in an interview that whenever he was playing the character in The Man from UNCLE, he was playing himself and you can see it in different aspects throughout the entire series. Napoleon is an agent working in Section II (in the first season he wore a badge with the Roman numeral II but when the series switched to color, Robert picked the number 11 and it eventually became his official number) with his friend, Illya Kuryakin (David McCallum). The series originally focused solely on Napoleon Solo but due to David's portrayal of the Russian, he became popular with fans and was elevated to co-star status as he became close friends with Robert). Napoleon is a suave, laid-back, sociable person who rarely loses his temper in tense situations and is known as a "serial womanizer" but his view of women is they should be treated equally. What I love about Napoleon is that he's an optimist and tries to keep a positive light despite a tough situation. I'm still in the process of learning about the character but with Robert's portrayal of the character, he's made quite an impression on me!

2) General Hunt Stockwell - The character was introduced during the fifth and final season of The A-Team and he is a retired army general who is responsible for blackmailing the team into doing an unknown number of unspecified missions in return for a full pardon for their crimes. He is a cold, manipulative person with a mysterious personality and no one knows his true intentions. Stockwell wasn't a well-received character with unfavorable opinions but the character landed on my list in the number two spot because I think the character's introduction in the opening episode of the season was one of my favorites and his mysteriousness is something that caught my eye. He rarely displays any emotions but does have a respect for the team as well as Hannibal (George Peppard). As I said before, I vaguely remember Robert as General Hunt Stockwell but he quickly became a favorite.

3) Harry Rule - In The Protectors, Robert played a character named Harry Rule, a wealthy detective who takes on cases to help the innocent and belongs to an organization called "The Protectors" and works alongside his friends, Contessa Caroline di Contini (Nyree-Dawn Porter) and Paul Buchet (Tony Anholt). There's not much known about the character and there's no romance between him and Contessa, despite a few romantic encounters and obvious flirting in some of the episodes. The Protectors was an interesting series and Harry Rule has become one of my favorite characters but the people behind the scenes seemed to have no interest. Harry reminded me of Napoleon Solo but in a different light and if the production team had more interest, the show would've lasted longer and learned more about Harry. Not to mention that Robert looked absolutely gorgeous in the series and he also met his future wife, actress Linda Staubb, in an episode that he directed.

4) Hayden Danzinger - Appearing in two different episodes of Columbo, this is one of my favorites! He plays Hayden Danzinger, an auto executive on a cruise with his wife (Jane Greer) but he has been having an affair with a singer named Rosanna Wells (Poupée Bocar) and he murders her after she threatened to tell his wife about the affair. To make an alibi, he inhales a drug, before going in the swimming pool, which induces a heart attack. Eventually, the evidence builds up against him (thanks to Lieutenant Columbo who is on the cruise with his wife). In 1976, Robert made another guest appearance as Charles Clay who is believed to have committed the murder but the character's killed). I always enjoy this one because Hayden does everything he can to cover up the murder and unlike a lot of characters in Columbo, he doesn't seem to get irritated by Columbo and has a liking towards him. I always love when Robert plays the villain, he's very smooth and always seems to break into a smile at times.

5) Walter Chalmers - A few months ago, I recently watched Bullitt on television and it's an interesting movie! Steve McQueen and Robert worked together once before in 1960 in The Magnificent Seven so it's interesting to see them onscreen together again. Walter Chalmers is an ambitious politician who hires Frank Bullitt (Steve McQueen) to protect a witness whom Chalmers is planning to present at a committee hearing in 40 hours. Unfortunately the witness is fatally shot and he dies in the hospital from his injuries where he blames Bullitt for it. He's not seen much after but at the end, he's seen getting into his limousine at the airport. The character is one of Robert's first bad guys roles since The Man from UNCLE was cancelled in 1968 and though he's not seem much on-screen, he seems to be a manipulative person who threatens the image of Bullitt as well as another police officer. I recently ordered Bullitt on DVD and I'm excited to watch it again!

6) Bill Fenner - I discovered The Venetian Affair and after watching the movie, it reminds me of The Man from UNCLE but the character of Bill Fenner is different from Napoleon Solo because he's not as playful and he seems more serious. Bill is an ex-CIA operative hired to investigate the mysterious explosion at a nuclear disarmament summit and crosses paths with Sandra Fane (Elke Sommer) who is his former flame and the two of them share some romantic moments (that also includes them making love) but unfortunately, she's killed which upsets him. The movie, based on a book, reminds me of a dark episode of The Man from UNCLE and the only difference with Bill (besides being an ex-CIA operative) is he has an ex wife while Napoleon has never been married. The chemistry between Robert and Elke on-screen is obvious (Robert stated in his 2009 autobiography that he was attracted to the actress but she was dating a friend of his which meant there was no chance for a romance). I have yet to watch the entire movie but Bill has also become a favorite character.

7) Lee - The Magnificent Seven was the first Western I've watched with Robert and it also has become a favorite. In the movie, he plays Lee, an on-the-run gun man haunted by nightmares and who has lost his nerve because of battle who is hired by Chris Adams (Yul Brynner) to join the magnificent seven to fight against a group of bandits headed by Calvera (Eli Wallach).. Toward the end of the film, Lee is killed and Chris, along with Vin Tanner (Steve McQueen) are the only two men of the team, to leave. In the late 1990s, Robert was cast in the TV version of the film and since Lee was killed in the original movie, he played Orrin Travis, the local circuit Judge)

#Robert Vaughn Month #Robert Vaughn #November 7 #The Man from UNCLE #Napoleon Solo #The A-Team #General Stockwell #The Protectors #Harry Rule #Columbo #Hayden Danzinger #Bullitt #Walter Chalmers #The Venetian Affair #Bill Fenner #The Magnificent Seven #Lee

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mattyunijourneybrief7 · 5 years ago

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The First Week

We have begun the year with a fascinating session to say the least. We were given the brief, and I was a little excited and proud at the prospect of delivering a service that is related to climate change.

As this is a group project, we got into groups of 5. I was grouped with Olivia, Sami, Will and Jacob. To ensure we communicated effectively across the presentation, we created a group chat.

First of all, we began by brainstorming. We included 3 words that we felt were more representative of climate change. Our group went for:

- Sustainability

- Contribute

- Crisis

As you can see, my note-taking is a little overboard at times; I do usually like to note take on my MacBook, however I found myself with a pen and paper in this session.

Linking the three words together, we jotted down our initial ideas for the brief:

Our three main ideas were:

- Plant a tree to visualise the planet and sustainability

- Have a loyalty card, maybe as an app to utilise the digital world

- Personal takeaway cups and boxes

- Have a reward system to give incentives to customers to be sustainable, as well as generating more business for HOME with increased interactivity with different services due to the rewards

- Encouraging cycling for users with a bike shed

We were introduced many artists and influencers in design in this session. I have chosen three examples from the options we were shown that I feel will be especially useful to our group after brainstorming our initial ideas:

Joseph Beuys - Everybody’s an Artist

youtube

Joseph Beuys is very powerful and tells a brilliant massage in the work he does, that ‘everybody is an artist’.

He mentions in the video that Everybody is an artist, not only painters, sculptors, musicians. Everybody has an ability to think, to feel, to suffer, as well as having a will inside of them to protest, which Joseph sees as qualities of being an artist.

It is magnificent to watch, as it gives you the confidence (even if you had some in the first place), which helps people express themselves creatively. Ultimately, as creatives, there will always be criticism. It doesn't mean that the creator of the piece isn’t an artist though.

In one of his most famous actions he covered his face in gold and honey, and explained his art to a dead hare. People could see him from outside, but couldn’t hear what he was saying. He was showing that he can explain the art whilst ultimately not explaining anything at all, as he was speaking to a dead hare; his viewers didn’t hear a thing.

He also locked himself in a room alone with a wild coyote with only a felt blanket for consecutive days. He demonstrated that although the coyote was seen as an aggressive animal by many, he saw the animals as America’s spirit animal.

Bill Gates - The Quest for Sustainability

youtube

The world is going to consume twice as much energy in 30 years than it does today, so action from humans is needed now.

In the video below, Bill mentions that Charles Parsons took us from the steam engine to the steam turbine, which was an unbelievable advancement in human technology.

Rudolf Diesel invented the Diesel engine, which was also revolutionary.

Bill mentions that there are so many solutions to climate change (for example we can use wind to power electricity or sunlight to create oil), and funding should go towards these options.

He also mentions that he has spoke to governments and investors all over the world and mentions how they need to be realistic about they are going to get to the 2050 target of an 80% reduction of emissions.

He feels that all the discussions have been about the interim 2030 goal of a 30% reduction in emissions. He implies that if there in order to work towards the 2050 goal, we have to get started now.

He says that ultimately, the rich parts of the world such as the USA, Europe and China need to solve the climate problem. And when they do, hopefully they can make it cheap enough for the rest of the world.

Being in our priveleged positions of living in countries that have thriving economies brings an element of responsibility to the rest of the planet; we have the power to change, and just like Joseph Beuys said, everybody is an artist. It is up to us to save the planet, and we have the tools to do so.

Copenhagen - Carbon Neutral Capital

youtube

Manmade greenhouse gas emissions are warming our planet faster now than in any other time in human history.

Since 2015, more than 120 countries have signed the Paris agreement, which aims to limit the global rise in temperature and reduce co2 reductions, and investment in renewable energy.

The nations of Scandanavia have long been leaders in renewable energy, and Copenhagen (the capital of Denmark) plan to create the world’s first carbon neutral capital by 2025.

According to the United Nations, more than 50% of the world’s population live in cities. They are responsible in 3/4 of CO2 emissions. Copenhagen has reduced its CO2 output by 40% since 2005, mostly due to a switch from coal to wind power.

It has targeted 4 areas in its mission to become the first carbon neutral city:

- Lower energy consumption

- Mobility

- Energy Production

- Leading by Example

With more than 375km of cycling lanes in the city, and the majority of the population owning a bicycle, it is unique in the fact that it is an easy option for commuters for example.

I would personally love to use a bike to travel to and from Manchester, however in my personal opinion I feel that the journey isn’t suited for cyclists; I feel that in England especially that cycling isn’t taken seriously as a travel option. It is easier and more acceptable to drive a car or get public transport (which is better than driving a car and does help), but these options still contribute to pollution.

Here are the figures from 2018 that show a proportion of road traffic miles by vehicle type in Great Britain. Cycles made up 1%, and the visual pie chart that we can see visualises how a cyclist must feel on the roads in Britain today.

The levels of cycling in the UK don’t compare well to those in other European Countries either. According to data collected by the European Cyclists’ Federation, the UK is near the bottom of the list of the European countries:

The Netherlands 27.0% Hungary 22.0% Sweden 16.5% Denmark 16.0% Finland 13.4% Germany 11.8% Belgium 9.5% Slovakia 8.0% Austria 7.0% Ireland 7.0% Lithuania 7.0% Czech Republic 6.3% Slovenia 6.3% Romania 6.2% Italy 5.0% Poland 5.0% Estonia 4.5% France 4.0% Luxembourg 4.0% Bulgaria 3.4% Latvia 2.0% UK 2.0% Spain 1.3% Greece 1.1% Republic of Cyprus 1.0% Malta 0.8% Portugal 0.5% Croatia n/a

If the UK as a whole pushed different modes of transport that help the environment (as Denmark are doing with Copenhagen), I would certainly be using them. I myself travel by walking and catching the train, so I suppose I’m not doing a disservice.

The reason I don’t cycle is I do not feel safe or welcome enough on the roads to do so, which is a real shame. I don’t feel like a lot of the UK public are on the same page in terms of climate change as a whole, which is why we see clashes with groups such as Extinction Rebellion, as it has had to go to the extreme for people to take notice; there is no middle ground.

Anyway, to tie the three examples together that I have chose to analyse from the session today: Joseph Beuys mentioned that everybody is an artist, Bill Gates mentioned that we as rich countries have the power to help with the threat of climate change, and Copenhagen is realising that potential and is striving to become the world’s first carbon neutral capital.

Reading Materials

‘According to Beuys, the transformation of the world is in the hands of artists, and everyone could become an artist and change the world. Thus, art is a powerful political tool, and education toward art expression is a political project [21].’

‘For all Beuys's often wilfully obscure statements and actions, his art, in this instance, communicated its message loudly and clearly, and with a life-changing force. For many of us, though, it remains mysterious, and not always, one suspects, for the reasons that Beuys wanted it to be. That, however, may be the whole point of Joseph Beuys. 'The thinker sees his own actions as experiments and questions, as attempts to find out something,'

These two passages of text from a Guardian article ‘A Mystery Man’ and ‘Joseph Beuys’ Rediscovery of Man–Nature Relationship: A Pioneering Experience of Open Social Innovation’ stood out to me and it made me feel personally quite powerful. He is right in the sense that art is a powerful political tool. Climate change has to be the biggest problem facing human beings today, and change has to come primarily from government level, as they govern the country.

However, as Joseph Beuys suggests, art can change behaviours and artists are everywhere. Creating a piece of art doesn’t require permission from anyone, it can be done anywhere at any time, within reason obviously. We all have the tools such as MacBook Pros and software such as Adobe Illustrator to create a message that is so powerful it changes people. This is very motivating to think that I have the power to do just that, and it is what I will do my absolute best to do for HOME.

youtube

References

https://www.cyclinguk.org/statistics

https://blackboard.salford.ac.uk/bbcswebdav/pid-3909258-dt-content-rid-14403983_1/courses/VA-W200-20319-50067-20/A%20man%20of%20mystery%20_%20Art%20and%20design%20_%20The%20Guardian.pdf

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toldnews-blog · 6 years ago

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New Post has been published on https://toldnews.com/politics/interest-in-republican-operatives-clinton-email-quest-lingers-long-after-his-death/

Interest in Republican operative's Clinton email quest lingers long after his death

Democratic lawmakers sent letters to more than 80 individuals and entities this week, launching a wide-ranging probe of President Donald Trump, his associates and others that threatens to beleaguer the administration for at least the next two years.

Interested in Congress?

Add Congress as an interest to stay up to date on the latest Congress news, video, and analysis from ABC News.

The list weaves through Trump’s businesses, Trump’s cabinet, Trump’s family and friends, advisers and supporters, encompassing a cast of characters central to special counsel Robert Mueller’s ongoing investigation of Russian interference in the 2016 election.

But one name, that of Peter Smith, stands out. Of the dozens of people Democrats are probing for information, only Smith, a Chicago investor and longtime Republican operative, is dead.

Letters sent to Smith’s estate, Smith associate John Szobocsan, cybersecurity researcher Matt Tait, and Trump’s former national security adviser Michael Flynn suggest that nearly two years after Smith’s death, congressional investigators remain interested in his failed effort to obtain what he thought were tens of thousands of additional hacked emails from then-Democratic presidential candidate Hillary Clinton ahead of the 2016 election.

Lawmakers asked each of them for material related to “discussions or attempts to provide or receive election information, campaign data, or campaign communications with, to, or from foreign entities and individuals in connection with the 2016 U.S. Presidential primary or general elections.”

An attorney for the Smith estate has not responded to a request for comment from ABC News.

In May 2017, Smith told The Wall Street Journal that he had launched an effort ahead of the 2016 presidential election to recover more than 30,000 emails Clinton said had been deleted from her personal server that he believed were actually stolen, potentially by foreign hackers. The 81-year-old claimed to have found five groups on the dark web, including two he suspected were Russians, that said they were in possession of the emails, and Smith said he managed to obtain some of them but was ultimately unable to verify whether they were real.

Ten days after speaking with the Journal, Smith, who suffered from health issues, committed suicide, according to The Chicago Tribune.

While Smith had insisted his efforts were independent from the Trump campaign, congressional investigators have long questioned what role, if any, Trump-linked figures may have played in the Smith’s search. Both the House and Senate Intelligence Committees have previously obtained documents from the Smith estate, as have investigators working for Mueller.

Tait, a former British intelligence officer who said Smith attempted to recruit him to the endeavor, wrote in a blog post Smith had implied connections with prominent individuals working for then-candidate Trump, including Flynn — an idea dismissed in October by a source close to Flynn.

“I think it was a passing relationship at best,” the source told ABC News of Flynn’s ties to Smith.

Carolyn Kaster/AP photo, FILE

Former National Security Adviser Michael Flynn during the daily news briefing at the White House, Feb. 1, 2017, in Washington, D.C.

Smith’s quest to obtain Clinton’s emails is believed to be the final but hardly the first time he pursued an aggressive, behind-the-scenes agenda inside what journalist David Brock once called the “gothic world of anti-Clintonism.”

Smith briefly came to national prominence in the 1990s when it was revealed he was a key player behind the Troopergate scandal, in which local law enforcement officials in Arkansas claimed that they helped cover up various alleged affairs by then-Arkansas governor Bill Clinton.

Smith, at the time, reportedly was a leading donor to GOPAC, the conservative political action committee once chaired by former GOP House Speaker Newt Gingrich. Smith tipped off Brock, a rising conservative media star, to the troopers’ stories, leading to an explosive article in the right-leaning magazine American Spectator in 1993.

In an interview in October, Brock, who by then had long ago switched his ideological allegiance to the left and founded the left-leaning media watchdog Media Matters, described Smith’s interest in the Clintons as “an obsession.”

“I think he was inclined toward conspiracy-minded thinking,” Brock told ABC News. “He was very secretive, very conspiratorial.”

Though the Troopergate scandal did damage President Bill Clinton, sparking a lawsuit that indirectly led to his 1998 impeachment, Smith told the Chicago Sun-Times he considered the effort — which cost him some $80,000 for legal advice, public relations consultants and other expenses, including a gift to two troopers and their attorney — a disappointment.

“I feel like a failure for not having it out before the 1992 election,” Smith said.

Saul Loeb/AFP/Getty Images

U.S. Representative Jerry Nadler, Chairman of the House Judiciary Committee, speaks during a hearing with acting Attorney General Matt Whitaker on Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C., Feb. 8, 2019.

After Troopergate, Smith appears to have continued to keep an eye on politics. Charles Ortel, a retired Wall Street financier who said his self-appointed “mission” is to investigate the Clinton Foundation, said he was introduced to Smith in 2015 as someone who could help expose purported wrongdoing by the charity. When Smith told Ortel about the Clinton email hunt, Ortel said he tried to dissuade Smith from pursuing it.

“It wouldn’t stop Peter from doing whatever it was he did,” Ortel told ABC News.

After Smith’s death, court filings in the struggle over his estate presented a fractured picture of the man, revealing a web of investments and technological firms and alleged debts in excess of tens of thousands of dollars to more than a dozen parties. Many of the smaller claims against the estate were settled or dismissed, but court records indicate the case remains ongoing.

Several individuals listed as former business associates of Smith in public records did not respond to requests for comment, but court filings suggest some professional relationships had deeply soured in his final years.

John Purcell and Alton O’Neil, two longtime business associates of Smith, said in their filings, “[Smith] had the appearance of being extremely successful in his various endeavors, and he developed many close and longterm professional relationships. … In reality, however, the Decedent engaged in a regular pattern and practice of manipulating, deceiving and exploiting those around him for his personal gain, relying upon his prestige and reputation as an esteemed and respected businessman in doing so.”

Another claim, that of Smith’s longtime business associate Szobocsan, mentions Mueller’s probe directly. Szobocsan said in court papers that he ran up attorney fees topping $25,000 for the three meetings he had with the special counsel’s office and one meeting with the Senate Intelligence Committee, and he wanted the Smith estate to reimburse him.

Richard Porter, a friend of Smith’s and an Illinois Republican National Committeeman, told ABC News in October Smith did business with a lot of people and said he was a good businessman.

“He was a fine fellow,” Porter said. “I am sorry for his family. [He was a] very private guy who lived a full successful life; still, sad and shocking that he decided to end it.”

Writer Thomas Lipscomb, who told ABC News in November he was contacted by Smith in 2004 after writing about then-Democratic presidential candidate Sen. John Kerry’s military records for the Chicago Sun-Times, said he kept in touch with Smith until his death. Especially in his last years, Lipscomb said, Smith was casting about for “sunset glory and recognition.”

“I knew Peter Smith for 14 years,” Lipscomb wrote in RealClearPolitics in October, “and watched him devolve from a canny financier and a player in the Chicago GOP to a bankrupt octogenarian, cadging money from his friends and trying to raise funds on a loopy mission to somehow get his hands on the 33,000 deleted Hillary Clinton emails he was sure would guarantee Trump’s election.”

#Donald Trump #election news #indian politics #political news #political news articles #politics news #Robert Mueller #Russia Investigation #US politics

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selfhelpfactory · 4 years ago

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The Power Of Creativity Summary | learn how to build lasting habits, face your fears, and change your life.

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This book is for new writers, musicians, filmmakers, artists and anyone who has ever asked questions like “How can I become more creative?” or, “How can I get more ideas?” or “How can I focus on my thoughts and just let them flow?” Through The Power Of Creativity Summary ill try to answer your questions. So let’s begin…..

The power of creativity infographic summary

The Mirror:

“We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” – Anais Nin

You and I have too many dreams, we both wanna achieve & have too many things but to want something & to be brave enough to pursue it are two different things.

Procrastination is the problem we all face. The problem is you are afraid to start, afraid to think big.

Once you reach a certain age you get caught up in the day to day job, other people start depending on you, worried about paying bills and conscious about what others will think about you. All these reasons hold you back from taking creative decisions and doing what you like.

All you have to do is just start small and keep improving each day with incremental changes.

The theory is nice but the practice is better

Moments Of Inspiration:

DREAMS!!! if you don’t know let me tell you all the masterpieces ever existed came from dreams. These are known as moments of inspiration.

For example, Paul McCartney wrote the song,” yesterday ” which came to him in his dream. He had no idea how wrote it. He just woke up one morning with the song in his head. Isn’t it cool.

Similarly, painter Salvador Dali preferred having a sweet sleep before working on his big ideas.

He wrote in his book,” in undertaking an important pictorial work which you are anxious to bring to successful completion and on which your heart is particularly set, you must before anything else begin it by sleeping as deeply, as soundly as possible for you to do”.

This doesn’t mean you’ll just sleep & keep waiting for the dream to inspire you or give you an idea. All these masters can do it cause they have fertilized the soil/brain and seeded their ideas long in advance.

The creative process is as much about preparation and good habits as it is about moments of inspiration. So focus on preparing yourself, creating good habits, make a schedule. – Bryan Collins

Sacrifice Non Essentials:

Stop wasting your time on useless things. You have to replace your bad habits with a good one

Are you willing to sacrifice tv, social media, trashy books, night outs??

Because when you sacrifice the non-essential parts of your day, you’ll gain the momentum you need to progress your big ideas.

Favorable Environment:

Remove everything from your workplace that distracts you (television, Games, magazines like that).

Cause willpower is finite and, trust me, you don’t wanna waste it on fighting with distractions. Leave clues like notes, bookmarks like that.

Be Efficient:

Both good & bad ideas appear at an unusual time and unusual places, like in the shower.

So you must be efficient in your daily routine.

That is why keep everything organized and easy to access, so you won’t waste time looking for pens, notes, etc.

Be Effective:

Set deadlines for your creative projects.

Turn up every single day to do what you meant to do and then stick to your routine. At the end of the month or so, review your routine.

Feed Your Subconscious:

Before going to bed read, write, or try to remember what work you did today.

Doing this will pass the idea to the subconscious, which will continue to work on the idea/thought while you are asleep.

Next morning try to remember what you dreamt & write it down quickly before it fades out of mind.

Reward Yourself:

To keep motivated yourself, mark small victories, like keeping a new creative routine or reaching a little milestone, etc, and reward yourself for it.

Doing this will build a mental link between your new routine and positive experiences.

Commit To Your Ideas:

Creativity doesn’t appear whenever you want.

You have to work every day, engage yourself in doing your craft, you have to be dedicated.

Turning up every single day builds the creative resources regarding your craft in your subconscious mind. This way you prepare your mind and body for your creative work.

Trace Your Creative Roots:

You can spend your life doing thousands of worthwhile creative goals/work. But the harsh reality of life( paying the bill, having a job, settling down, etc) complicates your ability to do what you want. As you get older, your chances of doing it go down.

Talent, hard work, opportunities are useless if you don’t know where you are going.

Purpose:

You can’t give your best if you don’t know,” why you are doing what you are doing”.

You have to educate yourself about what drives you & inspires you.

The purpose will guide you through the tough times. Find your guiding purpose!!

Mission Statement:

Most of the time you are so afraid of what people will think about you, you feel demotivated.

In such times you need a personal mission statement, which will keep you on track & keep reminding you why you do what you do.

Write your mission statement now!! Keep reviewing and updating your mission statement monthly.

Learn The Demands Of Your Craft & Audience:

You don’t have to care or worry about, what others think of you & your ideas. That’s the only way to know what your craft & audience wants.

Many great ideas are born because somebody had a problem they wanted to solve. But No one wants to invest their time, money, energy in creating a product/solution which no one wants.

That’s why instead of assuming what the audience wants, develop an early concept/prototype. Share it with your audience, get feedback, and use it to improve your product/Solution.

Start learning the fundamentals of your craft first. Keep track of your progress so you can know, how far you have come & how far you still have to keep going.

The lifelong practice is what separates amateurs from professionals & professionals from creative masters. – Bryan Collins

Find A Mentor:

The path to success is full of struggle & huddles. You’re not the only ones who struggle, want to think outside the box, needs the motivation to keep going or craves for critical feedback.

Almost everyone faces these problems and having someone or following someone who has completed the journey you are on will save your efforts, time & energy.

Having a mentor offers opportunities to learn creative skills faster & gain access to creative insights and resources. Mentor will show you how to avoid committing common mistakes and help you learn skills faster.

You will become more accomplished and creative if you have a mentor guiding you. There are two types of mentors, good mentors, and great mentors.

Good mentors are easy to find. Good mentors can be teachers, your friend, your colleagues who are more successful than you.

Great mentors are fewer and harder to come across. These are the people who motivate you, their work keeps inspiring you.

It doesn’t matter if your mentor is alive or not. Napoleon Hill suggested in his book, ” think and grow rich” to have an imaginary council of mentors.

Hill’s council included Edison, Charles Darwin, and 7 others. Similarly, you can also have imaginary mentors of your choice. Learn everything from their works, books, etc.

When you encounter a problem, ask yourself what would your mentor do, and act like that.

Strengthen Your Mind And Body:

Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional. – Haruki Murakami

One of the best ways to stay motivated, turn up every single day, and keep going is running and meditation. Meditation and exercise will help you embrace positive change in many different ways.

Meditation is a scientifically proven way to improve concentration and memory and also to make you smarter.

When you meditate you are able to focus more on tasks & fewer mood swings occur. If you are not able to meditate then you can try running. Running is a lot like meditation.

When you are passionate and working too hard on a project, it is very necessary to have a break, so your body and mind can relax.

When you are physically and mentally healthier, you are better able to concentrate on your work and ideas.

Side Project:

A musician must make music, an artist must paint, a poet must write if he is to be ultimately at peace with himself. – Abraham Maslow

You can be only happy if you can express yourself by doing what you really like.

If your main gig isn’t giving you enough time or space to write, draw, paint or play if you spend your nine to five responding to the demands of others or if you work on the project only because they pay bills, then you need a side project.

When you are messing around, when it’s just for fun, when nobody gets hurt, paid or laid, it’s a side project.

When you are stuck, can’t make decisions, feel like procrastinating, at these times you can work on your side project and relax & have some fun doing what you like.

All the work, the research you do, during your side project

You never know when this side project becomes your main gig. This book was Bryan Collins’s side project which later turns out to be 3 parts book series.

Side projects help you procrastinate and still get things done.

They also help you create new habits without taking risks or investing a lot of time & money on a single idea.

Also switching from the main project to side project gives you much-needed break.

And don’t feel overwhelmed by the scale & ambition of your side project.

Look at your side project as an experiment, be bold, do things differently, allow yourself to fail.

Work on several things at a time, and you will connect them in exciting and unexpected ways.

What you practice for just an hour or day on your side project, can change your life in the future.

Go To War Against Your Fear:

There’s only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure. – Paula Coelho

You don’t know if what you are doing, creating will have the potential to survive in the market, and each day is like a struggle while working on it.

Your fear of what people will think, hold you back.

You are afraid of starting, but you are even more afraid of being found out. That people will criticize you, your work, your ideas, that you are not good enough, etc.

Remember it’s really very important to turn up every single day and get things done.

Eliminate useless daily tasks & activities which waste your time and focus on creating creative habits. Make it a ritual so you perform it every single day without thinking.

Another thing which holds you back is self-doubt like, I am not good enough and all.

Accept negative self-talk for what it is. Just talk. – Bryan Collins

The best way to avoid self-talk & get them out of your head is journaling or meditating or exercising.

Rejection/ failure is part of the process. Everyone who succeeds has to face Rejection/failure.

Start acting like a champion. Be confident & bold with your ideas, thoughts, and answers. Keep doing this and your success will be inevitable. If success were easy to accomplish then conquest wouldn’t worth it.

Passion:

“Passion!! Being crazy about something, doing something which makes you happy, is very important. Find your passion.

Once you find your passion, you’ll have the reason to get up every single day and create what you actually love. Passion will keep you going when nothing will.

Practice every single day even if you don’t feel like it.

The road ahead is long and winding, but you are bolder, stronger, and more powerful than you can imagine. – Bryan Collins

I wish you luck. You can do it!!!!

Conclusion:

The biggest problem in your life: you are afraid of starting.

Begin your creative project after sleeping as deeply as possible.

Sacrifice useless activities & habits.

before sleeping think of the project, you working on. And write down every detail of your dreams the next morning.

Celebrate small victories by rewarding yourself.

Find your purpose!! Make a personal mission statement. These two things will serve you as a road map.

Don’t make assumptions about what your audience wants.

You will become more accomplished and creative if you have a mentor guiding you.

When you are physically and mentally healthier, you are better able to concentrate on your work and ideas.

Have a side project, which will make you feel happy, relaxed.

You are afraid of starting, but you are even more afraid of being found out.

Review:

The power of creativity is the best book on creativity, I have read so far. The author,” Bryan Collins” is speaking to you through the book. Every aspect of creativity like where it comes from, how to harness it, how to keep motivated etc is well explained. The book is full of quotes and examples which I personally very liked. And at the end of each chapter, there are insights and action steps that keep you engaged. This is the roadmap to sharpen your creativity. This was, ” The Power Of Creativity (part 1) summary” let me know in the comments if you liked it.

And if you really wanna get better at your craft then I recommend you to read all the three parts of The Power Of Creativity by Bryan Collins. The best part is part 1 free, you can read it on kindle or google play books for free.

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#Creativity #Self Growth

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gipstyle-blog · 7 years ago

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Rev. Paul Wilson fastens enough buttons on his jacket to stay warm on a chilly fall afternoon but still keep his clergy collar visible. He’s whipping up a crowd of demonstrators in downtown Richmond, Virginia, where they’re waiting to make a short march from Richmond’s Capitol Square Bell Tower to the nearby National Theatre. His eyes covered by sunglasses, and his head by a newsboy hat, Wilson speaks to the assembled about their Christian responsibility to protect the planet.

They’ve gathered for the Water Is Life Rally & Concert, an event to protest the proposed construction of the Atlantic Coast Pipeline. The development, a joint venture between several energy companies (including Richmond-based Dominion Energy), would carry natural gas 600 miles from West Virginia to North Carolina.

The pipeline’s proposed route runs directly between Union Hill and Union Grove Baptist churches, the two parishes where Wilson serves as a pastor in rural Buckingham County, 70 miles south of Richmond. The proposed site for the pipeline’s 54,000-horsepower, gas-fired compressor station is also set to be built right between them.

Wilson fears the station could put his congregation and the surrounding community at risk of a range of ailments, especially asthma, because those living near natural gas facilities often suffer from chronic respiratory problems.

“God gave man dominion over the earth, but not permission to destroy it,” Wilson later tells me as we discuss the pipeline over coffee at a diner in a suburb north of Richmond. Rev. Paul Wilson

Even though the Water Is Life Rally was held in the Bible Belt, Rev. Wilson was the only speaker who cited scripture and invoked Jesus Christ. Drums and tambourines reverberated in unison to chants of “No justice, no peace! No pipelines on our streets!”, and the event’s other speakers railed against the greed of Big Oil companies and U.S. imperialism.

At another rally focused on fossil fuels a year earlier in Richmond, religion was front and center.

In December 2016, gospel music stars descended on a local community center in Richmond’s East Highland Park neighborhood. Hundreds of residents from throughout the area had answered the call to attend a concert marketed as an opportunity for enlightenment, both spiritual and environmental.

As a sea of hands waved through the air as eyes closed in prayer, what many in the crowd didn’t know was that they were the target of a massive propaganda campaign. One of the event’s sponsors was a fossil-fuel advocacy group called Fueling U.S. Forward, an outfit supported by Koch Industries, the petrochemicals, paper, and wood product conglomerate founded by conservative billionaires Charles and David Koch.

The gospel program was designed to highlight the benefits of oil and natural gas production and its essential role in the American way of life. During a break in the music, a panel discussion unfolded about skyrocketing utility costs. The lobbyists and businesspeople on the panel presented a greater reliance on fossil fuels — billed as cheap, reliable energy sources — as the fix. Later, a surprise giveaway netted four lucky attendees the opportunity to have their power bills paid for them.

The event was one big bait and switch, according to environmental experts and local activists. Come for the gospel music, then listen to us praise the everlasting goodness of oil and gas. Supporting this sort of pro-oil-and-gas agenda sprinkled over the songs of praise, they say, would only worsen the pollution and coastal flooding that come with climate change, hazards that usually hit Virginia’s black residents the hardest.

“The tactic was tasteless and racist, plain and simple,” says Kendyl Crawford, the Sierra Club of Richmond’s conservation program coordinator. “It’s exploiting the ignorance many communities have about climate change.”

Rev. Wilson likens that gospel concert to the Biblical story of Judas accepting 30 pieces of silver to betray Jesus. Like many African Americans in Virginia, he initially didn’t connect environmental policy with what he calls the “institutional racism” — think racial profiling, lack of economic opportunity, etc. — that can plague black communities nationwide. Now he considers “the sea level rising or the air quality in the cities” another existential threat.

So in response to the Koch Brothers’ attempt to sway their flocks, Wilson and others affiliated with black churches in Virginia have channeled their outrage into a new calling: climate advocacy. For Wilson, environmentalism has become a biblical mission.

“The climate is changing,” he says. “And it’s black folk in Virginia who will lose the most.”

Rev. Faith Harris remembers first hearing ads about the Fueling U.S. Forward gospel concert on urban radio stations back in 2016. A minister, teacher, and environmental activist at Virginia Union University, a Richmond-based historically black college, Harris was among many African Americans in the region angered by what she calls a “purposeful misinformation” campaign. She says it was surreal to hear a D.J. invite listeners to “learn the truth” about whether the country is using enough fossil fuels.

“I called the radio station to ask, ‘How could you do that?’” she recalls. “The debate isn’t whether there are enough fossil fuels, but about the health and environmental impact they have on the way we live on this planet.”

In the months after the gospel concert, the backlash bubbled slowly through neighborhoods, led mostly by community activists and clergy like Rev. Harris. It picked up steam following the Times article. Ultimately, Fueling U.S. Forward’s strategy of influencing one of the black community’s most sacred institutions — the church — would prove to be folly.

Within environmental advocacy circles, Harris says, there was an increased urgency to tell neighborhood leaders that the concert was part of a public relations campaign for oil and gas interests. The campaign had the unintended effect of rallying the Richmond black community against the Kochs and their goals.

Revs. Harris and Wilson now regularly tell their congregations how the fossil fuel industry harms low-income communities and people of color. Sea-level rise on Virginia’s coast has put low-lying cities in the Hampton Roads area, including Norfolk and Newport News — both of which are more than 40 percent black — at risk of extreme flooding. A hurricane during high tide could see entire neighborhoods populated primarily by African Americans and the poor swallowed up by the Chesapeake Bay.

“We in the church community have a moral responsibility to be out front on protecting our flock from climate change,” Harris says. “I call it an authentic pro-life agenda. The Christian church, for too long, has allowed ‘pro-life’ to be defined solely as conception when, in fact, life is much more complex. It includes our quality of life while we’re here.”

The state’s African-American residents already face high rates of respiratory problems related to the processing of fossil fuels, like those that would flow through the Atlantic Coast Pipeline. In Norfolk, clouds of dust from coal residue from nearby shipping yards and factories often cover parked vehicles. With such close proximity to toxic air pollution, nearly 11 percent of the state’s black population has asthma, higher than the national average of 7.6 percent.

Richmond remains one of the deadliest places in the U.S. for people suffering from asthma, according to the Asthma and Allergy Foundation of America, a consequence of a high poverty rate and a large proportion of uninsured. The chronic respiratory condition is linked to living near industrial factories, as well as urban planning that drove interstate highways — and their accompanying diesel pollution — through many black neighborhoods.

“We have a coal factory right in the neighborhood,” says Antonio Branch, a community organizer with Richmond-based Virginia Civic Engagement Table, an organization aimed at educating vulnerable communities about risks to their health. “I’m asthmatic. My mother is asthmatic and she grew up in the same area. My son is asthmatic, and I have a baby boy who may soon be diagnosed.”

Branch considers the proposed Atlantic Coast Pipeline “part of a larger environmental attack” on minority communities in Virginia and neighboring North Carolina, two states on the planned pipeline route. Many of the region’s proposed oil and gas projects sit near poor and rural areas. In Virginia’s Buckingham County, home to Rev. Wilson’s churches, the community closest to that facility is 85 percent African American. By contrast, the state’s overall black population is 19 percent.

“This isn’t a coincidence,” Branch says.

The billionaire Koch brothers are one of the driving forces behind right-wing campaigns throughout the country. One of their primary activities is promoting fossil fuel production. According to Virginia environmental groups, that involves efforts to deny the existence of climate change and stifle renewable energy policies.

In struggling cities and towns, Big Oil bills itself as a savior, raising the hope that new plants and pipelines, like the Atlantic Coast project, will bring jobs and tax revenue. With an extensive network of advocacy groups throughout the country, the Koch Brothers can spread that message anywhere, outsourcing efforts to sway public opinion without people realizing they’re pulling the strings.

Fueling U.S. Forward, until recently, was one of those campaigns. When HuffPost first reported on its existence in early 2016, the group had an annual budget of roughly $10 million and was run by Charles Drevna, a former petroleum industry lobbyist, and James Mahoney, a board member and former executive for Koch Industries. Later that summer, Drevna spoke at the Red State Gathering in Denver, telling the right-wing activist conference — in a speech where he referred to EPA employees as “clowns” — that the fossil fuel industry was losing ground because it was failing to connect with the public, especially minority communities, on a cultural, emotional, and personal level.

“We’ve done a terrible job in working with individual communities, working with the minority communities on how important energy is to them,” he said in a Facebook Live chat during the gathering with Fueling U.S. Forward’s communications director at the time, Alex Fitzsimmons. “And who gets hit the hardest when there’s a spike in energy costs? They get hit the most, and they get hit the hardest.”

A year ago, The New York Times reported that the nonprofit had started making inroads among African Americans. The group had helped sponsor the National Black Political Convention in 2016 where delegates added language to their platform characterizing policies that subsidize electric cars and residential solar as benefiting the rich at the expense of African Americans.

At the Richmond gospel concert, Fueling U.S. Forward sought to link energy production to the everyday issues that it said stymie economic mobility for African Americans — such as prices at the gas pump, heating, and electric bills. That message was delivered in part through discussions featuring prominent African-American business leaders.

“It was a deliberate strategy to manipulate black Virginians into supporting fossil fuels,” the Sierra Club’s Crawford says.

One of the participants was Derrick Hollie, a career marketing consultant who is also the founder of Reaching America, a nonprofit that describes itself as “focused on innovative solutions for African Americans not based on right or left wing views but what makes sense for a more united America.” Reaching America cosponsored the Fueling U.S. Forward gospel concert along with Radio One, an entertainment network targeting African Americans now known as Urban One. The corporation once employed Hollie as a national sales manager.

Despite Reaching America’s nonpartisan claims, Hollie has been associated with the black conservative network Project 21 and identified as a right-winger on TV news shows. And much of Hollie’s environmental advocacy has been in line with the Koch brothers’ priorities. His arguments focus on what he calls “energy poverty” — when low-income households spend large portions of their disposable income to keep the lights on and fill up their gas tanks. He’s invoked the phrase while speaking in support of fracking in Maryland, Rick Perry’s appointment to lead the Department of Energy, and most recently, the Trump administration’s planned withdrawal from the Paris accord. Hollie did not respond to requests for an interview.

While Hollie has remained visible since the Richmond event — launching a Reaching America podcast series and palling around with Perry and other Cabinet secretaries — Fueling U.S. Forward has gone dark. Calls and emails to Fueling U.S. Forward and its president Charles Drevna to comment for this story were not returned.

Fitzsimmons, the group’s communications director, has moved to Perry’s Department of Energy, where he’s the chief policy advisor in the Office of Energy Efficiency and Renewable Energy. The organization’s website appears to have been shut down last fall, all videos from its YouTube page have been removed, and its social media platforms haven’t been updated in more than a year.

But Fueling U.S. Forward’s message lives on. Scott Pruitt, head of the Environmental Protection Agency, employs talking points that echo those Drevna used while promoting the organization in conservative circles, complaining that the EPA’s regulations pick “winners and losers” in the energy space.

While gospel provided the soundtrack to the Fueling U.S. Forward event in Richmond, it was bluegrass and folk that pumped through the loudspeakers at December’s Water Is Life Rally. Rev. Wilson was one of a dozen or so African Americans taking part in the event. Most of those assembled to protest the Atlantic Coast Pipeline were white millennials and baby boomers who donned anti-establishment paraphernalia and waved “No Pipeline” signs to the honking cars that passed by.

Kiquanda Baker, the Hampton Roads organizer for the Chesapeake Climate Action Network, helped put together the Water Is Life Rally. She sees African-American leadership as an essential part of changing the narrative surrounding climate change. But she admits that while the community is becoming more engaged in green issues, it hasn’t quite begun to break down the archetype of the white environmentalist.

Adding environmentalism to the fight for social justice that’s part of the African-American experience, she says, is the most critical aspect of swaying communities of color to fight global warming.

“Our role as community leaders is to show that all of these issues are connected,” Baker says. “The more aware we are of environmental injustices, the less likely our communities can be tricked into rallies by the Koch brothers.”

Baker says outreach efforts are slowly making progress throughout the state, even if community members aren’t yet the most vocal activists. But she’s encouraged that African-American residents are increasingly active where it counts most: the voting booth.

“A few folks I talk with, they may not be at the point where they’re ready to canvas or march,” she says. “But they are better informed about who they’re voting for and which corporations and interests would also be getting their vote.”

Virginia’s black community is also becoming more active in pressing elected officials on the environment and climate change. Two months after the gospel concert, clergy members joined the Virginia Conservation Network — a coalition of organizations and community members that advocates for clean energy and environmental justice — for a panel discussion on how to inoculate themselves from Fueling U.S. Forward–type message. Freshman Democratic Congressman A. Donald McEachin, who’d recently been elected to represent Virginia’s 4th District — which runs from the southwestern suburbs of Richmond to the southeast corner of the state — joined the discussion. He has since joined with two other freshman representatives to form the United for Climate and Environmental Justice Congressional Task Force.

After Harris and other activists spent months petitioning the state government, Virginia Governor Terry McAuliffe established an Advisory Council on Environmental Justice in October. Its role is to provide the governor with independent recommendations on combating “disproportionately high or adverse effects from pollution” that fall on low-income residents and communities of color. Harris is one of the advisors, and she sees her participation as part of a larger theological crusade.

“In black communities, the clergy has always been the leading voice of the oppressed,” she says. “So when it comes to making sure our flock has a planet to call home, it’s a fight we have to be in front of.”

Rev. Wilson has also been preparing for the battle ahead. He’s already been arrested for protesting the Atlantic Coast Pipeline at the Virginia Governor’s Mansion. (He was sentenced to community service.) But as he made the trek back to Buckingham County after the Water is Life Rally, he was worried about what the future holds, both for the pipeline he’s battling and his community.

The Atlantic Coast Pipeline is already a year behind schedule, and last November’s statewide elections could signal that momentum is swinging back in environmentalists’ favor. Democrats picked up seats in the House of Delegates, which could alter the timeline of the pipeline’s development. Several bills are currently up for a vote that would require pipeline operators to obtain more permits before construction could begin.

When he’s not tending to his two churches, Wilson is a fifth-generation owner of a funeral home. He expects his daughter to take over the family business in the coming years, and his grandson has already chosen to study mortuary science, making it likely he’ll be the seventh generation to oversee the funeral home. Wilson hopes that by the time his grandson is running things, the environmental threats to his family and church members won’t have business booming at the funeral home for all the wrong reasons.

“God didn’t put me on this earth to pimp death for profit,” Wilson says. “That’s what the Kochs and these energy folks are doing to my people now. It’s up to us in the church to stop it.”

The Koch Brothers Vs God

Rev. Paul Wilson fastens enough buttons on his jacket to stay warm on a chilly fall afternoon but still keep his clergy collar visible.

The Koch Brothers Vs God Rev. Paul Wilson fastens enough buttons on his jacket to stay warm on a chilly fall afternoon but still keep his clergy collar visible.

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