#the lengths of the last texts is original. it's uneven i know

[goldenpinof]

we are back, baby!!!

[joshslater]

Cheat Day

This is a rewrite of a story I read like a year ago and forgot to bookmark in any way. Please sent a note if you know where to find the original... Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

Michael stared at the door. There was still time to back out. To go back home and accuse Tom of cheating. Although Michael was assertive, tough even, he didn’t like confrontation. Not real, emotional confrontation. As soon as he saw the text he knew it wasn’t just another Grindr hookup. He and Tom decided very early on that sex and love were two very different things, and whatever they did to each other in the bedroom would only get better if they had inspiration from other encounters.

Still, looking at the door it felt like cheating. He had been pacing the apartment for minutes in a mix of emotions. Sadness, anger, jealousy, disbelief. He had opened all the hookup apps he had in an impulsive fit of desperately seeking a revenge fuck. A revenge fuck with someone else. It was only minutes later that he had found Jonathan, who appeared as eager as him, nearby, and with a matching profile. Gay bottom who needed a quick fuck.

Now in front of the door he wasn’t at all as sure anymore. Standing someone up wasn’t cool either. At the very least he should say sorry in person. He rung the door.

Almost instantly the door flung open and a revealed a good looking guy a year older than Michael, according to his profile. “Hey, big dude”, he said and placed a long, sloppy kiss on Michael. There wasn’t really any size difference between the two. In fact, apart from their faces they looked pretty much alike. Two skinny guys in their late twenties with a few days shade, similar haircuts and tattooed sleeves that looked the same if you squinted a lot. They even dressed alike, tight jeans and casual, high quality untucked shirt, rolled sleeves and not buttoned all the way up. ”You’re really gonna like this.” he said when he finally peeled away from the kiss. Michael could nothing but agree.

“I’m Michael. I guess I should ask if you are Jonathan, but with that greeting I would be very disappointed if I had to leave.” Jonathan smiled a wry smile. “Trust me, you are not leaving without my permission”, and he placed another slobbering kiss.

“I like your hair. I guess you need something practical with all the gym time you clock. Fits with the whole dumb jock image you’re going for.” If Michael had a dumb look, it was because he had no idea what Jonathan was talking about. He hadn’t been in a gym for months. He could live off donuts and coffee and still not put on any weight, try as he might. Jonathan’s hands were all over him, while he kicked the door shut. “I bet it takes a lot to keep such a muscled body. I bet you meal prep twice a week, eat five times a day, and stay off all processed food, all sweets, all alcohol. That takes some serious dedication.” Oh! Michael could see what he was doing. He was setting up a role playing scene.

“Lifting is life, bro” Michael tried. “There’s my fucking gym bro. It’s all about the gains and looking good naked. That’s why you shave everything below the nose, right? To make the muscles show better.”

Jonathan smiled and kissed Michael deep again, while his hands where all up inside Michael’s shirt. Michael had never shaved anything except for his face, and recently he hadn’t bother with anything but running a trimmer a few times a week.

“It’s time for your post-workout shake, right? Best time while you still have that after sweat glow. I have it ready in the kitchen for you.” “Thanks. Sure is, bro”

Michael couldn’t remember when he last had one. Years ago at least. It was chalky and not at all something he would ever ask for again. He followed Jonathan into the kitchen, and as soon as he entered Jonathan threw a plastic shaker at him. “Catch! Chug it! You’ll love it.”

It tasted like vanilla. Strangely he did like it. Had he even had lunch, or was that forgotten too in the whole text message and cheating business? Something about Jonathan made both his dick and thinking really hard. No other bottom he’d met had ever been so assertive, so in charge. But bottom and sub were different things, and he couldn’t deny that it made him want to fuck his brains out all the more. So when Jonathan led him to the bedroom he was actually worried the amount of pre-cum would show.

“Let’s stop cosplaying and get this shit off you!” Jonathan said and ripped Michael’s shirt open, sending buttons in all directions. “What the hell, bro?” “You know anything with buttons are too inconvenient. You never use them.”

He unbuttoned Michael’s jeans for him. “Get naked and get in bed.” Confused he did as he was told and kicked off his shoes and slid down his jeans and boxers. Not only was his dick and balls slippery and shiny of pre-cum, but all of his body was glistening of sweat in the dim bedroom light. As he stepped out of the pile of clothes he realized he was completely smooth. Not a single hair as far as he could see. It made sense, since he was playing jock and it would make the muscles really pop, but something about it wasn’t right. He reached for the socks, but Jonathan stopped him. “That’s enough! On your back!”

Michael might be playing a dumb jock, but he knew something was terribly wrong. Very slowly he sat down on the bed. His arms looked pathetic. The rest of the body too. But that was just disappointing, not really something to be alarmed about. Jonathan stepped forward, grabbed both his legs and raised them from the floor, forcing Michael on his back.

“Let’s fuck you into shape, shall we?” he said and thrust his dick into Michael’s ass. Michael wasn’t prepared at all for the onslaught and sounded an indiscreet yelp. His brain was going through questions, looking for the right one. Why was he lying down while Jonathan was standing up? And again, a second thrust. Why was he almost naked while Jonathan had only unbuttoned his jeans? A loud belch escaped from him. He could feel his stomach churning. Why was he the one getting fucked and not Jonathan? As the third thrust hit he could feel an ache reverberate through his whole body.

“Tom likes being the big spoon, doesn’t he? He likes that while you are the one bossing him around, he is the bigger one, the one that protects you while you sleep, even though he doesn’t have much muscles.” Wave after wave of pain was flooding Michael. He felt like he really ought to know who Tom was. It was somehow important. Jonathan was fucking him with, deep, slow strokes. “He doesn’t like big, bulky muscles. They gross him out. The upper body is the worst.” Michael wanted the pain to stop. It felt like he was being stretched on a rack. “Big, bouncy pecs that puff up and out the chest. Big delts that makes the shoulders look wide and clumsy. Huge traps that misshapes the top of the shirt. And worst of all, big, bulging biceps that strains the fabric of any normal sleeve, and risk tearing it if you bend your arm. He hates it all.” The pain was ever shifting for Michael. The bone crushing pain mutated into a burning sensation. He let out another long burp. What was Jonathan talking about again? It was so hard to concentrate.

“And legs! Big, thick thighs that makes it impossible for you walk properly and pushes your junk out, so it looks obscene whatever you do. Tom would be disgusted. The massive body and legs makes your average dick look small. Your massive balls just makes it look even smaller. And veins. Big irregular veins snaking up and down the arms and legs, like an erect dick.” Jonathan was pumping furiously now, getting close to climax. Michael’s head was spinning. He was just happy the pain had subdued into a tingling sensation. Then Jonathan just stopped and there was a second of calm where Michael couldn’t think of anything. Then they both exploded, Michael pumping squirts after squirts of warm cum up in the air, while at the same time he could feel Jonathan emptying his load inside of him. Both of them appeared to have limitless supply. Michael felt something else as well, how the body was shifting. It felt like he was moving around, or like the sheet was being pulled from under him.

No, he wasn’t moving. He was growing, he realized. It was as if Jonathan was inflating a balloon with his cum. He himself was emptied his balls all over himself in an uneven smattering of sticky frosting. He realized everything Jonathan had said about Tom was true. He was rapidly turning into the kind of body Tom would laugh at. Mock. Be repulsed by, even. “Please. Please stop. Whatever reason you think you have for doing this, it’s wrong. This is all wrong.” Jonathan raised an eyebrow while shooting a last few shots of cum into Michael.

Jonathan withdrew and stepped back a step, panting and clearly exhausted. “Yeah, this is wrong.” With his dick still out of the jeans he climbed into the bed next to Michael. Michael wanted to shrug back, to get away, but his body just laid there like a sack of whey. Without hesitation Jonathan placed his hands around Michael’s throat and started to squeeze. “No! Please! Don’t kill me! Please, stop doing this.” The pitch of his voice was slowly going up, until the last two words when it crashed down octaves. “Please, just stop”

Michael’s voice was deep, touching on African American, but still somehow youthful. “That’s better. Now, sit up beef boy, I want to show you something.” Jonathan slapped Michael on the shoulder with a wet and meaty thud, got up from the bed, and went to the wardrobes along the wall. Michael sat up in the bed, noting that he was not only more muscled than anyone he knew, but quite a bit taller than before. Jonathan opened one of the wardrobes and revealed a full length mirror mounted on the inside of the door.

Michael didn’t see himself in the mirror. Somehow the sum of the parts made a bigger impact than just seeing and feeling them on their own. He was surprised how young his face looked. Barely twenty, he would guess. It looked utterly wrong on top of that massive body. Young, dumb, and above all immature looking. Like he went to gym instead of high school and juiced his way to his twenties. If you wanted to lab grow the antithesis to what turned Tom on, this would be it. “Why are you doing this?”

Jonathan’s face twisted into a snarl of contempt, took a step back and grabbed Michael’s head between his hands, pressed the palms into his cheeks until the lips parted and forcefully spit a glob of saliva into Michael’s mouth. He then leaned down and made another long kiss. “I’ll tell you, Brad, why I’m fucking doing this.”

Brad? Michael was sitting, slacked jawed looking up at Jonathan. He glanced down, seeing his reflection in the mirror behind Jonathan. For a short moment he expected to see Michael in the mirror, but of course he didn’t. He’s Brad. Anyone can see that. Jonathan stepped in, replacing his view of the mirror with Jonathan’s erect dick.

“Suck it! You love sucking dick more than anything, you cum guzzling bottom slut! You worthless piece of shit. You were never good enough for Tom. He’s supposed to be with me! You never appreciated the way he looked at you, the way he changed to accommodate you, to be part of your life. You’re were too fucking stupid to get that! Now you are too dumb to read a newspaper. Too stupid for any joke that isn’t practical, like pantsing someone in the weight room or squirting bronzer in their butt crack.”

Jonathan still held Brad’s head with both hands, moving it back and forth to forcefully pump his dick down Brad’s throat. Brad wanted to help, to please, but there was very little he could do, beside making gagging noises.

“You don’t remember what Tom looks like anymore. You can’t remember where you met, where you used to eat together, where you lived together. You don’t even think of love or relationships anymore. You can’t plan more than to your next meal prep, fucking loser. Your life only revolves around gym, sports and sex. Those are the only things that matters, the only things you plan for, the only things you talk about.”

Jonathan let go of Brad’s head, and was just standing there panting, dick in mouth. Brad could finally start to take an active part, letting his tongue play over Jonathan’s cock head. He started to slowly suck the dick in long, deliberate motions. Jonathan collected himself, somehow relieved to have revealed his feelings for Tom, and suddenly almost surprised to be in the middle of getting a blowjob. He sounded much calmer as he continued.

“You don’t like how you look naked. You think your dick looks ridiculous and tiny next to your giant balls, so you prefer to always be fucked wearing a jock strap.  You try to keep other clothes on, like you are wearing socks now, to take attention away from the jock strap. You try to have sex where and how being partially clothed makes sense. On the bench in the gym. In an alley outside. In the bleachers. In the dugout. And your massive balls are pumping so much hormones into you, you’re horny almost as soon as you’ve cum. You’ll swallow so much jizz you put it in your weekly macros.”

Brad was fully erect again, with a dollop of viscous pre-cum visible at the tip of his cock head. Jonathan was resting a hand on his head.

“Your body is never good enough. There is always more lifting, tanning, running, shaving, bulking or cutting to be done. You always want to look ready for gym, showing off what you got. Wearing bright clothes that makes people look. You want to be noticed, the center of every room you go into. How else can you get the attention to get everyone to fuck you? Loud, happy, clueless, obnoxious.”

With no warning Jonathan came again. Only a few pumps this time. Brad could feel something warm inside of him, but unlike a coffee or cocoa, it quickly spread out into all his body, and up his neck into his head. He let himself fall backwards into the bed, leaving a trailing string of cum and saliva between his lips and Jonathan’s dick, before it broke. His head was spinning. What was he doing here again. He was having sex with someone, wasn’t he? But he was still so fucking horny. In the corner of his eye he watched the guy leave the bedroom. He grabbed his slippery dick and started to masturbate. He needed to cum so badly.

The guy came back into the room with a pile of clothes, and threw it on his sweaty and cum sticky stomach. Brad felt caught and embarrassed and put both hands over his dick.

“Here, get dressed.” “Bro, you need to like fuck me.” “Sorry dude. Not my type.” “Not cool bro. I sucked you.” “Get dressed and I’ll help you find someone.” “How you’ll do that, bro?” “I’ll set up some fuck app accounts for you. I’ll even take pics and write a bio for you.” “Dope. Hurry tho. I’m so fucking horny.”

[angelicdestieldemon]

Wrapped Up (Day 12 of Christmas) NSFW

Request: established relationship barson wrapping gifts and they somehow end up having sex! 

SHIP: Barson

Requests are open for the next 13 days, I write for Barson, Bangan, Barisi and potentially other Rafael Barba ships (even other Raúl Esparza characters too), just talk to me on asks or private messages.

The squad had just finished a meeting with Barba when Olivia told them all to carry on and that she would meet them back at the station in a while. Once the door to his office was completely closed Rafael walked around the desk to lean against the front. Liv walked over to the door and locked it, before walking back over to Rafael who had his eyes trained on her.

Stepping into the ‘v’ of his legs she tilts his head up by his chin, closing the gap between them she captures his lips with hers. The kiss is soft and chaste, Rafael lets out a soft sigh before recapturing her lips this time with heat, his tongue swiping across her lips and tangling with hers, the taste of coffee on her tongue intoxicating him until he’s grasping her hips and pulling himself up to close the space between their bodies.

She pulls away just enough to lean their foreheads together, her hands holding on to his elbows, stopping him from moving away.

“Hi,” she whispers, grinning like a schoolgirl.

“Hi,” he whispers back, the same grin on his face.

Olivia scolds herself internally for the flutter in her heart at the simple greeting. This, them was still very new, but every time he looked at her with that soft expression, she felt herself melt inside. Every time she kissed him her pulse raced, her breathing quickened and all she could feel was the tingle left behind by the touch of his lips.

“Can I come round later?” He asks and she so wants to say yes.

“I’ve got a lot of Noah’s presents still to wrap,” she replies, a feeling of disappointment inside her.

Rafael smiles at her, his eyes and nose crinkling in a way that should not be cute on a man his age, but it is the only way to describe it, “I’ll help, get it done in twice the time.”

Olivia smiles at the offer and nods her head, glad for the company but also looking forward to getting to spend some proper alone time with him.

“Noah will be in bed by 8, you can come round after then,” she tells him before kissing him again and pulling away before she is no longer able to resist ravishing him on the desk.

Rafael nods with a smile and waves her goodbye.

When Rafael arrives, he texts Olivia rather than knocks in case Noah isn’t quite asleep yet, it only takes her a minute however to answer the door. He leaves his coat on the hook by the door before Olivia takes his hand and leads him down the corridor to the living room where already Noah’s Christmas presents are sitting alongside a few rolls of wrapping paper and cello tape. Before he can sit down though, Liv gently tugs him towards her and kisses him soundly.

“Thank you for coming.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he responds and the sincerity shocks both of them, it doesn’t scare him though, instead he smiles kisses her again before sitting down and grabbing a roll of paper and a toy and starts wrapping, Olivia following suit.

They work in unison, sitting side by side as they make their way through the pile of presents, Liv can’t stop looking across at the man who used to hold Noah like a bomb ready go off, to wrapping presents for a toddler when he could be doing anything else. Olivia loses track of time, sitting there relishing in the conversation about any little thing that crosses their minds, she hasn’t felt so at peace with anyone other than Noah in so long that she would do anything for this moment not to end.

However, with Rafael helping it didn’t take nearly as long as she expected to wrap all of Noah’s presents. He helps her hide the presents in her closet and she refuses to acknowledge the fact that Rafael Barba is standing in her bedroom, looking at her with those soft green eyes.

Turning around she sees him watching her, the soft glow of her bedside lamp making the atmosphere feel heavier than it should be. She can’t help but admire his appearance, instead of the three-piece-suit he usually wears, Rafael is wearing a soft-looking blue jumper and dark jeans and the site of him so relaxed is appealing in a way ordinary clothes shouldn’t be.

He stands there his hands in his pockets as she contemplates her next move, they have slept together already but it was rushed in the heat of the moment, Olivia wants to take it slow with him. To learn what he likes, to feel that connection beyond the physical aspect. But she also wants more out of this relationship than sex, for her own sake and Noah’s she needs to understand what exactly they are before anyone gets hurt.

“Rafa, I think we need to talk,” she states, his smile doesn’t falter though which sends her a feeling of relief that he isn’t surprised by this.

She takes a seat at the bottom of her bed and Rafael follows suit, sitting so close that her thigh pressed against his.

“I don’t want you and me to be just sex, I’ve done it before but it's not something that interests me anymore. I have Noah to think about, I can’t bring you into his life like this only for its end, if we are to continue, I need to know that you’re in it for the long haul. I don’t want to lose you, but I need to know what we are,” she tells him, laying her heart out before him.

Rafael takes her hand and intertwines their fingers, his thumb swiping softly across her knuckles.

“I want you, and Noah. I want to wake up with you in the morning and go to bed with you at night. I never thought that I would have kids, but I love Noah, and I want to be with the both of you if you’ll let me,” he says, his eyes meeting hers and Olivia feels like she’s about to cry so she kisses him, putting all her feeling she can’t voice into it.

Rafael kisses her back, his hand locking itself in her hair as she kisses him breathless. Her original intention for the night was cuddling on the couch but their conversation has changed her mind. She knows now how dedicated he is to her and more important Noah and she can’t hold herself back anymore.

Reaching for his jumper, Olivia tugs it up until they have to break apart so he can remove it, his polo shirt following quickly. She pushes him onto his back, and he shuffles up the bed, Olivia climbs over him and kisses him again. His tongue slides softly against hers, the pace of the kiss is slow, and Olivia feels herself melting into him, his hands grasping her hips and pulling her down to press the length of their bodies against each other. Rafael uses his hold on her so roll them slowly, until he is on top, their lips locked together as their tongues tangled together.

Olivia slides her hands up into his hair, gently tugging at the strands which makes him moan softly into her mouth, his hips pressing harder into hers, and she can feel how excited he is already.

Rafael’s hands slide under the hem of her shirt, his thumb stroking along the edge of her bra before cupping her breast and squeezing softly. Olivia lets out a whimper at the touch and arches her back into his hand. She sits up enough to slide her shirt off and reaches back to undo her bra letting it slide down her arms. Rafael eyes her skin, his tongue swiping quickly across his lips before kissing her again before trailing wet kisses down her neck to her breasts.

Liv relaxes back against the pillows as Rafael teases her nipples, rolling them until they are hard and sensitive in the cool air of the room. Rafael then moves back up to lick into her mouth once more before Olivia rolls him onto his back. Straddling his waist, she runs her hands down his chest and stomach until she reaches the top of his jeans. Olivia unbuttons his jeans and Rafael raises his hips to help her pull them down, his boxers following closely behind.

She hadn’t gotten the chance to do this last time, Olivia maintains eye contact as she slides down his body until her tongue swipes across the head of his length. She encourages him to slide his hands into her hair and he does after a moment. He’s thicker and longer than anyone she’s been with and the idea of having him in her mouth is more arousing than she thought it would be. She wraps her lips around the head of him and hollows her cheeks, the moan he releases is enough for her to continue. She works him slowly, teasing every moan she can get out of him until he’s a whimpering mess beneath her hands and mouth.

She can feel him getting closer and closer to release when suddenly she hears Noah opening the door to his room. Quickly she pulls off and Rafael has enough sense to pull a blanket over his lap, luckily Noah knocks on her door, waiting to his mum to let him in.

Olivia looks over Rafael his glistening skin, and uneven breath stirring a heat inside of her, but she kisses him again and whispers in his ear: “Welcome to fatherhood.”

Rafael groans but smiles at her as much as he can from how worked up, he is as Liv grabs her shirt before heading towards her bedroom door to tend to her son.  

“Liv,” he whispers loud enough for her to hear but not Noah. “I wouldn’t change this for the world.”

[thelonguepuree]

Dickinson’s “items” have been successively and carefully framed to give the impression that something, or someone, is missing. While the recovery of Dickinson’s manuscripts may be supposed to have depended on the death of the subject, on the person who had, by accident or design, composed the scene, the repeated belated “discovery” that her work is yet in need of sorting (and of reading) may also depend upon the absence of the objects that composed it. These objects themselves mark not only the absence of the person who touched them but the presence of what touched that person: of the stationer that made the paper, of the manufacturer and printer and corporation that issued guarantees and advertisements and of the money that changed hands, of the butcher who wrapped the parcel, of the manuals and primers and copybooks that composed individual literacy, of the expanding postal service, of the modern railroad, of modern journalism, of the nineteenth-century taste for continental literary imports. All of these things are the sorts of things left out of a book, since the stories to be told about them open out away from [a] narrative of individual creation or individual reception … This is to say that what is so often said of the grammatical and rhetorical structure of Dickinson’s poems—that, as critics have variously put it, the poetry is “sceneless,” is “a set of riddles” revolving around an “omitted center,” is a poetry of “revoked . . . referentiality”—can more aptly be said of the representation of the poems as such. Once gathered as the previously ungathered, reclaimed as the abandoned, given the recognition they so long awaited, the poems in bound volumes appear both redeemed and revoked from their scenes or referents, from the history that the book, as book, omits. … The argument of Dickinson’s Misery is that the century and a half that spans the circulation of Dickinson’s work as poetry chronicles rather exactly the emergence of the lyric genre as a modern mode of literary interpretation. To put briefly what I will unfold at length in the pages that follow: from the mid-nineteenth through the beginning of the twenty-first century, to be lyric is to be read as lyric—and to be read as a lyric is to be printed and framed as a lyric. While it is beyond the scope of this book to trace the lyricization of poetry that began in the eighteenth century, the exemplary story of the composition, recovery, and publication of Dickinson’s writing begins one chapter, at least, in what is so far a largely unwritten history. As we have already begun to see, Dickinson’s enduring role in that history depends on the ephemeral quality of the texts she left behind. By a modern lyric logic that will become familiar in the pages that follow, the (only) apparently contextless or sceneless, even evanescent nature of Dickinson’s writing attracted an increasingly professionalized attempt to secure and contextualize it as a certain kind (or genre) of literature—as what we might call, after Charles Taylor, a lyric social imaginary. Think of the modern imaginary construction of the lyric as what allows the term to move from adjectival to nominal status and back again. Whereas other poetic genres (epic, poems on affairs of state, georgic, pastoral, verse epistle, epitaph, elegy, satire) may remain embedded in specific historical occasions or narratives, and thus depend upon some description of those occasions and narratives for their interpretation (it is hard to understand “The Dunciad,” for example, if one does not know the characters involved or have access to lots of handy footnotes), the poetry that comes to be understood as lyric after the eighteenth century is thought to require as its context only the occasion of its reading. This is not to say that there were not ancient Greek and Roman, Anglo-Saxon, medieval, Provençal, Renaissance, metaphysical, Colonial, Republican, Augustan—even romantic and modern!—lyrics. It is simply to propose that the riddles, papyrae, epigrams, songs, sonnets, blasons, Lieder, elegies, dialogues, conceits, ballads, hymns and odes considered lyrical in the Western tradition before the early nineteenth century were lyric in a very different sense than was or will be the poetry that the mediating hands of editors, reviewers, critics, teachers, and poets have rendered as lyric in the last century and a half. As my syntax indicates, that shift in genre definition is primarily a shift in temporality; as variously mimetic poetic subgenres collapsed into the expressive romantic lyric of the nineteenth century, the various modes of poetic circulation—scrolls, manuscript books, song cycles, miscellanies, broadsides, hornbooks, libretti, quartos, chapbooks, recitation manuals, annuals, gift books, newspapers, anthologies—tended to disappear behind an idealized scene of reading progressively identified with an idealized moment of expression. While other modes—dramatic genres, the essay, the novel—may have been seen to be historically contingent, the lyric emerged as the one genre indisputably literary and independent of social contingency, perhaps not intended for public reading at all. By the early nineteenth century, poetry had never before been so dependent on the mediating hands of the editors and reviewers who managed the print public sphere, yet in this period an idea of the lyric as ideally unmediated by those hands or those readers began to emerge and is still very much with us. Susan Stewart has dubbed the late eighteenth century’s highly mediated manufacture of the illusion of unmediated genres a case of “distressed genres,” or “new antiques.” Her terms allude to modern print culture’s attempts “to author a context as well as an artifact,” and thus to imitate older forms—such as the epic, the fable, the proverb, the ballad—while creating the impression that our access to those forms is as immediate as it was in the imaginary modern versions of oral and collective culture to which those forms originally belonged. Stewart does not include the lyric as a “distressed genre,” but her suggestion that old genres were made in new ways could be extended to include the idea that the lyric is— or was—a genre in the first place. As Gérard Genette has argued, “the relatively recent theory of the ‘three major genres’ not only lays claim to ancientness, and thus to an appearance or presumption of being eternal and therefore self-evident,” but is itself the effect of “projecting onto the founding text of classical poetics a fundamental tenet of ‘modern’ poetics (which actually . . . means romantic poetics).” Yet even if the lyric (especially in its broadly defined difference from narrative and drama) is a larger version of the new antique, a retroprojection of modernity, a new concept artificially treated to appear old, the fact that it is a figment of modern poetics does not prevent it from becoming a creature of modern poetry. The interesting part of the story lies in the twists and turns of the plot through which the lyric imaginary takes historical form. But what plot is that? My argument here is that the lyric takes form through the development of reading practices in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries that become the practice of literary criticism. As Mark Jeffreys eloquently describes the process I am calling lyricization, “lyric did not conquer poetry: poetry was reduced to lyric. Lyric became the dominant form of poetry only as poetry’s authority was reduced to the cramped margins of culture.” This is to say that the notion of lyric enlarged in direct proportion to the diminution of the varieties of poetry—or at least that became the ratio as the idea of the lyric was itself produced by a critical culture that imagined itself on the definitive margins of culture. Thus by the early twenty-first century it became possible for Mary Poovey to describe “the lyricization of literary criticism” as the dependence of all postromantic professional literary reading on “the genre of the romantic lyric.” The conceptual problem is that if the lyric is the creation of print and critical mediation, and if that creation then produces the very versions of interpretive mediation that in turn produce it, any attempt to trace the historical situation of the lyric will end in tautology. Or that might be the critical predicament if the retrospective definition and inflation of the lyric were either as historically linear or as hermeneutically circular as much recent criticism, whether historicist or formalist, would lead us to believe. What has been left out of most thinking about the process of lyricization is that it is an uneven series of negotiations of many different forms of circulation and address. To take one prominent example, the preface to Thomas Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry (1765) describes the “ancient foliums in the Editor’s possession,” claims to have subjected the excerpts from these manuscripts to the judgment of “several learned and ingenious friends” as well as to the approval of “the author of The Rambler and the late Mr. Shenstone,” and concludes that “the names of so many men of learning and character the Editor hopes will serve as amulet, to guard him from every unfavourable censure for having bestowed any attention on a parcel of Old Ballads.” Not only does Percy not claim that historical genres of verse are directly addressed to contemporary readers (and each of his “relics” is prefaced by a historical sketch and description of its manuscript context in order to emphasize the excerpt’s distance from the reader), but he also acknowledges the role of the critical climate to which the poems in his edition were addressed. Yet by 1833, John Stuart Mill, in what has become the most influentially misread essay in the history of Anglo-American poetics, could write that “the peculiarity of poetry appears to us to lie in the poet’s utter unconsciousness of a listener. Poetry is feeling confessing itself to itself, in moments of solitude.” As Anne Janowitz has written, “in Mill’s theory . . . the social setting is benignly severed from poetic intentions.” What happened between 1765 and 1833 was not that editors and printers and critics lost influence over how poetry was presented to the public; on the contrary, as Matthew Rowlinson has remarked, in the nineteenth century “lyric appears as a genre newly totalized in print.” And it is also not true that the social setting of the lyric is less important in the nineteenth than it was in the eighteenth century. On the contrary, because of the explosion of popular print, by the early nineteenth century in England, as Stuart Curran has put it, “the most eccentric feature of [the] entire culture [was] that it was simply mad for poetry”—and as Janowitz has trenchantly argued, such madness extended from the public poetry of the eighteenth century through an enormously popular range of individualist, socialist, and variously political and personal poems. In nineteenth-century U.S. culture, the circulation of many poetic genres in newspapers and the popular press and the crucial significance of political and public poetry to the culture as a whole is yet to be appreciated in later criticism (or, if it is, it is likely to be given as the reason that so little enduring poetry was produced in the United States in the nineteenth century, with the routine exception of Whitman and Dickinson, who are also routinely mischaracterized as unrecognized by their own century). At the risk of making a long story short, it is fair to say that the progressive idealization of what was a much livelier, more explicitly mediated, historically contingent and public context for many varieties of poetry had culminated by the middle of the twentieth century (around the time Dickinson began to be published in “complete” editions) in an idea of the lyric as temporally self-present or unmediated. This is the idea aptly expressed in the first edition of Brooks and Warren’s Understanding Poetry in 1938: “classifications such as ‘lyrics of meditation,’ and ‘religious lyrics,’ and ‘poems of patriotism,’ or ‘the sonnet,’ ‘the Ode,’ ‘the song,’ etc.” are, according to the editors, “arbitrary and irrational classifications” that should give way to a present-tense presentation of “poetry as a thing in itself worthy of study.” Not accidentally, as we shall see, the shift in definition accompanied the migration of lyric from the popular press to the classroom—but for now we should note that by the time that Emily Dickinson’s poetry became available in scholarly editions and university anthologies, the history of various genres of poetry was read as simply lyric, and lyrics were read as poems one could understand without reference to that history or those genres.

Virginia Jackson, Dickinson’s Misery: A Theory of Lyric Reading (2005)

[thornedcrownsandhollowvirtu-blog]

Lirio

The first of my short stories. One that, unlike most of my attempts, actually succeeds at being short. I am posting it now, in part because I've been wanting to post it for some time but simply haven't cared enough to bother, and in part in recognition of Mental Health Awareness Month.

Please keep in mind that it is a story of a young girl's depression, and her struggle to live with it. The story is short, the ending is happy, and her struggles are presented from her close friend's observation of her behavior, but if you are very sensitive to stories regarding this topic, please heed with caution.

Also, please note that this story does not attempt to make light of depression, or present it as something easy to "fix." The point of this story is to communicate how depression may appear and affect those we least expect it to, especially close loved ones, and the importance of having a support network, and the security that comes with it.

Content warning for suicide attempt in the very beginning of the story. It is not explicitly detailed, but the action does occur.

All else aside, please enjoy.

Lirio

    The wind is brisk and biting, the sky grim, but Liliana walks on, accompanied by full-body shivers and misted breath, her only witness the scattered stars blinking out of sight in the timeless hours that straddle late night and early morning.

    Only once does she pause on her trek: the detour she takes in an impulsive bit of nostalgia. She hesitates before she boards the footbridge that overlooks still water — rather short, only fifteen steps across from end to end — but only for a moment, and, after the first step on the uneven surface, it becomes easier to wade her way to the center.

    The iron bar is much colder than her trembling hand, cold enough to seep into her skin, but her shivers still as she folds one arm over the other atop the rail, bends her neck over the edge, and bows her head. And yet — despite the breath she holds captive in her throat, despite the unrestrained hammering in her temples, despite the impending nettle behind her eyes — she cannot bring herself to shed a tear anymore than she could breathe underwater.

    She withdraws her head and remains still, stalk-straight for a full minute, five, ten. The only source of light in this sea of darkness, the blazing white glare of the streetlight behind her.

    When she glances over her shoulder, she catches the beckoning wink of a neon display nearly as tall as the towering building it supplements: her original destination. She turns away from the light.

    The glow of her phone pales in comparison; though tolerable, it is still unfavorable and bright. She squints but doesn't so much as think of dimming it down.

    Her pulse is racing by the time she holds the phone up to her ear; her breath catches at the inquisitive slur at the other end of the line.

    “... Hello...? Are you there...? Li—?”

    “I need you to...” she stops. “You should come to the bridge.”

    “... what? It's — almost three in the morning, why—?”

    A muffled beep. The connection is dissolved, and she is alone again.

    She leaves the phone trapped into a corner of cement at one end of the bridge just as it begins to buzz and tries to skitter away.

    The intensity of the streetlight's glare almost seems to have waned; its reach looks dwindled and centered entirely on her.

    Her hands grip onto the handrail, a necessary support to brace herself as she eases one foot, then the other, in between the balusters, just above the string.

    Her phone buzzes again.

    She casts herself over the edge.

.    .    .

    When they were six, Anastasio thought Liliana was more like a bird than any flower he'd ever seen: flowers just stood to the side and looked pretty, and, though pretty she may be…

    Liliana never stood still.

    She stayed in her seat when she had to, but otherwise she would flutter back and forth to all ends of the classroom, chirping away with the other kids until they managed to shake her off. Liliana always wore bold colors that would always catch everyone's attention before anything else. During recess, she would race from one end of the school yard to the other, running so fast she sometimes looked like she was flying. And, on windy days, she would climb up the big tree that sat furthest from the classrooms, find a comfortable perch on a sturdy branch, and sing until the bell caught her ear and left her to flutter down and race back to class.

    The only thing remotely flower-like about Liliana was the little ruffle finish on the hem of her dress when she spun and twirled and danced over the grass — the graceful spread of her skirt as it flared out and rose high enough to see the knee-length shorts she always wore underneath.

    One day, he looks up and sees her perched on top of the monkey bars, swinging her legs like she's walking on air and humming quietly. A short breeze catches her hair.

    “Why aren't you in the big tree?”

    Liliana blinks down at him, and points up to the cover over the playground. “'S too hot.” Then, cocking her head, she says, “you should come up here.”

    Anastasio stares; he’s always been bad with heights.

    “Come ooonnnnn,” she draws out with the beginning of a pout playing over her lips. Her hands are holding the railing to steady her, but the heavy way she leans over startles him. He stutters out a polite refusal and waits for her to lean back.

    She lets go, twists and—

    “Are you scared?” she asks, hands gripping her dress over her thighs to keep it from falling over her face as she hangs upside down, with only her legs anchor her.

    Anastasio moves his mouth, but all he lets out is a frightened croak.

    Liliana folds up and rights herself. “Come on, it's not so bad.”

    Anastasio eyes the structure with distrust, but even now he feels a curious gravitation pulling him toward her. Liliana waits.

    He almost regrets listening to her by the time he joins her, gripping onto the rail hard enough for his hands to ache, the unwelcome and daunting experience of having his legs and feet suspended in air leave him feeling green in the face. He almost regrets it — really, he thinks he should — but the excitement thrumming through him is almost enough to negate the fear.

    Anastasio and Liliana are virtually inseparable from then on.

.    .    .

    “What's your name?” Liliana asks two years later.

    Anastasio stares. “You don't know my name?”

    “Yes, Ana, I do.” She grins, but he refuses to take the bait, “I meant your last name.”

    “Rana.”

    Liliana squints at him. Then, after a long pause, “that would explain the croaking.”

    “I don’t croak,” he corrects her patiently.

    “You do, too. It suits you perfectly.”

    “We’re in the same class, and we have name tags. Why did you even ask?”

    Lili waves her hand. “Oh, like you know mine.”

    “Ortega. Which suits you well, considering how annoying you get.”

    Lili scowls, and crosses her arms.

    “I suppose I have to be the bigger person and end it here, then, Anastasia.”

    Anastasio puffs his cheeks. “That’s not my name! ”

.    .    .

    When they were ten, Liliana told him she was going to move. Her aunt was sick, Liliana said, and they were going to stay and help her until she got better.

    “Are you really going to come back?”

    “I think so...” Liliana sighs. “But it won't be for years.”

    Years... that sounded like forever.

    “Your aunt can’t come here?”

    “No. I already asked...”

    Liliana looks even more upset than he feels; Anastasio, at least, has other friends here, even if Liliana could never be replaced — Liliana won’t have anyone.

    Anastasio slides over a scrap of paper and watches her frown. “It’s my address,” he explains, “we can exchange letters until you come back.”

    Liliana beams.

.    .    .

    She sends him a letter. He replies. She replies, and then she sends out a second letter, a third, a fourth, and sometimes even a fifth before he can reply.

    Her handwriting is large, and, for a while, she attempted the wide and thick style a lot of girls in his class use, until she realized she really couldn’t pull it off. When she started reviewing cursive, she tried using it in her letters for practice, but it often took hours of incomprehensive staring to decipher the erratic squiggles and irregular loops. A lot of her letters break off from a few scant sentences with a drawing all done in crayon: usually an intentionally ugly frog in all sorts of unnatural colors, but occasionally forests or meadows or other animals would feature in.

He keeps them all.

When he gets bored, or lazy, or misses her so much his eyes sting and his chest aches, he picks every letter she ever sent him out of the box he keeps them in, and reads and rereads them until his eyes swim and he thinks he knows her handwriting better than she does.

His mom once asked if he wanted to tack up the pictures to his empty walls. For decoration.

He said no; Lili isn’t a decoration: Lili is a whole girl who lives too far for him to see, so he has to keep as much of her together as he can. His box holds a small part of her that can only contain her lively nature through her wild writing and enthusiastic drawings.

He notices, often, that she talks of her school, her classes, her family, and even the scenery of where she lives now, but she never mentions anyone new, no “I met this kid so-and-so” or “My new friend so-and-so”. As the months drag on, she writes more and more about how much she misses home. Anastasio wonders how lonely she is. He tries to prod her into talking about new friends she should have made, but all he gets are recounts of conversations and interactions that are only notable for filling in the lines to appease him.

Were she not Liliana, he would have thought her shy; but she is Liliana, and Liliana is not shy.

He wonders if something is wrong.

.    .    .

    They exchange phone numbers via letters at thirteen, just before his upcoming birthday; his parents had even presented his phone to him a week early, six months after Liliana received hers.

    He thinks he’ll miss their written correspondence, even if it’s less convenient than phone calls and text messages, but he still has the box with all her letters tucked under his bed. Looking back, he’s relieved their penmanship had improved to something legible by the time Liliana moved; had she gone two years earlier, he doesn’t think they’d be able to understand each other's writing at all.

    Several months in, though, he began to notice a pattern with Lili. The novelty of instant communication had them plastered to their phones, though the dependence gradually waned. But there would be times when Liliana would text him compulsively for days on end, and others when she didn’t reply for weeks. And questions like “Is something wrong?” only made her more prone to stonewalling than prompts like “Hey. It’s been five weeks.”

    He was never quite sure what these episodes meant, and the only conclusion he had was that she may be hanging out more with the friends she made a year into her move, but he was relieved to notice them decreasing over time.

He was even more relieved when she woke him up in the middle of an unassuming night with a call from her another three years later.

    “I'm coming home,” she told him before he could say anything, and he didn’t hear the catch in her voice.

.    .    .

    “You look... different.”

    Liliana gives him a tired smile and sits down next to him.

    It looks fake.

    “How long have you been back?”

    “Two days.”

    Anastasio pauses, waiting to see if she'll elaborate. She doesn't.

    “Unpacking?”

    “Mhm.”

    “How was the trip?”

    “Long.”

    “Your aunt?”

    Another tired smile. “Good.”

    “How was it there?”

A stony pause.  “Let’s just say I’m glad to be home.”

Well, if that wasn’t ominous. Still, more pressing, at least for the moment…

    “You look really tired.” He blurts, but she does, she looks about ready to nod off: dark circles under her eyes, lids drooping, unfocused gaze. “I think you should go home and get some sleep.”

    Liliana starts and turns to him with a frown, and looks much more awake now.

    “Do you... not want me here?”

    “I do, Lili, but you look ready to pass out. You should go home; we can hang out some other time.”

    Liliana scowls, but when she pulls out her compact and looks in it, she cringes.

    “You may have a point,” she admits, pulls herself up with the help of the bridge's railing. “So I'll... see you later?”

    “We have two weeks until the school year starts; I promise you’ll be trying to get rid of me by the end of the first.”

    That seems to be enough assurance to make her relax, but with every step she takes farther away from him she seems to shrink into herself.

    Anastasio frowns.

.    .    .

“She’ll be just another minute,” Mrs. Ortega smiles as she descends the stairs.

“No problem,” Anastasio smiles back.

“Have a seat, hijo,” Mr. Ortega prompts, with a pat at the couch cushion beside him.

“Oh, no, if it’s just another minute-”

“Have a seat!” Mrs. Ortega calls on her way to the kitchen, without turning around.

Opposition worn down, Anastasio relents; he sits down beside Mr. Ortega, and smiles when Mrs. Ortega returns from the kitchen with a basket in one hand, and two chilled water bottles in the other.

“So this is her surprise,” Anastasio muses.

“So it is,” Mrs. Ortega grins, “and she even bothered to make most of it, too. You kids going anywhere special?”

“Just the park, I think. Maybe the little bridge on the way.”

“Hmm, just don’t bore her, eh, hijo?” Mr. Ortega winks. “Though I don’t think we have to worry about that with you.”

“Um?”

Mrs. Ortega rolls her eyes. “He’s joking, mijo.”

“Teasing,” Mr. Ortega corrects. “Just make sure she has some fun, is all I’m saying. That she smiles, laughs a little.”

Anastasio blinks.

“She always looks a little better, when she goes to meet up with you, or right after she comes home from spending time with you,” Mr. Ortega explains.

“Oh.” Anastasio blinks, again. Frowns. “She… always looks a little tired.”

Mrs. Ortega hums. “She does. I let her stay up a bit sometimes, to finish school work if she can’t get it done earlier. She gets a little listless in the afternoon sometimes, has some trouble concentrating, so…”

Anastasio’s frown deepens. “The advanced classes she’s taking, then… maybe she should…”

“I suggested that, too,” Mr. Ortega assures, “but she insists she can keep up with the workload. She’s been getting angry when we bring it up.”

“You’re in a lot of those classes, too, aren’t you mijo?” Mrs. Ortega whispers. “Do you mind… at least making sure she’s not falling behind?”

“Yeah…” Anastasio blinks. “I didn’t know she might be— yeah, of course.”

Mrs. Ortega sighs; Mr. Ortega pats his back. “Thank you, hijo.”

“I’m ready,” Liliana calls from the top of her stairs just before she descends, a step at a time and blinking more than usual. There are rings under her eyes today, too.

“Perfect,” Anastasio smiles as he stands. He pretends he doesn’t notice the looks Liliana’s parents give him. “Let’s go.”

.    .    .

Liliana looks lost.

 “Do you like this bridge?” she asks him. He shrugs.lskdf

“It has a nice view,” he admits, “and people don't really come here.”

Liliana nods. And stares up at the sky.

    .    .    .

    This time, when Liliana’s ringtone screams in his ear and wakes him up, he immediately feels something is wrong. Even the chirp emitting from his phone sounds wrong: hollow, like Liliana’s smiles.

    Perhaps he’s overthinking it.

    “... Hello…? Are you there…? Li—?”

    She cuts him off. “I need you to…” a long pause, then, “You should come to the bridge.”

    “... what?” It’s —” he checks the red glare from his bedside clock, “almost 3 in the morning, why—?”

    A muffled beep. The connection is dissolved, and he is alone again.

    Even as he slams on the redial button, he’s throwing the first clothes he picks up from the floor, and he runs out the door so fast he swears he’s flying.

.    .    .

    He finds her curled up and shivering against the banister, but only when he throws himself on his knees next to her does he notice how her hair clings to her face and neck, how her clothes mold to her form; the moisture on her skin.

    “You’re wet,” he says, struck dumb. “Why are you—”

    “I jumped in.” She chatters through her teeth. He almost asks, in where, but when Liliana drops her gaze and turns it to the water that sits under the bridge, his stomach sinks.

    “I was going to go to that one hotel, the really tall one,” she nods her head back, where the neon signs winks at her. “I was going to jump off the roof.”

    Anastasio stares. He thought she was tired, but had chalked it up to being overworked or insomnia — her parents had seemed to think so as well… But, the idea that she was going to...

    “I’m so tired,” she whispers. He removes his jacket and offers it to her; she wraps it over her shoulders.

    “Tell me.” Lili turns her eyes to him. “About being tired. Why you get tired. Why you wanted to... jump.” Lili’s eyes blink; a tear rolls out. “Talk to me.”

    Lili slumps. And then she talks and talks and cries, and talks some more.

    And afterward, she thanks him with a broken smile that looks almost real.

.    .    .

    Anastasio’s not sure if Liliana ever told her parents about her wanting to jump, but he does know she’s getting counseling twice a week, because she talks about it when they go out after every session. Her voice gets a little stronger, and she’s been making an effort to not shrink into herself when she makes eye contact. She looks a little more rested every week, and less tired when they go on walks.

    Liliana is nowhere near as energetic as she used to be, but she looks more lively every day, and that is enough.

    On his way to meet her, he comes across the flower shop he always passes by, and stops.

.    .    .

    “I thought you were going to be waiting outside the building again?”

    “I was, but, this place really does have a nice view.” Liliana answers, head turned up to the sun; she’s still sporting the giddy glow she gets after counseling. She turns and leans against the railing to face him, and frowns. “What’s that?”

    “They’re flowers, obviously.” He snarks, anxiety rolling into embarrassment, but when she gives him an unimpressed glare, he offers the bouquet to her; she holds it carefully, like she’s afraid of dropping and ruining it at the same time.

    Liliana stares at the flowers like she has no idea what they are; it’s likely, considering she’s never showed an interest in them even as a child. She probably only sees the loose petals with unintelligible patterns of white with red ticks, yellow splotches and pink blushes, by star-shaped flowers with white frames around magenta stains. She wouldn’t understand or appreciate the Peruvians or Stargazers, but that’s fine: because for her, the outward, visible gestures hold more meaning than the covert, underlying symbolism behind the message. And still, in this crowd of Peruvians and Stargazers she would probably never care to understand  — still, in the very center, almost hidden, a single water lily floats.

    “And this one?” she demands. Anastasio smiles.

    “Lirio de agua,” he answers while he tucks it behind her ear. Lili looks up at him, and stares.

    “When frogs sit on the lily pads, they keep all the flies and bugs away from the flower, so it won’t get ruined. So…”

    Anastasio trails off with a faint croak and swallows heavily.

    “If you let me, I’ll help you, through your problems, your depression, anything, everything. I’ll — help you keep away everything you don’t want, and I’ll help you keep away anything that you tell me will tear you down. I won’t let anyone deracinate you. I’ll be there for you. With you. If you let me.”

    For a long moment, Lili stares, and doesn’t blink.

    And then, she smiles.

[ascreamingstrawberry]

Strip Me of My Walls, Please.

Previous : Part 9,  Present : Part 10 + 11,  Next : Part 12 + 13

Summary: Logan hires a prostitute to pretend to be his boyfriend. Patton is a prostitute just trying to support his son when he falls with a very rich man needing him to pretend to be his boyfriend.

Chapter Summaries : Roman thinks about college while pushing through the streets. Patton and Thomas make up a little, with Logan’s help.

Pairings: romantic Logicality, future romantic Prinxiety, Elle x Damien (my original characters), 

Word Count: 3,094

Warnings : andrew being a lil bitch? mentions of domestic abuse? the musical spring awakening? yelling? more tears but like also less? remy and emile are in this fic bc even tho they ain’t sides they’re my kiddos

Notes : There’s a flashback at the beginning of this fic. Also, there’s like a million characters in this fic but do you guys want a full list once you’ve been introduced to them all? It might help you keep track. Also, Ao3 has the most up-to-date chapters and you can check that out here.

Roman was talking about Spring Awakening for the third time that day, and yet he still felt like he had just too many words to say on the production. Rehearsals had been going phenomenally, Roman felt like he and the Wendla and the Moritz that the university had casted just clicked. But if his two young friends were sick of hearing about the subject, they made no point of telling Roman, so he figured it was okay.  

He had went to his Introductory to Psychology course that he took alongside the freshmen couple Emile and Remy, two of the only friends Roman had been able to find on campus since people tended to avoid him due to his extra nature. Remy rarely ever showed up to class and when he did Roman found his boyfriend tapping on his shoulder to get him awake and paying attention. Remy had almost fought Roman on who was gayer, and often disappeared for days without notice to him or Emile, but Roman enjoyed the man’s company nonetheless.  

So on the walk from Psychology, he wasn’t particularly offended when he noticed Remy dozing off during his ramblings, Emile having to practically hold the other man up with their linked arms. He was about to say something about the two maybe heading back to their dorm when he felt a pair of arms wrap around him from behind, a breath tickling his neck as a familiar voice whispered to him. “Are you talking about that play of yours again, darling?”

“Musical.” Roman playfully corrected as he turned his head to press a kiss to his boyfriend’s cheek. Andrew was a very attractive man, Roman talked about it often, he was quite lucky to have someone so kind to put up with him.  

“I was quite enjoying listening to you talk about it, Roman. You’re very passionate, it seems.” Emile smiled, pushing his glasses up his nose with his free hand, while pushing Remy upwards with the other. “Plus you don’t seem to spend your time with anyone else, so you’re probably not talking about it with anyone else.”  

Roman’s smile dropped in the middle of his friend’s statement, but he still thanked him for listening. The small group of four had stopped just in front of the science center, Emile and Remy were standing a little more than an arms length from them now, more or so because they weren’t as familiar with Andrew as Roman was.  

Andrew could scare people, Roman knew that, he was taller than most with broad football shoulders. But once you looked past the military blonde haircut, and reached the soft blue eyes, he really was a softie. Roman had spent most of college alone, he’d taken up his special line of work and performing as ways to distract himself from lonely night hours, and now he had friends and Andrew to keep his day hours just as busy. He just wished the three got along.

“How’s the apartment hunting going?” Roman being a senior and his boyfriend being two years out of college, meant the two had to start thinking on life in the real world. Roman had his heart set on a big city, but not go to New York City until they had both worked enough for the money for rent and such.  

Clearly not well, Roman figured as he watched his boyfriend’s good mood soil in front of his eyes, his shoulders slumping and his eyes suddenly looked way more sad than he thought they should ever look. Roman, wanting to help, figured he could use some help. “Well you know there’s that one site-”

“Let’s not talk about it.” Andrew quickly replied, removing his arms from Roman’s waist and pressing a kiss to Roman’s lips, trying distract him.

And Roman let him, just for a moment, because he wanted to let it go. He wanted to get lost in the feeling of his boyfriend’s lips on his, he wanted to reach up and run his hands through his hair, and yet he found himself pushing him away. “Andrew, the semester-”  

“Ro, I said drop it.” Andrew tried to kiss him again but this time Roman had his hands up in front of him. He almost forgot about the two freshmen that were now behind Roman as he lifted his chin and stood on his tiptoes to meet his boyfriend eye to eye.

Roman needed to talk about it, he needed a concrete plan for the future or to talk about Spring Awakening again to feel like he was doing something. He needed this, why couldn’t Andrew just see that? “Drew please, I know what I’m talking about, all you have to do is-”

“I SAID SHUT UP.” Andrew screamed, his face red, students turning their heads to see where the outburst had come from. Remy was awake now, his arms wrapped around Emile protectively, staring into the back of Roman’s head as he waited for his older friend’s reaction.

And yet, there wasn’t one. Roman didn’t go running away in tears, even though they were there on the edges of his eyes. He didn’t spit back a yell at his boyfriend, even though there was one on the tip of his tongue. He let Andrew break into a heartless apology and explanation, tuning him out completely, falling into step with Emile and Remy as they walked towards the dining hall.

When the road forked toward a residence hall that was not his own, Roman still took it, leaving the group unnoticed in silence. It was not until Remy took a look around after they were almost there to see that Roman was no longer at his side. He tapped on Emile’s forearm, alerting him, but not making a sound to alert the other occupant. They made it to the dining hall, and when Andrew finally noticed Roman’s disappearance, they said something about him heading home. They all knew that home to Roman meant Andrew’s apartment, and not his own dorm, so when Emile and Remy retreated back towards the middle of campus, Andrew thought nothing of it.  

Roman had watched the two freshmen pass by him, heading to his dorm, and he almost felt guilty for being tucked behind the sophomore girls dormitory and not in his room. He sent them a text telling them he went on a walk, and turned to press his head against the red brick. Roman’s hands felt shaky, his breath felt uneven, and as tears slipped down his face, he felt cold. He didn’t know how long he stood there, but when he pulled away the tears were dried and there was a painful indent of the brick in his forehead that hurt a lot less than the rest of him.  

Roman could still remember the feeling of the brick’s indent over his forehead, as he pushed through the city, he felt his hands run over the familiar material. There was a small bag in his back, some of his most valuable possessions he’d been able to grab when he slipped out after  Andrew had left for work. A couple acting awards, a picture of his parents even though they didn’t speak to him anymore, and his costume from his freshman year of college’s production of Into the Woods that he had been able to keep, surprisingly. The director said his casting had been a joke on his last name and a lack of older males, but then he had blown it away first day he was welcomed back every musical afterwards.

Roman was still in his night shorts underneath the jeans he had haphazardly thrown on in his haste, and a black t-shirt under his signature red and white jacket. He was moving through the city through back alleyways in an attempt to avoid main traffic and being seen. When he had finally made it to the neighborhood, he had missed the sunrise and exhaustion was fighting against the new bruises at his sides. If he stopped to count the bruises on his thighs that scattered all the way up to his ribs and along his wrists, he’d surely fall over with a lack of momentum. Roman tried to focus on getting to the name on the mailbox, the number on the door, the people behind the windows. The ones he knew well, the ones that cared for him, that would help.

They surely couldn’t protect him for long, eventually he’d have to go back, and though the thought made his stomach churn, he pushed on. Finally, just as the paper boy passed him on his bicycle, he reached the front of the lawn. The lights were off but the warmth associated with the home was still dragging Roman to the front door. His body ached as he climbed the steps and he but a split second to think about turning towards the bushes just under the living room before he collapsed, fainting. 

Logan excused himself to call Virgil, inform him he was staying the night at Patton’s and to bring him clothes in the morning. He felt a little guilty that in the chaos, he had forgotten his twin would be in charge of their nephew over the next couple days, but then he’d had an idea. Jon was quiet, sure, and sometimes the boy’s attitude could get the better of him but he was in desperate need of a friend. So it seemed, was Thomas. Logan didn’t enjoy meddling, never saw the appeal of it, but if it could help anyone, he would partake.

“Dinner’s ready.” Patton’s voice was quiet even though it still broke the silence of the house loud enough for Logan to hear him from the bedroom, a different kind of quiet though, a broken quiet. Logan had tried to hold him for a little longer in the living room, but Patton had excused himself first, wrapping himself in his cooking. While it smelled delicious and the sight of Patton over the stove made Logan feel something, he pushed both of those thoughts away as he surveyed both Sanders boys sat with him at the small table near towards the kitchen.

They looked small and very far away from each other even though they were just on other side of the table. Thomas’ head was tucked into his chest as he ate and Patton was almost similar except once in a while he would look up at Logan, smiling but it never reached his eyes. Patton surely must have wanted to speak on the manner, and yet as time ticked on, both Sanders boys looked as though they’d rather be any place but here. Logan was the first to finish, and in means of starting conversation, complimented the food. Patton barely had time to hide his head from the blush that had reached his cheeks before a quiet voice interrupted the moment. “It was good as always, Dad.”

Patton looked at his son’s eyes for the first time since he’d seen him on the floor of their living room covered in bruises and his own blood. He ignored his own nervousness at the subject and just looked at the absolute fear spread out across the tiniest specs of hazel mixed in with the light brown staring back him. Patton smiled slowly, trying to force it to come out as soft and comforting, and when Thomas sheepishly returned one, suddenly he didn’t have to force it anymore. “Why don’t you get ready for bed, kiddo?”

Normally, Thomas and Patton would watch a movie or Patton would indulge in his son in watching him partake in one of his many hobbies. Sometimes musical instruments, sometimes reading something Thomas wrote, a lot of times it would be singing together as they picked up the house from all the other activities. Tonight they were both exhausted though.

“I’ll take the couch.” Logan said to Patton as Thomas retreated to his bedroom. Patton couldn’t help but marvel at the man before him, and what he’d done for Patton today. He wondered if he knew just how much his very presence now kept Patton from breaking. So much had happened, his own problems seemed so far away as the image of his son bruised and bloody came back to him. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, shaking his head at nothing like it would whisk the image away in a breeze. He felt his body give way again but then there he was, again. Logan.

“Patton.” Logan said his name like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. Patton lifted his head as far as he could, which was only even with just under Logan’s nose. Logan pulled Patton closed again, pressing his hand against his back while Patton’s own arms stayed glued to his sides. The position was awkward, Patton’s nose was pressed against Logan’s cheek as the younger man had his head turned towards the window. He was trying all he could not lean on this man for any more support, Logan didn’t deserve to be burdened with it, and here the man was with his own shaking breath against Patton’s neck.

“I’m sorry.” Patton said, and Logan’s breath stopped all together. Patton pulled away to lifted his head all the way up and when he met those striking grey eyes they were staring at Patton with a feeling he couldn’t discern.

“Don’t be sorry.” Logan’s voice sounded vengeful, angry like it had been in that  whore  room earlier but seeped with a hiss underneath it. “Patton, I am not good at comforting, but I would literally give anything to see you smile like you did in my closet, which seems so long ago. I don’t want you to blame yourself at all, because call it selfish, but I am so blessed to be the one here for you in this moment.”

Logan pulled away, not before turning his head and pressing a kiss to the end of Patton’s nose, and Patton nodded stepping into the bedroom and pulled out a blanket and a pillow for him. He took a moment to breath again, before returning to the living room where Thomas was standing at the door, his hands tucked behind his back. Patton handed Logan the blanket and pillow, keeping a raised eyebrow in his son’s direction. Thomas licked his lips, stuck his tongue out, and then closed his eyes leaning forward as if forcing the word out. “Dad.”

“Yes, kiddo?” Patton took a step closer, Thomas still didn’t open his eyes, and now he bent his head towards his chest to further keep his sights away. Patton ignored the small thud he heard, as Thomas took in a shaky breath.

“Can I sleep in your room with you?” Patton wondered if Thomas had even breathed in between the words, but he still nodded. He then realized Thomas wasn’t going to open his eyes to see his answer, and his heart practically broke at the sight, that Thomas was so nervous around him.

“Of course, Thomas.” Patton said, and the boy only lifted his head for a moment to smile slowly at him. Patton lifted his arm out to point towards the bedroom and Thomas ran, rushing past Patton, stopping only to kick off his socks and hop onto the large bed.

Patton turned his attention to the man who in midst of his and his son’s moment, had been on the floor, hidden by the couch. He was laid out over the floor, his pants at his ankles and his shirt discarded, and when he looked up at Patton he had a blush over his face, that ended just before the bottom of his glasses. Logan shoved his pants off the rest of the way, smiling awkwardly as he flopped his head back onto the ground.

“I hope I did not disrupt your moment with Thomas. The emotional capacity in the room sort of jump scared me.” Logan said.

“You’re adorable.” Patton blurted out, watching the man before him stumble into even more of a blushing, stuttering, mess at the moment as he

“I-I-am-not.” Logan stood up, keeping his hands behind his back nervously. Patton scanned over him though, as Logan turned his head to look behind Patton at the door of his bedroom. “I think you-should-uh”

“Goodnight Logan.” Patton nodded, turning away and heading to his bedroom with the tiniest of smiles at the fact that Logan was still mumbling to himself when he closed the door.

He took a moment to take a deep breath and flail his hands out giddily, before stepping towards the bed where Thomas was cuddled underneath the most popular blanket in the whole house. The large dark blue fluffy blanket with white ship anchors all over it, the very one Patton often found himself draping over his two boys during Roman’s sleepovers, was covering Thomas’s head dramatically as he laid in the fetal position. Patton took off his pants, laid them out over the chair and also stripped his shirt for good measure. Thomas had a dark blue shirt with black and white soccer balls all over it on, as well his black night shorts that stuck out against the blankets.

“Goodnight Thomas.” Patton said, laying on top of the bed, reaching over to turn off the light and as he leaned back against his pillow he was greeted with his son throwing himself on top of his chest.

“Dad?” Thomas whispered again.

“Yeah, kiddo?” Patton said, wrapping his arms around Thomas and pulling him tight up towards his neck. The room was quiet and Patton could feel the boy’s breath on his collarbone but he didn’t mind, the chills actually helped him remember that Thomas was here, Thomas was safe.

“I want to switch schools.” Thomas was speaking through tears, Patton could feel them on his bare chest, and he took to comforting Thomas before answering.

“It’s okay, buddy.” Patton squeezed him a little tighter, unsure of who he was trying to convince, Thomas or himself. “I’m not going to let you get hurt again.”

“I love you, Dad.” Thomas mumbled already half asleep, his small body extremely fatigued from the emotional stress it went under today. Patton ran a hand through his hair, letting the strands fall from the space between his fingers slowly as he watched his hand move through the dark room.

“I love you too.” Patton pressed a kiss to Thomas’s head and listened as his son’s breathing slowed, signally he was asleep.

taglist : @jesjessode @queerly-anxious @bubblycricket @monikastec @definenormalifyoucan

[mmmmmmmmmmmmphf]

Business art (1/???)

Pairing: TaeKey

Length: 2913 words

          New York was everything – spiral of streets, red brick buildings, shiny glass, dusty corners, smoking drainage catch pits – but peaceful haven, refuge of sleeping stars and few light points of windows. For Kibum red neon lights of American dream were like fitted crimson overall made from glossy leather from Fendi’s autumn collection; stylish, full of youthful silliness and tired pulsating energy. From the moment when a city has welcomed him with its unstoppable rush on John F. Kennedy airport, he knew that teenager from Daegu will find there everything Korea has never dreamt of.

          And if Kim Kibum, sixteen years old, who put his foot for the first time on American soil, hasn’t had a clue how to swallow an enormous dose of depravity, then Kim Key, currently twenty years old student of business school emitted it personally, with every trickle of smoke joining a process of ozone depletion. Cigarette sit between his slim fingers and fire relentlessly hollowed millimetres of tobacco, systematically changing into dust. Key moved his arms and gold sparkles fell into a darkness stretched under his balcony on Peter Cooper Village. Noise of cars from First Avenue blended in his ears into silence – to be honest he couldn’t remember last time without any form of noise around him. New Yorkers don’t have this type of luxury.

          Finally, there wasn’t anyone around, so he could let his thoughts off, which among numerous groups of friends didn’t have a chance to be thoroughly achieved. Few hot minutes on sticky air of American night were perfect nutrient for mind and spirit.

          He rested his cheek on hand and with bored interest observed grey smoke, wandering lazy circles in stuffy air. Great description of life, he thought, inserting a finger right in a middle of tinning smoke; like curious child, checking limits of various things. We circle only to be shortly forgotten.

          He was perfectly aware that with last possible inhale of cig he should leave a balcony and develop an interest in notes, waiting inside his room to put some information in his head with aggressive colours. He knew how necessary it was for his education – that’s why he threw still smouldering end of a cigarette to flower pot with a wilted palm decorated with lights and took next one from a package. Soft sound of menthol click got lost in the air followed by characteristic cradle of a lighter. Residents of tenements on the other side of a street could see again a red point against the black background of Kim’s windows.

          He couldn’t stop a memory of another town coming to his mind – different from his home in every respect. Drowning in pomegranate and yellow, under a care of cypress tree, stars and golden moon. Kibum looked up. Just like he expected starlight has been long gone, absorbed by all red neon lights and only moon was blinking to him from behind the clouds – even moon seemed to be dim, or was it always so grey? Skin above his elbow sting a little, still sensitive after a freshly made tattoo and he lowered his eyes, caught by falling sparkles from a cigarette. Definitely it used to be brighter.

          He wondered if Van Gogh would have gone crazy closed among skyscrapers – would illness hollow his mind if he lived in an expensive loft, paid forty thousand dollars in cash for annual tuition, made silly hurtful tattoos and smoked fifth cigarette, which were the last in painfully new package of Vogue. Kibum’s lips spread in smile lacking amusement. There wasn’t any other option, he had to go crazy, this moon would drive anyone mad. Anyone?

          He felt (at least he should, that’s why he told himself he did) excitement about a visit in Museum of Modern Art and he thanked God that his department didn’t limit its students only to subjects furiously boring – but he knew he won’t miss thorough analysis of B2C strategy and declining balance method regarding exhibitions, because life of a business student cannot be lean on naïve absorption of art, whydoIstudythis. Shamefully for all this years spend in New York, never once had he gone to this art sanctuary even if there was one of his favourite paintings there. Teenagers are busy with other matters and before anyone could think about it, they could only be embarrassed about losses in their life experiences.

          Maybe I should go to France, he thought, not seeing how lost air blow lifted next sparkles from an end of his cig. Maybe a little bit of sunshine would change me into walking example of happiness. His therapist would pleasantly nod his head and smile widely, looking for any progress in his fight with Kibum’s mind. Weather is often a catalysator of emotions, France would be great for you, especially south, Kibum, same goes for change of environment. The moon hid completely behind clouds and he hoped it was smoke from his five cigarettes that covered it from his sight.

          Kibum regretted he couldn’t do anything about an emptiness closing his mind in a painful darkness – maybe he would have found any comfort in painting over hollowing everything nothingness. Instead he could check GPD of South Asian countries, distinguish classical conditioning from operant and read a balance sheet with comprehension whydoIstudythis. His soul has shed more than one tear because of lack manifest of his feelings more significant than hours upon hours of unhealthy cry. Maybe Paris would wake up his dormant impressionist, and before end of everything he would make pieces of art only to die and double their value.

          Seven. Seventeen, twenty-seven thirtyseven, since childhood seven has been his favourite number – at the beginning only thanks to influence of Harry Potter, but with time it grew to a little bit mature approach. So typical that even such silly matter changed in his life into fucking tragedy. Van Gogh died at the age of thirty-seven.

          The moon showed on the sky the moment he shut a door and closed curtains.

              If he were to be absolutely honest, Kibum would admit that one hundred and thirty dollars for bottle of perfumes is definitely too much – that’s why he used his Valentino Uomo only a little bit more to make sure he’s dramatic enough. Smelling mix of bergamot, coffee and hazelnuts drying on his wrists and neck he realised people want to highlight they are alive even with their scent. Otherwise why would they pour perfumes on their pulse?

          Kibum stood in front of a mirror and with characteristic move started fixing his fringe, which freshly blow dried seemed to be unusually fluffy – it gave him silly hope this day won’t be much worse than the others. He should have long abandoned such behaviour that brings him only disappointment, when darkness in his head wins again.

               With critical eye he evaluated his appearance in a mirror to make sure he looked fashionable enough – fact that majority of his course doesn’t bother about something so trivial doesn’t mean he would let himself be any less than perfect. Black and white creepers, high socks with embroidered characteristic double C, huge jeans jacket with rolled up sleeves covering stripped top, carelessly tugged into washed jeans with slovenly ripped leg. Yves Saint Laurent would be proud. His attention caught visibly marked under the material thighs and again he swore he wouldn’t eat anything more than two hundred and thirteen calories in his life.

               He bought a coffee in Starbucks while pretending to notice interested glance of barista. Kim saw it but didn’t actually believe it’s really there – such ill thoughts have been following him constantly for years now, even if his therapist detailed every reason why it’s absurd. He smiled with a flirt in a corner of his lips, took his venti ice americano on double coffee shot, turned on his heel and completely ignored cute message scribed with black sharpie on transparent cup. He made this boy a favour, ignoring his attend to get into Kibum’s life.

Quickly he got to Sixth Avenue, moving around as a true New Yorker – not looking at people among him, hurrying to his matters. They were supposed to meet with whole department at destination so texting with one hand and tightly holding a coffee in the other, Kibum took an orange metro line on Seventy First. For ten minutes he managed to empty half of a cup – why didn’t he think how awfully hot it is – and he jumped out at Fifty Third. With help of Google Maps he got to museum, which by mix of metal and glass truly put into mind word ‘modernism’.

               In no time he found Woohyun and Jack who also were drinking incredibly large and incredibly sweet ice coffees, trying to fight American sun, wanting to kill them for sure, it’s ridiculous how hot it was.

               ‘’I’ve finished my part of a report, so we can meet tomorrow at Kibum’s and put everything together” Key, Key thought with irritation, looking around people’s shoes to show his visible lack of interest on mentioned mutual assignment. Ending ‘bum’ in his name was quite unfortunate in English speaking society, so he put a lot of thoughts to make people call him only with his nickname. Only Nam seemed to not understand such a simple request.

          Unknowingly his eyes have caught familiar mix of colours – pomegranate and yellow, uneven brush strokes even more distorted by printing on the socks. Cypress looked like a tower, really, and a town has disappeared behind the edge of short martens. Before Kibum could see anything more than amazingly skinny legs in wide pants, these walked away along with their owner, who had to have extremely dramatic sense of humour to wear on their feet a reproduction of panting they will see in a couple of minutes in original.

          He quickly forgot about this person when Woohyun suddenly reminded him about his presence and Jack let them know their professors appeared with these enormously expensive entry tickets. They flood inside like only group of twenty years olds can and started their journey through modern art sanctuary. Kibum had to admit being impressed by what human beings can create with their only two hands and loads of imagination.

             While standing behind Cathy Wilkes’ installation Kibum tried to define if he’s amazed or confused by artist’s choice of showing woman’s body. Then he smelled familiar bergamot mixed with something extremely strong which make him think about sitting in full sun while wearing leather jacket with bouquet of sweet flowers. Key tore his eyes away from half naked figure of a women and with partial interest tried to find a person who would wear such wonderfully difficult and universal perfume in equally dramatic amount as Kibum his Valentino.

          He looked at a small group of students whose interest has been set on extremely intricate installation on a wall. Key didn’t know what was so familiar about them even though he was sure he hasn’t seen them at campus even once – he didn’t even know if it was someone from them who smelled so interesting. That’s why he moved to a next room, and shortly redhead hair of one of the boys has disappeared from his memory.

             After getting to know works of Marina Abramovic Kibum promised himself he won’t ever get interested in art of performance to have better night sleep of course when he could fall asleep at all.  He broke this resolve the moment he crossed a border of Bruce Nauman’s exhibition and completely fall for brilliant use of neon lights, photography and oh God Art Make-Up would drive their finance prof crazy, Kibum loved it.

          ‘’I’d like to go to Paris’’ someone sighed the very same moment Key took off headphones after listening to dramatic dialogue in mix of every languages in the world. He wouldn’t have put a second thought to this because who wouldn’t if it weren’t for next words, said with a familiar accent. Kim tried to get rid of it for long and difficult years. ‘’All real artists are from Paris”.

          The boy was an inch taller than Kibum, had longer ginger hair loosely tied at the top of his head and was someone that could be name ‘an art person’ in Kibum’s opinion. Piercing through whole ear, colourful tank top freely hanging down to mid-thigh, pants with wide leg and… post-impressionist socks. So dramatic boy was an impressionist enthusiast and even shared Kibum’s dream, very often misunderstood by his friends so far.

          Before anyone from the boy’s group has realised someone paid them more attention than to art around them, Kibum withdrew from a room to find a toilet and then go straight to his favourite piece of art in 1880-1950 paintings exhibition.

             It could be expected that ‘The Starry Night’ would be catching attention of great number of visitors so Kibum didn’t frown too much seeing a lot of heads and not the painting. He couldn’t be named a patient man but for his inspiration he would wait just enough time for people to move and let him see everything clearly.

          Deep peace of a town, quiet still cypress’ peak and church tower patiently watching over it touched Kibum in a difficult to explain manner, especially when taking under consideration artist’s biography. Nobody was sure if Van Gogh has created this painting while having an anxiety attack but Kibum was sure that if it was a case, then recreating the village from his memories brought him temporary relief. That he put all his worries into dramatic sky and guarded them with powerful stars and moon and maybe that’s why he wasn’t pleased with his work who would be pleased, looking at their rotten soul taking a form.

          Bergamot, pepper and lilies of the valley. Key knew this scent and for a couple of seconds he wondered how much he was insane, who remembers random people’s scents. Kibum discretely looked at his left and he would lie only a little if he said he didn’t expect to see this strange boy who caught his attention numerous times in museum full of people.

          Dark eyes lined with kohl looked intensively into mix of shadows of the painting and if Key weren’t a serious business student because he was he would have thought that the boy left New York long ago. That he observed quiet Saint Remy in June 1889 with Van Gogh and that’s why he got to understand everything a painter wanted to show – he was far in a journey while Kibum only just began his. Impression was electrifying and soothing at once and Key would only think about a sun radiating from certain posture of a stranger.

          ‘’You’re aware it’s really rude to stare at someone like that?” the boy asked, not taking his eyes from a painting which made Kibum realise that he had to see him looking all the time.

          ‘’You’re aware you have a reproduction of painting worth millions on your socks?’’ an answer was so much Kibum – fast and aimed on keeping his opponent off guard. Boy’s eyes firstly moved to his shoes then following to Key’s face who suddenly wanted him to stare again at the painting. He couldn’t exactly put a word to the feeling that got him, but Kim knew it went beyond his comfort zone and he wasn’t sure if it bothered him.

          ‘’As long as it’s only reproduction it’s fine. It’d be worse if I decided to wear an original, don’t you think?’’ Kibum didn’t expect such an answer, it was in the middle between serious question and joke and he didn’t know which route he should take to not be considered insane.

          ‘’You should try” he said eventually, deciding to take a game with completely serious face, just as he really considered running to a piece of art, throwing it off the wall and making a perfect suit for this boy. ‘’It will match your socks”.

          A stranger smiled slightly and leaned over to Kim, as he’d like to reveal him a secret. Sweet lilies of the valley prevailed pepper and Kibum didn’t know if he’s still breathing.

          ‘’I’m more for Monet and Dali, but I will help you here, if you help me later’’ no, he wasn’t breathing. That’s why when he burst into laugh, he smelled again an intense doze of perfumes that surely mixed with his own scent of mellow evening. For a second Kibum wondered what’s the effect of their composition, but he quickly waves off this thought to focus on a strange talk.

          ‘’First, I have to know with whom will I steal and ruin quite good impressionism” he said in fluent Korean, almost sure a boy won’t have any problem with understanding. And if his surprised face was any indication, Kibum felt proud of successfully covering his accent of sixteen years. He was also satisfied to surprise a stranger who seemed to be a bunch of interesting secrets in Kibum’s eyes.

          ‘’Lee Taemin” he introduced himself, bowing a little and oh Kibum almost forgot about excessive politeness of Koreans. He didn’t know where his reluctance towards strangers went. He forgot for a little while about a moon.

          ‘’Kim Key’’ answered, not paying attention to any piece of art anymore.

             A few weeks later Kibum discovered that Taemin uses Tuxedo from Yves Saint Laurent, two hundred and three dollars for a bottle and he admitted Lee was dramatic enough to steal pieces of art together.

[choclette8]

Recipe for classic fig rolls (aka fig newtons), but made with wholemeal spelt flour. The fig paste is lightly spiced and gently sweetened and the pastry casing is delicious in its own right with subtle notes of lemon. These biscuits are easier to make than you might think.

Fig rolls are one of those biscuits that divide opinion. They have a Marmite, love them or hate them quality. Needless to say I’m in the appreciative camp. So, I was delighted that Paul Hollywood chose these childhood treats for the technical challenge on Great British Bake Off last week. I was surprised he chose such an easy challenge, but I’m not complaining. Finally, it gave me the oomph required to bake these delicious cookies. They have been on my must try list for years.

Great British Bake Off

Every year I try and make something from the current series of the Great British Bake Off. Last year I made a spinach and lemon cake for #CakeWeek. It was my super simple version of Le Gâteau Vert and most delicious it was too. Amongst other recipes, I’ve also made chocolate Viennese whirls, triple chocolate bread and Black Forest gâteau. This year it was the fig rolls in #BiscuitWeek that grabbed my attention.

But it’s #BreadWeek tonight, so who knows, I might be inspired all over again.

Fig Rolls

Fig rolls are a classic British biscuit – or so I thought. Turns out, they originated in ancient Egypt. The commercial variety that we know and sometimes love were first produced in 1891 by Charles Roser from Philadelphia in the United States. He patented the automated process which was almost immediately bought by the Kennedy Biscuit Company. Fig rolls are known as fig newtons in the States, so called as the factory that made them was in Newton, Massachusetts. I can’t find out when the fig roll came to the UK, but suffice to say, it’s been around for quite a long time.

There is some dispute as to whether fig rolls are a cake or a biscuit. I think this might be because fig newton casings are softer and more cake like, whilst ours are crumbly and more biscuit like. But in the UK, fig paste is encased in an enriched sweet pastry and chopped into small flattened rectangles. This makes it a biscuit in my book. Plus you’ll find them in the biscuit aisle in shops and supermarkets not the cake aisle.

Fig Roll Adventures

My mother was quite strict when it came to sweet treats. Well, apart from her famous puddings. She certainly didn’t believe in buying biscuits anyway. My introduction to fig rolls came when I first went to stay with a friend of my mother’s at the age of seven. She lived on a remote Cornish smallholding which you could only reach by tractor or by walking a mile down a steep and sometimes treacherous path. She didn’t have a tractor, so walking it was.

The house had no electricity and in those early days, no running water either. I used to love staying there, it always felt like a real adventure. Down to the well to collect water and to bed by candlelight. Anyway, once a week, a grocery van used to stop at the top of the aforementioned path just so she could catch up on supplies. And one of those supplies was always a packet of fig rolls.

Many’s the time we made that journey across the river and up the track. We had to cross an old rickety wooden bridge and I always wondered if I’d make it safely across before it collapsed into the turgid water below. But it was always worth it. Those fig rolls were such a treat.

Wholemeal Spelt Fig Rolls

I found lots of recipes for fig rolls, both online and in some of my baking books. But in the end I based mine on the Paul Hollywood recipe that the bakers used on #GBBO. His was simpler than most, used less sugar and seemed more like the “real” thing. Obviously I changed it somewhat. I added a few extra spices, changed the method to make it easier and used wholemeal spelt flour for my pastry casing. Oh, and I swapped Paul’s vanilla for lemon zest in the biscuit dough.

Fig Paste Filling

The fig filling is really easy to make. It’s just a question of bunging all of the ingredients into a pan, then simmering them and blitzing. It’s best to do this bit first so the fig paste can cool and firm up whilst you’re getting on with making the pastry.

I didn’t have any stem ginger, so I used some crystallised ginger as I always have a jar of that to hand. Although I adore cinnamon, I thought the quantity Paul used might overpower the other flavours, so I used less of this and added a pinch of ground cloves and a grating of nutmeg instead.

Making the Biscuit Dough

Although the dough casing is more like pastry than a snappy biscuit, it’s made using the creaming method rather than the rubbing in one. It’s very straightforward. I just use a bowl and wooden spoon for this, but you can use a handheld or stand mixer if you prefer.

When it came to rolling the pastry out, I found I made a larger rectangle than the one Paul stipulated in his recipe. Perhaps this is why I made sixteen fig rolls rather than only twelve. In order to make a neat (ish) rectangle I cut ragged bits off the edges and pressed them into the sides which weren’t quite wide enough. The dough is quite malleable, so this wasn’t difficult. I wasn’t going to waste any of it, that’s for sure.

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Form the dough into a ball with your hands.

Roll pastry dough out into a rectangle, then cut in half down the long side.

Filling the Fig Rolls

This was the bit, I felt, where it could all go hideously wrong. But it didn’t. It was all a lot easier than I was expecting. The wholemeal spelt pastry cracks quite easily, so don’t expect your fig rolls to look perfectly smooth. Mine certainly weren’t. But then I like a homemade look.

I baked mine for fifteen minutes as I wanted to ensure the biscuit dough was properly cooked. Plus I wanted them to look properly golden. But if you prefer a paler fig roll, try baking for twelve minutes instead.

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Spoon the fig paste along the middle of the two sides of pastry and form into a sausage shape.

Bring the two sides of pastry together and seal with your fingers along the middle. Turn the rolls over so the seem side is facing down.

Cut each roll into eight equal pieces.

Place pieces on a baking tray, spaced a little apart. Flatten each one with a fork, marking along the length with the prongs as you go.

Finished Fig Rolls

Once baked, the fig rolls just need to cool, then they can be eaten or stored in a tin until needed. They’ll last a few days, but the pastry gets steadily softer as the days go on. Having said that, this batch lasted five days and the biscuit dough held together just fine. I took one in to work with my packed lunch on day two and another on day four. They’re quite substantial, so I reckoned one was enough. As for the rest, CT and I polished the lot off at home.

I doubt Paul would have been impressed by the unevenness of my bakes, but I was delighted with the result. They tasted much as I remember them and CT thought so too. Only better, because they were homemade, healthier and bigger.

Other Classic Biscuit Recipes You Might Like

Bourbon biscuits via Tin and Thyme

Breton butter biscuits via A Baking Journey

Chocolate hobnobs via Donna Dundas

Chocolate Viennese whirls via Tin and Thyme

Custard creams via Lost In Food

Garibaldi biscuits via Tin and Thyme

Ginger shortbread cake via Tin and Thyme

Gluten-free custard creams via Tin and Thyme

Jammy dodgers via Veggie Desserts

Nigella’s florentines via Tin and Thyme

Not so jammy dodgers via Tin and Thyme

Scottish shortbread via Farmersgirl Kitchen

Show Me

Thanks for visiting Tin and Thyme. If you make these wholemeal spelt fig rolls, I’d love to hear about it in the comments below or via social media. Do share photos on social media too and use the hashtag #tinandthyme, so I can spot them. For more delicious and nutritious recipes, follow me on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram or Pinterest.

Homemade Fig Rolls. PIN IT.

Fig Rolls with Wholemeal Spelt Biscuit Pastry.

Recipe for classic fig rolls (aka fig newtons), but made with wholemeal spelt flour. The fig paste is lightly spiced and gently sweetened and the pastry casing is delicious in its own right with subtle notes of lemon.

Fig Paste

200 g dried soft figs (Can use dried hard figs, but will need to cook them for longer.)

20 g crystalised ginger (Can substitue for a large ball of stem ginger in syrup.)

20 g muscovado sugar (I used dark muscovado.)

½ tsp ground cinnamon

pinch of ground cloves

grating of nutmeg

Biscuit Dough

60 g unsalted butter – softened

40 g light muscovado sugar

pinch of fine sea salt

½ lemon – zested (optional)

175 g wholemeal spelt flour

⅓ tsp baking powder

1 medium egg

Fig Paste

Place the figs in a small saucepan and add enough water to just cover them. Add the ginger and sugar.

Bring to the boil, then simmer, stirring occassionaly for about 8 minutes or until the figs are cooked through and the water has evaporated.

Add the dried spices and purée with a stick blender or mini food processor until you have a rough paste. Leave to cool and firm up.

Biscuit Dough

Cream the butter and sugar together until light and fluffy. Add the salt and lemon zest and cream some more.

Beat in the egg.

Sift in the flour and baking powder and mix until it's mostly incorporated. Bring it all together with your hands to form a soft dough. If it's really soft, you may want to cover it and place in the fridge for 30 minutes to firm up. But you shouldn't need to do this.

Heat the oven to 200℃ (400℉, Gas 6).

On a floured surgace, roll out the dough to a rectangle measuring 21cm by 27cm. It should be about 4mm thick. Cut lenghtways into two strips measuring 10 1/2 cm by 27cm.

Spoon half of the fig mixture down the middle of one strip and the rest down the middle of the other strip. Neaten it up with your fingers, if needed.

Bring the two sides of each strip of pastry up to join in the middle and roughly crimp with your fingers to seal.

Turn the rolls over so the seem is at the bottom and cut each one into eight equal sized pieces.

Line a baking sheet with baking paper (or silicone mat) and gently transfer the rolls, placing a little apart. With a fork, press each one gently down to flatten it slightly and to add a pattern on the top.

Bake for 12-15 minutes until golden. Transfer to a wire rack to cool.

Can keep for up to a week in a sealed container, though the pastry will soften.

Sharing

I’m sharing my wholemeal spelt fig rolls with with Jo’s Kitchen Larder and Apply to Face Blog for #BakingCrumbs. I’m also sending them to Casa Costello for #BakeOfTheWeek and #CookBlogShare, which is hosted this week by Everyday Healthy Recipes.

Fig Rolls with Wholemeal Spelt Biscuit Pastry Recipe for classic fig rolls (aka fig newtons), but made with wholemeal spelt flour. The fig paste is lightly spiced and gently sweetened and the pastry casing is delicious in its own right with subtle notes of lemon.

[stillness-in-green]

Human Debris Masterpost (11/?)

After somewhat longer than I’d been intending, I’m back with the next post, after which I will likely go watch another episode or two in hopes of having a follow-up soon!  In the meantime, though, I misstated last time that the Earth arc was over; turns out we have one last wind-down there before we move into the Hashmal arc...

EPISODE THIRTY-THREE — Sovereign of Mars

In the continuing saga of my being delighted by Makanai and Chad, Chad is literally the first person Makanai asks about when Kudelia, visiting him in an unreasonably gorgeous hospital room, tells him that Tekkadan will be withdrawing from Earth.  He even says that he’s heard Chad’s already out of the hospital, suggesting Kudelia is not the first person he’s asked for information about the young man—he quips that it’d be bad for his conscience if such a young man died protecting someone of his age.  We will continue to see this gratitude play out over the course of the season, both in some small nods and some very big ones indeed.  Keep an eye out!

On that note, though, we cut over to the young man himself, sitting by himself and looking over a data slate.  

Immediately, Akihiro and Lafter arrive, and Akihiro guesses in one try that Chad is looking over a list of the fallen.  As Chad blames his shortcomings for the (not inconsiderable) length of the list, Akihiro tries to tell him that it isn’t his fault, to which Chad breathes out an uneven breath and shakes his head, but doesn’t argue the point, instead commenting that this must be how Orga feels all the time.   

The sharp-eyed may notice something on the data slate that the show has avoided telling us up to this point—that Aston has taken Akihiro’s last name, Altland.  Hold that thought for just a sec.

Chad folds in on himself, saying that he hates every second of still being alive, that it would be much better to step forward and take the hit himself.  What they tell him after this—and what is there to tell him, really?—we don’t see, as Akihiro and Lafter take their leave.  

Lafter comments in this scene that she didn’t know Aston had shared Akihiro’s last name, to which Akihiro replies that a lot of the Brewers’ kids didn’t have last names when they came into Tekkadan’s care, but that “they” had taken good care of Masahiro. He doesn’t mention Derma here, but we will, much later, find out that he has the last name as well; Akihiro gave it to the last two surviving members of Masahiro’s unit.  

This is extremely touching, but also makes me wonder about our own Tekkadan trio’s last names. Were they captured at an old enough age that they remembered their surnames, or is it just a difference between CGS and the Brewers?  Perhaps the bosses still used full names at CGS for, oh, scheduling rotations or rollcalls, whereas the Brewers just threw children into combat as necessary with no more attention paid to it than that?  Or perhaps Maruba Arkay was more careful with his record-keeping than Brooke Kabayan?  

In any case, Akihiro says that he wishes he’d talked to Aston more when he had the chance; that it’s too late after someone’s died.  Remember this line for later, because it’ll come up again, and it’ll be a heartbreaker.  

After some politicking elsewhere, we return to Takaki and Fuuka’s apartment, where Fuuka is staring sadly at the photo of the two of them with Aston.  She asks if he remembers when they took it.

It was, we find, the day they’d randomly decided on for Aston’s birthday.  Fuuka made “a great feast”—for context, I invite you to look at the cake and two modest side dishes on display in the photo—and Aston talked more than usual.  I like to think they had to rope a neighbor into taking this picture, explaining Aston’s deeply discomfited expression and unwillingness to look at the camera.  

Otherwise, this scene largely exists to shed some more light on Takaki’s conflict about what to do next with his life, so we’ll move on.  

We find Chad and Akihiro in a group chat about Tekkadan’s next move, as Orga relays the terms of the deal McGillis is offering them—that whole “King of Mars” business that will prove to be so very costly for everyone involved.  As Eugene asks what that’s even supposed to mean, Chad fills in that king ‘means someone important, right,’ illustrating very succinctly for us how woefully little these young man know about history.  A shame, really, as some time spent with a history book might have provided enough examples of downfalls-brought-on-by-hubris that some of what’s to follow could have been avoided.

Like Mikazuki and Eugene, Chad and Akihiro are both cool to go with whatever Orga decides.  Chad, at this point, is likely just so ready to be out of a leadership position, and Akihiro has never really second-guessed Orga ever since watching him get the Third Division out of that elephant vs. ant situation with Gjallarhorn back in the CGS days.  No surprises here.  

Takaki, on the other hand, is getting out while he can.  He cites Fuuka’s happiness, and the happiness they have now, as things they’d be throwing away chasing an even bigger reward; he knows more people will die in pursuit of that golden ending, and he just can’t take risks like that, that gamble with his kid sister’s happiness.  Akihiro, who, you’ll recall, has talked with Takaki before about younger siblings and how important they are, looks like he knows exactly how Takaki’s feeling here.  He probably would have even if Takaki hadn’t spelled everything out, of course, but Takaki’s honest and earnest that way.  

Chad, curiously, seems more reluctant to let Takaki go, protesting when Orga accepts Takaki’s resignation.  I can’t imagine he begrudges Takaki his decision, but I wonder if he worries?  We were told, way back when, that people like the orphans of Tekkadan can’t get good, safe, reliable jobs, which is the whole reason they work as child soldiers to begin with.  Perhaps he’s concerned that, in choosing the happiness Takaki has now, Takaki is losing the very means he has to maintain that happiness?

As if to confirm this, we find them afterwards walking down the hallway, with Chad reassuring Takaki that Orga will try to find Takaki a good job on Earth.  (And man, I don’t know if it’s Orga or Kudelia or what, but given that we find Takaki later working for Makanai, someone sure came through on this.)  

Takaki apologizes about leaving, but Chad tells him not to, that the Earth Branch was saved thanks to him (a very generous assessment) and that they’ll always be family, even apart. This is a very sweet thing to say, but a dangerous one as well, if you look at this series through the lens of the many, many yakuza/mafia story tropes it’s been playing with since Day One. Mikazuki, perhaps a bit more aware of this, coldly rejects this, and tells them that Takaki’s only family is Fuuka now, so he doesn’t have to worry about Tekkadan anymore.  

Akihiro tells them not to mind Mika’s brusqueness, that he’s doing it to be kind, and reiterates the message—that Takaki shouldn’t worry about Tekkadan’s fate from here on out, and should instead concentrate on living his life with his sister.  He also thanks him for being friends with Aston, because Akihiro is resolved to remind us at every turn that his life is an unending parade of tragic loss, which has in turn made him extraordinarily sensitive to the value of camaraderie.  

After ducking back in on Makanai and Kudelia, we have one last scene that is just determined to completely break my heart: Akihiro and Chad surveying the paltry few crates containing the personal effects of the dead Earth Branch members, and talking about places to belong.

Specifically, Chad says that Earth was like a second home for them.  A strange thing, he thinks, since when he was Human Debris, he didn’t think there was a place for him anywhere—much less two places.  

Indeed, if you consider a stray comment from one of the Earth Branch kids some time ago, that people in Edmonton were happy to see them, it’s very possible that Arbrau might have been a more welcoming home than Chryse.  I remember reading a staff interview once, about how the person in question thought of Tekkadan as people who spent their lives at work.  You can see the truth of that observation in this: while it may or may not be the case that some members of Tekkadan have apartments or houses to go back to, the only ones who we ever explicitly see go home are Biscuit and Takaki—the only two members who are willing to leave Tekkadan to protect the happiness they already have.

Even if it was just for a short while, I’m so glad the Earth Branch kids, and Chad in particular, had a shot at knowing there was someplace else that would welcome them home.

As if to accentuate that his time in the spotlight is done, Chad gets the preview text this episode. He notes that to protect the place he belongs, he’ll have to start training again when he gets back to Mars, and calls to Akihiro let him do sit-ups with him.  (Truly, Akihiro’s exercise regimen is a black hole from which no character even tangentially related to him can escape.)

EPISODE THIRTY-FOUR — Vidar Rising

After several episodes away from home, we finally return to Mars, and with it, Derma is onscreen again, standing with Yukinojo watching a Landman Rodi get lowered into the hangar.

He asks if there’s been a pilot decided yet, to which the old man replies that of the three Rodis that made it back, Chad will have one, but the others haven’t been assigned yet. Derma asks, politely but very directly, to be able to use it, and Yukinojo, a bit surprised, notes that it’s a machine salvaged from the Brewers, and probably tied to bad memories.

Derma acknowledges that to Human Debris like him, the Rodis were basically coffins.  However, if Aston piloted one on Earth (died in one on Earth), then he’ll do the same.  Derma, just to be clear, is now the only surviving member of what was originally a tight-knit group of five.  I’m altogether certain the kid is dragging around a death wish the size of Jupiter by this point, and just…  Thank god he managed to connect with Dante, because I think he would otherwise be far too depressing a character to even think about.

Speaking of the devil, Dante appears to point out that Akihiro figured Derma would say something like that, and already arranged it (Mikazuki is not the only person who can cut seniority lines for personal protégés, it seems).  He says that he’ll pilot the third, and exhorts Derma that they’ll show the world what former Human Debris can do—Derma, of course, had not used any such past-tense phrasing about himself a moment ago.  He agrees, though, soft and emphatic.

Meanwhile…

Keeping true to his words in last episode’s trailer, Chad is out training (read: keeping just ahead of Hush, despite being in a much lower end machine).  This is the very first time the audience has seen him in a mobile suit, and he’s looking happier than we’ve seen him in ages, rowdy and competitive, like he’s had a huge weight lifted off his shoulders.  Lafter and Azee observe as much themselves; that Chad is unusually “amped up” after the bad time he had on Earth.  

He’s still in good spirits a few scenes later, when he runs into Yukinojo back in the base.  The old man compliments him for getting stronger on Earth, which, as he generally does, Chad downplays, saying it’s thanks to Yukinojo’s good maintenance.  Yukinojo gives him a good friendly slap on the arm for this show of modesty, and says they’ll be counting on him, presumably a fairly standard, “Welcome to your mecha piloting gig,” phrase.

He notices something weird, though, sniffing at the air.  Shortly afterwards, he interrupts a cute OT3 sequence between Mikazuki, Kudelia, and Atra to worriedly insist that something is going on with the old man, because he doesn’t smell anymore.

This leads to the revelation that Merribit and Yukinojo are dating, hence the old man keeping more on top of his hygiene.  Chad—had not yet heard the news.  

(I’m so sad we don’t get a real reaction image out of this, by the way, just a camera-pan-up-while-yelling-happens gag.)

Outside, Akihiro is critiquing Ride’s exercise regimen, in that it doesn’t have enough food in it, and Ride tries to be mature (he has to lead the young kids now, with Takaki gone) in the same sentence as he says something childish (he skipped dinner because he doesn’t like the bean stew they were serving).  Akihiro jokingly chides him (a true rarity) that wanting to be strong is all the more reason not to be a picky eater, and I sit here wondering if he remembers that fish he turned his nose up at back in the first season.  

Chad comes running up to ask if Akihiro had heard about the whole Old Man/Merribit dating thing, only to get a nonplussed, “Uh, yeah, duh?” reaction from Ride, and the observation that it happened when he was away on Earth from Akihiro.  

Chad demands to know why no one told him, prompting Akihiro to ask, in confusion, why anyone would, leading to the above delightful teary-eyed face, and the helpless, muted question of, “Hey, we’re on the same team, right?”

Pretty much everyone at the time this episode aired took this display to mean that Chad had been harboring a crush on Merribit, and I’m inclined to agree.  Firstly, because it’s the reading that makes the most sense of behavior that would seem really out of type otherwise.  Secondly, because it means that if you believe, as I do, that Chad and Yamagi have got something going on in the epilogue, his earlier crush on Merribit suggests that Chad has a type: Yamagi and Merribit share a lot of traits, though Merribit has definitely grown more into them.  Both blonde, both dedicated and soft-spoken, both coolly professional, and both with a not-very-deeply-buried sarcastic streak that gets more biting the more worried they get.  It’s a really great bit of continuity, I think.  

And that is the last of the red stripes we get this episode—finally, a short write-up!—so lets move on to the next one. 

EPISODE THIRTY-FIVE — Awakening Calamity

After some unusually ominous opening narration and a duck-in to Saisei, we return to Eugene giving the sub-leader types some progress reports and instructions. Looking at who’s in the room suggests that Chad has landed himself something of a leader position since he got back—we have the head mechanic, the Teiwaz liason, the captain of the Muscle Squad, the captain of the Shooting Star Squad, and Chad.  I don’t remember him having a particular group under him, but if he gets a squad name, I look forward to hearing it!

(He is still a bit hung-up on the news about the adults dating.)

Later on in the cafeteria, we find some discussion of pay raises.  Shino, as was ever his wont, wants to go celebrate with girls, inviting Eugene and Chad along with him.  Eugene, having had some time to think on it since that first night out at Saisei way back in season one, refuses, citing some very smooth-sounding talk of not being able to buy love with money.  Chad immediately asks Merribit if this is true, and when she confirms, says he’ll pass as well.  I cannot quite decide if I think it’s cute that he wants a real relationship or depressing that he had to double-check on the possibility of buying it.  Either way, I hope Merribit is being paid extra for the amount of babysitting she does with these boys.  (Akihiro is in this scene, but does not deign to participate in the nonsense.)

The next sequence, taking place in Kudelia’s office, starts out with some delightful OT3-building (Kudelia is handling Atra and Mikazuki’s money!), but derails somewhat when we find out that she is doing this for Ride and Akihiro as well, and is open to doing so for Hush if he’d like her to.  The scene focuses more on the general inability of Mars’ disadvantaged children to handle money, but it’s interesting to note that Akihiro specifically has left his funds in Kudelia’s hands.  Chalk it up to one of many, many conversations I wish we could have seen.

Returning to Tekkadan, we have a brief comic interlude of Chad puzzling over a shift in relationship dynamics between Shino and Zack, but don’t get to find out what went on with The Girls last night, as Eugene comes in with some assignments.  

The main pilot trio (Mika, Akihiro, and Shino), as well as Chad, Hush and Zack, will be guarding Orga and his guest (McGillis, not in his Montag persona for once) during the latter’s visit.  By this point, we can see that Chad is well nestled back in with the main fighting force, rather than stuck on a ship’s helm or on a different planet entirely, and it’s nice to think he’s getting some legit camaraderie back in his life.

McGillis takes a second to greet the other members of Tekkadan after shaking hands with Orga. Shino is the only one to verbally respond, while Akihiro makes a sound of acknowledgement and bows his head; Chad notices the latter, and hurriedly echos it.  I wonder if the etiquette levels with Gjallarhorn are very different compared to what Chad dealt with on Earth?  Or perhaps he just trusts Akihiro’s cues more than his own experience?  

Akihiro drives the car on the way out to the mine as McGillis and Isurugi explain a bit about what they’re expecting to find there.  This prompts Chad to ask if they shouldn’t be bringing some mobile suits as well, if the thing at the excavation site is so dangerous.  McGillis drops the information that no, mobile suits might awaken the mobile armor, as they’re archenemies.  As he’s been eyeballing Mikazuki all episode, he adds that Mikazuki’s Gundam must have fought mobile armors as well, three hundred years ago.

This attracts a bit of Akihiro’s attention, as the other Gundam pilot in the car, and he wonders what sort of monsters these mobile armors are, that mobile suits were made just to fight them.  (And he has plenty of reason to wonder, seeing as his own Gusion is strong enough to crush lesser suits with ease and totally shrug off point-blank self-destruct explosions.)   

McGillis doesn’t use the words Artificial Intelligence here, but says the mobile armor thinks by itself and fights automatically.  Probably drawing on both his experience as a ship pilot and his close friendship with a hacker, Chad asks how that’s possible.  McGillis mostly dodges the question, just explaining that the capacity to fight on its own is why it could be so destructive, back in its heyday.  

(Akihiro and Chad, left with the car.)  

As Iok shows up, here to ruin everything (as was ever his wont), Orga runs up, yelling at Chad to call Eugene and get him to send mobile suits out—Chad has in fact already got headphones on before Orga’s even started talking, because Chad knows a bomb about to go off when he damn well sees one.  

It is too late to prevent the doom, though, as, with a fluid rippling of lights that looks it belongs to a different show entirely, a back-up chorus the likes of which we won’t hear again until Bael, and a sound effect like absolutely nothing else in the series, the mobile armor awakens.  

And we will come back to this before too long, hopefully, with what I anticipate to be somewhat shorter posts, as the series is now well and truly past focusing on the Human Debris cast as Human Debris.  I don’t doubt I’ll still find some stuff to ramble about, but things should speed up from here on out.  Thanks for reading!

[lazilysillyprince]

Jeff and MacKenzie Bezos Each Wrote Exactly 93 Words About Their Divorce. Here's a Truly Stunning Theory About Why They Did It

New Post has been published on http://therushrace.com/jeff-and-mackenzie-bezos-each-wrote-exactly-93-words-about-their-divorce-heres-a-truly-stunning-theory-about-why-they-did-it/

Jeff and MacKenzie Bezos Each Wrote Exactly 93 Words About Their Divorce. Here's a Truly Stunning Theory About Why They Did It

Jeff and MacKenzie announced the terms of their divorce on Twitter this week in two simultaneous statements. When I wrote about it yesterday, I now think I may have missed something intriguing.

First, the background. It’s fascinating and admirable that the Bezoses worked through their agreement so quickly:

MacKenzie keeps 25 percent of their Amazon stock (which works out to something like $35 billion). 

Jeff keeps the remaining 75 percent of the Amazon stock, plus the voting power of MacKenzie’s shares, plus their interests in The Washington Post and Blue Origin.

When I wrote yesterday, I pointed out three things that I found unusual — but endearing — in the statements:

They posted the statements almost simultaneously. 

They used the same word, “grateful” twice each, which set the tone of the whole thing in a very positive way.

They each wrote the exact same length: 93 words.

That last detail caught me. Why would they write 93 words each. Could it possibly be a coincidence? Hmmm. 

93 words

I’d only noticed this because I had to retype the statements into a text document. Being a word nerd, I also noticed that MacKenzie Bezos’s statement (embedded at the end of this article) doesn’t include many first person pronouns. 

For example, she writes: “Grateful to have finished the process of dissolving my marriage with Jeff…” instead of “I’m grateful to have finished….”

Actually every sentence is like that. 

I know people sometimes skip first person pronouns, and Twitter is informal, etc. But if she had included all the “I am” clauses, the statements would be uneven. She’d have more than 93 words.

Okay, this was really weird. I didn’t want to be known as a “Bezos Divorce Tweet Truther.” But was there something going on here? Did they agree on 93 words exactly?

And if so, why that number?

September 4, 1993

Then, a reader emailed me with an observation: “the obvious symbolism of the 93 words is they were married in ’93.”

Oh wow. The reader, who didn’t want to be identified, is right at least about the date. The Bezoses were married on September 4, 1993.

I haven’t heard back. I tried mackenzie@amazon.com as well, because why not? But it bounced back.

So I can’t confirm this “93-words-for-1993” theory, obviously. All I can do is put these intriguing facts in front of you, and share what I think of them.

My response is that if it’s true, it’s poignant and beautiful. The writer in me likes to think it’s a communication in a shared voice, going beyond the text itself.

It leaves me thinking about what was, what might have been, and what their relationship will be going forward.

Suspend your disbelief

Suspend your disbelief for just a second. Accept that it’s probably just a coincidence but then allow yourself to imagine what it means if it wasn’t.

Imagine if during the chaos of what could have been one of the most contentious and costliest divorces in history, Jeff and MacKenzie Bezos quickly reached an agreement — not just on the big things, but on the little things, down to the length of their joint statement.

Suspend that disbelief just a bit longer, and ask yourself if it’s possible they chose 93 words for this special, sentimental reason.

Put that with their repeated symmetrical use of the word, “grateful,” and of the repeated phrases in each statement: “friends and co-parents,” and “co-parents an friends.”

Add to it how they both agreed with the language in MacKenzie’s post, where she says she’s “[h]appy to be giving Jeff all of my interests in The Washington Post and Blue Origin and 75% of our Amazon stock.”

Emphasis added there, since this phrasing is instead of Jeff saying he’s giving something to MacKenie, or them both saying they were splitting the assets. It’s MacKenzie giving what she owns to Jeff. That’s powerful.

I’m impressed. I’m a filled with a bit of awe. And, I find myself offering them both condolences and congratulations on the whole situation. 

[hostingnewsfeed]

Jeff and MacKenzie Bezos Each Wrote Exactly 93 Words About Their Divorce. Here's a Truly Stunning Theory About Why They Did It

New Post has been published on http://therushrace.com/jeff-and-mackenzie-bezos-each-wrote-exactly-93-words-about-their-divorce-heres-a-truly-stunning-theory-about-why-they-did-it/

Jeff and MacKenzie Bezos Each Wrote Exactly 93 Words About Their Divorce. Here's a Truly Stunning Theory About Why They Did It

Jeff and MacKenzie announced the terms of their divorce on Twitter this week in two simultaneous statements. When I wrote about it yesterday, I now think I may have missed something intriguing.

First, the background. It’s fascinating and admirable that the Bezoses worked through their agreement so quickly:

MacKenzie keeps 25 percent of their Amazon stock (which works out to something like $35 billion). 

Jeff keeps the remaining 75 percent of the Amazon stock, plus the voting power of MacKenzie’s shares, plus their interests in The Washington Post and Blue Origin.

When I wrote yesterday, I pointed out three things that I found unusual — but endearing — in the statements:

They posted the statements almost simultaneously. 

They used the same word, “grateful” twice each, which set the tone of the whole thing in a very positive way.

They each wrote the exact same length: 93 words.

That last detail caught me. Why would they write 93 words each. Could it possibly be a coincidence? Hmmm. 

93 words

I’d only noticed this because I had to retype the statements into a text document. Being a word nerd, I also noticed that MacKenzie Bezos’s statement (embedded at the end of this article) doesn’t include many first person pronouns. 

For example, she writes: “Grateful to have finished the process of dissolving my marriage with Jeff…” instead of “I’m grateful to have finished….”

Actually every sentence is like that. 

I know people sometimes skip first person pronouns, and Twitter is informal, etc. But if she had included all the “I am” clauses, the statements would be uneven. She’d have more than 93 words.

Okay, this was really weird. I didn’t want to be known as a “Bezos Divorce Tweet Truther.” But was there something going on here? Did they agree on 93 words exactly?

And if so, why that number?

September 4, 1993

Then, a reader emailed me with an observation: “the obvious symbolism of the 93 words is they were married in ’93.”

Oh wow. The reader, who didn’t want to be identified, is right at least about the date. The Bezoses were married on September 4, 1993.

I haven’t heard back. I tried mackenzie@amazon.com as well, because why not? But it bounced back.

So I can’t confirm this “93-words-for-1993” theory, obviously. All I can do is put these intriguing facts in front of you, and share what I think of them.

My response is that if it’s true, it’s poignant and beautiful. The writer in me likes to think it’s a communication in a shared voice, going beyond the text itself.

It leaves me thinking about what was, what might have been, and what their relationship will be going forward.

Suspend your disbelief

Suspend your disbelief for just a second. Accept that it’s probably just a coincidence but then allow yourself to imagine what it means if it wasn’t.

Imagine if during the chaos of what could have been one of the most contentious and costliest divorces in history, Jeff and MacKenzie Bezos quickly reached an agreement — not just on the big things, but on the little things, down to the length of their joint statement.

Suspend that disbelief just a bit longer, and ask yourself if it’s possible they chose 93 words for this special, sentimental reason.

Put that with their repeated symmetrical use of the word, “grateful,” and of the repeated phrases in each statement: “friends and co-parents,” and “co-parents an friends.”

Add to it how they both agreed with the language in MacKenzie’s post, where she says she’s “[h]appy to be giving Jeff all of my interests in The Washington Post and Blue Origin and 75% of our Amazon stock.”

Emphasis added there, since this phrasing is instead of Jeff saying he’s giving something to MacKenie, or them both saying they were splitting the assets. It’s MacKenzie giving what she owns to Jeff. That’s powerful.

I’m impressed. I’m a filled with a bit of awe. And, I find myself offering them both condolences and congratulations on the whole situation. 

[smartwebhostingblog]

Jeff and MacKenzie Bezos Each Wrote Exactly 93 Words About Their Divorce. Here's a Truly Stunning Theory About Why They Did It

New Post has been published on http://therushrace.com/jeff-and-mackenzie-bezos-each-wrote-exactly-93-words-about-their-divorce-heres-a-truly-stunning-theory-about-why-they-did-it/

Jeff and MacKenzie Bezos Each Wrote Exactly 93 Words About Their Divorce. Here's a Truly Stunning Theory About Why They Did It

Jeff and MacKenzie announced the terms of their divorce on Twitter this week in two simultaneous statements. When I wrote about it yesterday, I now think I may have missed something intriguing.

First, the background. It’s fascinating and admirable that the Bezoses worked through their agreement so quickly:

MacKenzie keeps 25 percent of their Amazon stock (which works out to something like $35 billion). 

Jeff keeps the remaining 75 percent of the Amazon stock, plus the voting power of MacKenzie’s shares, plus their interests in The Washington Post and Blue Origin.

When I wrote yesterday, I pointed out three things that I found unusual — but endearing — in the statements:

They posted the statements almost simultaneously. 

They used the same word, “grateful” twice each, which set the tone of the whole thing in a very positive way.

They each wrote the exact same length: 93 words.

That last detail caught me. Why would they write 93 words each. Could it possibly be a coincidence? Hmmm. 

93 words

I’d only noticed this because I had to retype the statements into a text document. Being a word nerd, I also noticed that MacKenzie Bezos’s statement (embedded at the end of this article) doesn’t include many first person pronouns. 

For example, she writes: “Grateful to have finished the process of dissolving my marriage with Jeff…” instead of “I’m grateful to have finished….”

Actually every sentence is like that. 

I know people sometimes skip first person pronouns, and Twitter is informal, etc. But if she had included all the “I am” clauses, the statements would be uneven. She’d have more than 93 words.

Okay, this was really weird. I didn’t want to be known as a “Bezos Divorce Tweet Truther.” But was there something going on here? Did they agree on 93 words exactly?

And if so, why that number?

September 4, 1993

Then, a reader emailed me with an observation: “the obvious symbolism of the 93 words is they were married in ’93.”

Oh wow. The reader, who didn’t want to be identified, is right at least about the date. The Bezoses were married on September 4, 1993.

I haven’t heard back. I tried mackenzie@amazon.com as well, because why not? But it bounced back.

So I can’t confirm this “93-words-for-1993” theory, obviously. All I can do is put these intriguing facts in front of you, and share what I think of them.

My response is that if it’s true, it’s poignant and beautiful. The writer in me likes to think it’s a communication in a shared voice, going beyond the text itself.

It leaves me thinking about what was, what might have been, and what their relationship will be going forward.

Suspend your disbelief

Suspend your disbelief for just a second. Accept that it’s probably just a coincidence but then allow yourself to imagine what it means if it wasn’t.

Imagine if during the chaos of what could have been one of the most contentious and costliest divorces in history, Jeff and MacKenzie Bezos quickly reached an agreement — not just on the big things, but on the little things, down to the length of their joint statement.

Suspend that disbelief just a bit longer, and ask yourself if it’s possible they chose 93 words for this special, sentimental reason.

Put that with their repeated symmetrical use of the word, “grateful,” and of the repeated phrases in each statement: “friends and co-parents,” and “co-parents an friends.”

Add to it how they both agreed with the language in MacKenzie’s post, where she says she’s “[h]appy to be giving Jeff all of my interests in The Washington Post and Blue Origin and 75% of our Amazon stock.”

Emphasis added there, since this phrasing is instead of Jeff saying he’s giving something to MacKenie, or them both saying they were splitting the assets. It’s MacKenzie giving what she owns to Jeff. That’s powerful.

I’m impressed. I’m a filled with a bit of awe. And, I find myself offering them both condolences and congratulations on the whole situation. 

[awesomecolorfulcollectorwombat]

Jeff and MacKenzie Bezos Each Wrote Exactly 93 Words About Their Divorce. Here's a Truly Stunning Theory About Why They Did It

New Post has been published on http://therushrace.com/jeff-and-mackenzie-bezos-each-wrote-exactly-93-words-about-their-divorce-heres-a-truly-stunning-theory-about-why-they-did-it/

Jeff and MacKenzie Bezos Each Wrote Exactly 93 Words About Their Divorce. Here's a Truly Stunning Theory About Why They Did It

Jeff and MacKenzie announced the terms of their divorce on Twitter this week in two simultaneous statements. When I wrote about it yesterday, I now think I may have missed something intriguing.

First, the background. It’s fascinating and admirable that the Bezoses worked through their agreement so quickly:

MacKenzie keeps 25 percent of their Amazon stock (which works out to something like $35 billion). 

Jeff keeps the remaining 75 percent of the Amazon stock, plus the voting power of MacKenzie’s shares, plus their interests in The Washington Post and Blue Origin.

When I wrote yesterday, I pointed out three things that I found unusual — but endearing — in the statements:

They posted the statements almost simultaneously. 

They used the same word, “grateful” twice each, which set the tone of the whole thing in a very positive way.

They each wrote the exact same length: 93 words.

That last detail caught me. Why would they write 93 words each. Could it possibly be a coincidence? Hmmm. 

93 words

I’d only noticed this because I had to retype the statements into a text document. Being a word nerd, I also noticed that MacKenzie Bezos’s statement (embedded at the end of this article) doesn’t include many first person pronouns. 

For example, she writes: “Grateful to have finished the process of dissolving my marriage with Jeff…” instead of “I’m grateful to have finished….”

Actually every sentence is like that. 

I know people sometimes skip first person pronouns, and Twitter is informal, etc. But if she had included all the “I am” clauses, the statements would be uneven. She’d have more than 93 words.

Okay, this was really weird. I didn’t want to be known as a “Bezos Divorce Tweet Truther.” But was there something going on here? Did they agree on 93 words exactly?

And if so, why that number?

September 4, 1993

Then, a reader emailed me with an observation: “the obvious symbolism of the 93 words is they were married in ’93.”

Oh wow. The reader, who didn’t want to be identified, is right at least about the date. The Bezoses were married on September 4, 1993.

I haven’t heard back. I tried mackenzie@amazon.com as well, because why not? But it bounced back.

So I can’t confirm this “93-words-for-1993” theory, obviously. All I can do is put these intriguing facts in front of you, and share what I think of them.

My response is that if it’s true, it’s poignant and beautiful. The writer in me likes to think it’s a communication in a shared voice, going beyond the text itself.

It leaves me thinking about what was, what might have been, and what their relationship will be going forward.

Suspend your disbelief

Suspend your disbelief for just a second. Accept that it’s probably just a coincidence but then allow yourself to imagine what it means if it wasn’t.

Imagine if during the chaos of what could have been one of the most contentious and costliest divorces in history, Jeff and MacKenzie Bezos quickly reached an agreement — not just on the big things, but on the little things, down to the length of their joint statement.

Suspend that disbelief just a bit longer, and ask yourself if it’s possible they chose 93 words for this special, sentimental reason.

Put that with their repeated symmetrical use of the word, “grateful,” and of the repeated phrases in each statement: “friends and co-parents,” and “co-parents an friends.”

Add to it how they both agreed with the language in MacKenzie’s post, where she says she’s “[h]appy to be giving Jeff all of my interests in The Washington Post and Blue Origin and 75% of our Amazon stock.”

Emphasis added there, since this phrasing is instead of Jeff saying he’s giving something to MacKenie, or them both saying they were splitting the assets. It’s MacKenzie giving what she owns to Jeff. That’s powerful.

I’m impressed. I’m a filled with a bit of awe. And, I find myself offering them both condolences and congratulations on the whole situation. 

[lids-flutter-open]

somebody read this scene especially if youve already read my book. it changes a key plot point slightly (Mr Weber helps Z try to steal books on necromancy; they  fail; Mr. Weber gets arrested--in this version Z is actually at the library with him) sorry it’s so long if ur on mobile

 Z didn’t know what hours the university library at Willamette University was open. When the sun came up slightly over the edge of the horizon, they were sitting at the window of Mrs. Dunnigan’s front room, looking out at the foggy street. Mrs. Dunnigan was up early even on Saturdays, and Z could hear her moving in her room, closing and opening drawers.

“Mr. Weber gave me a spell to disable the security on the Censored Materials room at Willamette,” Z said when the old witch opened her bedroom door and stood for a moment putting on her slippers.

Mrs. Dunnigan blinked. She looked for a second at Z with incomprehension, and then her face settled into an expression of displeasure. “He should have done more than that,” she said. “He should have gone there with you.”

“Do you think you can go there with me?” Z asked. “Or do you have the bookstore to take care of?”

“The bookstore is open today and I’ve sworn to myself that I’ll stay open in spite of the people who want to close it. You can come with me downtown if you want.”

“Do you think I have a chance at getting into the Censored Materials room alone, if I went today?” Z asked. “I could try to do like an invisibility thing.”

“Can you do an invisibility hex on yourself?” Mrs. Dunnigan asked.

“I’ve done it on a pencil,” Z said.

“I don’t think that’s very smart,” Mrs. Dunnigan said. She cleared her throat and folded her bathrobe more tightly around her small body. “I don’t know that it’s safe. I wish it was the seventies so I would have the kind of thing you needed on the top shelf of the back room ready to give you, but they burned all my rare books about that kind of magic years ago and they do the same to anyone nowadays who tries to get at the ones they kept locked up.” She moved past Z into the kitchen and began making tea. “I wish he’d done more to help you. I read about that golem last year and thought, now there’s a sorcerer. I suppose this government makes us all cowards. Don’t worry, we’ll think of something.”

Z didn’t say anything, and stretched their arms above their head, listening to their own bones crack.

The bookstore had not been badly damaged by the stone or by the angry people who had shown up to protest the werewolf rights display, but there was a long, uneven line of splintered glass down the length of the front window that had been patched up unevenly on both sides with clear layers of packing tape. Z followed Mrs. Dunnigan inside and sat for a while by the register, watching her do the accounts and pretending to read. They had carried the spell Mr. Weber gave them in their pocket. Z wasn’t sure what excuse to use to slip away, or if they should tell Mrs. Dunnigan in case they ran into trouble at the library.

“I think I want to maybe go to the library today and just scope it out,” they said. “Not try anything, just look to see where things are.”

Mrs. Dunnigan studied Z. “Do you think you can stay out of danger?”

Z shrugged. “I’ll wear a sweatshirt or something so people can’t see my scars.”

“Wear a hat too. But let’s see. You can wear my friend Sal’s baseball cap and sweater with the Oregon Ducks logo.”

“People hate the Ducks here.”

“If anyone asks you can say you’re from Eugene and you’re visiting your brother at school and showing your allegiance for the Ducks to spite him.”

Z nodded. “Okay.”

“Would you like a razor blade to cut some pages out of books if you find anything? Not, of course, that I approve of cutting up books.” Mrs. Dunnigan took a capped razor blade in a case from inside a drawer by the register.

Z took the razor blade and a canvas shopping bag. Mrs. Dunnigan put three large books about football history into it, in case Z needed the covers to hide anything they stole. As they closed the door of the bookstore behind them, the bell chimed so loudly that it almost covered Mrs. Dunnigan’s goodbye. They caught the bus at the corner. It wasn’t far to the university from the bookstore, since both were in the middle of town.

The library at Willamette had been built in the later eighties and was still fairly new. Originally it was going to be named after a U.S Senator from Oregon, but once the senator was investigated for affiliation with dissident magical groups, the committee in charge had decided to christen it the Wells Library instead, in honor of an executive at an airplane manufacturing company who had donated to the library’s construction. It was made of brick and glass and had a clock tower in the front that looked like it had been built more to represent the idea of a tower than to fulfill any real function. You could not climb into it, though it was true that if you stood in its shadow it blocked rain from falling. Z passed under the clock on their way to the sliding doors that opened inward on the interior of the building. As they passed the front desk a bored student employee looked up and then back down at the book they were reading.

Z had no idea where to begin to look for the Censored Materials Division. They imagined it would either be in a basement or on the top floor, and they decided to ride the elevator all the way up to see if they could find a promising locked cupboard or filing cabinet. The only other people in the library early on a Saturday were students who looked harried and sleep-deprived and carried with them large stacks of books or papers. Z’s feet made little noise on the thin blue carpeting as they made their way to the elevators. The elevator doors opened onto a flat, florescent expanse of shelving and computer banks, labeled in a way that Z couldn’t make heads or tails of. They circled the floor along the outer edge, looking for a hallway or narrow corner, but the top floor seemed to be mainly full of history texts on agricultural development. They took the elevator to the basement. It stopped on the second floor, and opened. Three students and one taller man got in. Z did not initially look up, pretending to study the buttons. When they felt the older man staring them down, though, they looked up to meet his gaze.

It was Mr. Weber.

Z nodded to show that they saw him and waited for the students to leave the elevator. He looked tired. At school Mr. Weber always dressed neatly, but today he was wearing baggy gray denim pants and a loose vest over a T-shirt. As the silver doors closed and the chain inside the elevator mechanism lowered Z and Mr. Weber to the basement, he cleared his throat.

“I thought you might be here,” he said quietly. “I felt terrible about leaving you to do this on your own. I never wanted to be that kind of person. I thought about it all yesterday and realized I had to help you. I get scared sometimes, but this is something I need to do.”

“Do you know where the Censored Materials Division is? If you could just tell me, I think I’ll be okay on my own.” Z was slightly taken aback by Mr. Weber’s presence and the way he was holding himself like a bent stick that might at any second snap.

“I can do one better than that,” Mr. Weber said. “I think it’s a good idea for you to be invisible. I imagined you wouldn’t be able to do that on your own.” The elevator reached the basement floor and the small chime rang out as the doors slid open. Mr. Weber gestured for Z to stay where they were, pressed into the space on one side of the door.

“An invisibility hex for a person is dangerous,” Z started to say, whispering in case someone was outside next to the long alleyways of filing cabinets. “We learned that last year. I could…”

“Suffocate, yes.” Mr. Weber smiled slightly, though his eyes looked tired and his body was tense. Z could see the bubble gum pressed between his teeth. “I don’t think that’s a concern here.”

“Oh,” Z said. “Right.” They squared their shoulders. “Then yes, all right.”

Mr. Weber pressed one hand lightly to Z’s forehead and muttered a rapid-fire incantation. Z recognized part of it from basic invisibility lessons the previous year, but it went on for far longer. Z felt a sensation along their spine and in their fingers and toes as if someone had just wrapped them in a thin, sticky bedsheet.

“The archives are at the end of the hall to your right,” Mr. Weber said. “It’s all in cabinets and lockers. You’re looking for the last four cabinets on the right side of the hallway. I know because of breaking in once before. You can probably unlock them easily once you’re through the outer security spell.”

“How will the invisibility work with me holding things?” Z looked down at the bag they were holding, trying to see if it was invisible.

“Whatever you touch and hold to your chest will be invisible until you get out of the building and probably to the other side of the quad. Duck behind a bush or something for a few minutes. Tap your foot three times when you’re on your way past me to the elevator so I know you’re leaving with books. Tap twice if you didn’t get what you came for.”

Z didn’t know what to say. “Thank you,” they said through the plasticky invisibility hex, their words muddled.

Mr. Weber nodded. “Go as fast as you can,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll talk to the librarian to buy you time. Hopefully there aren’t too many staff.” He turned and walked slowly out toward the open office door a few yards from the elevator. Z followed behind him, unsure if they were really invisible. They looked down at their own hands and body and could see just fine where everything was, though at the same time there was a kind of mauve cloudiness around the edges of their elbows and knees and fingers. They felt as if they were encased in a spiderweb as they started down the hall toward the large black metal door with the inscription Authorized Staff Only, fumbling in their pocket for the spell Mr. Weber had given them earlier in the week. The paper was crumpled and torn on one side. Z tried to remember the incantation for fire. Z glanced behind them and saw Mr. Weber standing near the open door of the librarian office, looking at them.

“Incendi,” they muttered at the paper as they neared the black door. They felt at a distance the magic, as if it was entering their head from behind and shooting through their arms. It was a shock like a lightning bolt. The edge of the charmed scrap caught fire and began to send up a ribbon of smoke. When the red ember reached the sigil scratched in the middle of the paper, it sent up bright white fire. Z pressed it to the door, unsure if this was what they were meant to do. All at once, a bolt of brilliant blue emanated from their palm and a chemical acrid smell surrounded Z. They pulled back their hand, and the door swung open.

Inside, the cabinets looked at first just like the ordinary filing cases that filled the rest of the basement. There were no windows, though the room stretched further than Z had expected. It seemed to be organized in a different way than the rest of the library. Some cabinets were stacked one on top of another, and narrow ladders on rollers hung like long ship’s beams down the length of the walls. Z began to walk down the aisle of metal cabinets, looking for something about death, or necromancy. They remembered Mr. Weber’s directions and walked quickly to the back of the expansive room. The subject listings stood out on their small white placards, written haphazardly in a way that entirely contrasted with the orderly university shelves outside the black room. Cohens, Hattie Mae. Commune, Paris. Druidic Rites. Fey, American.

Then, at the end of the long room, Z heard the sound of someone closing a drawer and the noise of footsteps. They froze in place.

“Augustine?” a voice called out. “Did you re-organize this section?” A woman’s head peered around the corner, wearing a surgical mask and glasses that had a slight tint. She was otherwise dressed with exacting plainness, in a brown sweater and courderoys. “Augustine? Are you here? Is this door open?”

Z edged past the woman as she made her way rapidly towards the open door, looking at the labels on the shelves. They were at the N section now. They opened the nearest cabinet, where the slightly peeling label Necromancy, Practical shone in the florescent lighting. It squeaked on rusted hinges, and Z froze before edging it the rest of the way open.

The drawer was empty. Z’s heart plummeted into their stomach.

Outside in the hallway, Z heard a shout and a sudden loud high-pitched screech that continued to drone on in a pulsing monotone. The lights above them in the room of censored materials began to flash red. They realized after a moment of horrified paralysis that it was an alarm. The noise was followed by the noise of running footsteps. Z frantically opened the remaining drawers in the cabinet. They were empty—folders divested of contents, and spaces where the books should have been. They moved in on the next one, which was empty too, and then desperately opened the drawers labeled with Naiad, Nazis, Nigerian Exorcism, and Nostradamus. These drawers had volumes and folios inside them, but from what Z could see they all had to do with the designated subjects on the labels.

The noise of the footsteps got closer. Z heard a shout and realized that the voice was Mr. Weber’s.

Z had only moments to react. They shut the drawers with a bang and raced back down the corridor to the black door. Two people were standing near it, and Z slowed to look, their legs aching. It was a large security guard in a dark navy uniform, standing pressing something into the back of Mr. Weber’s neck. Z almost cried out, but remembered at the last second to stay silent. About ten feet away, the woman Z had seen in the Censored Materials room stood, mask off, next to another librarian, watching.

“We had a notification that an unauthorized person disabled the security spell on the Censored Materials Division door,” the guard said. “You’re the only non-faculty personnel in the area. Hands above your head, sir.”

“You have the wrong person,” Mr. Weber said. He looked to and fro as if he was seeking out Z, but he could not place where they were. Z tapped their foot twice, as loud as they dared. Mr. Weber jerked his head toward the elevators and nodded in their direction. The guard pressing him into the wall didn’t notice.

“We’re going to have to take you to the campus police station and conduct an inventory of the room, unfortunately,” the guard said. “Willamette staff takes the security of their federally protected censored materials very seriously. I need you to remain still and not perform any magic. Any failure to comply will be interpreted as assault of Willamette faculty.”

“I swear I was just down here to look for a volume I need on lizards,” Mr. Weber said.

“I’m going to need you to remain silent,” the guard said.

Z ran for the elevators, and then at the last moment decided to use the stairs instead. They hauled the door open. As they raced up the stairs, they stumbled, and began to feel the sticky spiderweb feeling lifting from their face and limbs. Z grabbed the railing to right themselves and scrambled up to the ground floor. They tried not to run for the exit when they left the stairwell and limped as carefully as possible for the door.

Out in the foggy morning, Z threw themselves down on a bench across the quad from the library and held onto the wood on both sides of their legs as tightly as they could. Their heart was not pounding and they were not breathing, but the muscles that remained to them were pulled as tight as a string about to snap. Z didn’t know how they sat motionless under a drooping bare black tree and the shadow of a square concrete lecture hall. As they sat and tried to think about what to do next, they heard a wail of police sirens approaching. Z did not want to run or move more than they already had, and so hesitated, frozen, watching a black and white cruiser pull slowly down the wide footpath to the library. They did not wait to see the people inside get out.

When Z told Mrs. Dunnigan that Mr. Weber had shown up to help them and had been arrested, and that Z had opened the door to the Censored Materials Division only to find the books on necromancy gone, Mrs. Dunnigan did not say anything at first, and then walked forward and enveloped Z in a bony embrace.

“At least he turned out to be brave,” she said finally. “He did the right thing. And at least you’re all right.”

“Will he be all right?” Z asked. “I feel like I did the wrong thing, asking too much of him or something. He’s been arrested.”

“We’ll check up on him,” Mrs. Dunnigan said. “But you didn’t do the wrong thing. You were protecting yourself. And he’s a grown man. He chose to help you.” There was such a tone of conviction in her voice that Z almost believed her for a moment, until they remembered the stance of the security guard and the thing pressed into Mr. Weber’s neck.

Z felt a deep ugly sensation in the pit of their stomach, and pushed Mrs. Dunnigan away.

[glennlim-13800-blog]

Intermission

After the only physical encounter and consultation with renowned historical architect DR Imran, all our future exchanges and consulting was done through emails. i would admit that meeting him in physicality would help solve a lot of the issues and questions i was having at the point of time, but being someone of his position, it is understandable how busy he is and how little time he has to spare, so me and my supervisor agreed that we had to make the most of it.

Most of the emails exchanged between us and everyone else are, I feel, pretty intense. It is usually at length and kept politically correct, minding not to hurt or damaged anyone’s credibility. I felt pretty nervous every time i had to reply to one of his emails. 

Here is one sample i pulled to give you a sense of what i mean:

Dear Glenn and everyone,

When I looked at the drawings I trusted that these are drafts and that Glenn will produce a more refined final drawing for publication.

I also asked Glenn to produce cleaner drawings, which he promised to do, however, he is not an architect and I believe this is the best he can do in terms of technicality. It was really just to give the general public a rough idea of what a mutli-tiered roof and concentric pattern is.

First a quick question: When is the article due for submission? I am back on 2 Oct and can go through the drawings' final draft in person then.

The article is due for submission on Sept 30th (originally Sept 15th). I don’t think the Newsletter editors will accept a later submission again. Let’s keep it as is (simple) for the Highlights and think eventually about a more complete version later.

A few points meantime, besides the ones I sent to Glenn in another email earlier:

I agree that a section aligned to the plan would be sufficient

Imran, do you mean elevation or section here? I was suggesting Glenn that the elevation aligned to the plan would be sufficient considering the sections would bring too many details he might not feel very comfortable with. Also, he will not have enough space for technical explanations in the short explanatory text he needs to write about the choices made (description+method). However, if you think the sections are acceptable, Glenn could choose to keep them. Up to him.

However, once we remove the elevation and only include the section, the roof form becomes more ambiguous (is it a gable roof or a pyramidal hip roof?). And so the plan should indicate the roof lines, for greater clarity on the form of the roof (I can explain this in person if Glenn is not sure of what this is)

Indeed, this is why I think we should only keep the elevation (and not the sections). Too technical for Glenn and for the purpose of this short Newsletter piece.

If there is space in the newsletter, then in place of elevation we could perhaps include an axonometric or isometric - but this is just a suggestion and it depends on whether Glenn is prepared to do this. I can help with this.

This would be ideal, but I don’t think we have time anymore and I ‘m not sure Glenn knows how to draw an axonometry. Again, this could be for another, more complete, article.

The last option Glenn has furnished is new (14 pillar bases on the perimeter only). It was not discussed when we last met at the Guild House.

Indeed, I asked Glenn to draw this last option to stick closer to the description, even if as we all agreed, an uneven number of pillars on four sides of a square plan was rather unlikely. However, as you agree Imran, this is the closest to Crawfurd’s description. These drawings are only hypothetical. The purpose is to play with this description to offer as many relevant hypotheses possible.

A few points to note for this option:

This option follows most strictly Crawfurd's written description, viz. with 14 pillar bases only, on the perimeter only. A such it is appealing.

However this configuration of pillars will NOT (one may also say CANNOT) produce a pyramidal hip roof as illustrated in Glenn's elevation.

I think Glenn meant to draw a rectangular (hip) tiered roof, not a pyramidal one, but I don’t think he knows exactly how to do that (no offence Glenn, it’s ok, you’re not an architect). I suggested Glenn a hip roof following joglo or kampung model on a rectangular plan (see attached) but if Imran think these aren’t relevant for a square plan, the tiered roof needs to be changed to gable indeed. Glenn can you manage to draw a gable roof (smaller and open on the side)?

This column configuration and the resultant beams will produce a gable roof. This seems rather unlikely for a square, concentric plan with a feature in the centre (the circular brick form).

As to whether the roof form assumed two or three tiers, as I have said before, we will never know - but more likely it is three.

Central and East Javanese iconography (provided we agree Javanese models are relevant) usually show two and not three tiers. This is why I suggest Chong Guan and Glenn I was more comfortable with two instead of three. But if for structural reasons Imran, you think that three tiered were as common in the early modern period, then let’s keep the three tiers.

I am fine if we choose to show this option, as we can explain that it remains the most faithful to Crawfurd's description as opposed to the more conventional 16 column configuration for a square plan (and I can explain this in a few sentences), but please do note that it will give us a gable roof and the drawings have to be adjusted accordingly. We will retain it as a two-tier formation but in gable roof form (which is quite common for small surau (prayer halls) in a later period, but with rectangular plans).

No problem with this. Just a reminder: since the short (descriptive) 500 words piece will have to be written by Glenn, for his internship and school credits, I suggest Glenn to quote (“”) Imran on relevant issues like the 16 pillar bases.

Glenn please note Imran’s correct position within NUS in your acknowledgment.  

Thanks.

H

So yeah, pretty intense stuff for me, but i think it helped shape my understanding of how to navigate and juggle situations better.

(omg stressful)

[lazilysillyprince]

Jeff and MacKenzie Bezos Each Wrote Exactly 93 Words About Their Divorce. Here's a Truly Stunning Theory About Why They Did It

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Jeff and MacKenzie Bezos Each Wrote Exactly 93 Words About Their Divorce. Here's a Truly Stunning Theory About Why They Did It

Jeff and MacKenzie announced the terms of their divorce on Twitter this week in two simultaneous statements. When I wrote about it yesterday, I now think I may have missed something intriguing.

First, the background. It’s fascinating and admirable that the Bezoses worked through their agreement so quickly:

MacKenzie keeps 25 percent of their Amazon stock (which works out to something like $35 billion). 

Jeff keeps the remaining 75 percent of the Amazon stock, plus the voting power of MacKenzie’s shares, plus their interests in The Washington Post and Blue Origin.

When I wrote yesterday, I pointed out three things that I found unusual — but endearing — in the statements:

They posted the statements almost simultaneously. 

They used the same word, “grateful” twice each, which set the tone of the whole thing in a very positive way.

They each wrote the exact same length: 93 words.

That last detail caught me. Why would they write 93 words each. Could it possibly be a coincidence? Hmmm. 

93 words

I’d only noticed this because I had to retype the statements into a text document. Being a word nerd, I also noticed that MacKenzie Bezos’s statement (embedded at the end of this article) doesn’t include many first person pronouns. 

For example, she writes: “Grateful to have finished the process of dissolving my marriage with Jeff…” instead of “I’m grateful to have finished….”

Actually every sentence is like that. 

I know people sometimes skip first person pronouns, and Twitter is informal, etc. But if she had included all the “I am” clauses, the statements would be uneven. She’d have more than 93 words.

Okay, this was really weird. I didn’t want to be known as a “Bezos Divorce Tweet Truther.” But was there something going on here? Did they agree on 93 words exactly?

And if so, why that number?

September 4, 1993

Then, a reader emailed me with an observation: “the obvious symbolism of the 93 words is they were married in ’93.”

Oh wow. The reader, who didn’t want to be identified, is right at least about the date. The Bezoses were married on September 4, 1993.

I haven’t heard back. I tried mackenzie@amazon.com as well, because why not? But it bounced back.

So I can’t confirm this “93-words-for-1993” theory, obviously. All I can do is put these intriguing facts in front of you, and share what I think of them.

My response is that if it’s true, it’s poignant and beautiful. The writer in me likes to think it’s a communication in a shared voice, going beyond the text itself.

It leaves me thinking about what was, what might have been, and what their relationship will be going forward.

Suspend your disbelief

Suspend your disbelief for just a second. Accept that it’s probably just a coincidence but then allow yourself to imagine what it means if it wasn’t.

Imagine if during the chaos of what could have been one of the most contentious and costliest divorces in history, Jeff and MacKenzie Bezos quickly reached an agreement — not just on the big things, but on the little things, down to the length of their joint statement.

Suspend that disbelief just a bit longer, and ask yourself if it’s possible they chose 93 words for this special, sentimental reason.

Put that with their repeated symmetrical use of the word, “grateful,” and of the repeated phrases in each statement: “friends and co-parents,” and “co-parents an friends.”

Add to it how they both agreed with the language in MacKenzie’s post, where she says she’s “[h]appy to be giving Jeff all of my interests in The Washington Post and Blue Origin and 75% of our Amazon stock.”

Emphasis added there, since this phrasing is instead of Jeff saying he’s giving something to MacKenie, or them both saying they were splitting the assets. It’s MacKenzie giving what she owns to Jeff. That’s powerful.

I’m impressed. I’m a filled with a bit of awe. And, I find myself offering them both condolences and congratulations on the whole situation.