#urban veil magazine

[servire]

@deathmvrks . ❤🎶 uuuugh santiago and armand perhaps???

house of spirits - the veils

I've been laying in this wreck since the dawn of days And it's been playing with my head in a million different ways I hardly ever get a minute to my thoughts alone Before they're clambering on the roof or making something out of bone Well since they made this their home It's no longer my own

very few dancers - sons of an illustrious father

Urgent sirens, rise the skies and now the flame is burden It's an urban world We too slow and all learning I've been hurting, hell, I'm urging, we The sheep, the shepherds Herd into the slaughters Sons and daughters pay the serpent Draw the garden We've been hurting for so long

the last dictator - spacehog

I can't take the truth From all the lies we've laid I never caught that perfect light Or saw those sunset rays So burn the new age magazines You preachers and the past You widowed wives of instigators I want to be the last

I am the last dictator You saw the sun today I am the last dictator You wanted me this way

[cruger2984]

THE DESCRIPTION OF SAINT VERONICA OF JERUSALEM Feast Day: July 12

During Christ's Passion, Jesus was beaten, whipped, and spit upon – not to mention the countless other cruel treatments He endured. He had blood, sweat, and mud smeared across His face. The crowd mocked and jeered Him as He made His way to Golgotha, carrying His cross.

There was one person, however, who was filled with compassion and had the courage enough to step forward and show Him a small act of kindness. Her name was St. Veronica.

There is no mention of St. Veronica in the Bible, and no one knows her backstory or what happened to her after the Crucifixion. We know it has been passed down through Catholic tradition and commemorated in the Sixth Station of the Cross.

While Jesus was carrying His cross through Jerusalem, Veronica came forward and offered to wipe His face. Her kindness imprinted His image on her veil. This veil has become known as the Veil of Veronica and is considered one of the Church's most treasured relics.

According to legend, Veronica left the Holy Land, taking the veil with her. She came to Rome and allegedly used it to cure the ailing Emperor Tiberius. From then on, the veil stayed in Rome and eventually placed in the Vatican and displayed for public veneration.

Rumors surfaced that it was destroyed in 1527 during the Sack of Rome. Also, around this time, many copies were created and passed off as genuine, so it became hard to tell which one was the original. The Vatican, however, had the veil that was most possibly to be the authentic relic since it could be traced back to the Medieval period.

In 1616, Pope Paul V banned the creation of more copies of the Veil of Veronica. In 1629, Pope Urban VIII ordered that all copies be destroyed or sent to the Vatican. Anyone who did not obey would be excommunicated.

Today, the Vatican still has the Veil of Veronica from the Medieval period preserved and in safekeeping, though it is rarely seen in public. It is displayed very briefly on the 5th Sunday of Lent each year.

Although what we know about Veronica is based on tradition, she is honored as a saint, and she is the patron saint of laundry workers and photographers.

We can follow St. Veronica's lead and imitate her simple act of charity by treating others with respect and kindness and helping those who are hurt and in need.

Source: Seton Magazine

[enoiocean]

chapter two ( Spoiled )

6k words.

When the children are spoiled, you can never satisfy them, they are a great empty hole, devouring everything. They search for something to satisfy them, but nothing ever does. Like a stomach stretched out, it takes more and more to fill them.

Kimora Tasha Lee , A child born with the shiniest spoon. diamond earrings . Never has she ever needed anything from a man because her father was rich. Picture perfect, like beyonce and her sisters.

Luther Lee—Her father, Married a beautiful supermodel. She wasn't Naomi campbell but Lisa was close enough. Long legs, dark skin and a smile that put light in the evil man's heart. Luther hoped to the masses that 'Kim wouldn't look like her mother. Have his face and his tendency.

As she grew older he knew there was no more hope, she was a beautiful young lady. More beautiful then he could ever imagine, The mini version of his wife.

A spoiled Brat.

"And he expects me to...to work today Yonnie, I don't know shit about front desk."

"Between your father and Terrance, i don't know who's worse." The pretty young woman she trusted with her life and looks sat on her silk sheets with a magazine between her fingers , She watched Kim brush her hair in her vanity. With a irritable expression.

"At least my Dad gives a shit about me" She fussed while slamming the pink comb down a bit harder than usual. Yonnie tilted the magazine down to her legs and cocked a brow of amusement.

" Terrance gives a shit..to an extent" She playfully responded before continuing "..If he needs to make you look good he will, to flash you off of course but when it comes to your feelings..welll" She dragged off well in a unsure tone causing Kimora to turn and glare at her.

Yonnie leaned back on the pink pillows and shrugged, the magazine coming back to cover her face.

Kimora made a face, a face only visible when she hated when people were right. Her narrowed eyes betrayed her discomfort, while her lips curled in an unmistakable display of defiance. The revelation of a flaw in her relationship provoked an unfamiliar disquiet within her; accustomed to a life devoid of imperfections, she found herself grappling with this newfound vulnerability. From a tender age, her mother instilled in her an unwavering belief in her own beauty, Showing her that she was beautiful and that she had no imperfections, an ethos Kimora internalized and wielded as her shield. But as a young woman you go through puberty and you change; you get pimples, your body starts to change. She always thought of it as a blessing.  Kim was no longer a little girl, she was a woman, A woman with eyes on her now. Eyes that weren't just scouting her for her girl next door look.

She changed and became a vixen in her own video, She knew she had it and even the town knew it. Her short skirts and v neck cropped tops and push up bras were a signature Kimora thing. Kimora Lee was perfect, her Life was perfect.

Until she started letting people in.

Long beach was a melting pot for young adults; partying, Drugs, Drinking and music was everywhere. When you're popular like Kimora you had hundreds of friends on Myspace, a legion of spectators eagerly entrenched in her affairs. People invited her places because they knew it would attract crowds, it's all a testament to her magnetic allure.

So many pros. The cons are simple, Kimora had just as many haters as she did followers. Everyone wanted to find something wrong with her, She hated the fact that her urban fairytale of a relationship was slipping through her fingers. She found herself pondering the whispers exchanged behind hands veiling mouths, a gesture laden with nasty intent. She didn't want to care but she didn't like when people lied, especially about her .

Kimora rose from the vanity with a hint of reluctance, her movements marked by a subtle shuffle. Glancing at the diminutive timepiece adorning her wrist, she cursed her luck at her father's choice of timing. While she acknowledged her indebtedness to him, she hadn't anticipated that settling her dues would entail toiling away at a mundane desk job.

" He got mad at me last night because i said we couldn't hang, after i told him weeks ago about our movie night" Kim lamented, her voice tinged with resignation. As she swung open the closet door, the full-length mirror affixed to it cast her reflection in sharp relief. Standing erect, she meticulously adjusted the snug fit of her mini jean skirt, her demeanor poised despite the turmoil within.

"I'm surprised he didn't pull up like a Fucking lunatic like last time"Yonnie remarked with a hint of disdain, her tone underscored by a subtle scoff.

Kimora's laughter danced through the air as she struck a series of playful modeling poses.  "He wanted to but i told him your father was home cleaning his shot gun" she quipped with a laugh, drawing Yonnie into her amusement.

Yonnie Aubrey's father, a stern white man who brooked no unauthorized visitors, saved Kimora from a lot of Terrance's pop up visits. The mere thought of facing Terrance in his wrathful state sent shivers down Kim's spine. She didn't like when he screamed at her and called her all types of bitches and hoes—they lingered in her mind like a haunting specter, sowing seeds of doubt and self-worth. Was she nothing more than a hoe to him, discarded at his whim? At times, the weight of uncertainty bore down upon her, threatening to eclipse her sense of self.

" So embarrassing, when he did that shit on the porch, Like where's the class? this is bridgewell" Yonnie scuffed talking about there fancy neighborhood and how her father still holds on to his country tendencies.

" Let the man live, he's trying to protect his family ," Kimora said, slipping into a pair of designer heels. "..Even if he does it in the most embarrassing way possible."

"True," Yonnie conceded, tossing another page of the magazine aside. "..But maybe if Terrance respected your boundaries, my dad wouldn't feel the need to go all Clint Eastwood on him."

Kimora rolled her eyes, adjusting the strap of her shoes. "Yeah, well, Terrance is Terrance. Can't expect him to change overnight."

"Yea, Kim, But sometimes, a little change wouldn't hurt." Yonnie pressed, her tone gentle yet insistent.

Kimora didn't respond immediately. Instead, she gave Yonnie that look—before rising from her seat and doing one more quick overlook in the mirror. With practiced precision, she reached over to her pink vanity and retrieved a sleek black mascara.

"I'm tired of his shit just like you are Yonnie" Kimora declared, her voice muffled as she leaned in closer to the mirror to apply the mascara. The words carried a weight of frustration and exhaustion, hinting at the emotional toll that Terrance's behavior had taken on her lately.

Yonnie delicately ran her fingers over the glossy pages of the discarded magazine, tracing the vibrant images with a thoughtful expression. " It's not like you're asking for the moon, Kim. " she mused, her voice carrying a hint of wisdom beyond her years.

Kimora's laughter danced through the air, a melodic blend of amusement and resignation that echoed in the spacious room. "Tell that to his ass. He thinks the whole universe revolves around him," she quipped, her eyes twinkling with a mixture of exasperation and fondness for her tumultuous relationship.

With a knowing smirk, Yonnie nodded in agreement, her lips curling into a playful smile. "Well, someone needs to remind him that the universe doesn't revolve around him and his stupid ego."

As the warmth of their shared laughter enveloped them, Yonnie couldn't resist teasing, "Maybe it's time to move on from basketball players... I heard Nelly is single."

"What happened to regular guys? Doctors or lawyers?" Kimora chuckled, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "...seriously, I'm not sure if I'm ready to jump into another complicated relationship. "

Yonnie shrugged, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Who said anything about a relationship? Maybe Nelly just needs a leading lady for his next music video. Terrance going on with he wants to do it's time you start doing the same. Miss Booty club"

" Oh please.." Kimora's laughter rang out, a melodic sound that filled the room with warmth. "Well, if that's the case, maybe I'll consider it. As long as the budget isn't too low this time."

Their banter was interrupted by the soft chime of Kimora's phone, signaling an incoming message. With a curious glance, she unlocked her phone and read the text, her expression shifting to one of annoyance.

"What's wrong?" Yonnie asked, noticing the change in Kimora's demeanor.

Kimora sighed, her frustration evident in her voice. "It's Terrance. He's asking why I haven't responded to his messages yet."

Yonnie rolled her eyes, a sympathetic expression on her face. "typical, He fucked up all of sudden he's not to busy to text and call"

Kimora nodded, her jaw clenched in frustration. "I swear, sometimes he's more trouble than he's worth." she sighted before continuing "..I've been trying to reach him since his game in LA, I called his mom and she said she hasn't heard from him..then the pictures came out las night. Shit is tiring" she said while shutting her phone off. Yonnie's eyes softened while placing the magazine down and getting up from the bed.

Yesterday, at approximately five o'clock in the evening, Kimora found herself, as usual, perusing the corridors of the mall in the company of Yonnie and there third link in the friendship Giselle. Covered with numerous shopping bags adorning their arms, Kimora strutted adorned with an infectious smile, while her companions mirrored her expression in solidarity. The day had promised an array of indulgences: from a meticulous nail appointment to meticulous hair touch-ups, all culminating in a satisfying shopping spree—a quintessential day for Kimora. However, Amidst idle chatter at a slushy stand, Yonnie's discerning gaze fell upon the cover of a magazine, her eyes narrowing as she recognized the college basketball player . With a sense of urgency, she beckoned Kimora's attention, and the trio's collective gaze fixated upon the unsettling sight of the man to whom Kimora had professed her affections countless times, entwined in an intimate embrace with a cheerleader.

Despite his assurances of trust and fidelity, his actions shattered Kimora's illusions, leaving her awash in a sea of betrayal and tears. The anguish was palpable, driving her to seek solace in the numbing embrace of alcohol at Teki Town the bar that Yonnie Aunt owns. A desperate escape from the tumult of emotions, much to the concern of her father, who fretted over her prolonged absence. In her distress, she reached out to her mother, only to be met with a voicemail, a poignant reminder of a perpetually occupied maternal figure. She was always too busy.

It wasn't fair, Kimora's Life is suppose to be perfect.

Yonnie placed a comforting hand on Kimora's shoulder. "You deserve better, Kim. It's the summer. The summer bash is coming up..just forget about it until it's time to really face him"

Kim scowled before shielding her face and collapsing onto her bed with an exasperated sigh.

"It's easy for you to say that when you don't have to slave away just to make this bash happen," she muttered, her thoughts clouded by the daunting prospect of undertaking a regular job.

Kimora could rationalize her father's expectations of her completing mundane chores like ironing his suits or grocery shopping for the household, the enormity of his demand for her to earn the privilege of hosting her summer extravaganza at the prestigious beach house seemed disproportionate. Aware of her father's intentions, she realized that he intended to instill a sense of responsibility by having her engage in meaningful labor, opting to have her assist at his car wash's front desk for a day.

"It's worth it...looking at hot, sweaty guys all day.." Yonnie smirked, her eyes wandering into the distance. Kimora's curiosity piqued, she turned slowly towards her friend. "...with big arms," Yonnie continued, leaving the rest unsaid.

"You're a freak, Yonnie. Stop that," Kimora said with a hint of sass, a chuckle escaping her lips. With a playful swat in her friend's direction, she rose from her bed, snatching her Juicy Couture purse before striding purposefully towards the door.

Yonnie chuckled before grabbing her bag and teasingly replied, "Says the girl who uses her bullet more than her man."

Kim halted in her tracks, pivoting swiftly to face Yonnie, who was now in fits of laughter. With a playful swat to her friend's arm, she chided "I'm gonna kill you! What else am I supposed to do, Yonn?!" Kimora asked, her smile tinged with embarrassment. Yonnie continued to laugh as she moved past her friend, exiting Kimora's room and into the grand hallway.

"Simple, get something new. A man that cares if you finish " Yonnie quipped in response. Kim listened, feeling a pang of shame as she realized a part of her was considering the suggestion.

" I know, it hasn't felt the same since he started playing big time. I miss when it felt like love-"

" Girl forget the love part you need to be fucked" Yonnie pressed. Kim playfully hit her again, laughing aloud.

Yonnie might be spontaneous with her words, but she often hit the mark. Kim acknowledged that she found herself entertaining Yonnie's rational ideas sometimes, despite her initial resistance. Yet, she couldn't shake the fact that Terrance had a way of nudging her towards it practicality with his ways as well.

" I'm not ready for something so casual. At least i don't think i am..." Kim Fussed, Yonnie rolled her eyes before they reaching the bottom of steps and stopping. "..All the guys around here are too caught up in this whole wannabe gangster stuff. I've had enough of it with Terrance," Kimora continued as she entered the kitchen and opened the fridge, her brown eyes scanning the shelves as she wondered when the maid had last gone shopping.

"If you want a loser with good dick, go to Tony's skate park," Yonnie suggested with a mischievous grin.

"I never said I wanted a loser. I never said i wanted anyone—I don't know why I'm entertaining this. I haven't completely ended things with Terrance, remember?" Kimora responded, grabbing grapes and slamming the fridge door shut.

"What about the guys at your dad's car wash? I know you've checked them out," Yonnie pressed.

" my dad would kill me and the guy. He doesn't even let them look my way," Kimora explained.

"Don't let your father get in the way of you getting flipped upside down " Yonnie teased.

"Oh, please, Yonnie," Kimora scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. " you're disgusting "

Mr Lee reminded Pharaoh of Kat Willam's

" I don't give a damn if michael jordan himself come up in here, none of y'all ask for autographs of nobody!" Mr Lee said with all the conviction his thin frame could muster. He was talking to all his employees, Not just jordan who decided it was a good idea to ask a popular local rapper to autograph his cds a couple days ago on the clock.

Mr. Lee's persistent reproaches echoed across the workspace, each syllable a resounding call to attention , He swiveled on his heels, meticulously ensuring that every worker met his gaze. " and I'm making cuts the next motha'fuckin time yall monkeying around in my place of business before we open!" Mr. Lee was unabashedly candid, his words a reflection of his unfiltered thoughts; he harbored no reservations. Despite his diminutive stature, his amusing disposition never failed to elicit quiet chuckles from his workers, who found solace in his approachable demeanor.

There white polos all stood in a circle around the vibrant man. Pharaoh's skin glistening with perspiration under the morning sun of Long beach, he tugged at his collar and dabbed at his forehead, determined to stave off the drops of sweat threatening to fall down his face. Jordan sported his uniform shirt casually slung over his shoulder, revealing a crisp white tank top beneath—a sartorial choice that Pharaoh briefly contemplated on trying.

The intense heat in Long Beach, soaring to a formidable eighty degrees, rendered Pharaoh's ability to think clearly. people walking about there day stayed hydrated, their attire reduced to a minimum as they navigated the sultry ambiance . Meanwhile, Pharaoh's mind drifted off into a place of its own, Wondering where the women were that Mr. Lee hired to attract 'male clientele'

In there white and blue two piece bikinis, their attire exuded an aura of allure. With graceful movements, the girls would waved a sign in the air; their voices harmonizing as they echoed a captivating slogan.

Undoubtedly, Pharaoh harbored the desire to have his car  washy by these enchanting individuals repeatedly. However, he hesitated, wary of exposing his aging vehicle to their discerning eyes.

He hasn't seen them in weeks, before he started working. He would come by to bother Jordan. Pharaoh knew Mr. lee changed things frequently about the wash. Like the Uniforms or the look of the building, but he didn't have to fire the 'wash girls'

"Now, It's five minutes until open, I wanna introduce you all to Pharaoh.." Mr. Lee announced, raising the clipboard in Pharaoh's direction. Pharaoh withdrew his hands from his pockets and offered a nod of acknowledgment as curious glances swept across the room.

"He's a hard worker, I wish i could train him but i have money to count" He continued with slight laughter.

".. So He'll be training with jordan. But like always, everyone helps out the new employee."

" what the hell happened to Cole?" A voice questioned out, Pharaohs eyes glanced over to the guy he recognized. Antonio Press, pot head and pro skate boarder. Pharaoh was a client of his sometimes, only when things get a little bit to anxious, with jordan or when he's a at party.

" He no longer works here. When you are lazy and don't do shit you get fired." Mr lee turned slightly to jordan, " Ain't that right Jo?" He questioned, making a couple people in the circle chuckle lowly including Pharaoh. Jordan straightened his posture and cleared his throat.

" You Mister West son?" Another voice chimed in from Pharaoh's right, prompting his gaze to leisurely shift toward the short man with braids.

"Yeah," he replied, his tone tinged with uncertainty. The stocky man extended his hand for a dap, and Pharaoh hesitantly reciprocated the gesture, unsure of what to expect.

" Qention, Shouldn't you be in the office or something ? your pops is loaded " a smirk playing on his lips. Pharaoh offered an uneasy laugh in response, his discomfort palpable.

"Not an office type of guy, I'm more hands-on, you know," he responded, his tone nonchalant. The man glanced him up and down before redirecting his attention back to Mr. Lee.

Pharaoh furrowed his brows in confusion, grappling with the underlying meaning behind the man's demeanor. Was he an old flame of Maya's, or perhaps an enemy of Eden's? Either way, Pharaoh couldn't comprehend why the man harbored such negative energy towards him.

" There is a block party happening at twelve down the street, A lot of people might stop by to get their car cleaned . we have a couple waiting right now, everyone should be working. If you don't have anything to do-"

"—Find something to do." everyone in the circle echoed, completing Mr. Lee's sentence in perfect synchrony, prompting a wide grin that showcased his gleaming gold tooth. Pharaoh found it amusing; observing how Mr. Lee interacted with his employees, it was akin to a father reprimanding his mischievous sons.

" Like music to my ears, Let's have a successful day fellas" Mr. Lee declared, his words resonating with a sense of optimism. The circle disbanded swiftly thereafter. Pharaoh turned to find Jordan, who greeted him enthusiastically with a dap, radiating joy.

" You gotta do everything i say all day " He teases,

Pharaoh playfully pushed him away before responding, "Yeah, yeah. When was the last time you actually did something here besides sit and chill out?" he quipped, a smirk playing on his lips. Jordan clicked his tongue in response before guiding the now giggling boy toward one of the washing stations.

"You only used to visit me when I was on break," Jordan shrugged before adding, "or to stalk Kim—"

"—I don't stalk her, stop saying that," Pharaoh interrupted, his frown deepening. Jordan laughed as he removed his shirt completely, frustrated by the persistent lack of cooling.

" My bad, I mean, check up on her..to see if she's still with that nigga" Jordan playfully made quotes with his fingers, eliciting a chuckle from Pharaoh, who pushed him back in jest before joining in the laughter.

Jordan teasingly referred to Pharaoh's actions as stalking, but to Pharaoh, it was merely a way of checking up on her. Since their graduation, he wasn't able to casually observe her during first period or linger on the bleachers during lunch, admiring her cheerleading practices with her friends. The absence of those moments left a void, especially the sight of her in her cheer uniform, a symbol of their shared high school memories.

Pharaoh had to strategize more intelligently. She wasn't the type to frequent places like Blockbuster, a skateboard shop, or GameStop. He knew he could find her at the mall; she was always there, especially on super sale Saturdays with her clique. However, Pharaoh understood that he risked getting scolded or publicly humiliated if he were caught following the peoples princess around Westfield Mall.

Pharaoh didn't mind shifting his surveillance to the place where he often spent his time: her father's car wash. He would visit Jordan there frequently. Mr. Lee, recognizing Pharaoh as a well-behaved individual, permitted his visits. When Mr. Lee learned of Pharaoh's interest in working for him, he readily brought him on board, impressed by his demeanor and work ethic.

Pharaoh understood that he couldn't afford to get distracted on the job as he sometimes did when he was just hanging around, sipping on slushes. Whenever she arrived, the entire team would become distracted. Guys would hurriedly fix their uniforms to appear more relaxed, and even customers seemed to want it known that they were driving expensive cars.

Kimora would step out of her pink Porsche with a radiant smile, heading to see her father. Pharaohs eyes instantly would dilate in amazement , He enjoyed the moment when she would lean over the door to retrieve her bag, revealing his favorite color. It was usually pink, sometimes blue, but she always had a vibrant hue thing peeking out from beneath her short skirts

To Pharaoh, this job surpassed any office position.

"Remove the thought of eyeing her crazy, Lee will fire you on the spot if he catches you looking to hard." Jordan cautioned, pulling out the dusty rule book he had been given. Pharaoh's eyes furrowed at the sight of the lengthy book and the seriousness of his best friend's words.

"He hasn't caught you? as much as you've drolled?" Pharaoh questioned with a hint of teasing in his tone. Jordan shook his head and shifted the weighty book to his left hand, reaching for the sunglasses dangling from his baggy shorts.

"These," Jordan began, holding up the sunglasses, "get me through hell and high water." He gestured around them. "You see, everyone has a pair." Pharaoh glanced around briefly, noticing that indeed, everyone sported the same black sunglasses hanging from their shirts or shorts.

"You need them more than me today" Jordan spoke with ease before turning his attention to the book in his hands.

"so she is coming by?" Pharaoh questioned hesitantly.

"yea and she's working a shift at the counter" Jordan remarked nonchalantly, while Pharaoh's heart practically leaped out of his chest with excitement. He couldn't help but sport a broad grin on his face.

"Working? Shes never worked a day in her life"

Jordan chuckled lightly. " Exactly. But apparently, the usual counter girl, Tonya, called out today, so she's supposedly playing the role of a do-gooder daughter . But I suspect there's an ulterior motive, she wants something expensive" he gossiped.

Whoever said men didn't gossip were wrong.

" Something like what? Why hasn't her boyfriend gotten it for her yet?" Pharaoh prodded, intrigued by the potential significance and wondering if he could find it at the mall later.

" I over heard that she's gonna ask him if she can have that summer bash at their beach house , remember i told you i heard about the date but not the venue" Jordan answered.

"You're so nosy and yea i haven't even heard Maya Talk about that shit, I'm still down to go though." Pharaoh shrugged.

" When he's on the phone he practically yells" Jordan chuckled " but Shit me too, so much ass gonna be there man." Jordan joked while throwing his hand up for dap, Pharaoh nodded while accepting it with laughter.

"So much laughter, yet I don't see any sponges wet," the familiar voice from earlier interjected, instantly dampening the jovial atmosphere. Their laughter quickly faded as the man, now identified as Qention, casually approached. Pharaoh observed the bustling car wash scene, with Camaros, Cadillacs, and Hyundais crowding the lot, suds glistening in the sunlight, and his newfound coworkers diligently at work.

"Mind your business, Q. You know he can't do anything until he reads the rule book," Jordan retorted firmly, handing the slightly hefty tome to Pharaoh, who was taken aback by this unexpected task.

"I don't see him reading; I just see y'all chatting,"

Qention remarked with a hint of skepticism.

"How do you know he wasn't explaining the basics of the book?" Pharaoh spoke, annoyance creeping into his tone as he returned the unsatisfied glare being thrown his way.

"Not even a manager, go wash a car," Jordan concluded dismissively.

Before the young man could respond, Mr. Lee appeared, gracing their presence with his.

"I got a great idea, There's a gray BMW pulling in"

he proclaimed, directing their gaze toward its imminent arrival " You two can clean the outside, and Qention you can clean the inside"

" Yes sir" Quention responded quickly while gaining a scuff from Pharaoh and Jordan.

" I wanna see you in my office after you guys are done Pharaoh " Mr. Lee stated, his hand gently resting upon Pharaoh's shoulder before he adjusted his sunglasses and sauntered away with an effortless lean in his step.

Pharaoh's eyes were ensnared by the familiar sight of the sleek gray BMW, its convertible top lowered to invite the sun's caress, while within, the vain personality reveled in his own reflection, a self-satisfied smirk adorning his features. As Pharaoh beheld this spectacle, a tidal surge of irritation crashed through him, every sinew in his body tensing with disdain and frustration at the sight.

" Man that boy havin it..i should've played ball" Q lamented with a sigh as he joined the observation." Fancy car, Big house, fine ass bitch-"

Pharaoh's gaze sharply intercepted Q's, a silent warning lurking in his eyes, but before any words could escape his lips, Jordan, attuned to his best friend's cues, intervened, swiftly placing an arm in front of Pharaoh to forestall any potential confrontation.

" Watch who you calling a bitch and Terrance is a still thug. The league is not paying him all that yet" Jordan interjected, his tone firm yet measured, a subtle attempt to defuse the tension brewing beneath the surface, all the while concealing Pharaoh's simmering irritation.

" Yea and he not all that" Pharaoh added, cause a scuff from Q.

Pharaoh's friction with Terrance dated back to their pre-driving days; they were once close in middle school, united by their shared admiration for certain girls, a bond Pharaoh initially found appealing. However, their friendship began to fray when Terrance gravitated towards an older, more reckless crowd, one prone to gambling, smoking, and drinking. Pharaoh, mindful of his father's stern demeanor and the repercussions awaiting him if caught partaking in such activities, remained wary and hesitant to follow in Terrance's footsteps.

The final straw that fueled Pharaoh's resentment towards Terrance occurred when he discovered that Terrance was dating Kimora, despite Pharaoh confiding in him about his own crush on her. It seemed that Terrance had a knack for acquiring everything Pharaoh desired; whether it was a new pair of shoes or the affection of a girl, Terrance always managed to swoop in and claim it for himself, leaving Pharaoh feeling betrayed and embittered by his friend's actions.

Pharaoh hopes every day the police will do there job and lock him up. for life.

" simply displaying envy " Q remarked, his tone tinged with dismissal, as he broke the tense silence.

"It's not an expression of envy when it's true " Pharaoh countered, his voice carrying a hint of disdain. Jordan nodded in agreement with Pharaoh's sentiment. Despite Q's attempt to brush off their comments, he straightened his posture with a sense of anticipation as the sleek BMW approached them, gracefully pulling to a halt right in front of the wash station

Pharaoh's hands clenched into fists, mirroring the tension in his jaw as he watched Q open the door for Terrance. His sunglasses tilted down, revealing a steely gaze as he eyed Pharaoh with an unsettling smirk. An image flashed in Pharaoh's mind of him choke-slamming him onto the unforgiving concrete, but he quickly pushed the violent thought aside. Losing his composure could jeopardize his job, a risk he couldn't afford to take.

Terrance, exuding his characteristic cockiness, emerged from the car, clad in a crisp new shirt, perfectly fitted jeans, and stylish shoes. With deliberate slowness, he removed his Ray-Bans, revealing his piercing hazel eyes.

"You know I had to come get my car cleaned by the best in town," he quipped slyly, his tone dripping with superiority.

Pharaoh scrutinized Terrance from head to toe, pondering what made him so captivating. Despite lacking a welcoming aura, Terrance held an undeniable allure, though Pharaoh sensed there were skeletons lurking in his closet, hidden beneath his polished facade.

" Yes Sir, T Man i saw the game last night, I need tickets to the next one " Q Exclaimed while reaching out for a dap. Terrance accepted the gesture with a smile, his flawless teeth gleaming in the sunlight. He reveled in the praise, enjoying the attention and adulation bestowed upon him.

Pharaoh couldn't help but recall watching the game as well, He sucked. Noticing how Terrance struggled due to an obvious foot injury. Despite his valiant effort, they ended up losing. However, Pharaoh observed that people tended to overlook Terrance's injury and focus solely on his status, attributing the loss to other factors. It was a testament to the power of Terrance's reputation that even his shortcomings were often glossed over by admirers.

" Yea, lost fifty to twenty five" Jordan muttered under his breath, stepping away from the group and toward the control buttons of the wash station. Pharaoh chuckled softly before noticing Terrance's cocky shrug.

"You win some, you lose some, but at the end of the day... I'm still me" Terrance exclaimed with a smile, his confidence evident as he chuckled and exchanged a dap with the agreeing Q.

" Yea yea nigga, What package do you want for your car" Jordan queried with a discerning tone, Terrance died down his laughter before responding.

" Premium, handling some big boy business today" With a demeanor that elicited a contemplative huff from Pharaoh. he pivoted to trail Jordan, only to find his progression impeded by a firm hand resting upon his shoulder. The audible crack of knuckles punctuated the tension in the air

" Yo' lemme holla at you real quick"Terrance interjected assertively. Pharaoh glanced at the hand resting on his shoulder, then shifted his gaze to Jordan, who appeared poised to come to his friend's defense if necessary.

Pharaoh pivoted, his brows furrowing in a display of mild agitation. "What's the matter? I just got here," he stated. Terrence let out a small chuckle in response.

"Nah, it ain't about my car. It's about my girl, Kim. You know her," Terrence explained, prompting Pharaoh's ears to perk up as he tilted his head slightly. "I was just wondering if you noticed whether she came back home last night, considering you live right next to her," Terrence asked casually, his gum-chewing demeanor adding a sense of nonchalance to the inquiry.

A blend of concern and curiosity flickered across Pharaoh's expression as he observed the apparent lack of concern in the man whom Kim referred to as her boyfriend. Giving him a once-over, Pharaoh's demeanor remained guarded as he replied, " ask her dad."

"I'm asking you though," Terrence persisted.

"And I said ask her dad," Pharaoh reiterated, his tone firm. Turned his back and heard a smack of teeth from  him.

"What's your issue, bruh?" Terrence grumbled, closing the distance between them with an air of agitation. Sensing the tension escalating, Jordan swiftly intervened, positioning himself between his friend and the visibly irked Terrance.

Pharaoh didn't like fighting at all until he was fighting, He thought about what a fight between him and terrance would look like. Pharaoh wasn't a short man, Physically, Pharaoh stood tall, towering over Terrence by a mere two inches, though their overall stature remained similar. He possessed a stoic confidence, He wasn't scared of any man but his father, Terrance failed to evoke any fear  in Pharaoh's heart; instead, it was overshadowed by an overwhelming sense of animosity.

"I've got a job to do, I don't feel like talking, bruh" Pharaoh retorted, his patience wearing thin as he prioritized his own responsibilities over idle conversation.

" Chill out ," Jordan interjected, his voice measured as he attempted to defuse the escalating tension. "Terrance, if you're looking for Kim, it's best to talk  to her father man. He's the one who can help you out." Jordan observed the subtle tightening of Pharaoh's jaw, mirrored by a similar reaction from Terrance, signaling the simmering intensity of the situation.

"You know what," Terrance began, his tone laced with a hint of amusement but still tinged with defiance. Stepping back slightly, he offered a conciliatory nod. "My bad. Been a bit on edge lately." With a dismissive wave of his hand, he continued,

"Y'all can get back to washing my car while I handle the search for my girl." The emphasis on the last phrase dripped with cockiness, a deliberate provocation aimed squarely at Pharaoh, knowing full well it would stoke the flames of jealousy within him. Terrance relished in needling Pharaoh about their relationship, seizing every opportunity to assert his perceived superiority

Terrance repositioned his sunglasses with a nonchalant flick and briskly strode past the two, his stroll undiminished by the tense exchange. Meanwhile, Q had already begun meticulously cleaning the car's interior, unperturbed by the unfolding commotion.

" It's your first day, don't let him be the reason lee fire you. He'd have that over you" Jordan advised, his voice infused with a calming reassurance as he sought to placate Pharaoh's simmering frustration. With a deep sigh, Pharaoh begrudgingly acquiesced, his focus shifting from the vexing presence of Terrance to the pressing matter of locating Kimora.

" Not worried about him" Pharaoh muttered under his breath, his resolve evident despite the lingering tension. Jordan chuckled softly as he returned to the control panel on the wash station. With a deft press of a button, he directed the hose towards a blue bucket, eliciting a stream of pink liquid mixed with suds.

"I'm pretty sure kim is fine, she's probably hiding from him. Ya know?"

[hoodoverhollywood]

Patrick Cupid: American Contemporary Luxury Fashion Designer Goes "Primordial" The Hype Magazine: Unveiling the Pulse of Urban Culture - From Hip Hop to Hollywood! Explore a Diverse Tapestry of Stories, Interviews, and Impactful Editorials Spanning Fashion, Gaming, Movies, MMA, EDM, Rock, and Beyond! www.thehypemagazine.com - The Hype Magazine The Hype Magazine - News From Hip Hop To Hollywood!

Interviews Published on February 21st, 2024 | by Dr. Jerry Doby In an earlier New York Fashion Week profile, we introduced Patrick Cupid, the visionary American contemporary luxury fashion designer, who recently lifted the veil on his newest masterpiece, the Primordial fall-winter 2024 collection. Bursting with innovation and celestial allure, this captivating ensemble showcases women’s…

[scapegrace74-blog]

Ginger Snap, Chapter 2

A/N I am breaking probably the only rule I gave myself when I started writing fanfic, which was Don’t Ever Post a WIP.  But lord knows I’m not immune to peer pressure and the narcotic that is reader feedback, so here it is, the second chapter of what is now an open-ended modern AU story about Jamie the Chef and Claire the Kitchen Disaster.  Still a first person Claire POV, so I apologize in advance for any stray pronouns.

For the first chapter, I recommend reading it on Ao3, since I’ve made some minor edits since I first posted it on Tumblr.  See above re. not planning on posting a WIP.

Oh, and funny story.  When I decided to check the location of the real Ginger Snap catering company in Edinburgh, it was squished between “FrazersOnline” and “McKenzie Flooring”.  If that’s not kismet, I don’t know what is.  The location I describe below, however, is based on a catering venue here in Ottawa called Urban Element, where I’ve attended a few team-building events.  I have yet to set anything on fire, though.

I checked my phone for the third time, confirming I wasn’t lost.  

Frank and I moved to Edinburgh over the summer, just in time for him to start his position as Associate Professor of History at the University of Edinburgh. Despite our years spent in America, neither of us cared overmuch for driving, so we chose a flat (or rather, Frank chose a flat and I concurred) not far from campus.  Therefore, this was the first time I’d ventured as far afield as Leith, a maritime enclave just to the north of the capital that couldn’t seem to decide if it wanted to be grittily working class or artistically hip. 

When I finally reached the address, I had to smile.  No main street pretensions or non-descript commercial frontage for Ginger Snap Catering.  Before me stood a two-story red brick fire station, still emblazoned with the crest of the Scottish Fire and Rescue Services.  The two massive truck bays were now enclosed by see-through doors that could be drawn back on a sunny day.  Through these a warm yellow light could be seen, spilling onto the grey, damp pavement.

A petite woman with dark hair manned the small reception area, a red-haired toddler clinging to her like a marsupial.  She held a phone to one ear while simultaneously pacing the polished concrete floor.  I stood as unobtrusively as possible near the door, but in such an open space it was impossible not to overhear her side of the conversation.

“... they willna take ‘im back until ‘is fever goes down...  aye, an hour ago when I picked him up but it hasn’t... nay, i dinna think it’s... tis jus’ terrible timing with two weddings t’morrow... Could ye?  Och, I owe ye Mrs. Fitz, a million times o’er... Anytime, we’ll be here.  Alright, soon.”

The speaker turned to me, the harried look of a working mother sharpening her already honed features.

“I apologize fer keeping ye waiting.  What can I do fer ye t’day?”

Before I could respond, the young boy, probably no older than two, began to fuss, rubbing his flushed cheek against his mother’s shoulder.

“Och, mo ghille, Mam kens ye’re poorly.  Mrs. Fitz is coming as fast as she may.”

Unable to quell my instinct to diagnose and then cure, I spoke up.  

“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.  Based on his age and the way he’s holding his head, it may be an ear infection.”  At the woman’s penetrating look, I hastened to explain: “I’m a doctor.  Would you mind if I took a closer look?”

Permission granted, I carefully palpated the boy under the jaw and peered as best I could without an otoscope into the offending ear canal.  Confident in my diagnosis, I recommended treatment with a warm compress, an over-the-counter analgesic ear drop, and children’s paracetamol to control his fever.  If, after twenty-four hours the symptoms had not improved, they could consider seeing his pediatrician for antibiotics, but these were only truly necessary for a persistent infection.

“Och, ye ‘ave no idea what a relief it is tae hear ye say so, lass.  He’s my first bairn, ye ken, an’ I can ne’er tell if I’m over-reacting or being negligent.   Can ye say thank ye tae the nice doctor, Wee Jamie?”

My stomach jumped.  “Wee Jamie?  Is he related by chance to Jamie Fraser?”

“Aye, tis his nephew.  I’m Jamie’s sister, Jenny.  Ye ken my brother, then?”

The pieces fell into place, and my insides settled.

“We’ve spoken before,” I explained.  “I’m Claire Beauchamp.  You and your brother helped me with a dinner party emergency last Tuesday.  I came to return your market bags, and to thank you again for coming to my aid during my hour of need.”

Jenny and I spoke for another ten minutes, sharing the superficial narratives of two strangers brought together by circumstance.  She was warm and thistly by turns, and I felt a longing for the honesty of female friendship that I’d given up when we left Boston.  Eventually a matronly woman arrived to collect Wee Jamie.  I carefully wrote down the exact names and dosages of my prescribed remedy.

After Mrs. Fitz and Wee Jamie had left, it occurred to me that Jenny needed to get back to work.  I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do, even if I hadn’t thanked Jamie himself.   As I began to make my goodbyes, however, Jenny interjected. “If ye’re no’ in a rush, why dinna ye join our afternoon cooking class?  My brother will be demonstrating how tae make quiche.  Tis the least we can do, after ye helped Wee Jamie.”

Which was how I found myself standing behind one of six cooking stations arranged across the fire station’s main area, a bright red apron covering my black slacks and saffron turtleneck.  My impetuous curls were slowly breaking ranks from where I’d slicked them into a bun that morning.  I worried I looked like a human Pez dispenser.

I glanced at the workstation immediately to my left.  A slight woman who I guessed to be roughly my own age was engrossed in her phone, a cheeky smirk playing on her berried lips.  Her strawberry blond hair was swept into an effortless chignon that made me twitch with envy.  She looked up from her screen and caught me looking her way.

“Geillis Duncan,” she said, offering a well-manicured hand.

“Claire Beauchamp.  Pleased to meet you.”

“Is it yer first time taking a class, Claire?”  At my nod, she leaned in and whispered conspiratorially: “Ye’re in for a treat.”

Before I could enquire what she meant, a murmur amongst the other students (all women, save one) was accompanied by the heavy tread of work boots on polished concrete and a familiar Scottish burr.

“Good afternoon, everyone.  Thank ye fer joining me on this dreich Scottish day.  I ken a few of ye are new, so let’s start with a brief overview of yer stations and some basic safety reminders, before we tackle the quiche.”

Today Jamie was wearing a pair of olive pants that tapered down his endless legs and a technical shirt that clung valiantly to his upper body.  He looked like he’d just stepped off the nearest rock climbing pitch.  I wondered if he owned anything that answered to the name of a professional wardrobe, but I couldn’t deny that he looked impressive, in an athleisure sort of way.

“See what I mean?” Geillis hissed at me as Jamie made his way to the front of the hall, speaking now about optimal burner temperatures.  “That man is a dozen kinds of yes.”

I concentrated on each step of the ostensibly simple recipe.  Pie crust had been the previous week’s assignment, so I had only to blind bake the prepared dough already at my workstation.  Once I had the crust centered exactly in the pie pan, pierced with a fork in orderly rows and placed in the oven, I rushed to catch up with the others.  I’d missed Jamie’s instructions regarding pan frying the bacon, so I increased the flame, thinking I could make up a little time.  The fatty meat crackled pleasingly as I set it in the lightly greased pan.  I was inordinately proud of myself.

Things went very badly, very fast.  First, my eyes wouldn’t stop watering as I meticulously peeled then dissected the onion into near-transparent crescents. Tears obscured my vision and I tried to wipe them away without contaminating my hands.  To my left I could make out Geillis skillfully cracking eggs into a glass bowl, her pie crust already elegantly filled with crispy morsels of bacon and caramelized onion bits.  

A vague sense of having forgotten something important tickled my mind.  My pie crust!  Grabbing a silicone glove (I wasn’t making that mistake twice) I rushed to the wall oven and extracted the pan.  Giddy with relief, I saw the dough was only a little dark around the edges.  

Before I could return victorious to my station, Jamie uttered a Scottish noise of alarm from his vantage at the front of the class.   We both rushed across the room to where my rashers of bacon now resembled blackened shoe laces obscured by a heavy veil of smoke.  With practiced ease, Jamie lifted the entire skillet into the adjacent sink and turned on the cold water.  A cloud of steam enveloped his head, highlighting his auburn curls.  I bit my lip as he looked my way in amusement.

“I hope ye werena planning on serving quiche to yer faculty guests t’night, Ms. Beauchamp?”

I stood meekly next to Geillis for the remainder of the class, no longer trusted around open flame without adult supervision.   She graciously allowed me to extract her quiche when it was done baking.  It looked like a magazine cover.  Meanwhile, my workstation looked like the scene of an industrial accident.

While we were waiting for her quiche to cook, Geillis and I got to know each other a little better.  She was a Highland lass from up near Inverness.  Married to a wealthy older man, her life sounded like an endless quest for diversion.  Despite this, or because of it, she had a sharp-witted frankness that I appreciated.  She was also a hard-core gossip.

“Wee besom,” she remarked with a nod towards a blond girl who was currently monopolizing Jamie’s attention with endless questions punctuated by manufactured giggles and flicks of her pin-straight hair.  “Tha’s Laoghaire Mackenzie of the Mackenzie brewing dynasty.  They’ve a live-in cook, so there’s only one reason she attends these classes, and it isna for the quiche.”

I watched Jamie laugh over something the girl said, mineral eyes alight and his perfect white teeth on display.  I suppose I couldn’t blame her.  I wasn’t here for the quiche either.

The interminable ninety minute lesson finally ended.  I thanked Geillis profusely and we exchanged numbers before she rushed off for her reiki treatment.  Gathering my trench coat and purse, I tried to slink away without calling any further attention to myself.

“Ms. Beauchamp!”

I cursed under my breath, then turned to face him.

“Please, call me Claire.  After I nearly burned down your place of business, we should probably be on a first name basis.”

Jamie chuckled. It sounded more natural and lived-in than his earlier response to Laoghaire, but I was likely fooling myself.

“Och, wha’s a cooking demonstration wi’out a wee bit of drama.  Will ye be joining us next week?  We’ll be making ceviche, sae I willna need tae put the fire brigade on stand-by.”

“Bastard,” I replied to his cheeky smirk.  “Alas, I don’t think I’m cut out to be a cook.  It appears to be the one science I can’t master.”

“Cooking isna a science, Claire,” he explained with sincere intensity.  “Tis an art.  Perhaps tha’s the root of yer struggle.”

“Perhaps it is.  But in that case, I may as well give up now.  I haven’t an artistic bone in my body.”

His languorous perusal of said body lit a different kind of flame in my belly.  Geillis was right; he really was a dozen kinds of yes.

“I canna say as I agree.  Come back any time if ye’d like tae try again.”

I blushed, thoroughly discomfited by his blatant flirting.  He knew about Frank.  He’d fled from him onto my fire escape, for Christ’s sake!  Maybe when you looked like James Fraser, every interaction with a woman was merely a chance to hone your craft.  Or maybe he was truly ignorant of his effect.

“I’ll take that under advisement.  Thank you again, Jamie.”

“Until the next time, Arsonist.”

[blouisparadise]

Here are some of the amazing bottom Louis fics that were posted or completed during the month of September. We hope you enjoy this list. Happy reading!

1) Hard Candy Dripping On Me (Til My Feet Are Wet) | Explicit | 1997 words

Louis gets fucked on a plane. That’s it.

2) Fucking Nightmares | Mature | 2151 words

Louis has a nightmare. Harry comforts him.

3) You Could Take A Lick (But It's Too Cold To Bite) | Explicit | 2469 words

“You look kinda thirsty.” Louis croons softly.

Harry leans back in his chair and tilts his head to the side. His eyes are covered by the pair of expensive shades, but Louis feels his eyes drifting down his backside as he lays on his stomach.

“Why don’t you bring me a bit of that ice cream, darling?”

Louis and Harry have fun in a summer day.

4) Interview With The Vampire  | Explicit | 4135 words

Note: The fic pairing is Louis/Robert Pattinson.

Working at an alpha magazine wasn't always easy for an omega like Louis, but he's just landed his biggest interview yet with an A list actor who has asked for Louis especially. Unfortunately, the interview is with Rob Pattinson, the biggest pain in the arse alpha on the planet.

Inspired by Rob’s interview in GQ Magazine and not actually about vampires

5) Conozco La Vida | Teen & Up | 4761 words

Note: This fic contains no explicit smut, but since it’s omega Louis, we’ve included it. 

"I have a son," he declared, there was a very thinly veiled layer of hesitation.

Harry was unaware in the direction which this conversation was heading but chose to stare at the man instead.

"He is an Omega," he dropped the pivotal piece of information.

Harry's attention was hooked now.

"He has been raised in an Omega convent all his life, he hasn't been in the presence of any Alpha who isn't his immediate family."

"I am still waiting for you to make a point."

"You could take him as an Omega."

Harry did not react, his face remaining perfectly free of betrayal of any sort of emotion and leaned back upon his chair, his leg crossed upon his knee. "You are selling your son to me?"

6) It’s Hard For Me To Go Home | Not Rated | 4890 words

Don’t call me baby again.

7) So Baby, Let's Keep It Secret | Explicit | 4638 words

��I’ll leave with you,” Harry said after a beat, sounding sure of himself.

“What!? No!, you can’t leave with me, Harry, you have a life here. You have a job and friends an-”

Harry kissed him in the middle of his rambling. “Which means nothing if I don’t have you.”

Into You Music Video AU.

8) ZOMOS | Mature | 5659 words

Is it easy to forget everything and start afresh? Is it easy being served with hateful glances and insults when all you wish for is to be loved? Is it easy to make it seem like everything is alright when in reality your world is crumbling into pieces with every breath you take?

Is it easy to be the omega who is unwanted by their alpha?

9) Your Biggest Fan | Explicit | 9075 words 

Just like everyone else, Louis has a few habits that he can’t seem to break. Guilty pleasures, rather. His nails are perpetually short because he can’t quit biting them, the bottom of his shoes scuffed from tapping his foot constantly. Sometimes his leg gets a cramp from bouncing it so often underneath his desk. That isn't too bad, he reckons, just some average teenage coping mechanisms.And also, occasionally, minor instances of theft.

10) Making A Splash | Explicit | 9557 words

“You want this?” Harry muses, fisting his cock as he drags his hand lazily up his thick length. Louis eyes the motion and nods his head absentmindedly. “You want to show everyone at this beach how much of a slut you are for Daddy’s cock?”

“M‘your slut,” Louis immediately replies, inching closer, inching closer with his eyes glued on Harry’s glistening cock, precome shining under the sun as it dribbles out his slit.

Harry grins widely and stops the movement of his hand to grip himself at the base again, pushing Louis’ head down. “Show everyone how much of a slut you are.”

11) Hung Up High in the Gallery | Mature | 14006 words

When Harry’s best friend, Louis, comes to support him at his art show, he decides they need to do some celebrating afterwards. How fast do the lines between friends and lovers get blurred ... or better, get painted?

12) My Home Is Your Body | Explicit | 15341 words

Note: The fic pairing is Louis/Henry Cavill.

He had seen who had made his senses go haywire. His ex was in the front row, five feet in front of him. He felt his eyes on him even as he mechanically made his way to the end of the runway, hoping to God he didn’t look like a maniac. Everything was a blur. He somehow managed to walk the rest of the way without falling or emoting anything. Why was he HERE? Of all places.

...where Louis is a successful omega model and the last thing he expects is his ex to become the co-partner of the new company he works for....

13) There's Nothing Like It (Nothing At All) | Explicit | 15471 words 

Note: This is a sequel to this fic.

His hands are outstretched on the mattress like he’s reaching out for something, reaching out for Harry. It makes his heart swell, almost bursting with affection and love. He only waits a bit longer before reaching over to turn off the light and pulling Louis to his chest, smiling when the omega immediately sighs in contentment, nuzzling into his skin happily.Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow, they’ll talk about it.-Or, Harry isn’t ready for things to change, and the end is just the beginning.

14) Seven Simple Words | Explicit | 15535 words

It’s not like he and Louis were a couple. No, they might have been a lot of things—best mates and colleagues with a seemingly convenient friends-with-benefits arrangement—but never a couple. It wasn’t Louis’ fault he didn’t feel the same way and couldn’t reciprocate Harry’s feelings in the way he’d wanted, the way he’d needed. Harry had allowed himself to get in too deep, his entire being aching to be loved back by the object of his affections. But in love, as in life, you don’t always get what you want.

15) Works Like A Charm | Explicit | 18061 words

Ever since Louis joined the team in fifth year, a few facts have become set in stone.

One: Louis is the best chaser in Hogwarts.

Two: Harry is the best beater in Hogwarts.

Three: They do not get along.

So it’s really unfair of Liam to think that forcing them to spend time together as Louis recovers from his injury will make them the best of friends. The last thing Louis would do is get along with that git.

16) The Way This River Runs | Explicit | 27417 words 

It’d be so easy to just open his mouth and plead with Harry, to scream I’m sorry until his voice disappears, but he can’t. Be it his pride or his ego or his insecurities, he just can’t do it. The worst part is that he knows Harry would probably forgive him.

But Louis doesn’t want phony forgiveness. He doesn’t want Harry’s soothing words and pity embrace, thinks he might just break altogether if he was offered them. He feels like he’s made of glass recently and it’s to the point where he kind of wants to tip over the edge, just to see if he’d shatter. Just to see who’d be there to pick up the pieces if he did.

17) Give Me Love | Explicit | 41041 words

Louis doesn't feel like a good omega, Harry doesn't remember how to be an alpha, and they figure it out together.

18) Falling Out Of Fashion | Explicit | 42123 words

Harry Styles has been the established face of the Grimshaw House of Design for two years. It’s a prestigious and coveted modeling contract Harry took away from once-famed supermodel Zayn Malik. With the model transition Grimshaw’s designs went from a more urban, Zayn-forward aesthetic, to a Harry-favoring flowery, flowing femininity in the Grimshaw designs for men.

So when Harry sees a dress Grimshaw made for a famous Marvel actress, “only a tease”, Nick says, of the evolving look, Harry knows Grimshaw is shifting his aesthetic.

Harry wonders if he can pull off the look.

19) Three Days In February | Explicit | 189346 words

Louis is cursed after a night out with the lads and the five have just three days to figure out what happened and how to break it before Harry and Louis both lose their sanity and maybe something more. Louis can hear everything Harry thinks and Harry isn’t sure he can keep his feelings for Louis a secret from his own mind.

Ridiculous amounts of banter and angst, a lot of Harry and Louis alone together, a healthy dose of OT5 friendship, and one very magical weekend.

20) Boss Bitch | Explicit | 386901 words

Harry had always wanted to work for this successful mafia; the mafia that everyone knew, everyone feared. Led by none other than the pahntom

"L'eue Courante", whom everyone knew existed, but had no other clues who this person could be. The only thing known was a high heel the phantom once left.

So this person had to be woman, Harry assumend. And man, was he wrong.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

You can find other monthly roundup fic rec lists here.

[emerald-studies]

The intelligent W.E.B. Du Bois

“William Edward Burghardt Du Bois (February 23, 1868 – August 27, 1963) was an American civil rights activist, leader, Pan-Africanist, sociologist, educator, historian, writer, editor, poet, and scholar. He was born and raised in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. He had two children with his wife, Nina Gomer. He became a naturalized citizen of Ghana in 1963 at the age of 95 – the year of his death.

As Activist

In 1905, Du Bois was a founder and general secretary of the Niagara Movement, an African American protest group of scholars and professionals. Du Bois founded and edited the Moon (1906) and the Horizon (1907-1910) as organs for the Niagara Movement.

In 1909, Du Bois was among the founders of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) and from 1910 to 1934 served it as director of publicity and research, a member of the board of directors, and founder and editor of The Crisis, its monthly magazine.

In The Crisis, Du Bois directed a constant stream of agitation–often bitter and sarcastic–at white Americans while serving as a source of information and pride to African Americans. The magazine always published young African American writers. Racial protest during the decade following World War I focused on securing anti-lynching legislation. During this period the NAACP was the leading protest organization and Du Bois its leading figure.

In 1934, Du Bois resigned from the NAACP board and from The Crisis because of his new advocacy of an African American nationalist strategy that ran in opposition to the NAACP’s commitment to integration. However, he returned to the NAACP as director of special research from 1944 to 1948. During this period, he was active in placing the grievances of African Americans before the United Nations, serving as a consultant to the UN founding convention (1945) and writing the famous “An Appeal to the World” (1947).

Du Bois identified as a socialist and belonged to the Socialist Party from 1910 to 1912.

As Scholar

Du Bois’s life and work were an inseparable mixture of scholarship, protest activity, and polemics. All of his efforts were geared toward gaining equal treatment for black people in a world dominated by whites and toward marshaling and presenting evidence to refute the myths of racial inferiority.

From his earliest years, Du Bois was a prolific, gifted scholar. In 1884, Du Bois graduated from high school as valedictorian. He received his Bachelor of Arts from Fisk University in Nashville, Tenn., in 1888, having spent summers teaching in African American schools in Nashville’s rural areas. In 1888 he entered Harvard University as a junior, took a bachelor of arts cum laude in 1890, and was one of six commencement speakers. From 1892 to 1894 he pursued graduate studies in history and economics at the University of Berlin on a Slater Fund fellowship. He served for 2 years as professor of Greek and Latin at Wilberforce University in Ohio.

Du Bois received his Master of Arts from Harvard in 1891, and, in 1895, he became the first African American to receive a doctorate from the university. His dissertation, “The Suppression of the African Slave Trade to the United States of America, 1638-1870,” was published as No. 1 in Harvard Historical Series.

In 1896-1897, Du Bois became assistant instructor in sociology at the University of Pennsylvania. There he conducted the pioneering sociological study of an urban community, published as The Philadelphia Negro: A Social Study (1899). These first two works assured Du Bois’s place among America’s leading scholars.

From 1897 to 1910 Du Bois served as professor of economics and history at Atlanta University, where he organized conferences titled the Atlanta University Studies of the Negro Problem and edited or co-edited 16 of the annual publications, on such topics as The Negro in Business (1899), The Negro Artisan (1902), The Negro Church (1903), Economic Cooperation among Negro Americans (1907), and The Negro American Family (1908). Other significant publications were The Souls of Black Folk: Essays and Sketches (1903), one of the outstanding collections of essays in American letters, and John Brown (1909), a sympathetic portrayal published in the American Crisis Biographies series.

Du Bois also wrote two novels, The Quest of the Silver Fleece (1911) and Dark Princess: A Romance (1928); a book of essays and poetry, Darkwater: Voices from within the Veil (1920); and two histories of black people, The Negro (1915) and The Gift of Black Folk: Negroes in the Making of America (1924).

From 1934 to 1944 Du Bois was chairman of the department of sociology at Atlanta University. In 1940 he founded Phylon, a social science quarterly. Black Reconstruction in America, 1860-1880 (1935), perhaps his most significant historical work, details the role of African Americans in American society, specifically during the Reconstruction period. The book was criticized for its use of Marxist concepts and for its attacks on the racist character of much of American historiography. However, it remains the best single source on its subject.

Black Folk, Then and Now (1939) is an elaboration of the history of black people in Africa and the New World. Color and Democracy: Colonies and Peace (1945) is a brief call for the granting of independence to Africans, and The World and Africa: An Inquiry into the Part Which Africa Has Played in World History (1947; enlarged ed. 1965) is a major work anticipating many later scholarly conclusions regarding the significance and complexity of African history and culture. A trilogy of novels, collectively entitled The Black Flame (1957, 1959, 1961), and a selection of his writings, An ABC of Color (1963), are also worthy.

Du Bois received many honorary degrees, was a fellow and life member of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, and a member of the National Institute of Arts and Letters. He was the outstanding African American intellectual of his period in America.

As Global Citizen

In 1948, he was cochairman of the Council on African Affairs; in 1949 he attended the New York, Paris, and Moscow peace congresses; in 1950 he served as chairman of the Peace Information Center and ran for the U.S. Senate on the American Labor party ticket in New York. In 1950-1951, Du Bois was tried and acquitted as an agent of a foreign power in one of the most ludicrous actions ever taken by the American government. Du Bois traveled widely throughout Russia and China in 1958-1959 and in 1961 joined the Communist party of the United States. He also took up residence in Ghana, Africa, in 1961.

Du Bois was also active in behalf of Pan-Africanism and concerned with the conditions of people of African descent wherever they lived. In 1900 he attended the First Pan-African Conference held in London, was elected a vice president, and wrote the “Address to the Nations of the World.” The Niagara Movement included a “pan-African department.” In 1911 Du Bois attended the First Universal Races Congress in London along with black intellectuals from Africa and the West Indies.

Du Bois organized a series of Pan-African congresses around the world, in 1919, 1921, 1923, and 1927. The delegations comprised intellectuals from Africa, the West Indies, and the United States. Though resolutions condemning colonialism and calling for alleviation of the oppression of Africans were passed, little concrete action was taken. The Fifth Congress (1945, Manchester, England) elected Du Bois as chairman, but the power was clearly in the hands of younger activists, such as George Padmore and Kwame Nkrumah, who later became significant in the independence movements of their respective countries. Du Bois’s final Pan-African gesture was to take up citizenship in Ghana in 1961 at the request of President Kwame Nkrumah and to begin work as director of the Encyclopedia Africana.

Du Bois died in Ghana on Aug. 27, 1963, on the eve of the civil rights march in Washington, D.C. He was given a state funeral, at which Kwame Nkrumah remarked that he was “a phenomenon.”” (source)

[scgdoeswhat]

A Very Penderghast Halloween – Beckett x Clarette

Summary: The Penderghast gang celebrate Halloween.

Rating: NSFW

Words: 5541

Author’s Notes: Happy Halloween!! I had this idea pop up into my head a few weeks ago to celebrate Halloween with my favorite magickal crew! I didn’t expect it to grow into a behemoth, but here we are. Thanks to @hellomynameisdevi​ @brightpinkpeppercorn​​ for the early help, and I’m also going to submit this for @skyecrandall​​ Choices Horrorween Week!

Hope you all enjoy! Beckett doesn’t belong to me (unfortunately), but the story does. No Beta used.

Sorry if the “Read More” link isn’t working. It’s Tumblr’s fault, not mine!

Tag list: @xo-endlessmayhem-xo​ @grungeisntmything​ @friendlylilshipper​ @felmasri​ @numberonepoetryexpert​ @hellomynameisdevi​ @beckettbaguette​ @siegrrun​ @choicesthatplayyou @retroangxl​ @askdana​ @50shadesofraleigh​ @darley1101​ @kamybelen-blog​ @herdecisions​ @artchoicesreblog​​ @teenytinymagician​​ @choicesfannatalie​​ @itsstillnotwhatyouthink​​ @abigailpoe​​ @flyawayboo @brightpinkpeppercorn​​ @gardeningourmet​​ @harringtons-honey @manateemilk​​ @queenodysseia @thatcatlady0716​​ @divergentofhogwarts​​ @pottershat​​ @topsyturvy-dream​​ @choicesyouplayandmore​​ @zeniamiii​​ @never-neverland​​ @drakewalkerfantasy​​ @syltti78​​ @elementalistshoe​​ @maxwellsquidsuit​​ @sleepingpillcorporation​​ @tabithacarlisle​​ @ludextruction @pbmychoices​​ @wickedgypsymoon @mistychoices @izzycheeese​​ @lady-kato​​ @fluffy-marshmallow-heart​​ @flynnomalleys​​ @walkerismychoice​​ @thefirstcourtesan​​ @drakesensworld​​ @laceandlula​​ @rhymesmenagerie​​ @shainaa00​​ @princessstellaris​​ @itsbrindleybinch​​ @donutsgirl36​​ @liamzigmichael4ever​​ @mckenzie-powell​​ @sunflowergirl05​​ @justendlesssummerfeels​​ @friedherringclodthing​​ @choicesarehard​​ @desiree-0816​​ @elanorwaverley @aworldoffandoms​​ @mrsbriarmarlcaster​​ @star-adorned​​ @wiselight @cloacasexual

Please let me know if you want to be tagged/removed on future fics and I’ll tag anyone I may have missed in the comments. Thank you!

Clarette stood in front of the full-length mirror in her room, putting the finishing touches on her first Halloween costume in three years. She ran a hand down the front of the deep red corset, smiling at how the tight fit pushed up and emphasized her bosom. Turning sideways, she smoothed out the lace overlay over the black tulle miniskirt, the fabric bouncing back to its natural shape after she finished touching it. She threw the high collared, black, satin minicape over her shoulders, fastening the button around her neck before slipping on a pair of matching elbow length gloves to complete her look. Stepping into her black heels, she walked out into the living area of the suite where Atlas was hanging out and Shreya was waiting for her.

Her twin sister glanced at her, peering over the magazine she was reading and raised a skeptical eyebrow at Clarette’s outfit. “You look like a vampire-brothel-hooker all smashed into one.”

Clarette laughed on her way to the kitchenette, throwing a wadded-up paper towel at Atlas. “Well, if that’s the case, then Beckett will be my lucky customer later!”

Atlas groaned in repulsion, her face disappearing behind the page. “I really hate you sometimes, you know that?”

Shreya snorted in amusement at the siblings’ banter while she looked at her reflection in the mirror, touching up her black lipstick to complete her short and skintight sexy witch costume. “You two make me glad that my sister is younger than me. I could never imagine having any type of sex conversation with her,” she said, shaking her head in dismay. “I will say that this is fun to dress up for your Attuneless holiday, Clarette. Believe it or not, what I’m wearing is tame compared to what I’ve seen some sorceresses wear.” She looked over at her roommates’ outfit and busted out into a fit of laughter. “If Priya saw your outfit, I don’t know if she’d be flattered or embarrassed by your interpretation of what a vampire is.”

Clarette stopped in her tracks. “Whoa, wait. Priya LaCroix? As in the fashion designer? She’s a vampire? Vampires are real???”

Shreya nodded, gently patting her on the head. “I forget you didn’t grow up in this world, but yes, yes, and yes.”

The dark-haired twin stood in shock at her newfound knowledge. “I swear, I’m always learning new things around here.”

“Are you serious? Out of everything we’ve been through the last two years and it’s vampires existing that throws you for a loop?” Atlas chortled.

Clarette shrugged, a broad grin on her face. “I only know the bad vampire stereotypes, like this one!” She ran over to Atlas, and in a bad accent that sounded like the Count from Sesame Street, she yelled out “I want to suck your blood!” while tickling her.

Atlas screamed at the tickle attack. “You ass! You know I hate being tickled!” She cried out before shooing her sister away.

Cackling, Clarette got up and straightened her top out before she had a wardrobe malfunction. “I promise, no more tickling for the rest of the night. But seriously, are you sure you don’t want to come tonight? Please?” She affixed the puppy dog eyes on her sister with one last plea.

The light-haired twin rolled her eyes in response. “You know that face doesn’t work on me. Do I look like Beckett to you? And nah, thanks. I’m good. I’ve had my share of roughing it out in the woods, at night, with demons and crazy psychopaths after me to last me a lifetime. You guys have fun in the forest and whatever.”

The doorbell rang at that moment, signaling the arrival of the rest of Motley Crue. Clarette and Shreya made their way to the door, opening it to their group of friends.

“By the way, if it wasn’t obvious, you two look absolutely absurd,” Atlas continued, “at least the others had enough sense not to dress-“ she looked up and stopped midsentence, where she was greeted with the sight of Zeph dressed up in a skeleton costume complete with face paint while Aster donned a headpiece resembling a unicorn. “At least Griff and Harrington had enough sense not to dress up,” she rectified her statement.

Griffin stood in the doorway with a full bag of mixed elixir in hand, laughing at Atlas’ unimpressed expression. “I would’ve dressed up if I knew everyone else was going to!”

Beckett scoffed. “You couldn’t pay me to dress up.”

Clarette pranced over to her boyfriend, noticing Beckett’s eyes darken as he took in her entire costume. “I’m sure I could convince you otherwise,” she replied, a sly grin on her face. “Besides I know what you could dress up as. You could be the police!”

He raised an eyebrow at her suggestion. “And why, may I ask?”

“Because sometimes you’re the fun police!” A mixture of groans and laughter were heard at her bad joke while they all waved ‘bye’ to Atlas. Clarette giggled, bounding out the door and down the long corridor, leading Beckett by the hand while the others followed their path.

The evening sky was the deepest shade of midnight and the moon was hidden behind the cover of clouds as the six of them made their way through the Penderghast campus. They continued walking into the woods beyond the lake, the lights of the university dimming behind them with every foot before being swallowed by the foliage.

Clarette bounced excitedly with each step, wanting to savor her first real Halloween since being introduced into her current magickal world. The last two years had comprised of shadow monsters, maniacal Blood Atts, and power-hungry Sources, all of which diminished any desire to celebrate one of her favorite times of the year.

This year was different. With no threats on the horizon, she decided they would all be celebrating spooky season with her. She took solace in now knowing who she was and where she came from, which gave her the security to enjoy the festivities. The last time she felt so carefree was when she was a child, and Halloween had no pretense; it was only about how many treats she could fill in her goody bag.

Moving to a new area for high school had given her a different reason to enjoy Halloween, when she embraced the dressing up aspect the most. In a smaller city where she was one of the few minorities and the only Asian American girl in school, she relished the opportunity to be someone else for one day. She found she was comfortable dressing up in any manner she wanted, and that usually equated to a getup that conformed with her party girl label.

As Clarette thought about ideas for her costume this year, she knew it was going to be one of those stereotypical sexy outfits, but she felt assured about making her decision. The difference between dressing up in a sexy costume now and a few years prior? Her actions were now on her terms and she was finally comfortable in her own skin. She was dressing up for herself and not to fit in.

Over the last two years, she had regaled the group with stories about Halloween, from urban legends and folklore to the revelries in the Attuneless world such as haunted houses, mazes, and hayrides designed to scare people. Convincing Shreya was easy; she didn’t need to be asked twice to be her partner in crime in dressing up and looking good while doing it. Griffin, Zeph, and Aster were always down for some hijinks, and surprisingly Beckett didn’t try to make a logical argument to get out of it. Only Atlas rejected to partake in it, citing her very valid reasons of already living through enough nightmares.

Griffin led the way through the brush, smoothing out the path to make sure the girls of the group wouldn’t trip over any loose rocks. “So Clarette, what are we doing? You didn’t exactly lay out the plan.”

“I don’t really have one. I was thinking about lighting a bonfire, telling some scary stories while we drink, pretend to do a séance…. I don’t know, whatever comes to mind, I guess.”

“A séance? Are you sure this is a good idea?” Zeph asked with hesitation. “My abuela always said you don’t mess with these types of things, especially since the veil is the thinnest this time of year.”

Shreya scoffed while adjusting the sparkly witch hat she wore on her head. “It’s not like we’re actually summoning anything. Besides, Clarette already talked to a dead Dread last year and nothing else came from it.”

Clarette shivered at the mention of Raife, memories of her and Atlas destroying his corrupted essence doing little to soothe her mind.

Beckett wrapped his arm around her, noticing her shiver. “Are you alright?”

“Just a little draft, nothing more,” she fibbed, not wanting to worry him about the thoughts in her mind.

The evening had started innocently enough, with the bottles of elixir being poured and stories being told from the Attuned side of things. They all shared stories of how ‘The Dread’ was used as a bogeyman in their different upbringings, all of which were terrifying in their own right. Silence reigned after the last tale was told and they all took a sip of their drinks, the silence enhanced with the effects of their beverages.

Zeph turned his head to the right, on alert. “Did anyone else hear that?” His eyes flickered across the group.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Clarette answered. “Come on, Zeph, stop trying to scare us.”

A distant rustle echoed through the night.

“I heard that,” Griffin interjected as he stood up and dusted his pants off. “Zeph, come on, let’s check it out.”

Zeph grimaced, steeling himself. “Fine. But if I die out there, it’s on you.” He got up and joined Griffin past the shrubbery.

The other four looked at each other with uneasy glances as the minutes ticked by.

“Yeah, this isn’t creepy, at all,” Clarette commented, snuggling more so into Beckett’s side.

A moment later, the flames extinguished, leaving them in complete darkness.

“Very funny, Shreya,” Beckett remarked. “Would you please turn the fire back on?”

Shreya looked at him with her mouth agape at the accusation. “I didn’t do that, Beckett.” She snapped her fingers to reignite it, but nothing happened.

The branches where Griffin and Zeph walked into shook, the disturbance causing them to jump at the sound.

“And very funny, you two!” Clarette hollered towards the direction of the bushes. “You can stop with the cheap scare tactics already!”

Aster branched out, the shadow lingering on her face. “It is not them.”

“What do you mean it isn’t-“ Before Shreya could finish her sentence, the undergrowth parted, a giant shadow monster appearing before them.

“Holy shit!” Clarette jumped up and ripped off her gloves, blasting the apparition with her Sun magick. The beam that came from her hand went straight through and did not cause any damage, to her disbelief. “It didn’t do anything!”

“Clarette, go!” Beckett stepped in front of her, shielding her from the monster. “Aster, make sure she stays safe!”

Aster nodded, grabbing Clarette’s arm. “Come on, I know a safe place!”

“I’m not leaving you, Beckett! I can help!” She tried wriggling out of Aster’s unhuman, strong grip, to no avail.

Beckett took a few steps towards Clarette, never turning his back on the monster. “I told you before, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe, my love, and I never break my word.” He kissed her hard, channeling his feelings into the singular action. “Just remember, I love you.”

Before Clarette could respond, Aster dragged her further into the forest, the trees camouflaging their retreat.

Clarette ran through the trees, complete darkness engulfing her surroundings. She wasn’t sure if she could hear a faint laughter echo through the expanse of thicket, but she knew there was no way she would stay in one place to find out. Her pulse raced in her ear and her lungs burned as she weaved through the cover of the forest, her survival instincts kicking in.

"Don't turn around. Don't stop now. And whatever you do, don't turn around." The thought repeated itself in her mind. She had watched enough horror flicks in her days to know one of the rules of survival.

How could a shadow monster be chasing her? They had eliminated the different threats over the course of their Penderghast careers, including those using essences to create corrupt forms. She frowned at the memory of her attack going right through the monster’s center, its red eyes and sadistic grin smiling at her inability to vanquish it.

It turned out Atlas was the smart one that evening, opting to stay back on campus instead of joining the Crue in the woods. Their evening was supposed to be full of harmless fun and Halloween shenanigans.

Or they were supposed to be shenanigans, until that fire went out without explanation and the giant shadow monster appeared through the trees. It seemed to laugh at her with glowing, red eyes and the sinister smile on its warped mouth, its intent bent on destroying everything in their path.

The monster must have taken both Griff and Zeph down quickly, as the rest of them didn’t even hear anything from where they had disappeared. There was no scream to signal trouble, and the only shout she heard was from Shreya. Her shrill shriek rang through the woods until it was cut off with a stomach dropping abruptness.

Clarette’s mind raced with thoughts of what happened to her friends, her brows furrowing when she thought of Beckett. She should never have left him, despite his urging and insistence. She and Aster were nearly a Thief-field length away when she heard his voice ringing through the foliage, telling the monster to stay away from her. Clarette had stopped in her tracks, ready to turn back when she thought she heard him scream, only for the forest to stifle any identifiable sounds.

She shook her head to clear her mind. The current circumstances gave her no time to think and instead, she concentrated on winding in and out of the hedges and trees. Now it was just her and Aster, thanks to Aster's abilities to navigate the forest where she grew up.

"Clarette!" Aster huffed through exertion, the flowers in her hair downcast and sodden. "The trees are telling me there should be a cabin 50 feet that way. You should go there while I go for help!"

Clarette stopped in her tracks, giving Aster an incredulous look. "You want me to go to a cabin, in the woods, in the middle of the night??? I am not going to die like some cliché, slasher movie!"

Aster frowned, the reference going over her head. "Movies can cut you in the Attuneless world? I have to remember this for later! But in the meantime, I'll go track down Atlas and the shadow monster won't get me because I know these woods like the back of my hand! The cabin should be over there!" She ran off in the opposite direction, leaving before Clarette could get a final word in. “I’ll be back!”

"Shit!" Clarette whispered to herself, knowing that anyone who ever says “I’ll be back” never returns according to the rules of horror films. Looking around after taking a steadying breath, there was no sign of the shadow monster and she quietly made her way through the trees. The 50 feet she crept through felt like a mile, but Aster was right; there stood an abandoned cabin in the middle of the woods.

"This is what I get for watching all those Freddy Krueger - Scream - Friday the 13th movies when I was in high school," she grimaced as she approached the solid oak door, trying to peek through the tinted window. "No, this isn't scary at all."

Opening the door, her eyes widened as a feeling of astonishment overtook her. The darkened interior of the cabin was illuminated softly by elegant, taper candles in metal, gothic candelabras while the glow of strategically placed jack-o-lanterns added to the ambience. The hazy flame from the fireplace cast a warm light over the entire room, highlighting the black, satin sheets that adorned the bed against the far wall.

In the middle of the room stood one Beckett Harrington, a proud smile on his face after having everything go according to plan for the evening. He held his arms out wide, showcasing the result. “Surprise! I know you love Halloween, so I wanted to give you one to remember.”

Her shock quickly dissolved into anger as she marched over to him, pushing his shoulder hard and backing him against the wall next to the bed. "You ass! I can't believe you made me think you were hurt and then you made me run through the woods thinking everyone else was hurt!"

Beckett rubbed the back of his neck as he watched his idea blow up spectacularly in his face. "I thought you would appreciate the Halloween scare since you've been so excited the entire month. Between you regaling us about your Tuneless traditions of going to haunted houses and watching scary movies with me, I just wanted to bring a little piece of that to you because you've missed it."

Her face softened at how much thought and planning he had undertaken to pull this off, though her arms remained crossed. "Well, the haunted houses I used to go to weren't real because they're played by actors and I love watching scary movies with you because I get to snuggle and bury my head into you when it gets too much. It's all make-believe!" Before she continued her tirade, a light bulb went off in her head. "Wait. Does this mean everyone was in on it?”

Beckett nodded. "Indeed. I asked for their help to execute everything. Shreya extinguished the fire with no effort after Griff and Zeph’s cue of disappearing.”

"What was Atlas' role in all this? Summoning the shadow monster?"

Beckett chuckled, his cheeks red. He remembered the day he went to Atlas for help in pulling this off and while she initially refused, she had relented in the end.

“Hey, Harrington,” Atlas paused after helping him with the illusion, “you really love my sister, don’t you.”

Beckett flushed. No one had asked him about their relationship point blank after he and Clarette had exchanged ‘I love yous.’ Looking at Atlas, he replied in a confident tone, “I do. I love her very much.”

A wry smile crossed her face. “I know. Just making sure.”

She made him swear to not tell a soul she helped him with this, knowing that her sister would never let her live it down.

"Griff and Zeph helped with the illusion of the shadow monster. Atlas had absolutely no part to play in this. When she heard the beginning of my plan, she held her hand up and said 'no' outright. She wanted no part of 'whatever freaky sex thing' I had in mind, even though it hadn't even crossed my mind."

“I don't know if I should punch you or kiss you," Clarette laughed, none the wiser to his masterplan.

“I definitely think I should be rewarded with the latter, but I may be slightly biased,” he beamed.

She closed the distance between them, placing her arms on his shoulders as she brought him down for a slow kiss. "Well, now that your plan has been executed, did any 'freaky sex thing' cross your mind?"

"I don't know if it would be considered freaky, but you already know I think about you quite frequently in that way."

Clarette gleamed at him, her eyes shining in the dim light as she comprehended in full how much preparation was needed for him to pull the entire evening off. “I can’t believe you really did this all for me.”

“You know I would do anything for you,” he replied as a tender look fell on his face.

“As twisted as your plan tonight was, I do know that.” Her fingers trailed down the lapel of his blazer as an idea of her own entered her mind. “Hmmm, you know, I don't think I ever told you what the best part of Halloween is."

He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her close. "Oh, and what's that? I thought you said the best part was dressing up?"

She brought him down for a kiss, their mouths moving against each other in hypnotizing fashion. His tongue teased her bottom lip, asking for entrance and she moaned in acceptance, their tongues dancing with the deepened kiss. His hands roved down past her short skirt to her ass, squeezing it and bringing her closer to his frame. She gasped as she felt his erection pressing against her lower abdomen, his hardness causing desire to shoot through her veins. They broke apart after a few minutes, both feeling dizzy and lightheaded from their kisses.

"The best part of Halloween," she purred, while starting to unbutton his shirt, "is definitely the treat. After everything you put me through tonight, I deserve something tasty to put in my mouth, don't you think?” She planted kisses on his now bare chest, her fingers tracing down his torso before landing on the front of his pants, grasping his arousal through his trousers.

A strangled sound came from Beckett's throat, his voice shaky with each squeeze of her hand. "Yes, oh - you definitely deserve something tasty as a treat," he managed to get out with difficulty.

Clarette unbuckled his belt, undoing the button and sliding the zipper down with care, all the while kissing a path down his stomach. His muscles flexed involuntarily when she trailed the outline of his abs with her nails and flicked her tongue against the flat plane of his lower abdomen. His pants hit the floor and he groaned after she kissed him through his underwear, her face rubbing against his prominent bulge through the black fabric.

Standing up straight for a moment, she unfastened her cape, dropping it to the floor in between them. His gaze went down to her chest, her breasts inviting his touch. His hands roamed up the corset before caressing the swell above the garment with his thumbs, the soft skin smooth to his fingertips. He bent over to kiss her again as her hand cupped him through his underwear, and once again she placed kisses down his body.

Her knees came to rest on the soft fabric of the cape she had dropped, and she looked up at him through thick lashes, the glint in her eye causing him to bite his lip in anticipation. Seeing her in this position was one of his favorite things in the entire universe.

She lowered his boxer briefs in an unhurried manner, licking her lips as his glorious cock sprang free from its constraints. His hand found its way to the back of her head, tangling in her luscious, raven locks as he guided her mouth to him.

"My, someone's eager," Clarette chuckled as she wrapped one hand around his dick, licking the underside of his shaft from base to tip. His jaw hung agape as he let out a sharp breath with the sensation of her tongue on his taut flesh. Stroking his length, she wet her lips before placing a kiss on his velvet tip, their eyes locking as he was met with a seductive smile.

Beckett watched in awe as she twirled her tongue around his tip slowly, before taking him in and sucking on his head. She bobbed back and forth with a gradual pace, her hand working over his impressive length before releasing him with a pop from her mouth. Gripping his cock in her hand, she opened her mouth and slapped him against her flattened tongue, the move eliciting a groan from him as she then licked the precum off him.

Once again, he found himself past her lips, her fingers wrapping tightly around him while moving up and down in tandem over his hardness. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, enjoying the attention his girlfriend was slathering upon him, his other senses heightened with pleasure at the sound and feel of her mouth around him. His eyes opened when he felt her warmth leave him, and he looked down to see the marvelous sight of her licking his tight balls. He groaned as she sucked on one, followed by the other, her hand never stopping the rhythm on his erection.

Beckett’s eyes were glazed with desire as she returned to sucking his cock, her tempo picking up with each twist of her hand. He couldn’t help himself as his other hand entangled itself in her hair, giving him a firm grip on her head. He started thrusting into her mouth, stretching her out with his thickness, filling her with more of him after each buck of his hips. Her hands left his cock, sliding around to grab his ass as he took total control. Fucking her pretty, little mouth, he came hard as he hit the back of her throat, a deep moan accompanying his release.

Clarette swallowed his entire load, gasping for air after he pulled out, her lips swollen and mouth raw. This was rougher than what she was used to with him, but the truth was that she loved it. Beckett was usually so in control and the knowledge that she could make him lose it excited her greatly, if the wetness between her legs was any indication.

He helped her to a standing position and held her against him, wrapping both arms around her while kissing the top of her head. “Clarette, you’re magnificent,” he whispered as he cupped her jaw and kissed her gently.

She returned the kiss with fire, whimpering into his mouth as his hands wandered up her skirt and rubbed her through her soaked panties. “God, Beckett, I want you so bad,” she murmured against his lips. Taking his hands in hers, she led them towards the bed, her pupils dilated with need. She looked up at him with a hazy look, her tongue darting out to wet her lips before asking her next question. “How do you want me?”

His nostrils flared at her implication and he swallowed before giving his answer. “Like this.” He kissed her hard before turning her around and bending her over the side of the bed, her ass facing him. Quickly shrugging out of his blazer and shirt, he knelt behind her and slid down her skirt and underwear slowly, revealing her glistening center to him.

Massaging her thighs, he moved his hands further up until he reached her apex, running his thumbs over her lips and spreading her juices over her mound. He traced the inside of her long legs with his fingertips, widening her stance by moving her feet apart, using his tongue to make his way back to her sex.

Clarette’s eyes fluttered shut as she felt him rub her slit, his name leaving her lips as he opened her up before he delved in with a long lick. He wrapped his arms around her legs, his fingers drawing circles on her clit as he ate her out from behind. She grinded back into him, her orgasm building quickly from how aroused she had been earlier. Her eyes snapped open when he stopped, only to close again when she felt him stand behind her, his big, thick cock pressing into her entrance.

Beckett leaned over her back, nipping at her ear, while rubbing his head against her sopping pussy. “Trick or treat, my love.” Straightening up, he pushed into her in one fluid motion, shuddering at her tightness. He started out with long, powerful strokes, burying himself deep inside her with each thrust, a feeling of intoxication coming over him as she enveloped him in her wet heat.

She screamed his name in pleasure as he stretched her out, filling her to the brim with his slow pace. Her hands pulled at the satin sheets as she breathed heavy, lying face down into the bed as he pounded her from behind. The familiar electric buzz coursed through her body, ready to give in to him.

Beckett gripped her hips, his fingers leaving imprints from the pressure he was holding onto her with. He groaned in pleasure as he alternated his strokes, speeding up then slowing down when he felt her getting too close to the edge. Looking down, he got a thrill at seeing her bent over for him as he fucked her in this position, her body still clad in the corset from her costume and her long legs still accentuated by her black heels.

Clarette started pushing back against him, and he stood still, watching his swollen cock disappear into her with her movements. He could feel the tightness in his balls building once more, and he bent over her back, his broad frame pinning her petite body against the bed. Grabbing her arms, he held them to either side of her head as he drove into her throbbing pussy.

“Tell me what you want, Clarette,” he growled in her ear, his voice low and animalistic.

“Fuck me harder and make me come, my love,” she moaned, her sweat laden body writhing under him.

Groaning, he reached a hand between her legs, gliding his fingers over her clit as she grinded against him. He rubbed her nub back and forth, sliding her bundle of nerves in between his middle and ring finger, the action making her body tense under his touch.

“God, Beckett, that feels so good,” she scrunched her eyes shut, concentrating on his rigid dick pounding into her and his hand working her pearl. She could feel her orgasm coming, her body buzzing, ready to explode.

He closed his eyes as pumped her faster with his thick shaft, her pussy gripping him like a vice, her walls pulsating around him. He sped his fingers up against her clit, urging her to come around him. Slamming his hips into hers, his dick hit her perfect spot repeatedly and she clenched around his hard cock, her scream muffled by the bunched-up sheets under her.

Her body glowed as she reached her high, and Beckett continued to fuck her through her orgasm, his own rapidly approaching. He held her down as he buried himself in her over and over, before exploding in her after one final thrust. He collapsed over her, his chest to her back, closing his eyes as he peppered kisses on the curve of her neck.

After staying in her for a few moments, he pulled out and climbed on the bed, pulling her up to his chest. She gave him a small smile, kissing his chest with a sigh of content. “That was fun.”

“It wasn’t too much?” He asked with trepidation, knowing that this was the first time they had made love in this frenzied manner.

“Not at all. I like it when you’re in control.” She trailed a finger over his heart, sitting up as she started unhooking the corset. “Though maybe you could’ve taken this thing off me before we started to, you know.”

A tinge of red dusted his cheeks, although it was barely visible in the darkened room. “Ah, yes, about that…” With a swipe of his hand, the hooks undid themselves as the garment fell away. He pulled her back down onto him, wrapping his arms around his faux vampire vixen. “You may have played to one of my fantasies, and you’re right, I do see the validity of Halloween, after all,” he admitted. “But I have been wondering about something all night.”

“Fantasies, hmm? We’re going to have to revisit that sometime. And by the way, that’s one more tick in the ‘I’m right’ column,” she smirked, moving her head to look up at him. “But what were you thinking about?”

“I loved looking at you in your costume, but what made your outfit a vampire? You didn’t have fangs and you weren’t sucking on blood or anything-”

“I seem to recall that I was definitely sucking on something earlier,” she interjected, a playful smile crossing her face.

He held her close, the reverberations from his low laughter rumbling through him. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“I do, and you love me for it.”

He couldn’t deny her as they laced their fingers together, engaging in pillow talk until they both fell asleep in each other’s arms.

The cabin was now dark and silent, the flames from the candles and fire long extinguished. In the midst of their activities that evening, they paid no attention to the metal candelabras twisting and falling to the ground because of his attunement, nor did they pay attention to the glow she gave off because of hers… but a pair of flashing red eyes just beyond the clearing certainly did.

[relig270]

Contemporary Modest Fashion: Dressing in the Third Space

https://rastah.co/pages/about-us

The clothes we choose to wear say a lot about who we are. They are intricately entangled with our conception of self and are often the means by which we perform our identities. As we grow, our style changes and evolves to reflect the dynamic nature of our identities, of our likes and dislikes, our beliefs and values and ideals. It is for this very reason that the modest fashion movement is so much more than just clothes, it is a movement that is disproportionately headed by young Muslim women living in Muslim-minority countries like North America and Europe for whom modest fashion acts as a stage of identity construction and performance; a performance that blends both faith and culture of fashion in unique, often stylistic ways characteristic of the hybridization of diasporic identities existing within the third space (Bhabha, 2004).

Through clothes these young women find ways to merge their religion and the often faith-imbued cultures of their place of origin, a Muslim-majority country, with their lived realities among the culture of the Western world. In the context of fashion this means finding ways to navigate the pursuit of aesthetics through clothing while also complying with the guidelines of one's faith. Young Muslim women who are members of the diaspora community can find it difficult to feel like they belong. Many voice their diasporic frustrations of feeling as if their sense of self and identity is constantly in limbo. This is, in large part, due to the demonization of the visibly-Muslim woman in Western media and politics which makes these women feel as if they are the "other" of society. The highly problematic and racialized manner in which the veil and, thereby the veiled woman, is implicated with Islamic fundamentalism and radicalism creates a divide between the Muslim woman and the Western/European woman, portraying the former as oppressed and subjugated while the latter is, in contrast, liberated.

The efforts of modest fashion can thus be seen as a means of combating these negative stereotypes. By combining elements of Western dress in a modest way, these women "construct distinctive identities that selectively appropriate values from the cultural mainstream [thus engaging] in boundary work that distinguishes them from mainstream values” (Hass and Lutek, 2019). So, while many Western countries that tout Islamic dress as anti-secularist aim to divide people on the basis of faith, Muslim women in turn resist this division through their fashion choices: donning western-style jeans and shirts instead of the more traditional forms of dress of their homeland but still making it modest so that they can, in their own capacity, express their identity as individuals belonging to the greater society of their host country. Shelina Janmohamed, who specializes in Islamic branding, echoes this sentiment: “[the] rise in modest fashion over the last decade has come hand in hand with the emergence of ‘Generation M’: Muslims who believe that faith and modernity go hand in hand. They want to wear their religion with pride but also feel part of the societies around them” (Paton, 2016).

 Modest fashion is thus a medium by which Islam as a faith, as well as the meaning of it in the lives of practicing Muslim women is re-signified and reproduced to more accurately reflect the lived realities of those women concerned. Within the "breaking down of the dichotomy between Western/Eastern society, where women living in a Western country actively incorporate styles and fashions too often labelled as foreign into their daily lives” (Hass and Lutek, 2019), we witness the re-construction of the Muslim woman identity within the third space as a hybrid fluid thing that is neither this, nor that, but somewhere in the middle. Modest fashion as a third space construction of identity affords Muslim women agency in the fact that their choice of clothing speaks to their identities allowing them to be the producers of their own narrative for once. 

RASTAH: Streetwear Re-imagined

The clothing brand RASTAH is an example of the diasporic influence on clothing and although it doesn’t market itself as a “Muslim and/or modest clothing brand,” the clothes under its label are indeed modest and include: graphic t-shirts, patchwork hoodie and jackets which can be worn by both men and women. 

Based out of Pakistan, the brand describes itself as: “a premier South Asian artisanal urban wear brand that aims at decontextualizing and reinterpreting South Asian heritage and artisanship: the garment is an academic pursuit, the site where western silhouettes and traditional eastern motifs, contemporary art and Mughal miniature, stories of exodus, all are brought into conversation with each other.” 

Brand’s website for more info: https://rastah.co/pages/about-us. 

RASTAH, an Urdu word translating to “path” or “journey” is an ode to the brand’s commitment to carve a path out for Pakistani luxury street-wear in a way that has never been done before. Co-founder Zain Ahmad states about the brand’s intention: “We want to stay rooted to local culture but at the same time, we want to re-interpret the Pakistani identity for a modern day audience” (Rehman, 2020). 

The blending of Western and Pakistani styles of clothing speaks to the emergence of this new sector within the modest fashion movement: one that bridges cultural and transnational gaps to produce materials in the third space, thus re-defining and re-negotiating the market of fashion and clothing as we understand it today.

References:

Bhabha, H. K. (2004). The location of culture. Brantford, Ont.: W. Ross Macdonald School Resource Services Library.

Hass, B. S., & Lutek, H. (2019). Fashion and Faith: Islamic Dress and Identity in The Netherlands. Religions, 10(6), 356. https://doi.org/10.3390/rel10060356

Modest Fashion: A Social Media Movement. (n.d.). In Los Angeles Magazine. Retrieved from https://www.lamag.com/lalifeandstyle/modest-fashion/

Paton, E. (2016, November 1). Asserting a Muslim Fashion Identity. The New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/2016/11/03/fashion/islamic-fashion-vogue-arabia.html

Rehman, S. (n.d.). This Pakistani Streetwear Brand Is One To Look Out For. Retrieved December 7, 2020, from Forbes website: https://www.forbes.com/sites/sonyarehman/2020/02/29/this-pakistani-streetwear-brand-is-one-to-look-out-for/?sh=1104855f1753

‌

[italianartsociety]

Just In Time For Halloween... Cortenova’s “House of Witches.”

In the hamet of Cortenova, within the forested Province of Lecco, Lombardy, sits a nineteenth-century mansion variously known as  “The House of Witches,”  “The Ghost House” or “The Red House.” In the spirit of Eclecticism, the building’s architectural heritage can be found in Baroque and Eastern forms of the discipline. 

The house was built between 1854 and 1857 by Count Felix de Vecchi and was meant to be his family’s residence during the halcyon days of summer. Vecchi employed Alessandro Sidoli as his architect although he did not see the project brought to fruition, as he died around one year before it was completed. In retrospect, this event could be where the rumours of bad luck and hauntings connected to the property began. 

According to gossip and legend, in 1862 Vecchi, who had been out, returned to the property to find his wife brutally murdered and his daughter missing. The latter was never found and apparently the count cold not live with this and went on to take his own life. Accordingly, the property passed directly to the count’s brother, Biagio, who lived on the estate with his family until around the time of World War II. During the 1920s, it was said that Aleister Crowley, the self-proclaimed prophet and controversial occultist, had stayed there, which fuelled the fires relating to gossip concerning witchcraft, sex rites and ritual sacrifice.  

Beyond the remians of the house, which in itself is a verifiable architectural primary source, exactly which parts of the story are urban legend and what sections are fact remains unclear. What is certain however, is that when you look upon these images of a home now abandoned and vandalised... today, of all days, when the veil between the living and the dead is at its most thin, you may feel a little shiver as you sip your pumpkin spiced latte. Not to worry though. Stoke up the fire, draw the drapes and try to convince yourself that you DID NOT just hear the tinkling keys of a grand piano...

Images: Image 1 Courtesy of NSS Magazine.

Images 2 - 7 courtesy of Matteo Rubboli and Vanilla Magazine. 

Image 8 Wikimedia Commons.

References: “Villa de Vecchi,” Atlas Obscura. 

“Is This The Creepiest Villa In The World,” Daily Mail, 17 October, 2018.  

Posted by Samantha Hughes-Johnson. 

[tomhiddleslove]

Tom Hiddleston, Zawe Ashton and Charlie Cox play the three points of Harold Pinter's adulterous triangle in Jamie Lloyd's superb production from London.

Reverse chronology has become a familiar narrative device in film, but when Harold Pinter employed it in 1978 in his blisteringly personal drama about an extramarital affair, Betrayal, it was still uncommon enough to become highly influential. It makes the drama start from a place of awkwardness steeped in grief, two years after the illicit liaison has finished, and end at the beginning, with a rapturous sense of secret possibility, marbled by the deep vein of melancholy present from the first scene. That emotional complexity smolders like hot coals in Jamie Lloyd's expertly calibrated production, transferring to Broadway direct from its hit London engagement.

The headline news is the commanding Broadway debut of Tom Hiddleston, taking a breather from the Marvel Cinematic Universe to revisit the stage roots to which he has returned periodically throughout his career. The coolly charismatic star is matched at every step by Zawe Ashton and Charlie Cox, the latter trailing his own Marvel association from Netflix's Daredevil.

Lloyd staged Betrayal, one of the tightest and most straightforward (albeit back to front) of Pinter's full-length plays, as the unorthodox culmination of an acclaimed London season of the dramatist's one-acts. The director's feeling for Pinter's tricky rhythms, his freighted silences, glacial distances and brittle intimacies is unerring, evident not just in the dialogue-driven moments but also in the physical staging, the austerely elegant design choices, the stunningly descriptive use of shadow in Jon Clark's lighting and the precise attention to movement.

The action unfolds in bars, restaurants, family homes, a regular assignation address and a Venetian hotel. But designer Soutra Gilmour's set is a simple, stark rear wall in slate gray that makes intimate advances on the actors at times, with a sparingly used turntable that suggests the unkind passing of time, even as the scenes play out in backwards order. Among the few props are two chairs, the glasses or bottles required for a variety of alcohol, cigarettes, of course, and only late in the play, a table with an Italian linen tablecloth that becomes the saddest sight you'll ever see.

The three principal actors are onstage for the duration, with the third player at first remaining detached in the background through each of the mostly two-character scenes. But almost imperceptibly, the tiniest flicker of reaction begins playing across the face or in the body language of the silent additional presence as key information is divulged, twisting the knife as to who knew what and for how long. It's a masterstroke of direction, adding lacerating stabs of hurt to a drama in which none of the protagonists is overly sympathetic.

The parties involved, all in their mid-30s, are Robert (Hiddleston), a London publisher; his wife Emma (Ashton), who runs a gallery; and Jerry (Cox), a literary agent who also has an unseen wife at home. Each couple has two children. Complicating the seven-year affair of Emma and Jerry is the friendship of much longer duration between Robert and Jerry, who was best man at their wedding. The two first met when both were bright young things editing poetry magazines, Robert at Oxford and Jerry at Cambridge.

Pinter, and in turn here, Lloyd, get much mileage out of the urbane sophistication of these very English characters, consistently testing the strain beneath their polite small talk and practiced civility, with an edge of formality even between spouses and lovers.

It's thrilling when the simmering rage beneath Robert's smooth, at times bordering on smug, surface bubbles up, for instance in a discussion of the male ritual of a squash game followed by a pint at the pub and then lunch, his exclusion of Emma delivered like a casual body blow. Or during one such lunch with Jerry, when he rants about the tediousness of launching a novel while ferociously attacking a plate of prosciutto and melon. That his anger is never directed openly at its target doesn't make it sting any less.

But it's in those moments when the armor of Robert's composure is pierced by vulnerability that Hiddleston's performance truly dazzles. A scene in Venice, during which Robert dances around his suspicions to the point where Emma reads the knowledge of her transgression in his eyes and chooses that moment to confess, is made all the more wrenching by its restraint. As they sit side by side and she provides key details — location of their trysts, how long it's been going on, reassurance about the paternity of their youngest child — Robert stares straight ahead, impassively absorbing the full impact as his eyes pool with tears. The generally guarded Emma's sudden emotional release is quite different, but no less affecting in Ashton's self-possessed but finely layered performance.

Lloyd's brisk scene transitions add texture to the drama throughout, notably when that painful exchange segues to Emma and Jerry meeting at the suburban flat they've been renting, the shadow of their embrace seeming to infect the still-seated Robert like a virus.

The uncustomary choice to show one of Robert and Emma's children (an adorable girl played at the performance reviewed by Emma Lyles) also pays off. Repeated reference is made to Jerry tossing her up in the air and catching her one afternoon in their kitchen — or was it his? It rips your heart out to watch the child giggle with joy when that happens before curling up in her father's arms to sleep as Emma then meets with Robert early in their relationship, seemingly contemplating making a permanent change.

It might be argued that Lloyd's repeat use of a chilled-out, female-vocal cover of Depeche Mode's "Enjoy the Silence" is a little on the nose for Pinter ("Words like violence / Break the silence"). But the effect is powerful and the music choices, including Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross, Ryuichi Sakamoto and Norwegian electronic duo Royskopp, help thread one scene to the next, as words and wounds bleed into the spaces between.

At the beginning of the play (which is the end of the story), Robert's infidelities also have contributed to end the marriage, two years after Emma has broken off the affair with a still-aching Jerry. But of the three, Jerry is arguably the only one who wears his guilt visibly. The excellent Cox plays that burden with a palpable sense of the pain beneath Jerry's studied attempts to keep things light and breezy. His declaration to Emma in the final scene, at the start of their love story, is one of the most searing Pinter monologues — ecstatic in its expression of romantic feeling and yet desolate in the awareness that Emma is condemning Jerry to a kind of exquisite misery.

"I can't ever sleep again, no, listen, it's the truth, I won't walk, I'll be a cripple, I'll descend, I'll diminish, into total paralysis, my life is in your hands, that's what you're banishing me to, a state of catatonia, do you know the state of catatonia? Do you? Do you? The state of… where the reigning prince is the prince of emptiness, the prince of absence, the prince of desolation. I love you."

Those last three little words never sounded so doomed. The smile of contentment as Robert interrupts them, entering the room from the party all three are attending, seems veiled on Hiddleston's face with a suggestion that he already sees what's happening. And Lloyd stages the closing moments like a mournful dance, anticipating the pain of what's to come.

It's just six years since the last sizzling Broadway revival of this work, directed by Mike Nichols and starring Daniel Craig, Rachel Weisz and Rafe Spall, all in top form. But this very fine production makes an absolutely compelling case for returning so quickly to the play, in which betrayals cut in every direction — between couples, friends and within the characters themselves. Lloyd and his actors illuminate a glimmering darkness in the drama, a deeper well of sorrows that linger in the air even after the cast take their bows.

If there's one nagging issue, it's with the audience, not the production. While it's great for business that fans flock to Broadway to see an MCU star like Hiddleston showing consummate skill, the constant laughs at inappropriate moments must be distracting for the actors, particularly in the many moments of quiet devastation. Sure, there are sparks of dry humor throughout Betrayal, but c'mon people, it’s Pinter, not Upright Citizens Brigade. It's for grownups.

-

[ Link to full article in source below. ]

[insanityclause]

Reverse chronology has become a familiar narrative device in film, but when Harold Pinter employed it in 1978 in his blisteringly personal drama about an extramarital affair, Betrayal, it was still uncommon enough to become highly influential. It makes the drama start from a place of awkwardness steeped in grief, two years after the illicit liaison has finished, and end at the beginning, with a rapturous sense of secret possibility, marbled by the deep vein of melancholy present from the first scene. That emotional complexity smolders like hot coals in Jamie Lloyd's expertly calibrated production, transferring to Broadway direct from its hit London engagement.

The headline news is the commanding Broadway debut of Tom Hiddleston, taking a breather from the Marvel Cinematic Universe to revisit the stage roots to which he has returned periodically throughout his career. The coolly charismatic star is matched at every step by Zawe Ashton and Charlie Cox, the latter trailing his own Marvel association from Netflix's Daredevil.

Lloyd staged Betrayal, one of the tightest and most straightforward (albeit back to front) of Pinter's full-length plays, as the unorthodox culmination of an acclaimed London season of the dramatist's one-acts. The director's feeling for Pinter's tricky rhythms, his freighted silences, glacial distances and brittle intimacies is unerring, evident not just in the dialogue-driven moments but also in the physical staging, the austerely elegant design choices, the stunningly descriptive use of shadow in Jon Clark's lighting and the precise attention to movement.

The action unfolds in bars, restaurants, family homes, a regular assignation address and a Venetian hotel. But designer Soutra Gilmour's set is a simple, stark rear wall in slate gray that makes intimate advances on the actors at times, with a sparingly used turntable that suggests the unkind passing of time, even as the scenes play out in backwards order. Among the few props are two chairs, the glasses or bottles required for a variety of alcohol, cigarettes, of course, and only late in the play, a table with an Italian linen tablecloth that becomes the saddest sight you'll ever see.

The three principal actors are onstage for the duration, with the third player at first remaining detached in the background through each of the mostly two-character scenes. But almost imperceptibly, the tiniest flicker of reaction begins playing across the face or in the body language of the silent additional presence as key information is divulged, twisting the knife as to who knew what and for how long. It's a masterstroke of direction, adding lacerating stabs of hurt to a drama in which none of the protagonists is overly sympathetic.

The parties involved, all in their mid-30s, are Robert (Hiddleston), a London publisher; his wife Emma (Ashton), who runs a gallery; and Jerry (Cox), a literary agent who also has an unseen wife at home. Each couple has two children. Complicating the seven-year affair of Emma and Jerry is the friendship of much longer duration between Robert and Jerry, who was best man at their wedding. The two first met when both were bright young things editing poetry magazines, Robert at Oxford and Jerry at Cambridge.

Pinter, and in turn here, Lloyd, get much mileage out of the urbane sophistication of these very English characters, consistently testing the strain beneath their polite small talk and practiced civility, with an edge of formality even between spouses and lovers.

It's thrilling when the simmering rage beneath Robert's smooth, at times bordering on smug, surface bubbles up, for instance in a discussion of the male ritual of a squash game followed by a pint at the pub and then lunch, his exclusion of Emma delivered like a casual body blow. Or during one such lunch with Jerry, when he rants about the tediousness of launching a novel while ferociously attacking a plate of prosciutto and melon. That his anger is never directed openly at its target doesn't make it sting any less.

But it's in those moments when the armor of Robert's composure is pierced by vulnerability that Hiddleston's performance truly dazzles. A scene in Venice, during which Robert dances around his suspicions to the point where Emma reads the knowledge of her transgression in his eyes and chooses that moment to confess, is made all the more wrenching by its restraint. As they sit side by side and she provides key details — location of their trysts, how long it's been going on, reassurance about the paternity of their youngest child — Robert stares straight ahead, impassively absorbing the full impact as his eyes pool with tears. The generally guarded Emma's sudden emotional release is quite different, but no less affecting in Ashton's self-possessed but finely layered performance.

Lloyd's brisk scene transitions add texture to the drama throughout, notably when that painful exchange segues to Emma and Jerry meeting at the suburban flat they've been renting, the shadow of their embrace seeming to infect the still-seated Robert like a virus.

The uncustomary choice to show one of Robert and Emma's children (an adorable girl played at the performance reviewed by Emma Lyles) also pays off. Repeated reference is made to Jerry tossing her up in the air and catching her one afternoon in their kitchen — or was it his? It rips your heart out to watch the child giggle with joy when that happens before curling up in her father's arms to sleep as Emma then meets with Robert early in their relationship, seemingly contemplating making a permanent change.

It might be argued that Lloyd's repeat use of a chilled-out, female-vocal cover of Depeche Mode's "Enjoy the Silence" is a little on the nose for Pinter ("Words like violence / Break the silence"). But the effect is powerful and the music choices, including Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross, Ryuichi Sakamoto and Norwegian electronic duo Royskopp, help thread one scene to the next, as words and wounds bleed into the spaces between.

At the beginning of the play (which is the end of the story), Robert's infidelities also have contributed to end the marriage, two years after Emma has broken off the affair with a still-aching Jerry. But of the three, Jerry is arguably the only one who wears his guilt visibly. The excellent Cox plays that burden with a palpable sense of the pain beneath Jerry's studied attempts to keep things light and breezy. His declaration to Emma in the final scene, at the start of their love story, is one of the most searing Pinter monologues — ecstatic in its expression of romantic feeling and yet desolate in the awareness that Emma is condemning Jerry to a kind of exquisite misery.

"I can't ever sleep again, no, listen, it's the truth, I won't walk, I'll be a cripple, I'll descend, I'll diminish, into total paralysis, my life is in your hands, that's what you're banishing me to, a state of catatonia, do you know the state of catatonia? Do you? Do you? The state of… where the reigning prince is the prince of emptiness, the prince of absence, the prince of desolation. I love you."

Those last three little words never sounded so doomed. The smile of contentment as Robert interrupts them, entering the room from the party all three are attending, seems veiled on Hiddleston's face with a suggestion that he already sees what's happening. And Lloyd stages the closing moments like a mournful dance, anticipating the pain of what's to come.

It's just six years since the last sizzling Broadway revival of this work, directed by Mike Nichols and starring Daniel Craig, Rachel Weisz and Rafe Spall, all in top form. But this very fine production makes an absolutely compelling case for returning so quickly to the play, in which betrayals cut in every direction — between couples, friends and within the characters themselves. Lloyd and his actors illuminate a glimmering darkness in the drama, a deeper well of sorrows that linger in the air even after the cast take their bows.

If there's one nagging issue, it's with the audience, not the production. While it's great for business that fans flock to Broadway to see an MCU star like Hiddleston showing consummate skill, the constant laughs at inappropriate moments must be distracting for the actors, particularly in the many moments of quiet devastation. Sure, there are sparks of dry humor throughout Betrayal, but c'mon people, it’s Pinter, not Upright Citizens Brigade. It's for grownups.

[art-now-india]

Chastity-II, durga Kainthola

Tales of Modern India-II Pop Art: Reflection of the process of change. As an artist, I evolved from painting popular images, contemporary miniatures to Sculpting exquisite bikinis and devising equally intricate chastity belts. My creative and artistic impressions of the popular art all along, is social statement too. Artists live in a pluralistic world, reflecting and expressing this pluralism in their art. An artist like any other sensitive human being can be as disturbed by the suffering, natural calamities, death in humanity as he/she can draw inspiration from feminine beauty which is an integral part of pluralism. It takes more courage to use the bikini and chastity belts as an exclusive subject of artistic expression as a social commentary. Female beauty today has metamorphosed into a marketable commodity widely advertised across the globe under the thinly veiled guise of contests sponsored by multinational corporations and women’s magazines. Beauty is a blend of intellect and figure of expression and articulation. To look beautiful and seductive is a woman’s right and if she has a sensuous body, she has the right to choose to display it. In India, the “Great Indian White Bra” stands as a symbol of femininity, seduction, beauty and sensuality. 80’s can be attributed to strict censorship rules which did not allow nudity in Indian cinema. For the actress, the model, the beauty queen and the film-star, it could never turn into a trap because she holds the remote control in her hand and can switch it off any time she decides that she has made her point. With time the meaning and usage changed and the chastity belt was forgotten, but recurring front page news of the rape and molestation of women reminded me of the usefulness of the protective shields, a variant which was worn by men during wars and sportsmen. The chastity belt is an urban legend, commonly found in medieval poetry, satirical literature and caricature, with most examples belonging to the renaissance period or later. I have designed Chastity belts to be displayed, unlike the original which would obviously be hidden away from public gaze. They are well crafted, being embellished with peacock motif and floral knobs and rivets in contrasting metallic hues. Perhaps these flowers, keys and locks are a take-off on the fig leaf of ancient times. Durga Kainthola, 2012

https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Sculpture-Chastity-II/156938/192354/view

[kalluun-patangaroa]

An Audience With… Brett Anderson

UNCUT Magazine

December 2010

Interview: John Lewis

Brett Anderson has some fans in odd places. This month, Uncut’s email boxes are positively heaving with questions from adoring fans in Peru, Serbia, Japan, New Zealand, Belgium, South Africa, Slovenia and Russia. “I’m quite popular in odd places,” he says. “Suede had No 1s in Chile and Finland. We were massive in Denmark. If asked why Denmark, my stock answer was that, well, I’m a depressed sex maniac and so are most Scandinavians. We toured China long before most Western pop groups. I remember playing Beijing, to a crowd divided by armed soldiers facing the audience. That was pretty scary.” Anderson is currently back in the Far East, speaking to Uncut as he overlooks Kowloon Harbour, preparing for solo dates. Later in the year he’ll be in London for a big O2 show with Suede (sans original guitarist Bernard Butler, although the two remain good friends). “I wanted to check out what the stage was like at the O2 Arena,” he says. “So I went to see The Moody Blues with my father-in-law. Come on, you can’t argue with ‘Nights In White Satin’. What a tune!”

I presume you’re aware of the ‘reallybanderson’ Twitter account purporting to be by you. Amused or offended? Helen, Birmingham

Twitter is one of those strange things, like Facebook, that I don’t have anything to do with. But I have to grudgingly admit that the reallybanderson Twitter updates are rather funny [starts giggling]. And the guy doing it is obviously a bit of a Suede fan, because there are some very detailed references to b-sides and bla-di-blah. I can’t exactly complain about it without coming across as a real tit. It’s just fun and no-one really thinks it’s me, it’s a cartoon version of me reflected through some fairground mirror. I don’t think anyone reads it and thinks, ‘Oh, Brett Anderson has Jas Mann from Babylon Zoo doing his washing up, or Brett punched Damon in the street.’ It is, ha ha ha, quite witty. Having shown them the picture inside the Best Of Suede CD, my kids would like to know why you refused to feed me for five years? Also – can my mum have her top back? And are you around for a trip to the Imperial War Museum? Bernard Butler

Yes, what most fans don’t realise is that we kept Bernard in a cage for five years, and fed him edamame beans and tap water. Regarding his mum’s top – he should know that it’s long been ripped up and destroyed by the front row of the Southampton Joiners, or somesuch venue. Now, the Imperial War Museum – me and Bernard were talking about getting older the other day and he said: “Are you finding yourself increasingly interested in British military history?” And I have become oddly fascinated with watching WWI docs on YouTube. It’s not just the personal tragedies, but the sense of it being a shocking transition point between the Victorian world and modernity. The idea that they were going into war on horseback, and by the end of it they were in tanks. Blimey. So tell Bernard I will be going to the museum, soon… What’s your favourite Duffy song? Kris Smith, Wembley

I thought “Rockferry” was a very beautiful, stirring track. So that’s the only one I know well, but I’m really pleased for Bernard that that was a big success [Butler co-wrote and produced much of the album]. He’s an incredibly talented person and works incredibly hard, and he’s one of those people who is just obsessed with music. People like that deserve success. Did I ask him to join the Suede show at the O2? No. I told him about it, but he’s moved on so far from Suede that it would have been odd, and we’ve had a completely different lineup since he left. I don’t think he’d want to be jumping around a stage again! He’s much happier doing what he does now, I think he’s really found his calling. Do you still have your cat, Fluffington? Claire Vanderhoven, Holland

Unfortunately, he’s ascended to cat heaven. He had 15 long years of adoration. Am I getting another cat? Well, I recently got married, and my wife brought two Italian greyhounds with her. I don’t know if anyone is aware of them, but Italian greyhounds are like little cats. Ours are eight years old but look like miniature foxes, bonsai greyhounds. But incredibly fast, like little bullets. When they’re not running they spend their whole life under the duvet. Someone once told me they were bred by the Pharaohs as bedwarmers! Brett, do you have a copy of the single I recorded with Suede: “Art” b/w “Be My God”? If so, could I have one? Mike Joyce

Mike, I think I destroyed my copy years ago. I’m not one to keep memorabilia. They’re about 100 quid on eBay. Mike was an early member of Suede. We were advertising for a drummer and listed The Smiths as an influence. Then at an audition, their drummer pokes his head through the door and says, “Hello, lads!” Ha! It was a bit Jim’ll Fix It. I don’t think anyone thought it was going to last, Mike was far too big a name for us. But he just took us under his wing, guided us through the industry, and was so charming. I still keep in contact with him. What’s the weirdest story you’ve heard about yourself? Badabingbadaboom

Someone once told me that they’d heard a story about me wanting to shit in someone’s mouth. But I also heard the same story about David Byrne, so I think it’s one of those urban myths that gets transferred from one slightly kooky pop star to another. That’s probably the most unsavoury thing I’ve heard about myself. Maybe I should give it a go. Which actors would you like to play the lead members of Suede in a biopic? James Kumar, Manchester

This is the kind of thing we talk about on tour. Matt Osman is convinced I should be played by Peter Egan, who was in Ever Decreasing Circles. I think Nic Cage should play Matt. Arsène Wenger reminds me of Bernard. That’s what Bernard will look like when he’s 60. Billy Idol could play Simon Gilbert, couldn’t he? Would you ever consider working in musical theatre? Neil Tennant

It’s funny he should ask that, because only the other day, I was listening to the album Neil and Chris did with Liza Minnelli in the late ’80s. Results, I think it’s called, with “Losing My Mind”. That sounded great, so emotive, and real. I’m a big fan of the Pet Shop Boys, they’re one of those amazing bands that almost created their own genre. But anyway, musical theatre. Yeah, I think I would. Sondheim? Rodgers and Hart? Definitely. I’m always open to new ideas. Musical theatre sounds like it’s going to have camp undertones, but I’d love to do it in an interesting way. What’s the worst song you’ve ever written? Mark Catley, Christchurch, NZ

That’s a good question. I wrote lots of terrible songs that were never recorded in the early days. But there’s a song called “Duchess” – a B-side to something from the Head Music era [actually to 1997 single “Filmstar”] – which is pretty rubbish. I’ve often regretted the production on certain songs, like “Trash” and “Animal Nitrate”, even though they’ve been pretty good songs. But you can’t go messing around with things like that. You start to interfere with what people originally liked about it. I also think people like your mistakes, as they give your work humanity. I quite like that about Prince. He seems to throw stuff out – some of it genius, some unlistenable – but all quite honest. I respect that. Do you enjoy art? Excited about Gauguin at the Tate? Katarina Janoskova, London

Absolutely. I’m a big fan of Gauguin and the post-impressionists. My favourite visual artist, if I had to narrow it down to one, would be Manet, the pre-impressionist. Not Monet, who doesn’t do it for me. But Manet had this revolutionary technique of painting on black, which gives his pictures a real depth, there’s something very sumptuous about his paintings. And further back, the kind of medieval-style stuff like Holbein and Brueghel – they’re so well observed and so real. You look at these pictures of people who lived 500, 600 years ago, you can imagine them walking down Tottenham Court Road now, the same face, they’re so real. It’s a little window into the past. I’ve quite got into art recently. It’s all part of expanding yourself and your education, appreciation of beauty in life, innit? Now that you’re no longer coming to work in Bow, how are you coping without the salad pitta? Leo Abrahams, musician and producer

Ha ha! I’ve been working on an album with Leo, in his studio, and I have an unhealthy obsession with East London’s kebab shops. You don’t get many good kebab shops in west London. It reminds me of being a student. I’m surprised Leo’s got the time to email you questions! He’s far too busy producing Eno or Grace Jones or Florence & The Machine. He also does these bizarre things where he plays entirely improvised gigs, no rehearsals. And that inspired the latest solo LP I’ve done with him. It was based on improvs. Me, Leo, Seb Rochford on drums, and Leopold Ross on bass just jammed for days, cut up them up and improvised, and did overdubs. It’s a full-on rock record. I love Leo, he’s great. He never takes the easy option. He pushes you a bit, which can be terrifying. Can you give us not-so-slim-in-2010 Suede fans some health tips? Simon Quinton, Oxford

My wife is a naturopath – she’s conscious of what she eats, so we eat a lot of sushi and seeds. I’ve got into cycling recently, particularly living in London, through the parks and the backstreets. It makes you fall back in love with the city. I cycled to Bow the other day from my house in Notting Hill. So that’s staving off the fortysomething belly. I’m sure I’ll get it when I’m fiftysomething. I’m looking forward to that. What do you think of Gorillaz? Ruiz, São Paulo, Brazil

To be honest, I don’t know much about them. I like the drawings. I guess that’s a veiled question about my relationship with Damon? Well, we don’t have a relationship to talk about. We all have things that happened years ago, rivalries and so on, and people assume that they’re still on your radar and part of your life. It’s like some musical soap opera, often one that’s been fabricated, without much substance. I have different issues in my life now. Is the art of songwriting dead? If it isn’t, who is flying the torch? Paloma Faith

Oh, it’s not dead at all. I’m constantly inspired by new music. If you look on YouTube, there’s a clip of me singing Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful”. When you’re covering stuff it’s interesting to try things that are out of your genre, which gives it a frisson. So I always try songs that aren’t, you know, British indie, stuff like Blondie, or The Pretenders. That Christina Aguilera song is amazing. I try not to look at songs as the finished product, I look at it as the chords and the melody and the words, like sheet music to be interpreted. You’ve got to keep moving with your musical appreciation. I loved the last Horrors record, I liked The National, The Drums, These New Puritans, lots of stuff. I never listen to the records I grew up with. Why bother? It’s all in my head! Brett, you’re from Haywards Heath. What’s the deal with the swimming pool there? It’s deep in the middle, not at one end. What’s your take on that? And were you ever caught out by it? P Newman, Brighton

I don’t know what they’re referring to at all, but funnily enough my dad used to work there as a swimming pool attendant. And I don’t really know how he got the job because he couldn’t swim. It’s lucky there weren’t any accidents. Every Tuesday, we had to troop down to the local pool, and everybody would be pointing at my dad saying, “Oh look there’s your dad, he’s working as a pool attendant.” And I was hoping none of them would start drowning, ’cos my dad wouldn’t be much use. Still, this was the early ’80s, and I guess we all thought the world was going to end any second with a nuclear bomb. Ha ha.

[alchemisland]

Moors Mutt III - Beastbound (second edit)

Night fled day and I read the sky. Through bores a fiery sliver shone, conjuring fantastical images of a great city somewhere past the clouds, its denizens craning to the light's dying. I stood waiting for a sunrise which never came. In her place a bruised bank of laden clouds arrived to the beat of mjolnir's blows.

The storm, furious mute, spoke through our works. Droplets exploded musically, dull on timber, shrill on sheet, like crackling fire against thatch.

Lar the blackbird rose early, stretching and emerging from the fugue state that best pleased his constitution, his wingspan filling the alcove.

Foot travel was impossible, even treacherous. Lar wouldn't have it. 'I know someone.' he said 'Unpaid tab, lovely spacious wagon. Hold tight.'

Lar inquired if I had thought in my wisdom to pack a rainmac, to which I said no. After deriding my urban foolishness he opted to lend me his own, an enormous caul like a bear pelt, waxy and unpleasant against my neck.

Unpaid tab, yes. Lovely wagon, no. Against the rising slope, his contraption strained. Its light frame shed water at every judder. We veered, almost fatally, at least twice, prompting a sudden whiteknuckled plee for forgiveness from whichever deity hated me, but the man knew his charge and kept us steady.

Soon the ground levelled and in relative peace I gelded the day's larger duties into manageable tasks. Ten had a certain motivating roundness. Ten labours set to Heracles condemned to misery by jealous Hera. Ten commandments from on high.

After a short time at work my mind lost its typical easy-focus. Each sentence I read twice or three times. At common words I stared with newfound curiousity. A single letter roused me, pertinent by its pompous wax rosette; a bill of sale for several oxgangs, including Talbot Church, to be sold to Lady Sizemore, with a transitory period of two hundred years during which no litigious action could be sought by either party for the purposes of solving any dispute of ownership. I paraphrase now, for each word writ was careful chosen.

There was little ambiguity as to the tone the bill's author Henry Wales, the estate's executor, attempted to convey. Beside the Lady's seal and sinister scrawl Henry, presuming wont to associate with the Sizemore name, printed his agency's crest, ruby pomegranates on a kylix with a lidded eye acentre.

Harder to discern, in an unpracticed hand was the seller's signature, a reluctant cluster of slanting characters keenly reflecting the scribe's defiance at his enforced shift, rudely contrasting the infernal airy loops of Mr. Wales and his evil brood at the Wales, DeLien & Hensonbore firm.

Perhaps fearing her legacy unworthy of envy, Lady Sizemore extended the empire's borders at considerable expense. In the same batch I found two drawings, the first a surveyor's border outline, the other a plan of the churchyard denoting nearby antiquities. Aside from the cairn, which for a thousand years stood its watch in front of Talbot Church, Lady Sizemore's purchase encompassed two dolmens, four standing stones, eight middens and one fulacht fiadh.

As I read, the cairn braced like a greatshield outside. Henry Wales' told me everything else in his correspondence - he was nothing if not thorough. He outlined the how of its shifting, even naming decent but affordable lackeys who wouldn't let the superstitions dissuade their good sense. I peered over my shoulder through the second floor window at the mound of the immense granite phallus, its pulsing micha veins dazzling in the scantest light. Virile and windworn, the stone in shifting lost little of its commanding presence, which had driven men of the Dawn Age prostrate. She took the winds gladly against her bulk like oil upon an anointed brow.

I wondered why she had closed the church. Why move the stone at all if she owned the lands. Surely enforcing a harsh penalty for trespassing to deter ramblers over time is easier than shifting a megalith. How the mind boggles.

Little else occurred. I found interesting some newspaper snippets concerning the then day's pugilistic affairs, to which the upper classes had enured themselves, to such degrees that even the leisurely apolitical pages of Country Living magazine included a column notating the latest heroes and villains of the prize ring - most from Broughton's.

Gull-winged Dan Donnelly was bold in Vetruvian repose. His shoulders wrapped the borders. I noted a scribble in the margin, not her Ladyship's hand, H's looping like drunk P's and S's like broken 8's; the person had written, 'Jew though he is, he is more twelve trys than twelve tribes.. Did you see that match last week? Mendoza has a head like a breastplate.' Witty, though I stayed my smile as punishment for his beastly opening stipulations, but he was right - Mendoza was incredible.

The day otherwise passed quickly. I worked mostly absent of mind. Near freedom the final banality seemed yet more soul destroying, but fortunately it was easily done. I signed the final field with flourish.

On the doorstep gazing out at the torrid tempest, for a brief moment Cairn Cottage seemed inviting. I cast a final backward glance. Inside Acrisian frames, there lay yesteryear's gentry in oils, frozen in perpetual offence.

As arranged Charon ferried me back to Sperrin. In the carriage I thought of Talbot Church. Desirous of its contour I pierced the veil of evening and through the smoking air rifled the horizon. I wished it a modest place, far from the ostentation of Cairn Cottage. The church loomed out there somewhere in the vild. I imagined a modest place, with trees once forming a wondrous girdle reclaiming their purloined land, where roots and shooted tentacles bored the aged concrete, flourished in the open and grew upward until the church itself resembled a pagan kingdom, a mask of blushing ivy hosting colonies of resident bats.

Outside Lar's, wet as it was possible to be, some queer curiosity took me and I paused on the threshold. Fingering the doorhandle, I brought my ear to the wood. Lar joked, joyous overmuch at his own humour. I turned the handle and let the door swing open. All attention on me, I let them drink in the sight of the soaked city rat. 'In you come.' A wave of relief swept Lar, which he wrestled into a piteous pout. Relief more that his finances were secure than any concern for my wellbeing.

Two drinks waited, patient as unconfessed sinners. He smiled as I peeled off the sopping mac and slung it across the chair back, nodding him his reluctant dues.

We feasted like sentenced men. For to uphold our strength we ate lashings of gravy thickened by meat juices, steaming Yorkshire puddings, slabs of succulent pork, bog mushy peas, and custard to follow.

We reclined afterwards. Fergus slipped the bolt unbidden when the small crowd shifted, loudly dragging his stool the short distance to our barside council. We traded nothings, batting pleasantries back and forth with all the vigour of two exhausted tennis players; he shamelessly imparting tall tales of field endeavors and cabbage patch dalliances; I feigning amusement, ascribing his stories more laughter than their content deserved, desperate to avoid frank discussion. I was eaten witless. My mind in grave custardy.

'Are we, like lantern thieves, away with the light?' Lar undid the top button of his trousers and swelled an inch before my eyes.

'We are.' I answered curtly.

'Handled a gun before?' Lar braced for a hasty response, which I gladly supplied.

'I have and don't intend to again. I'm not sure about guns.' Lar's brow furrowed. 'I believe with alternate ends, disagreements often arise.' I thought carefully and to his credit he waited patiently. 'How can I put this.. I don't want a fox hunt.'

'I never said it was.' Lar replied. 'If I might be bold, why hate the gun and not its wielder? Is a rifle always an instrument of terror no matter the context? On the shoulder of an adventurer piercing the interior, emboldened by its weight, is it the selfsame tool dispensing random death in the hands of a deranged?'

He continued on in a similar fashion for several minutes. After zoning out, I had to nod with extra vigor to his next points, just enough to convey attentiveness but not agreement.

Foam pooled at the corners of his mouth. 'It's a fool that lowers caution in victory! Wear these chains. Be it upon your head.'

I tried to interject, 'Lar, really that's a bit dram-'

He continued unabated, 'Should the beast prove strengthful and beguiling and somehow catch us unawares, it won't make a good look for that book of yours.'

Admiring of his passion, I had none to share. 'Any given situation is more likely to end in a leaden exchange with guns present, vise a vie, sans guns we are overall safer, despite feeling less protected individually.'

'Your charisma won't stop a beast. If in some desolate future you find yourself alone, bloodied and fatigued, you'll embrace your firearm like a lost lover and thank Mars for the gift of battle.' Empassioned, Lar slapped the bar.

'Point taken. I'll pack one. Don't intend on using it though. My only stipulation is that I choose my own gun.'

Pulling aside a rug Lar revealed a hatch, the entryway to his private cave of wonders. Fergus tossed the heavy door aside to reveal stone steps and a low unlit corridor. As he descended, candlelight revealed walls streaked and sticky with the dregs of drams spilled in violent melees.

He fetched the swaddled armoury and laid it for my reluctant perusal. I felt something like guilt looking at them. I couldn't pinpoint the feeling. Not a betrayal of principals; I am indignant, but I know my principals only matter until they don't fit my schedule. Nothing is too sacred to reconsider. Still, there was a lingering sense that I had wronged someone. My unease was perhaps a consequence of past lives lived conscience-free. When I rode with Cortez greedily discharging my sizzling firearm into the chest of a scout; when I stood a wart-faced archer at Agincourt and rained death across the mire, athwart a river of Francish blood.

I chose a revolver, its relative snugness more graceful than the longnecked pistols and bayonetted-rifles otherwise offered. Six shots, lightweight, swift off the hip.

Once the guns were again squirrelled away, we untensed with a fifth drink, and a sixth shortly thereafter.

'Have you a route in mind?' Lar slurred at length, his jaw shifting from side to side like a cow's chewing the cud.

'You tell me. You're the gun weilding adventurer.' I teased.

'I have some notions. Let's have one more drink. Don't go to bed bitter.' He fingered a bottle and seductively circled the cork, but his indecision had angered me.

'Notions are actions without legs! As joint expeditionaries, in name rather than eventual royalty I add, I offer no pronouncement on the route. What am I paying you for? Hardly your winning anecdotes. We're following your route to success or failure.' I departed, lifting the flap for myself this time.

Drink deep of nightwine and give to tumbling, so say the texts. I have read them all, from Hobbes' Essential Oneiria to Throughland's Night Study. Through the circle's end, overboard the sil of sanity I fell to a gallery of my own being, divided into layers, each some fractured facet of the whole, where each feeling untempered by its counterparts unfolded in wicked fullness; galleries of nudes in lust's royal academy, raging red the river of anger, rocky the paths untold which might have been. I saw shades of myself in every variation, vexing and charmful, until at last to the untamed plains I came, savage and noxious. It was there I found the church.

What place more apt for spiritual contrition than a chapel of the mind where only the clanking templar's ghost sat in solemn judgement, his observations vocalised in clanks and bumps, selfsame the thud of ladders against the walls of Jerusalem.

I perceived the structure was a mental construct, but its myriad details and idiosyncratic flourishes hinted at a verifiable corporeal existence. A modest church of grey stone, low ceilinged with a single stained glass. I crouched at the fingertips of a stumped transept, at the left hand of the scoured christ on the cruciform. Talbot, who took no pleasure, busied as was his charge. He stared at empty pews. His name I knew implicitly and his face was one familiar, even through the scrambled madness of dreams. He strained from the pulpit without address toward where I watched. I never moved. What should happen if i did? Nothing. No more than the wild sun stirs at the opening of a bud.

Pried from the altar in a chaos of streaming robes and flicking pages, he descended the stairs, alone carpeted, toward the front row where a soiled shovel propped. He took the shovel in hand gravely and exited the church.

Upon his return he came to where I stood. Of the shovel there was no sign. In its place he carried a banded scroll and a small wooden lockbox fit for its length. He placed them by his feet, swept his robes backward and with a trowel from his belt began chipping away over an existing foundational weakness, until the trowel stove and the trough of the block was splayed. When the scroll was placed and the box sealed, he hid it away inside then set to repairing the flagstone.

I woke shortly thereafter to thunderous footsteps. I feared the storm had abated little in the night. Conditions so adverse would delay our expedition, but as the cacophony continued it seemed closer, from within the house. I walked from the bed wrapped in a sheet and opened the door a sliver to see Fergus stomping up and down the corridor gathering supplies.

[doomedandstoned]

Closer To The End (part II)

~By Billy Goate~

Art by Ruso Tsig

Everyone has bouts of sadness, loneliness, heartache. For better or worse, it's a part of the human condition. There was some discussion after my last article about whether depression is something we can choose to walk into or away from -- like a bad attitude -- or whether in some people it may be more deeply ingrained in the psychological makeup, whether by nature or nurture. I thought it would be helpful to give you a window into my own background so you can understand when depression first made itself manifest and the different strategies taken to deal with it over the years.

Banished from this world, and from its toil I can only watch, grieve and pity Stare at stupid likes, wonder at people's smiles

I get more and more stress Nothing anyone can offer, more or less Done grieving, closer to the end

DON'T KNOW WHY

I vaguely recall spells of melancholy in childhood. The return from summer camp to a boring home with mom vacuuming and dad at work had me feeling quite empty and blue. It was a strange, bewildering state of mind to be in. Mom told me to snap out of it or else. There were a few moments that shattered my reality as a child. Realizing, for instance, that mom and dad were having marital problems. Hearing my pastor of a father say a swear word. Often, I would be startled awake in the dead of night to my mom shrieking at my dad, throwing dishes, insisting that he was against her. My dad was a patient man and knew that all was not right in her world. These things jolted me into new layers of reality, each accompanied by periods of moodiness and anxiety.

By the time I was in the 4th grade, I started having trouble in school. I was placed in one of those "talented and gifted" programs, though I never really understood why. I knew I couldn't see what my teachers were writing on the chalkboard. Panicked, I would ask students nearby what the hell the teacher was writing, only to be scolded for distracting the class. One particular teacher was downright mean to me, until she found out that I was having vision problems and needed glasses. Once she realized I was also the son of a preacher man, she tripped all over herself to be kind. Maybe she felt guilty?

Something else odd happened around this time. I came home with division homework one day and just decided not to do it. I don't remember if it was because my parents were too busy to help or I was just too stubborn to ask. There was no rational reason for it. The next day, I was shamed in front of the entire class by an Admiral Ackbar looking mother fucker named Mr. Davis. "Billy Joe, why didn't you do your homework?" he demanded. "Why?" His hand lifted my chin, forcing me to stare up into his beady little eyes peering menacingly behind his spectacles. Mr. Davis' rosy complexion turned beat red when I answered: "I...don't know."

I don't know anything I don't know anything I don't know anything I don't know who I am

I don't know anything I don't know anything I don't know anything I don't know who to be

SATANIC PANIC

My parents were tethered to a particularly pernicious strain of fundamentalist Christianity that got caught up in the "Satanic Panic" of the 1980s. That meant no D&D for me! Urban legends were shared in Sunday school and from the pulpit about young people who had necked because their character "died" in this forbidden game. It was the most sinister proxy for evil that I could envision at that time.

The Satanic Panic put everything else under the microscope: toys, comic books, and popular music were all suspect. A copy of Phil Phillip's 1986 "expose" Turmoil In The Toybox lay on the coffee table, pages well-worn and highlighted. He-Man, G.I. Joe, even Star Wars were viewed as tools of the Devil to recruit a desensitized generation of youth into his heathen horde. I'd wake up from one day to learn about something else I couldn't have, play, watch, or do. Video games would not be far behind.

One day, my mother caught me rocking out to the Scorpions in my room and immediately confiscated my radio, outlawing metal from the house (and basically anything with a rock 'n' roll beat). MTV lasted only long enough for me to be exposed to Metallica's visceral "One" and Guns 'n' Roses' "Welcome To The Jungle." While the classic days of rock's infancy were viewed as a time of innocence (I don't think my folks really got what "Blueberry Hill" by Fats Domino was about), anything stemming from the late '60s counterculture forward was viewed as dangerously corrupting.

Various factions within the church began playing games of connect-the-dots with the songs of Jefferson Airplane, Led Zeppelin, and Black Sabbath, tying them into a subservice plot by Luciferian cults and the shadowy elite (at that time Communists -- a favorite boogeyman of the era) who were trying to undermine undermining of God, family, and country by subverting its youth. All of popular culture was roped in with the conspiracy, too. Though the house was cleansed of its ungodly influence, the worst was still ahead.

Soon, my mother started cutting me off from neighborhood friends and finally pulled me out of public school altogether around middle of 5th grade. She had learned about this radical new response to America's failing education system through friends from another church who had just taken their own children out of school. Emboldened, she began homeschooling us in West Texas in the mid '80s, during a time when it wasn't a clearly legal practice. Every time the doorbell rang my siblings and I would run and hide, thinking the truant officer had come to take us away to foster care. I didn't understand at the time what I do now: my mother was mentally ill. Furthermore, she was in over her head. This became apparent when she tried to take on the role of teacher.

While I am extraordinarily grateful for the year or two of solid education she gave me (particularly in the writing and public speaking departments, two areas she and my father were naturally gifted in and which have been the buttress of my career), it wasn't long until she became frustrated with the Abeka and Bob Jones University curriculum we were using. One day, when I was struggling with algebra, she declared that we wouldn't have to learn it. "After all, who actually uses algebra in daily life?" she wondered. We were now self-directed learners, a radical new idea that was controversial even in the homeschooling movement ("un-schooling," they called it). Of course, I wasn't allowed to just sit around and watch TV. Consequently, I shifted my focus to the things that were more interesting to me: music, art, history. Math and science? Not so much.

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME

For years, I remained blithely unaware of what was happening in the world around me in the world of music. I lived in Arlington during the rise of Pantera, Topeka during one of Guns ‘n’ Roses most controversial shows, and Oregon during the height of the grunge era and the sunsetting of the Grateful Dead -- all of it veiled from notice. My life was devoted to church and, if anything, I tried to convince fellow Christians to separate themselves from the tainted allure of the fool’s gold of popular music, television, and video games. For a while, I was a true believer. Call it Stockholm Syndrome, if you like. Infractions of the moral code -- and the slightest temperament of rebellion -- were met with a freshly cut switch, which would leave stinging welts up and down my calves, tights, arms, and back. Thus my conscience was conditioned.

I remember happening upon the pornographic scene in George Orwell’s 1984 and afterwards feeling that the only right and proper thing to assuage my guilt was to burn the everlasting shit out of this smut. Even then I loved the novel, but I couldn't reconcile my faith with this section of it, so I purged it in the flame of backyard trash barrels. At my most fervent, I also lit the match to a stack of MAD Magazines and comic books. As harmless as they might have seemed to the average Joe blinded to the wiles of the Devil, these were gateways into realms of the flesh. “Walk in the spirit, not the flesh,” I recited to myself as fire brandished the yellowed pages of print, slowly turning them black until they were embers caught up by the wind and scattered into the sky. True story: I once threw away a perfectly good copy of Downward Spiral after one hearing the demonic screams of "Becoming" (not to mention the brash blasphemy of "Heretic").

The me that you know doesn't come around much That part of me isn't here anymore

The me that you know is now made up of wires And even when I'm right with you I'm so far away

This kind of extreme separation from the world really fucked me up socially. For years, I couldn't hold on a conversation with another person my age. What would we talk about? I was clueless about anything happening in the world of sports, music, television, or the culture at large. Even though conversation is no longer a problem for me, I still feel odd about friendships. I have an irrational fear that they're going to be taken away from me at any moment, so I keep everyone at a comfortable arm's length. At times, intimacy feels painfully awkward.

Maybe this is why I'm so notorious for leaving shows immediately following the last song. I’ll give my smiles, shake hands, and say goodbye, but avoid sticking around long enough to really get to know people. I’ve been invited to crash on couches to avoid the long drive home, but I always politely decline. Certainly, I don’t want to come across as rude, I just feel like an outsider to the world -- someone who just doesn’t fit in, doesn't belong. Not now, not ever.

TEENAGE ANGST HAS PAID OFF WELL

As I reached my adolescent years, I began going through prolonged spells of melancholy. The prospect of sharing this with others was extraordinarily embarrassing, so I kept it all bottled up inside. Mostly, I tried walking it out on long excursions through the open field next to our house. I worked through a lot of issues during that time and credit those walks with helping me to keep my sanity. As a matter of fact, I recommend daily constitutionals to everyone as a general principle of good mental health. It would be a mistake not to mention that my belief in an omnipresent God at this time played a medicinal role in helping me to cope with my depression, though my views on religion would one day reverse course.

By 18, symptoms of major depression surfaced like a noxious weed and even God could not get me through it. I prayed, too. God, how I prayed, sometimes hours on end. That year, I fell into a downcast mood that refused to dissipate and remained there for months -- four of them straight. I sought refuge in the music of Tchaikovsky, working my way from the fateful Symphony No. 4 to his Symphony No. 6, the Pathétique. The sounds I was hearing tapped into a new emotional alphabet, impossible to transcribe into any tongue. It was remarkable: somehow the music knew precisely what I was feeling. I finally had a soundtrack to my depression.

One day, a buddy and I joined the military on a whim, though he'd later get disqualified for asthma. I felt the Army would provide a much needed "Be All You Can Be" boost to my confidence and a crash course in normie life. I shipped down range to my duty station, Fort Benning, Georgia, for infantry training. My new home would be with Charlie Company, 2nd Battalion, 58th Infantry Regiment -- the infamous "House of Pain." In the space of 14 weeks, I was exposed to every aspect of humanity imaginable. From the "shark attack" welcome of the drill sergeants on Sand Hill to the rude middle of the night awakenings for physical training, I was in shock most of the time. Slowly, though, I eased into this strange new world and got my bearings.

Almost a full month into this prison world, we were allowed to visit one of the on-base shopping exchanges. I immediately looked for a CD player and began checking out the music section, trying to see if there were names I recognized. "Guns 'n' Roses? Sure they're cool," shrugged my buddy Bradley, a floppy-eared Gomer Pyle looking dude. "But you really need to check out some Soundgarden, dude." I did, picking up their latest, Down On The Upside, and it was like salve to my soul. The music spoke of being trapped ("...and I don't like what you've got me hanging from") and being eternally at odds with the world ("Born without a friend and bound to die alone"). There was even a song about "Boot Camp," the short album closer. The nihilistic despair was strangely comforting.

I must obey the rules I must be tame and cool No staring at the clouds I must stay on the ground In clusters of the mice The smoke is in our eyes Like babies on display Like Angels in a cage I must be pure and true I must contain my views There must be something else There must be something good far away Far away from here And I'll be there for good For good

The song did not resolve happily, and I feared my life wouldn't either. After a serious injury left me permanently wounded, I began to feel my life wasn't being guided by the Hand of God of all, but the random throes of Fate. Maybe they were the same thing. I resigned myself to the misery of a long recovery, during which time I had to learn to walk again. It's a three beer kind of story, maybe I'll share it sometime. Probably not. Returning to civilian life proved to be even more of an adjustment than the military had been, and my shadows of depression lingered with me even as I tried to remain one step ahead of them.

MELANCHOLIA

I have long held a theory that human beings are not built for the world that we have constructed for ourselves. Whether we're talking Seattle traffic or the constant buzz of social media, the frantic pace of our rapidly evolving technocracy has left us a worried, frazzled mess. The studies are conclusive: almost one in five have experienced depression and one in four struggle with anxiety, with PTSD being a household acronym.

A counselor once asked if I enjoyed being depressed. I found it a bit of a repulsive question. I can tell you that there is nothing glamorous about depression. There's no reason to idolize the angst of those sad Kurt Cobain eyes. Everyone has experienced feelings of being bummed out, and for most folks it is a transitory feeling. It comes when one of life's storms arises and leaves when the situation resolves itself. There's a whole section of us, however, for whom the dark clouds never leaves. It just hovers around our heads, like the oppressive, low-hanging specter of an Oregon winter.

Depression isn't always about feeling sad, either. Often it manifests in a general malaise -- you can't bring yourself to care about the things you used to. Other times, it works in tandem with anxiety, seizing your heart at the thought of all the day holds in store, then punishing you with the feeling of dread. We may feel sad, anxious, or fearful and not be able to give a rational explanation for it. In those moments, I cannot imagine a more miserable place to be. With that said, I hasten to add that my description of depression may not align with your own, as it is an intensely personal experience.

Release your head from the world Keep yourself underground No one understands your mind

Humans programmed like robots Making sure you don't belong No one understands your mind

I suspected I had depression in the clinical sense, when I realized that though I wanted to feel better, all I could do was subsist in the misery. Those of you who've been able to talk yourself out of such states will scoff. My mother, who suffers from a host of afflictions that have never been properly diagnosed, was notorious for telling us kids to "snap out of it." I do understand that kind of no-nonsense perspective. Her father and mother were staunchly independent homesteaders of the WWII generation who braved the untamed wilderness of Alaska and the exotic dangers of Australia. The '60s and '70s generation grew up fearful of losing such independence to mental institutions that locked up people, merely because they acted in ways society didn’t understand. The stigma of psychiatric care was every bit as real as the stigma of mental illness. Thus, her approach was quite practical: take Saint John's Wort, get on a good diet of vegetables and fruits, drink plenty of water, get fresh air and exercise. If that doesn’t work, there’s always Jesus.

Despite plenty of prayer and a multitude of home remedies, depression continued plaguing my mind. People frustrated by what they viewed as an easy fix would imply that depressed folk like me just wanted to be depressed, maybe because it got them attention or they were just spoiled rotten. Soon I stopped sharing altogether. As one friend of mine, a real no-nonsense type, told me: “No one cares. You have to get on with your life.” “How do you manage that?” I asked. “What's your secret?” “You just have to shrug it off,” she concluded. I envied the cold, pragmatic stoicism and wished that I could just shrug my shoulders and let everything slide off. At one point, my depression was so acute, I looked into electroconvulsive therapy, memory loss be damned. During my consultation with a specialist, I learned the procedure had advanced since Jack Nicholson’s unfortunate end as a mental patient in One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. Ultimately, I decided against it.

SEARCH FOR ANSWERS

As with most human situations, our problems stem from a complex mixture of nature and nurture. I posed a question to my psychology professor one day: "Does depression cause us to think depressing thoughts or do depressing thoughts cause us to be in a state of depression?" His answer surprised and relieved me. "Both," he said.

In Psychology 202, we were in the midst of a chapter on depression and other mental disorders. Having recently experienced the loss of my grandmother, I was feeling especially hopeless and decided to ask my prof another burning question at the end of class. "If a person were to see a therapist, does it go on his record?" In my mind, counseling was for the weak and hideously broken. "Not at all," he responded with a smile. "Even psychologists seek help from other psychologists for their depression and anxiety." Then he really blew my mind: "I have a therapist myself. See her once a month. Sort through a lot of life decisions that way." He also assured me that there was no master file of such visits. While a therapist might keep her own notes, it's certainly not something shared with employers and as a rule is kept strictly confidential, as are all medical records.

My first visit to a counselor was nothing like I'd imagined. I wasn't given pills, invited to lay on a couch and look at ink blots, or even asked questions about my parents. Instead, the counselor initiated an open-ended conversation that encouraged me to articulate the tangled mess of thoughts and feelings I'd been bottling up inside. It was the first time I'd ever talked about my experiences in the military or about the emotional upheaval of my childhood. I felt liberated after just a few weeks of these sessions. For a time, I felt very much on top of my problems. Maybe this counseling thing wasn't so bad after all. I even began to recommend it to my friends and stood up for psychologists when mom would bash the profession in one of her trademark rants.

Promises abound You rarely find it to begin Maybe I'm afraid To let you all the way in

I excuse myself I'm used to my little cell I amuse myself In my very own private hell

I noticed a pattern to my depression: it seemed to be triggered by situations in which I felt helplessly incapable of controlling my environment, decisions, and destiny. You know, other people taking advantage of me, a nightmare roommate, an overbearing boss, unrequited love -- that sort of thing. It was like a switch flipped and all of the sudden the feelings flooded in and surrounded me for days, even weeks.

Feelings of loneliness and disquiet were often compounded by negative thinking about the situation. "What's wrong with me that I can't find someone to be with? Am I that unattractive or uninteresting?" The negative self-talk wasn't helping my situation. In some ways, it even turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. I'd walk around with a scowl on my face, prompting friends and family to constantly ask, "What's wrong? Is everything ok?" That's why I realized it may take more muscles to frown than to smile, but that undersmile sure is a lot more comfortable. No wonder people kept themselves at bay.

I actually started practicing my smile in the rearview mirror on the way to school every day, just so I remembered what that felt like. Fake it 'til you make it, the saying goes. Even if I was feeling like a miserable wretch inside, I certainly didn't want to betray those feelings to the world outside. So I got good at being a fake. When people asked, "How's it going?" I'd say, "Fine, just fine, thanks. And you?" (One of my counselors would later call me on that every session: "How are things really?").

When I got married, depression reached peak levels, only now that oppressive, low-hanging cold front wouldn't burn off with the sunshine. The mood never lifted. It was with me 24-7. It wasn't unusual for me to be severely depressed during the normally halcyon days of summer. I knew something had to be done, so I confronted another long-time stigma of mine: medication.

To be continued...

This whole house of cards crumbling slow If I disappear would you even know? The trap is time and no one gets off of this ride alive

So far under Too much pain to tell And now I'm ripped asunder So far under