#vividly! and seeing her on tv and learning the dance !!!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alwaysablossom · 4 years ago

Text

Fic: 365 Days of Knowing You

Summary: Everyone has learned to tune out Probie for the most part, because they are all used to him not shutting up. So that’s what TK is also doing, until he hears Mateo mention, “Can you imagine it’s almost a year since we all started here.”Or: The 126 celebrates their 1st anniversary and TK tries to show Carlos how much he means to him.

Notes: So two days ago, I posted my first Tarlos FF on AO3. I thought I might share it here as well. Hope you all like it. Please do let me know if you do.

Here goes..

TK has been mindlessly scrubbing the firetruck clean, half listening to Mateo and Marjan’s usual banter. Everyone has learned to tune out Probie for the most part, because they are all used to him not going on and on. So that’s what TK is doing, until he hears Mateo mention, “Can you imagine it’s almost a year since we all started here.”

He shouldn’t really be surprised really. He has been carrying his one-year sobriety chip for a few weeks now. But the realization that he has been with the 126 for almost a year brings another realization, that he has known Carlos just as long. And although they didn’t officially start dating till a few months later, he can still remember the first time he laid his eyes on Carlos, that rainy night of their first shift, the dancing at bar and the sexy times which followed.

“Hey TK, coming?” he hears Marjan says, breaking him out of his thought. Paul and Judd are setting the table for the lunch that Paul has been making for the previous hour. TK nods, jogging up to catch up to her. “Dreaming of Lover boy?” Marjan teases. TK huffs as his ears tinge pink, and Marjan laughs reaching up to ruffle his hair.

Once they are sitting at the table, they all start talking about how to celebrate the one year anniversary of all of the new 126 and decide to do a party the day before at the firehouse because all of them are not working the day of.

The one-year celebrations at the firehouse starts at the end of a 24-hour shift, but there is laughter, food and family. His mother, Grace, and Tommy’s family as well as Carlos join in on the celebration. His dad gives a speech, and they all have cake which is shaped like a firetruck this time.

He moves next to Carlos, wrapping his arms around Carlos’s waist. Carlos automatically wraps his arms around TK’s shoulders, pulling him in closer, pressing a kiss to the crown of TK’s forehead.

“It’s been a year huh?” Carlos asks him softly. “Yeah”, he answers softly, tilting his head, to press a kiss to Carlos’ chin. “Thanks for coming, even if you have a shift in an hour”.

“I wouldn’t have missed it, we kept missing each other this past week, I wanted to be here.” TK moves to stand in front of Carlos, wrapping his arms around his neck. Carlos adjust himself, his arms coming to rest on TK’s hips. “I have missed you” he says. “Well, I get done with my shift at 10 and nothing unexpected happens, I should be back before midnight. Then we have two days free.” TK nods, they have discussed this before. “Will you be there, tonight?” Carlos asks him, worrying his bottom lip. And before TK can answer he adds, “You need not be, I mean you have to rest, you are just finishing a 24 hour shift and- .”

“Hey, Carlos,” TK interrupts. “I will be there, I have all of your shift to rest. Maybe even bring some pancakes for a midnight snack from the diner, for a midnight snack.” He moves his hand, his fingers, caressing at the edge of Carlos’ lip, where he has been biting it. “I would love that” Carlos answers. “We could have a slow morning, I could make breakfast” “Hmm..” TK replies, his lips finding Carlos’ and although the thought of what they are going to do tonight or in the morning tomorrow make him want to deepen the kiss, he is reminded he is still at his work place, even though they are having a party, so he keeps it light.

“I know you are having brunch with your parents tomorrow, but do you think we could spend the afternoon together?” TK asks him as they part from the kiss. “I would like nothing more.” Carlos replies, going once more for a kiss when they are interrupted by Marjan.

“Lover-Boys, come on. I know you haven’t seen each other for more than a few minutes this past week, but you can suck faces later. Right now, I want photos.” She says loudly. Paul and Judd snicker in the background and Carlos hides his face in TK’s shoulder as he feels the blush rising, TK pulling him forward towards the group. “How did you know we haven’t seen each other?” He asks Marjan, but it’s Paul who answers. “Your boy never shuts up, and it’s worse when your shifts don’t line up.” TK pinks up at the comment, and Carlos feels all warm. He knows both of them rarely hide how they feel for each other, but it fills him up with some sort of undeniable comfort, when someone else points it out. “Now come on, the celebration demands pictures before you have to leave.” Carlos has known them for a year now, and knows not to protest, that he is not a part of the fire-family or he is going to get an earful from all of them. So, he joins in.

“I’ll see you tonight” Carlos tells TK as he gets ready to leave. “You bet, I love you. Stay safe.” TK tells him. Giving him a small kiss. “I love you too.” Carlos whispers back, squeezing TK’s hands before getting into his car to drive to work.

-------------------------------------------

After leaving the firehouse, TK decides to take a nap at his own house, and prep a few things that he needs for tomorrow. The rest he will do when Carlos is with his parents. He packs a duffel for the weekend at Carlos’ although he has enough of his stuff there. He is back at Carlos’ before dark. Changing out of his jeans, he slips on a some sweats and Carlos’ APD hoodie, he relaxes on the couch, switching on some mindless TV waiting for Carlos to get back.

TK is waiting for Carlos when he gets home from his shift. Carlos had texted him when he was almost done with his work and was wrapping up. And in the meantime, TK had gone out and grabbed them the pancakes that he had promised. Once Carlos gets home, he got changed and joins TK on the couch.

“I can’t believe you have pulled me into the dark side” Carlos says, taking a bite of the pancake. “Pancakes at midnight is the best comfort food there is Carlos.” TK argues. Carlos, smiles at him, moving forwards, kissing the pout on his lips. TK tastes like the syrup and the blueberries from their mid-night snack. “I have to admit, I am enjoying them. I was a bit skeptical when you suggested it the first time.”

“My dad and I used to have pancakes at night. Sometimes after his late shift and I just couldn’t fall asleep, because that was the only time, I could spend with him. There was this diner, near his apartment in New York, we would go there and eat pancakes.” He admits softly.

Carlos’ heart breaks for TK, when he listens to him speak about times like that. He knows TK isn’t complaining, but he just wishes he could go back and hold the teenage TK in his arms all the time telling him he is not alone. Instead, he puts his plate down on the coffee table and gathers him up into his arms. “Thanks for telling me.” He murmurs to the crown of his head. “I didn’t mean to make this depressing.”

“Not depressing, okay?” he tells TK, pressing a kiss to his lips. TK hums in reply, moving his plate out of the way, to deepen the kiss. Carlos, lets out a soft laugh when they part for air, “Not in the mood for pancakes anymore?” He asks, smirking knowing where this is going. “Later,” is the only reply he gets, before TK is kissing him once again. They don’t think about the pancakes for a while.

-------------------------------------------

TK putters around the house once Carlos leave to meet his parents. He washes the dishes from the night before and this morning from the breakfast that Carlos cooked them both. He puts in the laundry as well. They have both been busy this past week, with nigh shifts and overtimes. Once that is done, he moves on to preparing for the date he plans for Carlos.

He decides to stick with his strengths, not attempting to cook anything big, but he does make something of an evening snack for them and puts everything into the basket he finds in the kitchen, along with all the other stuff. He puts everything in the back seat of his car.

TK opens the door when he hears the Camaro pull in with a bouquet of bright orange gerberas in his hand, before Carlos can use his keys to come in. “Hey” he greats him softly. “Hey, that for me? What’s the occasion?” Carlos asks, taking the flowers into one hand, and the other wrapping around TK’s waist, titling a bit to give him a kiss. “Baby, you are always the occasion” he says, with a smirk. “Smartass” Carlos replies with a chuckle, rubbing their noses together.

“Go on a date with me?” TK asks instead. “Flowers and a date, Ty?” Carlos smiles in question. “Will you?” TK has his lower lip between his lips, brows furrowed. “Of course. I’ll go on a date.” Carlos replies and TK. “Okay then” He replies, pulling them both towards his car in the driveway.

“You meant right now?” Carlos asks, “Of course.” He replies. “You didn’t have any afternoon plans, did you?” Carlos shakes his head no but stops TK from pulling him “Then at least let me put these in water, I don’t want them to get spoilt.”

-------------------------------------------

They drive for a little while, a bit outside the city and TK pulls up to the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. “Why are we here in the middle of nowhere, Ty?” He asks, puzzled. “This is where we met, a year ago today…” TK starts slowly, “The car accident and the baby in the tree” Carlos remembers them meeting as vividly as if it happened yesterday, but he hadn’t remembered that this was the exact spot he had laid his eyes on the person who has now become the most important person in his life.

“Happy one year, ‘Los” TK whispers, bending over the console to give Carlos a lingering kiss. “I know we didn’t start dating till a few months after but meeting you that day is the best thing that happened to me in a long time.” He explains. “Happy one year Ty!” Carlos replies softly, as if speaking a bit louder will break the spell. “You are the best think that happened to me too.” He holds TK’s face in both his hand, pressing their lips together once again.

“So our date is here?” Carlos asks, although it is sentimental, it feels kind of weird to have a date at the edge of the road where they first met. “No” TK laughs. “I just wanted to bring you here, to tell you how much you mean to me, I guess. Now it kind of feels silly.” TK feels his cheeks tinge pink in embarrassment. This all seemed better in his head. “Hey, babe, not silly okay. It means a lot to me too. So, what was your plans?” he ask, gently running his fingers on TK’s neck.

Instead of answering, TK tilts his head a bit, kissing the inside of Carlos’ wrist, before taking the car out of park. They drive a bit more, before they reached the field where they spent the night of the solar flare. This time because Carlos is more aware, he catches up faster.

“The night of the Solar flare, when I decided to give us a real go.” TK says, although he knows that Carlos understands the significance of the place. “I know the sky is not all blue and green, but I thought we could have a picnic and watch the sunset?” he asks. “Yeah” Carlos breathes out.

In all his relationships, Carlos has been the one who has planned dates, made the grand gestures, he did that with TK as well. He never expected anything in return. “Come on” TK says getting out of the car and grabbing a basket and a rug from the back. He should have seen that he is a police officer, he is supposed to notice things, but he was paying attention to his gorgeous boyfriends. Carlos shakes his head, following TK out of the car.

They find a tree; below which TK spreads the rug out and puts the basket down. “Come here” he tells TK once he is sitting with his back to the trunk and looking at the horizon. TK goes willingly, settling between the V of Carlos’ legs, leaning into the chest. They are quiet for a few moments, just enjoying being with each other soaking in the calm and the quiet. Carlos occasionally tilting his head to press a kiss to TK’s head or TK pressing some kisses to Carlos’ jaw and neck, wherever he can reach, without moving too much.

After a while, when TK starts feeling a bit hungry, he shifts out from Carlos’ arms, but Carlos tightens his arms, whining a bit and nuzzles his nose into TK’s neck. “I thought we could eat something” TK tells him with a chuckle, indicating to the basket. With another kiss to the base of his head, Carlos lets him go. TK does not go far, pulling the basket closer and settling right next to Carlos, their shoulders and thighs touching this time. “Please tell me you didn’t cook?” Carlos asks teasingly. “I didn’t want to kill us both and burn your kitchen, but I made some sandwiches and I have some drinks.” TK says defensively. “So it’s a school picnic, then?” He asks, a teasing tone still in his voice. “Carlos” TK pouts. “Sorry sorry. I was just teasing” Carlos raises his arms up in surrender. They finish food TK has brought in comfortable silence.

It’s almost time for sunset, the colors in the sky are changing slightly when TK brings out a box from inside the basket. “Happy one year Carlos” he says handing it over. “What’s this?” He asks opening it, inside it is filled with scraps of paper.

“The first anniversary is the Paper Anniversary, these are our memories from last year” TK tells him softly. Indeed, inside all types of paper, which some people would have thrown out thinking they are scraps. The tab from their date at the bar, tickets stubs from their time at the drive through, post it notes that Carlos has left TK when he had to leave early, a card from the flowers he sent over among others.

“Ty…” He starts, not knowing what to say. He looks up from the box in his lap to TK’s face, beyond him the sky is a pretty shade of pinks and purples and oranges, but he can only see the pink on TK’s cheeks and his green eyes.

“Carlos, last year when I came here to Austin, it was because my dad dragged me here. My life was all grey and cold. Each day this past year, you have added color and warmth into my life. Last year all I wanted was to get through each day, but now I look forward to not just the next day but the years to come, with you, if you will have me.” TK holds both of Carlos’s hand in his. Carlos’ eyes fill with tears.

“Move in with me?” he says instead. “What?” TK asks, surprised by the question. “My life may not have been grey before you got here Tyler, but it is only in this past year that I knew there were so many colors. You changed my life. I know you stay over like most of the time, but move in with me officially, lets make memories at home?

“Yeah…” TK breaths, moving forwards, capturing Carlos’ lips in a bruising kiss. “Yes, yes, yes” he breathes out, punctuated by kisses. Carlos, returns the kisses just as enthusiastically, both of them smiling through the kisses.

Carlos has filled his life with so much joy and warmth, TK can’t wait to show him how much Carlos mean to him. And he is going to do just that, everyday until Carlos lets him.

#tarlos #tarlos fanfic #first fic #first anniversary #carlos reyes #tk strand #126 fire family #marjan marwani #paul strickland #mateo chavez

24 notes · View notes

letterboxd · 4 years ago

Photo

A Leaf in a Stream.

The matriarchs of Minari—Youn Yuh-jung and Han Ye-ri—talk to Aaron Yap about chestnuts, ear-cleaning, dancing, Doctor Zhivago and their unexpected paths into acting.

A delicate cinematic braid that captures the sense of adventure, sacrifice and uncertainty of uprooting, Lee Isaac Chung’s Minari might be the closest approximation of my immigrant experience on the big screen yet. Sure, Arkansas is a world of difference from New Zealand. But those dynamics and emotional textures of a family in the process of assimilation—authentically realized by Chung—remain the same.

The film is a wonder of humane storytelling, with the American-born Chung encasing deeply personal memories in a brittle, bittersweet calibration that recalls the meditative, modest glow and touching whimsy of an Ozu or Kore-eda. As Jen writes, “To describe Minari? Being embraced in a long, warm hug.” Or perhaps, it’s like Darren says, “floating along peacefully like a leaf in a stream”.

Neither is alone in their effusive praise. Minari rapidly rose to the top of Letterboxd’s Official Top 50 of 2020, and by year’s end our community had crowned it their highest-rated film. Despite its cultural specificity—a Korean family shifting to the Ozarks in the 1980s—the film has transcended barriers and stolen hearts. Run director Aneesh Chaganty says, “I saw my dad. I saw my mom. I saw my grandma. I saw my brother. I saw me.” Iana writes, “Its portrayal of assimilation rang so true and for that, I feel personally attacked.” The versatile herb of the title, Kevin observes, is “a marker of home, of South Korea, but it can grow and propagate as long as there is water.”

Though a large portion of Minari was vividly drawn from Chung’s childhood, a few of the film’s most quietly memorable moments were contributions from its Korean-born cast.

Youn Yuh-jung as Soonja in ‘Minari’.

Veteran actress Youn Yuh-jung, who’s extraordinary as the visiting, wily grandmother Soonja, traces the origins of the scene where she cracks open a chestnut in her mouth and hands it to seven-year-old grandson David (Alan Kim), to her time living in America. “I’ve seen one grandmother visiting at the time—we don’t have chestnuts in Florida—she brought them all the way from Korea. Actually it was worse than the scene. My friend’s mother brought [the] chestnut. She chewed it and spit it out into a spoon and shared it with her grandson. Her husband was an Irishman. He was almost shocked. We didn’t do that, but I shared that kind of thing with Isaac.”

Most viewers watching this scene will likely recoil in horror, as David does, but co-star Han Ye-ri, playing Soonja’s daughter Monica, notes the practicality of the gesture: “If you give a big chunk to children they could choke on that, so it’s natural for them to do that for their children.”

In another brief, beautifully serene scene—one that is so rarely depicted in American cinema that it’s almost stunning—Monica is seen gently cleaning David’s ears. Han came up with the idea. “Originally it was cutting the nails for David,” she says. “Cleaning your wife and husband’s ears is such a common thing in Korea. Initially the producer or somebody from the production opposed the idea because they regarded it as dangerous, but because it is something that is so common in our daily lives I thought we should go with the idea.”

Neither actress comes from a traditional movie-oriented background. With no acting ambitions, Youn began her fifty-year career with a part-time job hunt that led her to distributing gifts to an audience at a TV station. “It was freshman year from college and they gave me pretty good money. So I thought, ‘Wow, that’s good!’.”

“I’m kind of ashamed about that, as nowadays all the kids plan their future,” she says. “When I talk to the younger generation, they start having dreams about being an actor in the sixth grade. In the sixth grade, I was just playing—nothing. I didn’t plan anything. [Laughs.]”

Han Ye-ri and Noel Kate Cho in ‘Minari’.

Before acting, Ye-ri trained as a professional dancer, and while she wasn’t specifically inspired by movies to cross over into acting, she was an avid film watcher in her formative years. “Working as an actress made me realize how many films I’ve seen growing up.”

“My first memory of a non-Korean-language film left such a strong impression on me, especially the ending,” she says. “The film is called Doctor Zhivago. I saw it on TV and not in theaters. The first film I saw in theaters was Beauty and the Beast. But even growing up I remember because Koreans love films so much they would have films on TV all the time. I watched a lot of TV growing up because both my parents were busy, and in retrospect that really helped become the basis of my career. [Laughs.]”

She also grew up “taking reference from Miss Youn’s body of work to study from, as did many other actresses”. Grateful for the opportunity to work with her on Minari, Ye-ri says, “On set working with her, it made me realize how wonderful it is that this person still carries her own distinct color and scent. And seeing her taking part in this production in a foreign country—she’s over 70—it just really encouraged me that I should be more fearless like her.” She adds: “One of the things that I really want to learn from her is her sense of humor but I think I’m going to have that for my next life. [Laughs.]”

As for Youn’s adventures in early movie-going, she recalls the first Korean film she saw with her father was the 1956 historical drama Ma-ui taeja, based on a popular Korean fairy tale. “I was so scared. I cried so my father had to take me out of the theater.”

“At [the] time, we always had to watch the news on the screen before the movie. It started with a national anthem and every audience from the theater would need to stand up and pledge to the Korean flag. It’s a very stupid thing for you guys but it was like that 60 years ago.”

Han Ye-ri as Monica in ‘Minari’.

For Minari fans who want to discover more of Youn’s work, she recommends starting with the first movie she made with the late, great director Kim Ki-young, Woman of Fire—a remake of his own 1962 Korean classic The Housemaid. “A long time ago I couldn’t see it. Of course I first saw it when it was shown at the theater back when I was twenty. But later on we had a retrospective, so I saw that movie 50 years later. Wow, he was very genius. I was very impressed. That time we had censorship and everything but with that crisis he made that film. That was a memorable movie to [me].”

Youn admits finding it difficult to be emotionally invested watching a film starring herself, including Minari. “It’s terrible, it’s killing me,” she says. “I always think about why I did this and that scene like that. I’m just criticizing every scene so I’m not enjoying it at all.”

Asked which films she enjoys, she offers: “Some other people’s movies like Mike Leigh and Kore-eda Hirokazu. Your Chinese movies I fell in love with. Zhang Yimou when he started. Then later on when he became a big shot, I don’t enjoy [them]. [Laughs.]”

During the shoot, members of the cast and crew caught Lulu Wang’s The Farewell, 2019’s powerful, heartfelt Chinese-American immigrant story. While Youn missed it (“I was just staying home trying to memorize the lines and resting”), Ye-ri watched with interest: “That film also had a grandmother character, so did ours, and these two are completely different. But at the same time from both films you can feel the warmth and thoughtfulness of grandmothers in different ways. To me they are both very lovely films.”

Of her recent viewings, Ye-ri reveals she found Soul made her as emotional as Minari did. “It made me look back at how I live and my day. It’s not necessarily for children but I think it’s a film for adults. [Pauses.] I’m Thinking of Ending Things. I love that film also.”

‘Minari’ is out now in select theaters across the US and other territories, with virtual screenings available to US audiences in the A24 screening room.

#minari #a24 #lee isaac chung #lulu wang #the farewell #hirokazu koreeda #Youn Yuh-jung #han ye-ri #han yeri #steven yeun #korean film #korean director #korean films #letterboxd

18 notes · View notes

tagsecretsanta · 4 years ago

Text

From @willow-salix

to @fallenfurther

Secret Santa does not own this work, full credit to the author above!

Grandma Tracy might portray herself as a hip, cool, down with the kids granny to anyone that would listen but even she had to admit that she was a traditionalist at heart. Not in the way that many might expect, not in the boring way of not moving with the times when needed, she could work the holoprojector almost as well as John when it came to coordinating a rescue, she just subscribed to the ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ school of thought.

She knew that old fashioned things still had a place in the world, they still had a use, even when people thought they were antiquated and fit for nothing but a museum or a rubbish pile. She’d proven that to Virgil when they had been stuck in London with no technology whatsoever and since then Virgil had had more of an appreciation for the older things in life.

Traditions were important in her eyes, although rarely were they the common ones that everyone in the world did. Mostly because Sally Tracy did not follow the pack, she never had. She refused to do what everyone else did, to her traditions began at home. They should invoke memories of a time long ago and remind you of the things that were important. Family traditions, now they were the way to go.

She could vividly remember her mother singing along to the radio as they decorated the Christmas tree. They would drink hot chocolate and have a lovely time as they decorated, dressing up in the tinsel and talking, catching up on the things they might not have had time to talk about before. Always on the 1st of December, always with Christmas songs playing and always as a family. And Sally had made sure that she'd done exactly the same with her boys.

Now it was Christmas Eve, the gifts had been purchased and wrapped, the tree had been decorated and the family had just about escaped with their sanity after a month of non stop christmas songs on the stereo courtesy of Grandma. Jeff had been the only one brave enough to suggest that maybe they listen to something else but he had quickly backed down when she had speared him with a glare that could have stripped the paint off Thunderbird Two’s hull if she had been close enough to it.

It’s tradition, she said, one of the only ones she could count on since moving to Tracy Island. Beautiful as the island was, it was far too tropical to feel in any way christmassy and the only way she could get in the mood (or so she claimed) was by listening to festive music.

She missed feeling the days grow colder as summer lost its grip on the world and the crisp, chilly days of fall took over. Once fall was firmly there and you couldn’t leave the house without a sweater it was only a matter of time before the smell of burning leaves and woodsmoke filled the air and winter came nipping at its heels. The cold of winter, the first flurries of snow, brought with it the sound of carols, bells and the smell of baking gingerbread. She loved being wrapped up in warm clothes and feeling the icy blast of wind that stole her breath and she missed it when temperatures on the island rarely changed at all.

Rescues often made regular meals and time off difficult, they often interrupted family time and special occasions. The Tracys were used to it, but it did make getting into any kind of routine difficult and often meant that such things as birthdays and christmas felt unimportant. But not to Grandma, to her it was of vital importance and no one had better argue with her. Jeff, wise man that he was, had given up and retreated to his office, his almost soundproof door and peace.

Gordon was in London spending the day with Penelope for her birthday before they returned to the island that evening for Christmas. John was in Five as usual, finishing up preparations for a few well deserved days off (although he would probably be regretting his decision by dinner time Christmas Day), Kayo was visiting Kyrano for Christmas Eve and would return in the morning and Brains was wishing he had never walked into the lounge.

“Snow is falling, all around me, children playing, having fun,” Grandma sang, joining in with the video playing out on the holoprojector as she attempted to crochet a scarf figuring it was as traditional a pass time as any to indulge in, maybe it would be ready by next Christmas if she was lucky. “Come on, Brains, you know the words, join in.”

“B-but it’s not accurate for our climate,” he argued, never having been one to enjoy a sing-along like some members of the family. “There is never snow on T-T-Tracy Island.”

“That’s not the point, Brains,” she sighed, trying to untangle the yarn that insisted on knotting on her lap rather than in the carefully ordered way it should.

“It’s not?”

“No!” She tossed the scarf, all four wonky rows of it, onto the table, giving up for now before she was tempted to lob it up Thunderbird Two's tail pipe.

“I d-don’t understand,” Brains admitted, something that was very hard for him to do. He was used to being one of the smartest people in the room, if not the smartest, and now, here he was, not understanding a simple thing like this. Maybe he’d been working too hard?

“It’s not about the song, it’s about the meaning behind it,” Grandma explained patiently for what felt like the millionth time that December. “It’s traditional.”

“A song is traditional?”

“Well, yes, but not just the song, it’s the image it portrays. Christmas in my day meant snow, cold weather clothes, wrapping up warm, skating on a frozen lake, then coming inside to drink hot chocolate around a crackling fire and listening to carols on the radio with my mother as we waited for my father to get home. We knew that once he was home the holidays could really start. He worked hard and had very little time off in a year, only every other sunday, two days for Easter and Christmas Day.”

“Kinda like us then,” Alan muttered from his spot on the couch where he had been relaxing before breakfast, playing a handheld game.

“Yes, and because we have none of the weather here or the time off, not that I would want to be anywhere else, but the only thing that really makes it feel like Christmas is the songs. So we’re going to keep the music and you’re all going to like it.”

A new song came on and Grandma sighed happily as Alan groaned as if in pain.

“I love this song, it was one of my favourites,” she stared dreamily at the screen. “Oh, it’s Christmas time, mistletoe and wine. Children singing Christian rhyme. Isn’t he handsome? I wouldn’t kick him out for eating cookies.”

“Grandma!” Alan gasped, shocked to the core, his tone showing his disgust.

“What? Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I can’t look and do a little window shopping. I’ve got all his albums, including his live concerts, it’s just not Christmas without seeing him on the TV. Here, I’ll show you. Just listen to him some more and I’m sure you’ll learn to love him.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, it’s Christmas.”

“That’s your answer to everything,” Alan grumbled but he put down his game and prepared to do his duty as a grandson.

“I’ll start you off easy with Little Town,” Grandma told him, pressing play.

***

“This comes to pass, when a child is born. When a child is born… oh, oh, o-” Grandma sang along to the fifth song of her playlist when, to Alan’s intense relief, John’s hologram popped up, replacing the music video that had been playing.

“International Rescue, we have a situation,” he started, then paused looking around the room, frowning when he saw only Grandma, Brains and Alan in attendance.

“A situation? Yes! I’ll get Scott and Virg,” Alan cheered, jumping up.

"That's not the reaction I usually get," John observed, wondering what could have brought about that sort of excitement so early in the morning from the brother who liked his sleep the most.

“Never mind that. What have you got?” Grandma asked, all business now, her Christmas spirit in song form now forgotten.

“Guests trapped in an ice hotel in Sweden.”

“Scott! Virgil! It’s safe to come up, the music’s off and John needs us to go to Sweden,” Alan yelled as he clattered down the stairs to the kitchen where the older two were no doubt hiding.

“A what now?” Grandma asked, ignoring Alan.

“An ice hotel,” John repeated. “The hotel was first built in 1990 in the small village of Jukkasjarvi, Sweden, now they rebuild it every year and add to it with a different architect for each room. I’m sure it looks very beautiful when you can actually see it and a freak snow storm hasn't covered the entrance then frozen.” He pulled up a feed to show what must have been the hotel but all that was visible was two large piles of snow.

“What are we looking at, John?” Scott demanded to know, jogging up the stairs with Virgil hot on his heels, Alan bringing up the rear.

John brought up a picture of the ice hotel in its normal glory.

“This is the Winter Heart Hotel in Sweden,” he began. The picture showed a beautiful backdrop of a frosty night with the northern lights visible dancing in the sky behind two pure white domes of snow which were obviously the hotel. They looked like elaborate igloos, connected by covered tunnels and slopes that had formed on the sides with big, wooden looking doors on the front of the domes. The snow sparkled in the moonlight and even though it was clearly freezing cold the whole place looked very welcoming. Little cabins were scattered here and there around the hotel itself, giving the whole scene a picture postcard feel.

“Looks great,” Virgil commented.

“That was it three months ago,” John answered before flicking aside the picture to replace it with the previous image. “This is it as of four hours ago.”

“Woah,” Scott breathed, his eyes tracking over the large mounds of snow that covered the domes so effectively they looked to be nothing but snowy hills. “What happened?”

“Freak snow storm blew in from the arctic circle and dumped around seven feet of snow on the hotel overnight. By the time morning came the fresh snow had frozen solid, trapping a number of high profile guests inside.”

“High profile?”

“The Winter Wonder charity concert happens there every year, people from all over the world pay big money to stay there and not just for the music,” John answered. "It's reported to be an amazing experience but not for the faint hearted. They keep the inside at a constant -5 degrees centigrade, although they do have warm rooms of the hotel such as bathrooms and some bedrooms. They should be fine in there for now, but we obviously need to get them out. The hotel itself has been trying to dig their way through for the past hour. They had a snow plow of their own but it broke a week or so ago and as no snow was forecast they hadn't rushed to replace it.”

“Any casualties?” Virgil asked, already walking across the lounge to his launch chute.

“None reported, apparently they have placated the guests with numerous free drinks and dinner, but unfortunately they are now reported to be getting a little rowdy.”

“Rowdy? Well it won’t do to keep them waiting much longer, will it? I guess we had better hit the skies,” Scott grinned, crossing over to stand in front of the wall where his launch chute was hidden, reaching up to grasp the light fittings that triggered the revolving door. “See you out there!”

“Alan, you're with me,” Virgil called, much to Alan’s delight. He dropped down in one of the bucket seats that would take him or a passenger to Thunderbird Three so he could suit up, grinning like a mad man, happy to be off the island for a few hours.

“I’ll send the coordinates and brief you when you’re airborne,” John told them as they all vanished, his hologram blinking out a moment later.

“Well,” Grandma sighed, turning back to the holoprojector. “Now that they have gone I guess it’s just you and me, Brains.” With a quick flick of her wrist she had turned the music video on, the sound drowning out Brains’ pitiful groan.

***

“Bulldozer Pod is go!”

“Alan, be careful with it!” John warned, his voice echoing around the pod cabin, as the bulldozer shot forward at a much faster speed than was sensible. His hologram popped back into existence to give their littlest brother one of his patented death stares when Alan dared to roll his eyes at him.

“I think I know what I’m doing, it’s just a little snow.”

“No, it’s not just a little snow, if you go too deep or too far you’ll risk taking out one of the walls of the hotel itself. It’ll register as snow, exactly as the rest of it does. Here,” John paused to send through the holographic map overlay he had just finished creating. The overlay settled on top of the map already in front of Alan from the pods scans, then sank down over the snowy mounds, now showing the outline of the buildings.

“Avoid the ice walls, I got it,” Alan assured him.

“Just make sure you pay full attention,” John ordered.

“I’ll be fine, go bug Scott, he’s the one you can’t trust.”

“Unfortunately there isn't just one, I can’t trust any of you,” John sighed and, against his better judgement, left Alan to his own devices.

Alan trundled forward a little slower than before, heeding the warning. He might be excitable but he wasn’t stupid and now that he had a better idea of what he was looking at and supposed to do he could see that he would have to be a little more careful.

As John had said, scans from their equipment were registering nothing but ice and snow, there was no clear definition between what was fresh snow and what had been there before and was part of the building. He could detect life signs deep inside the snow piles, as expected, but they seemed calm enough, their heart rates slow and easy, showing them to be totally relaxed.

He moved the pod closer to the huge wall of snow and maneuvered it into place, his plan being to work in a square, side to side, front to back, moving in closer and closer until the majority of the snow had been removed, allowing Virgil and Scott access to come in with a modified Sherpa Pod. The idea being to use the heat bank element to create what amounted to a high powered hair dryer to defrost the ice that had the guests trapped.

With his first run he plowed a wide path in front of the hotel a good twelve meters away. He checked the map overlay, calculating that he could manage two more full sweeps, working back and forth before he’d be risking getting too close and would have to hand over to his brothers.

Scott and Virgil were configuring the modifications to the Sherpa Pod when John called in to give them an update.

“Alan has removed the snow down to quarter of a meter from the doors, now it’s down to you guys.”

“FAB Thunderbird Five,” Scott answered, swinging up into the passenger seat of the pod. He’d finally grown out of his desire to drive every single vehicle he got into and had learnt that Virgil was, in general, a much more capable pod pilot than he was, although he’d never admit that out loud.

Virgil gave him that look that said he knew exactly what he was doing but, being the more peace loving Tracy, he declined to comment. Instead he climbed effortlessly into the driver's seat and settled in. He carefully guided the vehicle down the module ramp and out onto the snow, ignoring Scott’s impatient huff in response to his sedate pace.

“Slow and steady,” he quoted, knowing that snow was tricky terrain to navigate at the best of times and this wasn’t the time or the place in which to push their luck.

“The danger here is with the hotel itself,” John told them as Virgil made his way across the snow.

“How so?” Scott asked. “I thought the reports said that the hotel was stable.”

“It’s made of the very thing we’re going to be melting,” Virgil answered, checking his instrument readouts as he navigated up and over the snow into the ditch that Alan had excavated.

“Oh, yeah, good point,” Scott conceded. “So what’s the plan?”

“The snow fall isn’t the real problem here, the hotel can take the weight of it easily having been subjected to weight tests to ensure it could retain its structural integrity for these exact reasons,"John answered. "In this case all we need to do is concentrate on freeing the doors, the rest, as long as they take precautions, should be fine to leave in situ.”

“Got it, just the doors,” Scott confirmed.

“You’re going to have to go steady,” John warned. “There’s not a lot of clearance there, Alan has done his best but it’s going to be a delicate operation.”

“Steady is my middle name,” Virgil assured him. “I’ve got it under control. You just concentrate on keeping the hotel employees in the loop.”

“FAB,” John answered, blinking out as quickly as he had come.

Heat bank raised, Virgil worked the controls expertly, taking his time to melt away the snow that was left, being careful to keep it moving and only work on the front of the hotel where the doors should be, following the same map overlay that John had provided for Alan.

Alan, they saw, had done a thorough job, moving the snow far out of the way and was now using the loader and the pod’s caterpillar tracks to tramp down and spread out the snow he’d plowed, eliminating the possibility of the new snow piles posing a danger to anyone.

After only a few minutes of careful work the doors to the main entrance of the hotel began to appear through the snow as it melted away, sliding down the wood. Virgil checked the map one more time, realising that there was little more he could do without risking the ice of the hotel itself.

“I’m gonna have to get my exo-suit and do the rest by hand,” he decided, sounding like he was talking to himself, almost like he had forgotten that Scott was even there. Scott declined to comment, busy watching Alan work, pleased to see that, although the youngest Tracy sometimes had the same kind of offbeat humour as Gordon, he was as competent and sure as ever in his work.

Virgil turned the pod back to the module, not wanting to walk the entire way and, leaving Scott to reconfigure the pod to something a little more manageable for travelling across snow, he got himself into the mechanical suit.

Twenty minutes later a stream of grateful employees and guests came pouring out of the freed doors, all talking at once, jabbering away in excitement at seeing the mighty Thunderbird vehicles up close.

“Please, please come inside,” one waiter gushed, grabbing Scott by the arm and hauling him into the hotel. Virgil glanced at Alan who shrugged, it wasn’t like they couldn't be spared for a little longer. "My name is Felix, please, anything I can do, just tell me."

"It's OK, Felix," Scott started. "We don't need you to do anything…" he trailed off as they stepped inside, their attention instantly taken by their first look at the hotel.

“Woah,” they all breathed in unison, their eyes feasting on the beauty in front of them. They were surrounded on all sides by sparkling, crystal like slabs of ice that formed a lobby area that immediately opened up into an ice bar, a warmly wrapped up waiter behind the bar ready to take their orders. Several guests sat on fur covered ice chairs, sipping from thick glasses that looked to be crystal but were obviously made of ice too.

“This is just...wow,” Virgil’s eyes darted here and there, trying to take in everything at once. He slipped his arms out of the exo-suit and allowed the mechanical limbs to fold down alongside the suit against his back. Reaching out a hand he stroked the delicately carved face of an ice maiden, one of the many sculptures that were dotted here and there. “Can I have a look around?”

“Of course,” the waiter, Felix, who had invited them in nodded eagerly, clearly happy to be of service. “Come, I give you a tour.”

Virgil knew that he must have looked a sight, stomping down the icy walkway with his suit on so, with Scott’s help, he shed it and left his brothers to guard it while he followed the man who had already darted ahead.

Now that he was free of the cumbersome machinery he was able to navigate the icy corridors and smaller walkways with ease. He descended a staircase, again completely made of ice, something he found hard to get his head around as it all looked like crystal, and stepped into a high ceilinged room that sported the most magnificent chandelier he had ever seen.

The ice shards hung down in elegant lines that culminated in three perfectly formed circles. The artist in him was in awe of the work that had gone into creating something that was not only visually stunning but practical at the same time.

Walking through the rooms he saw more exquisite sculptures, fur draped beds in bedrooms that each had a different theme such as under the sea with giant ice jellyfish hanging from the ceiling, clowns, dancers, and solar systems. On the way to the beautiful chapel with its ice shard altar and fur covered pews, he saw a magnificent unicorn that dominated a large part of a hallway. Here and there he saw leaves, animals, birds, faces and flowers, all carved from the ice and snow that made up the hotel. It was, simply put, stunning.

He returned to find Scott and Alan, who had taken up residence in one of the warm rooms with cups of hot chocolate, surrounded by guests. Many of them seemed a little worse for wear after their extended stays in the bar areas where the drinks had been flowing freely in an effort to keep them unaware as to the predicament they had been in.

It seemed that the guests were also fans, their voices carrying that slightly raised, mildly slurred tone that drunk people got, as they peppered the boys with questions.

“We really can’t reveal any of our secrets,” Scott told them, sounding as if he were repeating himself for maybe the twentieth time.

“You eat?” someone popped up behind them and offered a delicious looking burger on a plate.

“Oh, don’t mind if I do,” Scott grinned, reaching to take it. “Thank you.”

Alan and Virgil happily accepted their own plates, diving in to take large bites, eager for some food that hadn’t been cremated by Grandma. Decent food was hit or miss on the island, but everything dished up was met with a general sense of trepidation until the first bite determined its edibility.

“Damn, this is good,” Alan mumbled, his mouth full.

“I’ll say it is,” Virgil agreed, his cheeks resembling hamster pouches as he answered with his mouth full.

"I am glad you like,” Felix smiled, looking rather proud of himself. “They are our speciality, made from our own reindeer.”

Alan choked, his eyes growing wide as he stopped chewing and stared at the burger. Reaching for a napkin he, as politely as possible, spat out the food in his mouth.

Virgil looked a little horrified while Scott just shrugged and kept right on eating. Scott counted himself as a foodie, he would try anything once, or even twice if he was undecided the first time. He had eaten in top restaurants around the world, in little cafes, from carts on the side of the road, anywhere and everywhere that there was food, there was Scott, willing and ready to try it.

“What?” he asked when Alan stared at him in disgust. “It’s a burger, plus it’s good.”

Virgil was obviously fighting some internal war between his stomach and his brain. On the one hand he was hungry and Scott was right, the burger was damn good, but on the other his brain was insisting on conjuring up visions of Santa and his sleigh. In the end his stomach won and he took another bite.

“Virgil!” Alan gasped, making Virgil wince guiltily.

“There’s nothing wrong with the burger, Al. They were good enough to feed us, it would be rude not to.”

Alan, clearly torn between his desire to not be seen as impolite and his desire to not eat Rudolph, was spared from making a decision by a sudden burst of music coming from deeper in the hotel. All three Tracy brothers groaned in unison.

“Is there a problem?” Felix asked, concern etched on his face. Had he given them a bad burger? Food poisoning? Insulted their ancestors? “Anything I can do to thank you, please do say.”

“No,” Virgil assured him. “We just recognised the music, that’s all.”

“Ah,” Felix smiled, clearly relieved. “That is the band beginning a last minute rehearsal and sound check before the concert.”

“Concert?”

Felix pointed to a holographic poster on the wall.

Alan’s eyes widened in recognition and he leant over to whisper to Scott. Scott listened, his eyes widening too as he realised what his little brother meant.

Clearing his throat he made his request. “Maybe there is something you can do for us, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course! Anything!” Felix gushed, pleased that the high profile Tracy brothers weren’t mad at him.

“Can you get us their autographs?”

Felix grinned, looking even more proud of himself than he had before.

“I can do better than that.”

***

Grandma hadn’t known what to think when Virgil had called home and told her that Scott was on his way back to collect her, telling her only to wear as many warm clothes as she could, but she had done as she was told.

Digging deep into the back of her wardrobe where she kept the clothes that had languished there for more years than she cared to remember, she had dragged out a thick winter coat and a warm top to wear under her customary onesie, along with wooly socks, gloves, scarf and hat.

She was waiting impatiently in the launch bay before Scott had even made it home and was soon comfortably installed in a passenger seat as her eldest grandson whisked her away into the unknown.

Virgil and Alan were there to greet them as they landed, a pair of ice skates in hand and identically proud grins on their faces.

They had spent a pleasant hour or so sliding around on the custom built ice rink. The ice, as with the hotel, had been imported from the nearby Torne River. Grandma was pleased to find that, although slightly rusty at first, she was able to take to the ice with a reasonable degree of competency, much better than that of her grandsons.

Scott was all long limbs and over enthusiasm, trying to go fast straight off the bat and failing spectacularly until he slowed down and figured out how to walk before he ran. Virgil was a little better, adopting the tactic of trying to place his feet carefully, as he would while walking, getting his footing before doing a slow first lap around the outer edge of the rink, gaining confidence the longer he was on there.

Alan it seemed, much to their surprise, had inherited her grace on the ice and took to it easily, executing an almost perfect first lap before streaking off across the ice like a bullet.

Skating gave way to an impromptu snowball fight started by Scott aiming at Alan and finished by Grandma who pelted the troublemakers with snow while Virgil held them in place.

“How about we head inside and grab a warm drink before heading home?” Virgil suggested, shaking the snow off his shoulders, thankful that their uniforms protected them from such a wide range of weather conditions.

“That would be wonderful,” Grandma sighed happily as they walked towards the hotel.

“I want to thank you boys for such a lovely surprise. Much as I love our home it’s been nice to feel snow again and experience an old fashioned Christmas eve again after so long of endless summer.”

“You deserve it,” Scott assured her, draping an arm around her shoulders.

“Yeah, it was our pleasure,” Alan agreed, holding the still freely swinging door open for her.

Grandma experienced much the same wonder as they had as she enjoyed a tour of the hotel at the hands of the ever accommodating Felix, who had been more than happy to be her guide, showing her all the hotel had to offer.

It was beautiful, a true once in a lifetime winter wonderland of crystalline ice and exquisite sculpture that reminded her of the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, her favourite book as a child, when the White Witch had frozen all of Narnia in an endless winter.

Felix was happy to let her wander at her own pace, never trying to hurry her as she explored, her eyes taking in all there was to see. But, eventually, she grew tired and needed to rest, not being as young as her mind would have her believe. She was more than happy to be delivered back to her waiting grandsons with the promise of a hot chocolate in one of the warm rooms.

The function room was beautiful in its simplicity, decorated in a cozy cabin style with insulated fireplaces here and there which gave off no heat but looked perfect in the wood panelled room. There were comfy couches and wooden tables with rings of chairs dotted here and there, all arranged in a semi circle that faced towards the raised platform that was acting as a stage if the instruments there were any indication.

The room was still empty apart from five men sitting around a table, enjoying a quiet drink before the show started. They looked up expectantly when the door opened and the three Tracy boys led their special guest into the room.

Grandma had never been one to be lost for words before but there was a first time for everything and this appeared to be that time. She froze in the doorway, requiring a gentle nudge from Virgil to get her moving again. Her eyes were firmly fixed on one man as he put down his drink and moved towards them, a bright smile of welcome on his face.

“Hi there,” he started, holding out his hand, “I’m Cli-”

“Cliff Richard Jr!” Grandma shrieked, coming out of her starstruck daze to grab his hand between both of hers, yanking it closer, reeling him in for a smothering hug.

“Woah, easy there, Grandma!” Scott laughed as the singer’s arms flailed in shock. “Let the man breathe.”

Alan gently untangled Grandma’s arms from around Cliff, allowing him to back up and regain his freedom.

“So,” Cliff wheezed, straightening his tie and clearing his throat, regaining his composure before he bestowed upon her another dazzling smile. “Am I right in assuming you’ll be staying for the show?”

“You bet your ass I am.”

“Grandma!” all three boys yelped in shock but, thankfully, Cliff just laughed.

The music might not be to their tastes, in fact for Alan it was akin to torture, but seeing the look of joy on their Grandmother's face made it all worth it.

And wasn't that the true spirit of the season? Taking the time to think about others before you thought of yourself, spreading joy and happiness whenever you could.

Grandma was the heart of International Rescue, the heart of the house and the loving center of their family. She had always gone out of her way to look after them, now it was their turn to give something back to her. Something that she would never, ever forget.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds 2015 #grandma tracy #Scott Tracy #John Tracy #alan tracy #Virgil Tracy #Gordon Tracy #willow-salix #secret santa 2020 #tag team secret santa

17 notes · View notes

emybain · 5 years ago

Text

The Blessings of Parenthood

here’s my gift for @ruby-assassin for the renegades exchange (run by @ruby-assassin and @narcissacronin)! im not usually a procrastinator but i procrastinated a lot on this, so i apologize! im also not very good at writing any of my favorite characters as parents:( i hope you enjoy this! it’s a group of snippets of osby as parents that i randomly came up with. the first one is based off of a tiktok that had me dying with laughter, so i had to include it lol.

ao3

Candy. This was because of candy.

Ruby rubbed her temples with one hand as she got a glass from the cupboard and went over to the fridge to fill it up with ice. The usually obnoxious groaning and clattering of the ice machine was almost music to her ears, at least in comparison to the piercing screams not ten feet from her. She only glanced at her four year old daughter, who was a mess on the floor. Her face was red from sobbing and screaming, yet her cheeks were void of tears. Typical. Ruby sighed and popped off the cap to the vodka, pouring the appropriate amount for the occasion.

The crying stopped. “Wha’re you doing?” Charlotte demanded. Ruby cracked open the soda can. “What are you doing?” Her voice became increasingly frustrated when her mother didn’t answer the first time.

“Trying to survive, baby girl.” Ruby swirled her drink and took a sip, turning around to face her daughter.

Lottie’s face scrunched up again, and she scrambled from the floor, stumbling over to Ruby to try and snatch the cup away. “Stooooop!”

As if some supernatural being was truly looking out for her, there was the sound of doors closing and a car locking. They were back from the grocery store. Ruby set her cup down and picked up her dramatic little actress, who pushed away at Ruby.

“Let’s go help Daddy and the boys unload the car, yeah?” she said in an overly cheery voice.

Lottie sniffled, though Ruby couldn’t detect any snot from her nose. Yep. Actress in the making. “Did-did they get candy?”

They did, Ruby knew, as she had shot Oscar a text twenty minutes ago before this whole tantrum erupted. “Well, if you help unload, you’ll see, won’t you, muffin?”

She finally stopped struggling in Ruby’s arms as Ruby opened up the screen door and walked out into the sunshine to greet her boys. Suddenly, Lottie was all too happy to see her father and her brothers. It was as though the past fifteen minutes had never happened. Ruby had to snort.

Children were truly an enigma.

_____

They could’ve been born yesterday, for all Ruby knew.

She vividly remembered the day they came home from the hospital. Oscar had been a mess the entire ride home. Ruby had even offered to drive, seeing as she had been more composed than him. Somehow, they managed to make it back to their apartment at the time. It was a good apartment. Served its purpose and made a good home for a young married couple, but that was also before the triplets came along.

Oscar was terrified that the dogs would be overwhelmed by the three additions to their family, but surprisingly, they took it well. More than well, actually. The labradors were fiercely protective over the babies and loved them more than anything. Even now, as they were surrounded by their family and extended, non-related family, the dogs, now old pups, sat behind the three siblings as everyone sang Happy Birthday. They were getting so big, practically grown ups. Charlotte was a vibrant ray of sunshine, in contrast to her moody toddler years. Andrew was a softie like his mother and an avid reader. Benjamin was like a mini-Oscar, acting just like him all the way down to the massive appetite.

Ruby looked around the crowded patio. From her parents and brothers and their families to Oscar’s mother to all of their friends. So much had changed. Her twin brothers were both married and had kids, though they were younger than her own. Still, the cousins got along fine. Danna and Narcissa were recently married, just returning from their honeymoon in time for the birthday party. Nova and Adrian had been married for a couple years now. Their wedding had been the most down-low thing Ruby had ever seen. A courthouse ceremony followed by a friends and family gathering. They didn’t have kids, and Ruby doubted they would ever have any of their own based on Nova’s aversion to small children and their own personal reasons, but they were fostering an eight year old, Rose, who had been considered part of the family since the day she arrived. She could tell Nova was fond of her, especially since they had a lot in common. It made Ruby think of Nova’s sister, Maggie, who wasn’t with them for the party. Ruby never got to know the girl very well, but she was almost positive the two sisters kept in touch, despite their falling out years ago.

The triplets blew out the candles on their individual small cakes. Everyone clapped. Yes, there was so much that was different now. And her babies, who she could’ve sworn she popped out just the other day, were growing up so fast.

Ten was such a big number, after all.

_____

“Ruby, let the kids win.” Oscar shifted himself inside their fort, pulling Ruby a bit closer to him where she sat between his legs. It was a rainy Saturday morning, and since the triplets couldn’t go outside like they normally would after breakfast, Ruby suggested they build a fort and spend the day in there. A couple hours later, their entire living room was covered in pillows and cushions and blankets and chairs from the dining room to hold everything up. After a quick text to Nova, they even figured out how to bring their TV into the fort without moving it or taping blankets to the wall over it.

“I didn’t race you for years just to be beat by my own children.” Ruby scoffed. “If they want to win, they can learn just as I did.”

The triplets all expressed their agreements, wanting to honestly beat their mother just so they could rub it in her face. Oscar chuckled and pressed a kiss to her temple. Ruby was in first, but just because she could, she let herself slow down a bit. Andy was in second, and shot past her. He stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry.

“Won’t let them win, huh?” Oscar murmured, running a hand through her hair. Lottie and Benny soon passed her as well. She grinned even though she was facing away from him. Andy ended up winning, with Lottie in second, Benny in third, and Ruby in fourth. They hopped up from their mess of blankets to whoop and holler in success.

“Guess Mom’s not so great anymore, is she?” Andrew did a little dance in front of his parents, even shaking his butt in their face. Ruby snorted and kicked him with her foot lightly enough to push him away.

“She’s gonna have to step up her game,” Lottie joined in, giggling.

“My controller stopped working,” Ruby lied, pretending to be offended by their mocking. “You got lucky.”

Sweet, quiet Benny went against her too. “Maybe she should take lessons from Dad.”

Her mouth dropped open. The triplets laughed in response. “Oh, that’s it.” She pulled them toward her one by one, tickling their stomachs. Oscar joined in. Their fort began to shake a little and fall apart as the fight ensued, limbs being kicked every which way.

“Hey, hey, hey, watch out for the coffee table!” Oscar yanked Lottie toward him, who almost hit her head against the furniture’s leg. His brow furrowed. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

She grinned at him, wriggling out of his hold. “I’m fine, Daddy.”

“This is why we don’t rough house in forts,” Ruby joked. She pushed her hair out of her face. “Look at the mess you made.”

Simultaneously, she heard three stomachs growling as the kids protested, saying she and Oscar were just as guilty. She raised an eyebrow.

“How about you guys fix the fort, and I go make some lunch?”

“And then I can teach you guys all my secrets.” Oscar winked at their kids. “She’ll never admit it, but I used to beat her all of the time when we were younger.”

“Guess someone doesn’t want lunch.” Ruby crawled away from him and toward the entrance, halfway out when she felt his hand on her ankle.

“You’re not going anywhere until you take that back,” he joked, following her out. She turned around and leaned over on her knees. His head was poking out of the little blanket entryway. The look he gave her, pleading yet mischievous, melted her.

She bent down a little more to peck his lips; he reached a hand up and pulled her back by her neck. The two kisses he gave her were slightly deeper and full of smiles.

“When I come back, it’s you against me.” She trailed a finger down his face and lowered her voice. “Winner chooses their prize.”

His eyes flashed. “It’s on.”

#renegades #archenemies #supernova #aged up #oscar silva #ruby tucker #osby #tuckva #adrian everhart #nova artino #nodrian #danna bell #narcissa cronin #danissa #my writing

47 notes · View notes

geralehane · 5 years ago

Photo

A Faeverse Story: The Forest Queens

(faeverse is my new series of interconnected short stories about fae and their girlfriends interactions with humans.)

Fae hate iron. Fate love bargains. Fae want your name.

I was about twelve when I met my first fae.

I ran away from home and into the Forgotten Forest – a bad decision to make, if you ask me. But I simply couldn’t stand my mother’s silent fuming any longer, and I just wanted to -- get away. To forget and be forgotten. That’s what the forest is for, isn’t it? In a way, I was a willing spirit for fae to abduct.

I wandered off deep into the forest and spend an hour aimlessly browsing through the trees. The forest is beautiful. Sun was shining through the leaves, illuminating them a shining brilliant green, and particles of dust swirling in the streams of light looked enchanting. That’s exactly the word.

I sat down on a tree stump, and I cried. I cried, because my mother didn’t love me, and I don’t think I loved her, either. I cried because there were no friends I could talk to about this, and even if there were, twelve year olds aren’t exactly equipped enough to deal with this kind of emotional turmoil. I cried, because I knew that I would end up going back to my broken home with its tense silence and my mother angrily washing dishes at me. I cried, because there seemed to be no escaped.

That’s when she crept out of the woods, her steps light, inaudible. She walked the way only fae could – almost levitating. And mesmerizing. Fae are, despite all of the danger and alleged people eating, magnificent creatures.

“Hey.” Her voice was light, too. Like wind, and sunshine, and the stream of a spring. All lovely clichés rolled together in one slender blonde-haired bundle standing before me.

I sprung to my feet and ran. Or wanted to run, really. Except I only ended up stumbling over a branch that wasn’t here before and scraping my knee as I fell down.

“Am I that scary?” Fae cocked her head to the right, studying me with her amused eyes. Emerald green. Just like the leaves with the sun shining through them.

I kept silent. Talking with fae, if you’re inexperienced at it, could end badly. On the other hand, what did I have to lose, really? My name? My life? None of it particularly mattered to me. None of it made me happy. So I stood up, dusted myself off, and looked at her.

She appeared to be the same age as me, but you never knew with fae, the immortal creatures they were. She could be a thousand years old and I wouldn’t know till she told me. She was a little shorted than me, and much, much prettier. Which isn’t that hard to be when the eternal magick of the Forgotten Forest and the spirits of wanderers lost feed your youth and beauty.

“So?” She got impatient with me rather quickly. Not surprising. “Am I that scary?”

“No,” I said quietly. “Not really. But I’m still scared.”

She stood, then, contemplating something as she studied me. Then, she sighed. “I won’t ask for your name. Don’t worry.”

“I can give it to you,” I said. For a second, I was enveloped by my fear; imagining The Feast of Fae, with a table full of every food I loved, beckoning me to eat something, anything, and never be able to return to the mortal world again. Imagining the endless dance. Imagining fading away into the sunlight, and the fae in front of me breathing my soul in.

I wasn’t sure that that was exactly how it went, but my twelve-year-old imagination pictured everything so vividly and beautifully that I didn’t want to know the truth. Perhaps, fae would simply gnaw on my flesh and bones instead while I danced away in a magically induced haze. Perhaps, they – or even her, in front of me - would wear my skin and come back to my mother.

“Careful.” Her quiet voice interrupted my train of thought that was about to take a rather gory turn. “It’s not something you want to say in this forest. Come on.” She gave me another long stare. “Follow me.”

I had already made peace with the fact that I was staying in the Forgotten Forest forever, so I simply did as I was told. To my surprise, instead of a sunny meadow and a dinner table, she led me back to the town border.

“Go. Don’t come back.” Her expression was serious, and it looked completely out of place on her young, ethereal face. “I can’t cross over the border, or I’d walk you home. But hey,” a tiny smirk appeared on her lips, then. “If you managed to survive an hour in the Forgotten Forest, I’m sure you’ll find your way back home.”

The words escaped my mouth before I even had a chance to thought them over. “What if I don’t want to go back home? What if I wanna stay here?”

“No mortal wants to stay here,” she cut me off, rather coldly. “Go before I change my mind.”

That was when my self-preservation instinct kicked in, and I ran. Mother didn’t even notice my absence, and I never told anymore about my run-in with fae. No one would believe I escaped her, anyway.

For a week after that, I waited. And researched. I read everything I could on fae, but the books didn’t offer much – only that they were trouble and you should never talk to them, or attempt to bargain. There were things I already knew – that they hated salt and iron and you could use that to protect yourself, should a stray fae wander up to your house. In the Forgotten Forest, though, that was virtually useless. It was their territory. The land itself gave them power. Or so dusty old books told me. I wasn’t that dumb of a kid to go to the forest again, but I also had enough anxiety that told me the border might not stop a fae that realized she let her prey go.

So I stocked up on salt and waited seven long, sleepless nights for her to come take me back. Yet she never appeared. I waited for confusing, luring dreams, but they never happened. I waited, and waited, and it was almost in vain.

Until the eight night, when I awoke to a silver moon and an annoyed familiar face staring at me through the window. Naturally, I screamed. Or attempted to, really, but fae waved her hand at me, and no sound came out. I could only watch, wide-eyed and terrified, as she crossed her arms over her chest and huffed.

Her next words, however, made me more baffled than scared. “What do you want?” She hissed, thoroughly irritated.

I blinked and gestured at my throat.

“You scream and I tear you apart,” she warned. I nodded. Huffing again, she snapped her fingers. “Now. What do you want?”

“N-nothing,” I stammered. “I don’t want anything.”

She glanced down at the window sill. “Salt? Seriously? I finally answer to your call, and you make it so I can’t get in?”

“My call?”

At my question, she narrowed her eyes, and studied me for a long moment. Her gaze ran over me, searching for something. And, clearly, she found what she was looking for, and she didn’t particularly like it. “If you don’t know about the call, how did you do it?”

“I don’t—”

“Yeah, you don’t know.” She shook her head, incredulous. Her hair shined silver in the moonlight, and her eyes looked dark. “Don’t think about me. Forget you ever met me. If I cross the border again, it’s to kill you and burn your town to the ground. Do you understand?”

Oh, I understood. I frantically nodded, wishing for this all to be over so I could go back to my uninterrupted, boring small-town life. As soon as I thought of it, her face relaxed, and her expression became that of a relief.

“Good,” she told me, curtly. “Hope to never see you again.” With that, she stepped away from my window and ran. I didn’t watch her retreat. I jumped from the bed, closed the curtains, and poured another salt circle around my bed before climbing back in and hiding under the blanket.

I was wildly successful in not thinking of fae at all for several years. If I were more willing to start therapy, I would’ve been probably told that I blocked a traumatic experience as a defense mechanism. And I, once again, successfully avoided even talking about fae unless it came to studies, and I was the only one in my class to opt out of the Defense Against Fae class, which didn’t exactly help with my social standing as that quiet freak.

It was only at my graduation night that I was forced to think of her again.

Our class gathered at the house of our valedictorian, as was the long-running tradition. It certainly helped that our valedictorian came from an extremely long and equally powerful line of witches. Makes sense, really; children of ancient witch families were taught the craft earlier than they learned to walk. I, like many of other simple witches, only got to start on the witchcraft at the age of fourteen. Anything earlier was deemed potentially harmful. But old bloodlines didn’t care. And maybe they were onto something, too.

The fact that our valedictorian was from one of these families meant not only proficiency in magic, but wealth, too. Wealth meant owning a house that was more of a mansion, which meant a party for the ages. I had no idea how I ended up going there. The invitation stretched for everyone in the class, though, and I wasn’t all that looking forward to spending another lonely night in my room with my mother silently watching TV. I guess I just wanted to celebrate at least somehow. Do something to remember one of the most important days in my life.

It turned out to be both the worst and the best decision I’ve ever made.

When it was late and half the class had passed out in various places not really meant to passing out around the house and the other half got tired of excessive dancing and drinking, we all spilled out into the backyard to gather around the fire. Another tradition. I stood a little behind, silently sipping on my wine and watching everyone joke around and exchange promises they likely won’t keep. Until it got quieter, and the main fae expert of our class, Sam, noticed me.

“Hey,” he addressed me, with a tiny bit of slur in his words. “Hey – Mika, right?” His pupils, dilated and sparkling, told me he’d been sipping on potions that night. That didn’t help me at all. I wondered if I should translocate to my house. That would be too dangerous for a novice like me. I could always just run, though.

“Yeah, Mika,” he nodded and beckoned me to come closer and sit on one of the logs that served as chairs around the crackling bonfire. “I always wanted to ask you. Why are you so afraid of fae?”

“Why aren’t you?” I replied quietly. Every pair of eyes watched me as I slowly sat down.

He shrugged. “Why would I be?” The on-going question ping-pong did nothing good for my anxiety. I took a deep breath and shrugged back at him, clearly indicating I wasn’t interested in continuing with this conversation. But he wasn’t done. And not just him. Reana Griffin, the valedictorian, watched the exchange with unhealthy interest.

“No, seriously,” Sam continued coking his head to the right. Just like – no. I gulped the remaining wine down, shutting the thought down. “You didn’t take the Defense class. You never talk about them.”

“I never talk about anything to any of you,” I reasoned.

Reana smirked. “Then why are you here?”

I didn’t have an answer to that, and I was all out of wine to gulp.

“Come on, tell us,” Sam said loudly. He spilled some wine on his tailored pants, and didn’t notice. “Something happened, didn’t it? Did they kill your father?”

“Sam,” one of his friends, a guy I didn’t remember the name of, shushed him disapprovingly. “Too far, man.”

“No one killed my father,” I said, clearing my throat. “He was just... never there. I don’t really…” Why was I even sharing any of these with those people? I glanced at my empty glass. Right.

Everyone kept staring at me. Witch unions were supposed to last forever – literally, in some cases. Divorce was unheard of. One of the many reasons I didn’t really have friends. Everyone speculated that my mother got rid of my father, or that I caused him to leave, somehow.

“So you don’t know your dad?”

“Wait, I wanna know what’s up with her and fae first,” Sam interrupted.

“Nothing,” I said. Nothing was up with me and fae. I was afraid of them. I couldn’t think of them. It inevitably lead to thinking about her, and what happened that night, and what did she even mean by my call? And why did she save me – and did she even save me at all, or did I make it all up in my lonely mind of a lonely child to escape the reality of being utterly, truly alone?

I blinked and felt something wet drip down my cheek. Great. Now I was crying in front of these brilliant, wealthy, confident morons. Truly a way to end the night. I blinked faster, and the tears kept coming faster, too. I couldn’t bear to watch their faces twist with pity, so I pointedly looked past them, far eat. In the direction of the Forest.

It probably shouldn’t have been such a surprise to see her standing there. She grew up, too, as I did. Her hair was longer, and it still shone silver under the moonlight. She stood mere feet away from where we were all sitting, and her smirk was as warm as it was annoyed. At first, I thought she was just a result of my desperation and blurry vision. But, when I wiped the tears away, she remained.

“I’m surprised it took you this long,” she told me. Everyone turned around, and then scrambled to their feet, cries of surprise and fear filling the air. I didn’t move. I simply watched her as she walked to me, her bare feet barely touching the ground.

“So am I.” There was something different about meeting her this time. There was no fear. “Are you mad at me?”

“Not anymore.” She outstretched her hand. “Come.”

“Aren’t you going to kill me and burn this town to the ground?” I asked, then, allowing myself a small smile as I stood and took her hand. Warm. And soft. It promised forever. So I accepted.

And she led me away; away from my gawking classmates and my small town and my dim future; away from my previous life that seemed so dull in comparison with the bright green of The Forgotten Forest. We crossed the clearing that separated the town and the woods, and I didn’t ask why The Forest was suddenly illuminated by sunshine, just like the way it was when we first met. I just watched, and breathed the warm summer air in, and smiled.

“It’s yours now,” she told me, quietly, as we stood before the unseen border. “All of it.”

I looked at her. “Do you need my name?”

“No. No,” she shook her head, and let out a small, melodic laugh. “But you don’t need it, either. You can find a new one. I can give you a new one, if you want. Or you can go without any name at all.”

I thought of it, and the last option seemed the best. Later, perhaps, we’ll come up with something together. Now, I just wanted to be.

And so I smiled wider, and grasped her hand, and led her over the border, into the emerald depth of our forest. patreon

#faeverse #wlw drabble #femslash #the forgotten forest #forest queens #writing #short story #fae #wlw novel

17 notes · View notes

morphineinmyveins · 5 years ago

Text

The end of an Era

I was 6 years old, when my mother picked me up from school and took me to her Culinary class. I remember vividly being introduced to the Chef and saying to her "I want to be a Chef when I grow up" . I had no idea what I was talking about. Somehow, that thought stayed with me forever.

Call me crazy if you want, I understand. Now a days people don't believe in anything, but I do. I believe in a God, in The Universe and because of that, I believe that everything happens for a reason; whether we like it or not.

My life has always been crazy, I could (literally might) write a book about everything that has happened so far. I have grown and learned during this journey a whole lot and something that I know for sure is that I chose Culinary Arts as my career for a reason.

It was never what I expected. I pictured myself dressed in a very clean, white ironed Chef jacket, cooking the most "gourmet" meal someone could imagine, working regular hours, etc. You know? living the dream. I was SO wrong.

I started studying Culinary Management back in Mexico at one of the best cooking schools in the world, Le Cordon Bleu. That is when I started to realize life is not the fairytale I created inside my head.

Life took me to Canada, where I studied Culinary Management AGAIN. I had my very first job in the kitchen of RainForest Cafe, Niagara Falls. My eyes opened and I was able to see everything... long hours, weekends, people being overworked and underpaid for staying on their feet for 12+ hours, THE RUSH, the adrenaline, anxiety, frustration, passion, pride , arrogance, ego, people doing drugs and alcohol to let them get by, the bond you create with your co-workers where NOTHING may have a filter and where teasing each other is the only way to survive. I hated it because it was hard and I loved it because I was excellent at it. I gained respect from people that seemed to disrespect me before. I was in love with my career, long hours in that kitchen were all I craved and I will never forget that kitchen, that people and the passion it gave me.

I ended up moving somewhere else with the promise of a better future. Everything was different this time, the way they worked, how they treated each other, etc. It was very hard adjusting, but I did it because that's who I am... I don't give up. I had my ups and downs in this kitchen. I felt overworked for a while, exhausted, angry, frustrated, disrespected by some, I even felt curious for the very first time if some things would have been different if I was a man. In the other hand, I met a family of cooks that protected me from everything, laughed with me , danced with me and cooked for me. The love and understanding I found here is something that will remain with me until the end.

I am thankful to them, but specially to my Chef. The moment we met I thought we would never get along and it was like that for a while until he became my boss. I got to see every side of him and although my passion for cooking in a professional kitchen was already lost forever, he reminded me how it felt before, the rush, the love and the reasons why God or The Universe put me here, he showed everything to me. I saw my old self in him and made everything better. He might have never noticed but his enthusiasm, passion and empathy for others changed my negative attitude towards the whole picture and thanks to HIM I leave this career with the sweetest memories.

I have learned that the reason why "Being a Chef" was stuck with crazy glue to my head was to make me stronger. The industry has cruel people that believe they come from a Gordon Ramsay tv show. They put you down as much as possible so that they can stay on top. The thicker your skin the longer you survive and the more you succeed. If I chose a different path I am sure I wouldn't be who I am today.

Thank you Mom for always supporting my dream, and thank you Dad for believing in me every single step of the way.

1 note · View note

tawnyisacolor · 5 years ago

Text

it’s 4:30 in the morning and i’m crying again about Taylor Swift. Just like TWO weeks ago it was 13 years of Taylor Swift and I was so clearly reminiscing 10 YEAR OLD TAWNIE watching MTV at my cousins after I religiously been playing the album for weeks and it was the first time I saw her videos played on tv and I told my cousin “I love her.” and she told me “I LOVE her too.” and I remember that moment so vividly and how much that music meant to me then and how much it meant to me growing into it and through it and with her and it means to me now. I remember at 12 Fearless feeling like a fairytale, A LOVE STORY to me. I remember the first boy ever breaking my heart and sobbing “Forevever and Always” into my pillow in the dark. Speak Now coming out and my step mother sending it to me in the mail even though my father and I weren’t talking and even though I had to wait the extra day it meant so much to me that she knew how much Taylor meant to me. Feeling “Sparks Fly” for the first time and that song being the soundtrack to how I was feeling for weeks. “Mean” guiding me through the hurt of past and future bullying. Thinking I related to so many of those songs, so young and I didn’t even know. Going out and purchasing Red with my babysitting money with my same cousin all those years back. Being still so curious and so cautious about love it was an album I actually felt myself yearn to go through, and boy did I. I don’t really know how to put into words the excitement and hurt I have in this album but I can tell you the three days of listening to 22 on repeat at 16 impatiently waiting for the day I could listen to it at 22. And I remember sending “Stay, Stay, Stay” to a boy I was I love with a year later and him not staying long after that and that album was solace to me after. AND 1989 A FULL BOP. THAT ALBUM FEELS LIKE A NEW HOME. A WHOLE NEW SPACE WITH ME AND TAYLOR. I felt growth and change in myself and with Taylor. I didn’t need to feel accepted by others with Taylor and I really felt that’s how she felt with us. In Reputation it really showed. I felt so proud. I felt so angry for Taylor for so many years and I am so proud of the work she put into all of her music and was proud of her putting her anger and hurt and healing out there for everyone to see. She didn’t deserve the bullying she went through and I’m so proud of her always for standing up for herself. And IF I HAVE SO MANY LITTLE MEMORIES OF THIS MUSIC that I grew with and loved with and learned with and hurt and cried and sobbed with and danced with and it means SO much to little old me, in a way that music feels like it belongs to me too and it happened to me, I can’t imagine how much it means to her and the memories and love she holds with it and how much it hurts. AND FOR THE AUDACITY TO HOLD THAT MUSIC ABOVE HER or look to flip the narrative and make her the bad guy??? I wish I could hug her but I’m sending her so many brain hugs. I truly hope that I get to finally make it to the Lover Tour and see Taylor Swift and be able to support her in person as much as I support her with my heart because it’s with all of it and I love her so much and she deserves the best and her BEAUTIFULLY CRAFTED music. This doesn’t make much sense but I’m angry and I’m hurt and i needed to get it out.

#we stand with taylor #i stand with taylor #taylor swift #i love taylor swift so much #this took me an hour and i cried like 3 times #im done #i need to go to bed #fearless #speak now #red #1989 #reputation

4 notes · View notes

theartificialdane · 6 years ago

Text

Andromeda: Requiem

Violet recieves a letter. Her stepfather is dead. This is what happens when a mothers love forces her to face her worst fears. Galactica and Paris AU tie in.

/ Thank you to @veronicasanders for her eternal patience, great guidance and insistence on pushing me beyond my comfort zone. This would not have been made without you. Dedicated to @imanationalphenomenon - I’m sorry I made you wait this long, but here it finally is!

“Make a right.”

Sutan nodded, Violet guiding him through a tiny suburb outside Atlanta, the city sign saying Lilburn. Violet had gotten the message a little over a week ago that her stepdad had died, his wife barely reacting as she read the letter that had arrived to their New York address from someone who had called himself Dax. Sutan had never seen Violet’s childhood home, had never met anyone from the family that had his wife for the first 13 years of her life. He didn’t know what he was expecting. He turned down the road, it all looking strangely normal. Where Violet had grown up just a normal neighborhood filled with small suburban homes with front lawns, trampolines and garages.

They had attended the service after circling for what felt like hours looking for the right church, the town feeling like it was 80% churches compared to Manhattan. The service was surprisingly full from what little Sutan had heard from Violet about the kind of person her stepdad had been. They had slipped in and sat at the very back, Sutan holding Violet’s hand through the entire thing. Sutan hadn’t even realised he had never seen a photo of Violet’s stepdad, until he was faced with the picture of him next to the casket, a large brunette man looking back at him. Sutan knew that his name was John, and how Violet’s expression darkened when she was forced to talk about him. What was the most bizarre of all though, was when he spotted a short plump woman at the very front of the church. She had to be Abigail Dardo. She was saying hello to everyone, a handkerchief clutched in her hand, her blonde hair in big curls, her blue eyes so unlike his wife, the only thing they had in common the set of their mouth and, as Sutan looked closely, the shape of theirs hands. He had wanted to get a better look at the woman who had attempted to raise the woman he loved, curiosity nearly killing the cat, but Violet had left the church in a hurry after the service, almost like she had spotted something.

”Here…”

Sutan stopped the car outside a completely normal two story house with a porch and a garage. They had circled around town, Violet clearly trying to kill time, though Sutan had no idea what she was waiting for, pointing him in different directions. They had passed a small run down dance studio, Violet gently touching his arm to make him slow down, though she hadn’t asked him to stop. The house had been the first place she had actually talked to him. Another car was parked there as well, Violet jumping when she spotted it, but she hadn’t said anything.

“So.. This is where you grew up?”

Violet nodded, his wife twisting the wedding ring on her finger again and again, the thin gold band rubbing back and forth. Violet hadn’t told him what they were doing here, but he knew she wouldn’t have insisted on going if there wasn’t something truly important she had to do, something she had to get.

“Are you sure you want to go in?”

Sutan looked over at Violet, the woman still quiet, just as she had been on the entire trip to Georgia. “Alright.” It was something he had learned to accept, even if he didn’t like it, but after almost two decades of marriage, Violet’s silence when it all became too much was as expected as how she always curled up in his arms to find enough peace to sleep after a day just like this. “Let’s go.”

Sutan moved to open his door, but Violet reached out, catching his wrist in her hand, stopping him.

“I…”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for coming with me.”

Sutan smiled, his heart filled with tender affection, Violet’s voice so very small. “I’d never let you go alone.” Sutan kissed her gently, before opening his door and stepped out on the cold winter road.

///

Violet took a deep breath, her hand shaking as she reached for the doorbell. Walking up to the house had felt like walking in a dream, everything so surreal. She knew she had fallen into silence, that Sutan was worried about her, but how could she not when everything around was just like when she was small, the road one she remembered so vividly, walking home in her beat up trainers, her heels now clacking on the same pavement that had tormented her.

She didn’t want to do this, but she knew exactly who she had to do it for.

Violet pressed the bell, a riiing sounding from inside the house, a dog started yapping, and Violet could hear footsteps, more footsteps than she expected, and then, the door opened.

“Oh..” This was yet another person Sutan had never seen before. She was shorter than Violet, a few years younger too. “So it was actually you.” She had clearly been crying, her mascara smudged. A toddler was on her hip, a little boy staring at them. “Just when I thought today couldn’t get any worse.”

“Hello Becky...”

“What do you want?”

Sutan could feel Violet’s fingers tighten on his arm, his wife’s nails digging into his jacket. The tension was so thick you could have cut it with a knife, Violet and the woman who Violet had called Becky staring at each other, both looking like they expected war to break out. Becky’s blonde hair was in a half bun, her black dress still on, the child also dressed up.

“Hi there.” Sutan held his hand out. “I’m Suta-”

“I know who you are. I watch TV.”

“Ah.” Sutan put his hand back in his pocket.

“Is...” Sutan could see Violet was visually struggling, his wife looking like she was about to vomit. “Abigail here?”

“She didn’t want to leave the cemetery just yet.”

“Can we come in?” Sutan looked at the stranger.

“Not until /she/-” Becky looked at Violet. “-tells me why you’re here.”

“I…” Violet’s nails dug even further, Sutan swearing he could feel them pierce his skin even through his layers of clothes. “I’m here... I’m here to pick up- It’s-”

“I forgot for a second that you were legally retarded.”

“I’m not-”

“You never could take a joke,” Becky rolled her eyes. “Come inside before Joshie freezes.” The woman stepped aside, bumping the toddler up.

They stepped in, Sutan closing the door behind them. {Who is she?} Sutan whispered as he took Violet’s coat, the French easily falling from his lips.

{My sister}

{You have a sister?} Violet had never mentioned a sister.

{Half-sister.}

Meanwhile Becky had put the toddler down who quickly disappeared, the voices of several kids being drowned out by the television in the next room.

“Is… is that your son?” Violet swallowed, the woman clearly uncomfortable.

“As if you care.”

“Beck-”

“His name is Joshua, he’s 2. Youngest of three.” Becky turned to them, looking Sutan up and down. “Where’s your kid?”

Violet looked at Becky with surprise. “My kid?”

“I read too. Amazing that I learned how in Lilburn, huh Blair?” Becky huffed. “You didn’t leave her in the car, did you?”

Sutan took a slight step forward, Becky’s tone like every model who had ever thrown her drink; Snide and filled with venom. “Our daughter is at school. We didn’t think it necessary to bring her here.” Neither of them had even told Melati that John had died. Their daughter knew very little of Violet’s family, their child actually fully believing her mother was French until they had relocated to America in her early teens. Melati had never met Violet’s parents, had never even heard their name. Melati had asked, just once, but Violet had told her she already her a grandma, that her Nenek was there and that had been the end.

“Of course. Because nothing here has ever been good enough for you.”

“Good enough?” Violet felt a flicker of anger in her belly, the flame the first emotion besides nausea she had felt since she and Sutan had stepped on the plane in New York. “Good enough for me?”

“Yes. you heard me. You show up now that my dad is dead, show up in your fucking.. Designer clothes, and you want to play family? You want to pretend everything is fine?”

“I’d rather die than ever pretend anything that happened in this house was fine.” Violet knew that Becky had never been on her side, but to hear it from an adult instead of a little girl hurt more than a slap to the face. Their parents had always favored Becky, John calling her his little princess. Becky could do no wrong, the girl always praised by their parents, Violet forced to sit and watch TV whenever Becky wanted to, forced to eat food she didn’t like because Becky wanted it, forced to go to every school event because Becky wanted to with her friends from her grade while Violet did her best to be invisible. She had spent a childhood of being invisible, of having nothing, and even though Sutan hadn’t said anything, she knew she wasn’t alone. She had a life now, an actual life she build for herself. She had a company and a career, a husband she loved, she had friends and her dogs and most importantly she had the daughter she was doing this for.

“You’ve always been so dramatic.”

“I was tortured Becky, tortured for, for years, and the man who did it is finally in the groun-”

“Don’t you DARE say stuff like that about my dad! He was a good man.”

Violet couldn’t do anything but stare, the room going completely silent, the TV still running in the other room. “Is that what you truly believe?”

“You have no idea how hard it was for them. You got into that, that ballet school and then you suddenly disappeared. You stopped coming home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. Not even a single birthday card and then you show up in the magazines under a completely different name dating… dating him?” She gestured at Sutan. “And you didn’t even tell us? Mama found out from someone at church, at church Blair! You throw away the only number we have for you and you’re gone, except your face keeps showing up throwing your success in our faces! My dad was a good man who did everything for you, and you never appreciated any of it.”

“Can I use the restroom?”

///

“Close the door.”

Sutan closed the door behind him, quickly locking it as he still balanced their jackets. Becky’s words ringing in his ears. He took a deep breath through his nose, his fists still clenching and unclenching. Sutan prided himself on not being a man who was angered easily. He couldn’t, not in his profession, not with the way he lived his life, but his chest was burning hot. He couldn’t believe what he had heard. How the person who was apparently his wife’s sister defended a man who had done so much damage to the woman he loved. Siblings were suppose to look out for each other, were suppose to protect each other. He couldn’t even imagine how he would have attempted to survive growing up without Raja, a world truly without his sister one he didn’t even want to think of, and here he was, witnessing parts of why his wife was exactly the way she was. Her pride, her walls, the sometimes frightening stoicism that could overtake her when she was pushed to her breaking point.

“Darling-” Sutan wanted to reach out, to touch and soothe and understand. To make sure that Violet was still there and that she was okay, but Violet hiked her skirt up and got on her knees, Sutan freezing in place. “Lovely eyes, what are you-”

“Hush. Please.” Violet tapped her knuckles on one of the tiles next to the sink. “I can’t stay in this house another minute.” Violet tapped another tile, and Sutan got down on his knees as well.

“What’s going-”

Violet tapped a third tile. “There.” Sutan watched as his wife put her nails against the wall, popping the tile out, revealing a small empty tunnel in the wall. Violet reached inside, a whisper of “Oh thank god.” falling from her lips as she pulled a tin box into the light. The box was old, the flower pattern on it clearly painted with a child's hand, a fine layer of dust covering it.

“Is that why we’re here?”

It seemed strange, but also so very very like the woman that he had married; that she would willingly walk through fire for something as absurd as a tin box not even a surprise. Violet nodded, shaking it gently, the sound of several small items rustling inside.

“I don’t want to explain this house, this.. Any of this..” Violet looked at Sutan, her brown eyes blank with unshed tears, her cheeks a pale rose, her lip thick from how Sutan knew she had bitten it. “I don’t want this to be the story my daughter knows, for it.. For it to be her story..” Sutan nodded. Even though Violet was in her 40s, even though they had gone through so much together, she was still trying to escape something, still trying to run away from a piece of herself, and after seeing the scene in the hallway, Sutan felt like he understood it all slightly better.

“She’s so much more than this, so much more than me.. She’s.. She’s so much more than us.” Violet was whispering again. “I have never had words and I’ve never been good at explaining. I mean.. You know that..”

Sutan smiled slightly, his hand finding Violet’s neck, his palms holding her and grounding her. “I do.”

“But I’ll have this now..” Violet gave the box to Sutan. “And that has to be enough..”

“I’m sure it will be.” Sutan kissed Violet, their lips meeting in a gentle, closed mouthed peck, years of comfort and trust in that single movement. “Do you want to go home?”

“More than anything else.”

///

Sutan was sure Violet was seconds from just toeing off her Louboutins and running out the door like Cinderella, but all things considered she was surprisingly calm, her entire body clamping up again the moment he had opened the door to the bathroom.

They made their way down the stairs, just as the front door opened and the worst possible thing that could happen walked through it. Abigail Dardo.

Abigail stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes meeting Violet. “You’ve actually come.”

Violet froze. Pure terror radiating off her, her breath stopping. Abigail looked like a perfectly normal human being. Sutan knew she was two years younger than him and he had nearly choked on his drink when Violet had shared the fact with him. Abigail might actually have looked sweet, like a grandma who tried to stay young, but by Violets reaction, all Sutan could see was someone who had hurt the woman he loved so much that she would forever be damaged by it.

“John would be so happy you’re here, oh I knew you would regret all that nonsense from your youth Blair.”

“Excuse me ma’am, but we were just leaving.” Sutan put a hand in the small of Violet’s back, pushing her forwards as he tried to move in front of her, casually shielding her body like he had done so many times before from interviewers or photographers.

“But you just got here-”

“Flight to catch, can’t wait.” Sutan smiled, taking another few steps towards the door. “We’re very sorry for your loss, may he rest in peace.” Sutan didn’t want John to rest in peace, not even a little, actually he would be quite content if John Dardo spent the rest of eternity in christian hell being spitroasted by the devil.

“Let me see you. You’re so tall.” Abigail blocked their exit, staring at Violet. “You look so different from the last time I saw you..” If the little girl in the photo was anything to go by, Sutan couldn’t agree more. Violet had grown into an adult, a woman who was confident and competent, who carried herself with pride so unlike the few pictures Sutan had seen from her early college days and what little video he had found from the ballet.

“Come here Blair bear.” Abigail reached out, clearly trying to hug Violet, and then it happened.

“NO!”

Violet’s shout was loud and clear, her hands in front of her as she had just pushed her mother away, her eyes large, like she couldn’t believe what she had just done. “No.”

“Blair, what are you-”

“My husband and I are leaving. Right now.”

///

Violet slammed the car door behind her, her pulse racing. She hadn’t seen her mother in the flesh since she was 16, hadn’t seen the woman who had caused her so much pain since she had gotten injured and had dropped out of the Ballet Academy. Violet felt dirty, her skin almost itching where her mother had touched her, light sweat covering her body.

“Can we go?! Please-”

Violet knew she was being hysterical, knew she wasn’t fair, but everything in her told her to chose fight or flight and she had no intention of fighting.

“We can go to the airport right away” Sutan started the car, pulling away from the driveaway and out into the big road.

“No.” Violet couldn’t handle the idea of an airport, couldn’t stand the idea of so many strangers around her, people looking at her, wondering about her. “Just. I can’t fly, I need- Can we just- drive- I- please?”

“It’s a 12 hour drive my love.”

Violet knew she was asking a lot of her husband, knew she was being terribly unfair, knew what she was requesting wasn’t okay, but she couldn’t go to the airport. Her mind was racing at the risk of being followed, and the only thing she could think of that would help was an open highway, driving as fast as they could. “Please.”

Sutan looked at her, and Violet couldn’t help but worry he would say no, that he would tell her she was overreacting and that she was being dramatic.

“Of course darling. Of course.”

////

Melati was typing away on her computer, her art history essay unfortunately not writing itself. Next to her she had the thick dictionary she had gotten as a gift from her aunt Fame. Most of her classmates didn’t understand why Melati prefered a physical dictionary whenever she could, but it just wasn’t the same with an online one, her brain that was heavily anchored in french not truly understanding a new word unless she did the physical act of looking up a word. It was most likely something she had picked up in Paris, her private school there so focused on papers and actual books that even after she had fully transferred into the american school system, there was still something about it.

Melati heard a knock on the door, her mother standing there with a steaming cup of tea in hand.

{How’s the exam going?}

{Okay.} Melati smiled, moving the piece she was working on away so Violet could put the cup down next to her computer, the scent of peach tea filling her nose. {Thank you Mama.} Melati turned her attention back on her computer, but a small cough made her look back up.

{I.. Umh..} Violet sat down. {I have something for you.}

{You do?}

Melati didn’t often get presents from her mom, gifts so much more something her dad excelled at and found delight in.

Violet placed a tin box on the desk. {Here.}

{What is it?}

{Something I had long ago..} Violet smiled, her eyes sad. {I know.. I know I haven’t always been.. Good.. at answering your questions.}

Melati felt a brief stab in her heart. To say that her mother wasn’t good at answering questions would be the understatement of the century, if not the millennium. She had never thought about how little she knew as a child. She knew her father's family, summers in Indonesia with her toes in the sand and she had thought she knew her mother, Autumn in Paris with the leaves falling and slow weekends spend in the country home eating grapes and playing with Frida. Melati Lavender Amrull had known who she was, what she came from, until she had found out that France wasn’t her mother's blood after all, and that there was so much she had no idea about.

{I didn’t.. The reason I haven’t told you much- I… Melati, I want you to understand.. I wasn’t a very happy child.. And that’s.. I want so much more for you, puppet.} Violet gently stroked Melati’s cheek, her cool thumb gliding over brown skin. {I can’t give you everything you ask for, but I can give you this..} Violet pushed the box forwards.

Melati looked at her mother, confusion without a doubt clear on her face as she gently opened the box, the thing creaking slightly.

{These are.. Things, I hid as a child. Things that were important to me. Treasures that brought me comfort and joy.}

Inside there was a picture of a little girl with a backpack that looked almost twice the size she was, a timid smile on the child's lips. Melati instantly recognizing the nose and she realized it was the first photo she had ever seen of her mother as a child. There was a smooth white rock, a piece of thick white ribbon, three light blue marbles, a piece of rosa soap shaped like a flower, a single dangling earring with a red stone and three cents.

Melati held up the photo, studying it.

{That’s from my first day of school. The backpack was my favorite.} Violet smiled. I never really.. I never liked going to school.}

{Why?}

{I might tell you another time.}

Melati nodded. Normally a response like that from her mother would make annoyance rush through her, but as she looked at the things, she realised that this was more than she had ever been told before. Even though the things that had been saved might have looked jumbled to a stranger, Melati felt like she recognised it all from her mother's designs. The childhood treasures all carrying the sense of gravity and wistfulness that so many praised the Chachki universe for. A somber longing for something else. A childish hope that something could change. A promise that the future could somehow be better.

{Thank you Mama. Thank you for these.} Melati reached out, taking her mother’s hand in hers, Violet holding it tight. Violet nodded, the grip of her fingers trying to express everything she couldn’t say with words.

#galactica #andromeda #paris au #my fics #really freaking proud of this!!!

21 notes · View notes

kabane52 · 6 years ago

Text

The War Within

This is an old article from Christianity Today from 1982

Driving through Wisconsin on vacation this summer, a Leadership staff member passed a huge sign in the middle of the bucolic countryside. "Naughty Things for Nice People," it proclaimed, and as if to prove it, a gigantic cuddly bear peered out from beside the words "Adult Novelties."

"What's that mean, Dad?" came the question from the ten-year-old boy in the back of the van. "Yeah," piped up the siblings, "what's that all about, Dad?"

Such questions abound these days, as media penetrate our homes and vehicles with not just sleazy sex but carefully packaged titillations. One report has it that a recent convention of youth pastors created the highest rental of X-rated movies in the hotel's history. More than 80 percent of all customers signing up for cable TV opt for the erotic films. The availability—the near-ubiquity of so much sexual enticement, the constant barrage of innuendoes, and the nonstop polemic for indulgence inevitably attracts.

Many rationales tempt the mind of the Christian leader: "I have to know what's going on. … Voyeurism is better than adultery. … I need moderation—total deprivation isn't necessary."

Admittedly, there are no easy answers. We cannot shut off either our brains or our glands. But consider the following article by a man in full-time ministry. The article is blunt. But we felt it important to be just this honest and realistic. Sexual temptations in many forms have always lured Christians, but today's opportunities and climate make this article especially relevant to all of us.

* * *

"Lust is the ape that gibbers in our loins. Tame him as we will by day, he rages all the wilder in our dreams by night. Just when we think we're safe from him, he raises up his ugly head and smirks, and there's no river in the world flows cold and strong enough to strike him down. Almighty God, why dost thou deck men out with such a loathsome toy?" Frederick Buechner Godric I am writing this article anonymously because I am embarrassed. Embarrassed for my wife and children, yes, but embarrassed most for myself. I will tell of my personal battle with lust, and if I believed I were the only one who fought in that war, I would not waste emotional energy dredging up stained and painful memories. But I believe my experience is not uncommon, is perhaps even typical of pastors, writers, and conference speakers. No one talks about it. No one writes about it. But it's there, like an unacknowledged cancer that metastasizes best when no one goes for x-rays or feels for lumps.

I know I am not alone, because the few times I have opened up and shared my struggles with Christian friends, they have replied with Doppelganger stories of exactly the same stages of awakening, obsession, possession. Years from now, when socio-historians sift through the documents describing our times, they will undoubtedly come up with elegant explanations of why men who grew up in church homes are oversexed and vulnerable to attacks of lust and obsession, and why women who grew up in those same environments emerged uptight and somewhat disinterested in sex. But I leave that to the future analysts.

I remember vividly the night I first experienced lust. Real lust—not the high school and college variety. Of course as an adolescent I had drooled through Playboy, sneaked off to my uncle's room for a heart-thumping first look at hard-core pornography, and done my share of grappling and fumbling with my fiancee's clothes. I date my lust awakening, though, to the adult onslaught of mature, willful commitment to lust.

It hit on one of my first trips away from home. My job required me to travel at that time, and as I sat in a dingy motel room near the airport and flipped through the city guide of what to do in Rochester, New York, I kept coming back to one haunting photo of an exotic dancer, a former Miss Peach Bowl winner, the ad said. She looked fresh and inviting: the enchanting kind of Southern girl you see on TV commercials for fried chicken—only this one had no clothes on.

Somehow, I had survived the sixties sheltered from strippers and Woodstock-type nudity. And when I first saw the ad, I instinctively ruled her show out of bounds for me. But as I settled down to watch an inane TV show, her body kept looming before my mind with the simple question, "Why not?"

I began to think. Indeed, why not? To be an effective Christian, I had to experience all of life, right? Didn't Jesus himself hang around with prostitutes and sinners? I could go simply as an observer, in the world but not of the world. Rationalizations leaped up like flying buttresses to support my desires, and within ten minutes I was bundled in the back seat of a taxi headed toward the seamy side of Rochester.

I got the driver to let me off a few blocks away, just for safety's sake, and I kept glancing over my shoulder expecting to see someone I knew. Or perhaps God would step in, efface my desires, and change my mind about the wisdom of the act. I even asked him about that, meekly. No answer.

I walked into the bar between acts and was then faced with the new experience of ordering a drink. My forehead sweating, I scanned my memory of Westerns for an appropriate drink to order. Finally I decided on whiskey. I tried to make it sound casual, but the waitress flummoxed me by asking another question.

"How do you want it?"

How do I want it? What did she mean? What could I say? It seemed everyone in the bar was staring at me.

"A double," I stammered.

Sensing my naiveté, she rolled her eyes slightly and asked, "Is on the rocks OK?"

Bolstered by my first fiery sips of whiskey, which I tried to stretch out so as not to have to order another, I sat with my eyes glued to the stage.

Miss Peach Bowl was everything the ad had promised. With a figure worthy of a Wonder Woman costume, she danced superbly and was something of an acrobat. She started fully clothed and teased us with slow removals of each sequined article of clothing. Toward the end, when she wore only a G— string, whooping men near the stage bade her lean over and stuffed folded bills under the tiny swatch of cloth. She grinned invitingly. I stared in disbelief. In one final strobe-lit routine she cartwheeled nude across the stage.

The flush of excitement created by my first whiskey, drunk too fast in spite of myself, the eyepopping spectacle of this gorgeous woman baring all and jiggling it in front of me, and the boisterous spirit of the all-male audience combined to overpower me. I walked out of the bar two hours later feeling strangely warmed, intensely excited, and surprised that nothing had actually happened to me. I suppose it's the same feeling that washes in after a big event like marriage, or graduation, or first intercourse for that matter. In just a few hours, you realize that although in one sense everything has changed, in another sense nothing has changed. You are the same person.

Lust shares with sins like envy and pride the distinction of being invisible, slippery, hard to pin down. Was what happened that night a sin? I denied it to myself on the way home. To really rate as lust, I told myself, you must look on a woman so as to desire sexual intercourse with her. Isn't that what Jesus said? Whatever happened that night, I certainly couldn't recall desiring intercourse with Miss Peach Bowl. It was more private and distant than that. What happened, happened quickly, was gone, and left no scars. Or so I thought at the time.

Ten years have passed since that awakening in wintry Rochester, ten years spent never far from the presence of lust. The guilt caught up with me, and back in my motel room that very evening, I was already praying slobbery prayers for forgiveness. For a while that guilt kept me out of live shows and limited my voyeurism to magazines and movies, but only for a while. For ten years I have fought unremitting guerrilla warfare.

Being the reflective sort, I have often pondered the phenomenon of lust. It is unlike anything else in my experience. Most thrills—scary roller coasters, trips in airplanes, visits to waterfalls—lose a certain edge of excitement once I have experienced them and figured them out. I enjoy them and will duplicate the experiences if given the chance, but after a few tries, they no longer hold such a powerful gravitational attraction.

Sex is utterly different. There is only so much to "figure out." Every person who endures high school biology, let alone a sniggering sex education class, knows the basic shapes, colors, and sizes of the sexual organs. Anyone who has been to an art museum knows about women's breasts. Anyone who has hauled down a gynecology book in a public library knows about genitalia. Somehow, no amount of knowledge reduces the appeal—the forces may, in fact, work concordantly. What strange power is it that allows a male gynecologist to clinically examine female sexual organs all day long—there is nothing left for him to "learn"—and yet return home and find himself quickly aroused by his wifely peekaboo blouse?

"An ape that gibbers in my loins," wrote novelist Frederick Buechner about lust, and no experience comes with such a feral force. And yet, maybe by labeling it an "animal drive" we have missed the main point of lust. No animal I have heard of spends its life fixating on sex. Females in most species invite attention only a few times a year or less; the rest of the time males obediently plod through the mundane routine of phylogeny, apparently never giving sex another thought.

Humans are different. We have the freedom to center our lives inordinately in this one drive, without the harmony enforced by nature. Our females are biologically receptive the vast majority of the time, and no instinct inhibits us from focusing all our thoughts, behavior, and energy on sex.

I have tried to analyze lust, to fractionate it down into its particulars. I take a Playboy centerfold and study it with a magnifying glass. It consists only of dots—dots of four primary colors laid down by a printing press in a certain order. There is no magic on that page, only stipples of ink, which under magnification, show flaws and blurs. But there is magic on that page. I can stare at it, burn the image in my mind, fondle it mentally for hours, even days. Blood steams up when I gaze on it.

Early Marxists, heady with revolution, added sex to their list of human foibles needing alteration. Lenin pronounced his famous Glass of Water Theory, legislating that the sexual act was of no more consequence than the quenching of thirst by a glass of water. Surely bourgeois morality would topple along with bourgeois banks and industries and religions. But in a few years, Lenin had to abjure the Glass of Water Theory. By all reductionist logic, sex was like a glass of water, but sex proved immune to reductionist logic. It resisted being made of no consequence. Lenin, a historian, should have known better. Kings had renounced their thrones, saints their God, and spouses their lifetime partners because of this strange demon of lust. Dialectical materialism hardly stood a chance.

Books often question God's wisdom or goodness in allowing so much pain and sorrow in the world, and yet I have read none that question his goodness and wisdom in allowing so much sex and lust in the world. But I think the two may be parallel questions. Whether through creation or marred creation or whatever (we can't get into that here), we ended up with sex drives that virtually impel us to break rules God laid down. Males reach their sexual peak at age eighteen, scientists tell us. In our culture, you can't even legally marry before then, so when a male marries, if he has remained chaste, he has already forfeited his time of greatest sexual prowess. Mark Twain railed against God for parceling out to each human a source of universal joy and pleasure, at its peak in teenage years, then forbidding it until marriage and restricting it to one partner. He has a point.

Couldn't our hormones or chromosomes have been arranged so that mates would more easily find sexual satisfaction with just one partner? Why weren't we made more like the animals, who, except for specified periods, go through their daily routine (nude to a beast) with hardly a thought of sex. I could handle lust better if I knew it would only strike me in October or May. It's the not knowing, the ceaseless vulnerability, that drives me crazy.

Lust, I read somewhere, is the craving for salt by a man who is dying of thirst. There's a touch of perversion there, isn't there? Why were we not made with merely a craving for water, thus removing the salt from every newsstand, television show, and movie?

I know what you are thinking, you readers of Leadership. You are protesting that God never makes me lust, that I choose it, that he probably allows it as an opportunity for me to exercise my virtue. Yes, yes, I understand all that. But some of you know firsthand, as I do, that those pious platitudes, albeit perfectly correct, have almost no relevance to what happens biologically inside me when I visit a local beach or pick up any of a hundred magazines.

Some of you know what it is like to walk with your eyes at breast level, to flip eagerly through every new issue of Time searching for a rare sexy picture, to yearn for chains on the outside of your motel room to keep you in—unless it comes with that most perverse of all modern inventions, the in-room porno movie. And you also know what it is like to wallow in the guilt of that obsession, and to cry and pray with whatever faith you can muster, to plead with God to release you, to mutate you, to castrate you like Origen—whatever it takes to deliver you. And even as you pray, luscious, bewitching images crowd into your mind.

You also know what it is like to preach on Sunday, in a strange city, to preach even on a topic like grace or obedience or the will of God, or the decline of our civilization, with the awful and wonderful memories of last night's lust still more real to you at that moment than the sea of expectant faces spread out before you. You know the self-hatred that comes with that intolerable dissonance. And you muddle through the sermon swearing never to let it get to you like that again, until after the service a shapely woman comes beaming and squeezes your hand and whispers praise to you, and all resolve melts, and as she explains how blessed she was by your message, you are mentally undressing her.

The night in Rochester was my first experience with adult lust, but by no means my last. Strip joints are too handy these days. The drug store down the street sells Hustler, High Society, Jugs, anything you want. I have been to maybe fifteen truly pornographic movies, including the few classics like Deep Throat and Behind the Green Door. They scare me, perhaps because it seems so deliberate and volitional to stand in line (always glancing around furtively), to pay out money and to sit in the dark for an hour or two. The crowd is unlike any other crowd I mix with—they remind me I don't belong. And the movies, technically, aesthetically, and even erotically, are vapid and boring. But still, when a local paper advertises one more Emmanuelle sequel, I drool.

I learned quickly that lust, like physical sex, points in only one direction. You cannot go back to a lower level and stay satisfied. Always you want more. A magazine excites, a movie thrills, a live show really makes the blood run. I never got as far as body tattooing, personal photograph sessions, and massages, let alone outright prostitution, but I've experienced enough of the unquenchable nature of sex to frighten me for good. Lust does not satisfy; it stirs up. I no longer wonder how deviants can get into child molesting, masochism, and other abnormalities. Although such acts are incomprehensible to me, I remember well that where I ended up was also incomprehensible to me when I started.

A cousin of mine subscribes to at least fifteen of the raunchiest magazines I have ever seen. Books I have peeked at for just a few seconds in airport newsstands litter his house. He has told me that, even surrounded by vivid depictions of every sex act, every size and shape of woman he can imagine, he still wants more. He still devours the new issues. He and his wife are experimenting with orgies now, and numerous other variations I won't mention. It is not enough. The thrill will fade before long, and he will want more.

Psychologists use the term obsession to label what I have been describing, and they may say that I have more innate obsession than the average male. They would trace its genesis back to my repressive upbringing, and they are undoubtedly right. That is why I am writing to others of you in the Christian world. If you have not fought such obsession yourself, every Sunday when you step to the pulpit you speak to many who have, although you could hardly read it in their blank, freshly scrubbed faces. Lust is indeed an invisible sin.

At times the obsession has felt to me more like possession. I remember one time especially that scared me. I was in Washington, D.C., one of the places in the United States where any kind of lust is easily attainable. At three o'clock in the afternoon, after touring the cherry blossoms, I sauntered into a dark bar that advertised nude dancing. I fended off the girls who came to my table and asked for drinks, and instead directed my attention to the dancers. There were only two, and maybe five customers at most. One black girl with an unspectacular figure weaved over to the part of the stage nearest my table.

This was somewhat different than the other strip shows I had seen. There was no teasing or "visual foreplay." She was already naked, unashamedly so, and she wiggled maybe a foot from my head. She stared right into my eyes. This was so close, so intimate, that it seemed for a terrifying moment to be nearer a relationship than a performance. What I felt could only be called possession.

I found myself—it seemed as though I had not made the decision, that someone else's hands inside mine were doing it—fumbling in my pocket, pulling out bills and stuffing them in a garter belt high up on her thigh. In appreciation she maneuvered herself to grant an even better view. She had no secrets.

I staggered out of that bar. I felt I had crossed a line and could never return to innocence. That weekend I had important business engagements, but throughout them indelible images of that anonymous girl filled my mind. I yearned to flee and go home to my wife, to demonstrate to her my fear so that she could shelter me and mother me and keep me from following where all this was leading.

Just a few years before, I had sat with a distant, reproachful view and watched men lose control and act like country-fair churls as they stuffed bills down the G-string of Miss Peach Bowl. I would never stoop to that—I was smugly confident in Rochester. After all, I was intelligent, happily married, sophisticated—a committed Christian known by friends for my self-control. It would never happen. But it did.

When I went home, I did not tell my wife. How could I? The story was too long, and she, who had hardly ever known lust and had never been unfaithful to me, would not comprehend it. It would likely rupture my marriage, and then I would be cast loose on a sea I could not navigate.

I made a vow then—one more in a series. I vowed I would only look at Playboy and other "respectable" erotic magazines. No more raunchiness. I had certain rationalizations about lust, and pained realism about my inability to stay pure. I simply needed some safe boundaries, I decided. Here are some of my rationalizations that supported my conclusion to contain, not destroy, my lust:

Nudity is art. Go to any art museum in the world, and you will see nudity openly displayed. The human form is beautiful, and it would be puritanical to cut off appreciation for it. Playboy is photographed well, with an aesthetic, not prurient tone. Playboy and its kin have great articles. There's the Jimmy Carter interview, for example, and Penthouse's conversation with Jerry Falwell. I must keep up with such material. An aesthetic, not prurient tone. Some stimulation will help my sex life. I have a problem approaching my wife and communicating my desire for sex to her. I need a sort of boost, a stimulant to push me to declare my intentions. An aesthetic, not prurient tone. Other people do far worse. I know many Christian leaders who still do all the things I toyed with, and worse. For that matter, look at Bible characters—as randy a bunch as you'll ever meet. There's probably no such thing as a pure person anyway; everybody has some outlet. An aesthetic, not prurient tone. What is lust anyhow, I kept asking myself. Is fantasizing wrong in itself? If so, then erotic dreams would count as sin, and how could I be responsible for my dreams? I reminded myself of the definition of lust I had started with long before: desiring intercourse with a specific sexual partner. I experienced a general sexual heightening, a raising of the voltage, not a specific desire for the act of intercourse. Some, perhaps all, of these rationalizations contain some truth. (Do they sound familiar?) I used them as an overlay of reason and common sense to help calm the cognitive dissonance that tormented me. Yet I knew inside that the lust I experienced was not subject to reason and common sense. To my dismay, on several occasions I had already felt it burst out of containment and take on a sinister power. At other times, I could analyze lust and put it in perspective, but at the moment when it was occurring I knew I would not stop and analyze. I would let it take its course. Secretly, I began to wonder what that course would be.

Don't let me give the wrong impression. My entire life did not revolve around lust. I would go days without fixating on sex, and sometimes a month or two without seeking out a pornographic magazine or movie. And many, many times I would cry out to God, imploring him to take away the desire. Why were my prayers not answered? Why did God continue to curse me with freedom, even when that freedom led me away from him?

I read numerous articles and books on temptation but found little help. If you boiled down all the verbiage and the ten-point lists of practical advice for coping with temptation, basically all they said was "Just stop doing it." That was easy to say. I knew some of those authors, and knew that they too struggled and failed, as I did. In fact, I too had preached many a sermon on handling temptation, but look at me. Practical "how-to" articles proved hopelessly inadequate, as if they said "Stop being hungry" to a starving man. Intellectually I might agree with their theology and their advice, but my glands would still secrete. What insight can change glands?

"Jesus was tempted in all points as you are," some of the articles and books would say, as if that would cheer me up. It did not help. In the first place, none of the authors could conceivably describe how Jesus experienced sexual temptation, because he never talked about it, and no one else has ever been perfect and lived to tell about it. Such well-meaning comments reminded me of telling a ghetto dweller in East Bronx, "Oh, President Reagan used to be poor too. He knows how you feel." Try telling that to a poor person, and prepare to duck.

I felt a similar reaction when I read accounts of people who had overcome lust. Usually, they wrote or talked in a condescending, unctuous tone. Or, like Jesus, they seemed too far removed from my own spiritual quagmire to comfort me. Augustine described his condition twelve years after conversion from his lusty state. In that advanced spiritual place he prayed to overcome these besetting sins: the temptation to enjoy his food instead of taking it as a necessary medicine "until the day when Thou wilt destroy both the belly and the meat"; the attraction of sweet scents; the pleasure of the ear provided by church music lest he be "more moved by the singing than by the thing that is sung"; the lure of the eye to "diverse forms of beauty, of brilliant and pleasing colors"; and last, the temptation of "knowing for knowing's sake." Sorry, Augustine, I respect you, but prayers like that led to the climate of repression and body-hatred that I have been vainly trying to escape all my life.

I got a perverse pleasure out of knowing that this same Augustine a few years earlier had prayed, "Give me chastity, but not yet." He delayed purity for a while also, to sample more delights than I would likely get around to. Why is it that I scoffed at accounts of saints who overcame temptation but loved hearing about those who gave in? There must be a name for that sin, too.

Most of this time I hated sex. I could not imagine it existing in any sort of balance in my life. Of course I knew its pleasure—that was the gravitational attraction—but those short bursts of pleasure were horribly counterbalanced by days of guilt and anguish. I could not reconcile my technicolor fantasy life with my more mundane experience of sex in marriage. I began to view sex as another of God's mistakes, like tornadoes and earthquakes. In the final analysis, it only caused misery. Without it, I could conceive of becoming pure and godly and all those other things the Bible exhorted me toward. With sex, any spiritual development seemed hopelessly unattainable. Maybe Origen had the right idea after all.

It is true there is difficulty in entering into godliness. But this difficulty does not arise from the religion which begins in us, but only from the irreligion which is still there. If our senses were not opposed to penitence, and if our corruption were not opposed to the purity of God, there would be nothing in this painful to us. We suffer only in proportion as the vice which is natural to us resists supernatural grace. Our heart feels torn asunder between these opposed efforts. But it would be very unfair to impute this violence to God, who is drawing us on, instead of to the world, which is holding us back. It is as a child, which a mother tears from the arms of robbers, in the pain it suffers, should love the loving and legitimate violence of her who procures its liberty, and detest only the impetuous and tyrannical violence of those who detain it unjustly. The most cruel war which God can make with men in this life is to leave them without that war which He came to bring. "I came to send war," He says, "and to teach them of this ware I came to bring fire and the sword." Before Him the world lived in this false peace. Blaise Pascal Pensees This article is divided into two parts. The first part, which you have just read, recounts the downward spiral of temptation, yielding, self-hatred, and despair. If I had read this article several years ago, I would have gleefully affirmed every thing. Then, when I got to the second part, which describes a process of healing, I would have turned cynical and sour, rejecting what follows. Such is the nature of self-deception.

I have described my slide in some detail not to feed any prurient interests in the reader (after all, how many racy articles have you read in Leadership?) and certainly not to nourish your own despair if you too are floundering—God forbid. I tell my struggles because they are real, but also to demonstrate that hope exists, that God is alive, and his grace can interrupt the terrible cycle of lust and despair. My primary message is one of hope, although until healing did occur, I had no faith that it ever would.

Scores, maybe hundreds of times I had prayed for deliverance, with no response. The theologians would find some fault in my prayers, or in the faith with which I prayed them. But can any person assume the awful right to judge the prayers of another who writhes in mental torment and an agony of helpless unspirituality? I would certainly never assume the right, not after a decade—long war against lust.

I have not mentioned the effect of lust on my marriage. It did not destroy my marriage, did not push me out to find more sexual excitation in an adulterous affair, or with prostitutes, did not even impel me to place unrealistic demands on my wife's sexual performance. The effect was far more subtle. Mainly, I think, it cumulatively caused me to devalue my wife as a sexual being. The great lie promulgated by Playboy, television commercials, and racy movies is that the physical ideal of beauty is attainable and oh, so close. I stare at a Playboy centerfold. Miss October has such a warm, inviting smile. She is with me alone, in my living room. She removes her clothes, just for me, and lets me see all of her. She tells me about her favorite books and what she likes in a man. Cheryl Tiegs, in the famous Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, sweetly walks toward the camera, letting the coral blush of her breasts shine out boldly from underneath a net bikini. She lets me see them—she has no inhibitions, no pudency.

The truth is, of course, that if I sat next to either Cheryl Tiegs or Miss October on an airplane, she would not give me the time of day, let alone take off her clothes for me. If I tried to strike up a conversation, she would brush me off. And yet, because I have stared at Cheryl's breasts and gone over every inch of Miss October as well as the throng of beauties that Madison Avenue and Hollywood recruit to tantalize the masses, I start to view my own wife in that light. I expect her to have Farrah's smile, Cheryl's voluptuousness, Angie's legs, Miss October's flaming red hair and sparkling eyes. Envy and greed join hands with lust. I begin to focus on my wife's minor flaws. I lose sight of the fact that she is a charming, warm, attractive woman and that I am fortunate to have found her.

Beyond that, lust affected my marriage in an even more subtle and pernicious way. Over time, I began to view sex schizophrenically. Sex in marriage was one thing. We performed OK, though not as often as I liked, and accompanied by typical misunderstandings. But passion, ah, that was something different. Passion I never felt in my marriage.

If anything, sex within marriage served as an overflow valve, an outlet for the passion that mounted inside me, fed by sources kept hidden from my wife. We never talked about this, yet I am sure she sensed it. I think she began to view herself as a sex object—not in the feminist sense of being the object of a husband's selfish greed, but in the deprived sense of being only the object of my physical necessity and not of romance and passion.

Yet the sexual schizophrenia pales in comparison to the schizophrenia of my spiritual life. Can you imagine the inner rupture when I would lead a spiritual retreat for a weekend, winning sighs of admiration and tears of commitment from my devoted listeners, only to return to my room and pore over the latest copy of Oui? I could never reconcile it, but somehow I could not avoid it. If you pinned me down on what degree my succumbing to temptation was a conscious choice, I would probably search for an enigmatic response such as the one a Faulkner character gave when asked about original sin. "Well, it's like this," he said. "I ain't got to but I can't help it."

Paradoxically, I seemed most vulnerable to temptation when speaking or otherwise performing some spiritual service. Those who see Satan as personally manipulating all such temptation to sin would not be surprised by that observation.

Lust became the one corner of my life that God could not enter. I welcomed him into the area of personal finance, which he revolutionized as I awakened to world needs. He cleaned up many of my personal relationships. He gave stirrings of life to the devotional area and my sense of personal communion with him. But lust was sealed off, a forbidden room. How can I reconcile that statement with my earlier protestations that I often cried out for deliverance? I do not know. I felt both sensations: an overwhelming desire to be cleansed and an overwhelming desire to cling to the exotic pleasures of lust. A magnet is attracted equally to two opposite forces. No matter how small you cut a magnet or rearrange it, the two ends will still be attracted to opposite forces. One force never cancels out the other one. This must be what Paul meant in some of those strange statements in Romans 7 (a passage that gave me some comfort). But where was Romans 8 in my life?

Even when I had lust under control, when I successfully limited it to brief, orderly perusals through Playboy at the local newsstand, I still felt this sense of retaining a secret corner God could not enter. Often I would get bogged down in sermon preparation. For motivation to keep going, I would promise myself a trip to the newsstand if I could finish the sermon in an hour and a half. Can you sense the schizophrenia?

Just as I can remember graphically the precise incident in Rochester when adult lust moved in, I can remember the first flutterings of a commitment to healing. They also came on a trip out of town, when I was speaking at a spiritual life conference. The conference was scheduled for a resort hotel in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, near my favorite part of the country. Nothing affects me like the long drive up the rocky coastline of Maine. It is an invigorating, almost religious experience. Some people find deserts affect them like that, some wheat fields, and some mountains. For me, the magnificence of creation unwinds with each curve on the road up Maine's coast. I made plans to fly into Boston, rent a car, and spend three days cruising the coast just to refresh myself before the conference.

My mistake was spending the first night in Boston. I was then practicing a fairly rigid regimen of "controlled lust." I hadn't given in to any scary splurges like my Washington, D.C., encounter in some time. But sure enough, that night I found myself stalking the streets of the seedy areas looking for lust. I did not have to look far. Like many cities, Boston offers strip shows, porno movies—a veritable menu of lust. I usually avoided porno movies because they had proved so unsatisfying. But, Boston also features live nude girls on a revolving platform that you can watch for twenty-five cents. I went in one of those booths.

The mechanics are simple. Twenty curtained booths encircle a revolving platform. Each booth has a glass window covered by a piece of plywood. When you insert a quarter, a mechanical arm somewhat like a toll gate lowers the piece of plywood and lets you see the nude girls revolving on the platform. Then, about three minutes later the toll gate goes up, and you have to drop in another quarter to continue. This is lust at its most unadorned.

The girls employed by such places are not beautiful. Imagine for yourself what kind of women would willingly settle for such employment. You lie under bright lights, revolving like a piece of roast beef at a buffet table, masturbating occasionally to keep the quarters clinking. Around you, leering, furtive stares of men appear for three minutes, then disappear, then appear again, their glasses reflecting your pale shape, none of them looking at your face.

Maybe such booths do serve a redeeming purpose for society—by exposing lust in its basest demythologized form. There is no art or beauty, no acrobatic dancing. The woman is obviously a sex object and nothing else. The men are isolated, caged voyeurs. There is no relationship, no teasing.

The girls are bored stiff: over the whir of the timing mechanism you can hear them trading talk about grocery prices or car repairs. They masturbate as a routine for the customers, like an ape at the zoo who learns to make faces because the onlookers then laugh and point. This is what the richest, freest society in history spends its wealth and freedom on?

And yet, there I was, a respected member of that society, three days away from leading a spiritual-life retreat, dropping in quarters like a frantic long-distance caller at a pay phone.

For fifty cents you could go to a private booth, and one of the girls would entertain you personally. A glass wall still separated you from the girl, but you could, if you wished, pick up the receiver and talk to the girl. Maybe you could talk her into doing something special for you. I went into the booth, but something restrained me from picking up the telephone. I could not make that human an act—it would expose me for what I was. I merely stood, silent, and stared.

Guilt and shame washed over me in waves that night, as usual. Again I had a stark picture of how low I was groveling. Did this animal lust have any relation to the romance that had inspired the Symphonie Fantastique, Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnets, and the Song of Solomon? Certainly each of those works contained traces of glandular desire, but this that I had experienced was devoid of all beauty. It was too naked, and shameful.

I had felt all that remorse before. What shocked me more was my trip up the coast the next two days. I followed my usual practice of staying in homey inns with big fireplaces, and of eating by the waterfront and watching the sailboats bob in the shimmering sea, of taking long solitary walks on the rocky promontories where huge waves crashed with thunder, of closing my eyes and letting salt spray splash across my face, of stopping at roadside stands for fresh lobster and crab. There was a difference this time: I felt no pleasure. None. My emotional reaction was the same as if I had been at home, yawning, reading the newspaper. All romance had drained out, desiccated.

The realization disturbed me profoundly. By all counts, those wonderful, sensuous experiences rated far higher than the cheap thrill of watching a fat, pock—marked body rotate on plywood. And yet, to my utter disbelief my mind kept roaming back to that grimy booth in Boston. Was I going crazy? Would I lose every worthwhile sensation in life? Was my soul leaking away? Was I becoming possessed?

I limped through the conference, and everyone warmly applauded each talk. They were all blessed. Alone in my room at night, I did not pore over pornography. I pored over what had been happening inside me for ten years. I did not like it.

Exactly three days later, I spent the night with a very dear friend, a pastor of one of the largest churches in the South. I had never shared intimate details of my lust life with anyone before, but the schizophrenia was building to such a point I felt I must. He listened quietly, with compassion and great sensitivity as I recounted a few incidents, skipping over those that showed me in the worst light, and described some of my fears to him.

He sat for a long time with sad eyes after I had finished speaking. We both watched our freshly refilled cups of coffee steam, then stop steaming, then grow cold. I waited for his words of advice or comfort or healing or something. I needed a priest at that moment, someone to say, "Your sins are forgiven."

But my friend was no priest. He did something I never expected. His lip quivered at first, the skin on his face began twitching, and finally he started sobbing—great, huge, wretched sobs such as I had seen only at funerals.

In a few moments, when he had recovered some semblance of self-control, I learned the truth. My friend was not sobbing for me; he was sobbing for himself. He began to tell me of his own expedition into lust. He had been where I was—five years before. Since that time, he had taken lust to its logical consequences. I will not dwell on sordid details, but my friend had tried it all: bondage, prostitution, bisexualism, orgies. He reached inside his vest pocket and pulled out a pad of paper showing the prescriptions he took to fight the venereal disease and anal infections he had picked up along the way. He carries the pad with him on trips, he explained, to buy the drugs in cities where he is anonymous.

I saw my friend dozens of times after that and learned every horrific detail of his hellish life. I worried about cognitive dissonance; he brooded on suicide. I read about deviance; he performed it. I winced at subtle fissures in my marriage; he was in divorce litigation.

I could not sit in judgment of this man, because he had simply ended up where my own obsession would likely take me. Jesus brought together lust and adultery, hatred and murder, in the Sermon on the Mount, not to devalue adultery and murder but rather to point to the awesome truth about hatred and lust. There is a connection.

If I had learned about my friend's journey to debauchery in an article like this one, I doubtless would have clucked my tongue, questioned Leadership's judgment in printing it, and rejected the author as an insincere poseur in the faith. But I knew this man, I thought, as well as I knew anyone. His insights, compassion, and love were all more mature than mine. My sermons were like freshman practice runs compared to his. He was a godly man if I had ever met one, but underneath all that … my inner fear jumped uncontrollably. I sensed the power of evil.

For some weeks I lived under a cloud that combined the feelings of doom and terror. Had I crossed some invisible line so that my soul was stained forever? Would I too, like my trusted friend, march inexorably toward the systematic destruction of my body and my soul? He had cried for forgiveness, and deliverance, and every other prayer he had learned in church, and yet now he had fallen into an abyss. Already lawyers were dividing up his house and possessions and his children. Was there no escape for him—for me?

My wife could sense the inner tension, but in fifteen years of marriage she had learned not to force a premature explanation. I had not learned to share tension while it was occurring, only afterward, when it fit into a logical sequence, with some sort of resolution. This time, I wondered whether this particular problem would ever have such a resolution.

A month after my conversation with my friend, I began reading a brief and simple book of memoirs, What I Believe, by Francois Mauriac. In it, he sums up why he clung to the Roman Catholic church and the Christian faith in a country (France) and an age when few of his contemporaries seriously considered orthodoxy. I had read only one novel by the Nobel prizewinning author, Viper's Tangle, but that novel clearly showed that Mauriac fully understood the lust I had experienced, and more. A great artist, he had captured the depths of human depravity. I would not get pious answers from him.

Mauriac's book includes one chapter on purity. He describes the power of sexuality—"the sexual act has no resemblance to any other act: its demands are frenzied and participate in infinity. It is a tidal wave"—and his struggles with it throughout a strict Catholic upbringing. He also discounts common evangelical perspectives on lust and sex. The experience of lust and immorality, he admits, is fully pleasurable and desirable; it is no good trying to pretend that sin contains distasteful seeds that inevitably grow into repulsion. Sin has its own compelling rewards. Even marriage, Christian marriage, he claims, does not remedy lust. If anything, marriage complicates the problem by introducing a new set of difficulties. Lust continues to seek the attraction of unknown creatures and the taste for adventure and chance meetings.

After brazenly denying the most common reasons I have heard against succumbing to a life filled with lust, Mauriac concludes that there is only one reason to seek purity. It is the reason Christ proposed in the Beatitudes: "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." Purity, says Mauriac, is the condition for a higher love—for a possession superior to all possessions: God himself.

Mauriac goes on to describe how most of our arguments for purity are negative arguments: Be pure, or you will feel guilty, or your marriage will fail, or you will be punished. But the Beatitudes clearly indicate a positive argument that fits neatly with the Bible's pattern in describing sins. Sins are not a list of petty irritations drawn up for the sake of a jealous God. They are, rather, a description of the impediments to spiritual growth. We are the ones who suffer if we sin, by forfeiting the development of character and Christlikeness that would have resulted if we had not sinned.

The thought hit me like a bell rung in a dark, silent hall. So far, none of the scary, negative arguments against lust had succeeded in keeping me from it. Fear and guilt simply did not give me resolve; they added self-hatred to my problems. But here was a description of what I was missing by continuing to harbor lust: I was limiting my own intimacy with God. The love he offers is so transcendent and possessing that it requires our faculties to be purified and cleansed before we can possibly contain it. Could he, in fact, substitute another thirst and another hunger for the one I had never filled? Would Living Water somehow quench lust? That was the gamble of faith. Perhaps Mauriac's point seems obvious and predictable to people who respond to anguished problems with spiritual-sounding cliches. But I knew Mauriac and his life well enough to know that his observation was the culmination of a lifetime of struggle. He had come to that conclusion as the only possible justification for abstemiousness. Perhaps, just perhaps, the discipline and commitment involved in somehow allowing God to purge out the impurities formed the sine qua non, the essential first step toward a relationship with God I had never known.

The combination of grave fear struck in me by my pastor friend's grievous story and the glimmer of hope that a quest for purity could somehow transform the hunger I had lived with unabated for a decade prepared me to try once again to approach God in confession and in faith. I knew pain would come. Could God this time give me assurance that, in Pascal's words, pain was the "loving and legitimate violence" necessary to procure my liberty?

I cannot tell you why a prayer that has been prayed for ten years is answered on the 1,000th request when God has met the first 999 with silence. I cannot tell you why I had to endure ten years of near—possession before being ready for deliverance. And, most sadly of all, I cannot tell you why my pastor friend has, since our conversation after New Hampshire, gone into an unbelievable skid toward destruction. His marriage is now destroyed. He may go insane or commit suicide before this article is published. Why? I do not know.

But what I can tell you, especially those of you who have hung on every turn of my own pilgrimage because it so closely corresponds to yours, is that God did come through for me. The phrase may sound heretical, but to me, after so many years of failure, it felt as if he had suddenly decided to be there after a long absence. I prayed, hiding nothing (hide from God?), and he heard me.

There was one painful but necessary step of repentance. Repentance, says C. S. Lewis, "is not something God demands of you before He will take you back and which He could let you off if He chose; it is simply a description of what going back is like." Going back for me had to include a very long talk with my wife, who had suffered in silence and often in nescience for a decade. It was she I had wronged and sinned against, as well as God. Perhaps my impurity had kept our own love from growing in the same way it had blocked the love I could experience with God. We lay side by side on our bed one steamy summer evening. I talked about nothing, in a nervous, halting voice, for an hour or so, trying to break the barrier that held me back, and finally about midnight I began.

I told her nearly everything, knowing I was laying on her a burden she might not be able to carry. I have wondered why God let me struggle for a decade before deliverance: maybe I will one day find out my wife required just that much time to mature and prepare for the one talk we had that night. Far smaller things had fractured our marriage for months. Somehow, she incarnated the grace of God for me.

I hurt her—only she could tell how much I hurt her. It was not adultery—there was no other woman for her to beam her resentment toward, but perhaps that made it even harder for her. For ten years she had watched an invisible fog steal inside me, make me act strange, pull me away from her. Now she heard what she had often suspected, and to her it must have sounded like rejection: You were not enough for me sexually, I had to go elsewhere.

But still, in spite of that pain and the vortex of emotions that must have swirled around inside her, she gave to me forgiveness and love. She took on my enemy as her enemy too. She took on my thirst for purity as her thirst too. She loved me, and as I type this even now, tears streak my face because that love, that awesome love is so incomprehensible to me, and so undeserved. But it was there.

How can I give you up, O Ephraim! How can I hand you over, O Israel! … For I am God and not man, The Holy One in your midst. Hosea 11:8-9 Saint Augustine, who wrote so eloquently of his own war within, describes our condition here on earth as a simultaneous citizenship in two cities, the city of man and the City of God. The lure of the city of man often drowns out the call of the City of God. Man's city is visible, substantial, real; as such, it is far more alluring. God's city is ephemeral, invisible, cloaked in doubt, far away. It may not even exist— no one knows for sure.

Cheryl Tiegs coming toward me out of the page, her teeth flashing, her eyes sparkling, her body glistening, is that city of man. She, and what she represents, fits well with my body and the hormones that surge inside it and the complexes that grew in my repressed childhood and whatever else contributed to my obsession with lust. The pure in heart shall see God. Set against luscious Cheryl, sometimes that promise does not seem like much. But that is the lie of the Deceiver, and the dyslexia of reality we are asked to overcome. The City of God is the real, the substantial, the whole. What I become as I strengthen my citizenship in that kingdom is far more worthy than anything I could become if all my fantasies were somehow fulfilled.

A year has passed since the late-night talk with my wife. During that time, a miracle has occurred. The war within me has fallen away. Only a few snipers remain. Once I failed, just a month later, when I was walking the streets of San Francisco. I felt myself pulled—it felt exactly like that—into another of the twenty-five cent peep shows to watch an undulating girl on a revolving table for three minutes. Not ten seconds had passed when I felt a sense of horror. My head was pounding. Evil was taking over. I had to get out of there, immediately.

I ran, literally ran, as fast as I could out of the North Beach district. I felt safe only when I got out of there. It struck me then how much had changed: previously I had felt safe when I had given in to lust, because the war inside died down for a moment, but now I felt safe away from the temptation. I prayed for strength and walked away.

Other than that encounter, I have been free of the compulsion. Of course, I notice girls in short dresses and halter tops—why else would they wear them?—but the terror is gone. The gravitational force has disappeared when I pass in front of newsstands. For twelve months I have walked by them and not picked up a magazine. I have not entered a porno theater.

I feel a sense of loss, yes. I enjoyed the beautiful women, both the art and the lust of it. It was pleasurable; I cannot deny that. But now I have gained a kind of inner gyroscope that is balanced correctly and alerts me when I am straying off course. After ten years I finally have a reservoir of strength to draw on as well as a conscience. I have found it necessary to keep open and honest communication with God and my wife on every little temptation toward lust.

The war within still exists. Now it is a war against the notion that biology is destiny. Looking at humanity as a species, scientists conclude that the fittest must survive, that qualities such as beauty, intelligence, strength, and skill are worthy factors by which to judge the usefulness of people, that lust is an innate adaptation to assure the propagation of the species Charity, compassion, love, and restraint fly in the face of that kind of materialist philosophy. Sometimes they defy even our own bodies. The City of God can seem like a mirage; my battle is to allow God to convince me of its reality.

Two totally new experiences have happened to me that, I must admit, offset by far my sense of loss at the experiences of lust I miss.

First, I have learned that Mauriac was right. God has kept his part of the bargain. In a way I had never known before, I have come to see God. At times (not so often, maybe once every couple of months), I have had an experience with God that has stunned me with its depth and intimacy, an experience of an order I did not even know existed before. Some of these moments have come during prayer and Bible reading, some during deep conversations with other people, and one, the most memorable of all because of my occupation, while I was speaking at a Christian conference. At such moments I have felt possessed, but this time joyfully so (demonic possession is a poor parody of the filling of the Spirit). They have left me shaken and humbled, renewed and cleansed. I had not known that level of mystical experience, had not, in fact, even sought it except in the general way of seeking purity. God has revealed himself to me. The City of God is taking on bricks and mortar.

And another thing has happened, again something I did not even ask God for. The passion is coming back into my marriage. My wife is again becoming an object of romance. Her body, no one else's, is gradually gaining the gravitational pull that used to be scattered in the universe of sexes. The act of sex, as often a source of irritation and trauma for me as an experience of pleasure, is beginning to take on the form of mystery and transcendence and inexpressible delight that its original design must have called for.

These two events occurring in such short sequence have shown me why the mystics, including biblical writers, tend to employ the experience of sexual intimacy as a metaphor of spiritual ecstasy. Sometimes, lingering remnants of grace in the city of man bear a striking resemblance to what awaits us in the City of God.

* * *

3 notes · View notes

peckhampeculiar · 6 years ago

Text

Life through a lens

Words Colin Richardson; Photo Joe Magowan

To call Helena Appio a documentary film-maker would not be a lie, but nor would it be anywhere near the whole truth. At various times, she has been a student of anthropology, art, fashion and textiles; designed fabrics and clothes; modelled for Laura Ashley; and been a college lecturer.

During her training as a producer at the BBC, she had a brief sojourn in the land of sticky-back plastic. To her embarrassment, she once turned down the scourge of soggy bottoms. And don’t get me started on her byzantine and extraordinary family history. Well, do, otherwise the next paragraph will have to go out of the window.

In the early 1900s, great-grandfather Appio left his home in southern Italy and moved to Sierra Leone. ‘I expect he left Italy to escape poverty and make a better life for himself, but how and why he ended up in Sierra Leone, I don’t know,’ says Helena.

But once there, he did something even more unexpected. He opened a cinema, the first in Sierra Leone and probably the first in all west Africa. Helena wishes she knew more about it, but ‘the records were destroyed in the civil war of the late 90s and early 2000s. I’d like to go there to see what I can find out, but some of my relatives who have been say there’s nothing to go on.’

Great-grandfather married a local creole woman, part African, part Chinese and they raised a family together. One of his sons later moved to Nigeria, where he also opened a cinema. He, too, married a local woman, but he was killed in a motor accident shortly after the birth of their first child, a son. The boy, Helena’s father-to-be, was taken by his grandparents to live with them in Sierra Leone. He didn’t see his mother again until he was 15.

As a young man, Helena’s father travelled to Britain to train as an engineer. One evening, at a dance, he met the adopted daughter of a wealthy Glasgow family. They married and she went back with him to Nigeria, which, as Helena says, ‘was a very bold thing to do in those days.’

Helena, the eldest, one of her two sisters and her brother were all born in Nigeria (her youngest sister was born in London). But after ten years, her parents’ relationship, it seems, had run its course. Helena’s mother moved to London, bringing her children with her.

‘But my father didn’t come back with us. They never spoke about it, but they must have split up at that point. My mother just said we were all coming back to go to school, which we were. My father came and visited three or four times a year, as he was often in Europe with his business.’

The family settled in Blackheath. They were an unusual sight. In the mid-1960s, there weren’t many white women with black children living on the Heath. ‘People kept stopping my mother because they thought she must be Peggy Cripps,’ says Helena.

Peggy Cripps, the daughter of Labour grandee Sir Stafford Cripps, had caused something of a sensation when, in 1953, she had married the radical Ghanaian lawyer and politician Jo Appiah. The Appiahs had four children – three girls and a boy – who were roughly the same age as Helena and her siblings.

Helena went to Blackheath High, which wasn’t always a comfortable experience as she and her sisters were the only black pupils there. But she did well and, after leaving school and taking a gap year (partly spent travelling in Brazil), she went to Durham University to study anthropology.

‘I found myself in a very old-fashioned college. You had to be in by ten o’clock in the evening and every week there was a formal dinner where you wore a black gown and stood when the head of the college came in. I did not like that.’

So she moved back to London and switched her studies to art. ‘I’d always been very good at art,’ she says, ‘but it wasn’t encouraged at Blackheath High, which was a very academic school.’

She took foundation courses in art before switching to a degree in textiles and fashion at Middlesex University. After graduating, she opened a clothes shop in Covent Garden, selling fabrics and clothes she designed. But when her daughter was born, it became too much and she swapped the world of retail for the more sedate world of lecturing.

‘Then, one day, I saw an ad in the paper – the BBC was looking for nine people to be trainee directors and so I applied. We had two or three interviews and I got one of the places. I learned later that there were over 1,000 applicants. If I’d known that at the time, I wouldn’t have applied; I’d have thought there was no point. Nowadays, I’m often asked to talk to students and I tell them, don’t be put off; it’s worth a try, you’ve got nothing to lose.’

She started in 1990, a year after the birth of her son. Her training included a stint working on Blue Peter, making short filmed inserts. She says she learned a valuable lesson. No, not how to make a nuclear reactor out of some old washing-up liquid bottles, the insides of several loo rolls and acres of Fablon, but how to tell a story in just a few minutes.

It stood her in good stead when she was offered a contract in the BBC’s documentaries department. She worked on many programmes in her time there, but one that stands out for her is DJ Derek’s Sweet Memory Sounds, a portrait of the late Bristolian DJ who was known as ‘the blackest white man in Britain.’

After nearly ten years at the BBC, Helena decided to strike out on her own as an independent producer. She made two memorable documentaries. The Windrush Years for Channel 4 was a series of 12 three-minute portraits of people who came from the Caribbean to live and work in the UK between 1948 and 1971.

A Portrait of Mr Pink told the story of one of Lewisham’s most remarkable citizens, whose vividly painted house at the top of Loampit Hill dazzled all who passed it. More recently, Helena for the Kurdish Memory programme, helping to document the lives of the Kurdish people of Iraq.

Three years ago, Helena left Peckham to live in Hong Kong when her husband got a job working in the acquisitions team at M+, a new museum for visual culture being built in West Kowloon. She is working on a new film of her own, a documentary about the Filipino women who work, often in terrible conditions, as domestic servants in Hong Kong.

But she is back in Peckham whenever she can, visiting friends and seeing her children: Chris, a personal trainer, sports masseur, musician and DJ (performing as Jean Frais); and Nina, a charity worker, who is also the Queen of Samba, performing with the Bermondsey-based London School of Samba.

Helena has but one major regret in life. When she was working in the commissioning department at the BBC, she was approached with a programme idea by an unknown baker. Paul Hollywood, for it was he, invited her and some friends to his bakery school in an effort to convince her to give him his break into TV.

‘It was very nice,’ says Helena. ‘We had a good time. But I couldn’t see what we could do with him, so I turned him down. It took a stroke of genius by the Great British Bake Off people to team him with Mary Berry, Mel and Sue and make him the bad guy. I feel like the person who turned down The Beetles.’

..........................

View DJ Derek’s Sweet Memory Sounds at vimeo.com/53691544 and read about Mr Pink in the August/September issue of our sister paper, The Lewisham Ledger

2 notes · View notes

musicallisto · 2 years ago

Note

babe i opened read more on your post expecting like a typical list with idk basketball and stuff but oh my god you’re so cool you put everyone to shame myself included

LIKE i scrolled through it and all i could think of was like holy shit okay that’s a cool sport okay i don’t know that one oh wait omg you’ve done this one damn okay slay

ISTG YOU’RE A REAL LIFE GIRLBOSS PROTAGONIST??? femme fatale typa beat or the muscle character that’s also the brains you’re literally the entire package

honestly if you don’t hate me rn you definitely would if we were put into any athletic team LMAOOO cos when i was in 4th grade there was this sports fest shit in our school so we all had to pick at least one sport to participate in

… i went with volleyball and while we were training i didn’t know we were supposed to use our forearms so when the ball got passed to me i used my fucking thumbs 😭

unsafe to say that my thumbs swelled up so badly for like a week haha stupid bitch core i believe !!! even tried volleyball training and i had a crush on this guy who was one year older than me and his dad was the coach and he was super nice to me it was stupid bro was like “you never know maybe i’ll see u on tv playing volleyball”

LIKE BRO I’M ON LIFE SUPPORT WHENEVER I DO ANYTHING ATHLETIC WYM BUT THANKS dude tried to hmu through an old friend of mine who he’s friends with but anw i got tea about that friend of mine she never rlly went to class but always posts pics of her and her bf together IDNXJEIW was harder cos we were groupmates about this research we had and she never contributed anw i asked another friend if the guy was nice but nope he isn’t so i got a bit mean…,,,,’cnc ..,

ANYWAY ANYWAY TELL ME MORE ABOUT UR BALLET ERA PLEASE although yea i’d feel the same abt the entire thing too :(( but you having the name clara while also knowing ballet is so !!! butterflies omfg cos of the nutcracker and everything srsly i feel like giving you a nutcracker for christmas would be so cute has anyone ever done that yet???? because they should

my god i’m sorry for this long message that turned into me spilling some tea i get distracted and i also got excited YOU GET IT JOWLQLAjsisoIWOA why am i not allowed to put readmore on a post this is absurd

ajzcbjsqbu Ves i love getting your asks so much they're always such a wILD RIDE I love it <333 with the right dose of gossip too <3

but lmfaoo I'm not as cool as you make me out to be I promise! I'm mostly utter garbage at all these sports anyway so this is really me showing the extent of my incompetence, we would be the athletically inept queens every class deserves <3 just girlies getting injured at volleyball you love to see it <33

and!! I love that crush story omg are you kidding? you always have the best tea to spill about your classmates ajscbsjqb oh to be at your school and know everybody's business... i would be unstoppable bc I'm never involved in any drama but I know everyone's and that makes me redoubtable. and i'd be playing matchmaker with you and all your crushes of course lmao

I'm sorry to disappoint though but I really don't remember anything about my ballet era, rip. I vividly remember the dance studio and the bar where we stretched, I remember training to dance on pointe (my favorite thing!! i felt like so graceful!!) & returning home to show my mom the steps I'd learned, I also remember none of the girls talking to me and the teacher trying to cheer me up but I was entirely socially inept and could not make any friends to save my life, rip. it's making me regret ever quitting, imagine the power I would have rn if I'd been a ballet dancer named Clara....... which btw I had never made the connection with the Nutcracker, and neither has anyone in my family! bc no one offered me a nutcracker for Christmas and you are so right bestie that's an amazing idea!! 💜

#ves 🍵

0 notes

death-byathousand-cuts · 7 years ago

Text

look what she made me do (more like look what i did for her)

recently there was a contest held in spain where the prize was getting to go to nyc to @taylorswift‘s fan event next weekend and i, obviously, being the taylor swift fan that i am, entered the competition. it consisted of tweeting a picture accompanied by some text demonstrating “how much you love taylor” and i was like,,, okay i’m gonna go all the way with this, props and all. guess that wasn’t original enough.

however, because i did put two whole days of crafting and painting and making tshirts and buying stuff, i’d like to try to get taylor to see this? which sounds crazy difficult bcs i don’t even know how tumblr works properly but hey!! worth a try. so here’s the translated text and pictures i took for the contest + some pics showing how i made all the props.

the first song i ever heard by taylor was love story back in 2009 and although i didn’t want to admit it to myself at the time, i was immediately in love. i listened to it all the time. however it wasn’t until that summer that i really got into her music. it was thanks to my best friend at the time who made me watch the you belong with me music video and i was Amazed and spent the rest of the night listening to more of her songs and wondering to myself why i hadn’t looked her up sooner. this is why the first picture i chose to recreate was a scene from the you belong with me music video, because it’s still to this day very special to me since it’s the song that got me into listening to more of her music.

(i know it looks like i’m 15 i’m actually 21 i Promise)

i remember that christmas my parents got me fearless and the self-titled album and i asked for the platinum album later because it had 5 extra new songs and i Needed to listen to them, obviously. later on, i got my hands on a fearless tour dvd but it was from the us and i could only play it on my laptop rip europe (still no regrets i love that dvd to Death i cry every time)

2010 came along and i was already Really Excited about it. summer 2010 brought mine along with it and i remember mtv became a public channel in spain then and they had a few months where they were just testing it or sth and they just played music videos on repeat and for a while mine was one of them and i got so excited every time i saw it bcs my baby was on tv!!! i knew that music video by heart. that is why i decided to recreate the mine music video, it reminds me of a great, happier and more wholesome time in my life and it has a very special place in my heart.

(i hate my face why am i doing this)

i remember when it was close to the speak now release date and i asked my dad to go to my closest city’s music shop to order my copy of the album (they were always late anyway). then on a friday my dad picked me up from high school and brought me to my city to pick up the album before lunch. i remember so vividly when i opened the album and i got so excited about reading the prologue and learning what speak now or forever hold your peace meant (i’m obviously not a native speaker of english but i’ve always been fascinated by language and i’m currently about to finish my english degree). that same afternoon i put it in the car and i fell in love with every song. to this day it’s still my favourite album.

in 2011 she came to Madrid on tour so i asked my parents to Please take me even though i live in barcelona. they couldn’t come with me and i was still a minor so there was no way for me to see her. i still remember that march 19th, crying my eyes out because i couldn’t be there. i hated the fact i couldn’t be there even more when i got the tour dvd and it became my favourite concert without having been there.

It was 2012 when she made a liveshow announcing the next album being called Red and the release date and she played some songs for us and it was So Nice. i have to confess I was a bit scared bcs the sound was a bit different from speak now, especially wanegbt and ikywt but no!!! my girl doesn’t disappoint and the album was a masterpiece and i loved it. as always i ordered it in my city’s music store and luckily for me i was studying in the same city this time so during our twenty minute recess a friend and i went to the store every day for a week to check if they already had the album (talk about doing exercise). i was so hyped when i finally got it!!! i couldn’t choose just one favourite moment from this era so i just recreated a promotional picture for RED.

she did another tour with RED which didn’t include spain so seeing her was again not an option since i was still a minor and my parents didn’t want to travel so far for a concert. i was so sad and i promised myself next time i’d do whatever it took to see her live. the good thing about this tour was me discovering ed sheeran who is now my favourite male artist (thanks taylor ily)

in 2014 i started my first year of university, i chose to study english studies because i was good at english in school (that’s probably thanks to taylor in a way, i learned a lot from her songs). i moved close to barcelona for uni and started living with other students near campus. that Big Change in my life was accompanied with 1989 coming out and this was the first time i could actually have the album the same day it came out!!! i made my roommate come with me to barcelona to get it and she didn’t really get why it was so important to get the album the same day it came out but she still didn’t judge me and i’m so thankful for that. (thanks bea ily)

after the album came out she did her taylurking and even though i hate taking pictures of me especially if you can see my face, (which is why this whole thing is a Big Deal for me, putting pictures of myself out there is not easy), i tried to take pictures with the album and the pictures that came along with it and see if i was lucky enough to get her to see my face. fortunately, i got pictures 1-13 and i decided to take a picture with the 13th polaroid as a wink to her bcs it’s her favourite number. it was around 7pm when i gave up and soon i got a notification of her liking my picture on Instagram and I was like,,, screaming and crying already bcs What The Fuck did taylor alison swift see my face and still like the picture??? I was Dead. then she tweeted it and i just lost it. that meant a Lot to me. that’s why for 1989 i’ve recreated the 13th polaroid included in the album.

taylor has been with me throughout my teens, during high school and all of university and i’m still here. i got so many memories of her throughout the years: listening to fifteen every year when the school year starts. doing a power point presentation on her even though it was supposed to be about my hobbies bcs listening to her music was practically the only thing i did lmao. listening to enchanted every time i meet an internet friend (some of whom i’ve met because of taylor, others have started listening to her after me insisting to give her a chance for Ages). listening to tied together with a smile when i feel down. reading twilight while listening to our song and the fallen series while listening to haunted. i remember listening to mary’s song (oh my my) for the first time and thinking it was the Purest, Most Beautiful song in the world. dance and sing in the shower with fearless and you belong with me. screaming the lyrics to the other side of the door and tell me why and should’ve said no. listening to breathe every time i have a fall out with someone. tweeting the last kiss lyrics every july 9th at 1:58. drawing a 13 on my hand constantly. listening to ours and falling in love with it, starting to listen to it in the mornings to start the day in a good mood. doing a heart with my hands whenever i go to concerts because that’s what i saw you do on tours (on dvds, sadly). i could go on and on.

i’m still here supporting, forever and always, and Ready for the new album and the new era that’s starting now. since we don’t have much material from this era yet, i’ve decided to recreate the gravestone in the look what you made me do music video and i put some snakes around it (a new symbol for this era) and the albums and dvds i own to symbolize the death of the old taylors as seen in the video.

it took me So Much Effort and Time to recreate all the pictures (buy the things i needed, make the ybwm tshirt myself with markers, make and paint the snakes, make the polaroid, the gravestone, and find places that more or less resembled the places where the original pictures were taken). i know i’m not a model and it’s not an exact recreation bcs there wasn’t much time to enter the contest but i hope all the details are appreciated and taken into account.

here are some pictures of me making the ybwm

here are some pictures of me making the tshirt taylor wears in the polaroid 13 (i didn’t have it so my sister drew me some birds and i put them on a tshirt I had and i wore a long sleeved white sweater underneath) and the making of the polaroid

here are some pictures of the snakes and the gravestone

after all this effort and time i still couldn’t get to win the contest and meet you in nyc next weekend @taylorswift but i hope you’ll see this and know how much i love you bcs i’m telling you i wouldn’t craft that much for anyone else lmao i usually suck at this. i truly tried my best this time and i’m devastated that even though i tried so hard my hard work didn’t pay off but i hope you come on tour to europe and i get to see you this time around, i’m already saving for the rep tour.

love love love

monica

(@taylorsplatt13 and @hopefulhowell on twitter)

@taylornation @tree-paine pls help me?

#taylor swift #reputation #1989 #red #speak now #fearless #you belong with me #mine #look what you made me do #taylurking #how do you even tag #pls help me make taylor see this

12 notes · View notes

movietvtechgeeks · 7 years ago

Photo

Latest story from https://movietvtechgeeks.com/omg-supernatural-advanced-thantology-sent-lynn-edge/

OMG 'Supernatural' Advanced Thantology sent our Lynn over the edge

I was once again at a convention for last week’s Supernatural episode, so that meant trying frantically to set up the "Family Don’t End With Blood" vendor table (which you can get here if you've not picked up your copy yet) and then running upstairs to borrow a friend’s hotel room to watch the episode. But this time, the hotel actually had the CW – yay!! So I was sitting perched on my friend’s bed watching all by myself, which didn’t stop me from making a lot of noise at times. Sorry, neighboring hotel rooms! ‘Advanced Thanatology’ is an unusual title for an episode, so I wasn’t sure what to expect from this one. Season 13 has been making me pretty happy so far, which means I now go into every episode with all my fingers and toes crossed because I desperately want them to keep the quality up. It’s nervewracking to be a fangirl, what can I say? This episode was written by one of the newer writers, Steve Yockey. And guess what? My finger and toe crossing worked! This is the fifth episode of the season and the fifth one I liked. Woohoo! We start with an unusually long opening sequence, in which a few foolish kids play out the horror film genre stereotype of ‘never do this unless you want to die’ behaviors. It was scary as hell, so I appreciated that, even though I admit that part way through I started mumbling ‘where are Sam and Dean, come on!’ I know, spoiled Supernatural fan. I just want my boys! The actor playing Shawn, Seth Isaac Johnson, did an amazing job portraying his character’s terror though – and Alisen Down as his mom totally broke my heart. Someday I really am gonna send a gigantic fruit basket to Supernatural’s casting agency, because not only are the regulars incredible, most of the guest cast is too! The mom and son pair who were this week’s side characters served as the emotional push for Dean’s building sense of failure to go over the edge, because they portrayed fear and grief and loss so vividly. Shawn initially escapes, but he makes the other stereotypical horror film mistake of bringing home one of the creepiest things I’ve ever seen – a plague mask from the haunted house of a deceased demented doctor. I was honestly afraid I’d have nightmares that night! Kudos props department, kudos. Meanwhile, once we do move into the Sam and Dean portion of the episode, I’m once again deliriously happy – because Sam and Dean are still talking! And talking about emotional things! And being emotionally savvy and considerate of each other! Once again, I have the relationship between the brothers that I signed up for loud and clear on my television screen, and that makes me one very happy fangirl. It’s clear that something is up with Sam from the first scene – he brings Dean a beer to have with his breakfast PBJ. Weirdly, Dean says “no, I’m good” and as Sam continues to be kind and considerate, Dean finally demands to know what’s going on with his brother. (Though actually, Sam is often kind and considerate, he’s just not usually so overt about it). Sam suggests that they work a case, “just you and me.” He notes that it’s been a while since they’ve done that, which induced me to start yelling “Yes yes yes!” at the hotel television probably too loudly. They leave Jack behind watching Sam’s fantasy DVD collection, and Dean rallies to some of his more Dean-like behavior by questioning how Sam ever got laid. (Which made me smile just thinking about how many fans were watching and thinking just the opposite about Sam’s geekboy side, btw…) So Sam and Dean put on their fed suits, climb into the Impala and head off to try to save some kids. Iconic Supernatural, and happy fangirl. The scene where Dean goes upstairs to talk to the traumatized Shawn was reminiscent of one of my favorite early season episodes, Dead In The Water. Lucas could also only draw what he’d seen, too traumatized to talk. That episode showed us the depths of Dean’s empathy for people who have been traumatized, especially children, and the depths of his own childhood trauma losing his mother in the fire. It was incredibly touching to see how Dean talked with Lucas, getting down on his level and sharing some of his own past in a willingness to be vulnerable that we hadn’t seen much of before. In this episode, Dean tries again, similarly empathic towards Shawn. You can see that Shawn senses it and wants to open up, but he’s too terrified, drawing that horrible mask over and over and over. We always learn a lot about Dean in those moments too. Dean: I know what it’s like to see monsters…you see them in your dreams. Oh, Dean. He’s the poster boy for PTSD but just keeps shouldering on, same as Sam. The boys leave without much success, which doesn’t help Dean with his increasing depression and sense of failure. Sam, in keeping with his determination to try to make his brother feel better by whatever means necessary, suggests they go to a strip club. Dean (and me) are sort of incredulous, and he reminds Sam that the last time Dean bought him a lap dance, Sam used the time to try to convince the young woman to go to nursing school. Sam sheepishly protests that of course he likes strip clubs, but Dean doesn’t seem to be buying it. (Also, it’s called the Clam Diver? You really went there, Show!) Sam: It got great reviews! I love you, Sam Winchester. Dean finally confronts Sam about why he’s doing all this for Dean – letting him be Agent Page, ordering him chili fries… (Awww, Sammy, you’re the best brother ever) Sam: I’m just trying to be nice. Dean: Why? Sam: You know why. And Dean does. See, that’s what I’m loving so much about this season – the show has remembered that the brothers know each other. Like, really know each other. They’ve grown up together and worked together most of their adult lives too; they’re both family and partners. They get each other. Sometimes Show forgets that, which makes me a cranky fangirl. But not this season! Sam points out that Dean is not fine, that he doesn’t believe in anything at this point, and that is not Dean Winchester. Sam: I just wanna help. Dean insists he’ll fight his way back, that he’s done it before. With bullets, bacon, and booze. Lots of booze. Sam (and all of us) are skeptical. Meanwhile, Show breaks my heart with another scene between Shawn and his mother. She runs in when he has a nightmare and soothes him, and he manages to say “okay” when she tells him to go back to sleep. You can see what that means to her, the sudden flare of relief and hope and so much love – her baby is getting better. Again, Alisen Down did an amazing job. But then, she tells Sam and Dean, when the house got suddenly cold (NOOOOOOOO I screamed at the tv), she came in to his room to close a window, and he was gone. You can see that Dean is almost as devastated as the mom, that sense of failure burgeoning. Dean: I shoulda pushed him harder to talk. Oh, Dean. This is really not what you needed right now. Next thing we know, it’s morning and Sam Winchester is waking up – and looking ridiculously hot. Sorry, shallow I know, but woah. Rumpled with a bit of bed head and clad only in a tee shirt Sam Winchester is just plain hot. Either they went to the strip club and Sam came back early or Dean went alone, but there he is passed out on the floor snoring away – Jensen Ackles’ comedy genius and willingness to make himself look silly very much in evidence – still in his fed suit, disheveled with a pink bra tangled around his neck, his tie as a headband and what is that draped across his face? The imagination runs wild. Mine does, anyway. Longsuffering Sam takes the keys and leaves Dean to sleep it off, and is able to convince Shawn’s friend to tell them where the boys were that fateful night. (Yes, we not only get kind Sam and hot Sam in this episode, we also get smart Sam!) When he comes back, Dean is awake (sort of) and happily piling on bacon from the free buffet. Which is totally what I do with free hotel buffets, just saying. I pause for a few minutes to ponder just how someone who’s hungover and rumpled and wearing sunglasses inside can look so UNBELIEVABLY HOT. I mean, seriously? More Ackles’ comedy chops as Dean consumes lots of bacon, some of it falling out of his mouth. The face he makes when he looks around to see if anyone noticed before eating it anyway is priceless. I wonder if that was scripted or an Ackles ad lib. My guess is the latter. Sam at first questions what Dean is doing, and Dean grumbles ‘What happened to being nice to me?’ Sam pulls out a beer, and Dean immediately softens. Dean: You are forgiven. The Winchesters go to investigate the deceased demented doc’s very scary old deserted house, which means we get gorgeous flashlight-lit scenes by the brilliant Serge Ladouceur. Once again, this episode got really scary really fast – the doctor appears behind Sam, tosses both the boys across the room, and then approaches a trapped Dean with an electric drill pointed right at his face. I legit screamed at the top of my lungs in the hotel room because OMG was that a terrifying scene, filmed brilliantly. AAAAHHHH!!! Sam to the rescue (add heroic Sam to the list), temporarily vanquishing the ghost and then giving his brother a hand up. It’s those little moments that illustrate their relationship, Sam’s need to make sure Dean is okay and Dean’s quiet thanks. (Thank you, Steve Yockey, for that). I was totally squicked by the row of masks they find in the doctor’s former operating room and couldn’t wait for the boys to burn them. They’re able to get rid of the ghost (with great visual and sound effects from the VFX wizards), and I look at my clock and think huh, it’s way too early for it to be that easy. Uh oh. Sure enough, it turns out the house is full of ghosts – of all the people the doctor killed. Dean, now pushed way too far by his perceived inability to save anyone at all, is desperate to save these trapped spirits. He pulls out a small kit (from the same doctor who helped him kill himself temporarily in Appointment in Samarra, according to the Superwiki, with kudos to the continuity folks) and says he’ll go to the other side and find out where the bodies are. Sam (and me) are understandably shocked. Sam: No no no no, Dean, you’re talking about killing yourself! Dean’s depression (with a generous dose of unwarranted self-loathing) have put him in a very desperate place because he impulsively jams the needle into his chest and immediately seizes up in pain. Poor Sam, totally against the plan, nevertheless grabs his brother and soothes him through the death, holding him as he falls to the floor. (Because that’s exactly what Sam would do, and thank you again Mr. Yockey for knowing that!) Jared did an amazing job in this scene, conveying Sam’s barely contained terror that something will go wrong and he won’t be able to bring his brother back as well as his unbelievable courage in forcing himself to wait the three minutes that Dean asked for. I felt for him so much as he lined Dean’s body with salt to protect him while he’s defenseless, then sat over him vigilant and so horribly anxious, needle poised over Dean’s chest. He pats Dean repeatedly, reassurance for both of them that he’ll be okay. That must have been the longest three minutes of Sam Winchester’s life, and Jared shows us all of that. He also shows us Sam’s anger at his brother for taking this ridiculous risk, which would have to be there too. Sam: (leaning over Dean’s body) Stupid! For sure. Meanwhile, Dean ignores his reaper (as he often does) and finally finds Shawn – and realizes that he is indeed dead. You can see what that knowledge does to Dean, how it amps up his sense of failure even more. Even this kid he couldn’t save. Dean: I’m so sorry. As the three minutes comes to a close, Dean finds what he needs to know and returns to Sam and his body on the floor. Sam stabs the needle in and then waits – but there’s no response. Here’s where Jared really killed me, because it was like Mystery Spot all over again – and it had to be like that for Sam too. Sam: (desperately) Dean! Hey, Dean! Wake up! No no no…. nononononono! My heart absolutely broke for Sam. I think I had to grab some of the hotel tissues, in fact. I wish I hadn’t known that Lisa Berry was coming back, because the reveal that Billie is now Death would have been so amazing. Even spoiled, it was an incredible scene – Lisa pulls off the gravity of being Death perfectly, an imposing figure with her long leather coat and her ring and that scythe. She’s both gorgeous and terrifying. The entire scene between Dean and Billie was off the charts amazing. Lisa and Jensen have the same sort of chemistry that Jensen also has with Julian Richings, the original Death on Supernatural – he always looks torn between being in awe and wanting to be a smartass. And Death always looks torn between wanting to quash this brash human and being reluctantly fascinated (and maybe a little admiring) of him. All of that came through between Lisa and Jensen too. When Billie asks what Dean wants in exchange for some intel about the rift between universes, she’s clearly shocked that instead of asking to go back to his life, he asks for her to free the ghosts. At that moment, he cares so little for his own life and feels like such a failure, all he can think about is to save those poor people. Billie recognizes how significant this is right away. Billie: You’ve changed. Maybe you’re not that guy anymore, who always thinks he’ll win no matter what. You tell people you’ll work through it, but you know you won’t. You can’t. Boy, did she ever hit the nail on the head. I guess that’s the perceptiveness that comes from having a literally universal view on – well, on the universe. Dean doesn’t dispute her take on him either. There’s just no fight left in him, and it terrifies me. Dean: It doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. I couldn’t save mom; I couldn’t save Cas. I can’t even save a scared kid. Sam tries to fix it, but I just keep dragging him down… Billie: You want to die. Dean looks so vulnerable, looking up at Billie, lips parted, eyes blinking. There’s so much emotion there that he’s fighting back and he looks so lost. Billie: I see you, and your brother. You’re important. You have work to do. I was so riveted I was barely breathing through the entire scene. All the kudos to Lisa Berry and Jensen Ackles, because woah. And to writer Steve Yockey for putting in that call back to one of the most iconic lines in the show – it defines the show. We got work to do. And it’s still true, more than twelve years later. (Oh, and how thrilled was I to hear that one of the way Dean Winchester possibly died was ‘burned by a red haired witch’?? Rowena mention, yay!) Billie snaps Dean back into his body, and he wakes up to a desperate Sam still trying to revive him. Sam: You okay??? Dean: (trying to catch his breath) Yeah… Sam: (reassuring himself) You’re okay. He has to repeat it in order to believe it, after what must have been a horrible scare. The brothers lean against the Impala as the ambulances take the bodies out of the house and dig up the ones that were buried. My heart breaks again when they bring out Shawn’s body and his mother says goodbye, cradling her son’s face between her hands and looking utterly devastated. I needed to grab tissues again – it was actually hard to watch, it was so poignant. Of course, it hits the Winchesters just as hard. Sam asks Dean what happened back there, why the shot didn’t work, why the ghosts are all gone. At first, Dean tries to avoid talking about it, the way he most certainly would have last season. But this is Season 13 – and this is what I love about Season 13. Sam doesn’t leave it! Dean: We’ll talk about it later. Sam: No we won’t! You know that. I actually screamed out loud in my hotel room: That’s right Sam, you know you won’t!! And then they DID! Sam: You okay? Dean: No. Sam I'm not okay, I'm pretty far from okay. You know, my whole life, I always believed that what we do was important. No matter what the cost, no matter who we lost. Whether it was Dad or Bobby or... and I would take the hit. But I kept on fighting because I believed that we were making the world a better place. And now Mom… and Cas and I -- I don't know. I don't know. Sam: So you don't believe anymore. Dean: I just need a win. I just need a damn win. The boys climb into the Impala, and an awesome song by Steppenwolf begins to play, reminding us that “it’s never too late to start all over again, who says you won’t be back again.” Sam dozes, Dean drives, a scene so iconic to Supernatural it made me tear up. And then the phone rings. You can see on Dean’s face the shock of what he’s heard, and then they’re parking in an alley (a glowing cross prominently displayed) and at the phone booth? Is Castiel. He turns around, and we see Dean’s look of shocked disbelief – and maybe a bit of hope. I was so worn out from all the emotions I wanted to just collapse onto a hotel bed that wasn’t even mine, but instead, I hurried out into the hallway to get back to the vendor room. Multiple hotel room doors opened at the same time, and Supernatural fans spilled out into the hall, everyone going OMG OMG OMG. It was a moment. So we’re pretty much five for five, Show. Let’s keep this winning streak going. The Supernatural 1306 Tombstone trailer is above to check out. Check Our Our 2017 Holiday Gift Guides: [abcf-grid-gallery-custom-links id="50643"]

Movie TV Tech Geeks News

#Featured #Jared Padalecki #Jensen Ackles #Misha Collins #Supernatural #TV Recaps

1 note · View note

aion-rsa · 5 years ago

Text

The Tenth Girl Exclusive Trailer Reveal & Author Interview

https://ift.tt/2Zv6bD8

Get a sneak peek at The Tenth Girl, a gothic psychological horror debut teeming with originality.

facebook

twitter

tumblr

Out on September 24th, The Tenth Girl is the perfect read for the fall season and beyond. The story follows Mavi, an Argentine teen who flees 1970s Buenos Aires and the military regime that took her mother for a remote girls boarding school located on a remote cliff in Patagonia, at the very southern tip of South America where she has been hired to teach English to the school's elite pupils.

Spooky context? Vaccaro School is haunted, supposedly cursed by the indigenous people whose land the European colonizers stole and built the school on. When Mavi realizes one of her students, the tenth girl, is missing, and students and staff begin to behave like they are possessed, Mavi must solve the mystery of what's happening at Vaccaro before it is too late.

The Tenth Girl is one part Jane Eyre, one part The Haunting of Hill House, and all parts original, with a twist that you will not see coming. It is deeply inspired by Gothic horror fiction that has come before and by debut author Sara Faring's own family history, but is something entirely new. We are so pleased to be able to debut exclusively the trailer for The Tenth Girl, which hopefully gives you an idea of just how perfect this book is for the upcoming Halloween season...

Den of Geek also had the chance to talk to Faring about creating this vivid, immersive, and utterly original world for The Tenth Girl. Here's what she told us...

There are so many vividly-realized elements to this book. I'm curious if there was a very clear place where it started, for example a character, setting, or idea?

You know, actually I, this book sort of came to me when I was on a trip with all of the female relatives in my family on the Argentine side. We went to Paris of all places to celebrate my grandmother's 85th birthday. One of my cousins is a psychotherapist, which is, in Argentina it's the country with the most psychotherapists per capita. Anyway, fun fact!

And so, one night, she led us in this hypnotherapy group session, which sounds so strange and it was, kind of. It felt like a seance. And we started to share stories from our families' spoken history, I guess you'd say. And I started to hear about the stories I'd never heard from Argentina in the 70s and the era of the military regime there. And, after that, I became obsessed with learning everything I could about this time period, about my family's experience in Argentina for the past century or so. And this book blossomed out of that.

How long ago was that?

It was five years ago because this October we're celebrating my grandmother's 90th birthday.

Oh, that's so cool.

She's one of those people who, even though she's turning 90, will dance until 6:00 am and get angry at anyone who doesn't.

Wow. She sounds amazing.

Yeah, she's pretty incredible.

So besides that, I did have an idea of the twists in my head when I started writing. So I wanted to explore what it meant to be human, which sounds really over the top, but the reason I love speculative books is because I love books that help me view life with a fresh astonishment, you know? That will make me re-examine the human experience with mind-bending thoughts. I think writing is a great way for me to honor my family history in Argentina and also explore these themes that I love reading about and watching [in TV shows].

This is a YA book, but I feel like it is on the cusp of it being an adult book. I'm curious why you wanted to make it a YA book or where that decision came from.

Yeah, no, good question. I do think that when I was writing this book, I gave some thought to why I wanted to write in general and, when I was younger, books just, they, it sounds cheesy and it is, but they completely changed my life. They were my best friends. They were a way for me to explore my place in the world, to learn, to discover new corners inside myself.

So I knew that I wanted to have a younger protagonist, a teenage protagonist who was coming to terms with who she was and what it meant to be an independent person now that she's no longer with her mother and is kind of going off into the world on her own. That's always just been a really compelling stage for me and I'm sure as I get older that'll change.

But I love exploring that, the mindset of someone who is 17, 18 and I loved reading about that when I was even younger than 17, 18. I think, even when I was like 14, I loved reading about protagonists who were kind of on that cusp, you know, that stage of their life. For me, books made me feel like I wasn't alone when I was teenager. And I just knew I wanted to write for people that age.

And I do think you're right, this book hopefully will appeal to younger people and older people, but I couldn't be happier that it's coming out as a young adult book for many reasons. I'm sure you also know just how passionate and engaged YA readers are which is just unbelievable. I mean it's extraordinary. Yesterday, a blogger posted a photo of how she'd painted my cover on her leg. It was beautiful. It was more beautiful than my cover.

You have two main perspective characters in this book and I'm curious if one of them came first and why you felt it was important to have both Mavi and Angel's points of view and telling this story?

Yeah, so I would say I knew I always needed to have both because, frankly, when I read books, I love for there to be reveals happening throughout. I love to feel like I'm being led into some secret, and I wanted there to be this tension between the two points of view and the information we're getting from each side. And I also just always thought it would be a lot of fun to see Vaccaro School from both perspectives: the perspective of a teacher who's brand new and views it as one thing and the perspective of a... I don't even know how to speak about Angel in an interview. It gets juicy really fast. From the perspective of someone who is working through pain with humor and is using the house in a very different way, I would say.

And it, to be honest, it was also really fun to write a book in two very different voices. And I know I always wanted Mavi's to feel like a nod to the traditional Gothic works of fiction and then we could have Angel's voice—which would be completely disorienting—have these bits of dark humor and pop culture references and feel sometimes goofy and bizarre.

For me, when you're exploring dark themes, it is just such a breath of fresh air to have injections of humor throughout. So, yeah, they both came about at the same time. I did rewrite Angel's part many times because I wanted to get the tone right because it was easy to fall into a sort of melancholy spiral, if you will, [with that character].

Well you did such a good job distinguishing their voices. I definitely got the Gothic themes from Mavi. From the very beginning, I was like, 'This reminds me of Jane Eyre and other classics,' and then to also have Angel just like dropping like Harry Potter references... They felt very distinct and that is so important I think especially when you see the same events more than once from different perspectives. It can be very hard to do in a way that doesn't feel redundant, but you do a really good job of making that interesting.

Oh my gosh, I am so delighted to hear that, I'm so thrilled. Yeah. I ... because that's something I kind of privately nerd out over, you know, the multi-perspective. But you're right, it can, it can drag, so, you never know.

Obviously, this book was so inspired by your mother's side of the family and you've mentioned also that your grandmother is still alive and very engaged with things. I'm curious if they've had a chance to read the book and also if they gave you specific like feedback or details on, you know, the 1970s Argentinian setting because they were there so that's obviously a great resource.

No, it's funny you say that because, so almost all of them read an early draft and I was getting feedback from my grandmother and from my mother saying, 'Oh, you know, actually like this one sensory detail of this one story you inserted, that to anyone else would have been like...' OK, we don't need to get in the weeds on that. They were like, no, this is wrong. Like the pavement smelled like this...

Anyway, so I received a lot of that or like the detail of... there's a story in the book, an anecdote about a young man who has a molar filled with poison that he bites down on and that's a real story of a family friend. So I wanted to make sure that, even though the context is fictional, it honored their memory of the situation.

And, beyond that, I'm very proud to report that... Even though, especially with the twist, it was not necessarily all of my family members ideal genre if that makes sense—not that I like to ascribe genre labels to anything, but I think with the twist, you know, you, it definitely appeals to a certain kind of reader and may be slightly jarring, hopefully in an interesting way to another type of reader—they loved it.

But they also saw how much I layered in from all of our lives. It's actually kind of funny when family members read books. I did get a few reactions where they're like, 'Oh, you're just this character, right?' And I'm like, no, that's not how it works.

So you do such a wonderful job constructing the setting of the school. And I'm curious if there were either real world buildings and or fictional buildings that served as inspiration for the school?

There is a building in Buenos Aires, in Recoleta, which is like this posh neighborhood, and it is an abandoned mansion. It's just... it's ridiculous. This building is amazing and there's just nothing being done with it and it's falling into disrepair and it's totally derelict. And it's on a really busy, posh street. So that did inspire some of the aesthetic.

But I just love building Gothic atmosphere. It's one of my favorite things in anything I write: the gloomy, the spooky, the grand, the forgotten, the abandoned. I love that. So that was always sort of simmering in my brain and my imagination for years. But, in Patagonia, I'll be honest, I haven't found a building like Vaccaro School.

Yet.

Yet. Yeah, I went last October again, looked for one, couldn't find one, but I'm going to try again. I'm going to try again this year, so...

And you'll have lots of readers to help out soon.

Yeah, I hope so. Right? I've already gotten some cool photos that people have sent me. Like, 'Oh, is this like Vaccaro School in this country?' Including a cliff mansion in Slovenia, which was pretty amazing.

Do you think about how readers in Argentina will respond to this book perhaps differently from readers in other places who don't know as much about the setting and the time period?

Well, I didn't grow up in Argentina. I went very often, my family, you know, half my family lives there. But, while I was writing this, I was very aware of the fact that not only did I not grow up there, but I didn't live through this time period. So I'm relying on my family members' very specific perspective on it. And I tried to deepen that and also to explore other perspectives on it by interviewing other people down there, doing a lot of research.

But, ultimately, I wasn't looking to obviously create any kind of, I'm not going to say exhaustive, but any detailed reflection of what that time period was like. I really just wanted to draw, especially for young adults, younger American audiences' attention to this period of time there, especially because with so much going on now, we can forget history, especially outside of the States. And there are many interesting parallels, at least to me, in what's happened in Argentina and other parts of the world and what's happening right now.

Without going further down that path, I just really wanted to draw attention to this time period, which even as someone growing up in California with Argentine parents and family, I knew not enough about. And it's been really exciting for me to see this book go out into the world and also to see other books of friends, especially other Latinx authors, who are putting out books about periods of history in their countries and their family's country that younger readers don't necessarily know that much about.

So I think it's a good way to, through an ideally compulsively-readable plot and characters you're invested in, pique interest in a time period that's not touched on very much in curriculums.

Yeah, well I definitely learned a lot and had a lot of fun, like stopping and Googling things to learn more about them.

Yay! Oh my gosh.

Yeah. So it's definitely not just a young person thing, obviously.

We've alluded to the big twist in this book, but there's a certain degree of mystery throughout. How did you decide on the pacing for when you would reveal certain things, especially the big plot twist?

Yes. Well, for me, it came down to rhythm and while, at first, I tried to use a more traditional structure, like a three-act structure. I tried at first to kind of loosely follow those kinds of structures, but I realized I had so much information and so many twists to handle because that's just how I like to read. So I wanted to write something that followed the same constant reveal structure. I went by rhythm, just intuitively.

Obviously, with a book of this length [editor's note: the book is 464 pages], you want to have enough [to keep people reading]. I think, even within the book, there are different kinds of twists and different kinds of reveals. So I had to be aware of the fact that what a kind of twist that was compelling for one reader, it might not for another and kind of lay them out so that there would be enough for each kind of reader. Because when you have something that, in my mind, does genre bend, you want to make sure that there's enough to appeal to different kinds of readers.

Yeah, definitely. And I think you're right with the length. I think you have to get a little bit more creative in terms of structure or like at least not following that traditional three act structure, which people like, you know, use and don't use in different ways.

Yeah. And it's almost fun to know how the structure works and then tried to subvert it. But it's funny because people, readers grow to expect those beats sometimes. And, yeah, it's an interesting thing to think about because, for the most part, I'm writing just what I enjoy to write, which was a privilege to do and have it still sell, but I feel like, on some level, it's also interesting to be conscious of reader expectations when it comes to hitting beats when readers expect them. It's something I'm still thinking about. I do it in my second book.

And I think you're right about, you know, reader expectation. I think story consumers today are more literate than ever in storytelling. So that is something to think about, definitely.

Also, I've been interested recently in how, as TV becomes, I mean I guess it's cheesy, but like golden age of TV and as people are watching such incredible television, which has a very different structure in my mind over the course of a season to films or to books, how you can kind of use that as an author. And, sometimes, I feel like I'm writing books more as someone who loves TV than someone who loves movies, if that makes sense?

Yeah. I think I read books like that so I totally understand. Because I also think that this golden age of television is marked by a break in structure and a creativity in structure. So that is a cool inspiration to take from that medium and bring into another.

Yeah, I think that some of the books I'm most excited about now do that as well. So yeah, I think we're on the cusp of something special or maybe we're well in it and I'm just not, you know, well read.

Yeah. It's hard to tell from the inside.

Yeah, exactly.

This book is such a good fall release. And was that like a discussion with your publisher and figuring out when the best release date would be for The Tenth Girl?

Yeah, it's funny because my editor knew immediately. Let me figure out when we like had our handshake deal... it was two years ago, basically. So she knew this was going to be the season, this is going to be the year. She immediately thought like the atmosphere is just the perfect thing for someone to curl up with on a stormy fall night. And I'm inclined to agree.

It's funny because the advance copies of this book had been going out over the summer and occasionally people will ask, 'Oh, you know, I received it. Should I read it on my beach vacation?' I'm like, 'Absolutely! Read it whenever you can.' But is it more fun to read on a stormy night? Yes. But, hopefully—I don't know where you're based—but, when it's a day like today, and it is so hot that you wish you could peel off your skin, it might be nice to retreat into a book where there's fog and storms and chills in the air.

I always like to ask people what stories they're really into right now, whether it's a book, a TV show, a movie, a comic book, whatever. What stories are you excited about as a fan?

I just blew through Euphoria on HBO. Which was really interesting to me and I'm still kind of working out my feelings about it, but I thought it was really kind of spectacular.

I haven't watched it yet, but it's definitely on my list.

It's, I'd be so curious. I'm curious to hear everyone's reaction to it, because. Let's see what else. Yeah, the structure is interesting how at the beginning of each episode it kind of gives you a little short and sweet or not sweet, I should say, but backstory on each of the characters you've been following and then it goes back into the kind of main narrative, which is interesting.

Besides that, I'm reading this book called The Need by Helen Philips. It's very difficult to describe. Basically it opens on this, on this mother who, I don't know if that's a spoiler or not, on this mother who like sees an intruder in her house and the intruder ends up being her. But from a different universe, kind of. And then at the same time, she's a paleobotanist. And she finds a Bible with she as the God pronoun, yeah. Anyway. Clearly it's almost impossible to describe, but it's very bizarre and unsettling and different and we'll see where it goes.

And then beside that a book I love, which you might've had on your list, but I don't know, is The Grief Keeper by Alexandra Villasante. It's A YA book, basically about if human beings can physically take on another's grief, it's so much more than that. That's just like the speculative hook, I guess. And it packs a punch.

Yeah. That's pretty much what I have going. Besides that, I watch a disgusting amount of reality TV right now because I'm trying to get my brain off of everything.

Yeah, I do that too. I'm just like, I can't write about this for work, so I'm just going to watch this thing.

Exactly.

Well thank you so much for chatting with me today. This was so much fun.

Thank you. This was such a treat.

The Tenth Girl will be published on September 24th and is now available to pre-order via Macmillan. You can follow Sara Faring on Instagram and Twitter.

Kayti Burt is a staff editor covering books, TV, movies, and fan culture at Den of Geek. Read more of her work here or follow her on Twitter @kaytiburt.

Read and download the Den of Geek SDCC 2019 Special Edition Magazine right here!

facebook

twitter

tumblr

Interview Kayti Burt

Aug 26, 2019

Horror

from Books https://ift.tt/30Dc0eS

#aion-rsa #Books

0 notes