#what else to inaugurate the new pad

[wolfbart]

New pad, new project

[naralanis]

My first pen was a Pilot Metro Retro. And was promptly broke by an E-2 I let borrow it to sign paperwork (i kept the cap so he would have to give it back, but alas). And then a couple years later I jumped to a TWSBI Vac700 Iris. Anyway, i have a few different pens, but I havent found even a basic instruction on how to tune tines or maintain them besides washing them out with distilled water. And suggestions?

Hi there! Sorry about your Metro, and hope you're happy with the TWSBI! I once let someone borrow my Décimo and they... mangled it. Heartbreaking! I was eventually able to fix it, but it took some doing, and it was also a last ditch effort -- I was already fully prepared to dish out the money for a brand new nib unit, so I figured there was no harm in trying.

I'll get to the easy stuff first: if your fountain pen is writing OK, it doesn't really require more maintenance than a good flush every now and then. You don't even have to use distilled water (unless the water in your area is like, exceedingly mineral-heavy) -- plain tap water and regular dish soap will do just fine.

As for nib tuning/readjustments, they are not part of a pen's general maintenance. Readjustments are done if there's a problem with how your pen is writing, and personally I view nib tuning as something done to improve the experience to the user -- mostly to smooth a scratchy nib.

Here's the short answer as to why info on making these adjustments is a little less widespread (though still relatively easy to find):

1) While often simple, these alterations can be a bit fiddly, and it's very easy to irreparably damage your pen.

2) These alterations, but especially tuning/otherwise modifying your nib/feed, will almost certainly automatically void your pen's warranty.

Keep that in mind if you decide to undertake any tuning -- it is always at your own (and your pen's) risk.

That's the short of it! For the (much, much) longer version, as always, see below the cut!

sorry this one took so long, I got really, really into it and it is stupidly long adalskjadhls

So, first things first. Your pen writes completely fine, you wash it every now and then or whenever you're changing inks, and have an overall pleasurable experience writing with it.

Congrats! Nothing else needs to be done. Enjoy your pen.

Now, let's say your pen isn't writing completely fine. Maybe it's skipping, maybe it feels scratchy, maybe it's laying down too much ink or not enough.

Before you go straight to tuning your nib, the first thing you do is: you clean it.

"But Nara, I already cleaned it." Clean it again. You'd be amazed how often a more thorough flush fixes simple flow problems -- do it with dish soap if you used only water the second time.

The next step? Try a different ink, if you have some. Then, try some different paper. It's good to have a paper/ink combo that you're familiar with to use as a standard. I like to use a Rhodia No. 19 Dot Pad and Waterman Serenity Blue to test all of my pens -- nearly every pen I buy writes an 'inauguration' page with that exact combination.

If your pen is a cartridge/converter, always make sure the cartridge or converter is the right fit and that it's seated properly. It should fit securely without a ton of pressure -- if you can basically bop it off without trying, it's probably the wrong fit. If the converter provided to you by the retailer doesn't fit, contact them -- maybe you got a defective pen.

Alright, so you've done all of the above, but your pen is still writing funky or not at all. Now it's time to take a closer look at the nib.

Enjoy this expertly made reference image I made on my phone before I realized I could just link you to a better one.

Before you start researching how to tune/grind your nib, let's check the nib and feed alignment -- the feed is what allows the ink to travel from reservoir to paper, and if cleaning your pen hasn't solved the problem, there's a good chance it is probably not seated correctly.

Here's what you should check for:

1) Make sure your feed is flush to the underside of your nib

If there's a major gap between the underside of your nib and the top of the feed (where the ink channel is), the ink simply can't get to where it needs to be (i.e. the tip of the nib). I

If there is a major gap, you can check if your nib and feed are seated correctly in the nib section. This depends a little bit on the pen and the model, but most of the time, you can try grasping nib and feed together and gently pushing down. Remember to never grab your nib by the shoulders/tines, as that will most likely ruin it.

2) Make sure your feed is properly centered with the nib.

This is easier to check if your pen has a breather hole, which most of them do. Basically, check to see if the ink channel at the top of your feed (you can see it through the breather hole) lines up with the ink slit. Here's a good example:

And here are... not so good ones. Coincidentally, both on Conklin pens.

This is usually a simple fit -- sometimes you can gently wriggle it back in place. Other times, you need to remove the nib and feed from the collar (basically the plastic thing that holds the nib unit together) or they are friction fit to the section altogether (like in the Lamy AL-Star). Do a bit of research on your pen model before you try disassembling it.

Feed is centered? All good to go? OK, now we move on to checking the metalworks, so to speak. I recommend using a magnifying glass or loupe for this part. Here's the one I use.

4) Check your tines for a) factory oopsies and b) misalignment.

Here's an example of tines that were just... cut very wrong (sorry for poo-poo pic quality, but you should be able to see the tine on the right just... ain't right)

In the case above, contact your retailer. I noticed this one before even inking my pen, but they should cover a replacement regardless.

DISCLAIMER: all adjustments from here on out may void your pen's warranty.

(maybe not a simple realignment, but don't risk it, or ask your retailer before you try anything).

Here's an example of slightly misaligned tines (ON THE SAME PEN AFTER EXCHANGE BTW).

I stupidly didn't get pictures of my Décimo or the Duragraph above looking straight at nib pointing up -- you could actually see one of the tines sloping slightly downward. That causes unbearable (to me) scratchiness and can tear off paper fibers. No fun.

There are better examples from JetPens' Fountain Pen Troubleshooting Guide (which you should absolutely check out!)

You can fix misaligned tines yourself. It requires patience, a little pressure, and a lot of finesse not to overdo it. You can manually bend the tines back into place, but before you try it yourself, I recommend going to YouTube to see how other pen people do it. My method is similar to this one, but there are several others. You can use your fingernail to push it down, just be very careful with how much force you use.

The one method I personally don't recommend is, ironically, the one JetPens recommend on their guide. It might work just fine, but I just think it is way too easy to overdo it and get splayed tines or create a major gap between nib and feed.

OK, seems like the tines on your pen are fine? Time to...

5) Check the distance between your tines.

Your tines should, ideally, be juuust a hair apart-- only enough for the ink and capillary action do their thing. They shouldn't be touching, since that would hinder ink flow, but there should not be a gulf of distance between them either. Let's revisit another Conklin

Yay. Fun.

This is also fairly simple to fix, but again: you have to be delicate about it. I manually manipulate my tines into position and kind of go by feel by now, always testing and checking with my loupe. Here's how PenBoyRoy does it:

Again, there are many different methods, and you will often hear different things from different pen people. It's down to preference and what works for you!

OK, now we've gone through an odyssey of troubleshooting (I AM SO SORRY), let's talk about nib tuning.

Yet another disclaimer: doing anything I describe below will 100% void your pen's warranty.

Tuning your nib isn't necessarily fixing it. It certainly can, if you've done pretty much all of the above and everything looks fine but the pen isn't writing the way you want it to. I use it to smooth down pens that are technically writing OK, but the experience of writing with them isn't entirely pleasant for me.

Essentially, you're using a rougher surface to basically... 'sand down' your nib. There's a wide variety of techniques (from using a rough paper bag all the way to actual fine-grit sanding blocks), but the most important detail you need to remember is you're removing tipping material (however little).

While tuning your nibs isn't necessarily hard, it's very, very easy to overdo it, and that will cause pretty much irreparable damage. If tuning nibs is something you're interested in, practice on inexpensive pens first -- I practiced on ye olde Pilot Varsity.

The Varsity is great to practice tuning because 1) it's super cheap, so even if you fuck it up completely, it's not the end of the world. 2) It has a medium tip.

The bigger the tip = the more tipping material = more room for error.

I mainly use two things to tune my pens: micromesh and mylar paper, which are both super fine abrasives. Goulet (and other pen retailers) sell entire nib-tuning kits with everything you might need to get started, but here's my own (plus a few extras that may look scary, but trust me, you don't need all of this):

In my pen kit above, you can see my newer sheets of micromesh and mylar and the scribbles I use to tune my nibs. I hold the pen the way I normally would when writing with it, and scribble over the abrasive, but I don't do it randomly. Figure 8s are usually the go-to for simple tuning; you can also go a particular direction if you know exactly which area of your nib needs to be smoothed.

Again, even micromesh and mylar paper (particularly the latter) are incredibly fine abrasives, it is still very easy to overdo it. I have fucked up nibs before, mostly on my practice pens, but also on a not-super-cheap pen, and I had to buy a whole new nib unit.

So, like I said, possible? Very! Simple? Sure! Finicky? Hell yeah.

Side note: tuning a nib is mostly just making it write more smoothly. If you'd like to change the shape of the tipping material entirely (and thus create line variation), that is totally something that can be done!

It is called nib grinding, and it is better left to the professionals, but it is super cool!

pOK, I didn't quite mean to go into a full nib troubleshooting post, but I should have known my brain could not be stopped. Hopefully, this (extremely) long-winded, tangent-riddled descent into the rabbit hole was at least a little bit useful!

Thanks for dropping by!

[mrs-han]

Hello!! I see your request is open, so i was wondering could you write about jumin finding out that mc has a self harm scars? And she’s been trying not to relapse into her old habit but she’s having a hard time so it’s the only thing she can think of? Im sorry for my bad english 😅 and if you don’t want to do it, it’s okay! Don’t force yourself to write it. Thank you, oh and also i like your writings a lot! Have a good day :)

~~~

You’re too sweet, thank you so much for your request! This deals with some fairly upsetting topics!

~~~

The delicate georgette sheen from your onyx long-sleeved dress rubbed harshly against your slashed arms. Of all times to relapse, this was the worst - Jumin was a guest of honor at a new hotel inauguration, and of course, he brought you along.

Palms sweating, you pasted a friendly smile towards every patron in attendance. Frankly, you were overjoyed with your husband’s success. But with you having issues of your own... it was difficult to be in a celebratory mood.

“Mrs. Han!” A sponsor quickly made his way towards you, bringing with him several other philanthropists. Anxious, you tugged the hem of your sleeve down, experiencing a sharp pain and a subtle ooze of liquid.

“It’s an honor to finally meet you,” the older gentleman beamed, hand extended towards you. “I am Tanaka Sato, a close partner of your husband.”

Again, you plastered a fake smile across your mouth. You reached over to shake his hand and shuddered as pain radiated through your right arm. Unconsciously, you tugged at your sleeve. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tanaka.”

“It seems he has chosen a new aesthetic, entirely separate of C&R’s minimalistic design. Are you the inspiration behind this?” A chirpy young woman chimed in.

“I always consult with my wife before making any major decisions,” Jumin spoke affectionately, resting his hand on your waist and lightly tugging you close to him. “This project has been hers as much as it has been mine.”

Several of the woman blushed and whispered amongst themselves as the men took a subtle step back, aware of the power both you and Jumin exuded.

If only you felt as powerful as you looked.

“Jumin?” You flashed him a subtle look of desperation. “I need to freshen up, where’s the restroom?”

“Come with me, my love. Excuse us,” he smiled, his eyes bright and full of fondness for you, ignoring everyone else.

It still confused you, how he could look at you with so much love in his eyes. A whirlwind of emotion ravaged your stomach and chest every time he did it. Were you deserving? Certainly not. But he continued to gaze at you with more tenderness than Cupid’s gaze upon Psyche.

“Are you well?” He asked, the strong acoustic voice that overpowered the venue twenty minutes ago now a low, effete tone.

“I’m okay,” you lied. “I couldn’t find the bathroom, but I’ll be out in a minute or two! Go back to your guests!”

A lie was difficult to get past Han Jumin. But he kissed your temple and squeezed your arm - and you held back a mighty yelp.

There was a first time for everything.

“I’ll be waiting for you by the grand piano,” he hummed. “Take your time.”

After watching his withdrawing figure, you pushed the door to the ladies’ room open, flew to a stall and caught your breath before slowly unbuttoning the diamond buttons on your sleeves. Pain greeted you instantly as the cuts on your wrists throbbed unbearably, each laceration making up a heartbeat on their own.

Easing the sleeves up further, you winced. Dull maroon meshed with bright red, old droplets of blood met new. Unforgiving gashes punished you mercilessly, each slice reminding you of how stupid it was to relapse now, when things were so good. Why now? You were so beloved. So cherished. You had no goddamn reason to do this to yourself.

Choking back sobs, you recklessly pushed the stall door open and turned the faucet on. The water cold, you shoved your arms under and bit your lip, desperate to keep from crying out. Determined to keep your scars from discharging anymore blood, you scrubbed with the flat of your hand. The white of the porcelain sink and marble countertops, illuminated by the overhead lights, was now stained with red hues. You had to hurry before someone else came in - everyone knew your face. Anyone could report what they saw to Jumin, especially...

“MC?”

Jaehee.

Tears blurring your vision, you looked towards the door. Her eyes wide, she stood there, processing the scene before her. Hands shaking, you turned the faucet off and, trembling, faced her with what little courage you had left.

She continued to stand there, speechless. You had presented a fairly complicated situation to her, no doubt. Finally, she pressed her hand to the door. “There you are... I will let Mr. Han know.”

“No!” You bellowed. “Please, don’t!”

Conflicted, Jaehee hesitated. “Those cuts... they look serious. It’s best that I —”

“Jaehee,” you pleaded, tears falling down your chin. “Please. I’m begging you, don’t tell Jumin.”

Jaehee’s brows creased. “But MC... he’s worried about you. He’s been standing by the piano for over twenty minutes and now he is sending others to look for you... myself included.”

Overwhelmed and angry as more blood leaked from your opened gashes, you shouted at her. “He can’t see me like this!! Look at me!! Look!!”

Jaehee blinked and flinched slightly.

“I look disgusting!! My arms hurt, I... I can’t face him like this, Jaehee... please —”

“Have you found her, Assistant Kang?”

You didn’t have time to shield yourself. Jumin stepped through the threshold and froze in place. Completely exposed and frozen with fear, you stood before your husband like a deer in headlights.

A single drop of water falling into the ceramic of the sink was the only sound that could be heard.

“Leave us,” Jumin spoke to Jaehee, his voice trembling ever so slightly - his power slipping from him.

Obedient to the end, Jaehee agreed - leaving you stranded.

“What is this,” Jumin demanded, power seeping back to his voice.

You trembled. “Jumin...”

He moved closer to you. “Who did this to you?”

What did he mean...? His eyes trembled, moving back and forth between your arms and your eyes. Did he... not believe you could have done this to yourself? Did he not want to...?

You hung your head shamefully. There was no going back from this, no more hiding from him anymore. You felt mortified, embarrassed that he could see you like this. If only you could turn back time and...

“Give me your arm.”

You flinched - he was already so close to you and you didn’t hear him move. Refusing to look at him, you limply lifted your arm - his hand took hold, making you wince.

He turned the faucet on and ran his hand through the water, checking it’s temperature. “Come closer to the sink,” he hummed, easing you closer to the sink with his other hand on your lower back.

You shuddered as your husband cupped cool water over your wounds. His fingers stroked your burning cuts, making you wince and twitch - but he remained kind and gentle throughout.

What bothered you more than anything was his silence.

He remained focused - but quiet. Hot tears flooded your vision - he would think of you differently now. He could think you were crazy, or he would put you away in a mental ward. He wouldn’t want you anymore, not after this.

The silence dragged, second to second, minute to minute. Jumin patted your arm dry, still saying nothing.

“Jumin...” your voice trembled. “I... I —”

“Give me your other arm,” he spoke, a commanding yet tender tone overtaking his voice.

“Jumin...”

His eyes met with yours and you trembled under the weight of his sorrow. “Talk to me, darling. Please talk to me.”

You moved your hand over your mouth. What were you supposed to say...?

Jumin swallowed thickly. “Are you... are you unhappy with me?”

“No, no Jumin, not at all...!”

“Then...” he took a step toward you, cradling your elbows in the palms of his hand. “... talk to me. Dearest, these wounds look fresh... days old.”

“I...” you leaned against the sink, your legs wobbling. “There are days when... when I’m the happiest person in the world because I have a wonderful life... and I have you, you who loves me more than life itself... and yet... there are days when I’m so sad, so miserable with my own existence that I... I take my misery out on myself.”

Jumin’s thumbs stroked your abrasions, his touch so gentle that you lost any will to contain your tears. You leaned into him, hands close to your chest, and you wept.

“Come here,” he cooed, wrapping his arms around you and holding you firmly against him. “I’m here, darling. I’m here.”

“Of course you are,” you whispered. “You’ve always been here...”

He cradled your face in his hands, wiping your tears with the pads of his thumbs. “I want to help you, darling.” His blinked and you gasped as tears rolled down his eyes. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Jumin...”

He clutched your hands desperately, as if you would disappear without a moment’s notice. “I’ll do anything for you. I’ll sit with you and we can come up with a plan for you to stop hurting yourself. I’ll shorten my schedule at work just to hear your troubles, my love. I’ll do anything, so please. Don’t leave me. Whatever is plaguing you, we can fight it together... I won’t ever leave you to fight on your own, so please. Please.”

His knuckled whitened. His hands trembled. For the first time since you met him, you witnessed your husband so desperate to keep you by his side... and you realized that you weren’t alone anymore. For the first time in a long time, you felt a link in the chains that subdued you break and shatter... all because he loved you and wanted to help you.

No he couldn’t banish your demons all together. You didn’t expect him to. But at least this time... you weren’t alone.

“Thank you,” you pipped. “I only wish you found this out later, rather than... here, now, at this very moment. I’m afraid I ruined a really important night for you...”

Jumin carefully kissed your scarred wrist. “No businessman nor any proposition will take precedent over you, my love. Now... let’s finish cleaning you up, mm?”

Through tears, you cracked your first genuine smile of the evening. “Okay.”

[lovemesomesurveys]

[created by: --rainboweyes--]

oo1. Do you miss someone who you shouldn't right now? No.

oo2. Do you have any close friends that were adopted? I did in the past. 

oo3. What time did you get up today? Ugh, I dozed off around 5AM and woke up an hour later in horrible pain. I took my medicine and put on a heating pad and fell back asleep around 730. Then for some reason I woke up at 9:45 and wasn’t able to fall back asleep. I’ve felt like a zombie all day. I took like a 2 hour nap around 3, but naps just make me feel worse. Sigh. oo4. If you could have any job/talent, what? (regardless if can or not)? I wish I could sing. oo5. Who, in your opinion, is the best thriller writer? For the past couple years I’ve just been reading mystery and thriller books and I’ve really enjoyed them all. A lot of them are a series, which I love. Willow Rose, AJ Rivers, and Mary Stone are some of my favorite authors of those genres.

oo6. Does your Mum eat meat? Yes.

oo7. Was your Dad ever in a sports team? Yeah, he played baseball growing up and through high school.

oo8. Do you like apple and cinnamon crumble? Nah, I’d prefer a coffee cake crumble or just a cinnamon swirl crumble.

oo9. What's the most interesting thing you've learned today? I was surprised when I heard that some teachers are making their students, like elementary school age, watch the inauguration in its entirety and then write a paper about what they liked about it. I don’t know, I just thought that was kinda crazy. I definitely support talking about it and showing some short clips or something, but the whole thing at that age? Nah. That’s some heavy stuff to take in and try to understand at that age. Not to mention, one kid wrote they didn’t like it and found it boring and the teacher said that was unacceptable. Wow.

o1o. Do you prefer thick or thin crusted pizza? I like high rise dough or pan crust. I can’t do thin crust, there’s like nothing to it and that doesn’t work for me. I’m weird with how I eat pizza cause I only eat the top layer of it, so I need more dough to work with.

o11. Do you know anyone who is blind? No.

o12. Do you prefer monkeys or pigs? I don’t really have a preference. 

o13. Have you ever had an eerie/paranormal experience? What happened? No. 

o14. Do you own every DVD boxset of your favorite show? I have a few boxsets of I Love Lucy and one of The Dick Van Dyke Show.

o15. Actually, what is that favorite show? I like more than just one show - you can’t make me choose! <<< Me either!

o16. Do you have any friends with the same name as you? I don’t have any friends.

o17. How many people of the same name as you have you ever met? Several. Stephanie is a pretty common name. In elementary school there was a few of us in one class. 

o18. What day of the month were you born on? Has this number occurred a lot? The 28th of July. I’m not sure what you mean by if it’s occurred a lot?

o19. How often do you see your best friend? Everyday, all the time. We live together. 

o2o. Do you like cookie dough ice cream? Yeah. Wow, I have no idea the when I last had it, though. 

o21. Do you like incense or does it give you headaches? I like some. Patchouli is my favorite. 

o22. What sitcoms do you watch? I like older sitcoms like I Love Lucy, The Dick Van Dyke Show, Roseanne, The Golden Girls, Boy Meets World, Full House, Sister, Sister, Step by Step, Family Matters, Home Improvement, Everybody Loves Raymond, and King of Queens. Not too many newer ones, though. I find them super cringe. A newer one I do like though is The Middle.

o23. Do you find Tigers beautiful? Yes.

o24. I don't give up easily - is this you? It used to be me. Not these past few years, though. :/

o25. Do you prefer to watch or attempt? Depends on what it is of course.

o26. What do you wish your national flag looked like? I’ll keep it how it is.

o27. What time do you usually have a shower? I like to take them at night. 

o28. Do you believe that people can be psychics? No. 

o29. What is your most notable trait? That I’m awkward, probably. 

o3o. Are you proud of this trait, or ashamed? It’s not the worst.

o31. Do you like waterfalls? Looking at and listening to them is quite relaxing. I wouldn’t want to get near one, though.

o32. If you wrote a song about life right now, what'd it be called? “Blah.” Ha.

o33. If you wrote a novel about your whole life, what'd you call it? I have one in mind, but it’s a play on words of my last name and I don’t want to share that.

o34. Who has the prettiest middle name you know? *shrug*

o35. So, what's your name? Stephanie.

o36. What'd be your name if you took your Mum's middle name? I’m not sharing that.

o37. Would you rather be a farmer or engineer? I wouldn’t be cut out for either one.

o38. A psychologist or a football coach? The plan was to be a psychologist, or pursue something in the psychology field, but...

o39. Do you shout when you're upset? No.

o4o. What color is your favorite vegetable? Green.

o41. Do you get more eye pain or back pain? I have chronic back pain. 

o42. When was your last hug? Earlier.

o43. Describe your house to me: 2-bedroom duplex.

o44. Why did you chose to wear what you're wearing today? I always wear leggings and I was cold earlier so I grabbed my Mandalorian sweatshirt. 

o45. Do you like banana milkshake? Yesss. Those are the best.

o46. What do you have in your fruit salads? I don’t eat fruit salads. 

o47. Do you have a calendar in your bedroom? What is on it? I have two old Alexander Skarsgard ones. I don’t have a new one for this year.

o48. What color is the sink in your bathroom? White.

o49. Are you hungry right now? No, I had Wingstop for dinner.

o5o. Where was the last place you ate, except from home? Various places at Disneyland last February. I haven’t gone out to eat ever since the pandemic and quarantine happened. I get a lot of takeout, though.

o51. What was your favorite thing to do as a kid? I loved playing Barbies, playing house, playing school, hang out with my cousins, watch TV, and even play outside.

o52. Do you take any vitamins? Which ones? No, but I should be.

o53. Do you get embarrassed easily? Yes.

o54. Do you prefer Lion Bars or Toffee Krisps? I don’t know what either of those are, but I do know I like toffee so perhaps I’d like Toffee Krisps. 

o55. What do you feel guilty about right now? There’s a lot. :/

o56. Have you ever lost something really precious to someone else? No, thankfully.

o57. When was the last time you wore makeup? Almost 4 years ago.

o58. Do you live North, East, South or West? West.

o59. Is the TV on in the room you're in? What's on? Yeah, The King of Queens.

o6o. Describe your city/town to me: It’s shitty.

o61. Are you a fan of Kings of Leon? Yeah.

o62. What do you think of the Lion King? I like it.

o63. Who makes you feel small/inferior? No one in my life currently makes me feel that way. I just... do.

o64. Are you protective of your family? Yes.

o65. Do you make friends easily, or do you keep to yourself? Well, for the past few years I’ve been keeping to myself and not seeking to make friends.

o66. What's your best friends starsign? Whatever the beginning of September is.

o67. Do you have a little sister/brother? I have a younger brother.

o68. Do you download films/tv shows? No.

o69. What size ring are you? I think a 7.

o7o. Do you like flip flops or do you find them annoying? I don’t wear flip flops, sandals, or any open-toed shoe.

[artificialqueens]

Currently Untiled Witch Au? - Anonymous

A/N: Hi, I don’t usually do this kind of stuff but it’s quarantine and I’m bored. I really liked the Black Bride runway so I wrote a vaguely AHS Coven inspired thing. It’s not great because I was trying to rush through all the groundwork to get to the meat but it still ended up a prologue. I don’t know what else to put here, goodbye.

Three hundred and sixty-five days and nights do they wait.

Fifty-two weeks do whispers spread from the source.

Twelve months for the simple disciples across the country to dare utter unearthed names at the risk of being heard by those they wished were deaf.

The months had run their course, the weeks have made their peace, and the days have lived and died until the hourglass had emptied and the time to find a new Supreme had dawned.

Twelve names, twelve witches from coast to coast had been called. Even for the eleven witches who would not ascend to the status of Supreme, the chance to fight for the title was a level of status of its own. The opportunity alone practically elevated one to a legendary status but the Supreme truly was a class of its own.

To be a Supreme, that aspiration had driven Jan for as long as she could remember. Any information past Supremes, witches who didn’t quite make it, and the challenges they would face Jan devoured. She studied their magic religiously; she knew the game like the back of her hand and saw an empty seat at the table waiting for her.

Upon the morning when she found an elegant black envelope sealed with pink wax and pressed with the seal RU, Jan jumped up and down and squealed so loudly that her downstairs neighbor threw a shoe at his ceiling. The following weeks were a practical blur as she prepared. Everything from restocking her spell components bag to texting her friends to let them know that she couldn’t host musical night for the next few weeks. Jan had fretted over the prospect of not having someone around to water her plants but that concern was short lived as she had no reason to doubt her own innate magic. Giving things energy was what she did, reviving a wilted vine would be nothing.

The journey proved to be an interesting one. Past witches who tried to become the Supreme had revealed secrets here and there but many of the details remained hidden ad that largely had to do with who sat at the head of the table. Though the Supreme was considered to be the highest position a witch could take, one witch sat above the others. An ancient being who had seen many come and go, revered by almost every witch aligned with the Supremes and under whose authority they were named.  

Ru. How she became so powerful was an enigma. Ru was reclusive these days, a witch of her power earned her a top spot on many witch hunter’s watch list, even the location in which the Supreme was decided was kept secret and Jan practical shook with excitement as her eyes flitted across the letter to find the location.

It’s Wyoming, apparently. Jan wasn’t sure how to feel about that. What was even in Wyoming, cows, bears? She couldn’t name anything about the state or what role it had in any bit of witchcraft history. It’s- that’s- just why?

The journey there also turned out to be less of a journey and more akin to a business trip. Arrangements were made to have all magic items and materials sent separately to avoid suspicion and as Jan boarded a flight from New York City to Cheyenne, she wondered if this was how it was actually supposed to go. When she exited the terminal, however, she spotted a well-dressed man standing in front of a car holding a sign with her name on it. The sign was writing with the same cursive pink font of the letter and, to be quite honest, the man had a face that made her not even care if he was a hunter in disguise, she’d go anywhere with him. She smiled and greeted him with her usual cheer but he simply smiled and nodded before putting her luggage in the trunk and holding the door open for her.

Jan noted that another identical black car was parked just a few meters down, with another well-dressed man holding a sign, Jan craned her neck to try and make out the name on it but the driver was already pulling away. The drive was peaceful, but peaceful was another word for dull sometimes. The driver did not speak no matter how many times Jan tried to start a conversation and Jan eventually resigned herself to watching videos on her phone, occasionally looking up to see the scenery. They made their way out of the city and down a long drive towards the mountains and into a heavily wooded area, the paved road long since having run out and turn to worn dirt.

The slight glimpses that broke free from the thick canopy above showed that the sky had turned a wave of oranges and pinks and purples as the sun took its rest. The forest on the other hand held onto darkness so tightly it may as well be midnight, shapes defined only by distant glows that grew stronger as the car winded down the path.

Finally, there came a break in the trees and Jan rolled down the window to peer out at the structure before them. An old looking manor sat in the center of the clearing, the driveway looped around the front and three other black cars sat parked around it. A white van stood out among the bunch, the back doors folded open and two men working to pull luggage from it and carry it inside. The car came to a stop and the driver helped Jan to her feet. She could have stood there all night just taking it in until the driver reminded her with a flourish of his arm to the door that she actually had to go inside.

With her suitcase in tow, Jan had to restrain herself from sprinting inside but she managed to go at what she would have consider a reasonable pace. The grand foyer was a vision of black, purples, and pinks and Jan found herself once again frozen in spot, wide eyed and mouth gaping open as she tried to take in every last detail. The statues that stood in the room caught her attention in particularly, all muscular men scantily clad, unbelievably lifelike but that didn’t stop Jan from yelping as the statue began to move.

It- he?- was as silent as the driver was but collected her suitcase from her and effortlessly hefted it over his head and moved up the staircase. Jan padded after him and followed him down a long hall lined with doors. He stopped in front of one and opened it, her bedroom for her time here it seemed. The bedroom was simple but matched the aesthetic of everything else in the house. It consisted of a single bed, a wardrobe, and a vanity, along with a few somewhat generic paintings and her other luggage neatly setup in the corner. Going through all of that was going to be a pain but as she was left alone, Jan decided to leave that for tomorrow and flop down on the bed instead. She buried her face into a pillow to muffle her screams of excitement before rolling onto her back and hugging it tightly to her chest.

Tonight was going to be the only moment of peace, the fight for the title of Supreme started tomorrow and Jan was more than ready.

The first stage of the competition was the debut, meeting all of the other witches and hearing the inaugural speech from Ru herself. Standing out was imperative, if a witch failed to make Ru realize she had potential then, she was doomed in the long run. Presentation was everything from personality to magic to what they wore.

The morning couldn’t come fast enough. The witches were expected to stay in their room for the first day while preparing with meals brought to their doors. Some moments seemed to droll on forever while others were a flash of practicing her introduction speech in the mirror, going over the dress she wanted to wear, and prepping the materials to demonstrate her innate magic, her eyes constantly on the clock counting down the seconds.

[e350tb]

Steven Universe: Marooned Together - Chapter Thirty-Six

(thanks to @real-fakedoors for proofreading, as always. Read her stuff!)

As do most things with the passage of time, the gunshot wound faded.

The aches and the pains did not.

Vidalia noticed that she just couldn’t carry all the things she used to, or work as hard - and while the Curator was enthusiastic, he wasn’t exactly fit, so she was forced to look for new museum employees. She was surprised when Blue Pearl answered the flyer, and even more surprised when she asked genuine, interesting questions about all of the paintings in the museum.

She began to teach her what she knew - technically and practically. Her lines were straight and geometric at first, but not at all bad, and as time went on she blossomed into an impressive visual artist. Drawing remained her passion, but Vidalia taught her to paint, to watercolour, to sculpt.

She didn’t think much of it until one day, six months after the coup, when the Curator blandly asked her a question.

“Are you training your successor, then?”

He immediately apologized profusely and bolted for his office before Vidalia could reply - which was odd, because she wasn’t offended by the question (although it was a tad insensitive). It made her think - was she? After all, she wouldn’t be around forever, and she’d brought Blue in specifically because…

She cleared it from her mind. What was coming was coming; for now, as always, she’d focus on the moment.

The months flew by - they seemed to fly right off the calendar, the world speeding up as she seemed to slow down.

A year after the coup, Jeff inaugurated the New Earth Home Guard, the replacement for the disgraced Resistance under the command of Peedee Fryman (Captain Franks’ offer to lead it had been politely but firmly declined.) They were explicitly designed to be less threatening than the old guard - green uniforms instead of black, old fashioned helmets shaped almost like bowler hats, and a distinct scaling back of random military parades. The biggest change of course was that anyone could join, human or gem.

There was a big shindig to celebrate the moment at the Diamond’s Lament, but Vidalia found herself growing tired as the night wore on - before long, she found herself trudging home, her legs weary and aching.

She found herself sitting on a crude little bench near the museum to catch her breath.

“You alright, V?”

She looked up. Amethyst was standing there, concern underlining her features.

“You left pretty early,” she said, “I mean, nobody’s even wasted yet.”

“I’m just tired tonight, Ames,” replied Vidalia.

Amethyst sat down next to her.

“That’s… really not like you.”

Vidalia sighed.

“Yeah, well… you know, it’s late,” she said.

She looked up at the lights swirling in the sky, dancing and swirling in the Oort Cloud.

“If we died tomorrow,” she asked, “Do you think we’d have lived a good life?”

“I… well, duh, but what brings this up?” demanded Amethyst.

“I’m in my seventies now, Amethyst,” replied Vidalia, “Considering I spent a good portion of that without proper food and water when we started this place, I think that’s pretty damn good, but…”

She sighed.

“...I feel like I’m slowing down,” she said, “I just… can’t do the stuff I used to.”

“Okay, I really don’t like you talking like this, Vidalia,” said Amethyst, grabbing her shoulder, “I mean, come on, you’re not…”

Vidalia chuckled, and Amethyst trailed off.

“Look at you,” said Vidalia, “Just as beautiful as the day we met.”

“Hey, you’re still hot, if that’s what you’re saying,” said Amethyst.

Vidalia smiled.

“But you’re gonna be here one day,” she continued, “And Sour Cream, and Onion, and I… I won’t be. And I just…”

Amethyst swallowed and nodded, her eyes glassy and her lip trembling slightly.

“I’ll look out for ‘em, V,” she said.

Vidalia pulled Amethyst into a tight hug, patting her back gently.

“Thank you, Ames,” she replied.

There was a long sniffle, and Vidalia couldn’t help but laugh a little. It was infectious, and Amethyst vibrated in her arms as she laughed back.

“Getting old fuckin’ sucks, V,” croaked Amethyst.

Vidalia nodded.

“Damn straight it does.”

Another year flew past, and suddenly she couldn’t run without losing breath. Her pace slowed. Everything else accelerated.

Her work at the museum seemed to scale back more and more, with Blue picking up more of the slack. She had learned to categorize everything in the galleries, and on those few happy occasions when a scavenger brought back an old piece, she was able to tell where it was meant to go - most of the time - without Vidalia’s help.

She still had enough energy to veto the Curator’s more impractical ideas - “...and where exactly are we going to put a working railway?” - but her work became increasingly administrative, and she found herself more and more unsatisfied.

In those moments, she turned to painting. The world outside was changing day by day, and she was determined to chronicle it. She had painted before - the dark days of early New Earth were represented with limited and crude paints and charcoals, while today’s fabrication technology allowed her to use whatever technique she wanted. She wanted to show her kids, and Sour Cream and Onion’s kids (should they choose to have them), what these times were like.

And there was one painting she was more and more determined to paint.

“Okay, so you just want us to stand in front of the barn?” asked Stevonnie.

They and Lapis stood on the beach before the barn. It was a beautiful sunny day on the Island, and after so long on New Earth, Vidalia had started to forget what sunny days on a planet were like. She leaned out from behind the easel, studying her subjects.

“Maybe sit on that rock,” replied Vidalia, “Lapis, put your arm around Stevonnie’s waist.”

“Like this?” Lapis did so as they sat down.

“Perfect,” replied Vidalia, “Alright, I just need to get the sketch and the basic colours down, then I reckon I can finish back at home.”

She began to put paper to canvas, swiftly drawing up the rough sketch on her easel. After a while, she stopped to cough into her arm - she drew it away and saw red spots. Not again, she thought grumpily.

“Vidalia, are you okay?” asked Stevonnie, concerned.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, hold your pose…”

It didn’t take terribly long for the sketch to be finished - Vidalia was well practiced, after all - and she was soon onto the colour. In this moment, she felt freed - existing in a world of rich blues, sandy pale yellow, greens from the treeline and brown from the barn, and in the middle of it all, two figures who loved each other; and there she was, bringing this all to life, preserving this singular moment forever on canvas. There was a simplicity to it all that soothed her mind.

Eventually, however, she set down her brush and climbed to her feet, and all the aches and pains and stresses of life seemed to slowly crawl back, nettling their way into her joints with the familiarity of a houseguest.

“Okay,” she said, “I’ve got the gist of it. I think I’ve got enough to finish back on New-”

She coughed again, and this time some of the red gunk fell to the sandy beach. Before she’d recovered, Stevonnie had run over, placing their hand on her shoulder.

“Vidalia, are you sure you’re okay?” they asked, “Maybe I can help.”

Vidalia chuckled.

“Kid, it’s an internal thing,” she said wryly, “And I’m not swallowing your spit.”

“But…”

“Beside, it comes and goes,” continued Vidalia, “Doesn’t stop me from doing anything, so… let it be.”

“But I want to help!” exclaimed Stevonnie.

Vidalia smiled, putting her hand on their shoulder.

“I know,” she replied, “But… how do I put this, I…”

She shrugged.

“I’m okay,” she said, “I know it’s coming, and… I’m okay.”

Stevonnie frowned, eyes filled with concern.

“Know what’s coming?”

“I think we both know,” replied Vidalia, “Warp me out, will ya?”

She turned to the warp pad - hesitantly, Stevonnie followed.

“I’ll let you know when this is done!” said Vidalia, “I think it’s gonna come out really well…”

It was a night like any other.

Vidalia sat in the living room of her apartment, built into the back of the museum, taking in the moment. She had just been working on a painting - not the Stevonnie and Lapis one, that had been done for months; this one was a completely spur of the moment one.

It was her as she was now, wrinkled and grey but still smiling, still full of life; next to her stood Amethyst, and both laughed at an unheard joke. In the background was the museum, it’s artifacts arrayed in cases, displays and on the walls. Next to one, Peedee and Jeff shared a kiss. Peridot stood next to an old fossil in a glass case, but her eyes were really on Amethyst. Blue Pearl sat at an easel to the left of her, Yellow modelling for her. Stevonnie and Lapis walked around nearby, lost in each other’s company. And dotted around them all were her other friends; Garnet, Jenny, Rhodonite.

And on their own on a bench, talking about the little things that brothers speak of, were Sour Cream and Onion, the elder one ruffling the tuft on the younger’s head, as a portrait of Yellowtail looked down on them.

She didn’t know if it was her magnum opus, but it was a damn fine piece, if she said so herself.

It wasn’t finished, mind - about two-thirds were painted, and she hadn’t really begun with the shading at all - and yet when she looked at it, she felt a sense of satisfaction. There was more she’d like to do with it, so much more, but if she couldn’t? Well, that was okay. There was something there, something she had done, and she was damn proud of it.

Her eyelids were heavy as she laid back in the chair, and as she began to drift off, she could have sworn she could see a bearded figure in yellow.

She nodded wearily.

“Took me long enough, didn’t it?” she whispered.

Then, smiling peacefully, Vidalia drifted off.

It is with great sadness that the Museum of Earth announces that it’s co-founder Vidalia passed away last night at the age of seventy-four. She is survived by her two children, Sour Cream and Onion.

Vidalia was the heart, soul and most of the muscle that got this museum started in the early days of New Earth, when all we had were a few meagre crates of human artifacts, and what could be found on the backs of the survivors of Earth. It is almost entirely due to her that we gathered the collection we have today. But her efforts extended beyond our walls - she was one of the great bridges between human and gem that allowed us to survive and thrive in this new world.

It is going to be hard to imagine New Earth without her, but we must follow her example, and live up to her spirit, her kindness and her tenacity in the face of all adversity.

We asked that you give her family space in what is a sad and difficult time for them. We have been asked not to publish the details of her final resting place until she has been laid to rest…

Stevonnie put down the slip of paper, letting it fall to the floor as they sat on their mattress, a deep lump in their throat. With shaking hands, they clutched their temples, closing their eyes.

“She’s gone,” they muttered, “Everyone’s… gonna be gone one day…”

A hand came down on their shoulder, and they looked to their left. Lapis was sitting down, pulling them into a hug.

“Well I’m not going anywhere,” she said softly.

She pulled them in close, rubbing their hair as they began to cry into her shoulder.

Amethyst wiped her eyes as she watched the tiny canister float into the Oort Cloud - the final resting place of one of her best friends. She could feel the eyes of Onion and Sour Cream on the bridge behind her - she turned around to find Onion already leaving, his expression unreadable as ever. No-one would ever have known he’d been bawling earlier.

“Is… is he gonna be okay?” she asked softly.

Sour Cream nodded, turning around to follow his brother. He made it as far as the door before turning around.

“Hey, Amethyst?” His voice was croaky and soft from lack of use.

Amethyst raised her eyebrows in surprise. Ever since he had returned to New Earth, she had never actually heard him say anything.

“Yeah?” she asked, and immediately kicked herself for not saying more.

“Thanks,” said Sour Cream, “For being her friend.”

Fresh tears threatened to spill over her cheeks as she smiled sadly back.

“My pleasure, SC,” she replied, “My pleasure.”

Sour Cream gave her a small smile in return and walked away.

“Amethyst?”

Peridot got up from her chair, walking slowly up to her girlfriend.

“Are you… gonna be okay?” she asked gingerly.

Amethyst smiled, putting an arm around Peridot’s shoulder.

“She’s at peace now,” she replied, “I’m gonna be sad for a while but… it’s not a bad way to go.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the trickle of tears, the frog in her throat, and a strange sense of calm in her very being.

“Not a bad way to go at all…”

[thesinglesjukebox]

ROSALíA - MALAMENTE

[8.23]

This song won Best Alternative Song and Best Urban Fusion/Performance, and based on this score, probably should have won everything else too.

Leonel Manzanares de la Rosa: Flamenco-pop, flamenco-tinged R&B, even flamenco rap and flamenco-reggaetón, are nothing new -- past heroes like Rosario, Bebé, Chambao, Papá Levante and fusion legends Ojos de Brujo all have enjoyed international projection and can be considered Rosalía's natural predecessors in that aspect. Rosalía gladly and effectively acknowledges that tradition while contributing to it with her empowered R&B-flavored chants, and the latin urban sensibilities in El Guincho's productions. "Malamente" establishes an interesting dynamic between the modern synths and pads and the traditional palmas a compás, which work in counter-rhythm to her cante, for a track that offers a glimpse into the percussive complexities of rumba while feeling at home in one of those alt-pop playlists. It's a new step in flamenco's legacy. [8]

Crystal Leww: My introduction to Rosalía was her feature on J. Balvin's latest album, a quiet, downtempo, fluttering track among an album of reggaetón bangers. At the Latin Grammys, she beat his monster of a tune "Mi Gente" for Urban/Fusion performance with "Malamente." It's easy to see why: this is slinky and sensual with plenty of interesting flourishes in the production as well as her very own vocal performance. It's perfect critic bait, as it stands out as driving towards a very specific sound, a re-imagining of a largely left behind musical genre in flamenco. The handclaps, the asides, the breaking of the glass, the reverb, the "tra! tra!" -- all of these should take you out of such a quiet song, but Rosalía does just enough without crossing the line. Enric Palau, director of Sónar music festival in Spain recently said that she could be the Rihanna of flamenco. And don't get me wrong, I love Rihanna, but she never had the vision to do something like this. [7]

Alfred Soto: Relistening to Radiohead is not an experience to which I often submit myself, but their use of hand claps, programmed or otherwise, loosened me up for what Rosalía attempts on "Malamente," complete with mournful keyboard. [7]

Nortey Dowuona: Twirling, circular drums wind up around the soft synths, with Rosalía's gentle, short singing and claps carefully herding them together into the field. [8]

William John: We don't have any Andalusian writers on the Singles Jukebox roster, as far as I know, which is a shame in this instance because I've been desperate to read something in English about Rosalía from that perspective that isn't a garbled translation derived from Google software. Rosalía is Catalan, but has sent shockwaves through Spain that are slowly permeating into other Western markets (I confess to learning of her from a Dua Lipa tweet); the shockwaves are in part due to her striking videos, overseen by CANADA (also responsible for that memorable El Guincho video a few years back, who incidentally handles production here), but also for her use of gitanx imagery and accents as a non-gitana. She's addressed these matters with defensiveness and naivety in interviews, and thus in Spain is the subject of some controversy. To her credit, she has worked with Las Negris, a group whose members are part of the Montoyita flamenco dynasty, on this song and elsewhere on her album El mal querer, and she seems to be both a devoted student of flamenco tradition and aware of her place in its world. Her designation as a pioneer, as someone revolutionising a centuries-old artform, seems to have come from media outside Spain more than anywhere else, and it's important to acknowledge that though she presents a perspective that may initially strike Anglo listeners as unusual, she's not the first and likely not the last flamenco artist to add personal flourish to this esteemed cultural institution. But when you watch her in "Malamente," with its portentous murmuring and dramatic "tra TRA!" hook -- one of the year's most insidious -- as she variously claps with menace leaning over the steering wheel of a truck, is raised up by forklift like a martyr to the pyre, and sits atop a frozen motorcycle, flagged down by a matador, with an expression of incredible intensity, isn't her baptism as a revolutionary, future world conqueror the most obvious conclusion? [9]

Iris Xie: Something about this song is instinctual, velvety, and haunting, like it will grab you by the chest and then dare you to explore what lies in the world that it came from. Inside of its vortex, it conjures up the perfect environment for being audacious enough to dance on a cutie that you see at the club, and there's enough breathing space in between the instrumentals and vocals to cultivate a chemistry and charisma after. There's a stunning pre-chorus from 1:34 that reminds me of the high, dreamy vocals in some Bollywood sequences, before it drops back low into a whispered chorus that undulates with a mesmerizing repetition. You can't help but dance along to that. It's a siren's song, remixed for 2018 and creeping along to a venue near you. [8]

Stephen Eisermann: Growing up, I was always enthralled by (what I thought was) gypsy culture. Clearly, the problematic media portrayals in both Disney movies and novelas my mom had playing in the background gave me a limited and exoticized view of gypsy culture and even now as I've taken the time to learn more, its hard to shake predispositions if the past. This song, very clearly R&B but with Latin tinges and seemingly Arab pop phrasing, is a culmination of all sounds that feel mysterious, as if the sound coming from my speakers form together to make that image of a gypsy from my past. All at once I'm enthralled and embarrassed, knowing that I should move past negative media portrayals yet entranced by the imagery this song brings to mind. [8]

Pedro João Santos: By releasing "Malamente," Rosalía achieved that moment of conquering the pop sphere all at once, in the span of 2:30. Aong with co-author El Guincho, Rosalía never relinquishes control, and they distill flamenco into sleek, diligently-precise soundscapes. That sonic mesh, differing from the traditional approach taken on her last album, has been the subject of controversy. I highly recommend reading from all points of view on the matter of cultural appropriation and, although that of the Andalusian community prevails, it's hard to grasp everything. This is a single that defies expectations of what an inaugural moment of pop domination is -- its foreboding edge, the multilayered sound, the conceptual richness (most evident if its parent album) -- and takes other expectations to an extreme -- vocal prowess is conspicuous, but my favorite part is how hooks are thrown relentlessly at the forefront and into the background. Within just ten seconds: "Así sí? Tra tra! Mal, muy mal, muy mal, muy mal... Mira! Toma que toma." Instant yet disorienting, seamless yet complex. In any measure other than cultural sensibility, as Rosalía's use of flamenco will continue to be the center of debate: it's bulletproof. [9]

Will Adams: The handclaps alone would have convinced me, but it's Rosalía's steely confidence that makes "Malamente" worth revisiting. [7]

Edward Okulicz: It's a short song, but it's so packed with intoxicating and instantly gratifying hooks and smaller, subtle details that make it so satisfying to dive deeply into. Rosalía's voice embodies so many moods in such a short time that one can't help but be impressed at her performance and composition. She sings, she whispers, she interjects her catchiest lines with other catchy parts. The clapping rhythm is infectious, and the song generates so much heat I'm sure my blood raised the temperature of my body a couple of degrees after having it on repeat for an hour. After that, I put it on for another hour. [9]

Juan F. Carruyo: Some friends of mine hyped Rosalía to me by claiming she was "inventing a whole new genre," which is probably a disservice to the successful fusion she and her co-conspirator El Guincho manage here: a bare bones production that's rescued by a sultry flamenco melody and lots and lots of attitude. This is the one that blew up because it's her most global, retaining just enough of an exotic touch to draw people in -- the handclaps, the slang that gives the song its title -- but also holding back from her virtuous pipes. [9]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: Rosalía's sophomore album was inspired by a 13th century fable entitled The Romance of Flamenca, a classic love triangle story that centers on Count Archimbaut's jealousy-fueled transformation toward insanity. He eventually imprisons his wife -- the eponymous Flamenca -- in a tower, allowing her to leave its confines for no more than two reasons: bathing and mass. He was meant to represent the very opposite of courtly behavior to the story's readers, and yet, this portrait of a powerful man restricting a woman's life is just as necessary today. There's consequently no greater statement that could have started El mal querer than its lead single, "Malamente." The interaction of its flamenco palmas with minimal percussion and synth pulses pits listeners in a space between the traditional and contemporary. Even more, the spacious world that she and El Guincho create is simultaneously anxious and impassioned. Rosalía's vocalizing glides smoothly along the beat before sharply piercing listeners with jaleo in the form of "illo!" and "tra, tra!" adlibs. In the album's narrative, "Malamente" prefaces Archimbaut and Flamenca's wedding, and the track's subtitle indicates that the song is an omen. What is it foretelling, exactly? Well, it warns of the tumultuous relationship that's to come from the Count and his wife, but it's also a declaration that Rosalía is putting forth regarding her music, that it's going to be charting unfamiliar territory. Critics may, and have, decried "Malamente" as being disingenuous to flamenco's roots, positing that Rosalía is a mere cultural appropriater. This is despite her time spent at the Catalonia College of Music, a school where only one student per year is admitted to studying flamenco, and whose flamenco teacher commented that Rosalía was their most memorable pupil. She also has been vocal in wanting to collaborate with people outside the world of flamenco, and has already met with artists such as Pharrell and Arca. In a sense, Rosalía's critics try to force her into her own proverbial tower, but it's clear that she won't stay inside. With "Malamente," she delivers that very message to whoever will listen, reimagining new stories for Flamenca and flamenco in the process. [9]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: The way "Malamente" worms into your brain, dancing in as this amorphous thing pulsating polyrhythmically and working in tones just barely within the boundaries of pop music, is deeply compelling. Even more compelling is what Rosalía does with it: over the funhouse-mirror flamenco-R&B palace she builds, the Catalonian singer's precisely sung portrait of fractured fate and consequences feels real and haunted in a way that few pop songs truly are. [9]

[Read and comment on The Singles Jukebox]

[welllpthisishappening]

Where You Can Still Remember Dreaming (4/35)

Killian Jones, former crime reporter, was not happy to be home. It hadn’t been home in a very long time, after all. Home was an abstract construct that existed for people who didn’t know as many adjectives for blood as he did. Home wasn’t New York City, but it certainly wasn’t Boston or New Orleans either and he’d always gone where the story was. And he was positive Emma Swan was one hell of a story.

Emma Swan, pro video game player, desperately wanted to find home. She thought she had, a million years ago in the back corner of a barn and a town and faces she trusted. But that had all blown up in her face and it didn’t take long for her to decide she was going to control the pyrotechnics from here on out. So now she was in New York City and a different corner and she kind of wanted to trust Killian Jones.

Neither one of them expected a year of of video games and feature stories to dredge up old enemies and even older feelings, but, together, they made a pretty good team.

Rating: Mature. Word Count: 9.4 K of Emma Swan background and flirty text messages. AN: Hey, uh, let’s play some video games, huh? And learn why Emma didn’t really want a year-long feature story about her video game team. It’s time to try and qualify for the League (which is really a tournament, honestly) and I cannot thank you guys enough for the serious kindness you’ve shown in regards to this fic. It’s been incredibly nice. We’re just getting started.  || Also on Ao3, FF.net and tagged up on Tumblr ||  Tag List: @jamif ; @alicerubyfloyd ; @courtneyshortney82 ; @jennjenn615 ; @artistic-writer ; @onceuponaprincessworld ; @kmomof4 ; @nikkiemms ; @resident-of-storybrooke ; @whumped-natascha-remi-ronin ; @coliferoncer ; @strangestarlighttree ; @tiganasummertree ; @game-of-once-upon-an-outlander (Let me know if you want to be tagged or don’t or, like, how your day is going.)

She wasn’t sure what was more annoying.

The very loud alarm she could hear a few inches away from her head, whatever David was shouting on the other side of the door or the horn honking just outside the window of her room. It wasn’t her room.

It wasn’t even really a room, per se.

It was a...corner.

And David wasn’t really on the other side of the door, he was on the other side of a partition that Mary Margaret ordered off Amazon for nineteen bucks a week before Emma had descended on their apartment with one suitcase in her hand and the hope that, maybe, this could work.

This had to work.

They’d find out in a few hours if it could.

A few hours from now, Emma would walk back into the apartment with one of two options in front of her – either she was as much of a complete failure as that tiny, nagging voice in the back corner of her brain promised her she was and even the idea of playing video games professionally was absolutely insane or, and this is where the hope came into play, she was the quasi-captain of the only all-female pro Overwatch team in the league and they were well on their way to splitting a four-million-dollar championship check with their names plastered across the internet and a string of feature stories written about them on The Daily Caller and and a national spotlight that would, maybe, lead to more money.

God, those feature stories.

God.

Killian Jones.

She was going to see Killian Jones that afternoon. And that didn’t terrify her. Absolutely not. She was worried about the game. And four million dollars. She couldn’t even imagine four-million-dollars, let alone imagine winning an inaugural tournament that promised just historic. Probably with a comically large check.

It had nothing to do with Killian Jones or how blue his eyes were or how she kept replaying that slightly awkward, slightly strained, undeniably sweet conversation they’d had the week before.

“Shit,” Emma mumbled, slamming her hand on her phone and promptly knocking it onto the floor. She could barely make out David’s laughter a few feet away and what sounded like cabinets slamming shut and she hadn’t actually turned her alarm off.

“You know,” David shouted, throwing what sounded like a pillow full of bricks at the partition. The whole thing shook, nearly falling on Emma and her air mattress and it would almost figure that she’d get taken down by nineteen dollars worth of plastic before she even stood up.

She needed to be more positive.

She needed to find her super cheesy team-branded t-shirt. That cost more than the plastic partition.

“Were you ever going to finish that sentence?” Emma called back, finally pushing herself off the air mattress and half of it had deflated during the night. That wasn’t a sign. God, her phone was still making noise.

David chuckled again, kicking at another cabinet and drawing the mumbled reprimand of Mary Margaret – who was absolutely going to be late for work so she could see Emma off or something equally maternal. “Yeah,” he said, padding across the apartment and leaning around the still-wobbling partition. “You need to learn how to control your electronics. And work on your hand-eye coordination. It sounded like you nearly knocked off your whole little compound over here.”

Emma scowled, but that was as good a word for it as any. She didn’t bring much with her to New York – didn’t have much to bring to New York – but David and Mary Margaret had offered up, at least, three quarters of their living room without question, pulling an ancient air mattress out of the closet and buying an entirely new bed-set, with a questionable amount of flowers on the sheets, and pushing the coffee table against the wall so Emma had somewhere to keep her phone and her laptop.

It was, exactly, what they’d always done.

And Emma would never get used to it.

“Compound Godzilla,” David continued, eyes bright and wide and far too confident. In her. He was confident in her. Even when he was insulting her and comparing her to lizard monsters.

“Yeah, but you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with the damages,” Emma reasoned. “So you know, in the grand scheme….” “Of? “Of whatever joke you’re trying to make. Very badly I might add.”

“That’s rude, Em,” David said, but there was a laugh just on the edge of his voice and Mary Margaret was already humming under her breath. It was so goddamn domestic Emma couldn’t quite believe it was real.

She shrugged. “You need to work on your jokes. These are getting stale. And you’re the only who nearly knocked over the partition. I just almost cracked my phone.” “Whatever,” he grumbled and Mary Margaret’s humming had turned into open laughter, far too well-acquainted with whatever early-morning war of words Emma and David were staging in the corner. “I’m not going to provide you with any caffeine or the vast array of breakfast pastries I’ve procured from the place down the block.” “Did you just swallow a dictionary?” “Thesaurus,” Mary Margaret corrected, flashing a smile over her shoulder and she’d already taken a shower. Emma hadn’t even heard her wake up.

There was probably a reason for that. That stupid voice in the back corner of her mind did jumping jacks, bouncing off the sides of her brain as it tried to grab Emma’s attention and provide an explanation she didn’t really want to her – because the kids in the foster homes always cried, quiet sniffles and even louder wails, wondering what they’d done wrong and when someone would decide they were enough and they could leave and, maybe, get just a bit warmer.

It always seemed to be freezing in those houses.

And, somewhere in between Hartford and Minnesota and a few weeks on the street in Boston, Emma had developed the ability to sleep through anything – crying or wailing or chattering teeth or, apparently, Mary Margaret taking a shower a few feet away.

“Em,” David said, tugging on the edge of her sleeve and jerking her out of the past. “You went all glossy for a second there. Was it because I totally impressed you with my vast and detailed vocabulary?” She rolled her eyes, taking a step towards the kitchen and accepting the mug Mary Margaret offered her. “I promise,” she said. “It had absolutely nothing to do with that.”

David’s smile wavered for half a moment and he shot Mary Margaret a nervous look, meaning flitting between them and nearly becoming another sentient being right there in their kitchen. Emma sighed. “Ok,” she mumbled, taking a sip of hot chocolate-coffee hybrid and they’d bought her cinnamon. She shouldn’t have been surprised. “That’s not what I meant it like.” “Are you nervous?” Mary Margaret asked softly, a picture of support and belief and something that felt like certainty. Emma clearly hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

“About the game?” Mary Margaret nodded. “No, no, I am absolutely not nervous about the game. We’re good and we’ve practiced a shit ton, enough to drive Granny absolutely insane and we don’t even have to win. Technically.” “You’re totally going to win.” Emma bit back her immediate response – a string of practicality and low expectations that absolutely did not belong in the same room as Mary Margaret Nolan.

She’d been part of the package deal that came with arriving in Storybrooke and life with the Nolans and enough love to almost make up for everything else.

Actually, arrived was generous. Emma had kind of stumbled into Storybrooke, nothing more than a few dollar bills stuffed into the back pocket of her ripped jeans and a blanket clutched tightly in her hands and she just needed somewhere to sleep. She didn’t expect to find a barn and a corner that was almost, nearly, sort of warm.

David found her the next morning, legs tucked up underneath her with her blanket under her head and hay stuck in her hair. Honest to God hay.

She’d run away. The house had closed a week before and there just wasn’t enough money to support a run-down building and a dozen orphans that no one wanted. Including the national government. Or maybe just Maine. Emma never could remember who was in charge of that.

It didn’t matter.

The only thing she’d known was they were going to move her again and she was just supposed to agree to Florida and another fresh start and she’d started running before she’d even really considered any other option.

She was going to run again as soon as David found her, hand balled up into a fist and halfway through the air when he held up his hands in surrender and asked what she was doing here and promised a hot meal and maybe a shower if she’d just follow him inside.

Mary Margaret was sitting at the kitchen table with Ruth when the door slammed shut behind Emma. She gave her a new set of clothes and, it seemed, Emma had found a family.

Even when she didn’t want it.

Especially when she didn’t want it.

“I know, I know,” Mary Margaret said, nudging her elbow into Emma’s side with a familiarity that made her stomach clench. “You only have to be in the top eight. Doesn’t mean I totally don’t think you’re going to absolutely wreck.” David nearly dropped his coffee. “Absolutely wreck,” Emma repeated slowly, eyes flashing up towards a determined Mary Margaret.

“Yes. Absolutely. And completely. C’mon. That’s a gaming term!” “You’re just digging yourself into an even deeper hole here, M’s. You are painfully uncool.” Mary Margaret stuck her tongue out, rolling her eyes dramatically and jumping onto the edge of the counter next to Emma. She rested her arm on Emma’s shoulder, elbow pushing into the side of her neck and it probably would have been uncomfortable it weren’t so normal and, not for the first time, Emma was glad she’d stumbled back into this life.

“She looked it up,” David whispered conspiratorially before taking a far-too-large bite of bagel and, somehow, smiling at Emma. Mary Margaret clicked her tongue in disapproval, but it wasn’t a disagreement either and Emma wondered when she’d had the time.

Probably in between attacking major website editors with plans and making sure Killian Jones wasn’t actually trying to kidnap two kids from a summer program with the promise of ice cream on his lips.

Shit.

Killian Jones.

Emma needed to drink more coffee and get some food in her and a slightly more professional mindset. There were rules about that, right? Ethics or something. A reporter wasn’t supposed to date whoever he was writing about.

No, probably not. Definitely not. And she wasn’t thinking about dating Killian Jones or or a sentence that included both Killian Jones and lips or even really talking to Killian Jones – far too focused on the game and winning and keeping her personal life, decidedly, personal.

She could be a good story without the depressing history and vaguely troubled past.

Definitely not.

Primary fire, secondary fire, obliterate every enemy – and that stupid, annoying, asshole voice in the back of her brain. It would be fine. She probably wouldn’t really even notice him. For the entire goddamn day.

“I think she’s playing the game,” David muttered, pouring another cup of coffee and, God, he’d showered too. How had she slept through all of that?

“I’m thinking what the best way would be to take you out,” Emma lied and David didn’t look like he believed a single letter of it.

“I bought you baked goods. A plethora of baked goods.” “That was actually kind of nice,” she conceded. Her drink had gone cold. “God damn. Although there are a questionable number of cinnamon-raisin in there. What time did you have to get up to make that happen?”

David shrugged. Painfully early, then. “It’s an important day, Em,” he reasoned. “And maybe I just wanted cinnamon-raisin for the week.” “Yuh huh.” “How come you don’t have to actually win to win?” “We’ve been over this twenty times already,” she sighed, but she kind of appreciated too. If Emma kept running the plan, the one that decidedly ignored Killian Jones and his far-too-blue eyes and nicknames and on-the-record questions, then she could stay focused on the goal. She could absolutely wreck – as Mary Margaret would say.

“Humor me.” She took a deep breath and Mary Margaret reached over her shoulder, tugging the mug out of her hand to fill it with scalding hot liquid. God, it was like being fifteen again. Emma was a better video game player now.

“It’s a qualifying tournament,” Emma started. “So there are sixteen teams today, from all over the world, who didn’t get the automatic bid. It’s because none of us have fancy, corporate sponsors and we’re some kind of Overwatch plebs in the eyes of the league, so, they put us in a different bracket and make us play each other.

The seeds coming into this were a total joke though. They, literally, just put our team names into a hat and that Zelena lady who’s in charge of everything picked out pieces of paper and that’s where we ended up.”

David snorted over the top of his mug and he’d mixed peanut butter and cream cheese on his cinnamon raisin bagel. Emma tried not to actually gag. “Ruby’s very mad about that,” he said. “She’s brought it up every single time I’ve talked to her in the last forty-eight hours.” “How many times are you talking to her in the last forty-eight hours?” “A couple,” he mumbled and it sounded a bit like an admission. Emma’s pulse accelerated and she was positive she was missing something. David’s nervous glance towards Mary Margaret all but confirmed it and they were talking about her. God.

“Yuh huh,” Emma repeated, eyebrows pulled low and frustration brewing in the pit of her stomach and she was fairly positive they were talking about that phone call she’d made on the other side of the plastic partition on Friday night.

She was going to kill her whole goddamn team.

“And what seed are you guys?” Mary Margaret asked quickly, trying to refocus the conversation and keep Emma from throwing things in the middle of her kitchen.

“We are fifth,” Emma answered and maybe she was as upset as Ruby was about this whole seeding debacle. Maybe Killian Jones, award-winning reporter with a history Emma was positive was also a story, should write about that.

That, however, would require her to talk to him long enough to suggest story ideas.

What a mess.

“And playing?” David prompted. Emma rolled her eyes. They’d really gone over this twenty times already, had discussed it in detail in the back corner of Granny’s on Saturday night, Ruby’s voice rising with every sip of alcohol until she and Anna seemed to be having some kind of joint screaming match over seeding.

“Vivi’s Adventure,” Emma responded, dropping her head against Mary Margaret’s side and sighing softly when she felt fingers working their way through her hair. “It’s the dumbest name in the history of dumb names and that’s coming from someone who might actually have a lawsuit on her hands if we actually make it out of qualifying rounds.” “You can’t change your name,” Mary Margaret said. She was braiding Emma’s hair. And Emma didn’t move her head.

“I’d rather not get sued for four million dollars before I even get the chance to try and win four million dollars. That’s impractical.”

“But you made shirts,” David pointed out.

“Ruby made shirts. Or ordered shirts. No one asked her to do that.” “Are you even remotely surprised that she did that?” “About as surprised as you getting up insanely early to go get me bear claws from a bagel place that makes the best bear claws in the city.” David grinned at her, ducking his head to press a kiss on Emma’s temple and maybe being fifteen again wasn’t the worst thing in the entire world. “It’s only because we live a few blocks away,” he promised. “Any more than five blocks and I totally wouldn’t have done it.”

“No, then he would have called an Uber and woken up even earlier,” Mary Margaret mumbled.

Emma’s pulse sped up again, heart hammering against her ribs with something that felt like emotion and maybe sentiment and she couldn’t just start crying on Mary Margaret’s actual shoulder. That would have been weird.

Probably.

Mary Margaret wouldn’t have blinked.

She was, after all, used to that sort of thing. And David would have woken up at dawn to get Emma bear claws if he had to, if only to prove that she had people behind her and support in her corner and a slew of other athletic-based clichés that made her vision swim just a bit.

David hadn’t just gotten her to come into the house all those years ago. He’d gotten his mom to agree to Emma and everything that she came with – a mess of legal battles and paperwork and enrolling her in Storybrooke High that fall.

And she’d had her own room, across the hall from David, and Mary Margaret had helped her fill out a closet, the very first she’d ever owned, and the three of them spent the entire year together, the memories of those days still hanging in frames on the walls in Ruth’s house.

It had been good. It had been perfect – some kind of storybook lifestyle for a town with an absurd name and Emma could never quite believe her luck.

So, naturally, she’d gone and ruined the whole thing.

She had a tendency to do that. And David graduated, got into the University of Maine and that was hours away and Mary Margaret was gone as well, that perpetual smile and positivity that Emma had allowed herself to depend on in just a few, short months, limited to phone calls and text messages.

They promised they’d come back. They’d drive back down for weekends and Emma could come up and sleep on Mary Margaret’s floor, but Emma was sure – it was all over. So she ran. Again.

She was an idiot.

Only David and Mary Margaret found her. Again. And again. Over and over, every single team she absolutely fucked it all up, there they were, encouraging smiles on their faces and certainty in their stare and, usually, baked goods in their hands.

Shit, she’d totally started crying on Mary Margaret’s shoulder.

“Em,” David said slowly, eyes wide and hand falling on her forearm. “Are you crying? God, you’re totally crying. What’s the matter?” Emma shook her head, some of the braid Mary Margaret had already finished falling apart in the process, but the evidence was on her cheeks and her slightly puffy eyes and she could hear her phone buzzing from her compound a few feet away.

“That’d be totally lame,” she mumbled, dragging her knuckles across her face.

“The lamest. Is it because I put peanut butter and cream cheese on my bagel?” “That’s totally it,” Emma agreed and her voice was still shaky and just a bit scratchy, but David didn’t push, just tugged her away from the edge of the counter and wrapped his arms around her tightly. His hand found the back of her head, cupping her hair as he mumbled something that might have been encouragements in her ear, but Emma couldn’t really think when he did that, the actual feel of self confidence enveloping her as soon as she pressed her forehead into the crook of his neck.

“Five seed’s a good underdog story,” David continued, leaving another kiss on the crown of her head. “Tell your reporter guy to lede with that.” “Not my guy,” Emma mumbled. There it was. She was, almost, surprised it had taken them that long to get there. David had absolutely been gossiping with Ruby. “And,” she added. “He’s the one who’s won awards, doesn’t seem like it’s my place to tell him how to write his story.” “Yeah, but it’s about you. He should take that into account.” “Are you trying to protect me from the big world of journalism, Detective?” David pulled back, face turning serious quicker than Emma expected and that shouldn’t have surprised her either. “Yes,” he said simply and Mary Margaret made some kind of noise of agreement in the back of her throat.

“M’s, this was your idea,” Emma said, glancing over her shoulder. Mary Margaret shrugged. “And I still think it’s a good idea. He really did seem excited about it when I saw him on Friday. Even if he was being kicked in the side.” “I’m sorry, what?” “He was holding Roland. Or trying to, at least. I’ll tell you something though, Roland Locksley has never been more excited to have someone pick him up from summer camp than he was when Killian Jones showed up. He’s not nearly that enthusiastic about the assistant.” “You’ve lost me. And how old is this kid?” “Regina Mills’ assistant,” Mary Margaret explained. “She’s usually the one who gets the kids. Although Robin comes sometimes too. He’s nice. Better with the kids than the assistant. She always looks kind of stressed out.” “And did anyone mention why Killian Jones was picking up these kids? Or how he knows them enough to offer them ice cream?” “I don’t think you need to be well acquainted with kids to offer them ice cream,” David reasoned, one arm still slung over Emma’s shoulders as she tried to twist around and stare at Mary Margaret.

“That’s true,” Mary Margaret agreed. “But I don’t think that’s what was happening. He knew those kids. Like in a part of the family kind of way. They had nicknames and everything. It was painfully adorable.” “Jeez, that’s just like a thing for him isn’t it?” Emma asked, the words flying out of her mouth before she could even really consider them. Mary Margaret’s eyebrows practically jumped off her face.

“What?” “Nothing.” “Emma Swan.” She growled or groaned or maybe wondered if she could get out of the conversation without having to talk about any of this. No such luck. “He’s just got this nickname thing,” Emma muttered. “When he talk.” “Right,” Mary Margaret said, smile tugging on the sides of her mouth. Emma’s phone was still buzzing. “And you know this because…” “I’ve had two conversations with him.” “No, of course. Two conversations. You talk to him since that second conversation?”

Emma narrowed her eyes, pressing her lips together and ducking out from underneath David’s arm. “I’ve got to shower,” she said, already halfway towards the bathroom. “Ruby’s going to murder me if we’re late.”

It didn’t matter – Emma walked out of the bathroom ten minutes later, damp hair still wrapped in a towel, to find Ruby sitting cross-legged on the couch with a controller in her hand and a disgruntled David a few feet away from her.

“Why are you so bad at this?” she laughed, not moving her eyes away from the screen and David made some kind of impossible noise, trying to elbow her in the thigh.

“Why are you so good at this? And how do you keep getting all these bananas? Oh, shit, shit, fuck, God, stop laughing, Lucas.” “I’m sorry, this is just hysterical. It’s like the game got better and suddenly you’re complete shit at MarioKart.” She dropped another banana behind her and David let out another string of curses as he skidded off the course again, throwing his head back towards the ceiling and damning Ruby to several different afterlives, including, what sounded like, the seventh circle of Hell.

“For betrayers and mutineers,” Emma intoned, not quite able to keep the laughter out of her voice when David actually chucked his controller at the ground. Mary Margaret didn’t even look surprised.

“Stop quoting things at me, Em,” he hissed. Ruby lapped him. “God, Lucas, seriously. Stop showing off. It’s just embarrassing.” “For you or me?” Ruby asked, swinging her legs back onto the floor and she’d already won. She took a step towards Emma, eyeing the shirt she’d begrudgingly put on, and grinning, confidence practically rolling off her in waves. “I told you the shirts were worth the money,” she said pointedly, tapping on the emblem they’d gotten Anna to draw nearly a month before. “And it’s absolutely embarrassing for you, Nolan. I know I’m good.” David sighed again, dropping down onto the floor and pulling one leg up until he looked like a Renaissance painting – of MarioKart 8 defeat. “We shouldn’t have bought the new one,” he mumbled. “I was better at the classic version.” “Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Hey, did you get Emma bear claws for good luck this morning? I’m starving.” “Stop stealing my baked goods,” Emma said, but Ruby was already in the kitchen and Mary Margaret was already pouring another cup of coffee and they were going to be, at least, twenty minutes late. It was going to take forever to get crosstown.

“Too late,” Ruby said, mumbling through a mouthful of bear claw. “Have we complained about the seeding for this qualifying thing yet this morning because I’d really like to complain about that again.” “Too late,” Emma repeated. Ruby sighed. “How come you’re here? I didn’t think you were coming here. Are the rest of them coming here?” Ruby shook her head, confusion flashing across her expression when she glanced towards Mary Margaret. Emma tried not to groan. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?” “There’s a car outside.” “What?” “Automobile. Vehicle. Motor car. A sweet set of wheels.” Mary Margaret laughed loudly, the sound working its way across the entire apartment as Emma practically sprinted towards the window. Ruby was right. There was a car outside and a uniformed man leaning against the passenger’s side door, feet crossed at the ankles and a hat in his hand like he’d wandered straight off a movie set.

“What the hell is that?” Emma asked sharply, not sure why she was, suddenly, terrified by the answer.

“Did you not hear my sweet set of wheels explanation?” Ruby asked. “I can’t really come up with another synonym. You can ask your reporter when we get to the Theater. He’s probably got more. That’s his job, right?” Emma shook her head, mind muddled and thoughts moving slowly and she needed to dry her hair. And look at her phone. Oh fuck, her phone. She moved again, actually running across the several hundred square feet of apartment and nearly knocking over the partition while Ruby mumbled something her breath at Mary Margaret.

She had six text messages and she’d never actually programed his number in her phone, but she recognized the 718 area code and her heart might have actually been in her throat.

Good luck today, Swan.

Not that I think you’ll need it. You’re absolutely going to wreck the competition. God, that’s the lamest way to say that isn’t it?

Definitely lame.

True though. Even if that five-seed seems kind of absurd since your team actually has a pretty impressive win-loss record.

How did you end up a five seed? It doesn’t make any sense. This Vivi’s team hasn’t even won a competitive game yet. And they’re a four. This is just basic math. Even Singularity is garbage. And they’re the No. 1? You’ve got more wins than them. This is absurd.

Emma bit her lip, suddenly aware of the smile on her face and the way her breath had caught in her throat, knees not quite as straight as they’d been a few minutes before. He might be more upset about the five-seed debacle than Ruby and David combined.

And Emma could nearly imagine what his voice sounded like, the way he tried to rush over the words when he started talking about something he cared about and there was a sudden and distinct lack of oxygen in her compound at even the passing idea that he cared about her.

That was insane.

Impossible.

That was impossible. There were ethics involved. And one more text message.

The car’s for you, by the way. Courtesy of Mills Media. And how shitty the MTA is this summer. Just figured it’d be easier.

Was she still standing? She was. She might not have been breathing, but she was definitely still standing and somewhere in the realm of swooning until she suddenly and quickly got very, very frustrated.

She didn’t need a car. She didn’t need text messages from a phone number she, admittedly, probably should have saved on Friday night. She could walk crosstown quicker than the car could drive there.

Ethics.

And a deep-rooted stubborn streak that was probably her undoing. Or something less dramatic.

“Em,” Ruby said, approaching cautiously and that might have been the strangest thing that had happened all day. “M’s wants to know if you want her to braid your hair so we can get out of here. We probably shouldn’t keep that fancy driver guy waiting. Seems like a dick move.” Emma hummed noncommittally in the back of her throat, stuffing her phone in her pocket. “We’re not taking the car,” she said and Ruby’s eyes widened. “That’s...how did he even get Mary Margaret’s address?”

“I have no idea. But, like, that’s a thing, right? Investigative journalism or whatever?” “Are we the investigation?”

“Eh,” Ruby wavered, teeth bared as she tilted her head slightly. “Maybe not we.” Emma sighed, any sense of swooning as deflated as the air mattress at her feet. “That was almost kind of heavy-handed, don’t you think?”

“I almost don’t care. You should have heard David’s must protect Emma speech on Saturday night. You want to talk about heavy-handed, that was, like, the single most awkward conversation I’ve ever had and, once, Anna tried to tell me about how she nearly got engaged to a Tindr date the same night she met him.”

“What? God, I can’t imagine Elsa would be very into that idea.” “She wasn’t. There was, apparently, a fight if you can believe those two actually fought about anything in their lives and, just, trust me, it was weird and David is worried about you and these stories and he hasn’t told Mary Margaret about that and I’m not supposed to tell you either and Killian Jones blushed while holding a painfully adorable kid as soon as someone mentioned your name on Friday night.” “Were you not supposed to tell me that part either?” Emma asked archly, tugging her hair out of the towel.

“No, that’s painfully obvious. Everyone knows that.”

“Jeez. You are on a roll.” Ruby shrugged, but there was a tinge of disappointment in her gaze and Emma licked her lips. “We’re really not going to take the car?” “We’re really not going to take the car,” Emma said, the weight of her phone practically dragging her through the entire apartment building. “C’mon. Let’s go over strategy while M’s fixes my hair.” She did feel kind of bad about blowing off the driver – fancy hat clutched tightly in his right hand when Emma promised they were fine with walking and Ruby grumbled under her breath about it for the entire thirteen block walk to the Playstation Theater.

Emma ate another bear claw.

And tried not to drop the two cups of coffee gripped tightly in her hands.

She heard her name on the other side of the block, Anna’s hair obvious even in a sea of professional video game players and spectators and frantic-looking league reps who, clearly, had no idea what they’d gotten themselves into. Emma waved, hoping that would, somehow, stop the screeching from the other side of 44th Street, but it only seemed to drive Anna forward even more and, suddenly, she was nearly a foot taller, held up by a pair of hands that looked vaguely familiar.

She was clinging to Will Scarlet’s side, one of his arms wrapped tightly around her waist while she balanced herself on his shoulder and waved at Emma like she was trying direct several planes. And Killian Jones was very obviously staring at his feet a few inches away, a pen stuck behind his ear and something that might have been a credential around his neck and two cameras hanging off his left arm.

Emma bit her lip. And tried not to focus on the obscene amount of sugar she’d already ingested that morning.

“We should have taken the car,” Ruby muttered again, dragging Emma with her across the street as soon as the light changed.

“Emma, Emma, Emma,” Anna chanted, pulling herself away from Will and grabbing Emma by both her shoulders. Killian’s eyes darted up, one side of his mouth ticking up when he saw she was holding coffee. “You are missing everything. There has already been trash talking and people screaming into NY1 cameras and Tink totally dated the guy who’s Singularity’s captain and she said…”

Anna paused for half a moment to take a breath and Emma allowed herself one, quick glance towards Killian Jones. God, he was unfairly attractive. That was making this far more difficult than it should have been. Anna was still talking, detailing how Tink knew some guy named Greg and how shitty he was at playing Overwatch and how they were totally going to wreck and Emma barely heard any of it, lips dry again and both of her hands were burning from the somehow-still hot coffee.

Killian smiled at her, soft and maybe just a bit nervous and Emma tried to keep her expression neutral. It probably didn’t work if Anna’s continued exclamations were any indication. “Emma, are you ok?” she asked and Emma’s head darted up at the concern in her voice.

Elsa narrowed her eyes knowingly and Emma was struck with the rather sudden realization that they’d all talked about this. God, there was probably a group text. David had probably started it.

“I’m fine,” Emma promised. “NY1 is really here?” “It’s apparently an event,” Elsa said, a smile on her face as she waved a hand at the scene in front of her.

That was, definitely, one word for it. There were people everywhere, some of them already lined up in front of the doors to the Theatre and even more pushing their way down the block, cups of Starbucks clutched tightly in their hands and they weren’t the only team with matching t-shirts. That didn’t make Emma feel any better about the matching t-shirts.

Killian still hadn’t said anything, but Will was taking pictures and Emma tried not to be completely overwhelmed by everything around her. So, naturally, her eyes darted towards Killian again and that stupid, confident smile on his face. “You didn’t take the car,” he said slowly, muttering the words quietly enough that it was a conversational miracle Emma even heard him.

Emma rocked on her heels, not sure how to respond to a statement and Ruby elbowed her in the side – hard. “Ow,” Emma hissed, but Ruby just glared at her. “What the hell?” “Here,” Ruby said, ignoring Emma completely and pushing something into Killian’s chest. He didn’t move, didn’t even flinch, just glanced down and the smile turned just a bit more genuine.

“I didn’t think you’d remember,” he said. Ruby shrugged. Oh, God, it was a matching t-shirt.

“Please. Although seeing as we are an all-female team, this is absolutely not going to fit you and is now a gift for Henry wherever he is.” Emma nearly dropped the coffee again, stammering slightly and growling at Will when he pushed a camera lens in her face. “Wait, what? Henry like the one in Mary Margaret’s class?” Killian nodded. “What is going on right now?” As if on cue, a kid who couldn’t have possibly been more than twelve years old, skidded to a stop in front of them – both Will and Killian reaching out an arm to brace him. “Hook,” he shouted, head snapping up towards Killian. “You’ve got to come inside. There’s this whole table of merch and you can get a credit for download bundles to get new skins for characters and…”

His shoulders heaved when he ran out of oxygen, eyes wide when he realized there were two other people around now, but he smiled when he noticed Ruby. And Emma felt incredibly out of place. “Hey, Rubes,” Henry said brightly, ducking underneath Killian’s arm and only muttering slightly when she pulled him against her side.

“Hey, kid,” Ruby grinned. “You know you don’t need to get credits for that bundle. We’ll get you that in, like, a couple hours tops.” “Really?” Ruby nodded seriously, holding one hand out and Henry wrapped his pinky around her outstretched finger. “Let us wreck this qualifying tournament and then for sure.” “God, will everyone stop using the phrase wreck in regards to this tournament,” Emma groaned, feeling half a dozen curious eyes land on her. Killian grinned.

“Who else is using that?” Ruby asked and Emma tried to brush her off, nodding towards Henry instead. “Oh, right, right, Henry, this is Emma Swan. She’s our team captain and the best goddamn Overwatch player in the country. She could get you your codes in a couple minutes.” Henry’s eyes lit up and Emma bit her lip tightly, hoping the blush she could feel on her cheeks wasn’t too obvious. “It’s really nice to meet you,” Emma said honestly. “You were in Mary Margaret, uh, Mrs. Nolan’s class last year, right?”

“Yeah,” Henry nodded. “She used to ask me about the game all the time last year. She, uh, she knew I played and I told her about my mom.” It was some kind of miracle Emma hadn’t dropped the coffee. She glanced back at Killian – as struck as she was, with wide eyes and a half-open mouth and Will was still taking pictures. “Thanks,” Emma mumbled, not sure what else to say. Henry’s smile got even bigger.

“We should probably go inside,” Elsa said. The line outside the door was starting to move and they were definitely running late already, but there was some semblance of a schedule and Emma really just wanted this first match to be over.

She nodded, more than willing to let Elsa direct them into the main room and a check-in table and, of course, she’d just fallen into step with Killian. She could nearly feel him next to her, something that felt a bit like heat and almost like electricity radiating off him and he took a deep breath before she interrupted him completely.

“This is for you,” Emma said brusquely, holding her hand up expectantly and his lips twitched again. That was distracting. “I...I should have started with that. Buried the lede or whatever.” He laughed softly, taking short, measured steps so he didn’t move in front of her and his fingers were warm when they brushed over Emma’s. “Was that a journalism joke, Swan?” “A pretty good one, I think. Mostly because I don’t know any other journalism terms to make jokes with.” “Nothing?” Killian asked skeptically. He needed to stop looking at her. And talking to her. And asking questions. There was already an Overwatch game happening on the main screen. “Byline? Deadline? Something about quotes?” Emma rolled her eyes, taking a sip of coffee. “Congratulations on proving your ability to just shout out keywords regarding your job. Although I’m not accepting something about quotes.” “Too broad, huh?” “Exactly that.” “Noted,” he grinned and he hummed softly when he gulped his own coffee. “This is good.” “I’m not trying to poison you.” “Noted, again. And appreciated. If I ask you an actual question are you going to try and turn me to stone again?” Emma stopped walking, whoever was behind her nearly colliding with her back and she did drop the coffee. It was about time. “Oh, shit,” she mumbled, dropping down and one of her knees landed directly in a puddle of caffeine and two-percent milk.

Maybe this event wasn’t quite as much a disaster as Emma assumed – a person with a League Official t-shirt on appearing beside her quickly and there was a mop and promises that it was fine and Emma found herself being pulled back up before she even realized Killian had moved.

God, his hand was warm.

“Come here, love,” he said softly, wrapping his fingers around her wrist and tugging her away from the crowd. She followed him before she could come up with an argument, ducking behind the merch table Henry had been so excited about and it was, almost, quiet there.

“I’m fine,” Emma snapped, pulling her hand away quickly and wincing when it collided painfully with her side. He hadn’t even asked a question yet.

Killian nodded. “I’m not questioning that. Here,” he added, pushing his half-finished cup towards her. “You need the caffeine more than I do.” “Are you trying to tell me I look tired?” “No. I’m telling you that you’re the one who has to win an entire qualifying tournament today and that it only seems fair you to get at least some coffee out of the equation when, I’m assuming, you paid for it.”

Oh. She really was an asshole. And far too certain things were just going to go wrong by default. Mary Margaret would have some kind of hope speech perfectly prepared for this moment. Emma kind of wished she’d come with them.

“Not everything is some kind of calculated attack, Swan,” Killian added, ducking back into her eye line and smiling when she took the cup.

“What was your question?” she asked. His coffee didn’t have cinnamon in it. Damn.

“Why didn’t you take the car?” “Why did you send a car?” Killian shook his head, tongue pressed against the edge of his lip and Emma didn’t think she imagined the way he rocked towards her. “I asked first,” he said. “There are rules.” “I think you’re just making them up as you go along.”

“And I think you’re doing a very bad job of avoiding the question.”

She flashed her eyes up, but he didn’t back down, just lifted his eyebrows and stared straight at her, like he could read her mind or maybe like she was the open book he promised she was. Emma sighed. “I’m perfectly capable of walking a couple of blocks.” “I’m not questioning that.” “You really need to be more specific then.” Killian tilted his head – and Emma tried to keep her shoulders straight and her spine in line and she couldn’t remember having ever been looked at like that, like he was interested and intrigued and like he wanted to know everything, on the record, with absolutely no intention of putting it on the internet.

“I’m not one to just...accept things,” Emma said slowly. Killian didn’t respond, just moved his eyebrows again and kept staring at her. No, she thought, waited. He was waiting for her. “Especially from people I don’t really know. Who should have no idea where to send town cars.”

“Ah,” he laughed, running a hand through his hair and twisting slightly so his left arm was pulled behind his back. “Yeah, that was bordering somewhere on stalking wasn’t it?” “How did you do it?” “The receptionist at Mills is actually some kind of secret coding and internet expert. And she was very willing to do me a favor if I got Gina to get her and her boyfriend a reservation at TAO on Saturday night.” “The receptionist?” Emma repeated and Killian made a significant face. “You got a receptionist to...what, hack into some sort of record and find M’s address?” “She’s not trying to be the receptionist apparently. It’s a very involved story. But she saved the website on Friday and kept Robin from actually pulling his hair out or having some kind of episode in the middle of Broadway. So, you know, Gina owed her.” “You keep saying all these names and I have no idea who you’re talking about,” Emma admitted, appreciating his smile a lot more than she should have. “Gina is Regina Mills, right?” Killian nodded. “And Robin is…” “Her husband.” “Which makes Henry…” “Their kid. One of two. Roland is seven and obsessed with chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream and being Henry.” Emma nodded in understanding, pieces of the puzzle, almost, starting to fit together. “And you know both of these kids well enough to pick them up from school, offer them ice cream in a not-creepy kind of way and then bring one of them with you on an assignment?” “Yes, yes and yes,” Killian answered. “Although Gina wasn’t happy about that last one. It’s apparently not very education-focused.” “It’s summer.” “My argument exactly, Swan.” She’d finished her coffee. Or his coffee. Emma wasn’t sure of the specifics anymore, trying not to linger on the fact that they’d somehow managed to share one cup of coffee that morning.

It felt like something important.

Emma turned her head, staring straight at him and maybe that was a mistake. Shit, his eyes were blue. He still had his arm twisted around behind him. “And you wanted to send me a town car to go thirteen blocks because…”

“It was a gesture of goodwill,” he grinned. “So you could get here easier.” “There wouldn’t be anywhere to park on 44th Street. How did Ruby know about it?”

“I have no idea.” He wasn’t lying – eyebrows pulled low and gaze intent and he wanted her to believe him. She didn’t. Jeez.

“I feel like we’re both missing a pretty big part of this game,” Emma muttered, taking a step towards him and she was close enough that her toes nearly brushed up against his sneakers. She could have moved, could have pulled her hands up and rested them flat against his chest like she wanted to and pressed her lips against his and maybe she’d thought of that a questionable amount since she’d swallowed some of her pride on Friday night and called him.  

She didn’t do any of that.

Because Emma Swan never got in the car – metaphorically or otherwise. Not anymore.

“How did this happen, Swan?” Killian asked suddenly and she realized they’d been standing in silence, staring at each other like they were taking inventory for far too long.

Emma licked her lips quickly, tugging them back behind her teeth as she tried to regain her bearings. She could make out the sounds of the game behind her, catchphrases that had been playing on an endless loop in her brain since they’d decided to do this, and she tugged self consciously on her t-shirt.

“What?” she asked a bit breathlessly. Killian’s gaze shifted, dropping away from her eyes and, maybe, down towards her mouth, but then he blinked and it was gone as soon as it came, features stoic and professional and good, she could deal with that.

“On the record,” Killian said, a recorder held loosely in his right hand.

Oh. Well, yeah, no, that was ok. They had to do that, right? He had to ask questions and write stories and that was the deal. That was what Emma had begrudgingly agreed to when Mary Margaret announced the plan and Ruby promised it was good for business like that even made sense in context, but they’d taken a team vote and Emma had been overruled and now she needed to answer questions.

On the record.

“Ask me an actual question,” Emma hissed, frustration back in her voice and there went flirting. If flirting had ever been on the table. Jeez.

“How did Emma Swan become the team captain of the only all-female pro Overwatch team in the league?” Killian asked. “Or, rather, how did you start playing video games?” “That’s a long story.” “I’ve got some time. And so do you. Your shitty five-seed matchup isn’t for another hour.” “Why do you know that?” “I can read, Swan. There was a schedule on the league site and something about streaming. You’re still not answering my question.” He shook the recorder slightly and Emma’s stomach flipped. She swallowed back the bundle of nerves in her throat, chewing on her lip as she tried to figure out the best way to answer. Killian nodded once, like he was agreeing to an idea he hadn’t voiced, and leaned towards Emma, half an inch away from her face and what was personal space when she could barely think?

“I’ll tell you what, love,” Killian said, low and intent and Emma could feel it. “We’ll go one-for-one, huh? On the record back and forth. You answer my questions and I’ll answer yours. No matter what.” She hadn’t been expecting that. “Why?” Emma asked sharply. It was an accusation. And Killian knew it. “We both need this to work, Swan. You asked me about Boston and what led me back to New York, well, this is it. A story. A good one. So I need this to work and your team needs the publicity. It’s a win-win for both of us, we might as well be honest with each other.” “You have a very high opinion of this whole situation don’t you?” Killian shrugged. “I think we could make a very good team, Swan. It’s up to you whether or not that works.” Emma considered that for a few moments, scowling when she realized he was absolutely and infuriatingly right. Damn. On the record. “My brother,” she said. “He’s the reason I’m here.” “Give a guy a second to get his recorder out, Swan,” Killian grinned, hitting a button on the square of plastic in his hand. She rolled her eyes. “Ok, brother. I’m going to guess he’s the reason behind the NYPD shirt before?” “Why do you remember that?” “Perceptive. And a journalist. It’s the details, love. So you and your cop brother started playing video games when you were kids?”

“No,” Emma said and Killian did something absurd with his eyebrows. “Ruth bought him a knockoff XBox for Christmas one year and we spent the entire break playing. Turns out I’ve got pretty good hand-eye coordination.” “Did you wreck him, Swan?”

Her eyes were going to get stuck that way if she kept rolling them, but Emma was smiling again and they kept bouncing through moods in this conversation. It felt like playing the game. She’d clearly lost her mind.

“You were right before, you know, that’s totally lame,” Emma said. “But, yeah. Every single time. And even now. Between David and Mary Margaret I was fairly convinced I was the greatest player to ever walk the Earth, but they were just both painfully bad at Halo.”

“And that sparked the interest as a career?” Emma shook her head and that was what she’d been dreading. There wasn’t any way to explain a year in jail and no high school degree and what talent did she have except the innate ability to kill her virtual enemies? Killian seemed to pick up on her concern, hand falling back on her arm and she shuddered at the touch.

When she’d gotten out of jail, she didn’t know where to go – didn’t have much more than a blanket with her name on it and the memories of everything blowing up in her face and Emma was barely making ends meet in Providence when David showed up at her apartment and told her enough was enough.

He found her. Again. And Emma had gone with him. Again.

So he took her to that sleepy little college town and got her a job at the coffee shop on campus and Emma kept playing, nights on the couch with David and Mary Margaret and, eventually, she came up with a plan.

She started making money. She almost forgot about him and a time when she wasn’t certain and confident and ready and the League just seemed like the next logical step.

Only that step had landed her in front of Killian Jones and his recorder and blue eyes and Emma needed a plausible story. “I’ve always wanted to kind of control my own life, I guess,” Emma started, mumbling over the words while she tried to keep her lip in between her teeth. “And I’ve been lucky that my brother and M’s have been super supportive of that. So they helped and played against me so I could get better and there were competitions all over the country that had big prize pools, bigger every year as games got more and more popular and less and less weird and, well, you know the rest. I’m camping out in their living room while I try to find my own place and win this whole, stupid League.” Killian hummed, hitting another button on the recorder and starting at her. Still. He kept doing that. She wished he wouldn’t. “Was that ok?” Emma asked. “On the record?” “Of course, Swan. It’s a good start.” “A start?” “Ah, well, that’s my angle I guess,” he explained. “We’d background everyone on the team, maybe highlight how shitty this whole seeding thing was and talk a little bit about what comes next. Oh and maybe the thing in Philadelphia.” “You know about that too?” He quirked an eyebrow at her, smirk settling onto his face with practiced ease and they definitely had to play soon. It felt like they’d been standing in that corner for several lifetimes. “You’re very surprised by reading comprehension, love,” Killian laughed.

“Just impressed by your dedication to research.” “Maybe not such a bad journalist, after all. I almost understand the game.”

“Color me impressed,” Emma smiled, eyes wide and that smirk was stupid. She wanted to kiss it off. She wanted to absolutely wreck Vivi’s Adventure in the first round. “You know, maybe, we could try and build on that knowledge today? If you’ve got...questions or something.” “Are you offering to explain the video game to me, Swan? Henry’s been trying to do that for two weeks already.” “And how that’s going for you?” “Eh, he’s very frustrated. Far more preoccupied with getting that credit than anything I could offer him today.” “Ah, well, there’s no ice cream involved.” Killian smiled and Emma’s heart dropped into her stomach or maybe into her feet or possibly exploded out of her chest. “Always a disappointment, of course,” he muttered, stuffing his recorder back into his pocket and leaning towards her again.

He didn’t touch her arm.

He did, however, move his left hand and Emma’s eyes caught on a flash of color and a name and the question hung in the minimal amount of air between them as soon as she closed her mouth. “Who’s Milah?” she asked. “On the tattoo.” And just like that, it was over. The whole scene changed and Emma’d been absolutely wrecked by an assailant she didn’t see and wasn’t prepared for, thrown back to the start of some metaphorical level without a single weapon to her name.

The corner suddenly felt very small and Killian couldn't seem to back up quick enough, eyes dark and lips pressed together tightly and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Someone from a long time ago,” he bit out, venom in every single letter. “On the record.”

Emma nodded, quick jerks of her neck that sent a shockwave of pain and frustration down her spine. That’s what she got for asking questions.

“Hey, uh, guys,” Elsa said, appearing in the corner with a nervous look on her face. “We’ve got to go play the game. Ruby’s half a second away from shutting down the whole tournament to try and find you, Em.” “Of course she is,” Emma mumbled. She tried to plaster a smile on her face, certain it hadn’t worked as soon as she looked at Elsa. “Ok, we’re coming.”

She turned back to Killian – shoulders tight with the tension he was holding and his thumb pressed into his left forearm. “You, uh, want to watch a game in action?” Emma asked and he hummed softly, gaze still heavy on her face.

“Yeah, Swan,” he said. “Let’s go.”

[emilieautumnarchives]

Emilie Autumn for Rave Magazine (Nov 14, 2011)

A short article about Emilie featured on Rave Magazine (http://www.ravemagazine.com.au), Australian website that seems to be taken down, but is accessible via Wayback Machine.

Emilie speaks mostly about recording FLAG and meaning of this album.

Read original interview here: click! (access: 24.06.2013)

With a new album on the way US violinist and singer EMILIE AUTUMN will be debuting previously unheard tracks and a new stage show at this year’s inaugural Harvest Festival. From the padded comfort of her vocal booth, she talks to NILS HAY about recording nude, and why the new album’s title – Fight Like A Girl – is a phrase that needed to be reclaimed.

Granted, I was going to raise the topic, but I’m surprised when Emilie Autumn beats me to the punch and mentions that she’s been recording naked lately. She’s calling me from the very vocal booth where such things happen, a padded room known as The Cell. “There’s no fans allowed in here and no ventilation because anything would make it less soundproof,” she explains, “It is the case that everything gets really warm with all the gear in here.” Beyond mere physical comfort, she admits that there is something freeing about singing sans clothes. “It makes things very tribal.” She confesses, “I can scream louder and all sorts of things. When the corset comes off, shit gets real. That’s when it really happens, that’s when records are made.”

The record in question is a follow-up to 2006’s Opheliac, and represents the next chapter in an ongoing narrative that was laid down in her book The Asylum For Wayward Victorian Girls. Based on her own experiences, being bipolar and having been institutionalised, Fight Like A Girl and the accompanying stage show deal with a violent escape from the asylum; a scene referred to as The Tea Party Massacre. “There’s no real way to get around how bloody that is, but also how necessary and also how beautiful that violence is when it’s absolute justice.” Emilie explains, “It definitely gets a bit intense, but there’s also a huge amount of symphonic beauty in it.”

The album’s title holds particular importance and represents a phrase that Autumn feels is in particular need of reclamation. She has clearly grown frustrated at how common and acceptable the words are. “Think about if somebody said ‘You fight like a black person.’ Would that be OK? Fuck no!” she exclaims “There would be a huge fucking riot, people would come down on it, it would be so, so completely unacceptable, but you can say that about girls and it is more than fine, in many cases it’s even funny.”

She describes her own fighting style, “What I began to realise is that when I fight it shouldn’t be an insult to anyone. It’s without mercy, it’s fighting to survive, it’s usually in defence of someone else, but it’s also okay to fight for yourself.” Emilie believes this final point is something that has been lost on many, and she’s quick to point out the need to make a situation your own, rather than be victimised by it.

“It’s the same as the whole ‘being crazy’ thing” she continues, “The whole goal with the music and mainly with the stage show has been just bringing people together, and my ultimate revenge is saying ‘Fine. I’m crazy, I was locked up, and in a way I always will be. I’m going to make this beautiful, I’m going to make this fun and I’m going to make this a place where all the cool kids will want to hang out. That is my mental institution.’”

[youre-on-a-starship]

Prompt:  "Kirk, Bones, or Scotty in an on and off relationship with their SO where for whatever reason they can't get it together. They've grown used to it but an external force (could be something major or just a new potential partner) is now threatening to change their status quo and a decision must be made. Will they finally decide to take the leap and create something solid or will they go their separate ways?” - Anon

Word Count:  2,318

Author’s Note:  I would pick Scotty, wouldn’t I? I’m really happy with how this story turned out, I really hope you like it, Anon!

“You’ve been avoiding looking at me all day,” you blurted when Scotty opened the doors to his quarters for you.

He just hung his head and stepped aside. You took one stride into the room so the door could close. The two of you stood in silence in the entryway.

“I can’t keep doing this, Scotty,” you said, letting your voice fall.

“I’s no’ fair o’ me to ask ye to,” he agreed.

A flare of rage bubbled through your chest. You bit back your initial answer. Sucking a deep breath through your nose, you prepared a more diplomatic response.

“I need you to talk to me,” you demanded. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

“I…” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his head furiously with one hand before retreating back into his quarters to brace himself against the back of the couch. “I saw you and Chekov today.”

You furrowed your brow and half followed him into the room before you realized what he was talking about.

“You mean you saw us dancing?” you clarified.

“Aye,” he breathed, turning back to you with red-rimmed eyes, leaning against the chair-back. Before you could respond, he continued. “I don’ blame ye. Really. He’s a good lad.”

“Alright, hang on-” You held up a hand but he kept talking.

“I mean, I know ye’ve been holding yerself back for my sake, and i’s really no fair o’ me to ask ye to keep that up-”

“Would you shut up for a second?” you snapped.

He clamped his jaw shut and gulped, watching you with wide, terrified eyes.

“Thank you,” you brought your voice back down. “I was teaching Pavel how to dance because he’s trying to get someone else’s attention. They like dancing. He doesn’t know how to dance. I’m teaching him.”

Scotty rubbed his lips together and looked at his feet.

“Wha’s to say that the person he’s after isna you?”

You barely heard him say it.

“Scotty…” you breathed. “It’s not me. I asked.”

His eyes shot back up to meet yours. You licked your lips and folded your arms tight over your chest.

“The whole crew is as unsure about this relationship as you seem to be. Do you know how many people have tried asking me out since we started… whatever this is?”

“Eight.”

“Ei- how did you…? Never mind, that’s not important. Eight people, Scotty. I’m assuming that if you know how many people have approached me, you know exactly what I’ve told each of them.”

“No,” he admitted knowingly, as he dropped his gaze to his socks again.

“I said ‘no,’” you reiterated before laughing mirthlessly. “I keep hoping that you’ll finally figure out where your head is at so we can get started with something real here.”

Scotty’s shoulders started shaking. Your heart sank when you realized that what you felt wasn’t exactly sympathy.

“I jus’... I’m so much older than you…”

You tried to stop the heavy sigh from escaping, but it overpowered you. You turned away from the Scot and ran your hands over your hair. Padding gently around the room, you let the sound of his staccato breathing dictate the ebb and flow of your thoughts.

“When,” you started, “are you going to realize that I… I love you for you.”

He stopped breathing all together. You half-turned back, your hands clasped firmly behind your neck, and saw that he was gaping at you.

“You… you love… me?” he asked quietly.

You pressed your lips together.

“Why?” he asked.

You dropped your hands and your gaze.

“I’m starting to ask myself the same question,” you admitted.

You looked back up when he made a small, strangled sound. His lips were closed but pulled tight across the plane of his face.

“Every time you so much as see me talk to someone younger than Doctor McCoy you get… like this. Paranoid. I don’t know if I can handle that.”

Scotty looked back at the ground and squeezed the edge of the couch in his hands, making his knuckles turn white.

“I can handle an age difference,” you went on. “I can’t handle not being trusted.”

“Bu’ I do trust you! With my life!”

“But you don’t!” You raised your hands out to your sides. “Scotty! If you don’t trust that I’m not going to leave you at the drop of a hat… how does that constitute any trust at all?”

Scotty’s jaw opened and closed several times before his lips sealed for good.

“I need a good reason to keep this up, Scotty,” you finally said, drawing yourself up to full height. “You’ve been skirting this for months. I need a commitment.”

Scotty’s mouth distorted and he looked back at his feet.

You stared at him for nearly five minutes before you finally relaxed your shoulders.

“Fine,” you whispered. “Fine.”

You turned for the door and left.

---

Scotty didn’t quite realize that the frequency with which he used to see you was dependent entirely upon the fact that you were dating. You walked out of his quarters nearly two weeks ago and he hadn’t seen you since.

Ashamed as he was of himself for doing so, he frequented all the places you used to meet up. He went to the mess at the same time every day. He made a point of wandering past Rec A around 9 each night. It seemed like every time he had the opportunity to go past the astrometrics lab, you weren’t visible from the doorway like you used to be.

He sat on the couch in his quarters tonight, like he had every night for the last thirteen days, with a tumbler very full of scotch in one hand and his head in the other.

Staring down at the backs of his hands, the deep blue veins becoming more apparent every day, Scotty knew the truth of the matter. He would have driven you away one way or another. That’s just how his mangled life had come to pass, for the most part. He’d doubted everything he’d ever done that wasn’t work related and all of those things fell through exactly as he’d always predicted.

Quite suddenly, as the thoughts started to pass through his head at a more and more alarming rate, Scotty flinched. He put his glass on the floor and got up off the couch.

He emerged into the hallway in his thermal shirt and work trousers and he beelined down to the far end of the deck. As he rounded the corner he collided chest first with you.

You stumbled back and looked at him. The sheen of oil on his forehead and the odd angle his hair stuck out at made it look like he hadn’t slept in days. You readjusted your hold on your bottle of scotch and watched as he gathered himself.

“Um, sorry,” you started.

“I need to say something,” he said with the most force behind his voice you’d heard in months. He took hold of your upper arms and searched your eyes with his.

“You’re the best thing tha’s ever happened to me,” he said. “I let that fall apart because I was scared. I can see myself getting older, but you didn’t care and I didn’t appreciate that. I just kept thinking about the future, not the present, and tha’s where I failed you.” He licked his lips. “I am so sorry. If you can find it in your heart to give me one more chance, I’m ready. I wan’tae be with you. I love you.”

You blinked at him and sucked in a breath through your nose.

“I see,” you said after a moment. You looked down at the scotch in your hand and then back up at Scotty. “I don’t know how to tell you this delicately, so I… I’m headed to a date. Actually.”

Scotty’s hands fell from your arms. His eyes bugged out like you’d just punched him in the stomach.

“Oh,” he said.

You pressed your lips together and watched as he straightened himself up and recollected his face into a coherent, if stiff semblance of normality.

“Don’t let me keep you,” he said. “I just… needed to get tha’ off my chest.”

You nodded lamely, pursing your lips before pulling them into a vague smile. You walked around him and kept going down the hall.

Scotty turned and watched as you disappeared around the bend in the hall, a bottle of his favourite scotch in your hand.

---

Three weeks later Scotty sat near one end of a long table in the mess hall. The enormous feast for the third anniversary of the Enterprise’s inaugural voyage was spread out along the length of the table.

Everyone was already elbow deep in the food, but Scotty just looked out of the corner of his eye at where you sat nine or ten seats down with Leonard’s hand in yours and an enormous smile on your face.

---

Just as easily as you’d disappeared in those first weeks, you reappeared everywhere that Scotty seemed to be. And always with Leonard McCoy.

One week you were curled up together on the couch in Rec C laughing at something he was reading you on his PADD.

Another week you walked out of sickbay blushing like a teenager with the neck of your uniform pulled up a little higher than usual.

The week after that, Scotty saw the you and the doctor hugging each other down a secluded corridor on the cargo deck. Leonard was swaying you back and forth and kissing the top of your head. The soft rhythm of the moment let Scotty know that nothing was wrong. You were dancing to the hum of the ship.

The Scot laid on his back in bed, counting the ceiling tiles for the umpteenth time that night. He turned his head to look at the clock. 0230.

He heaved himself up and swung his legs out of bed. He pulled a pair of pants on and stuffed his feet into his boots, leaving them untied. He tugged a thermal shirt over his head and walked out of the room.

His feet carried him through the cold and quiet halls. He didn’t realize where he was until he saw you curled up alone on the good couch in Rec A.

You looked up and over your shoulder at the sound.

“Hi,” you said.

“Hi,” he replied.

“You’re welcome to sit with me, if you want,” you said quietly, gesturing with your steaming teacup at the empty space on the couch.

Scotty didn’t say anything as he came and sat next to you, careful to leave as much room between you as he physically could, but you sat on half of two of the three cushions.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked, sipping at your tea.

“Nae,” he admitted. “You?”

You just shrugged, watching the stars go by outside.

“Not with McCoy tonight?” he ventured.

“Leonard and I aren’t seeing each other anymore.”

Scotty turned his head to look at you.

“Why not?” he asked.

You shrugged again, taking another sip of your tea.

“He’s got a teenage daughter. He’s got enough to deal with with her before bringing someone home who’s barely twice her age. And the pessimism is only so bearable on a good day,” your voice faded. “I’m starting to think that I’m just too young to be on this ship.”

“Don’t say tha’,” Scotty said, turning his whole body to face you. He tucked one leg up onto the couch for balance. “Don’t think tha’. You’re no’ the youngest person on this ship, and you deserve to be here just as much as anyone.”

“Yeah, but,” you whispered, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping an arm around them. “Five years is a long time, and age really seems to get people’s goats in this place.”

Scotty swallowed hard, considering his next words.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” he said.

You nodded and leaned your temple on your kneecaps so that you could look at him.

“I’m sorry, Scotty.”

“Why?” he whispered and leaned in a little, wishing he could gather the nerve to reach out and touch your arm.

You picked your head up and put your forehead on your knees so you didn’t have to keep looking at him.

“You don’t need to hear me whining about a failed relationship. It’s hardly fair.”

Scotty took a deep breath.

“I don’ mind,” he said. “I just… I just want you to be happy. And if your happiness is dependant on you whining about a breakup to me in the rec room at three in the morning, then I’m all ears.”

You snorted and Scotty smiled.

“I wish we’d worked out,” you said after a few long minutes of silence.

“We still could. If you want.”

You turned your head again to watch his face. It was tilted down to his lap but his eyes were on you.

“Can I trust you to trust me?”

Scotty nodded.

“I think… if there’s one thing I’ve observed is that you really don’t seem to mind older men.”

You grinned.

“I dare say I even like older men.”

“Can I ask why?”

“More interesting. More to talk about. Generally better looking.” You flashed him a toothy smile and he snorted, shaking his head before throwing his hands up.

“I’ll take it.”

You licked your lips and turned your face up to the ceiling.

“Does this mean… that you want to get back together?”

“Y/N, if you’ll have me.”

You reached out and he took your hand, pulling the knuckles up to his mouth. He didn’t kiss them, per se, he just laid his mouth on the soft peaks and inhaled the scent on the back of your hand for a long minute with his eyes closed, his soft breath misting over your skin.

[flairmagazineblog]

Berluti Reveals New Eyewear Line

Introducing Berluti’s very first collaboration with Thélios, an eyewear collection was prominently featured in an inaugural fashion show for the Parisian Maison, held by Kris Van Assche, the avant-garde current creative director of Berluti.

Thus far, six different eyewear models were picked according to Berluti’s signature inspiration by patina. This actually happens to be the traditional process for coloring leather, which is reinterpreted by Kris Van Assche this season with a new perspective that comes with a wealth of red, yellow, blue and green hues that saturate ready-to-wear accessories and eyewear.

The eyewear collection is also a tribute to the old marble tables at which craftsmen hand-dye the patina of shoes in Berluti’s factory in Ferrara. The dye-splattered marble is replicated with streaked acetate on the eyewear frames.

In this collection, timeless shapes and classic materials including light metal and deep-colored, ultra-resistant acetate meet the understated accents, such as the iconic B logo, which is discreetly placed over the hinges or the nose pads. You might even find an 1895 signature on the lenses. A mirror treatment with a patina-inspired ombré effect is applied to the lenses—in two distinctive shades, blue flash and red flash—putting an audaciously modern spin on the design.

The frame designs come in a wide range to accommodate varied tastes. You will find round and rectangular shapes, available in rainbow-effect lens color combinations. You will find the modern aviator and square aviator shapes. For a ‘designer look’, there’s a metal pilot featuring an acetate temple and Berluti’s logo printed on the lenses. Other designs have the 1895 logo engraved on the left lens. What else could we ask for?

If you don’t know much about Berluti, the high-end brand dates back to Paris in 1895 and has been built by four generations of shoemakers. In 2005, fine leather goods were introduced and in 2011, a complete clothing collection as well as a bespoke service available in Paris in its rue de Sèvres store. Berluti currently has more than 40 stores in all the major cities since 2013.

By Sarah Guirguis

Berluti Reveals New Eyewear Line was originally published on FLAIR MAGAZINE

[ethanalter]

'Power Rangers' Mid-Credits Sequence Explained: Guess Who's Coming to Detention?

The ‘Power Rangers’ (Photo: Kimberley French/Lionsgate/courtesy Everett Collection)

Lionsgate’s big-budget Power Rangers reboot reunites the original team of mighty morphin’ martial artists who fought their way onto television in 1993, followed by a big-screen adventure two years later. And fans of that inaugural line-up can probably still recite their names from memory: Jason, the Red Ranger (played in the new film by Dacre Montgomery), Kimberly, the Pink Ranger (Naomi Scott), Billy, the Blue Ranger (RJ Cyler), Trini, the Yellow Ranger (Becky G), and Zack, the Black Ranger (Ludi Lin). So every Ranger is present and accounted for before go going into battle against Rita Repulsa (Elizabeth Banks), right? Not quite. One key team member is MIA for the duration of Power Rangers, introduced only in a closing credits sequence that will delight viewers familiar with Rangers-lore and likely to confound those still learning the difference between a Zord and a Zeo Crystal.

That missing Ranger is Tommy Oliver, a.k.a. the Green Ranger, whose role spanned multiple versions of the TV series. Introduced midway through the first season of Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers, Tommy subsequently morphed into other guises — including the Red Turbo Ranger and the Black Dino Ranger— on later editions like Power Rangers Turbo and Power Rangers Dino Thunder, respectively. In all those appearances, he was played by Jason David Frank, who has a brief cameo in the new Power Rangers, though not as his signature alter ego. In fact, Tommy doesn’t appear on screen at all in the post-credits scene, suggesting that, should there be a Power Rangers 2, Lionsgate will launch a high-profile hunt for the right person to play the new Green Ranger.

Jason David Frank as Tommy Oliver, the Green Ranger in ‘Power Rangers Megaforce’ (Photo: Viacom)

Here’s how it goes down on screen (spoiler alert!): Midway through the closing credits, the movie cuts back to the detention room where three of the five troublemaking Rangers — Jason, Kimberly, and Billy — first encountered each other, Breakfast Club-style. This time, they’re joined by Trini and Zack, who had blown off enough school to earn a semester’s worth of weekend detentions. As the quintet trade notes about the crazy adventure they’ve just been on, the hapless Richard Vernon stand-in announces that they have a new student joining the detention crew: Tommy Oliver. At that point, director Dean Israelite directs our attention to an empty desk with a green jersey hung over the chair. Then we cut away to a quiet school hallway that’s rocked by a sudden explosion. In case that stinger leaves any doubt that the Green Ranger cometh, the official Power Rangers Twitter account tweeted out this poster the night before the film’s opening weekend.

pic.twitter.com/JMgzVJFYUH

— Power Rangers (@PowerRangers) March 23, 2017

So what does Tommy’s arrival mean for Power Rangers 2? Well, if they’re planning to follow Ranger canon, the Green Ranger was originally a foe, rather than a friend. Debuting in the 17th episode of Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers, Tommy was already a skilled fighter under the command of perpetual Rangers foe Rita Repulsa, who instructed him to clear a path for her ultimate triumph in her Earth-conquering plans. She picked the right surrogate: With his Green Ranger abilities, Tommy deals the other costume-clad adventurers some significant body blows, until the Red Ranger manages to eke out a last-minute victory in a head-to-head battle. But in defeat, Tommy also triumphs: Rita’s spell is broken, leaving him free to join the good guys…and become Kimberly’s off-again, on-again love interest.

Elizabeth Banks as Rita Repulsa in ‘Power Rangers’ (Photo: Kimberly French/Lionsgate/Courtesy Everett Collection)

As the launching pad of a planned six-film franchise, Power Rangers certainly lays the groundwork for a similar narrative arc. After all, in this version of the story, Rita happens to be a former Green Ranger, who turns against her team in the film’s prologue, killing them all on a prehistoric Earth in pursuit of the planet’s energy-generating Zeo Crystal. She’s equally hungry for that mystical object when she reawakens to face a new group of Power Rangers some 65 million years later. And while the neophyte warriors win this round by literally punching Rita into deep space, her fate is far from sealed. If and when she finds her way back, she’s going to be in an Empire Strikes Back kind of mood, and Tommy — who, as the mid-credits teaser implies, is already a bit of an explosive personality — can serve as the Darth Vader to her emerald-colored Palpatine. (It’s worth noting that Rita already tries to play spoiler once in Power Rangers, cornering Trini in her home and forcefully suggesting that the Yellow Ranger should turn against her friends.) Anyone else find the looming alliance between Rita and Tommy…disturbing?

Bryan Cranston Morphs Into the Red Power Ranger on ‘The Late Show’:

Read more from Yahoo Movies

The New Blue Power Ranger Loves That His Character is an Homage to Bryan Cranston

The New ‘Power Rangers’ Talk About How They Morphed into Mighty By Training

Elizabeth Banks Couldn’t Do Anything But ‘Sit Like a Monk’ In her ‘Power Rangers’ Costume

[therumpus]

America, I’m going to make you a mixtape, so you’ll remember who you are: late nights when you’re out rambling across the jacquard landscape of your no longer youth in a 1969 Chevrolet Camaro with black racing stripe or the Dodge Charger your dad loaned you that you better bring back in better shape than you found it—washed with the garden hose, dried with a chamois, whitewalls sparkling where you rubbed each Brillo pad down to a nub—or the bright blue Pontiac Bubbletop you saved up three summers to buy, yet still it stalls out at every intersection: There’s the national anthem, of course, and your eyes always grow wide and wet at ball games, even though half the time you forget to take off your cap, forget to splay your paint-splattered palm across your drum-rolling heart, and to be perfectly honest, you’re not sure you ever learned all the words to that song: something perilous, something gleaming, and what was that about the ramparts? What parts exactly are those? More so, if you saw the original manuscript with lyrics penned by Francis Scott Key, you’d see how all the full stops are actually question marks, as if even he couldn’t be certain that this was really the land of the free and the home of the brave. America, I’ve seen your lottery tickets and love connections, your tinfoil swans and your Wheaties boxes. America, I know you like the back of my own hand that never learned to drive stick, always popping the clutch of another get-rich-quick scheme, pyramid or Ponzi. But you like the sound of a “star-spangled” something, don’t you? Sibilance, so sweet and pure. In this nation of riffs and new renditions, remember when CCR crooned, Some folks inherit star-spangled eyes? They were speaking for you and the millions like you: I ain’t no senator’s son, I ain’t no fortunate one. First question on the mini-marquee of your game show history, neon lights and three doors to choose from: Who does this remind you of? Some folks are born silver spoon in hand, Lord, don’t they help themselves, oh, But when the taxman comes to the door, Lord, the house looks like a rummage sale. You’re no millionaire’s son, America, but you just elected one, and there’s some reckoning to be done. Don’t be cowed now, don’t be fooled: you aren’t post-truth, and you aren’t post-trauma either. You got a fast car, my birthplace, my home; maybe together we can get somewhere. Tracy Chapman wrote you a ballad some years back, but I think you had the volume turned down. Then, she wrote you a fight song that you weren’t quite ready to hear. Be honest, America, who does this remind you of? Talkin’ bout a revolution, which sounds like a whisper until they get a white man miked; then, it sounds like a roar. Too cynical for your taste perhaps? Land of the souped-up, land of the spoiler, land of singing along with abandon as if you wrote every song all by yourself. Let’s try this: Your first inaugural poet wrote, the best way out is always through, then glanced sidelong for a trap door or a check-cashing store before he continued: And I agree to that, or in so far As that I can see no way out but through. America, this means you, and this means me, too. I’m going to stack track after track of old Spirituals on this tape because we are not done talking about slavery, and at the rate we’re going, I’m afraid no chariot will ever swing low to claim us. Hear me now. Stop revving your engine; stop pretending you didn’t see anyone stranded out there, flagging you down in the rearview. Lay Down, Body. Go Down, Moses. Deep Down in my Heart, America, I think you want to stop gripping that steering wheel so hard. I think you want to surrender the contents of your glove box, too. Looking for amnesty, my fractured nation? You should start by facing yourself in the rust-rimmed mirror in the all-night commode of your friendly neighborhood truck stop. Don’t assume that the faucet will run, that the toilet will flush. Don’t assume anything at all, America. Didn’t your mother teach you “to assume makes an ass out of u and me”? And while we’re on the subject, stop flashing your high beams for everyone else to move over. Stop calling “Shotgun!” when taking a ride because half the people who hear you are going to drop to their knees, hands in the air, mistaking slang for warning, confusing plea with threat. Steal Away and Pray. Study War No More. Will the Circle Be Unbroken. You’re scaring me, America, taking the turns too fast, pushing the needle too far. It’s plain to see you’re in love with your lore, with all your best stories set to music. What can I say? I’m in love with them, too. But it’s not enough to roar off into the sunset in your little red corvette, with your pink carnation and your pick-up truck, past every billboard for the Betsy Ross Dress for Less and the Chick-fil-A Closed on Sundays, Yasmine Bleeth in her sheer white swimsuit still asking if you’ve got milk and the red “H” burning bright as coal on topless mountain highways in the Heart of it All: HELL IS REAL, the sign says. Like you, America, it’s perilous and gleaming. But what about the ramparts? What parts exactly are those? I Want to Be Ready. I Shall Not Be Moved. I’ve Been a Listenin All Right Long. Tell me you’re made of more than pleather and AstroTurf, my country ‘tis of thee, more than apple pie and planned obsolescence, more even than Monday Night Football where we are still dreaming of heroes, another poet wrote, where, despite concussions and common sense, men still gallop terribly against each other’s bodies—perilous, and yet, also gleaming. A friend once told me, “No poem ever saved anybody,” but songs are poems, too, aren’t they? Surely a song has saved somebody, somewhere. Amazing Grace? Turn off the A/C and buzz down your windows, my birthplace, my broken home. There may not be a single answer blowin’ in the wind, but hear how the old questions boomerang back, sometimes smashing a window—How many years can a mountain exist Before it’s washed to the sea? Yes, ‘n’ how many years can some people exist Before they’re allowed to be free? America, smell the fresh air and the diesel fuel, the wild flowers sweet and the wild fires raging. This is our heritage. This, all: the perilous and the gleaming and the ramparts, too. From the Redwood Forest to the Gulf Stream Waters. From Main Street to Wall Street, as our politicians like to say. Remember that we still have the B-side to write, America. Tie a string around your finger in case you think you might forget. Set a timer on the kitchen stove. In 1999, Time Magazine named “Strange Fruit” the twentieth century’s quintessential song. Tell me you know this story? It’s about a Jewish teacher named Abel Meeropol who “was disturbed at the continuation of racism in America.” In response to a photograph of a lynching, which he couldn’t cast out of his mind, Meeropol wrote a poem and later set it to music. So the poem became a song, and the song landed in the golden throat of a Black singer named Billie Holiday, who cast it wide as a net with her voice, wide as the oceans that hold us on either side: Pastoral scene of the gallant South, the bulging eyes and the twisted mouth, Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh, And the sudden smell of burning flesh! America, this is your heritage, this, all: the lynching and the photograph that preserves the memory of it, our capacity for violence and our fear of forgetting what we have done; also, the man who was moved to write the poem that became this song; and also, and more so, the woman who found the power in her lungs and the vision in her voice to send it out to all of us, en masse: strange fruit that never had any business dangling from those trees but now, nearly a century later, because of her, because of him, cannot be unseen and will not go unheard. America, listen: We can’t let you take another little piece of our hearts. Now is not the time for lullabies, not the hour to put us to sleep. Yet we can’t retreat into silence either. America, America, resist the myth that your greatest days are already behind you. Strike the secret chord we’ve all been waiting for. Lean in close now and whisper, like a revolution, what this century’s fierce, sweet, unforgettable anthem will be.

THE RUMPUS INAUGURAL POEMS: “ Psalm in the Spirit of an Inaugural Poem” by Julie Marie Wade.

[lareporteragonzeauxblog]

This is why I strike

I dress in black today to stand in solidarity with women striking across the globe for the first International Women’s Strike. 

Today, March 8th, 2017, marks the inaugural International Women’s Strike. Though I’m not technically striking because I’m not technically working today, I am taking the time to pause, reflect, and share, which is precisely what this organized movement aims to do: create a space for women to speak in order to bring awareness to the continuing struggles that are unique to our gender identity that we face on a local, national, and global scale. For me, then, striking means refusing to be silent. For other women, striking means taking the day off work. For others, it means leaving work for an hour or so. For others yet, it means wearing black or purple in protest. And for many, striking of any sort is not a possibility. 

I am in Huacachina today, a desert oasis seemingly light years away from any place I’ve ever been before. But, despite the overwhelming newness of this place, I was quickly reminded that the obstacles placed before women in our fight for dignity and an equality that respects our uniqueness are ubiquitous.

Sitting down to breakfast at our hotel, for example, I witnessed the male front desk receptionist come upstairs and greet the young woman preparing breakfast by saying, “Today is women’s day, isn’t it? But only for working women, not for idle women.” He chuckled as he said this, and the young lady in the kitchen replied with a wan smile as she continued to blend smoothies and brew coffee.  

The emotions that ran through me when I overheard this, the emotions that are running through me, that have been running through me for years, cannot and will not be silenced any longer. The following is my best attempt to capture in words what it feels like to be a woman and why I feel the need to express myself on this exciting and powerful day.

Today, I strike because: I identify as a woman. Because as a woman, I have features that comprise my physical body and cause me great discomfort. Not because I feel uncomfortable with them, but because society cannot handle them. I have hair that has been stroked without my permission. Hair that I’ve worn short by choice, but not without insult and criticism. I have lips that have been kissed without consent. Breasts that want to be freed from the constraints of an ill-fitting bra, but are subjected to uninvited stares and comments when I give them permission to breath. I have nipples that harden easily, and I am extremely conscious of their perkiness – me and everyone else on the public bus. I have armpits that grow hair, a biological phenomenon that seems to make a lot of people uncomfortable if I choose to forego shaving. Shaving, in fact, is something I struggle with greatly: to shave or not to shave is always the question. If I shave, I feel afraid that I’m conforming to an aesthetic that has been put in place by a patriarchal, capitalistic order seeking to sell me products to alter my appearance and urge me to embrace a look that defies nature. If I don’t shave, I am constantly fighting the little voice in my head that tells me it’s not sexy to have leg hair, or that I don’t deserve oral sex if my pubic hair is too ample. Because that’s actually something partners have said. 

I have a stomach that gets full when I eat food and bloats when I have menstrual cramps. 

Oh, yeah: I have a menstrual cycle. I bleed, I ache, I crave, and I embrace my body’s healthy expression of womanness. I wear reusable pads that I wash each menstrual cycle, pads that are stained with the blood of periods past. I have a pair of THINX underwear that is designed specifically to absorb a great deal of my menstrual blood. I’m not ashamed to bleed, and I’m even less ashamed to prevent unnecessary waste as a menstruating woman, though my choice to do so is considered ‘disgusting’ and ‘foul’ by many. I guess I should discard all evidence of my bleeding self, according to that doctrine. 

I have a back that has one tattoo, a part of my body that countless people have felt the right to trace or touch. I have an ass that has cellulite. An ass that many people have touched or slapped in passing, because they felt they had the right to do so. I have legs, strong legs that have supported this body, but legs that have elicited derogatory remarks such as ‘thunder thighs’ when I refused to give someone my phone number. Legs that have been opened against my will, and legs that, when opened according to my will, have been judged and criticized for doing so. I have feet that have taken me all over; feet that I’ve used to walk as quickly as possible down a street late at night when I feel afraid; feet that I’ve used to help me crouch and hide from perceived danger; feet that I’ve used to push somebody off of me or pull somebody into me. 

I have a body, and it is mine. Not yours or anybody else’s.

I strike because:  I’ve been traveling and living outside of the United States for over two months now, and I’ve met and spoken with more than one woman that has been physically and verbally abused by her intimate partner. Different women from different countries that have all experienced the same inexcusable violence and disrespect.

Because I saw a young girl with finger prints on her neck and bleeding scratch marks on her chest right down the street from my house, and I listened to the perpetrator laugh in her presence. And I watched the police accuse her of destruction of property (she had torn the wing mirror off his car during the struggle) as she cried silently, fearfully, knowing that her wounds came second to the value of his ego and his vehicle.

Because thousands of women were subjected to a brutally waged sterilization campaign in this country during my lifetime. And many of those same women had been violated or knew someone that had been violated during the years of violence in Peru, 1980-2000, by actors on both sides of the internal armed conflict. 

Because I have a sister who is living with me in Peru, and because she has told me that, some days, she prefers not to leave the apartment because she doesn’t want to face the cat calls and whistles and unwanted attention directed at her because she has a pretty face and a lovely body and likes to wear clothes that don’t suffocate her in the sweltering heat of Lima summer. 

As women we are often told to smile, to relax, to do anything that masks our discomfort with the current situation. 

Because that same sister has taken a taxi home late at night from a bar, and because the driver of that taxi began to ask her questions, personal questions, that he had no right to ask: Are you drunk? Are you really drunk? Do you have a boyfriend? Do you have sex with him? No? So you’re a virgin? Can I see if you’re a virgin? Because, while this experience is terrifying, it is not by a long shot unique to my sister: I, too, have found myself in a taxi with a driver that asks me deranged and unbelievably inappropriate questions.

Because my sister and so many other women feel the need to lie and say they have a boyfriend to protect themselves in such situations.  And because I often lie and say I have a boyfriend to protect myself.

Because when I do protect myself by expressing genuine emotions like stress, discomfort, or uneasiness, I am told to ‘relax’, ‘be chill’, ‘calm down’, ‘smile!’. 

Because I feel like I have to protect myself. Because I do.

This is why I strike.

[racingtoaredlight]

Opening Bell: January 27, 2017

This week, President Donald Trump at a White House reception launched into a story which he claimed was relayed with him by professional golfer and Florida resident Bernhard Langer from Election Day last November. The story was billed by Trump as the reason for his proposed nationwide probe into alleged voter fraud. Deciding to launch a massive investigation based upon hearsay evidence from a German citizen living in the United States is hardly sound, but what makes this even more amazing is that late yesterday Langer claimed that he never told Trump the story at all, but had heard it from someone else and then passed it along to another friend who must have mentioned it to the White House. To say that President Donald Trump’s first week in office has been “interesting,” would be the understatement of the century so far.

Also this week, Trump signed an Executive Order decreeing that the federal government should begin marshaling resources to start the construction of a wall on the United States-Mexico border “within months.” Trump has since early in his campaign pledged to make Mexico pay for the wall and yesterday Press Secretary Sean Spicer said that funding would be collected by assessing a 20% tax on Mexican imports to the United States. These announcements caused Mexican President Enrique Peña Nieto to cancel a summit meeting with Trump that had been planned to take place soon in Washington. Trump’s border plan also includes a massive hiring increase of Border Patrol officers and customs agents. Within days of this announcement, the chief of the Border Patrol, former FBI careerist Mark A. Morgan, was removed from his position by the acting Commissioner for Customs and Border Protection. Morgan had been in conflict with the Border Patrol’s powerful union. Morgan was on the job for barely six months and was the first chief to come from outside the Border Patrol’s ranks.

Trump’s immigration Executive Orders this week drew swathes of criticism from Democrats, but also from some Republicans who represent districts adjacent to the border. Rep. Will Hurd represents the Texas 23rd District, which stretches from the western suburbs of San Antonio down to the upper Rio Grande Valley and across most of West Texas and the Big Bend to the suburbs of El Paso; a district larger than some states. Hurd has come out against the wall, calling it extraordinarily impractical, and defeated Democratic challenger Pete Gallego last November by promising voters in his majority Hispanic district to stand up to Trump. Another issue which observers have questioned of the Trump administration plan: does he realize the number of ranches and oil and mineral leases that exist near the southern border from Southern California to South Texas? Asserting eminent domain in order to construct a large, obtrusive wall, will not sit well with many land and leaseholders in the four border states.

Yet another Trump Executive Order which is already causing controversy: newly sworn-in CIA Director Mike Pompeo—whose first day in the office was Tuesday—was not consulted or notified ahead of time that President Trump would sign orders tasking the CIA with reopening so-called “black sites” around the world and with resuming the use of interrogation techniques like water boarding. Pompeo only learned of both orders when he saw them reported on in the news. At his Senate confirmation hearings days before his confirmation on Monday, Pompeo stated in no uncertain terms that he was against the use of both black sites and of interrogation techniques not found in the U.S. Army Field Manual, which is significant because the Army’s Field Manual does not allow physical abuse of prisoners. Meanwhile Trump himself declared in an interview with ABC’s David Muir this week that he believes that “torture works,” notably eschewing the term “enhanced interrogation techniques” used by the Bush administration.

A document obtained by the Huffington Post this week appeared to indicate that the Trump administration’s goal in Syria will be to use both U.S. military and State Department resources to establish “safe zones” in Syria and its neighboring states. The Obama administration deliberately avoided this and other ideas, such as “no-fly” zones, in order to avoid the potential for a messy confrontation with Russia, which is conducting an independent air campaign in Syria.

In the least bemusing Trump news of the week, he has nominated former hedge fund manager Philip Bilden to be Secretary of the Navy. Bilden was an intelligence officer in the Army Reserve from 1986-1996 and, like Trump’s pick for Army Secretary Vincent Viola, comes from the world of finance. Trump’s pick for Air Force Secretary, former New Mexico Rep. Heather Wilson is an Air Force Academy graduate and well known for her technical expertise in defense administration and acquisition.

Hey, how about a story about questionable political judgment that does not involve Donald Trump? A week ago, I linked a story about a secret trip to Syria by Hawaii Democratic Rep. Tulsi Gabbard. She returned to Washington after seven days and revealed that she had met directly with Syrian President Bashar al-Assad. Criticism of Gabbard’s trip was bipartisan, though Republicans were more vocal. House leadership across both aisles indicate that they were not forewarned about the trip by Gabbard’s office and no one is entirely certain who paid for it. Gabbard received further criticism when she declared that the American bombing campaign was not helping moderate freedom fighters, but instead was assisting ISIS and other radical terrorist groups. This talking point has been bandied about multiple times by Assad’s government since the air campaign began two years ago.

Steven L. Hall, a former 30 year veteran of the CIA’s Clandestine Services, writes about the scope of the victory by Russian intelligence services in hacking American political organizations and significantly affecting the 2016 campaign. Hall, who spent much of his career behind the Iron Curtain in Warsaw Pact territory, provides fascinating insight into Russia’s goals and views when it comes to offensive use of intelligence assets.

While in office, former President Barack Obama famously used a Blackberry smartphone which was secured from outside attacks. Just prior to his inauguration, President Donald Trump was forced by the secret service to give up his Android smartphone for a new, highly-secured phone with a brand new phone number which only a handful of people are allowed to have. This story talks about what security steps and methods were probably used by the Secret Service to secure this new phone for Trump.

A long-planned Centers for Disease Control and Prevention conference on climate change and the environment, which was cancelled only days before the inauguration of Donald Trump, is now back on. The conference cancellation caught the attention of former Vice President, and noted climate change communicator, Al Gore who worked with non-government organizations to sponsor the event—reduced from three days to one—and host it at the non-profit Carter Center in Atlanta.

Seven days into the Trump administration, the University of Virginia’s Center for Politics does one last deep dive analysis into the results of the 2016 Presidential election. This time it is by the Center’s Rhodes Clark. If you’re into deep statistical analysis, this is your election recap.

Foreign Policy magazine has two stories which looks at those Executive Orders which seek to reduce American involvement in international organizations like the United Nations and its place on the world scene. FP is traditionally interventionist in its leanings—though perhaps less hawkish than individuals like Sens. John McCain and Lindsey Graham—and so you can imagine that FP takes a dim view of Trump’s less-than-internationalist views.

Fifty years ago today, the crew of Apollo 1—astronauts Gus Grissom, Ed White, and Roger Chaffee—were killed in a fire which broke out inside the pressurized crew capsule during a test run on the launch pad at Kennedy Space Center in Florida. While the capsule itself remains locked away in NASA storage, probably never to see the light of day again, the hatch from the capsule will be displayed by NASA today. The hatch, which in ideal conditions required 90 seconds and a technician with a specialized wrench to open from the outside, was partly blamed for the astronauts’ deaths; had crews been able to open the hatch more quickly, they might have been able to extinguish the fire which fueled toxic fumes in the capsule which killed all three men.

Finally this week, once upon a time Pennsylvania had a thriving lumber industry. Now the state is more closely linked to coal production and steel manufacture, though neither of those industries dominates the state as they once did either. The New York Times has an interesting pictorial retrospective on Pennsylvania’s extinct timber industry.

Welcome to the start of Trump week 2: Electric Boogaloo.

[geekade]

Geekade Top Ten: Rick and Morty!!!

There’s a circular sort of mindset about animation. The original thought was of it being tailored toward adults. Then, at some point, animation was accused of only being for kids. There’s a generation lost to the fact that Johnny Quest, The Flintstones, and The Jetsons were all originally prime time fare. When The Simpsons showed up in 1989, there were cries of it eating away the brains of youth (thanks Barbara Bush). Of course, after that we moved on to The Critic and Family Guy (and Duckman for a brief time), but there were also Animaniacs and Freakazoid and Batman: The Animated Series. Oh, and Gargoyles and Futurama.

Most recently, a show started up that is well written, with a sometimes loose improvisational feel, that is totally for adults. I told a friend that he should watch the show and his response was: “I’m not 14 anymore, cartoons are for kids.”

What he called a kids show, of course, is Rick and Morty; the brainchild of Justin Roiland and Dan Harmon (of Community and Monster House fame). It’s rapidly become one of my go-to pieces of television when I can’t find anything else to watch. It is one of the few series that I WILL buy the DVD/Blu-Ray set for because I support it that much. I love the show SO much that I've joined forces with my Apathetic Enthusiasm co-host Travis to start a Rick and Morty podcast called Interdimensional RSS, conveniently located over at ApatheticEnthusiasm.com! (Check out the inaugural episode here!)

For this month’s Top Ten, I wanted to rank my favorite Rick and Morty episodes (though I will watch them all 50 more times). Let's begin. 

#10. Pilot (Season 1) - This is what started it all! (Actually, that’s not entirely true… Doc and Marti is what originally started it, a more direct parody to Back to the Future… I digress). This is not usually the first episode I show people because it doesn’t properly set the tone for the rest of the series. Rick is way more manic and drunk and his burping is through the roof… but if you watch it again after getting into the series, it really is a funny episode. The audio commentary about Justin Roiland’s final lines is pretty interesting… in that he just kept talking.

Quote of the episode: I'm sorry, Morty. It's a bummer. In reality, you're as dumb as they come. But I needed those seeds real bad and I had to give 'em up just to get your parents off my back. So now we're gonna have to go get more. And then we're gonna go on even more adventures after that, Morty. And you're gonna keep your mouth shut about 'em, Morty. Because the world is full of idiots that don't understand what's important. And they'll tear us apart, Morty. But if you stick with me, I'm gonna accomplish great things, Morty. And you're gonna be a part of 'em. And together we're gonna run around, Morty, we're gonna do all kinds of wonderful things, Morty. Just you and me, Morty. The outside world is our enemy, Morty. We're the only friends we've got, Morty. It's just Rick and Morty. Rrrick and Morty and their adventures, Morty. Rick and Morty, forever and forever, a hundred years Rick and Morty, s... things. Me and Rick and Morty runnin' around and Rick and Morty time. Aaall day long forever. All, a hundred days Rick and Morty forever a hundred times. Over and over Rick and Morty adventures dot com W W W dot Rick and Morty dot com W W W Rick and Morty adventures all hundred years. Every minute Rick and Morty dot com W W W hundred times Rick and Morty dot com.

#9. A Rickle in Time (Season 2) - A great season 2 opener. This one leads off at the tail end of Ricksy Business. Time has been stopped for 6 months and in order for things to catch up, they can’t make contact with anyone who was frozen in time. This creates the foundation of a spectacular 64 panel animation of uncertainty. It’s a trip to watch.

Quote of the episode: Man, that guy is the Redgren Grumbholdt of pretending to know what’s going on.

#8. Meseeks and Destroy (Season 1) - Ooooh weeee! When Kris asked me if I was doing a Top 10 this month, I said, “Caaaaannn do!” This episode is a fan favorite, primarily because of the lovable Meseeks. The Meseeks exist and cease to exist just as soon as their singular purpose is fulfilled but they can’t seem to help the incompetent patriarch of the Smith family improve his golf game. There’s also a side story about Morty running the adventure, and a creepy Mr. Jelly Bean.

Quote of the episode: Fee Fi Fo Fum, I smell the violation of Civil Liberties

#7. Look Who’s Purging Now (Season 2) - Sometimes you don’t realize how many times you’ve actually seen a story recycled until someone points it out. In this episode, Rick and Morty stop onto a planet that purges: the society is crimeless because one night a year everyone gets to fulfill their destructive urges. It does a great job of making fun of that concept and even gives us a glimpse of Rick not being able to stomach THAT much violence.

Quote of the episode: Morty, are you alright? Why are YOU with Taddy Mason?”

#6. Ricksy Business (Season 1) - Rick, Morty and his sister Summer throw a party at the house while the parents, Jerry and Beth, head out to a Titanic tourist attraction. It’s another great episode that introduces some unique and hilarious characters. This is the first time we meet Birdperson and the wonderful Abradolf Lincler.

Quote of the episode: Prepare to be emancipated from your own inferior genes!

#5. Something Ricked This Way Comes (Season 1) - Those of you who know me know that I love Anthologies. I do a podcast about The Twilight Zone, and I wrote a Geekade Halloween article about Tales from the Crypt and Creepshow. When a certain Mr. Needful comes into the town and pulls the Needful Things plot out, Rick steps in to use SCIENCE against all of the hokey twists of all of the items. It’s the episode I recommended to my wife when I first started watching (because she got called out by the creator of Booth at the End for criticizing him). There’s another subplot about Pluto, the highlight being Rich Fulcher, but that’s not where this episode shines.

Quote of the episode: Looks like we've got... haunted boxing gloves that will make you the heavyweight champion in 1936, and then you'll be trapped there, winning the same fight for eternity. I can take out the "eternity" and the padding, and then you'll have some time-traveling mittens.

#4. Total Rickall (Season 2) - God… one of the great things Rick and Morty does is to build episodes off a cool concept. In this one, *someone* brought a parasite that replicates by feeding off of people’s memories. Realizing this, Rick locks everyone in the house. Through the course of the episode, hundreds of new characters, most of them parasites, infest the Smith household. Pencilvester, Photography Raptor, and Sleepy Gary all make an appearance. This episode also introduces us to a fan favorite, Mr. Poopy Butthole (also a star of his own comic series by Sarah Graley).

Quote of the episode: He told me to tell you he’s sorry you didn’t have bad memories of him?

#3. Rixty Minutes (Season 1) - This is my go-to “you have to watch this show” episode of Rick and Morty, although I’m starting to know better. This episode is really the one where, after people start to understand the tone and humor associated with Rick and Morty, things really get kicked into 12th gear. It’s more of an excuse to do improvisational sketch animation comedy than it is to have a good episode, with Rick installing an interdimensional cable box with shows from infinite realities. Two Brothers, Gazorpazorpfield, and Ants in My Eyes Johnson are some of the highlights. It, realistically, is MY #1, but there are better episodes for people just hopping on board.

Quote of the Episode: Nobody exists on purpose, nobody belongs anywhere, everybody’s gonna die. Come watch TV.

#2. Anatomy Park (Season 1) - As a fan of Inner Space, the Dennis Quaid/Martin Short comedy, this is a wonderful episode. Rick takes Morty into the body of a homeless man where Rick has set up a theme park, complete with rides, attractions, and a Jurassic Park style break down. Quote of the episode: Do yourself a favor and pop by Pirates of the Pancreas. Obviously I’m biased, but I think it’s great, Morty. It’s a bunch of *belches* pirates running around a *belches* pancreas. We don’t whitewash it, either, Morty. I mean, the pirates are really rapey.

#1. Lawnmower Dog (Season 1) - There’s so much to love in this episode. A dog that becomes intelligent and takes over the human race? An Inception-style storyline that takes us all the way to a Nightmare on Elm Street parody? It’s solid gold. One of the great things about this one is that the A and B stories actually come back together (which is something that, as much as I love the show, it doesn’t always do effectively).

Quote of the episode: Where are my testicles, Summer?

And there it is! What are your favorite episodes of the show? I love every one of them, but I only had 10 spots! Let me know in the comments, hit me up on our Twitter @RickandMortyPod or shoot us an email: RickandMortyPodcast@gmail.com