#with fewer french songs

[torveiglyart]

The more I think about my hobbies and achievements (or lack thereof), the weirder I realize my life is. I had never really thought about some of these things until as of recent, specifically when someone introduced to another as "cool". Like what.

First things first that I've talked about on here is I'm an oboe player. Which is already a kind of "different" instrument to play. And, actually, I've been third chair in the All-District wind ensemble for grades 11-12. So there's that.

Another thing I tend to tell people /if prompted/ is I'm a nationally recognized Scottish Highland dancer. I placed third in the southeast regionals and qualified to perform in Las Vegas along with everyone else who qualified across the country. This one is kinda like my "fun fact" during ice breakers 'cause it's something I know won't be repeated.

I'm a digital artist, as you all know, but I also do traditional art often. A few of my paintings in my portfolio helped me score a spot in NCSU's ID program. Maybe one day I'll scan them and post here.

I'm a singer. This one goes multiple ways as in: HS choir, church choir, musical theatre, and bands. I just like singing and got blessed with a nice voice... I think.

I can bake and decorate very well. As in won a cookie decorating contest at the NC State Fair well. That was a good year for me :). But it's also the perfect ganache every time kind of good. I guess the same can be said about cooking given no meal I've made has gone wrong or tasted bad. I seriously hope it stays that way.

This next one only partially counts because while I'm not /fluent/ by any means, I can somewhat comfortably hold a conversation in a few languages. French, Spanish, Japanese, and, strangely enough, Swahili, are languages I've worked on since uhhhh... I don't know at this point. And I've since added Scottish Gaelic to that list to work on. Languages just fascinate me and I plan to travel A LOT when I get the money to do so.

I do archery in my free time. Often enough I have my own bow and arrows. It’s fun. And last time I went to an actual range I never missed a target which I’m totally bragging here but it’s also just a fun activity to get anger out, you know?

Back to the musical theatre thing, I actually was called back for an audition to enroll at UNCSA, but did not make it. And back in freshman year, I did this whole Society Performers multi-class thing, but cut it short to work on my studies. So while I probably could have gone into theatrics, I don't think that would have been the best choice for me.

An going further back to the instruments, I can also play piano, ukulele, and clarinet, but lessons are those were far fewer than oboe.

Time for the weirder stuff.

I definitely have ADHD, and so does my dad, but we're both undiagnosed so let's just not go there.

I can't whistle or roll my tongue. People always seem really surprised by this one but it's not like I'm in a tiny percentage with that one.

I'm nearsighted in one eye and far sighted in the other, and I also only require one contact lense/prescription. Actually let's call this the whacky section.

I'm allergic to celery. Yes, celery. And only that. Not pollen, not pets, not dust, not even ragweed, but celery. And only when it's raw. Cooked in a dish? Fine. Raw in a salad? Cotton-mouthed and itchy. Not terribly sad about it though.

I can't ride a bike. Like, I know how to in theory, but I just never had a bike growing up. My older sister's always had a flat tire, and by the time my younger brother got one, I was too big to ride it. So I scooter instead :).

I have perfect pitch, as in I hear a pitch, and can tell you the note it is, and can tell you what key a song is originally in and sing it. I would get in trouble a lot as a kid for "picking a fight" with my siblings by telling them, "it actually goes like this," and then changing the key they were singing in. While many find this cool or helpful, unless you're a music student or something, it's actually annoying. The car radio is always a few microtones sharp and there's nothing I can do to make it in tune. My choir teacher would also have me sing the starting pitch for songs, no tuner, which was nerve-wracking.

WOW this was just me ranting (bragging) lol, sorry about that, but hey! Now you know more about me!

If you have any questions or comments, don't be afraid to ask! Or, y'know, do the whole asks thing. I think I changed the icon for that but I'm not sure.

[hairpintvrns]

STARTER FOR: @tonibeltran LOCATION: o’shea’s irish pub / weaver ridge

It was difficult to ascertain the appeal of dulling their senses and letting alcohol peel away through their mask and their hard-won inhibitions. Terry had a horrible tolerance for it, drinking, and the fewer people that they engaged with, the better. Yet the newness of the vice was almost a comfort. Here, there was no agenda but to exist, and isn’t that what drew her to birdwatching in the first place, that kind of purposeless existence? They’d just traded a habit for another, they rationalized, even as a tiny voice in the back of their head was arguing that the picture seemed all wrong.

No one could accuse them of not being supportive, at least. Their continued patronage of Leon’s culinary efforts extended outside of New York, elevated French cuisine instead traded for amaretto sours and peanuts. Terry’s fingers tapped against their—third? fourth?—glass with a familiar, three-beat pattern, mimicking the buzz of the overhead lights which, in turn, resembled the trilled song of a chipping sparrow, rattling and mechanical.

They saw the appeal of it: of bars as sites of communal rituals where people came, partook in the exercise, and went away. Behind the bar counter laid the proverbial altar, the array of alcohol flanked by brickwork and lit golden by the overhead lights. And of course, the key players. The bar regulars. Leon the bartender.

And—they weren’t too far gone so as not to spot the familiar figure who’d just entered the establishment and weaved easily through its crowd. At Toni’s presence, they straightened up slightly and offered him a small, tentative wave. They’d gotten along well enough over the past few weeks, flitting in and out of each other’s existence and trading the kind of easy truths best left in bars with strange lights. Terry was poised to greet them with something like a rehearsed smile, or a nice platitude, but what instead left their lips was—

“Toni, you look awful,” Terry said, mostly in jest, though it not deter them from studying the familiar contours of his face, if a bit frankly. They took another sip from their glass before motioning to the free seat next to them, “You should catch up. What’s your poison for the night? Come on, I’ll order for you.”

[alienoresimagines]

Let’s create a “clegan/buckxbucky/buckyxbuck/eganven/whatever we call the buckies” playlist together.

🎶 🛫 When you get this, list 5 songs you like to listen that remind you of Clegan (MOTA) and publish them. Then send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers (positivity is cool) (@onyxsboxes so i can add your replies to the playlist) 🛫 🎶

You can include more or fewer songs (as you prefer), I'll collect all the replies and put them together in a playlist that I'll share in a week or so (I'll update it as I receive replies, so no rush and no pressure).

Aw, what a brilliant idea Ame 🥹❤️ Just put my Clegan playlist on random so here goes

And also two French songs just for you ❤️

[mac-lilly]

BTTMW4 recap

Well, here we go ...

General

As most of you heard, last year's con, BTTMW2, with 14 guests was a fucked-up fiasco. This one ... wasn't anywhere near as bad.

(Though, tbf, there was no way for a con to be worse than last year's edition. Even the DI staff said that.)

There was better communication and fewer delays. And the cast didn't look like they were about to keel over any second.

There were even actual JATP panels! On both days! With all of the cast being present! All the time! And they actually got to talk about their show and other projects.

After three years, there wasn't much new information. The cast talking about the props they received (in Owen's case: stole) from the set was the most interesting thing.

Though Charlie talking about how he got sent to community theater bc he kept playing air guitar at his hockey games was so freaking adorable. And it felt so Luke.

The party ... and the "JATP concert"

So, while BTTMW4 was a fantastic experience in general, the party was a huge disappointment.

We already had a bad start. One of my friends is in a wheelchair, and the main access to the room was via a few steps. What kind of genius idea was this, DI?! It took them quite a few minutes to figure out how to get her down to the room. On the way back, I followed her. It was like an escape game.

So, yeah, not the ideal start.

And it didn't get much better. After last year's experience, I stayed away from the food. As cute as it looked, I wasn't keen on getting a Sunset Curve experience again.

Now the "JATP concert"

Well, it wasn't a "JATP concert". It was mostly Madi performing her own music. The closest we got to a JATP concert was her singing along to "Stand Tall" - the song was playing while the cast entered the room.

It was obvious that the guys didn't want to get on stage and sing. That's absolutely understandable. But then DI shouldn't have advertised it as a JATP concert. There were people who paid €220 for this party just to see the JATP concert. I'd be fuming if I had paid for that. (Please, don't get me wrong. Madi has an amazing voice. Unfortunately, her music doesn't do it any justice. And the terrible playback made it worse.)

So, anyway, yeah, not a good concert. The party got slightly better after the concert. Brenna D'Amico saved the party by getting on stage and doing group karaoke with the fans.

Random thoughts and occurrences:

Owen saying that this year was the first time he didn't get a gift for Nikolaus was heartbreaking

Owen with his giant emotional support candy cane - adorkable

The Chowen meeting room was exactly as messed up as a friend and I predicted - two independent conversations in one room: The French fans chatting with Charlie and the rest of us talking to Owen in English. (How the French girls actually understood Charlie's archaic French - no clue. Magic.)

I got nervous when I gave Charlie his ghosties. He squeezed the bag, noticed the content was squishy, and asked if he should keep his dog away from it ... RIP Ghosties - they'll be Koa's snack.

The ones who actually looked into their bags (Sacha, Madi & Owen) said they liked the ghosties.

We got a video message from Kenny, saying he's working on some theatre productions. (I really hope he didn't ditch us bc of Zac's star on the Walk of Fame, though.)

The hotel charged €14 for a footlong sandwich. WTF?! I didn't buy one, but I kinda want to know what was on this sandwich. €14 ... even at overpriced train station shops, I get 3 sandwiches for the same price. The hotel was pretty fancy, though.

Today is Bart Johnson's (Coach Bolton) birthday. At the closing ceremony, right after DI said again that it would be the last con, he got a birthday cake, and he was asked to make a wish. So he said: "BTTMW5"! The faces of the DI bosses were priceless.

Honestly, it looks like DI might cave and do another edition. But who knows.

Fun fact: While my souvenir is COVID, all my friends got influenza. WTF?!

There are probably more things to talk about, but my brain is too foggy to come up with more stuff. So that's what you get for now.

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again halloween problems (10/31/2023)

not quite an "oops all friends" edition but this edition heavily advised by viewers like you. thank you!

listening

mcr's blood, for seasonal reasons. spotify

Father Finlee by Spence Hood and Justin Ray Stringer is my new favorite song, a spooky prison? folk ballad? elements of the work song and dirge about it. rounds are underutilized in modern music imo.

Finlee played that guard like a fiddle Turned his own fears into a honing missile “Father can you save my soul…” “Well, first you gotta bring me a little C4...”

usually when a song intrigues me like this i try to find interviews or breakdowns of samples or something, but i am coming up flat empty. @dying-suffering-french-stalkers tasting notes: "Volga Boatmen, maybe, but by way of like...1950s/60s Disney choruses? Like Grim Grinning Ghosts?" spotify

-

reading

somewhat horrifying but unsurprising article about how companies who want (or want to keep) governments contracts can buy out entire DC Metro stations' adspaces. via @andmaybegayer i think?

The Pentagon station, a prime target for reaching DOD staffers, was one of a kind. The Pentagon is the most expensive station to “dominate” according to Outfront Media data which I obtained, even though it has substantially fewer riders than some of the others. Advertising to the 665,786 commuters estimated to visit the Pentagon station in a four week period costs $198,000 (about 30 cents per commuter), before fees. Yet in Gallery Place-Chinatown, a station in downtown DC farther away from government buildings, it costs only $120,000 to reach more than three times as many people (5 cents per commuter).

it is difficult to stress how uncooperative miss mackintosh was during this book's photoshoot. this is genuinely the best one.

i did not enjoy and did not finish Roshani Chokshi's 2018 queer magical intrigue and heist caper in belle epoque france, first in a trilogy. i think there is a mismatch between concept and execution here. i originally had a rather long paragraph about how i'd be interested in a non-new-adult book from her, but after checking her website and seeing that she mostly writes midde-grade and YA, and classifies this book as YA (which doesn't really make sense to me, i think everyone in the core crew can legally drink and i think what i read from this book fits better in New Adult) and has a forthcoming adult book i am not interested in, i think she is simply not an author for me. i reevauated this book with YA in mind, but i think teens deserve books with sophisticated writing and good execution too!

this had a really killer hook but the worldbuilding comes very in thick and fast during the first quarter of the book i read, and felt a little dorling kindersley (here is an eye of horus! on a chinese compass! with a sumerian cipher!). the magical system chokshi uses is novel in its heavy reliance on physical objects and like, countermeasures and counterspells? we get little hints of it as a global system, and it feels very analogous to The Power Of The Computer. a lot of it is based on creation of various physical objects, some of it is mind-based, there are the equivalent of magical stone faraday cages. the macguffin is like. what if a major internet exchange was an object you could carry around.

this magic system is so interesting it makes it disappointing and difficult to break down the distinction between "i don't think the soft-skill worldbuilding through connections and loyalties of characters is that well executed in these first hundred pages" and "hate this specific literary device". we are dropped into a heist at a magical auction where the many magical representatives are attending and rapidly rush through a lineup. this would be a really fun movie or other visual setpiece with intricate costuming choices, but it's hard to show and not tell a complex system of combined familial/cultural/nation-state houses of magic with backstabbing politics when you are rushing through a very time-limited heist. i know that it's the first in a trilogy, but the sheer number of factions and names is very large for a ~400 page trilogy entry. if this were a fucking doorstopper of a series i would have more faith that all will be eventually explained and i will eventually be able to distinguish them all, but i truly don't think she has the pages to do that.

the book's most frequent reviewer praise is that most of the core (but still! very wide! there are so many goddamn names!) cast are colonized or otherwise oppressed people, and i must give this book props for including a bisexual man in the ragtag crew. i read up to the first hundred pages to the first twist, and when the person who joins them at the twist has a voice that is not distinct from the existing gang’s, who are already not distinct from each other, i put the book down. a brief excerpt that does not serve this point very well but serves the following paragraph's point

this book felt like someone describing their dnd campaign to me. people on goodreads do love this book so i'm sure it does eventually deliver on the heist and found family aspects, but it's simply not for me.

bought this here in houston over the summer ( i think) not sure where

-

watching

House on Haunted Hill (1959, Castle). this was so charming!!!

"it’s a pity you didn’t know when you started playing murder…that i was playing too." vincent price truly is that bitch. his scenes with his fourth wife in the film, carol ohmart, are electric. they hate each other so much. they've tried to kill each other so many times. she laughs when he reminds her how she poisoned him with arsenic. the sex has got to be insane.

this is a public domain movie that's embedded in its own wikipedia page, lol, but there are various restorations of varying quality floating around.

the exterior shots of the "old, ugly, moldering house" are the frank lloyd wright ennis house in LA, which made me shriek bc it is a famously light/airy/sundrenched building. (exterior wikipedia, interiors here).

thank u @americanwwhore for logging it on letterboxd recently and making me go "oh hey i should watch that too"

-

playing

not technically fallow but i don't have an interesting story to tell about how i'm trying to get a specific set of genshin impact achievements

-

making

hey remember this baby blanket? i also forgot about it but now we’re up to 7/10 repeats. i may actually get this out before the child turns one

every time i make these sheet pan chicken thighs i arrange them like the isle of man coat of arms bc it amuses me. had to really mangle them to get a good temp reading but i have not yet given myself food poisoning here (fingers remain crossed).

[droughtofapathy]

"Welcome to the Theatre": Diary of a Broadway Baby

Picnic at Hanging Rock

July 25, 2024 | Joe's Pub | Late Night | Concert | New Musical | 1H

I feel like I should stop going to new musical showcases at Joe's Pub just because the cast includes hot older women...

Jokes aside, as far as concert presentations go, this was one of the more promising new works I've seen. The music is lovely enough, and the lyrics didn't have me balking. The young cast really committed to looking as youthful as humanly possible, because while I know they're all probably in their early twenties, they looked fifteen. Kind of horrifying, but I digress. And they sounded so young with that immature bright tone (save for Lorna Courtney, who didn't feel she had to make herself sound twelve so that was nice), but that's the point, so I'll get over it.

The way the show added book/story context to the songs wasn't particularly effective, in my opinion. Had I not known the basic premise of the source material, I'd have been lost when suddenly on the third song they're looking for the missing schoolgirls and teacher with no other warning. The whole thing came in at just under an hour, so that's a relief because far too many of these showcases have 37 songs that all sound identical. This one had a good variety of melodies, but my main critique is in what songs there are and who sings them. New musicals--and this is more true of shows from lesser known and/or inexperienced writers--seem to be allergic to the idea that the songs don't need to be asides. What I mean is that creatives all seem to be writing a series of soliloquies with almost no connection between characters. In the case of this show, there were at least five characters that appeared for one singular song and never showed up again. Which begs the question, why are they here? What is their narrative purpose? Why are we treated to a solo less about plot momentum and more about their inner conflicts and introspection when ultimately they don't return and we don't care who or what they want?

The French teacher, for example, gets the "11 o'clock" number with brilliant vocals by Lauren Molina (who, incidentally, I've never seen with her clothes on). But she hasn't been seen or heard in any song prior to this moment, so why does she get the climax? Her song is also functionally similar to the math teacher's number (Pearl Sun), and there's very little reason why they shouldn't be combined or even cut (and isn't it a shocker that I'm advocating for fewer adult woman roles?). Katrina Lenk as the headmistress has her one number and then bye-bye (though what a number...wow...) As for the girls, they're all indistinguishable from one another. They sing as a homogenous group and while maybe that's the point, it also means they're unmemorable and unlikely to earn audience favor. And the two men? Why? Who cares? Leave.

As a song cycle, it may work. I like the music. I'd like to see a fully-staged production because maybe the book is really strong. But with an hour's-worth of songs, it leaves little for book scenes and I worry the music would only serve to bring the story to a grinding halt each time. The little context we were given before each song didn't include any potential blocking or setting the scene.

A fine enough evening, but points off for also being a late-night 9:30 show. I had to be out that late for this?

Verdict: Enjoyable, But Left No Lasting Impression

A Note on Ratings

[mortallyclearwonderland]

Top 10 Best Polish DUBs part 1

Shrek is widely regarded as one of the best Polish dubs ever and a favorite animated film for both kids and adults. The original dub is good. I like how in the original Shrek has a Scottish accent but the Polish Shrek is so much better with emotions. During the second act low point when he screams at Donkey he sounds like he's about to cry. Speaking of Donkey, his jokes were changed to be more Polish but also revolve less around pop culture, so even when you don't get the reference the joke still fits with what is going on in the movie. Fiona is WAY better in the Polish version. They made an effort to make her sound like a princess. And the extras for the most part speak like people in medieval times would. Prince Charming sounds like a knight and a gentleman (when his true self doesn't come out). Fairy Godmother kills her two songs.

2. The Madagascar franchise is way more popular and liked in Poland than in the USA and I think it's largely due to the dubbing of the main characters. Sure, King Julian, his lemurs, and the penguins became much more popular over the years thanks to the memes. But in Poland, they were a hit since day one. So much so that their show is still aired on Comedy Central for people to enjoy. Going back to the main characters, Gloria is way more motherly, Alex is more sincere and theatrical, and Marty has way more emotions and energy. Again, many of the jokes are way better. And ''Wyginam śmiało ciało'' is a banger.

3. Asterix and Obelix are French comics and eventually, they got their own live-action movies, before the MCU was a thing! From what I've heard they're moderately popular in France but the French themselves were shocked at how popular they became in Poland. For the most part, dubbing is used for animated movies and shows, and live-action shows and movies if they're for children aka made by Disney, Nickelodeon, etc. The divide between people who like lectors and people who like dubs is such a big deal that there will be the same movie playing in the cinema but one version will be dubbed and the other with a lector. Not these movies. The dubbing for those movies is so loved that I don't even think they have a version with a lector. It might be also the case that way fewer people in Poland know French.

4. Any Disney/Nickelodeon live-action sitcom is way better in Polish than in English. It's pretty obvious that for most of those kid actors, it's their first time starring in a show. Also, most of them, especially girls, are picked for the roles because they can dance and sing and can be turned into another pop star. When I listen to the original versions I often find myself cringing at how some of the actors are overreacting or aren't putting enough emotion into their voices because they're too focused on remembering and saying their lines.

Personally, the classics from the 2000s and early 2010s are the best. They were great shows which were only made better by a great dubbing. Now we have garbage shows that are watchable thanks to the dub but nothing spectacular. Who the hell remembers ''Bizaardvark''?

5. If you know the Youtuber Saberspark you might know cartoons from Mondo World. Cartoons created by this studio are infamous for their terrible dubbings with broken English, long pauses, characters huffing, puffing, moaning, and making many other awkward sounds. For the most part, Polish dubs fix those annoyances. Characters sound actually normal. Turning them into, dare I say, good shows.

[transmutationisms]

hi. i am the person who asked you about crosswords a long long long time ago. anyway today i thought what if i do a crossword. since i do pay for the new york times for some reason. anyway it was so so so hard. well i did solve it it just took half an hour. which is too long to be doing a crossword. do you have getting better at crossword advice. i mean. everyone calls it blackthorn not sloe. i mean the obvious answer is to do more crosswords. what i am really asking is how do i find out the things that are relevant knowledge to specifically solving this newspaper's crossword, because it must be based in some kind of cultural locale thing. thank you!

first of all i implore you to stop paying for the new york times. if you just want the crossword, it's syndicated by the seattle times for free lol

anyway, in regards to your actual question: crossword solving is absolutely a skill you can hone, and one that depends partially but not exclusively on trivia knowledge. if you keep doing crosswords, you'll definitely notice some repeat facts/words that pop up (often due in part to orthographic factors, like having a lot of common letters or a spelling with alternating vowels and consonants), and paying vague attention to the major headlines in the nyt will also, unfortunately, sometimes be helpful in solving the nyt crossword specifically. but, a lot of crosswording also just depends on becoming more familiar with the medium and its mechanics. i'm not an expert solver, but here are some tips i've picked up through trial and error (& experimenting with puzzle construction myself):

i assume you know this? but just in case: the nyt puzzle changes in difficulty throughout the week. generally the 'fill' (the answers) stays at roughly the same level of linguistic/cultural obscurity regardless of what day of the week it is, but the clues will get harder throughout the week in the sense that fewer and fewer of them will be direct questions; they'll become increasingly reliant on wordplay, puns, heteronyms, &c. monday is the easiest, saturday is the hardest; sunday is always themed, is approximately the difficulty of a wednesday or thursday, and is a 21x21 rather than the usual 15x15.

on that note, you usually want to start a crossword with a first pass in which you only fill in answers you're positive about: usually that means clues that are 'straight' (not wordplay) or are just asking for, like, celebrity names you're sure you know. on later passes, you hopefully have a few of the crossing letters, which helps narrow down punny or obscure clues.

if you're uncertain about an answer, pay attention to where you're putting certain letters relative to the rest of the grid. for example, very few english words end in the letter u, so words with a u in them are rarely the rightmost or bottommost answers next to black squares.

clues have to match their answers in tense, number, part of speech, and language (eg, 'wanted' could clue DESIRED, but not DESIRE).

clues that end in a question mark are wordplay. clues in quotes could be a book/movie/song title, but could also be asking for a verbal synonym to the sentiment expressed in quotes (eg, "cut it out!" -> STOP). clues in brackets suggest nonverbal answers (eg, [ugh!] -> GROAN). the first word of a clue will always be capitalised because it is the first word, but sometimes this is also a way of hiding ('veiling') a proper noun. eg, 'French novel' could be a particularly obnoxious way of clueing a recent tana french release (here it would also behoove you to scroll by, eg, the nyt book reviews).

rebus squares (which usually only show up on thursdays or sundays in nyt) have multiple letters in one box. the letters in the box will spell out another word or acronym that ties into the puzzle's theme somehow. occasionally the rebus square will contain a symbol that represents a word, rather than letters. you'll figure out that a puzzle has rebuses if you find yourself repeatedly trying to jam answers you're confident are correct into grid spaces that are too short. look for common letter patterns within these answers to determine which letters are supposed to go into the rebus squares.

not all nyt puzzles are themed, but when there is a theme, cracking it will help you solve a few (usually centrally-located) clues. a theme could be a certain type of pun, a set of related trivia facts, &c. generally, 3–5 answers will be themed answers (usually arranged with vertical or horizontal symmetry within the grid), and an additional clue somewhere else in the grid will give you a hint as to what pun or topic ties the themed answers together. good theme answers will also match each other in certain grammatical or semantic patterns; you'll pick this up as you complete more puzzles.

[luulapants]

The name Jasmine?

Most names that are also English words aren't very interesting, etymologically-speaking, but Jasmine, thankfully, is not just an English word. The flower name comes to us from French (jessemin) ultimately from Persian (yasaman) and Arabic (yasamin). It's a very old word found in some of the earliest Arabic texts.

The English name of the flower has been around since the 16th century, but the name only came into common usage in the US in the 1970s, and then it was primarily used by Black Americans. If you're wondering if Disney's Aladdin had anything to do with its rise to common usage, it's actually the case that princess Jasmine was given an already-popular name! Jasmine hit the top 30 in 1990, two years before Aladdin came out, and stayed in the 20-30 range until 2006. It's on a very gentle decline now, still at a healthy #190.

The tricky part is determining the extent to which the name existed in various languages before and after the popularity of Jasmine in the Anglosphere. Few combined databases include any records from Iran or various Arabic-speaking countries, and the US is the only country with consistent, searchable data pre-1950. Before then, we tend to look for notable people as indicators of a name's commonality, which is further complicated by the fact that this is a feminine name and women were given fewer opportunities to become notable in ye olden dayes.

Thankfully, it seems men in the Arab world did use variants of this name at one point. Jazmin Hiaya, probably of Almohad descent in Northern Africa, was a military leader in Al-Andalus (modern Spain) in the late 10th and early 11th centuries. It's harder to create continuity between this early example, though, and the more modern female name.

The next earliest notable I can find is Yasmin Zahran, 1933, Palestinian archeologist, well before the Jasmine craze. Others include Yasmeen Lari, 1941, Pakistani architect, and Yasmine Zaki Shahab, 1946, Indonesian anthropologist. I was also able to find a few incomplete marriage church records for Iranian women named Yasmin born as early as 1870. All of this indicates that the Arabic and Persian feminine name significantly predates the English.

There are about 20 other languages, at least, that have their own versions of this name, which may be influenced by other names or come from the flower itself. There are a few notable Serbian Jasminas born in the 1960s, and a popular 1962 Greek song that used the name, so the name in that region clearly reached popularity on its own. Other than that, again, it's hard to tell.

Our final piece of the puzzle: why did the English Jasmine take off in the first place? I can't say with any level of confidence. I found no notables born in the right age range to inspire a surge that started when it did. If I had to venture a guess, I would point toward its prominence in the Black community along with the rise of Black Muslim groups like the Nation of Islam and Moorish Science Temple. NOI had 20,000 members by the '60s and had attracted prominent figures like Malcolm X and Muhammed Ali. It would make sense, in this context, for Jasmine to become popular specifically because of its Arabic roots.

[jackabelle73]

For Your Consideration -- CCA 2023

Greetings, Rumbelle peeps!

It's that time of year again. Our beloved awards event for Rumbelle fic and art has a new name and blog -- The Chipped Cup Awards, but we ARE having an awards event.

I've posted almost nothing new in the past year. However, in the spirit of participation and supporting the new event, I'm making an FYC post anyway. I went back through my entire body of work, and I'm putting forth anything that I feel fits the categories, even if it's a few years old.

And you know what? I encourage everyone to do the same. With the fandom getting smaller and less active, it's expected that there will be fewer new works to nominate. Maybe now is a good time for some older or previously overlooked works to get recognition. Several dedicated Rumbellers have put a lot of work into building a new awards event for us, so let's support it.

That said, my FYC list with the categories I believe they fit is under the cut.

FLUFF

Comfort - In Sickness and in Health

Soon after leaving Storybrooke to travel the Realm Without Magic, the Golds' trip is interrupted.

Reunion - The Other Fork in the Path

An alternate ending to a scene from 1x21, "An Apple Red as Blood."

ANGST 

Hurts So Good – Beyond the Door

Rumplestiltskin finds out that his son Gideon may still be able to access the Dream Realm, and that presents an opportunity that he can't ignore.

ROMANCE

Best Date (Overall) - The Worst Date

Detective Weaver is enjoying a drink at Roni's Bar and a young woman who seems familiar to him, enters with her date. When her date acts inappropriately, Weaver is only too happy to offer assistance.

Best First Meeting- Click 

A chance meeting on a country road. Two souls in search of something.

GENERAL 

Best One-Shot - And Then, One Thursday Night… 

A chance meeting on an ordinary weeknight, that will change two lives as they each go their own way.

Best Series - Precious Moments

A series of ficlets, depicting everyday moments in Gideon's childhood that Belle and Rumple almost didn't get to have.

Best "Missing Years" - An Unexplored Realm

Rumple and Belle, along with ten-year-old Gideon, visit the Great Barrier Reef in Australia.

SPECIAL CATEGORIES

Best Supernatural/Sci-Fi/Horror  - Mortuus Loqueris Ad

While exploring the contents of her new library in the Dark Castle, Belle finds a dusty book that presents an irresistible opportunity.

Best Creature - In the Moonlight Deep 

Facing an unwanted arranged marriage, Belle enlists the help of loyal friends and non-human strangers alike, to take charge of her own destiny.

Best Trope - Love and Happiness

Belle French receives notice from the government that her marriage has been arranged for her, as it is for all residents of Storybrooke. She reports to Town Hall on the designated day to find out who she is fated to marry.

CHARACTER AWARDS 

Best Belle - Love and Happiness

Belle French receives notice from the government that her marriage has been arranged for her, as it is for all residents of Storybrooke. She reports to Town Hall on the designated day to find out who she is fated to marry.

Best Gideon -  The Visitor

Set during season 7 and canon divergent after 7x09, "One Little Tear." As this fic begins, Gideon Gold arrives in Seattle in search of his father. Rumplestiltskin, woken from the curse but still maintaining his cursed persona of Detective Weaver, is having a bad day and has no idea he's about to receive a visitor.

ART

Best Graphic Art - “If alternate universes exist….” 

Gif set with the quote: I hope that, if alternate universes exist, it will still be you and me in every world, in every story.

Best Video - Dance Me to the End of Love 

Set to the Civil Wars' cover of Leonard Cohen's song of the same name.

* * *

⭐️ This post edited on January 12th, to remove one fic. I realized it was ineligible. My mistake.

[sarahlizziewrites]

OCkiss Day 1 - Dance

This is set before the events of Chrissie's of London. <3 my boys <3 Enjoy!

cw: mentions of war

#ockiss23 Day 1 - Dance - 1,213 words

Nobody warns you what it will feel like when a war ends. Not least of all when you expected to take your last breath in those trenches. 

Our unit is in Paris, many miles away from the front lines, but we still all feel the shiver of freedom when Armistice is declared. Freedom, and a little sorrow. What do we do now? Back to university? Back to our families who will hardly recognise us under the scars and grime of war?

The questions remain unanswered, because Lance Corporal Milton has found cases of champagne from…somewhere, and in a manner quite unlike that of the last few years, throws caution to the four winds and declares the barracks a party.

I’ve always said he needed to let his hair down a little. 

Let his hair down he does, as well as consume a share of champagne enough for four men. Someone produces a record player, and the barracks turns into a proper tea dance. There are no girls here to dance with, so we make our own fun. Boys who stood shoulder to shoulder together in the trenches for years now dance cheek to cheek, great grins on their faces.

Jacques is jubilant. He is dashing about, collar open, spoken English fumbling at best (French at worst). At the start of the war, the charming continental bastard convinced someone to let him serve in our unit, rather than with the Frogs. His accent may be thick, but the boy is for Blighty. Though he would have looked dashing in blue.

He is singing la Mayonnaise over the sound of the record, champagne bottle in one hand. His dark brown eyes brim over with the kind of unbridled joy that I only saw brief sparks of during the war, fewer and farther between as the years wrenched on. I watch in fond amusement as he chases his own tail around the room, grabbing each young man in our unit and kissing them theatrically on the cheek with a large smacking sound.

Jacques then begins dancing with Private Peters, a sloppy waltz where neither can decide who is leading, tripping over each others’ feet. He hasn’t come my way yet - we’ve been friends for donkey’s years, he’s shared secrets with me that few others know, and yet, he’s been avoiding me. I find myself a tad envious, perhaps, of the boys who have had his strong, tanned arms around them tonight; of those he’s granted one of his comedic kisses. 

Better not think of his lips. Better not think of when they were on mine, desperate in the pitch-darkness while shells howled above us. Can’t help but think that’s why he’s been a little distant with me these few months since. 

The party presses on, and some time after dark, he finally finds me, bottle of champagne in hand. He sidles up alongside me, swaying a little, giving me his old puppy dog eyes to appeal to me to take a swig from the bottle. I can’t say no to him.

“Why the long face, Silas?” He bumps a shoulder against mine, taking the bottle back. “You’ve barely danced all night. Aren’t you happy? The war is over, cher. We’re free.”

Free to do what, I wonder? Go back to London, inherit a hotel? Marry a nice girl, produce an heir? In a way, being at war had been a sort of freedom. Freedom to just be a soldier, and not Silas Chrissie, heir to that towering hotel and a legacy I’m not even sure I want, my surname gleaming in huge letters above the Thames. 

“Sorry, old chap.” I look up at his face, those puppy dog eyes full of concern, and I can’t hide a smile. “Forgive me; my heart’s just not in it.”

He abandons the bottle then, setting it aside to come stand before me. “A dance, then. That’ll cheer you up.” His russet hair is untidy, falling across his eyes, and his toothy smile is a little lopsided. 

I’m powerless not to take the hand that’s offered, and he pulls me to stand. Just as we begin to dance together - those warm arms wrapping around me, one palm in mine - the song changes. It’s a slow, crooning, end-of-the-night song for sweethearts to slow dance to. I hesitate, waiting to see what he will do, but neither of us let go. 

For all the distance he has put between us of late, he pulls me minutely closer now, slotting our bodies together, like we really are sweethearts. I can feel his breath on my ear and it makes my heart flutter like a hummingbird. I can see some of the other lads dancing in a similar way, no doubt thinking of the girls back home they’ll be returning to soon. I can’t think of anyone but Jacques.

We sway together, silently. We turn; his hand squeezes mine. I struggle to even breathe, not wanting to disrupt this rare, champagne-scented peace. I had hardly realised that it has taken months of its absence for me to ache for Jacques’ easy touch, his habit of greeting me with cheek kisses in that friendly, Francophone way. I feel like a fool. A fool for what happened that night, and a fool for letting that distance fall between us. I long desperately, most of all, for his friendship again.

“If I get a kiss from a Frog, will I turn into a prince?” I hardly think before I speak; it just comes out. He laughs at it though, a soft huff of a chuckle into my ear. More internal acrobatics. My eyes flutter closed, allowing the music and Jacques to guide my feet. 

“You’re already a prince, mon ami,” he says, under his breath, just for me. It’s a jab - he’s always called me a spoiled brat, and it’s an assessment I’ll happily take - but it’s a playful one. Another thing I didn’t know I’d be missing. “What do you get if you get a kiss from a dog?”

It’s my turn to laugh. Jacques accidentally revealed his shapeshifting abilities to me in our first year as roommates at Keble, and made me swear not to tell another soul. Though he’s so dog-like in so many of his mannerisms, it’s a wonder nobody else has figured it out yet. 

“Fleas, I expect,” I reply, and I feel the crease of his growing smile against my cheek. If this moment ends, I might just expire. “Seems a fair price.”

It’s a gamble, expecting him to interpret what I’m asking for. I’m not even sure what I’m asking for. Somehow, he guesses it exactly right.

His lips press against my cheek; tender, chapped, chaste. Exactly the opposite of the last time his lips touched me; in the dark, in that trench, desperate, pleading. It’ll keep me up sleepless at night figuring out which I prefer. 

But now, the feeling of his lips lingers, his arm is around me, holding me close, and his breath caresses my ear for as long as this song lasts. Once it is over, we remain in our embrace for a little longer than is proper, but when we split apart, I know, somehow, that he’ll never leave me for long again. 

[chicknparm]

69 or 98 or 8

69. ivy - Taylor Swift

It wouldn't be right to do one of these without at least one Taylor song, so we got pretty lucky that you picked this number! Nice!

This song gets thrown around by a lot of swifties as an example of how good her songwriting has gotten, and I think it is quite a good example, but not really for the reasons they think. One could easily read the lyrics and dismiss her verbosity as pretentious set-dressing; a cynical shortcut to make herself and her songs appear deeper than they really are. I think the way some fans talk about her lyrics invites this kind of reading, but I promise you that indulging in that line of critique is doing a disservice to both the music and yourself.

The story told in ivy is one of conflict and infidelity; the narrator is having a passionate affair with someone else while her loveless, lifeless marriage gathers dust. The poetic language, instrumentation, and tone of Swift's voice all evoke much older forms of storytelling. Evocative stories are a cornerstone of country music, but have fallen out of favor in recent decades, and ivy seems to want to reach back even farther and remind the listener more of Jane Austen than Loretta Lynn (in fact, ivy wasn't out of place when it was used as a needle-drop in the Dickinson series). The melody is dark and tense, as are the dancing arpeggios on the guitar, as she sings verses about the pair being magnificently cursed; drinking her husband's wine and grieving for the living. The tension gets resolved in the chorus, where the melody warms up and she exclaims with relief (the use of "goddamn" feels more profane here than many of her uses of "fuck") that her "pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand taking mine."

The warmth becomes heat becomes fire when we reach a classic Taylor Swift Bridge where she proclaims "So yeah, it's a fire, it's a goddamn blaze in the dark, and you started it." From there, we never return to the tension of the verses, instead riding out the chorus until the end, with the narrator resigning herself to an imperfect life half-loved, crooning "my house of stone, your ivy grows, and now I'm covered in you" as electric guitar peaks its head out of the background.

This one's pretty good.

98. Psycho Killer- Talking Heads

cw: french

I didn't know he was speaking french in parts of this until I played this song in Rock Band 2. I couldn't understand a lot of the lyrics when my parents played Bruce Springsteen tapes so I didn't think this was that weird. I still don't know what the french sections mean, aside from qu’est-ce que c’est, perhaps we'll never know.

Anyway this song is a classic, obviously. The bassline is rock solid but still has enough movement to keep the rhythm fun and danceable despite the slower tempo. David Byrne is an all-time great vocalist and he gives a great performance. I, too, hate people when they're not polite. This is such an obvious choice that you'd think it would be overdone and cliche to use it in movies, and maybe it is, but I still pop for it every time. It's like using Fortunate Son in Vietnam movies, sometimes the obvious choice is the right one.

8. Savior Complex - Phoebe Bridgers

I liked Phoebe Bridgers' first album, but Punisher was an improvement in basically every way. Savior Complex was a literal jaw-dropper the first time I listened to it, coming at the end of a devastating three song run including Chinese Satellite and Moon Song. Some musicians just have an ear for perfect pop melodies. Call their songwriting sophomoric (and you'd be correct), but power pop writers like Billie Joe Armstrong and Rivers Cuomo have always reminded me a bit of Paul McCartney in their ability to craft memorable, joyous, sometimes anthemic hooks and melodies seemingly in their sleep. Another skill of McCartney's, which far fewer are able to replicate, is his ability to write a melody that plays your heartstrings like a fiddle. Truly skilled musicians can tell a story and take you on an emotional journey without words, and Phoebe proves more than capable of that here. And I don't know if you've heard, but she's pretty fucking good at the "words" bit too.

Savior Complex might be my favorite Phoebe Bridgers song, even though there are plenty of others with stronger lyrics. But that melody, man. Those strings. The guitar nervously walking the bass notes around. The way her voice flutters when the title drops. Her breathy falsetto as she pleads that she's too tired, and a bad liar. Other songs got more attention on this album (and they deserve that attention), but Savior Complex is an understated masterpiece in my opinion. Just a gorgeous, gorgeous song. I love it so much.

[lindsaywesker]

Good morning!  I hope you slept well and feel rested?  Currently sitting at my desk, in my study, attired only in my blue towelling robe, enjoying my first cuppa of the day. 

Welcome to Too Much Information Tuesday.

A zoilist is someone who gains pleasure from finding fault.

15% of Americans own no books, and 20% own fewer than 10.

It is only illegal to eat human flesh in one of the 50 US states, Idaho.

Research has shown that people are happiest at 7:26pm on Saturday evening.

92% of people type things into Google to see if they spelled them correctly.

In 2003, a Coca-Cola employee was fired because he was drinking Pepsi on the job.

In 1979, British politician Terry Dicks lost an election to his competitor Michael Cocks.

Lonely people take longer, hotter showers to replace the warmth they lack socially or emotionally.

In 2015, an aquarium in Vancouver gave their one-eyed rockfish a false eye because he was being bullied.

You can fail a drugs test if you eat too much food with poppy seeds in it.  Your urine would show as having morphine in.

At Two Oceans Pass, Wyoming, a mountain stream splits into two: one flows into the Atlantic, the other into the Pacific.

A five-year-old boy who went missing from his home in Alabama for 13 years was found when he tried to apply to college.

According to The Economist, Boston, Massachusetts is the best prepared city in the United States for a zombie invasion.

The ‘your mother’ insult is found in nearly all cultures and is as old as humanity itself, with examples in Shakespeare and the Bible.

In 2004, the USA delivered $12 billion in one hundred dollar bills weighing 363 tonnes to Iraq.  Nobody knows where it has gone.

In some European countries, they have parking spaces solely for women.  They are usually in heavily lit areas, close to petrol stations etc.

In 1956, Vyacheslav Ivanov won an Olympic rowing medal only to drop it in the lake while celebrating his win.  He dived in but never found it.

In 2015, a Manchester man began graffitiing giant penises onto potholes so that the city would fix them faster.  He was nicknamed 'Wanksy'.

French club FC Thionville will play an away fixture in New Caledonia in the South Pacific as part of the French Football Cup, a round trip of 19,883 miles.

In the 16th century, codpieces were so big they were used as pockets where men were said to carry handkerchiefs, purses, ballads, bottles, pistols and oranges.

Andy Warhol would often go into hair salons to get his wig cut.  Then next month, he would come back to the salon in a longer wig and act like his wig had grown.

If you play the tenth song on Weird Al Yankovic’s album ‘Bad Hair Day’ in reverse, you will hear, “Wow, you must have an awful lot of free time on your hands.”

In his application for a professorship at Trinity College Dublin, the Irish poet and future Nobel laureate W.B. Yeats misspelt the word ‘professorship’.  He didn’t get the job.

The scent of freshly mowed grass is the lawn actually trying to save itself from injury.  Plants release a number of organic compounds called green leaf volatiles.  When plants are injured, these emissions increase like crazy.

In 1988, a woman named Jean Terese Keating disappeared while awaiting trial for drunkenly killing a woman in a car crash.  She was arrested 15 years later after bragging at a bar about having gotten away with the crime.

In the 19th century, the phrase ‘Newcastle hospitality’ meant either ‘roasting a friend to death’ (subjecting someone to ‘a severe gibing and bantering’) or ‘killing a person with kindness’ (not allowing someone to leave the room until they fell dead-drunk under the table.)

Scottish man Angus Barbieri fasted for 392 days, from June 14, 1965, to July 11, 1966.  He lived on tea, coffee, soda water and vitamins while living at home in Tayport, Scotland, and frequently visited Maryfield Hospital for medical evaluation.  He lost 276 pounds and set a record for the length of a fast.

Nas listed his then 7-year-old daughter, Destiny Jones, as an Executive Producer on his fifth studio album ‘Stillmatic’, so she will always receive royalty checks from the album.  Nas' album, Stillmatic, was released on December 18th, 2001.  It sold over 342,600 copies in its first week of release and peaked at No. 5 on the U.S. Billboard 200 chart. 

Sanju Bhagat's stomach was so swollen he looked nine months pregnant, and his breathing was so bad that he was rushed to hospital.  Doctors suspected his enlarged abdomen was a tumor until they opened him up and found that he'd been carrying around his absorbed twin for 36 years.  This condition is known as ‘fetus in fetu’.  One twin absorbs the other but will continue to leech nutrients from the host.

Okay, that’s enough information for one day.  Have a tremendous and tumultuous Tuesday!  I love you all.

[sergeant-spoons]

I Will Follow You ~ Pt III

Perrine Blomme (Perry Bloom)

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​​​​​​​​​​ @chaosklutz​​​​​​​​​​​ @wexhappyxfew​​​​​​​​​​​ @50svibes​​​​​​​​​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​​​​​​​​​​ @whovian45810​​​​​​​​​​​​ @brokennerdalert​​​​​​​​​​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​​​​​​​​​​ @claire-bear-1218​​​​​​​​​​​ @heirsoflilith​​​​​​​​​​​​ @itswormtrain​​​​​​​​​​​​ @actualtrashpanda​​​​​​​​​​​​ @wtrpxrks​​​​​​​​​​​​

Part 3/Finale of Follow Me, My Dear, And Know That Only I Will Follow You.

Plus a bonus epilogue!

Title comes from the song “Long Way Around” by The Sweeplings.

Apologies for the delayed update - this final part (+ the epilogue) clocks in at over 10k words.

Read it on AO3!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Easy Company departed Nuenen shortly after Bull and Victor's return. Rumbling away on their fewer transports and tanks, watching the smoke rising from a burning Eindhoven on the horizon, they sat and nibbled at rations or smoked, all in silence. By the time the sun found her midday perch, the mood of the company had lifted slightly. A few conversations had started up, though only among only the closest of friends, and Perry turned to try and find somebody to talk to. Garcia sat closest to her and proved her immediate choice, but he was staring up at the sky, a kind of hollowness in his eyes that made her wary to interrupt his thinking. She looked to Babe Heffron next, and he looked in turn to Bill Guarnere, who seemed pleased at the singling out. He started up a barebones game of craps just to pass the time, rolling the dice inside his upturned helmet so they wouldn't go flying off the transport with every bump in the road. The participants got a few ugly looks and a few kinder ones, too, but none seemed worth the bother. They just kept on playing.

Days passed, then weeks. It was in France, at that place known simply as 'the Island', that Perry found out she wasn't alone in her secret after all. 'Victor' Rich turned into Verity, and Perry clung to their sameness like it was the last chance she had of making it through the war alive. For the first time, she told someone what she thought she might be feeling for Joe Toye. Saying it aloud made it real, in a way. And in Perry's situation, truth was scary—truth made her vulnerable. Truth nipped at her heels as Easy paddled across the Rhine to rescue stranded British paratroopers and lost Lieutenant Heyliger to friendly fire and finally returned to Mourmelon-le-Grand for a bit of a breather with the rest of the 101st. As October turned to November, Perry (recently twenty-three) was getting antsier by the day. Verity was the first to notice, then Babe Heffron, and even Donald Malarkey, who she knew even less well than Skip Muck. By then, she knew the time had come for her to do something about her anxious heart before it got her killed.

A week into their stay at Mourmelon, Perry resolved to go to England and see Joe Toye face to face.

By the end of the month, she'd managed to secure for herself a four-day furlough, during which she intended to travel back across the English Channel and pay a visit to the hospital where Joe—restless, no doubt—was still recuperating. The little tugboat she took across the Channel puffed along slowly but surely, and she watched as the French coast diminished behind her, too nervous to look ahead to England. The seawater splashed up over the deck and Perry winced as it lashed, cold, against her ankles. She stopped on the docks and changed her socks before she went any further, but any sort of practicality was overshadowed by her guilt of stalling. She was finally here, wasn't she? Then why wasn't she getting a move on?

A kind of uncanny guilt kept her feet firmly affixed to the pier until a dockworker took her by the shoulders and moved her out of everybody's way. Embarrassed into making an exit, she kept her head down and moved quickly, skirting feet and crates and a few seagulls as she went. As her chin bowed further and further, her cap started to slip off her head, and when it finally fell, she fumbled to catch it. Her clumsy hot-potato-esque grabbing drew a few amused looks from English passersby, but this time, she didn't notice whatsoever. Standing there under a bulbless lamppost, her chin tilted steadily upwards as she took in the building at the end of the street. It was pale and broad and adorned with the largest stitched red cross Perry had ever laid eyes on. More jarring was that the place was twice as big as she'd expected, and then some. As she came closer, she saw there was a garden to the eastward side of the building, and that allowed her a bit of a smile.

Greenery was always good for healing the soul.

Little did she know that when she came around the side of the hospital and went into the gardens, Joseph Toye would be thinking the same thing, but for an entirely different reason. She came around a hedge and stopped in her tracks at once. It was hard to tell who saw who first, but Joe went as stiff as a statue and Perry had to look at his eyes in order to see him blink and reassure herself she wasn't imagining him standing not two yards away from her. He looked well. He was leaning on a statue as if he'd taken a moment to catch his breath, but he jumped up just as soon as he saw her as if she'd caught him in a state of leisure he shouldn't have dared enjoy.

Without knowing any better, she smiled.

"Joe."

Saying his name seemed to snap him out of whatever trance her sudden arrival had put him in. He balked and grabbed onto the statue to steady himself, and she started forward, concerned at his state of balance. But he shook his head and she stopped, easily understanding that he didn't want her to come any closer. She tilted her head, curious and a little hurt, but he just stared as if he didn't know what to say.

He stared because as soon as she'd turned that corner, her green eyes caught on his and his heart skipped a beat he could no longer ignore.

What she couldn't have possibly known was that ever since that night in Eindhoven, he'd been falling to pieces inside, thinking about Perry night and day, even at the times he shouldn't have. The hospital was boring to the point of annoyance, and his recovery was taking long enough that he'd started to snap at the nurses, who were still too nice to him even when he didn't deserve it. He'd started thinking about going AWOL these last few days just to get back to Easy, but he hadn't a clue how he'd manage it with his leg still stiff and achy as it was. The one main reason for him wanting to leave the hospital before he was ready was yet the same for him wanting to stay. And now that reason had appeared like a ghost summoned by the silent misery of his heart, come to England where she wasn't supposed to be, and when he looked into her green eyes, Joe panicked.

He panicked because they were a green he knew too well, a green he wasn't sure he could live without.

"Perry?" he asked, and she nodded, her faint smile growing a bit stronger.

"Yeah. Yeah, Joe, it's me." She laughed softly, a nervous thing, and it made him want to run away. "How're you doing?"

How was he doing? He wanted to tell her he was good—great, even—because it was her, but that's exactly why he couldn't. This was Perry Bloom, a man, who was making him feel all sorts of things he'd only ever felt with women, and now twice as strong. So forgive him for panicking a little—he felt as though he'd lost sight of himself, and fear like that is a bitter vice.

"Go away, Perry," he said, forcing himself to stand on his own although his leg trembled under the strain.

Watching that pretty face fall almost broke his shaken heart.

"What?"

"Leave me alone. Please."

"I-" She looked around as if she thought she might be dreaming. "I- I don't understand."

"I don't either."

It was the only honest thing he could really say to her at that moment, and it brought green eyes back upon him without any sort of warning or mercy. When he flinched, she saw it as clear as day.

"I thought we were friends."

He wanted to say so much but he didn't know how to make the words fit right, so he just turned and started to limp away. She hiccuped and he stalled.

He'd made her cry, hadn't he?

Shaken to the core, he left her there in the garden without looking back. She ran away crying and didn't stop for some time. Even as she wandered blindly around the streets of London, she cried, swiping at her cheeks with her sleeves until they were positively waterlogged. Eventually, she happened upon the inn where she'd meant to stay for the night. To her utmost thanks, the secretary at the front desk was sympathetic and didn't ask any questions about the tears still making tracks down the young soldier's face. She went upstairs to the room, turned the key in the lock, and shut herself away from the world. When she tried to look around inside but found everything was still wet and blurry, she gave up and sat down on the floor right there where she'd stood.

Leaning back against the bedframe, weepy and forlorn, she went over every second of that awful rejection in her mind, trying almost desperately to pinpoint her fatal mistake. Though she tried not to let it, every minute more thinking about Joe was tearing her up inside. What could she have possibly done so wrong? It had been nearly two months since they'd seen one another. Should she not have smiled? What didn't he understand? Had someone somewhere somehow found out about her by some cosmic stroke of wretched luck and let it slip to Joe? Every possibility seemed more outlandish than the last. She wished she could have called Victor or Babe or, hell, even Captain Winters, but she felt so low that she doubted anyone would have picked up, had they had a phone to answer at all.

At the hospital, a nurse came and found Joe a few minutes after Perry had left. She scolded him a bit, saying he shouldn't have gone out into the garden like that without somebody to make sure he got back alright. He almost told her that there had been somebody, but chances were that somebody would never walk at his side again. But he didn't tell her that. He couldn't. Instead, he limped along to the lunchroom, ate alone, and limped back to his sterile white bunk, and there he sat, silent, as the afternoon wore on and on. Just as he was readying to go to bed, having skipped supper, a different nurse tracked him down, and when he saw the bewilderment on her face, he knew Perry had been back. Indeed, the nurse passed him a note and told him it was from a soldier who said he was a friend of Joe's, a friend who would be heading back to his company much sooner than planned.

Joe's heart wrenched. He wasn't sure he could call Perry his friend any longer. The scary part was, he didn't want to—he wanted to drop the 'friend' and just call Perry 'his'.

Even scarier was the creeping suspicion that Perry just might feel the same.

He nearly crumpled up the note but stopped himself at the last second. Almost rebelliously, he unfolded the wrinkled paper and gave it a read.

Joe ~

I don't know what I did, but if you hate me for whatever it is, that's up to you. Maybe I deserve it. Either way, I've been keeping one hell of a secret from everybody and it's something you should really know about. Even if you never want to speak to me again, if we were ever friends, even for a minute, please let me tell you this one thing.

Find me once you're back with the company. I hope it isn't too long—

(For your leg's sake, not mine.)

P.B.

Joe ran his thumb across the paper and discovered that the spots that he'd first assumed to be natural blemishes were, in fact, damp to the touch. She'd been crying when she wrote this, and she didn't care if he knew it. Maybe she'd done it purposefully. He doubted it. There wasn't a vindictive bone in her body.

Or maybe there was, and he'd done enough harm to discover it.

Perry tried not to think of Joe on the boat back to France. The waves splashed and a few seagulls cried out to one another, and Perry watched the English coast grow smaller and smaller until her boots were back on solid ground and the little tugboat was long gone.

Twilight had fallen by the time she made it back to the Company the next day. Verity was puzzled by her early return and asked plenty of questions, but Perry wouldn't say a word about what had happened in England until Verity threatened to write to Joe herself. All Perry could think to say was that Joe hadn't wanted to see her. That quieted her friend into a kind of melancholic pity, and Perry shied away, escaping into the night. Babe found her before long and dragged her over to a makeshift firepit he and some of the other fellas had started up, and she stood there with them, warming her hands and wondering in silent grief:

How had it come to this?

Several weeks later brought a small high point in the matter of Verity's birthday, an event which culminated most unwelcomingly in the 101st's abrupt deployment to Belgium. The next day passed in a blur until Perry once again stood warming her hands at a firepit, now eyeing the woods ahead as her friends predicted what they'd find in there. Some joked, others were more serious, but all seemed a bit antsy to figure out exactly what they were doing here. Then the rows of battered soldiers began to march by, and they kept going for ages. The men began to speculate more darkly and Verity inched closer to Perry, protective. It didn't do much good. With every fallen face that passed her, Perry lost a little more hope.

Sergeant Lipton (who'd lit the fire this time around) tried to make small talk with the soldiers clustered within earshot, but few paid him any mind. Because Verity did, Perry did, too. Lip mentioned something about the forest and Perry mentioned that she knew the place. She'd never been, but her father had, long ago, and she was just about to tell him and Verity all about that 1912 camping trip when she heard singing and whipped about like her name had been called by the angels.

“I’ll be seeing you, in every lovely summer’s day…”

Verity immediately urged Perry to go to Joe, but she just couldn't seem to make her feet move. As her thoughts whirled and her heart thundered in her chest, all she could picture was the look of stunned distaste she feared she would find on Joe's face when she told him what she could no longer hide.

"I dunno if he’d be happy to see me," she told Verity (the understatement of the century), but her friend, opposed to her meekness, took her by the elbows and marched her all the way to the source of the singing.

There he was, gazing up at the night sky, his hands tucked nonchalantly in his pockets. He was standing in the shadows behind a truck, the shadows in which no one would find him unless they knew to come looking. As Perry inched toward him, he looked down and faltered, and she knew in a heartbeat that he'd picked the song because it would bring her to him. In that same heartbeat, all the resolve she'd had to tell him her secret came rushing back, and her steps became more assured, her strides steadier. She opened her mouth to try and speak, but before she could even start, he launched into a flurry of apology and uncertainty, disallowing her to get a word in edgewise. He was saying something about how he felt for her but she was so bewildered by the intensity and rambling nature of his speech that she couldn't make sense of it. His whole body was taut with emotional tension and fear, and Perry, blanking on what else she could possibly do, decided her best chance to get his attention was to grab his hand and place it palm-down upon her chest.

Doing so had her whole face aflame and her heart pounding so loud she was sure he could feel it against her ribcage, but watching the wheels turn in his head and the weight visibly lifting off his shoulders as it all clicked was worth it.

"Did you read my note?" she asked a bit lamely, letting go of his hand.

"I didn't get it," he breathed, and at her look of alarm, he shook his head. "Didn't understand it, I mean." He knocked on his head with a loose fist. "Not much up there, y'see?"

Perry, her eyes watering, threw her arms around him in a tight hug.

"Don't you talk like that," she grumbled into his chest. "You just got back, for Pete's sake. Have a little more faith in yourself or you'll be gone again in a week."

He softened, knowing she was probably right. Embracing her, he gave her a squeeze, a silent reassurance. After a quick glance around to check they weren't being watched, he dared to rest his chin on the top of her head. She sighed against his chest and it was heavenly, and for the first time, he wasn't afraid to believe in the way she made him feel.

"So you've prob'ly figured it out by now," she said once they stepped apart, "but I'm not a man."

"Yeah," he chuckled, running his hand through his dark hair. "Yeah, I get it now."

"Okay." She stuffed her hands into her pockets and pinched the inside corners, fidgety. "So?"

He blinked at her for a moment.

"... So?"

"So are you gonna... report me, or...?"

Before she'd even finished the flimsy question, he was shaking his head.

"Not my business to tell," he said, and her heart, already so full of love for him, made room for just a little more.

"Thank you," she said, and there was something in her quiet voice that hinted at what she really felt, but Joe blinked it away, labeling it wishful dreaming.

"C'mere, Lovely Summer."

He drew her back into a hug, and she settled into his arms as easily as if it were home. She felt a little thrill, relishing in the nickname, not knowing that it had never really been a tease, not really. It was a little funny at first, but as the days went on, the association of the pet name with Perry made it sweeter and truer. Since that night in Eindhoven when she fell asleep on him and he'd started to realize just how much he cared about her, he'd meant it in earnest.

"You sang because you knew I'd come," she murmured, smoothing her thumb over a wrinkle in his uniform, "didn't you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I did."

"Keep doing that," she said, straightening up and fixing her cap. She sounded so even-keeled, but even in the shadows, he could tell she was blushing something awful. But he understood, and if he'd been a man to blush, he might have been a little pink himself.

"When I want to see you as you," he agreed, "I'll sing."

"Not just any song," she pointed out. "Just 'I'll Be Seeing You'."

"Of course."

She giggled—actually giggled—and it made Joe happier than he'd been in months.

"Of course," she repeated. "Of course."

They didn't get a chance to talk like that for nearly a week. The entire Company was up to its knees in patrols and skirmishes—not to mention the snow. Foxholes were dug and campfires were banned and everyone got colder by the day until you couldn't shake a man's hand without the both of you trembling like a leaf. Perry and Joe had taken up residence in a foxhole for three, joined most nights by Johnny Martin. On the seventh night, Joe and Perry got back late from a patrol and found Martin fast asleep. They slipped into the hole as quietly as they could and settled in, side-by-side. Perry's jaw was so shaky from the cold that when she mumbled Joe's name, she stuttered on the 'J'. He frowned, wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and tugged her against his side.

"I should try to find us a blanket," he mumbled against the side of her head, pressing his lips there in what she hoped was a smile but could never be sure. "How're you holdin' up?"

"Well, it's cold." She snuggled a little closer to him. "I'm better now."

"Aww. Cute. Thanks."

"Oh, shush, you."

He smiled and closed his eyes. Perry looked at him for a moment, then tilted her head onto his shoulder and joined him, seeking rest.

"Perry?"

"Hmm?"

Joe cracked one eye to check that Martin was still asleep. He appeared to be, so Joe went on.

"What's it like, for you?"

"You mean as a...?"

"Yeah. That."

"Oh." Perry considered, lifting her head off his shoulder. "Well, gee, I dunno... Pretty much the same as anybody, I guess."

"But you're hiding all the time."

"Yeah. I guess that's the big difference, huh?" A weak chuckle. "It's not all that bad. Some things are harder than others. I can't shower with the group, of course. There's never any piece of the uniform that fits the way it's s'posed to, but then again, it doesn't fit half the men, either. And if people start noticing bloodstains on the sheets—when we had sheets, that is—they're gonna start asking questions, so that's always a bit... perilous, each month."

"'Perilous', huh?" Joe smirked. "I think you've been hangin' out with Rich too much."

Perry snorted. "What're you, jealous?"

He was quiet for a moment, then turned and nuzzled his face against her shoulder. Her face felt warm and for a moment, she feared frostbite only to realize she was blushing instead.

"A little."

"Well, don't be."

He looked at her, seeming a bit puzzled, and Perry couldn't help a giggle. She leaned in toward his ear and he shifted a bit closer to hear her whisper:

"You know Victor Rich?"

"'Course, I do. He's a Toccoa man."

"You mean a Toccoa woman."

Joe pulled back and gaped at Perry, and she shrugged, her smile fading a bit.

"What?"

"Jesus fucking Christ. I never would’ve-" He took his helmet off just to run his hand through his messy hair. "Well, shit."

"You can't say anything, though. Not a word."

"'Course not." He thought for a moment, then smirked. "So it's Rich and Roe, then, huh?"

Perry gasped and swatted his arm. "Shh! What'd I just say 'bout 'not a word'?"

"I won't, I won't," he reassured, smirking a little. "But hey, I gotta know..."

"Yeah," Perry sighed, unable to help a small smile. "You're spot on."

"Yesss," he hissed in victory, cuddling her a little closer, and Perry gave in to his embrace at once. Shivering in a cramped foxhole in the dead of night, what she felt for him was all-consuming. She'd known it forever but she just couldn't find it in her to tell him. She opened her mouth to ask if she was wrong, then, to feel so strongly yet unable to find the words, but Joe beat her to it.

"You got somethin' on your mind?"

"Maybe." She shrugged, just a little, so he would feel it against his cheek. "Nothing that important, though."

He kissed her shoulder and lifted his head, eyeing her with a small smile.

"C'mon. You can tell me."

"Ah, well..."

"Come on." He jostled her a bit and she giggled into her fist. "Tell me."

"Alright, alright. It's just..."

She took a deep breath and poorly stifled a wince to feel the frigid air pricking her lungs. Joe waited beside her, and Perry hoped he didn't realize she was looking anywhere but at him.

The last time I came close to telling you how I feel, you panicked and sent me away. I cried all day. I thought you hated me. I'm still afraid you DO hate me, just a little.

I can't face that rejection again, Joe. I can't. I'd fall to pieces, and then who knows what would happen to me out here in the woods?

So yeah. I can't tell you how I feel. And it's eating at me, day by day, but I just have to ignore it.

"Hey-" He bumped his shoulder against hers. "-what's going on in that head of yours? Let me in."

He asked too much of her, though he couldn't possibly know it.

"It's my family," she admitted in a rushed sigh. "I miss them. A lot."

Joe was quiet for a moment and she started to think he didn't believe her, but then he nudged at her arm until she laid her head on his shoulder again and settled his own head against hers.

"Yeah," he murmured, "I miss mine, too."

That was the end of that discussion. A few days passed. Perry hardly ever saw Joe, but no one would ever get her to admit it was by design. He was right, she did have something on her mind, but that something was entirely about him. He couldn't know. So she stayed away as she tried to come up with an excuse or a way to suppress her feelings even more than she already did. She wasn't having much luck. On the third day, Bill Guarnere tracked her down and told her to stop ghosting around like she was before she started looking like Lt. Dike. He didn't have to give a name for her to know Joe was looking for her. She capitulated, but before she could take a single step in the direction of their foxhole, the first shells started to hit and she had to run instead. A blast hit a tree not far behind her, and when she turned to look, her fear started to grow to realize Guarnere was no longer at her side.

"Crow! Hey! Hey!" She followed the call, a lifeline thrown by Babe Heffron from his foxhole. "Come on, get your ass down here!"

She sprinted for the pit of safety and threw herself in headfirst. Babe grabbed and righted her, and they huddled together, keeping their heads down until the barrage stopped. In the stillness that followed, Perry poked her head up above the rim of the foxhole despite Babe's protests and peered across the forest until she saw Bill's unmistakable limping form crossing the snow toward them.

"You alright, Sarge?"

"Fuckin' fantastic," he called back, grimacing; when Babe popped his head up next to Perry's, he grunted. "Watch it, Babe. This ain't over with."

"Yeah? You think?"

"Yeah."

"Alright."

Perry hauled herself out of the foxhole and let Bill take her place. He grabbed her sleeve and made her stop so he could ask:

"Where the fuck are you goin'?"

"To find Joe. I'll see you in a bit."

"Be careful," Babe said at the same time as Bill warned, "Don't stop movin', kid, that's how they getcha."

"I will. I won't."

She was a bit shaken, her heart still pounding away in her chest from the adrenaline of having been caught out in the open. It was a terrifying business, shellings. It all came down to mad luck, in the end, who got hit and who didn't. As she wandered, she looked for Joe and felt better as soon as she found him singing their song, looking for her.

"Jesus," he swore, "the hell are you doin' out here?"

"It's my hands, Joe," she mumbled lamely, showing him. "They're so cold."

He brought her away from the line and led the way to their foxhole, worriedly eyeing her hands as they walked. They arrived and Perry slipped into the foxhole without question, nodding as Joe instructed her to get down and stay down. When he got up to leave, however, she impulsively grabbed his sleeve, and he paused.

"What?"

He had the stars in his eyes and she didn't think she could bear it if he left her now.

"Stay with me a little longer?"

He did. Night fell quickly but Sergeant Martin did not appear. The longer they were alone, the shorter Perry's resolve became. Joe had tucked her against him just as soon as he'd sat down beside her, but then they blinked and it was truly dark out, and something shifted. They crowded one another like never before. Joe snuck his hands into Perry's pockets and wrapped his fingers around hers. She gasped, feeling the usual butterflies in her stomach kick it up into high gear. Joe just smiled.

"For warmth," he said, and she wouldn't argue with that.

Still, it wasn't enough, and they kept on snuggling closer and closer until Perry dared to turn and straddle his lap. He drew in a deep breath and she had to duck her head to hide her smile.

"For warmth," she mumbled, pressing her face against his scarved neck.

Thankfully, reassuringly, Joe hummed his approval against her shoulder and wrapped his arms around her. She nestled into his embrace, tucking her hands between their bodies to try and warm them up. They kept on shaking and shaking, and when Joe let go of Perry, she thought she might have gotten too close and panicked. She started to move off of him, but he grabbed her hands and kept her close, and as she watched, he lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed each one before taking her hands and rubbing them between his own to stimulate heat.

"For warmth," he repeated, and she nodded.

"Thanks."

It was only a whisper, but he'd heard it nevertheless, and he slowed, then stopped. He let her hands fall back between them, but this time, she placed her palms flat against his chest. He sucked in a breath and when she exhaled, it came out all shaky. They inched closer, bit by bit, and there came a point where they could either let go or take the leap. Perry could feel Joe's breath on her upper lip the moment before he kissed her, slow and syrupy and everything she'd been waiting for.

"For warmth," he whispered when he drew back, but he was staring at her lips, and before she could lose the nerve, she leaned back in. In one fluid motion, she stuffed her fingers into the loose folds of Joe's scarf, cupped his face in her hands, and brought his lips back to hers. He hummed happily into her mouth and she kissed him like they might never have tomorrow. He wrapped his arms around her tight and reciprocated before deepening the kiss, his tongue grazing her bottom lip. She let him in with a whimpering sigh, and he held her even closer. His lips found their way down the side of her neck, and she gripped his scarf, tilting her head to give him better access.

"Warmer?" he mumbled as he nipped at her skin.

"Much."

They fell asleep like that, with Perry on Joe's lap, their lips a little raw and their arms squeezing each other tight to keep ahold of the dream. Warm and content, they dozed, but it wasn't to last. When Perry awoke the next morning, her hands had gone stiff and hot, and Joe dragged her over to Sergeant Lipton before she could even say "good morning". Lip scolded her for how she'd caught the frostbite ("You should have known better than to shovel snow with your bare hand") and sent her to Doc Roe without delay. Joe walked her there, holding her arm instead of her hands so she could keep them in her pockets. He kissed the top of her head when Roe's back was turned and whispered in her ear that he'd see her soon, and though it hurt, she made sure to wave as the truck drove away.

The day Joe Toye lost his leg was the day Perry hated the war the most.

In retrospect, she couldn't remember much of that time, just snippets of misery and terror and grief—kneeling in the blood-soaked snow, staring at Joe's twitching stump of a leg, pleading with God to let this all be a nightmare until Joe grabbed her hand and she knew it was real. She could, however, remember what he'd said to her before he went. For the rest of her life, that conversation would sound through her head, as clear as any tolling bell.

“You gotta hold your- Gotta hold your head up, okay?”

“Joe- God, I don’t know if I can-”

“I’ll be seeing you."

“You promise?”

“In- in every lovely summer’s day.”

The rest of the war was a messy blur of Foy and Haguenau and Mourmelon-le-Grand—then a brief spot of clarity at Landsberg—and Thalem and Berchtesgaden and, finally, Austria. Perry missed Joe every minute of every day, and every day, her heart broke anew to know she'd never told him what she should have before he went. It nearly ruined her, once, thinking about him off in that English hospital with the garden outside his window in full bloom as Spring turned into Summer. He wouldn't be able to go out walking there for a long time, if ever. Verity found her drunk and sobbing far away from the others the night they found out the Germans had surrendered. She took her up to the party and made her dance to the music from the radio until she was delirious with laughter and fell asleep on one of Verity's shoulders while Doc Roe took to the other.

She couldn't have known that while she was missing Joe all across Europe, he was trying his hardest not to think about her through weeks and weeks in a hospital bed. What could have been haunted his every waking moment, and he hated himself for having hoped. When Perry missed him in Haguenau, he hated himself in the hospital in England with the garden still dreary and devoid of green after the harsh winter. When she missed him in Berchtesgaden, crying in the corner, he hated himself on the hospital ship back to the States. When she missed him in Austria, he hated himself, sitting in the living room of his parents' house, back home in Pennsylvania before she could even imagine returning to California. He hated himself because he'd convinced himself he'd lost everything that day—his leg, his dignity, his girl. He'd never even told her he loved her, for God's sake, and now she was off in Europe with the rest of them, kissing somebody with both their legs and a chest full of medals to boot. These were the visions he tortured himself with in the dead of night, sleepless and in more pain than from just his leg. He'd become a bitter man and he hated himself even more for it.

And then a letter came—a letter from Eugene Roe, of all people. Joe didn't know what to make of it and so left it sitting on his bedside table for almost a week. When he finally worked up the nerve to open it and saw Perry's name in the first sentence, he put it down and didn't pick it back up until his mother told him he was being stupid. As he'd expected, Roe had news, but to Joe's surprise (and relief), the news wasn't about somebody dying. Perry was alive. Perry was doing fine. Perry had earned enough points to go back to California and was already on her way. Roe, God bless him, had found out Perry's mailing address from Verity Rich and enclosed it at the bottom of the letter. Joe stared at it for what felt like an hour though he'd memorized the number for the P.O. box within the first minute. Little by little, the shell of bitterness and grief he'd been carrying around for so long started to wear away. He knew what it meant, that address, and why Roe had enclosed it. It meant Perry hadn't forgotten about him. It meant Perry still talked about him.

It meant Perry was within reach.

Joe spent the rest of the morning writing back, and by the time he was done, there were pages and pages to be stuffed into one small envelope. He wanted to know everything—how was everybody? What had gone down in his absence? Most of all, how had Perry been getting along? All of a sudden, he was back to loving and thinking things through and wondering how his buddies were getting along without him. The resentment was gone. He still felt a sting when he thought about Perry, but the hate was gone, hope taking its place. Roe's reply took some time to arrive, but when it did, it was even longer than Joe's, and he knew the medic had taken the time necessary to find the answer to every single one of Joe's questions. He spent days pouring over the contents, reading the letter over and over until it started to wear and tear at the creases. He learned all about Rachamps and Haguenau and Berchtesgaden and Austria. He found out that Perry had been promoted to sergeant and felt the flame of pride spark inside his chest. He wished he could have been there to take the Eagle's Nest but was pleased to hear a toast had been made in his and Bill's honor with the finest of Hitler's champagne.

And all the while, he wondered what he would say when he finally sat down and wrote that letter to Perry.

It was inevitable. He'd have to write to her. Even if she told him she'd gotten married to God-knows-who in Austria and they'd honeymooned in Paris and now they were both back in California making babies, he needed to know. He couldn't live his life without knowing her. He wouldn't.

Still, he put it off. He was scared. He didn't think his writing was all that good, didn't think it would be enough to convey all he needed it to. What if he said something that dissuaded her from writing back? What if he implied something too quickly and made her balk away from his too-obvious, too-gripping love? What if she really had found somebody else?

Another letter came before he'd made up his mind, posted from Victor Rich (now also sergeant) but signed simply 'V'. It was brief but invaluable to Joe. Verity, of course, had been writing back and forth with Perry since the minute she left Austria. Joe trusted that Verity knew Perry almost as well as she knew herself, which was why he believed her when Verity said Perry had never stopped loving Joe. She was leaving Austria now, too, now that the war was fully over and no one would be going to the Pacific unless it was on vacation. Verity warned Joe he'd better not write back to her until he'd written to Perry. Though he usually wouldn't like being told what to do like that, he appreciated it this time around. She was pushing him to do the right thing. Still, he couldn't help but wonder why Perry herself hadn't written, but Verity answered that question too:

She's dealing with a court case right now, trying to keep her family together. It's a nightmare, Joe, and she's been so busy I only hear from her every other week. She told me she wants to write to you, but she's scared you won't want to hear from her. I told her that's bullshit but I don't know if she'll listen to me. You will. You know better than to let her slip away like that. Don't you?

He did.

Perry got the letter three days after Halloween. The verdict had come back that same morning: Clyde was a free man. Free from his mother, anyhow. Sacramento was looking ready for a nice, balmy Autumn, with the breeze sweeping inland from the ocean down by San Fransisco. Forks, Washington was behind them; a Californian future ahead. The court case was over, and the cherry on top was the letter sitting nice and neat in her P.O. box, the name scribbled in the upper lefthand corner already enough to make her heart go all-pitter-patter with anticipation. She tore it open as soon as she got back inside but had hardly started to read when her brother asked who it was from. She paused and looked up, and it was the not knowing what to say that gave her an answer.

"Well, Clyde," she admitted, "I'm not entirely sure."

He rolled around the side of the breakfast table, munching on a muffin from the Blomme's favorite bakery in town, and picked up the envelope.

"'Joseph Toye'," he read aloud. "Oh, it's him."

Perry was so astounded that she stopped where she stood. Clyde gave her a knowing look, and she folded the letter up and sat down in the chair beside him.

"What? How did you...?"

"You say his name in your sleep, sometimes," he told her. "It's only ever him. I mean, you talk about your friends to me, like Verity and Babe Heffron and George Luz, but whenever you get to thinking about this one guy, you go quiet." He shrugged. "It didn't take all that long for me to put the pieces together."

"Huh." She patted the letter on the table, a bit embarrassed. "Well, if you're so smart, what do you think he's got to say to me?"

Clyde raised his hand and started to tick off on his fingers.

"That he misses you. That he's meant to write but it's been hard since he got hit. That he loves you-"

"Woah, woah, woah." Perry went pink. "Why would he-"

"Because you love him, don't you?" Clyde smiled as he broke off a piece of his muffin and offered it to her. "He did write to you, after all, Nell. Hard to imagine he doesn't feel the same."

After a moment's hesitation, she took the gift and wrapped her arms around her brother in a hug.

"You're right," she said, giving him a grateful squeeze. "I do love him. Maybe he does love me, too."

She read the letter. It was exactly what she'd hoped for, but it still managed to fill her with such anxious energy that once she started pacing, it took her ages to stop. Eventually, she picked up the phone and called Verity over on the East Coast. Her friend reiterated what Clyde had said almost word-for-word. She was right, of course—Joe had called her 'Lovely Summer' in the letter. Five times. She’d counted. When they hung up, Perry looked at the phone in its receiver, took a deep breath, and turned around to start that letter. Clyde was already there behind her, holding out a pen and a few sheets of lined paper.

"If you start pacing again instead of writing him back," he said, a smirk playing on the edge of his mouth, "I will put you on a train to Pennsylvania this very minute, so-help-me-God."

Perry took the pen and the paper, eyeing him in awe for the second time that morning.

"How did you...?"

"His address is on the outside of the envelope, silly. Speaking of-" He produced it from the pocket of his jacket, the letter tucked inside. "-I checked out the San Fransisco timetables while you were on the phone, and it looks like there's a three-day overnight that ends up in Wilkes-Barre, so-"

"Point taken. I'll go write him now."

Her brother shrugged, following her down the hall.

"Hey, I'm just saying—you could be there by Saturday if you wanted."

In the doorway to her bedroom, Perry hesitated, then turned back over her shoulder to face her helpful, meddlesome brother.

"When did you say that train leaves again?"

"I didn't." He grinned. "3:10 in the afternoon on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays."

"Right." Perry swallowed thickly against her nerves. "Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah, anytime." He patted the doorframe. "And Nellie-"

"Yeah?"

"Good luck."

She'd expected the letter to be a challenge, but once she got started (just like with her pacing), she couldn't stop. She had to get up twice to get more paper, she just had so much to say. She wasn't sure how much he knew about what had happened with the Company since his departure, so she wanted to tell him everything—well, everything that wouldn't break his heart. She told him all about the trial and how glad she was for it to be over and that she was sorry she hadn't written sooner. She told him how much she'd missed him these last nine months and that she hoped he wouldn't mind her telling him something she should have told him years ago. When she finally penned those three words and all the reasons for them afterward, it felt as if a heavy fur coat she'd worn since January 3rd had finally slipped off her shoulders. She felt freer as she slipped the thick envelope into the P.O. box and walked home with a slight spring in her step. Clyde met her outside with a basketball in his lap, and they tossed it back and forth, talking about nothing in particular and feeling twice as good because of it.

Perry was going to get on the train. She really was. She just needed to hear back from Joe first. If he didn't want her the way she wanted him, well, then, she wouldn't go, simple as that. She'd just stay at home and let her heart break and wonder how she could have thought those kisses in a bleak winter could mean something beyond the war. The days passed, and the longer she waited, the antsier she became. Clyde did his best to keep her occupied, having her take him to the pictures and help build his model boats and read through pamphlets for California State at Sacramento, his dream school. Perry didn't mind. She loved her brother and wanted nothing but to make him happy. He was a good kid getting close to becoming a good man. Where had the years gone? The war had taken her away for just one, but just one was still one too much. She'd been away from Joe for almost a year now, too. She wasn't sure which was worse. But she was going to get on the train, she really was.

In the end, Joe—marvelous, unconquerable, would-go-to-the-ends-of-the-earth-for-the-people-he-loved Joe—beat her to it.

He showed up on her doorstep two weeks and a day after Clyde rolled out of court for the last time, his sister on one side and his father on the other. He was the one to open the door. Joe hadn't been expecting a kid with sandy blonde hair and a basketball in his lap. He cleared his throat and offered an awkward, brief smile. Just as Joe was starting to think he'd knocked on the wrong door, the kid stopped studying his face and offered up the basketball.

"D'you play?"

Joe glanced down at his leg.

"Not anymore, I reckon."

The boy shrugged. "I play, and I haven't got either leg."

A smile crept onto Joe's face, and the kid broke out in a grin. He rolled himself into the house backward and waved for Joe to come in, but the unexpected visitor hesitated on the threshold. Instead, he leaned on the doorframe and listened as a conversation took place down the hall of the single-story home.

"Hey, Nell."

"Hey, what's up? You wanna play?"

"Maybe later."

Joe heard a chair scrape back and a person stand. With his heart in his throat, he tried to make himself appear relaxed as he leaned on the doorframe. At the last second, he changed his mind and went back to his crutch, wobbling a little at the abrupt shift in balance.

"Something wrong?"

"Nah. You should probably go check the door, though."

"Mail's here? Already?"

"Eh..."

The young man in the wheelchair rolled back a few feet and nodded toward the end of the hall.

"Not exactly."

She appeared in the hallway, then, looking curiously at her brother, and Joe felt it all come rushing back, everything he'd missed about her. She looked good. She was wearing a green wraparound dress with white polka dots, and he could tell she'd been growing her hair out. When she looked up, she tucked a few locks behind her ear to see him better before she even realized who he was. It didn't take her long—no more than a second, really. She visibly jolted where she stood. Her brother couldn't stop grinning behind her. It was almost enough to make Joe laugh. He started to smile, and just as he crutched that first step over the threshold, Perry lurched into motion. She practically dove down the hallway, racing to meet him there, but when she collided with him in a hug, she was careful to lean back the way she'd come so she didn't knock him off-balance. It was that one little thoughtful thing that gave him the confidence to kiss her neck.

"Hey, Lovely Summer," he murmured against her skin. "Hey. Good to see you, too."

"Joe," she gasped, "oh, Joe."

Perry started to shake. He lifted his head and looked her in the eye. Balancing on his crutch, he reached up and cupped her cheek in his free hand.

"You never wrote me back," she whimpered, starting to cry, and he shook his head, smiling despite it all.

"Oh, I did." He chuckled. "I just got here first."

She threw herself back into his embrace and held him tight.

"God, I love you."

She went still, then, as she realized what she'd said. She started to pull back, but Joe didn't let her go far. He could see the fear and uncertainty in her eyes and knew it was high time he remedied that.

"No more waiting," he swore, tenderly smoothing his thumb over her cheek. "I'm here, now."

"Joe?"

He pressed his lips to hers, keeping to his promise. She stumbled and almost fell over, and in doing so, nearly took him with her. They broke apart in laughter, but it felt out of place and so petered out too soon. Joe kissed her again, firmer this time, and it was when she eagerly reciprocated that he knew he was home.

"Hey," he said once they broke apart, kissing her nose just to see her smile, "guess what?"

"What?"

"I love you, too."

Her eyes were all watery again, and when the tears began to fall, Joe was there to wipe them away. Perry clung to him and wept, touching his arms and his chest and his waist as if making sure he was really here, really alive, really come back to her. Clyde rolled up behind her and bumped the wheel of his chair against her foot. She turned over her shoulder without letting go of Joe, and when he saw her all weepy-like, he patted the back of her knee.

"There, there," he said. "He's not going anywhere. Right, Joseph?"

Joe gave a start. "How'd you...?"

Perry gave a teary, hiccuping laugh.

"Apparently, I talk about you in my sleep," she admitted, and Joe positively melted.

"Cute," he said as he smoothed his hand up and down her arm. "Can't wait to hear all that."

As Perry went red, her brother laughed. He inched to the side and offered his hand for Joe to shake.

"I'm Clyde," he introduced himself, "Perrine's brother."

"Joe." He smirked. "Though I guess you knew that already."

"Yeah." Clyde gave a small smile. "Hey, Nell?"

She turned around to face him, evidently very pleased at how Joe tucked her against his side with his arm around her back, his hand resting familiarly on her hip. Perry smiled and reached down to ruffle her brother's hair.

"Yeah, Clyde?"

He swatted her hand away, still grinning. "Think I could be the ringbearer?"

Perry laughed. Joe went still, his hand freezing in his pocket where he'd been fingering a very particular box. Clyde pouted until Perry took his hand, squeezed it, and told him:

"Not the ringbearer," she informed him. "You'll be my man of honor."

Clyde brightened up significantly, hitting his fisted hand with his other open palm to emphasize his victory. Perry grinned and turned back to Joe but faltered, catching his hand in his pocket.

"Joe?"

"I'll do you one better, kid," he rasped, looking at Clyde. "You can be both. Catch."

He withdrew and tossed the little box in one motion. Clyde, star basketball player that he was, had no problem snatching it out of the air. He took one look at it and started to laugh in awe. Perry just gaped. After a moment, she turned back to look at Joe, who shrugged, unable to keep a nervous smile off his face.

"I was kinda hoping my letter would make it here 'fore I did."

"Why's that?" she breathed, glancing between an anxious Joe and her gleeful brother. "Joe, tell me why."

"Because," he breathed, watching her lips move, entranced, "I said I had a very important question to ask you once I got here."

"Ask it," she pleaded, and Clyde held up the box, nodding right along with his sister. "Ask it, please."

He took the box from Clyde, who then backed up several feet and swung halfway into the kitchen but kept watching around the corner, leaning so far forward he came close to falling out of his chair altogether. Joe crutched a step back from Perry, making sure he could see her whole face clearly before he began, and his smile turned a bit apologetic.

"I can't kneel-"

"Then don't." She rubbed her hands together and he realized she was just as apprehensive as he was. "Just look me in the eye and tell me you love me one more time."

That eased his nerves a bit. She wasn't asking anything of him he wouldn't have already done. Of course, she wasn't. She knew him, and he knew her, and that's why this didn't have to wait.

"Perry," he said, his voice low but plenty loud enough for her to hear, "I love you. I've loved you for more than a year, and I know I'll love you for a lifetime. And so I'm hoping, maybe you'll let me."

Even though she knew it was coming, she still squeaked when he opened the little box and showed her the ring he'd picked to promise her forever.

"I love you," he vowed, his voice dropping nearly to a whisper as a single tear crept down his cheek. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes," she wept, giving him her left hand as the other came up to cover her mouth. "Yes, yes, yes."

Clyde whooped. Joe wanted to pick Perry up and twirl her around, he felt so high, but he knew he couldn't, so he settled for slipping the ring onto her finger and drawing her into his arms. They shared a kiss or two and started laughing all over again, and this time, they didn't stop, knowing they had all the time in the world to make up for the war.

This seemed like a good start.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

April 4th, 1954

This wing of the hospital was blessedly quiet. The sunshine of early afternoon slipped through the windows and gleamed in thin lines across the painted floor tiles of the recovery room. Joe sat on a stool at Perry's bedside, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. The door clicked shut as the nurse left to give the couple some time alone. Perry raised her chin up off her pillow and pouted at Joe, wanting a kiss. He complied, then sat back, stroking her tangled hair. His gaze slipped toward the bundle resting upon her chest, and she smiled.

"About time we got to meet her, huh?"

Joe nodded, his brow creased in wonder.

"She's beautiful," he breathed, the tears in his eyes choking up his voice. "She's ours."

Perry reached out and took his hand. She looked down at the little bundle of joy sleeping on her chest, her tiny little cheek pressed to her mother's skin, and sighed fondly.

"She is," she agreed. "She's got your nose, see? And she smiles when she sleeps the same way you do."

When Joe didn't respond, she looked up and discovered he'd started to cry.

"Oh, honey..." She squeezed his hand. "Everything's okay. I'm okay. She's okay. You're okay. We're all okay."

"I love you," he wept, bringing her hand up to his mouth to kiss it over and over. "You're incredible."

He looked at the babe and carefully leaned down to kiss her on the top of her little head.

"I love you, too," he told her, whispering so as not to wake her. "I love you, little Mabel."

They sat in a comfortable, loving silence for a time, a family of three, at peace at last. Eventually, Perry squeezed Joe's hand and gave a slow nod.

"I'm ready," she told him. "Would you go get them?"

"Sure." He pecked her cheek and stood, tucking his crutch under his arm. "Be right back."

Clyde rolled in first. He was already smiling, but when he saw his sister and newborn niece, he completely lit up.

"Wow, Nell," he said softly, reverently admiring the sleeping babe. "You've really done it all now."

"Isn't she just perfect?"

"She is." His smile grew the longer he looked. "Oh, I'm going to spoil her rotten."

"As am I," Verity chimed in, smiling fondly at her friends as she followed Joe into the room, shutting the door behind her. "How are you holding up, Perry?"

"Better than ever, Red. How're the kids?"

"Gene's keepin' 'em busy in the lobby. Maddie's infatuated with her princess coloring book and Nicky's got his letter blocks." Verity rubbed her visibly-pregnant stomach. "Number three figured out recently how much fun it is to kick me right in the bladder."

Perry laughed gently, her eyes twinkling with some warm hidden knowledge. After a beat, she turned to her husband.

"Should we tell her now?"

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He nodded, and his wife waved for Verity to come closer.

"We've named her Mabel Rodezus Blomme-Toye."

Verity beamed and put her hands together, none the wiser. Clyde, however, went still and looked at his sister, wide-eyed.

"I love it. A beautiful name for a beautiful baby."

Clyde gave a soft whistle, recovering from his initial shock. He reached over to Verity and tugged on her sleeve. She quirked her head at him and dropped her hands, her smile fading.

"What?"

"'Rodezus'," he translated for her. "It's Dutch. Means 'red sister'."

Slowly at first and then far quicker, Verity's expression began to transform. She took a deep, shaky breath and started to cry. Joe came over, gently took her hand, and guided her over to Perry's bedside, allowing her to clasp his wife's hand between her trembling fingers.

"You're as good as my sister," Perry reminded her, tearing up just the same, "and I love you." She brushed her thumb over her daughter's swaddled body. "She will, too."

"I love you, too," Verity wept. "You're an angel, you are."

Perry just smiled, tired but happy as could be. Her friend turned to look at the rise and fall of the newborn's chest, smiling through her tears.

"Hello, little Mabel," she whispered. "You're gonna be so happy, you know that? You're gonna be such a happy little girl, with parents like these."

She looked at Perry and then Joe, wiping the tears from her eyes though they just kept on coming.

"You've got two of the best people in the world looking out for you." She bumped her hip against Clyde's wheelchair. "Make that three."

"Make that four," he corrected, rolling up beside Joe's chair. The two men shared a warm smile. Verity's cheeks pinkened a little, and though her laugh was weak, it was full of gratitude and devotion. The four of them—mother, father, uncle, and namesake—sat around that hospital bed and breathed in life, holding hands and smiling a thousand blessings upon little Mabel, who slept and slept and knew she was loved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Read Pt I here. Read Pt II here.

[theresa-of-liechtenstein]

man that got me thinking about the catholic school days… like transferring from public school was such a comedic experience i look back on it now and have to laugh

some people treated me like a poor unfortunate soul and asked me questions about my experience like i just walked into civilization from a jungle (“did people… bully you?” cue me: “…bullying exists everywhere?”)

i was also an Anomaly because when i took the entrance test i pretty much aced the math section and was placed into advanced math straightaway which hadn’t been seen from a transfer student before, which i at the time (forgetting i was literally in math olympiad and advanced math already) thought was much less of a big deal than they were making. (“they were impressed i could calculate the area of a trapezoid,” i complained to my mother after they informed me of my placement. “it was easy. they literally gave me the formula.”)

on my very first day there was held a pep rally for the middle school (this was a preschool through 8th grade school) and one of the “games” was to have a student from each year tell the whole middle school about something they did that summer. i don’t know who came up with that or who even thought that would be a suitable game to play for 11-13 year olds. anyway nobody was volunteering, the usual Kids Who Did Public Speaking didn’t want to do it, so i volunteered myself and delivered an impromptu stand-up set about my priest uncle coming to visit. i won.

the son of my favorite english teacher (who by the way. absolutely loved me from the moment i did that stand-up set on the first day. pretty much all my english teachers there simply loved me i have no clue why) straight up said to my face as we walked out of science class “you’re really smart, for a public school kid” and i was SO offended

i befriended most if not all the sisters on campus and spent time chatting with the one in the library who was from the democratic republic of the congo and spoke french swahili and english. or working the snack bar with another down near the playground who let me stack the pudding cups in the fridge. even the one running the cafeteria, who everyone said was mean, was actually really friendly if you were polite to her and were actually interested in her well-being. my mom and i even ended up being friends with the really quiet one who guarded the gate in the mornings

so much of junior high was me doing whatever the fuck i wanted honestly. i snuck broadway references into things. i think once i even used a matilda the musical song in a school project. i danced with a girl at the last formal social and nobody batted an eye.

we had our inaugural shakespeare performances outdoors where we did selected scenes from plays and i got lady macbeth hyping macbeth up to frame the guards for murdering the king (bc the guy teaching it was like this is the most challenging scene and i was like. bet). one of my friends made fake blood from a chocolate base (he was SO good at practical effects my god) and i was dying to taste it bc he said it was edible so we took our bows when the scene was over and i was still on stage in costume when i stuck a blood-covered finger in my mouth. cue HORRIFIED gasps from the audience. one of my classmate’s little sister was so terrified she would not speak to me for months.

we did eighth grade superlatives and there were fewer categories than students (but there were few students anyway so everyone got a superlative) and even though there were multiple people per superlative, i was the only one who was a “Responsible Individual”. which was hilarious

also i went from being the Poor Little Public School Kid to like. by the advisor’s words, “one of the best school presidents,” so i can really say i peaked in junior high

all this was what put me on the radar of the mother who, four years later, expressed that she wanted me to follow her son to [UNNAMED IVY LEAGUE SCHOOL]. which is the funniest bit of all

however i will say that talking to people from that era, they’re a little too quick to pin down our current achievements on the fact we went to catholic school, which is annoying. was talking to someone who was saying “it’s all because of the foundation catholic school gave you” conveniently forgetting i went to public school for FAR longer than i went to private school. it makes me wonder that, if i had been slightly less achieving now than i am, would they be adamant about my “catholic school foundations”? but that’s just speculation. i personally just had a fun time and i really enjoyed myself lol

[cana--merula]

I lived in the same house all my life, even when I left for university I would come back every weekend. This is my home. And I like the flat I live in now, but I still wouldn't call it my home in this sense of ultimate belonging. The only other place I ever felt that way was in Taizé. And I'm so happy to go back in a little over a week.

If you're not european and christian, you probably never heard about this place. It's a little village in the french countryside where a community of brothers are living and offering a safe space for thousands of young people from all over the world to meet up, connect and discuss whatever matters to them (that being religion or philosophy or life in general).

I first went there when I first finished school. Legally I was already an adult but I didn't feel that way. My future was still uncertain, I didn't knew if uni would work out. Even so, I didn't have many questions. I found the answers anyway.

I came back while studying. I knew what I would be doing in the next three years, how my life would look like (at least I thought so, this was in 2019). I had even fewer questions. I still got more answers.

Last time I went after finishing uni and I stayed a bit longer as a volunteer. I had a job that I could probably start after coming back, but nothing for certain. My whole life was changing again. This time I had more questions and I got answers to most of them.

I'm going back in a week and I'm trying to find my questions. I know they will come out as soon as I sit down in that church to sing the first song and I'm excited for them and for the answers. As soon as I reach that hill, I'm gonna be back in my second home. I can't wait. ♡