#you can capture the atmosphere and tone simply with the notes on your page

[fluffypotatey]

i am in love with your mind, Jorge Rivera-Herrans

[thisbrokenmask]

Thank God For Haunted Houses

pairing: female reader x jung hoseok

genre: fluff, romance, humour, best friends au, friends to lovers

word count: 5,219

rating: PG i think? there’s kissing but that’s about it

warnings: none, really, very brief mentions of the experience of a haunted house attraction

summary: you’ve had a crush on Hobi for a while but you never expected him to return your feelings. so, when your friends make it so that the two of you have to spend some time together, you’re not quite sure where the night will lead you... 

a/n: hey look it’s me again! seems like I can’t stop writing these @btsholidaybingo​ prompts and I’m not sad about that at all. I’m quite enjoying having lots of ideas and being able to write them, too! today’s offering is a request from my best friend, who loves the idea of hobi venturing into a haunted house in order to please the girl he likes. so, here you go!

evidently, this fills my ‘Haunted House’ prompt ☆★

The rich smell of buttered popcorn and sugared doughnuts fresh from the fryer sits heavy in the air, so strong that you can taste them with every breath you take. Neon lights whizz and whirl against the dark blanket of the night sky above you while the bells, whistles and heavy beats of EDM music rings out from all of the rides around you. 

Your adrenaline levels are still soaring high as you come bounding down the steps, fresh off of the pirate ship with Jungkook and Jin’s laughter following close behind you. You spot the rest of your group and bound over to them, dodging and ducking through the crowds despite Jin’s cries to wait for him and Jungkook. You spy your bag still over the same shoulder that was offered to you ten minutes earlier, before you dragged Jin and Jungkook onto your third go on your favourite ride of the night. They were the only two still willing to ride it again, the rest of the group having their various excuses. Yoongi and Hoseok especially had eyed the swinging boat incredibly skeptically, neither of them climbing aboard for even one of your multiple goes on the ride tonight, offering to look after the bags instead. Which was exactly the reason you would give for you making a beeline straight towards the latter of your friends. 

“That was amazing!” you cheer as you fling your arms around Hoseok’s shoulders, your own bag knocking into your leg from where it hangs off of Hoseok’s shoulder. Your smaller height makes him stagger slightly as you beam over his shoulder to the rest of the group, but he quickly balances himself without letting you stumble even once. His left arm is closest to you and he reaches it across your front to curl around your waist, a toxic-looking blue slushie held in his right hand. You know it’s simply meant to help steady you but you can’t help the flutter that erupts in your chest at his touch, your still-rapid heart rate no longer anything to do with sitting at the very end of the pirate ship in order to experience the highest rise. 

“Have fun?” Hoseok chuckles as he smiles at you over his shoulder, looking at you out of the corner of his eyes rather than turning his face towards you; you’d be nose to nose if he did, and you’re both perfectly aware of that. Swallowing the slight disappointment at Hoseok once again choosing the option that doesn’t bring his lips closer to yours, you let your arms slide from his shoulder to wrap around his arm instead, holding the limb close like a favourite teddy bear. You nod eagerly, though, pushing your smile wider as you answer him. 

“Yeah! Would be much more fun with you, though, oppa.” You pout, reminding him of all of his vehement refusals to get on nearly any ride so far this evening, but he playfully rolls his eyes instead as he shakes his head. 

“I don’t know how you ride that thing, let alone come off it looking so damn happy,” Yoongi mumbles from the other side of Hoseok, his dismissive, faux-uninterested tone one that only makes you grin even wider. 

“I bet it’s not the only thing she enjoys riding so much,” Jungkook cuts off your response, teasing you in a low tone as he and Jin finally catch up, joining the circle. Jungkook puts his arm across your shoulder, his large hand gripping you and pulling you close, leading you to unintentionally let go of Hoseok’s arm. 

As you turn to push Jungkook off by pressing your hands against his chest, you miss the way Hoseok’s gaze drops to the floor and a small frown creases his brow for just a moment. If you’d asked, he would have told you he was simply speculating Yoongi’s comment, wondering how you could in fact ride something like the huge pirate ship behind him and not faint from dizziness. He wouldn’t tell you he was finding it more and more difficult to see you and Jungkook becoming so close, even though your closeness in age made it logical that you two would get along. He wouldn’t say how he felt a spike of jealousy in his heart whenever Jungkook made inappropriate jokes with you, wondering whether you two were secretly more than friends.  

Jin rolls his eyes at the youngest but fails to hide the smirk on his lips, the incredibly relaxed atmosphere of the evening so far letting him put down some of his usual walls without concern.  

“So, where next?” the eldest asks as he accepts a sip from the drink Jimin offers him, a bright red yet slightly melted match to Hoseok’s. The question prompts as many different responses as there are people, everyone talking at the same time until Jin calls a hush over all of you with another roll of his eyes. 

Jimin wrangles Jungkook into agreeing to join him on the waltzers, the two of them having quickly found out the ride operators are willing to spin their car incredibly fast and challenging each other to see who can last the longest. 

Yoongi bemoans the fact that his hyung still hasn’t taken him up on his challenge to any of the fair games so far, yet shrugs when Jin asks if he’s ready to eat his words on any game of his choice. 

Taehyung anxiously fiddles with the camera hanging from his neck, saying he wants to wander round and see if he can get any good pictures that capture the night’s atmosphere. Namjoon offers to accompany him, announcing his feeling that there are some lyrics to be found if he walks around long enough, his phone already open on a half-written notes page. 

“What about you, Hobi-hyung?” you almost scowl at the mischievous smile on Jungkook’s lips, painfully aware of the fact that you’d trusted the maknae enough to tell him of your crush on Hobi now that it’s only the two of you left. As you look around the group, in fact, you realise everyone is watching the two of you a little too closely for friends simply deciding their next steps. You don’t hold back your glare this time as you round on Jungkook, and he has the decency to blush as he realises you now know he’s let your secret slip.

“Er, I don’t know, actually,” Hobi frowns as he mulls the question over, glancing around at all the stalls surrounding you. “What do you wanna do?” he asks, turning to you with a smile, your bag bumping against his hip as he still has it slung over his shoulder. 

“Me?” you blink, surprised he’s asking you when he knows you both sit on opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to rides and rollercoasters. You can’t deny the rush of joy, however, at the prospect that he’s choosing to spend the next portion of his evening with you. 

“Well, everyone else already has plans,” he jokes, but you feel your bubble burst at the realisation he’s only asking because he’s been left with you. Everyone else has paired up; why else would you two?

You try not to let your disappointment show, instead answering him with a simple shrug. “I don’t mind.” Hobi frowns, concerned about your sudden dip in enthusiasm. He knows you love fairs and theme parks, practically anything that could give you an adrenaline rush; another reason why he assumes you and Jungkook would make an annoyingly good match. He always worries that you find him boring or childish for not wanting to go on the rides, yet he comes along anyway purely to see you in your element. Seeing you deflate so suddenly makes him want to do whatever he can to cheer you up, even briefly considering going on the pirate ship for the first time in years just to see you smile again. “Why don’t we just walk around?” you suddenly suggest, a small smile on your lips instead as you reach out to take your bag back from his shoulder. “See if anything jumps out at us?” 

“Hopefully not literally,” he mumbles and you laugh, pulling your hair out of the way as you drop your bag onto your own shoulder. 

“Right, meet back up in half an hour, then?” Jimin and Jungkook barely acknowledge Namjoon’s question before running off, already teasing each other about who will feel sick first and announcing what they want from the other if they win. Taehyung is still adjusting his camera settings as he starts walking in seemingly any direction that takes his fancy, Namjoon quickly throwing an arm around his shoulder to guide him through the bustling crowds. 

“Which way are you guys headed?” Yoongi asks while Jin is already eyeing up a few of the nearby game stalls he believes he has a decent chance of winning. Yoongi’s cat-like eyes are watching you intently from where they’re nearly hidden under the black beanie he’s wearing, and you can’t help but feel like he’s almost daring you to follow him and ignore the chance to be alone with Hobi. His eyes briefly shift to glance over your shoulder towards a part of the fair you know you haven’t really explored yet, and you can’t help but smile at his subtle way of trying to help. 

“Why don’t we explore a bit that way?” you ask Hobi, pointing towards the unexplored area, and Hobi easily agrees with a smile as he takes another sip of his drink. “We’ll see you guys later, then?” Jin nods with a wave before rapidly telling Yoongi which game he wants to try first, the younger silently following his hyung without a question. 

It feels a little bit awkward at first, given that you and Hobi haven’t often spent much time together just the two of you, but the further you walk, the more at ease you begin to feel. You walk closely together, your arms brushing against each other every now and again and you silently curse Hobi for keeping his hand closest to you in his pocket. Part of you likes to think you’d be bold enough to try taking his hand as you walked, even getting ready with the excuse that it would stop you from getting parted in the crowds. But instead his hand sits snugly in his pocket and you fiddle with the strap of your bag as you walk instead. Still, you enjoy sharing Hobi’s drink, passing it between you every few sips, and even stop to watch a few people attempt to win at some of the games you come across. 

There aren’t many rides in this part of the fair, mainly stalls for games, food, and even some small independent businesses selling handmade jewellery, some of which catches your eye. You hesitate over a beautifully intricate bracelet, a small silver chain with alternating purple and black gems hanging from it, but you end up walking away with the decision that you’ll come back when it’s time to meet back up with your group. 

At one point you stand beside Hobi and watch from a distance as several overconfident guys slowly drain their pockets at a tin can shooting game, each of you taking bets at how many times each guy will slam more money on the table before he walks away. Hobi boldly assumes they must all be single and you immediately question his claims, to which he simply responds that if he’d seen something he’d wanted for his imaginary girlfriend, he’d keep going until he ran out of money. You tell him you’d be annoyed if your imaginary boyfriend did that, as you’d rather he spent his money on something you’d shown interest in rather than boosting his own ego for something you didn’t particularly care for. You eventually wander off after a large group blocks your view of the game, Hobi quietly following behind you a few seconds later. When you take a glance at him, he looks thoughtful, but you’re distracted by a group of kids running past before you can question him. 

It’s only when you find yourself in a small clearing that you realise you’re on your own. You figure you must have accidentally separated from Hobi at some point during your browsing, which would have been easy enough given how many people were wandering around between the stalls. When you can’t spot him after a minute or two, however, you start to panic, especially considering the fact he’s in a bright yellow hoodie tonight and you still can’t spot him in the crowd. 

You’re normally not too bothered about being by yourself in a crowd, especially when you know friends are nearby, but for some reason the idea of being lost from Hobi is almost enough to bring tears to your eyes. Your hand goes straight into your bag to pull out your phone and you try to ignore the slight shake in your fingers as you bring up your recent conversation with Hobi. It’s just as you’re about to press the call button that you feel a warm hand on your shoulder. 

You spin on the spot to see Hobi standing before you in all his glory, bright lights in his dark eyes and a lazy smile on his lips that transforms into a worried frown as soon as he sees your wide eyes. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” 

“I thought I’d lost you!” you scold him with a gentle shove to his chest before letting him pull you in for a hug.

“Sorry, y/n-ie,” he chuckles with a squeeze to your waist. Your ear is pressed to his chest, his laugh a rumble in your ear, until he lets you go again. “I just went to throw that drink away, I finished it while I was waiting for you.” His hand stays on your lower back, acting as a tether between you as the crowds continue to bustle around about you. You turn your face away to hide the blush that warms your cheeks at his teasing tone, but Hobi mistakes it for you being annoyed at him for wandering off. He turns your face back towards him with a gentle hold on your chin, then tucks your hair behind your ear as he gazes at you thoughtfully. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

The touch of his hand on your cheek makes your knees feel weak and wobbly, all words leaving you high and dry as you simply stare back at him, his dark eyes glittering in the flashing lights that surround you. All you can muster is a small “it’s okay” and a slight rise of one shoulder, barely even a shrug, but it’s still enough to make Hobi smile. Without thinking, your gaze drops to Hobi’s mouth, wondering whether he would lean in and press his lips to yours like you dream about if you asked him to. His tongue peeks out to swipe across his bottom lip and the brief flash of pink snaps you out of your stupor, drying out your mouth and hastening your heartbeat all in one go. 

You look around you rapidly, desperate for a distraction from an impulsive and potentially friendship-ruining decision, anything to take your mind off the thought of finding a dark corner big enough for two. 

“Hey, look!” you turn on the spot to point towards the sign that’s caught your eye, signposting an attraction that you haven’t seen before. “A haunted house! We should totally do it.” Hobi, however, isn’t so keen. 

“I don’t know, y/n-ie,” he scratches the back of his neck, a pout on his lips when you turn back to him. 

“But there’s no queue! We could go straight in!” 

“You know I don’t like that kind of thing,” he looks at you, expression somewhere between pleading with you to change your mind and wanting to make you happy, his eyes full of affection for you. His pout gets more pronounced with each second that passes, clearly conflicted, and you can’t bring yourself to push any further. You know Hobi doesn’t like haunted houses or anything with actors that can jump out at him from the shadows, so it would be cruel of you to force him into something only you would enjoy. You check the time on your phone and work out that you could probably make it back in time for a walk through with Jungkook and Taehyung before you leave for the night, as long as everyone is back to meet up on time. 

“Okay,” you turn to Hobi with a smile. “We won’t go in. I’ll see if JK and Tae will come back with me once we all meet up.” You put your phone back in your bag and look around you with a sigh, not because you’re disappointed but because you’re not sure what else there is around this part of the park. Hobi, however, once again misreads you and decides that if it’s the haunted house you want, it’s the haunted house you’ll get. He grabs hold of your wrist and starts walking towards the entrance, you floundering behind him. 

“Oppa? What are you-?”

“Two please,” he says to the attendant, handing over his money while still keeping a firm hand on you. 

“Hobi, you don’t have to-”

“Yes, I do,” he says as he guides you inside, still holding your wrist but his grasp has loosened slightly now.

“Why?” 

“Because you want to,” he says, your faces barely inches apart when he turns to you. You see his eyes glance down and you subconsciously wet your lips, heart hammering with the sudden proximity. He rapidly blinks a few times before turning towards the door that leads to the entryway part of the house. “You might not have time later, so, it’s not fair for you to miss out. Come on.” With that, he lets go of your arm to open the door and ushers you to follow him with a nod of his head and a smile. 

You’re pretty sure that if you weren’t already falling for your friend, you definitely would be now. His willingness to even step towards the haunted house just to make sure you wouldn’t miss out is enough to set a warmth blooming through your chest so intense it could bring you to tears. You’ve seen Hobi put aside his fears for his loved ones before, especially when it comes to his band members, but you’ve never seen him so determined to do something he knows he’ll still be scared by. 

Of course, Hobi will do anything for his friends, you’ve seen it enough times in the ways he’ll join in with Jungkook’s games so that he can have two players, or the way he’ll help Jin and Yoongi cook in whatever way he can. Even for you, he’ll set aside his work when he can to keep you company, or let you sit in his studio when he can’t ignore his deadlines. Now that you think about it, this is not the first time he’s ever put aside his fears for you. You remember the time you were terrified by a moth that had made its way into the kitchen one night when the two of you were up late, you making the drinks and Hobi by your side making late night snacks for you both. Despite his own fear of bugs and creepy crawlies, he’d ushered the little creature back out through an open window and closed it for you, a proud smile on his face when you thanked him with a hug. 

Multitudes of other similar cases flashed through your mind, including all of the little moments that didn’t require Hobi to put his own comfort on the line for you, whether it was offering you his seat during a crowded movie night or wordlessly putting your favourite foods on your plate for you during a meal. 

You follow him into the darkened room, thankful that he wouldn’t be able to see the tears threatening to fall as you came to the realisation that maybe, just maybe, your feelings weren’t one-sided after all. Your emotions were quickly becoming overwhelming to the point that you felt like you couldn’t breathe, and you were sure your ribs were aching from how hard your heart was beating inside your chest. Closing your eyes and taking a few deep breaths to steady yourself, you calmed yourself down enough to take in your surroundings. 

Now that your eyes had adjusted, you could see the door on the other side of the small passageway that led into the first proper room, a few portraits hanging on the walls on either side. You eyed them carefully, assuming that at least two of them would have either moving eyes or little doors that would allow actors to pop their heads through.

“Watch out for the paintings,” you say to Hobi in warning, taking a few steps ahead of him to lead the way. You feel him follow closely behind you, a hand tentatively on your lower back, fingertips barely brushing over the small part of visible skin between your top and your jeans. You’re determined to protect him as much as you can to thank him for coming with you, so you focus on using all of your prior experience to help him out. You’ve been to haunted houses and a few horror mazes with Jungkook before, Taehyung coming along to some of the more recent ones, too, the three of you united in your love of adrenaline rushes and all things scary. 

Just as you predicted, one portrait on either side bursts open, actors leaning through to scream and yell and make awful noises in your ears. It makes you jump, but poor Hobi screams out behind you and your hand shoots out behind you to grab onto his without thinking. His large hand engulfs yours, the other shooting out to grab onto your shoulder and you try not to laugh at the brief flash of surprise on one of the actor’s faces at the volume of Hobi’s yell. 

You pull him through the next few rooms, struggling with trying not to laugh at how Hobi’s yells are louder than the actors and his refusal to let go of you even when he’s almost stumbling over you to get to the next room. You can’t even find it in you to be mad at how he uses you as a human shield when he panics, hiding behind your shoulders when the actors jump out of hidden doors or run out from behind a curtain. You barely even register the decor and props around the house, only having enough time to take in the dining table covered in cobwebs and the kitchen sink filled with lumpy fake blood before Hobi is pushing you forward, desperate to get to the other end as quickly as he can despite the rushed apologies he keeps muttering into your hair. 

It’s only when you get to the final corridor that you realise how quickly you’ve gone through the house, half-running the whole way round thanks to Hobi, but you’re not even disappointed in the slightest. The experience of doing a haunted house with Hobi at your side is one you’ll not only never get again, but it’s made all the more special by knowing he would never willingly do this for anyone other than you. You’re sure of it. 

“Oh my god, y/n, I’m so sorry,” Hobi’s holding your hand so tightly you fear it may turn purple but you can’t stop laughing at his desperate slew of apologies. 

“Hobi-oppa, it’s okay!” you manage between wheezing breaths, barely able to stand up straight as you lean on your knee with your free hand. “Are you alright?”

Hobi’s pushing his hair back from his face when you look over to him, his skin pale with a sheen of sweat on his forehead that catches in the light. His grip on your hand is still tight but it’s as if he doesn’t realise he’s still holding onto you, deep breaths pushing at his chest as he tries to steady himself. 

You straighten up and move closer to him, placing your hand on his chest and feeling his hammering heart beneath your palm.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” you tell him, finally gaining his attention so that he looks down at you. “I appreciate it, really I do,” you continue, smiling gently as you push some of his hair away from where it’s close to falling in his eyes. “But I could have waited. I wouldn’t have even minded if I hadn’t gotten to go in.” 

“Don’t tell me that now!” he whines dramatically and you laugh, squeezing his hand where he still holds you by his side. 

“I’m sorry,” you grin, bringing your free hand back down to his chest. “I still enjoyed it, although I’m more worried about you.” You eye him curiously as you ask your next question. “Why did you do that?”

Hobi’s gaze is steady as he looks down at you, breath finally levelling out. There’s no smile this time, just pure, unadulterated sincerity as he says, “because you wanted to.” 

You don’t even hesitate to lean up and press your lips against his, clutching the material of his shirt to pull him closer. His lips are soft and warm against yours and your mind is reeling with the realisation that you’re finally kissing him, here in the middle of a fair, both of you still high on adrenaline.

After the initial second passes and you don’t feel him kiss you back, you feel panic rising in your throat and you go to pull away, but a strong hand appears on the back of your neck and holds you close. You feel him kiss you back, a firm pressure on your lips, and a small whimper escapes your throat in relief, joy and lust for the man holding you. Feeling his fingers gently grip your hair threatens to buckle your knees and you feel him chuckle against your lips, the two of you finally pulling back to look at each other. 

The widest grin lights up Hobi’s features as he takes in your blushing face before leaning his forehead against yours. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to do that,” he confesses quietly, only loud enough for you to hear amongst the hubbub of the fair around you. 

“Really?” your voice is no more than a breathless whisper, a torrent of emotions flooding your body.

“Really,” he confirms, leaning back and bringing his hand from your hair back to your cheek. “The guys have been telling me to hurry up and make my move. I think they were getting sick of me pining over you,” he laughs, though the blush on his cheeks gives away his sudden bashfulness. “That’s why they made sure I was the last one so you’d pair up with me.”

“I thought they did that because Jungkook told them about me liking you!” you exclaim, your hand leaving Hobi’s shirt to point at yourself, your shock evident on your face. Several emotions flutter across Hobi’s features and you’re sure he wants to know more about you liking him, but right now he seems as content as you are to enjoy this moment of finally being honest with each other. 

“Well, all that matters now is that we know,” he says with a smile, brushing your hair back and tucking it behind your ear before tracing your jaw with his fingertips. 

“We do,” you confirm, returning your hand to his chest before pushing it up and over his shoulder, running your fingers through his dark hair at the nape of his neck. He leans in this time, taking your bottom lip gently between his own as his hand curls round the back of your neck, finally letting go of your hand only to hold you by the small of your back and pull your body close to his. Your now-free hand goes to his waist, bunching the material of his shirt between your fingers.

“Damn,” he breathes out as he pulls away. “This is even better than I imagined,” he grins, making you giggle and hide your face against his neck as you blush. “Does this mean I can give you this now?” he asks, keeping his hand on your back as he reaches into his back pocket and you look up, your curiosity piqued. He pulls out a small, folded paper bag with white and blue stripes, holding it out for you to take. You unfold it and tip out its contents to see the same silver bracelet you had been looking at earlier, its black and purple gems catching the lights around you. 

You look up at him in surprise, your questions clear in your eyes but not able to make it past your lips. “How did you-?”

“I saw you looking at it earlier, and then you said about wanting your boyfriend to get you something you’d actually like, so I went back when I threw that drink away,” he tries to appear nonchalant as he shrugs, but he pulls at his ear nervously and you smile, catching his choice of words.

“So, you’re my boyfriend now?” 

“Uh, I mean, I-” he’s flustered and you can’t help but laugh, wrapping your arms around his waist. “D-do you want me to be?” He looks down at you cautiously, hopeful but hesitant, and you nod.

“I do.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, considering I just kissed you twice in the middle of the fair, I’m not sure what more confirmation I can give you, Hobi.” He rolls his eyes playfully before wrapping both arms tightly around your waist and pressing numerous pecks to your face, from your nose to your cheeks to your forehead and finally your lips, although the last one is much more gentle and he takes his time with it. 

Parting for the third time, he rubs his nose against yours, a wide smile on his lips and yours. You’re not sure how long the two of you stand there wrapped up in each other, but you finally bring yourself to pull away from him. 

“Put it on me?” you ask, holding out the bracelet, and he carefully clasps the jewellery around your wrist, running his thumb tenderly over the chain. “I think we have to head back now,” he says, though you can hear the reluctance in his voice.

“Do we really have to?” you ask, pressing a gentle kiss to his neck and you feel him inhale sharply. “Can’t we just… not? Head home just the two of us?” Hobi’s chest rumbles as he laughs but his arms tighten on your waist, holding you close for a few more seconds before letting you go. He takes your hand in his, though, and gently intertwines your fingers as he starts walking you back to the spot you’d departed from just half an hour earlier. 

Half an hour, you think, that’s all it took for everything to change. 

Thank God for haunted houses. 

[ancientechos]

Lucubration

FFXIVwrite2020 | Masterlist

Ship: Emet-Selch x Arianna Rowen [WoL]

Expac/Verse: eldritch au (modern au)

Words: 1931 words

The old bookstore catches her eye as she’s on the way home. Mostly because of the...seeming abruptness of its appearance.

Arianna loves bookstores; the smell of them, the thrill of peering down the aisles to see rows upon rows of old, beloved, strange books, some with not a single other copy available. She would like to think she knows of every single store in her city...

But she’s never seen this one before.

Looking through the frosted glass, the store within has dark furniture but is well-lit. When she turns the old, rusted-looking handle, the store appears even more worn than she would have ever expected it to be. Dusty book covers, cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling...it’s as if this place had been here for years. Why, then, had she never stumbled upon it before?

The consternation is abandoned in favour of looking around the store. She gives a vague, flighty smile toward the shopkeep at the back -- an elderly, no-nonsense looking gentleman with graying hair and a severe glare through his glasses -- and peruses one of the shelves.

The atmosphere of the shop is dark, but that merely lends the place a homely quality. Arianna can see every spine, every imperfection, every stray dust mote that drifts through the air. That question stirs again at the back of her mind, but she quells it as she looks through the books.

Strangely, none of them seem to garner enough interest to make her want to buy them. Which, she can’t help but think, is a shame. She had so hoped there would be something here to capture her attention...

“Miss?”

A voice calls out to her just as she approaches the door to leave. The hair at the back of her neck stands on end as her fingers tighten on the handle, her face paling even as she turns around. She wants dearly to leave, and yet --

“I have something that might interest you! We just got it in yesterday, actually. A very unusual book.”

The logistics of how he might know any such book he has would interest her are, for the moment at least, thrust aside. Turning, she can see he has some sort of enormous tome on the counter. Her interest is, unfortunately or not, piqued.

She approaches the back of the store, looking down at the large book the shopkeep displays to her. It’s clearly weathered and old, having undoubtedly seen better days. Its pages are dark, its cover darker still. There is neither a name nor an author on its front or its side, and it is a tad too heavy to turn over for simple, casual use.

Spying a small notepad with a pencil on the counter next to the phone, Arianna quickly writes something for the man.

What is this?

“A very special sort of book,” he replies cryptically without missing a beat. He seems utterly unbothered by her odd manner of speech. “You look like the sort of person who could use a little bit of spontaneity in her life.” The smile he gives her is open and beguiling.

Her green eyes narrow somewhat.

What do you mean?

She’s not sure if she’s meant to be touched by his supposed “concern”, or offended.

He gives a mild chuckle, tapping the cover of the book with a long-nailed finger. “It’s just an unusual book, miss. Nothing else quite like it. The author’s unknown, it doesn’t even have a title. I’ve got some of my best investigators on the trail, and no dice. All we know about it is it was found among the possessions of some old house that ended up getting reclaimed. That’s why it was pawned off here, presumably.” His other hand swipes at the polished counter, removing nonexistent dust.

She supposes there is some appeal in owning a book no one else has. But...one of her brows quirk slightly as she looks down at the enormous book.

How much is it?

“Oh, for you?” The man’s grin is wide as he names his price. “And if you don’t like it, you can even return it for your money back. So long as you give it back within seven days, at least.”

That is -- far cheaper than she expected for such a supposedly bizarre book...

The man sighs as she walks out of the store, the tome in a box within the large paper bag she strenuously carries with her. He’d been right that she’s not necessarily an impulsive sort of person.

She is also, he suspects, the sort of person not too many would miss.

________ 

Arianna brushes her dark, curly hair back over her ear as she looks down at the box on her counter. She’d placed it here after coming home, left it while she unpacked her other shopping.

It truly is a heavy thing. She’d almost thought she’d have to go through the horror of having to call someone for help to get everything home.

But for now, all settled, she waits for her water to finish boiling so she might get to reading. She already feels that nervous, excited energy that comes whenever she’s about to crack open a new book, her fingers already itching to peel back the cover and unveil the secrets inside.

Not yet, not yet. She needs to control herself.

She exhales slowly.

Oh, that’s right! She can prepare everything else while she waits for the water.

The little table near the window seat groans with effort when she manages to heave the book atop it. She’s almost worried the legs might simply break entirely -- that’s how large and heavy that thing is. All the more to read...she hopes.

Fluffing the pillows and throwing a thin blanket on the seat, she draws the curtains just as the rain clouds begin to roll into view and darken the twilight sky ever further. She doesn’t mind the rain; it might make everything seem even more atmospheric.

Just as the water kettle finishes, she flicks on the small table lamp, before gliding into the kitchen to prepare her tea. The comforting scent of lavender and chamomile washes over her; Arianna cannot help but smile softly as she brings her brew to her favourite seat and arranges herself upon it.

Tucking her legs beneath her long skirt, she pulls the blanket around her and settles herself nicely against the pillows. Then she finally does what she’s been aching to do ever since getting home: she opens the book.

________ 

It’s sort of like a mythology book, though unlike any she’s heard of or knows about. The old, cracked pages are full of drawings of strange, unusual creatures, some more terrifying than others. The text is small and, in some places, almost  barely legible from neglect and wear. And even then, the margins are chock full of scribbled notes, tiny doodles, and explanations.

Almost as if whoever had written and drawn them thinks that this is all real.

Even she, for all her fanciful dreaming, knows very well such things don’t exist. Even if the thought would be nice.

Well, for some of them, at least.

Though that is precisely why she enjoys reading so much, to pretend. Maybe these scribbles are to make the book seem more authentic? Just something to make the book more exciting? Had it been artificially aged...?

Between sips of tea, she flips through the pages, her gaze curiously roving the words and (occasionally grotesque) pictures within. That’s when her eyes alight on a curious name...

Hades. Shepherd and devourer of souls.

Arianna has always enjoyed the concept of souls, so with a mild shifting in her seat, she begins to read more carefully. Some sort of ancient fiend with a taste for consuming the life force of mortals, and even other ancient beings...

Her lamp flickers. One dark brow quirks in confusion. She had just changed the light bulb the other day, hadn’t she? So there should be no reason...

Perhaps just an odd glitch of the lamp, or something. She doesn’t really know a lot about lamps, but she guesses that’s possible --

With one final sip of her tea, she lets the cup clink satisfyingly against the table as she continues her perusal of the book. It’s then that something brushes against her cheek, light, like a strand of hair. Or a cobweb...?

This is enough to make her jump slightly, as she brushes self-consciously at her face. Her lips twists indecisively. Curiously, she looks up -- just her dark ceiling.

Despite herself, she’s beginning to feel slightly uneasy. Perhaps the contents of the book are getting to her. She feels uncomfortably as if she’s being watched, though...of course that’s not possible. She’s drawn the curtains, locked the door and windows...there’s no one here.

She suddenly wishes her cup wasn’t empty.

Fidgeting her fingers, she continues to read as if nothing is amiss. It’s just her nerves. Nothing more. If she had another book with her...

But surely nothing wrong could happen from just finishing this one page.

That is everyone’s famous last words, isn’t it?

Because now she’s absolutely certain she hears a voice. She cannot make heads or tails of what it’s saying, or even whether it’s male or female...

But it is certainly a voice and and strangely, almost hauntingly silky in tone.

Regardless of the origin, it has Arianna leaping from her seat, tossing the blanket aside unceremoniously as she flicks the rest of the lights on. Heart nervously fluttering in her chest, she makes a desperate round of her entire apartment.

The voice is gone, and...there is no one there.

Her...imagination...?

Yes, it must be. There is no other explanation. With a nervous, shaky exhale, she settles back at her spot in the window seat and forces herself to relax. She has always thought too much; perhaps this is why this strange old book is so...unknown. Because it makes one think too much about...odd things.

She closes the tome.

And suddenly she feels very, inexplicably exhausted. Sighing, she reclines, tilting her head to rest against the window behind her --

And sees a red mask gleaming down at her, most definitely not a part of her curtains.

There’s a moment where she blinks, and the mass against her window blinks back.

Arianna nearly chokes on air as she shoots from the chair, stumbling backwards as she turns to look fearfully upon whatever it was was behind her. And -- it’s -- enormous. Black masses with innumerable faces, and gleaming white hands with gold claws --

She has not the slightest idea where to look, nor what she is even looking at. Dimly at the back of her mind, she has some vague realisation that she’s seen something similar before...in that book.

Hand at her throat, she backs into the kitchen counter behind her and fumbles for the fruit stand, discarding its cargo to brandish it in front of her. Is she...hallucinating -- ?

Though she sees no mouth, the voice from earlier returns -- but far louder, and this time most certainly masculine. But just like before, this voice is entirely incomprehensible. In fact, it hurts her ears a little to listen to it --

Her heart thundering in her chest, one of her hands lets go of her makeshift weapon to press against her temple in a grimace. The voice stops, followed by what is unmistakably a sigh.

“You didn’t understand an inkling of that, did you...?”

[womenintranslation]

From WWB:

Editor’s Note:

We're celebrating the Nobel Prize in Literature of longtime WWB contributor Olga Tokarczuk, who first appeared in our pages in 2005 with an excerpt from her wrenching tale of wartime survival, Final Stories, translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones. She then returned in 2008 with this short story, "The Knight," translated by Jennifer Croft. Tokarczuk's explorations of relationships under pressure, whether political or internal, combine a keen sense of character with a sure hand at narrative to capture the essence of humanity. As a couple's alienation plays out over a chessboard, Tokarczuk's deft portrayal of feints and attacks maps a marriage at stalemate. We hope you enjoy "The Knight," available only on WWB.

—Susan Harris, Editorial Director

A WWB Exclusive:

The Knight

Fiction by Olga Tokarczuk

Translated from Polish by Jennifer Croft

At first she tried struggling with the locks, but they were obviously not in sync, because when she managed to turn the key in one of them, the other stayed locked—and vice versa. The wind came in gusts off the sea, winding her wool scarf around her face. Finally he set down both bags in the driveway and snatched the keys out of her hand. He managed to get the door open immediately.

The cottage they had always rented was right on the sea, among holiday cabins that all looked alike, that were bustling and noisy in the summers, open to let the air through, surrounded by parasols and plastic chairs, and little tables with radios and newspapers—now they were all boarded up, tight as a drum, sunk deep into a winter coma. This one was a little more opulent, though—it had a fireplace and a large deck that looked out over the beach. The deck was covered with sand, so as soon as they got inside she took up a broom and began to sweep it away.

"Why are you doing that?" he said. "It's not like we're going to be sitting out on the deck at this time of year."

He unloaded the food from one of the bags and put it in the refrigerator. Then he turned on the TV. She protested.

"No, please, no television."

She wanted to say something else, too, but she restrained herself.

There was a dog with them, a fox terrier—lively, restless, and unruly. As he was making a fire in the hearth, the dog dragged several pieces of wood out of the basket, tossed them into the air and caught them as they fell.

He yelled at her.

"She's cold. She's just doing it to warm up," she said.

"Yeah, sure, and I get to clean it up."

"She's just a dog."

"She gets on my nerves, 'just a dog' or not, I mean she never quits. She's hyperactive. Maybe we ought to slip a little something into her food. Bromine, Luminal, something along those lines?"

"She didn't used to get on your nerves."

"Well, she does now."

She carried her bag upstairs, to the small, icy bedroom. She sat down on the bed, which was covered with a blanket. Renata, "that dog," bounded after her and leaped up on to the blanket. She looked into the dog's gleaming brown eyes. She felt a lump come to her throat, and a sudden pain, all over her body—a momentary, piercing pain.

Something was happening with time, she thought, something not good. It was coming unglued, peeling apart. Two great tectonic plates of time were falling away from each other with a bleak rumble, casting a chasm between "then" and "now" for the next several million years. "Now" was silent, with jagged edges—deep sleep at night, and remnants of anger on waking, as if a war were being waged in that sleep. "Then" seemed constant and rhythmic from this vantage point, the light sound of a ping-pong ball striking a smooth table, a cloth of moments in which each thread was part of a larger pattern.

She realized that the easiest way to begin a conversation was with "Remember when . . . " because there was something mechanical in this, like the movement of a hand soothing a baby, like turning on a radio station that plays only soothing music—all those sounds of songbirds, waterfalls, whales. "Remember when" took them back to one place, together. It was always an emotional moment, like when you ask someone to dance, and they answer with a gleam in their eye. Yes, let's dance. It was clear they were telling each other long-established versions of the past, a very familiar narrative, already recalled many times before, absolutely safe. The past is established. It can't be changed. The past is a mantra learned by heart, the foundations of memory that are tiled over with funny little stories of recollection. Like the one about how he used to shell nuts for her and set them out on leaves in the garden. Or when they both bought the same pair of white jeans—that was a long time ago, now they would be two or three sizes too small. Or her red hair, that layered cut that was fashionable then. Or when he used to have to run after his train when he was parting from her. The farther back you went the more stories there were—evidently with time they'd lost the ability to mythologize the little things in life, sentencing reality to the commonplace and the trivial.

Once the fire was burning, they started making dinner, like a well-synchronized duet, she dicing the garlic, he washing lettuce and making dressing. She set the table, he opened a bottle of wine—it was like a dance, a perfect dance in which your partner's movements are so familiar that you cease to notice them, and then your partner disappears, and you're left to dance with yourself.

Then Renata slept by the hearth, the orange glow of the fire drifting over her frizzy coat. The expanse of the evening ahead suddenly seemed unbearable, heavy as a filling meal just before bed. His gaze wandered involuntarily to the TV, and she had a sudden urge to take a long bath, but since this was a special night, their first, they still had untapped reserves of good well. But he was careless.

"Shall I open another bottle?" he asked, but he realized immediately that more wine could ruin the order of things that had gradually been falling into place, that after drinking more wine there would be the familiar sense of discouragement, the feeling of being weighed down, the oppressive atmosphere, the senselessness of human speech, the desire to escape. The need for a conversation that would stop making sense after a few sentences, since they would have to then define all the words they had used over again. As if even their languages diverged.

"I think I'm OK for now," she answered in an artificially cheery tone.

So he took out the chessboard. He felt relieved to find it, among some old books standing on a shelf by the TV. Chess, too, belonged to their collection of "Remember when"s.

They always played in silence, in cold blood, unhurriedly, making the games last several days. He took black—he always took black—and she lit a cigarette. He felt a needle-sharp pang of anger: he hated it when she smoked indoors. He said nothing. There was nothing wrong.

Opening; the first game out of habit, automatic, both of them knowing what every next move would be. It occurred to her that she knew how he thought, and this shocked her. She felt faintly nauseous—the wine had been very dry, bitter. She let him win, and he knew she had let him win. He yawned.

"Let's play again," she said, arranging the pawns. "But this time we have to really try, really focus. Remember the time we played for a week?"

"That first Christmas, at your parents'. We couldn't leave because of all that snow that'd fallen, everything was just covered in it."

She remembered the smell of the cold room where her mother kept all the things she baked every holiday, covered in dishtowels.

They made two moves, and the game stopped. It was his move, so she went out onto the deck to smoke. Through the glass he could see her petite shoulders, draped in a wool scarf. He hadn't made his move by the time she came back.

"Shall we give it a rest for today?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Are you ready for bed?"

He felt again all the artificiality of this question, as if it really mattered to her that she didn't sound indifferent.

"I'm just going to check the forecast, and then I'll make the bed."

He turned on the TV, and things became more ordinary, somehow. The tension between them diminished when each of them went about their own lives. He opened another can of beer. He flipped through the channels, and he was gone.

She went to wash up.

The electric heater warmed up the little bathroom quickly. She set a few toiletries on the shelf below the mirror. She leaned toward the shaving mirror and examined the faint red veins on her cheeks. Then she made a thorough inspection of the skin on her neck and chest. Looking herself in the eye, she removed her makeup with a cotton pad. Only once she had undressed did she remember that there was no bathtub here, the bathtub was back in town, here there was just that unpleasant shower separated from the rest of the bathroom by a plastic shell-print curtain. She felt like crying, and she was furious with herself when she realized she was clearly overreacting, that you simply do not cry for lack of a bathtub.

When she crept into the bedroom, she saw that the bed had not been made, and that the linens were lying on the chair, neatly folded, cold and slick. There was a hum from the TV downstairs. Her rage gathering strength like an avalanche, she began to make the bed, struggling with the corners of the sheets, her physical exertion matching her anger—it was like they were singing a round. It seemed to her that this anger was a general one, an aimless fury, but then, out of the blue and to her great surprise, all at once it became a blade—like in a cartoon—pointed downstairs toward the sofa where there was a man sitting with a can of beer, and like a swarm of enraged bees it plummeted down the wooden steps and into the living room. She stood at the doorway and saw the man's head—he was sitting in profile—and for a moment she thought that materialized malice would pierce him through at the temple, at full speed, and the man would just stop moving and then slump slackly against the back of his chair. Dead.

"Hey, could you give me a hand?" she shouted from upstairs.

"Coming," he said and stood reluctantly, still gazing at the TV screen.

By the time he made it upstairs, she'd already calmed down. She took a deep breath.

"Aren't you going to wash up?" she asked calmly.

"I took a bath before we left," he said.

She lay on her back between the unpleasant, cold sheets, which felt damp. He went to turn out the lights. She heard him shut the door to the deck and put a trash bag in the bin. Then he got undressed and lay down on his side of the bed. They stayed like that for a while, next to each other, but then she drew closer to him and laid her head on his chest. He ran his hand along her bare arm with paternal tenderness, but by the next time he touched her, that tenderness had completely vanished—it was just touching, nothing more. He rolled over onto his stomach, and she put her hand on his back as if to restrain him. They'd been falling asleep that way for years. Whimpering, Renata settled at their feet.

He got up first, to let the dog out. A gust of icy wind tore into the small living room. He watched the dog run off toward the sea, chase away two seagulls, relieve herself, and return. Gusts of wind were surging in from the sea. He put the water on for coffee and waited for it to boil. He cast a glance at the open chessboard and checked to see if there were still any live embers in the hearth, but the fire had gone out completely. He poured the coffee, added milk and sugar—for her. He went back upstairs with the mugs and slipped back in between the warm sheets. He sat up as he drank, leaning against the headboard.

"I had a dream about a plane full of napoleon cakes," she said, her voice hoarse from sleep. "There was already snow on the ground, but it was sort of pink."

He didn't know how to respond. He rarely had dreams, and when he did, it was never anything he could describe. He could never find the right words.

After breakfast he took out his camera and wiped off both lenses—they were supposed to be going for a walk.

They put on all the warm things they had with them—fleeces, boots, scarves, and gloves. They headed down along the beach, toward the dunes, to the point where the wooden cottages disappeared, and there began the kingdom of grasses quivering in the wind. He crouched down and took a picture of a heap of driftwood tossed up by the sea—it looked like the bones of an animal. Then he looked through the lens, turning around and around. She left him behind and walked right along the edge of the sea, her footprints leaving slight indentations in the sand that were instantly destroyed by the water. Renata kept bringing her sticks and nudging her legs with them, but whenever she reached for one, Renata would growl and refuse to give it up.

"How am I supposed to throw it for you if you won't let go, you stupid dog?" she said.

Renata gave up the stick she'd plundered—it soared high and came right back to its spot between her teeth.

The woman realized she was under observation, that the round eye of the lens was trained on her. Briefly she saw herself as the man saw her—a small, dark figure against a background of shades of white and gray, an angular shape with clear contours. He'd caught her red-handed. Had she done something wrong? He was hiding his face behind the camera and aiming at her—like he was holding a gun. She should have been used to it by now—he had always taken pictures of her, but again she felt that same infuriation that had taken hold of her the day before, over the bed. She turned away. He caught up with her, and they walked on in silence. The wind absolved them of this silence, breached their lips and forced them to squint. The longer they were silent the less there was to say, and the more relief there was in that silence. His thoughts wandered off to the left somewhere, toward the sea, flew above the hulls of the fishing boats, and alighted on islands, in foreign countries, wherever. Hers went home again, into drawers and inside handbags, cast a glance at the calendar, and figured up bills. It wasn't a painful silence. It was nice to have someone to be silent with. With a kind of elation she thought, "This sort of silence is an art," and she repeated this sentence to herself several times. She liked it.

"Look," he said to her, pointing out a dark cloud that was racing along the land so low that the tips of the pine trees nearly snared it. He suddenly felt the urge to take this picture, this cloud and woman, both sullen, both swollen with a thunder that would never sound, lightning bolts that would never strike.

"Stay there," he shouted, stepping back to the waterline and looking through the lens from too close.

All he could see was the woman's face, distorted by the wind, a wrinkle down her forehead, lips livid from the cold. The wind fixed her hair to her face; she made maladroit stabs at brushing it aside, at doing something with her face, but it was all in vain. The shutter clicked. She turned away displeased.

"Wait a minute," he said. "Everything looks great now." He stepped a little farther back, until the water was squishing in his boots.

She was infuriated with herself for trying to pose, for caring whether or not it turned out well. With a camera held to his face he gained a kind of unjust advantage over her, and it seemed to her that he was sizing her up, evaluating her, reducing and objectifying. She'd never really liked him taking pictures of her—she was defenseless against that glass eye he donned like a mask; she sometimes got the impression he could see right through her, that he was promising her something along the lines of eternity, that he was immortalizing her, but that for all that he was sapping her strength. She surrendered more and more to him. She was always astonished by those women who worked as models, by all those young girls who would pout as he photographed them, throw back their heads, fully aware that they were putting something up for sale, not that they were someone, but that they had something to sell, like eager little saleswomen. Just merchandise. No wonder he slept with them. Did he know how much power he had thanks to that camera? His face was full of life then, but only then. She saw him again in her mind's eye, with a beer, in front of the TV—and then his face was a blank, as if there were simply nothing there.

"Don't take pictures of me," she said, dourly. Without a word he redirected the camera at Renata and ran after her for a while; the dog kept slipping out of the frame, zigzagging, trying to throw him off the scent.

He felt wounded. Sometimes she could utter the most neutral words, and it would feel like she had just punched him in the face. How did she do it? He felt like a little boy around her, like a child. He never knew when she was going to hurt him. He has mastered only one effective counterattack: hiding his king behind the other pawns, and when it came to her, that incalculable woman, he would simply ignore her, sidestep her, actively not notice her, not respond, not look, disregard, evade, keep her at a distance like in a photograph, and in so doing keep her in check—an angular figure against a background of shades of gray. There would follow, then, an incomprehensible turnaround on her side—she would fall into his arms, shrink and become a lonely, helpless little girl with graying hair, she would weaken, subside, surrender. She would grovel, just like Renata.

He ran after the dog. Renata had found a good-sized stick, clenched it in her teeth, and was now begging. He seized one end of the stick and lifted up the dog, who was hanging onto it. Renata knew this game. This was the lockjaw game. The resistance game. He began to spin around and around with the dog hanging from the stick, flying at waist-level. Then he heard a shout and saw her running toward him. He slowed down, and Renata landed safely in the sand. The woman ran up to him, her face distorted by rage.

"What do you think you're doing? Are you insane? You're going to hurt her! Do you just have no idea? Why are you so stupid, stupid?" she shouted. "Have you just completely lost it, you fucking asshole?"

He was thunderstruck. He thought she was going to hit him. Renata—stick still in her mouth—was swaying slightly.

"Fuck off, you crazy bitch," he said quietly and started walking home.

He felt like crying. A sort of outraged sob was welling up in his insides like something you had to cough up. He'd go home, he thought, pack up and take off. Or not pack up, just leave everything there. He'd take the car and take off. Go back to town. That was it, it was over. She could manage just find without him. She was still young, let her find somebody else, let her do whatever she wanted. He thought how he had tried his best, and this he found moving. He had tried his best.

When she got home, he was sitting in front of the TV drinking beer. She took off her coat and put the water on.

"Tea?" she asked.

"No," he muttered.

"I'm sorry," she said and suddenly felt very weak as if she were walking in the sand, as if she were getting bogged down, feet sinking. Never, never did he apologize to her first. She lit a cigarette.

"Could you not smoke in here?" he said.

She went out onto the deck. The kettle whistled; she didn't hear it. He got up and turned off the stove. There was a program on TV about farming. Renata kept dragging the tinder out of the basket, tossing it up and catching it in the air.

"What do you think, how's it going to end?" she asked and sat down in the armchair next to his.

"What's going to end?"

"All this, us."

He shrugged. He looked up at her, but he couldn't bear the sight of her insistent, searching eyes.

"I'll get a fire started," he said.

He crumpled some newspaper and set it in a pile, and then he laid down some twigs. She handed him the matches. He could sense that she wanted to tell him something, but he didn't make a sound. He wanted her to say something, but at the same time he was afraid that her words would slip out of control again. He knew how to penalize her, and he did—he went upstairs and lay down on the unmade bed, trying to read some old magazine. He was relieved to find an article on computers, but he didn't understand very much of it. Then he noticed an ad for a vacation in Turkey, which reminded him of their last trip together, to Greece—everything blurred, overexposed, like pictures that hadn't turned out. Her tanned, almost naked body. Making love in the hotel room—their last time. The shock of his own embarrassment. He realized he couldn't remember her any other way, and that this vacation several months ago was his earliest memory of her. That in the repeated "Remember when"s the people he saw were complete strangers. He fell asleep in astonishment.

When he woke up, she was gone. The dog was gone, too, so he thought she must have taken her to the dunes. Still, he checked to see if the car was still there. It was. He turned on the TV and half listened to the news. It was getting dark out. He made himself some scrambled eggs and ate them straight from the pan in front of the TV. Then he opened a beer and listened to the messages on his cell phone. Nothing interesting. He saw her come in, face flushed from the wind. Renata rushed at him in greeting, as if it had been years since they'd seen each other. The woman looked at the empty pan.

"You've already eaten?" she asked with some dismay. "You ate?"

He realized he ought to have waited for her.

"Just a snack," he said. "We could go to the Chinese place in town."

"I'm not hungry," she said and hung up her jacket.

Then why are you asking, he thought furiously. He knew why. So that she would have a reason to get upset. "Temper tantrum next. Don't eat anything if you don't want to. I don't give a shit," he told her in his head. He took pleasure in this kind of imagined conversation. He changed the channel, but the next one was fuzzy, so he tried to find something else, but there were only two. There was no escape.

She came back from the bathroom after a little while, hair combed, makeup probably retouched. He could smell fresh cigarette smoke on her—she had obviously been smoking in the bathroom like a schoolgirl.

"Shall we finish the game?" she asked.

He agreed. Seeing the perfect symmetry of the chessboard was soothing. The joy of the existence of rules. The sweet possibility of thinking over every move. The predictability of surprises. The feeling of control like a gentle, cerebral caress. He was adding wood to the fire when she said, "Hey, the white knight's gone."

They leaned under the table, pushed back the chairs, and searched the cracks between the cushions. He peered into the basket of wood.

"Renata. She must have run off with it," she said. "Look in her bed."

She shook out the dog's blanket—several pieces of kindling and the plastic stopper from the sink fell out, but there was no chess piece.

"Maybe she took it out into the hall?" he asked hopefully.

They started a systematic search. He went through the trash; she went out onto the deck. They pushed back the table.

"Was it still there when you went out?"

She couldn't remember.

"What did you do with the knight, you stupid dog?" she said, leaning over her.

"She probably chewed it up," he said.

He poured two glasses of beer. They sat down at the useless chessboard. Then he came up with the idea of using a small piece of wood as a playing piece—he broke off a piece and laid it on the vacant black square. She hesitated.

"I'm not playing with kindling," she said.

"Then I'll take white."

"But we'll have to start all over gain. Won't we?"

"No," he said. "I don't want to play anymore."

She thought it would be best if they got up right now, got their things together, and went home, but she didn't have the courage to say so. It also occurred to her that he was the one who had taken the chesspiece. Or that he had somehow knocked it off. She didn't say anything—she just slumped back into the couch cushions.

She knew he would go away now, abandon her—be absorbed by the TV or go upstairs and sleep again, or start to fiddle with his camera (thank God it was too dark now to take pictures) or start to read, or call people, or send them all text messages—and she knew that this was inevitable. She wanted to cuddle up to his blue-checked shirt, but she didn't have the strength to get off the couch. His hands were busy putting the chesspieces back into the box. Fine dark hairs.

He glanced at her.

"Why are you crying?" he said. "Over chess, over that knight?"

He sat down next to her and put one arm around her. The other arm hesitated for a moment, staying in the end where it was, on the armrest of the sofa.

"It's better to be left than to leave someone," she said suddenly. "Being left gives you strength."

"I'd say the opposite," he said.

"You don't understand."

"I never understand anything."

He got up and went into the kitchen. He asked about wine—shouldn't they have a little drop? She said yes.

She had everything she'd say now already in her head. Sentence by sentence, and the justification for every sentence. And notes on every sentence. He would have to respond somehow. It would be impossible to sink back into silence. When he came back he handed her a glass and sat down on the sofa. He must have known what she was thinking. That they would talk, and it would end, as usual, in a fight. Then Renata, that providential dog, began to whine at the door. He got up to let her out.

"Go on, you stupid dog," he said. "What did you do with the knight?"

Renata leaped out into the darkness with a yelp. A sharp gust of wind blew a thin trail of sand through the open door. He heard the voice of the television behind his back and felt relieved. So she'd turned on the TV.

"It's too bad we don't have the guide. There might be a movie," he said.

She refilled their glasses, although they weren't empty yet. She was suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion.

She stretched her legs out just like him and propped her feet on the low coffee table. There they sat, side by side, sipping wine until the movie ended, an amusing old mystery about an older lady who killed off her enemies with arsenic. She was reeling a little as she went up the stairs.

"I'll be there in a second," he said, but she knew he wouldn't be. He would sit there, as he often did, until morning. Plunged into the ghostly light of the screen, absent, glued to those flashing pictures like a cat—he always turned off the sound. She knew what would happen, and it was good to know. Soothing. Perfect, fully rounded certainty. A smooth glass ball in her palm. She sank heavily into sleep.

He lay down on top of her as if on grass, with his whole body, his whole weight. There was her familiar smell, her special softness. She sighed. His body responded by habit, with desire. She embraced him, as if she were holding on to him. She said something, but he couldn't understand her. He slid a hand across her hips.

"I can't breathe," she whispered.

He hesitated. He stopped. He realized that underneath him was not a woman, not a wife, not a woman's body, but a person, that he wasn't lying on top of a woman, but on top of another human being, another someone, specific, individual, inviolable. Someone with clearly defined boundaries but who beyond these was fragile and prone to ruin, delicate as watercress, like the thinnest wafer. Her sex had vanished—it had ceased to be important to him that she was a woman and his wife—she was like a brother, a comrade in suffering, a companion in pain, a neighbor facing the same looming, unidentified threat. A stranger who was at the same time extremely close to him. Someone who is nearby, who stands there and looks across the fence, someone you wave to on your way home.

This discovery was so unexpected that he felt ashamed. The sense of desire that had welled up within him now ebbed away. He rolled off her and lay down beside her. He drew her towards him, by the arm, and pulled the blanket over her. She was crying. She said something about the knight, about the knight having been lost. It occurred to him that she'd had too much to drink.

Her head was hurting. She got up quietly and went downstairs to let Renata out. He was curled up asleep, cocooned in the blanket, far from her, at the very edge of the bed. She took a handful of vitamins and aspirin. She felt worn out, wrung out. First she spent a long time brushing her teeth; her hair was mussed up from the night before and sticking out all over the place. Eyes swollen. Had she been crying? Yes. Overreacting. She gave the skin on her stomach a hard pinch. This pain was a relief, it opened the floodgates of a mollifying self-hatred. As a child she'd heard that you could catch cancer from pinching. Some adult had told her that, she didn't remember who, when boys were pinching girls' breasts.

When she came down, he was sitting on the sofa, in just a shirt and no pants, reading the paper. He'd made her coffee.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," he said back.

"What are we going to do today?"

"Is there anything we have to do?"

"We'll have to get our stuff together this afternoon."

He turned the page.

"How do you feel?"

"Fine," he said.

After a pause he added, "You?"

She didn't feel like talking anymore. She started to leaf through a magazine. Suddenly the clouds parted, and a whole sea of blinding light flooded the room. She took a cigarette and went out onto the deck, although the very idea of smoking made her feel sick. She forced herself. She saw Renata at a distance. The crazy dog was throwing herself into the water, trying to bite the waves. Stupid animal, she thought. She was shivering with cold.

He went upstairs to put on his pants. He would have been very happy to start packing now. He had so many urgent things to do. He felt reinvigorated. As he passed the bed he saw her pajamas with the teddy bear on the front and for an instant, an instant finer than the layer of November ice on a puddle, he found the same tenderness in himself that he had felt sleeping with her nightshirt while she'd been away. This tenderness, like the desire he'd felt that night, was a habit. He shook his head. After all, she had cheated on him. Anger, a wave of anger he knew well by now, arrested his movements. He became an animal ready for battle, tense, attentive. He put on his pants and tightened his belt. It wasn't even about her anymore—let her do whatever she wants—it was about him: never, ever again would he let himself get hurt like that. He remembered that agony, but thanks to it he felt stronger now somehow, as if he had gone to war and come home safely. On his way down he saw her from the stairs huddled on the sofa, no makeup, eyes swollen. A strange thought occurred to him. I wanted her to die, he thought, and that's why she's gotten so ugly.

"I'm going to go take a couple of pictures," he said.

She said she'd go with him. He waited on the deck for her to get dressed. They went in the direction opposite that they'd gone the day before.

"Look," she shouted to him over the wind and pointed to something he'd already seen: a white band of sky over a navy-blue sea and whitecaps that looked like they'd been painted there by a Chinese artist. Then a flash of sunshine like lightning.

"There must have been a storm last night," she said.

There was a lot of trash on the beach: strips of algae, tree branches, sticks, interspersed now and then with unexpectedly colorful plastic things. She walked behind him and thought that from behind he looked the same as he had looked back then, but she knew it was just an illusion. Nothing could be restored. What's happened once can never happen again. Never. Lightning never strikes twice. She was suddenly struck by the significance of that cliché. There was nothing to be done about it. For a moment she wanted to bound after him and tug on his jacket, turn him around to face her, and then it would turn out that—what? What would it turn out? She slowed down, while he walked quickly up ahead, he and the dog and the camera getting farther and farther away, so she didn't try to catch up with him now, she just sat down on the sand. With some effort, turning her back to the wind, she managed to light a cigarette, and then she sat there in despair, thinking systematically of everything that would never happen again: their hands touching, that spark, sometimes accidental and sometimes greedy, eagerly awaited; the excitement of his scent, and of nestling into that scent; the knowing glances, each reading the other's mind; the same thoughts at the same moment; the calm, confident closeness; hand in hand, as if this were their natural and only position; delight in the shape of an ear; the nightly vine-like clinging to each other's body, treating it as a kind of case for one's own. A long morning. Drinking beetroot soup from the same bowl. The surge of desire on a walk in the park… The suitcase you take into the world with you contains things you can only use once, like those magic charms in fairy tales, like fireworks. Once they go off, once they go out, there's nothing you can scrape back up out of the ashes. That's it.

She thought she would tell him all this when he got back, but as they were walking home she realized that it was banal, that she would be ashamed to share something like this. He would just smile, because it would be as if she had sung him the words of some popular song. Nothing more. Yes, all her despair was simply banal—evidently despair was another thing you could only experience once. All subsequent despair would just be a Xerox copy. And maybe there is some mysterious line in life that you cross unknowingly, unintentionally, and from then on everything is just a lousy replay of what's come before it, which once had come into being fresh and new, but which can now only occur as pastiche, a second-rate paraphrase. Maybe that dividing line from which life only flows downhill was actually right here, today, on this beach, and from here on out, from this day forward, there would be blurred copies of them taking part in their lives, fuzzy reproductions, ordinary forgeries, poor-quality fakes.

They went home in silence, and the wind absolved them of it just as it had done the day before. He walked ahead with Renata and she behind, her face flushed from the wind.

Renata tried to go inside with something in her mouth. He blocked her path with his foot.

"What do you have, you rotten dog? What'd you find? A smelly old bone? A dead fish?"

He forced her mouth open and took out a piece of pale, polished wood. It took him a minute to realize what it was.

"Look what she's found!" he cried out in surprise.

She walked up, took the saliva-wet figurine from his hand and wiped it off on the mat. It was a chess horse, a white knight, but not the one from their set. This one was smaller, nobler, stouter, probably hand-carved. Its little open mouth was turned up, and a crack ran along the whole length of it.

"I don't believe it!" he said. "Renata, where did you get this?"

"It's from the sea," she said. "That washed up from the sea."

"I can't believe it," he repeated and glanced at her quickly, timidly, to avoid keeping his eyes on her. "How could a little horse like that have ended up in the water? And white, just like the one we lost? What are the odds?"

They both went up to the kitchen sink. She washed it off carefully and then dried it was a tea towel.

They set it on the table and examined it as if it were a rare insect. Renata too—she seemed pleased with herself. Then he put it on the empty square where the little unwanted piece of wood was still lying. The knight looked out of place amongst the other pieces, like a mutant.

"Shall we play?" he asked.

"Now? We have to go now," she replied, but she took off her jacket and sat down uncertainly.

"Whose move was it?"

She didn't know. They sat for a moment longer over the open chessboard, and then he said, without looking at her, "I was just kidding."

© Olga Tokarczuk. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2008 by Jennifer Croft. All rights reserved.

Read more by Olga Tokarczuk in WWB

From Final Stories by Olga Tokarczuk, tr. Antonia Lloyd-Jones. Read the excerpt. A First Read from Tokarczuk’s Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead, tr. Antonia Lloyd-Jones. Read the excerpt.

[dustydreamsanddirtyscars]

“Sitting On A Bench, Reflecting...” - On the Traces of “Forrest Gump” in the Story of An Angel of the Lord

“Life is like a box of chocolate, you never know what you’re going to get.” - Forrest Gump in “Forrest Gump”

One tiny white feather floats in the sky and slowly descends to the ground to eventually land on someone’s shoe. The certain someone, who is attached to said shoe picks it up gently and places it carefully into a book. It’s the introductory shot to one of the probably most well-known movies of the past 25 years. And it sets up the feather as a recurring theme, element and metaphor for the entire movie “Forrest Gump” from the year 1994.

A good 11 years separates this movie following the life of Forrest, a simple minded and innocent boy, whose “passion” and “gift” for running would lead him literally around the world and the beginning of a small show called “Supernatural”. On the surface there’s not much one could say connects this film and this show. One is embedded in a world where monsters like vampires and werewolves exist, the other is firmly placed in a “non-magical world” - though of course “Forrest Gump” in many ways can be considered a kind of fairytale just without the fantastic elements. Still - despite these huge differences in approach and especially in atmosphere and tone (one is a horror show the other a sort of sweet kind of drama after all) - when digging a little deeper the big themes tackled in both franchises align really well. From absentee parents, to the story of “adolescence” and “coming of age”, to family, love and the question of destiny vs. freedom of choice - there is much that “Forrest Gump” shares with “Supernatural” and in particular so with a character that was introduced in S4 with a shrieking sound on the radio, white noise on the tv and exploding windows in an all but abandoned gas station somewhere in the broader vicinity of Pontiac, Illinois, where on September 18th, 2009 one Dean Winchester dug himself out of his grave after he was dragged to Hell by Hellhounds four months earlier. It’s Castiel, Angel of the Lord, we are talking about, whose story feels like having quite a bit in common with Forrest. And all of that starts with one tiny feather dancing from the sky to the ground and coming to rest on Forrest Gump’s shoe, who sits waiting on a bench at a bus stop reminiscing about his life, telling anyone who will listen, his story.

Said feather is a recurring theme - paired with wings and birds and songs and metaphors of flying (mostly connected to Forrest’s one true love Jenny) - in the movie. A symbol capturing and describing how the main character’s life was seemingly shaped by circumstance, how one step lead to another, how he walked through life like a feather floating from here to there in the wind, drifting from one place to another, going wherever the road took him (and that is actually one major parallel to “Supernatural” as a whole with the Winchesters driving across America going wherever the next case leads them) without giving it much thought (in fact many places he ended up being had to do with him simply doing as told, to “run, Forrest, run” whether it was to get away from the bullies in his hometown or in the baseball team or when rescuing his companions from the jungle in Vietnam) - though he always had one constant, one person to return to: Jenny, his childhood girlfriend who throughout long stretches of the movie appears to be seen like an angel by Forrest (fittingly she is also often times wrapped in white flowy gowns, talking about her wish to become a bird so she could fly away - to escape her abusive father - or standing on a window sill read to jump and “kill herself” to be free while Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” is playing in the background). And an angel’s story is Castiel’s. A warrior of Heaven, a servant of God, who - like that tiny white feather - touched down on earth for the first time in millennia after he rescued none other than Dean Winchester from Hell.

Just a few days ago I was talking about Castiel’s trenchcoat, how it always set him apart from the rest. Just like Forrest, who couldn’t walk without aides as a child and was made fun of for being “simple minded”, Castiel, never fit in as the narrative told us. Cas was always a rebel (even if he doesn’t remember himself, those who re-programmed him know), the one who came off the line with “a crack in his chassis” as Naomi called it or as Samandriel put it, he always had “too much heart”. And while Castiel in S4 is intimidating and absolute, when it comes to human interaction he is ill-equipped, almost childlike, innocent. All traits one connect with Forrest Gump. Most of all though and that’s of course what defines Castiel’s arc in S4 most is how he “follows orders”, “doesn’t question”, but “obeys” and “does as he is told”. That is until “The Big Pumpkin Sam Winchester” where Castiel starts to express doubts for the first time and interestingly enough those doubts are connected to a bench in a park.

“I’m not a hammer”, Castiel tells Dean in 4x07 “The Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester” and sitting down on a bench next to the one Dean is sitting on (there is a multitude one could just write about that little gap between them there btw, as to me it captures perfectly how Castiel grows closer to humanity, but isn’t completely on the same page or rather bench yet). It’s a scene in which Castiel expresses that he has questions and doubts - everything that a good soldier is not supposed to have. And yes, of course the parallel and wording of “soldiers” aligns Cas with Dean, in relation to this meta however it is also noteworthy that Forrest indeed became a soldier and worked well within the army. It’s a recurring theme, Forrest is told something and he follows. It captures how he drifts from one place to another. Rarely making decisions himself, instead he often times “goes with the flow”, “goes where the road takes him” or differently worded “floats”. And that is something Forrest at the end of the movie when standing at Jenny’s grave even voices himself and it captures the question of destiny vs. free choice that is so inherent to “Supernatural” quote beautifully:

“I don’t know if we each have a destiny, or if we’re all just floating around accidental-like on a breeze, but I, I think maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s both happening at the same time.”

And of course it takes us back to the feather imagery of the beginning of the movie, a feather floating in the breeze, that came to rest at Forrest’s feet while he waits for a bus (which also parallels nicely to Jimmy Novak’s bus journey but much more than that Castiel going to sleep inside an old bus when he is human in S9).

And to me Castiel and Forrest are working beautifully as parallels here - not just visually but on a narrative level as well. Because that’s where Forrest’s life truly changes, when he gets on that bus and meets Jenny, who introduced him to his son. That changes everything. Likewise Castiel, an angel with wings, was floating aimlessly and just did as he was told until the day he rescued Dean from Hell (and one could definitely see a parallel between Jenny and Dean here as well as they share the aspect of growing up in an abusive household). From there on out his mission changes, his focus changes, he himself changes.

“I’ve figured out one thing about this world… Just one, pretty much. You find a cause and you serve it. Give yourself over, and it orders your life.”

- Meg in 7x21 “Reading Is Fundamental”

And while his narrative mirror is Forrest, it’s also worthy to note that Castiel’s arc also works rather beautifully in contrast and opposition to Jenny, whose entire life circled around escaping and flying away. So when Forrest in the ending scene looks up to Heaven as if Jenny’s watching over him (like an angel) it gets clear she finally managed to escape and fly away. Castiel’s story can be seen entirely in reverse to her, as for him, it was never about flying, but falling. For humanity as embodied by Dean.

To me the scene in the park (a playground nearby - the whole conversation Dean has with Castiel here is a direct parallel to Dean sitting next to God on a park bench in S11) in 4x07 “The Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester” works as a perfect starting point of Castiel’s journey. Roughly 2 seasons later we would meet him again - sitting on a bench (like Forrest) - in 6x20 “The Man Who Would Be King” telling us his story. A story that shifted from being a feather in the wind, following orders to making decisions yourself and having to deal with the consequences. A story that tackled the question of destiny and ended with free will.

I’m sure that none of these parallels have been inserted consciously by the writers at the time - though with Ben Edlund and 6x20 “The Man Who Would Be King” I could imagine that he thought of “Forrest Gump”, but the chances are slim - still to me these franchises work together and in opposition to one another, because they utilize the same tropes and themes. And I don’t know about you, but I personally quite like the theme of “reflection” and “identity” woven into these bench moments...

[In case all of this didn’t leave you all “I don’t know about you, but this person that wrote this bs has issues” ;P for more metas on benches and vending machines used as meatphors and symbols on SPN - yes, it’s a thing and apparently I have a thing for it - click here, here, here and here]

[kublog83]

Recording The Beatles Book

The sound of the Beatles’ records is a combination of the brilliant songwriting of John Lennon and Paul McCartney (and increasingly, as the 1960s went on, of George Harrison), but also the sound of the technology available to producer George Martin and his recording engineers at EMI Recording Studios in London. But in a way, those elements are true of every piece of recorded music: when an artist gets it right, it’s a magic combination of the song, the performance, and how it was recorded. Or as George Harrison said in an early 1990s interview that was quoted in the introduction to the brilliant 2006 book, Recording The Beatles:

Recording The Beatles Book Pdf

The Beatles Recording Sessions Book Pdf

Recording The Beatles Book For Sale

Find many great new & used options and get the best deals for Recording the Beatles: The Studio Equipment and Techniques Used to Create Their Classic Albums by Brian Kehew and Kevin Ryan (2006, Book, Other) at the best online prices at eBay! Free shipping for many products!

The Beatles Recording Reference Manuals (1961-1970) are a five book series that tell the step-by-step process in which each of the band's recordings were created. The books reconstruct each song's creation as well as detail the technical profile of each and every classic Beatles recording.

Recording The Beatles is a huge book, and there's a simply awesome amount of information collected within its 500+ pages. Section four is about the actual production of the Beatles' records. There is a chapter for each year from 1962 to 1968, and a joint chapter for 1969 and 1970.

If you listen to the music of the Twenties and Thirties, it has a certain sound to it; it’s partly the song that you like, and it’s partly the way it was recorded, the tube amplifiers in the boards, how the microphone sounded in those days, all the kind of atmosphere. It becomes like a little period piece, just like a piece of furniture of a given period, it has its own charm. You wouldn’t want to hear The Beatles doing ‘Mr. Kite’ on a 48-track machine. It wouldn’t have the same charm.

Recording The Beatles is a huge book, and there's a simply awesome amount of information collected within its 500+ pages. It is the result of over a decade of research, in which Kehew and Ryan tracked down and interviewed as many ex-EMI staff as they could find, located and photographed examples of nearly every piece of studio equipment in use.

Most coffee table books are full of pretty full-color photos on glossy paper, and the text is of secondary value. However, while 2006’s Recording The Beatles is heavily illustrated with the requisite new and vintage photos of Abbey Road Studios and its myriad of surviving ‘60s-era gear, for recording enthusiasts, there is a treasure-trove of information to be learned here.

Diving into the Magical History Tour

The book is laid out in quite a logical fashion. First, there’s a history of EMI Recording Studios in London (which were rebranded in 1970 as “Abbey Road Studios” to take full marketing advantage of the Beatles’ best-selling epic swan song). Then there are profiles of the people who worked there during the Beatles’ run from 1963-1970. Producer George Martin, his best-known engineers, including Norman Smith, who crafted the sound of the Beatlemania-era records before going off to produce the first two albums by Pink Floyd.

Then Geoff Emerick, who helped crafted the combination of psychedelia and in-your-face drums on Revolver,Sgt. Pepper and the Magical Mystery Tour era, before returning for Abbey Road. And the other engineers who worked the Beatles’ sessions, including another future Pink Floyd ally, Alan Parsons. Plus a look at how they were all trained by EMI, and their apprenticeships before being allowed into the recording studio.

Next, there’s a look at the equipment that graced EMI London during the Beatles’ career, and a look at how that technology evolved from 1963 to 1970, including extremely technical details of the mixing desks that were used to record the Beatles. Regarding the latter, the authors note:

This portion of the book involves much greater technical detail than the other chapters. It is intended to satisfy those “studio-types” who understand and seek accurate detailed information on the desks used to record the Beatles. As such, it may be too deep for the novice at times, although several significant concepts here do affect the Beatles records. If this section seems too difficult feel free to skim it over for just the interesting points and move forward through the book.

Recording The Beatles Book Pdf

In addition to the granular-level study of EMI’s 1960s-era recording desks, “studio-types” will also marvel at the attention to detail given to such key elements of the Beatles’ sound as the Fairchild compressor, so beloved by Geoff Emerick for Ringo’s drum sound, down to how the controls are set. Even those who have software emulations of the Fairchild will benefit from this information.

Along the way, detailed explorations at how that equipment was customized — and in some cases invented — by EMI’s back-room boffins, and how the engineers who recorded the Beatles used it as well. Finally, with all of that background firmly established, there’s an exploration of each Beatles album, and how it was recorded.

Beatling About in the 21st Century

There’s much to be learned here, and much that can be applied to today’s world of digital audio workstations (DAWs) and plugins. Particularly since quite a bit of the equipment that was used to record the Beatles is now available in either plugin or hardware form. Waves Audio and Softube have replicated (with varying degrees of accuracy) licensed plugin versions of Abbey Road’s studio console features and equipment that was custom-built by the studio’s backroom boffins, and Iowa’s Chandler Limited sells licensed hardware versions of much of that vintage gear as well.

Arguably, only the Fairchild Compressor is in the purely “unobtanium” level pricing and serviceability levels, with modern hardware clones starting at over $10,000.00. But numerous plugin versions are available at much more reasonable prices, such as Waves’ “Puigchild,” (named after producer Jack Joseph Puig) and Overloud’s excellent Comp670. The book is also a reminder that in today’s world of DAWs, there are plugins that can create virtually any effect, and programs for the computer such as Izotope’s RX8 can cleanup and enhance recordings, in the 1960s, the engineers who recorded the Beatles had to do all of this with vacuum tube-driven analog equipment, what Star Trek’s Mr. Spock would describe as “stone knives and bearskins”-era technology

Recording The Beatles goes into great depth into the control panel settings of the hardware used to record the Fab Four, and microphone placement. It’s also a reminder that recording rock and roll bands has drastically changed, post-Napster. Because the Beatles were signed to EMI, and the giant recording label knew what a cash-cow they had on their hands, the group was not charged for studio time. As a result, Alan Parsons, who began his career as an engineer on Let It Be and Abbey Road, wrote in his how-to guide, The Art and Science of Recording, “The Beatles had a recording budget from heaven. No one would ever say they’d have to cut down on their studio time.”

There was also a definite division of labor. The Beatles played, the engineers placed (and for the most part chose) the microphones, George Martin supervised the sessions as producer, and wrote the arrangements. Martin and his main engineers, Norman Smith, and then Geoff Emerick, each had definite ideas for how “the boys” should sound. Each engineer was an expert in choosing microphones, but Smith went for a live “in the room” sound, whereas Emerick wanted a more detailed sound, with the drums mic’ed much more up front, and the bass guitar more clearly defined, which is why the Beatles sound began to change so radically with Revolver. And while the Beatles might discuss these sonic choices with Martin and his engineers, they largely let the engineers get on with getting their sounds.

In contrast, 99.9 percent of today’s bands don’t have “a recording budget from heaven.” Far from it — a band newly signed to a record label might be lucky enough to be able to afford to rent a studio for a day or two to record the initial drum tracks, and then all of the parts would then be recorded later in their home studios in front of a computer and audio interface, with band members acting as both musician and engineer, before the producer mixes everything down to (hopefully) something cohesive.

And course, there’s the sheer talent of the Beatles’ songwriting and their playing. While, as Harrison alluded to above, the recording process was directly tied into the sound of the Beatles’ psychedelic mid-‘60s songs, the Beatles’ best songs would still sound like great songs recorded with today’s equipment. The reverse isn’t true of many of today’s stars, who would sound even more threadbare if they had to do without 21st century technology like auto-tuning, comping, plugins, non-destructive digital editing, and endless amounts of digital tracks.

Fortunately, the two worlds now exist quite nicely. Capturing sounds using Beatles-era microphones and pre-amps, and then editing them in a modern DAW is the best of both worlds, with great tones upfront, and endless flexibility afterwards. You probably won’t channel the zeitgeist the way the Beatles could, but it’s definitely possible to learn from them — and the technical team who recorded them — to enhance your own efforts. And in that regard, Recording The Beatles succeeds brilliantly.

The Beatles Recording Sessions Book Pdf

While it’s not — yet — in Fairchild Compressor level pricing, it’s getting into unobtanium-level pricing on its own terms, but well worth it for those both obsessed with the Beatles, and with the recording process. Highly recommended for those who fit both criteria. (One suggestion: see if your local library can get a copy on inter-library loan.) In 2019, the authors promised an updated version which will likely be at much more affordable prices; while our current unpleasantness has no doubt slowed their efforts, I hope it hasn’t stopped them.

Recording The Beatles Book For Sale

‘Recording in Progress:’ Newly Arrived Documentary Explores the Changing World of the Recording Studio

[crijoh]

 YESTERDAY'S POST CAN BE FOUND HERE - 16/01/18  Game Releases: No Game Releases Today ;(  Today's News: Nintendo Labo Announced! - Announcement Website - TrailerEven thought it's technically still Wednesday where I am, the Thursday announcement that was leaked a little while ago has officially happened. Before the announcement, Nintendo teased that it would be, "specifically crafted for kids and those who are kids at heart.". Although this is quite vague, it shows that Nintendo were trying to focus this announcement on more casual gamers instead of the majority of people on this Subreddit...Anyway, 10PM GMT came and we were introduced to Nintendo Labo, a DIY kit that uses intricate engineering and cardboard to turn your Switch and specifically the IR Scanner into a game controller. After building one of these kits and attaching your joy-cons to the designated locations, you will launch an exclusive game for the Switch that will be controlled by the kit you just built. Examples that were demonstrated were a piano, robot suit, steering wheel, and a fishing rod. On the official website that they just launched, they are marketing the kits starting from $69.99 with the Robot Kit being priced at $79.99. There is also a customisation kit that comes with tape, stickers etc. and that will come at a sum total of $9.99. Now in my own opinion, I'm quite happy with this announcement. It was known from the beginning that this would be an accessory to the Switch that was being designed mainly for kids, to those who were hoping for Sma5h, or some other game shouldn't have, because that's what Nintendo were saying wasn't going to happen. The intricacy and detail in some of these kits look quite cool and although priced at $70.00 for basically a bit of cardboard and bands, it also comes with games and will take hours to build, like Lego. I understand that people will be disappointed, but as someone who knew exactly the kind of announcement that this was going to be, I'm quite excited to see how these "Toy-Cons" are going to turn out! Oh I nearly forgot, they are set to launch on the 20th April 2018...4/20...Thanks Nintendo. The Dark Souls Remastered will not have changed design in any way - LinkThere was quite a lot of justified concern over the upcoming Dark Souls Remaster. Now to most of you that haven't played any of the series, you might not know that Dark Souls 1 is completely different in most ways mechanically to Dark Souls 3. As Bloodborne, Dark Souls competitor, came out with quicker combat and a more rounded feel to the gameplay, Dark Souls 3 tried to become accustomed to this new demand for new combat by basically copying it. Now back to the announcement, the reason why fans are getting worried is because the remaster is being developed in the Dark Souls 3 engine, leading to some people assuming that the original combat will be changed for the Dark Souls 3 combat. This concern isn't as far fetched as it sounds either, as the re-release of Dark Souls 2 changed some of their gameplay and people weren't too happy about it then either. To stop this concern before it gets too far, Nintendo decided to release an FAQ for the upcoming title coming to their system. In this article, it is revealed that although it will be on a different engine, the design and gameplay will not be changed at all and will remain faithful to it's original counterpart. Although I personally prefer the gameplay and combat feel of Bloodborne, I'm happy that they are developing this remaster for their fans and I feel more inclined to give it a shot as I haven't managed to play the first Dark Souls yet...I guess I'll just have to wait till May when it's actually released. Sony's PhyreEngine is now supported on the Switch - LinkIt was discovered on the, practically daily featured site, ResetEra that in the licensing document for the recently released Dragon Quest Builders Demo, it says that the demo was developed in PhyreEngine. This engine is specifically designed for Sony exclusive games so you can see the reason that everyone is getting a little excited. In no particular order, the PhyreEngine has been known to have developed titles like, "Final Fantasy X/X-2 HD Remaster", "OlliOlli 2", "Gunslugs", and more. People are kind of going a little mad over the first title mentioned there are if you go to the relevant threads you will see a lot of people screaming for Square Enix to port Final Fantasy X/X-2 HD to the Switch...I kind of don't blame them as, I know this opinion won't really be liked but, FFX is probably my favourite Final Fantasy game in the series and that's probably because it was the first one to really capture and hold my interest and was the first game in the series that I actually finished. Can't wait to find out what developers do with this new support for the engine!  Game Announcements/Updates: Aegis Defenders - eShop Link - PS4 Trailer - Website - 8th February 2018I feel like there seems to be a lack of good strategy action games on the Switch, especially those that have a strong story to "meat up" their gameplay and world's lore. This game may be something to fix that whole in the Switch's library. Aegis Defenders, currently scheduled to release onto Steam, PS4, and the Switch on the 8th February 2018, originally started of as a kickstarter, raising a total of $145,815 out of a $65,000 goal; that is pretty remarkable. Along with doubling their initial goal, the kickstarter unlocked stretch goals that included local multiplayer and the most important one, console support. On the website the game is described as, "a world where control over ancient technologies means power, a ruthless Empire has arisen. You play as a team of Ruinhunters searching for the one thing that can save their village - a legendary weapon known as Aegis. Explore, build, & defend in this 2D platformer that blends Metroidvania style combat with Tower Defense strategy.". Now that seems pretty intriguing to me and the tone of the piece seems like something I could totally get behind. I recommend that you seriously check out the trailer above, as long as you aren't scared by the big bad PS4 logo at the top. Arcade Archives DOUBLE DRAGON - Website - Trailer - eShop Link - 18th February 2018Hamster Co. have become pretty well known for releasing quality ports of incredibly old games onto the Switch and other platforms, but most importantly the Switch. Anyway, it was discovered on the eShop today that the 1987 Japanese action game series Double Dragon will be ported over to the Switch as of tomorrow! It will be priced at a lovely $7.99 (compared to the couple of hundred dollars it would have cost back then). On the eShop page it describes the game as, "an action game that was released from Technos Japan in 1987. Two brothers fight with evil, to rescue Marian that has been kidnapped by violence organization. Players can change various game settings such as game difficulty, and also reproduce the atmosphere of arcade display settings at that time. Players can also compete against each other from all over the world with their high scores.". Fuze - Educational Programming Tool - Website - Q2 2018Now this was an announcement that I definitely wasn't expecting; I'll let the actual developer speak on what it actually is so I don't butcher this wonderful announcement. FUZE is specifically aimed at making it easy to learn to code, an educational tool which not only makes learning and teaching real coding easy and accessible, but can also be used as a more professional tool to create extensive and complex projects. In case you can't read those specific 3 lines above for some reason, this app basically lets you create games from scratch and teach you in the process. It's kind of like a game engine as an app on the Switch and in the comments, they also revealed that they are working on sharing capabilities so you and your friends can share code and work on a game together. You will also be able to share you final creations and play other users submissions. The announcement also came with the knowledge that it will support the use of USB keyboards on the Switch so you don't have to cramp up your poor finger touching the Switch for the 100+ hours it takes to make a ridiculously small game that ends up being crap...it's not personal, I promise... Splatoon 2: Update 2.2.0 - Patch NotesAnother update has arrived for Splatoon 2 in the form of update 2.2.0. The patch that is available right now has a ridiculous amount of fixes in it ranging from fixes in the online featuring, "an issue in which the bubble effect displayed when taking damage while submerged would not be displayed if you even momentarily went outside of the ink or treaded on opponent’s ink." all the way to, "an issue on terrain that moves in Shifty Station which would occasionally move in a halting fashion.". They also fixed several issues with Salmon Run and other small Amiibo based fixes. I love this much detail when it comes to patch notes and I wish more developers did this as most patch notes that come out for games have the main fixes and then at the bottom it will simply say, "Other small fixes". Tell me what those small fixes are dammit! Thanks Nintendo, for being so precise and open with these patches. Battle Chef Brigade: Patch 1 - Patch NotesIn smaller indie news, the recently released Action Adventure RPG Battle Chef Brigade, has revealed it's first large update since it's launch on the Switch platform; this comes in the form of Patch 1! In this update expect to see, quite a lot of fixes regarding game breaking bugs that were previously only found in the Switch version of this game. Some of these fixes can include, "Add option to Reset to the pause menu during duels", "Don’t respawn Thrash if he dies in the Yoku hunt. Prompt the player to retry immediately.", and "Don’t cull items that aren’t physics-sleeping (would result in ingredients suspending in air off-screen until the player moved close to the items again).", along with many others. This patch actually makes it so the PC and Switch version are at the same point and there developers have said that this is what they going to try and focus on for future patches. You can read the full patch notes in the link above.  Top Reddit Posts: I really want to thank Nintendo for making the carts Nasty - Link - u/syn7foldExcited for Dark Souls Remastered on the Switch so I made a Demastered wallpaper! - Link - u/sturoWould You Buy a Remastered version of Wii Sports? - Link - u/GaLaXy_Shuckle2K18's support for the Switch over the past few weeks has been unacceptable. - Link - u/FutureDictatorUSA  If there are any errors or missed information, just let me know and I'll add it promptly.  Well today was the big announcement day for Nintendo and surprise surprise, a lot of people are mad. But I personally think that it looks great and also a lot cheaper than Lego with the added benefit that you get to play with the damn thing digitally and not just physically. What looked particularly interesting was the intricacy of some of the kits and so I probably will end up picking one up at some point when they are released in April...unless this all turns out to be an April fools joke...probably not. Anyway, thank you to all the wonderful people who gave me permission me to use their reddit posts from earlier today, it is very much appreciated! I hope you all have an amazing time doing whatever it is you do and I'll see your wonderful faces tomorrow....metaphorically. Sam :) via /r/NintendoSwitch

[dbethelcomics]

The Week

Over the next month or so (as school is out, now), I'm going to be plugging away on Chapter 3. Because of that, I won't have time (or, let's be honest, energy/interest) in bringing back Sketch Fridays, but I'm going to start a new feature that, with hope, I can continue once school is back up and running as well.

The feature is simply titled "The Week" and will be a collection of things I've seen, read, or made for the internet. I'll also provide production updates on Chapter 3 with sneak peeks at art and, of course, announcements. Perhaps it may even have a mini-rant on things. I want to keep the form open so I can consistently bring you some insight each week (and to pull me away from the drawing table for a bit).

LISTENING

Source: Decca Records

Tori Amos, Native Invader

Every semester, I tend to find a new soundtrack to grading. I was a little worried this semester–���not really worried, though––as I tended to be going back to a playlist of atmospheric instrumental soundtracks I had compile in the middle of the Spring 2017 semester. And then this gem of an album came along. I can't speak for the lyrical content of the album; knowing Tori (my wife is a huge fan), it's thoughtful and charged and passionate, but the overall tone and timbre of the album is one of jaunty melancholy and I can't get enough of it. I've listened to it while grading the final portfolios to my classes and, now twelve times through the album, I still don't find it distracting nor dissonant. I kind of can't wait until I'm done grading so I can actually sit down with it and parse its content.

Source: Guy D’Alema/Fox (now Disney)

Comicsverse, "Episode 98: Emma Dumont from Fox's The Gifted Gets Emotional About Polaris."

This is a jovial interview between the ostensible star of a show I absolutely love right now (partly because it's based on the X-Men, partly because it's actually some well-written melodrama) and the CEO of a comic book analysis website that I find very earnest and thoughtful, Justin Alba of Comicsverse. The interview is fun for a few reasons. First, it's clear that the interviewer and the interviewee actually, personally, hit it off and it quickly follows its own path into unpredictable and comfortable territory that is far beyond the purview of normal press junket interviews. It's great to hear an actor/actress let the guard down and get into the grit of their own motivation and profession. With that, second, even though the interview gets quite political, what it shows is the amount of work that can go into acting. Whatever your political leanings, it's clear that Dumont found a personal and profound angle into her character––Magneto's sometimes-daughter and mistress of magnetism, Lorna "Polaris" Dane––that shows what can happen when an actress absolutely *clicks* with her character. It's part of why I absolutely love the show on its own; it's clear the main actors are completely in character and––more importantly, for nerds like me––they found a way to not only represent these beloved characters (Polaris is a character who has been around since 1968, borne out of the political struggles of the time, as all of the X-Men are), but to also make them into the believable people fans like me have always felt them to be. It's a delicate balancing act and this interview shows how much work it can take to make that happen and is a must-listen for nerds and/or X-Men fans. Watch The Gifted. It’s good.

READING

Source: Variety

Littleton, Cynthia and Brien Steinberg. "Disney to Buy 21st Century Fox Assets for $52.4 Billion Dollars in Historic Hollywood Merger." Variety. PMC, 14 Dec. 2017.

I have a lot of thoughts about this which I'll be writing up over the weekend. Basically, for nerds like me, this purchase will bring the cinematic rights of the X-Men franchise to the hands of the owners of Marvel Comics, Disney. Marvel sold the filmic rights of the X-Men in the '90s while the company was fighting off bankruptcy and, has since (very visibly) worked its way back to fiscal health and fans have been clamoring for the parent company to reacquire all Marvel comics cinematic licenses. Now, they have done so. I––in a bit of thoughtful, but seemingly contrarian, dissent––have some severe thoughts about bringing my favorite mutants into the wider Marvel Cinematic Universe. Stay tuned.

WRITING

Source: Marvel

News Blast: Wolverine - The Long Night

I wrote up a brief overview of the announcement by Marvel Comics about its first serialized audio drama podcast focusing on the X-Men character, Wolverine, in a noir drama that will prove to be interesting.

Source: 20th Century Fox (now Disney)

News Blast: Alita - Battle Angel

I wrote up a bit in the wake of the trailer for the Robert Rodriguez-directed, James Cameron-produced adaptation of Yukito Kishiro's classic manga, Battle Angel Alita (Gunnm in Japan, the anime adaptation of which I am a huge fan) that covers the long road this adaptation has traveled and why I'm kind of excited about it.

LONG JOHN PROGRESS

I'm well on my way through drawing Chapter 3. I'll reveal more about that soon. I've got a title and a cover for the next chapter. I just want more under my belt before I widely reveal anything if only because I don't want to make a big reveal and then have everybody wait for another year. However, it's moving along swimmingly and, honestly, I'm so incredibly happy with how this chapter is turning out. For what was supposed to be a simple "action" chapter (a big gun fight is coming to you all), it is turning out to also be one of the most symbolic, profound, and personal chapters of the story and I can't wait to share it with you. Here's a look at the lines of the first page of Chapter 3.

Page 01 of Chapter 3 of Long John. Art by D. Bethel.

Without wasting all of my page notes on this preview, with this page I really looked to classical sculpture to inspire the melodrama I wanted this centerpiece to have which will be echoed throughout the chapter. As a wanna-be, almost Art History major, one of my most favorite artists ever is the Baroque sculptor Gian Lorenzo Bernini (seriously, do a Google image search of his work, it's exquisite), and I definitely tried to capture his lines and folds in this pose. I am really quite proud of it!

[jeannette-marshall-optioneerjm]

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Original content by:*

Jeannette Marshall

@optioneerJM

optioneerJM+

aboutME.com

If you’re around my age [ 50 on a good day or 56 on a bad one ] and you have a daughter or niece or granddaughter around the millennial set (is this the Y? Generation? ] fact check [ ) –> i first called it the Y Generation on one of my first INbeTWEENers blog [ via #WordPress ] aka now as YUPPYdom > target audience & readers born 1960 or later, but before the Millennial (otherwise known separately as The Baby Boomers :: those born of the Elvis and 50s era and vibe, became adults of GENX which is sandwiched [aka squeezed] between the Baby Boomers, inBETWEENers (1960-1969) & what I like to  I call the war babies (those babies born after either World War I ] fact check [date when WWI ended?]. Phew, what a mouthful, eh?  Sometimes I get multiple thoughts that run like a freight train, full speed ahead.  It drives a lot of people crazy [the Hunkster Hubster in particular] ::…. sometimes I am telling him something and 2/3 of the way through, I go “um ah” multiple times until he barks at me:  “Um uh!  You didn’t finish!   Luckily for me, and the loyal few, I sometimes take the time to capture some cool moments.  Or, not so cool moments.

The PINK SLIP? It is when you mess up with your Millennial daughter and she goes ape shit all over you.  If that isn’t suffice, she goes into IGNORE mode, and often BLOCK mode.  Thus is the PINK SLIP. It doesn’t seem fair that father’s rarely, if ever, get the PINK SLIP.  It seems a blessing in disguise when the ticked off goes into overdrive.  It is a process. It is quite inevitable, particularly if you’re the “Mother”.    Sometimes it can actually be funny, payback for when 2 PINK GIRLS change the Alpha Pink Girl’s status under family that “she is adopted”.   That is the distinction between the battle hardy inBETWEENers:  we’ve been pushing water up hill all our lives [ saying credit to Wade Sparks, former boss and President of a SMB:  Small Medium Business; selling to very BIG companies and running a branch ]. What obstacles don’t 1960 to 1965 in particular share with Millennials?  A-LOT!  Remember we were the original hipsters, aka Yuppies, adulting in the 80s [ exact same age as they are in my case – 27(Kyle) etc.  My girls are wise beyond their years and really have some great attributes that I envy if I could only have known back at the same age, how magnificent everything would be.  

YUPPIES:  Eternal optimists What would this world really be like, if Yuppies weren’t born [ other than cult culture of the 1980s skippy high bangs and big hoops and slouch socks with tights, ankle runners, big oversized sweaters, perms galore, fresh eyed trusters after being abolished and quietened by our very loud Baby Boomer siblings [ brother or sister ].   Being the object of teasing at the edge of tormenting their younger, devoted sibling who iconized their every move [ except thinking he is Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin with his electric guitar and amp turned up to the max, “WAHW…. wahwm …. WAHW” be still my pounding ears:  no wonder I don’t like waking up and jumping out of beg:  clear bad memory of when having to do so ]. Yuppies had to prop each other up and really boost each other’s morale.  We were either in college or at our first REAL job(s) in the 1980s.  Amidst recessions, world war threats between the US and Russia, joblessness skyrocketed with the increasing temperature of world affairs.  Just graduating from high school, we were surrounded about hostages, capture, and hijacks and we only had the radio or television where we were likely to get our news.  [ Others would say newspapers, but some of us gal Yuppies didn’t like how the ink came off on our fingers so we weren’t a fan of newspapers but we were the dawn of capitalism in the 1980s, with greed on most corporate executive’s manifesto.  Today, layoffs, downsizing, let go, fired, laid off, work force reduction, reorganization, restructuring are more the norm.   Loyalty has left the atmosphere.  Neither company nor employee get what they want out of the deal and their is a parting of ways.  The Pink Slip was probably coined in the 1980s ] FACT CHECK [.  Another tie in to the nifty headline I was particularly impressed with ( pat on back to Jeannette ). Another characteristic of those arriving at adulthood, parenthood in that decade is that Yuppies really like recognition.  More sore than any other generation, simply because being sounded out by our louder siblings, who took credit for a clean car [ trick:  ask younger sibling to help wash car and he would drive them around town for “a while”; so you help them and they take you for a drive to main street and back [ in my life, never really that far:: walkable ].  So having a Millennial child is about setting and understanding boundaries.  A familiar song we sang as parents coming back full circle upon our ears.  From that really smart child who snaps it up and snaps it out, except louder.  Probably because we likely seethed but didn’t shout in anger, or clenched our teeth akin to biting our tongue.  We were born of the parents who believed that how you dressed {stylish and polished} and how you behaved [ impeccable manners ] were a direct mirror into their inner soul.   Ask a War Baby what it means to go without (ahem, attention Yuppies and Millennials, take note here)?  You better sit down and grab that cup of coffee anyhow because their answer is going to take a while.  What is amazing is when you actually recognize the sacrifice that War Babies had both as children, growing up and as adults, parents:  having to make do with very little.  Appreciating value over squandering money, which Yuppies and Millennials are apt to do. Wanting to climb the ladder?   There’s a big leap between The Baby Boomers who are retiring to the tipping point beginning of the Millennial leaders, pioneers.  Yuppies and GEN-X likely skipped over.  Why not?  More educated, Millennials can bring fresh ideas, latest technological improvements [ which is a HOAX by GenXers letting others think that Yuppies aren’t technologically inclined ]. Ask yourself, when was the birth of the computer?  Technically, it began a long long time ago, before Yuppies were even born.  What I mean is the birth of the personal computer?  Some of us went to school in 1979 to have hands on computer in our post secondary, either by instinct or natural survival mode.  If you want to have someone project manage something to perfection, you would be wise to consider a Yuppy:  they’ve been coming up with solutions and fixing problems by the time The Beatles broke up (a long long time ago).

Since I’m already in trouble and she doesn’t read my blog * giggles *

So I apologized to my daughter.  Fingers crossed the PINK slip won’t last long.  I will try to continue to be optimistic that she’ll reconsider her reaction (ah-hem scale 1-10 ticked off:  9.5 degrees out of 10.)    Maybe the next Millennial will read this, think about their mom mostly, or their dad if it happens, tone down the reaction and embrace the differences between you, with the added value of life experience that COULD spare them a lot of grief.  Knowing that rarely is advice heeded.  Swash-buckling their way to their future in their own brave style.

You have to remember, that your Yuppy mom or Yuppy dad, are prone to recognize how well you are doing.  Driving you crazy for posting about an accomplishment or re-sharing a picture, simply because you thought it was beautiful, unconsciously unaware that so many would agree.  They see the inner beauty paired with the outer strikingness as a formidable force, into the stratosphere when it is blended with intelligence and street smarts, common sense.  With a twist of humor, knowing that laughing at one’s self is the biggest show of humility.

Even more if they are a Millennial 

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