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uwmspeccoll · 3 months

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The Ballad of the Brown Girl

The Ballad of the Brown Girl was Harlem Renaissance writer Countee Cullen's (1903-1946) first major poem, and this is the first edition of only 500 copies, published in New York and London by Harper & Brothers in 1927, with illustrations and page decorations by the unrelated Art Deco artist Charles Cullen (1887-?). Brown Girl is Countee Cullen's revision of a 17th-century English ballad based on a folk tale featuring two women with different color hair. Cullen's revision alters the descriptions to suggest they are of different races, establishing tensions between romance, segregation, and social hierarchy.

The white Charles Cullen grew up in Brooklyn and was living and working in Manhattan when he met the Black Countee Cullen around 1926 and illustrated four books for the writer: Copper Sun (1927), The Ballad of the Brown Girl (1927), an illustrated second edition of Color (1928), and The Black Christ and Other Poems (1929). It seems a significant coincidence that the two would share a last name, but the stars seem to have been aligned. For example, Countee Cullen's birth name was Countee LeRoy Porter and Charles Cullen was born in LeRoy, New York. Coincidence? We don't think so.

View another work by Countee Cullen.

View another book illustrated by Charles Cullen.

View other Black History Month posts.

#Black History Month #Countee Cullen #The Ballad of the Brown Girl #Harper & Brothers #Charles Cullen #poems #African Amerricans #African American writers #illustrated books #Art Deco

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agirlnamedbone · 1 year

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from Charles Cullen's hand-illustrated zine Chicken Truck. (Youtube / Website )

(& find his works of song by searching Charles E. Cullen on Spotify.) (really want the Chicken Truck zine in particular? Contact him through his link here.)

(please stay-tuned for a fully functioning merch store & bandcamp!)

#charles e. cullen #charles cullen #chicken chat #outsider art #zine #roanoke virginia #super badass #chicken truck #weirdcore #oddcore #appalachia

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eddieredmayneargentinablog · 1 year

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Eddie as Charles Cullen in "The Good Nurse" (2022)

📸 Source cdn.xsd.cz/resize/ via @eddieredmayne_is_perfect on Instagram

#eddie redmayne #eddieredmayne #redmayne #the good nurse #charles cullen #charles graeber #his acting is superb

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bespokeredmayne · 2 years

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The wait is ending

Netflix has released the initial set of production stills from The Good Nurse starring Eddie Redmayne + Jessica Chastain, directed by Tobias Lindholm — and announced its fall release. Look through the Vanity Fair gallery + click on the link to read more about the chilling tale of a real-life serial killer + the heroic nurse who helped stop him.

The article also gives insight into how the Oscar-winning stars prepared for their roles, and the long journey to bring Charles Graeber’s true-crime book (by the same name) to the screen.

#eddie redmayne #jessica chastain #the good nurse #first look #vanity fair #netflix #tobias lindholm #charles cullen #charles graeber

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cinemablind · 1 year

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The Good Nurse Academy Award Winners Jessica Chastain and Eddie Redmayne in the lead role of Amy Loughren and Charles Cullen. The film tells the story of a nurse Amy as she finds out that Charles Cullen, who she thought was her friend had killed several patients across nine hospitals, but hasn’t been caught by the authorities yet. So, if you liked the true crime film here are some more movies you should watch next.

#The Good Nurse #Netflix #netflix film #netflix movie #movie #Amy Loughren #charles cullen

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mx-pastelwriting · 7 months

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Kinktober 2023 Masterlist

Hello! I am doing Kinktober this year; here is the month's menu.

Minors do not interact!

1 ☆ 𝘽𝙚𝙜𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝘼𝙡𝙚𝙟𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙧𝙤 𝙑𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙨

2 ☆ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙗𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙍𝙖𝙘𝙚: 𝘿𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙡 𝘿𝙞𝙭𝙤𝙣

3 ☆ 𝙈𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙚𝙭: 𝘽𝙤 𝙎𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙧

4 ☆ 𝘽𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙡𝙚 𝘾𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙣

5 ☆ 𝘽𝙞𝙧𝙩𝙝𝙙𝙖𝙮 𝙎𝙚𝙭: 𝙀𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝘽𝙧𝙤𝙘𝙠

6 ☆ 𝙁𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚: 𝙑𝙤𝙡𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙞 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨

7 ☆ 𝘽𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙖𝙜𝙚: 𝙍𝙤𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙚 𝙆𝙧𝙖𝙮

8 ☆ 𝙎𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝙇𝙪𝙘𝙞𝙪𝙨 𝙈𝙖𝙡𝙛𝙤𝙮

9 ☆ 𝙁𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙎𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝙎𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙧 𝘽𝙧𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙩

10 ☆ 𝘾𝙤𝙘𝙠 𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝙎𝙣𝙖𝙥𝙚

11 ☆ 𝘽𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙛𝙤𝙡𝙙: 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙎𝙢𝙞𝙩𝙝

12 ☆ 𝙋𝙝𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙎𝙚𝙭: 𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙚𝙡 𝘽𝙖𝙧𝙗𝙖

13 ☆ 𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙥 𝙏𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚: 𝙃𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙖 𝙈𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙬𝙨

14 ☆ 𝘾𝙖𝙧 𝙎𝙚𝙭: 𝙃𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝘼𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣

15 ☆ 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙝 𝙍𝙞𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝙏𝙤𝙣𝙮 𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙠

16 ☆ 𝙎𝙚𝙭 𝙏𝙖𝙥𝙚: 𝘽𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙚 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙧

17 ☆ 𝙎𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙮 𝘿𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝙍𝙚𝙢𝙪𝙨 𝙇𝙪𝙥𝙞𝙣

18 ☆ 𝙃𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙁𝙪𝙘𝙠: 𝘿𝙪𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙑𝙖𝙣 𝘿𝙚𝙧 𝙇𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚

19 ☆ 𝙋𝙧𝙚𝙜𝙣𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙮: 𝘼𝙡𝙛𝙞𝙚 𝙎𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙨

20 ☆ 𝙊𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙎𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙪𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝙏𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙮 𝙎𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙗𝙮

21 ☆ 𝙏𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚𝙙: 𝙏𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙨 𝙃𝙚𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙩

22 ☆ 𝙈𝙞𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙧 𝙎𝙚𝙭: 𝙃𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙗𝙖𝙡

23 ☆ 𝙊𝙪𝙩𝙙𝙤𝙤𝙧: 𝘾𝙤𝙥𝙞𝙖/𝙋𝙖𝙥𝙖 𝙀𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙪𝙨 𝙄𝙑

24 ☆ 𝙇𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚: 𝙔𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙪 𝙐𝙙𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙖

25 ☆ 𝘿𝙤𝙪𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙋𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝙏𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙮 𝙎𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙗𝙮 & 𝘼𝙡𝙛𝙞𝙚 𝙎𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙨

26 ☆ 𝙂𝙖𝙜𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝙁𝙖𝙩 𝙂𝙪𝙢/𝙏𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙧𝙤 𝙏𝙤𝙮𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙩𝙨𝙪

27 ☆ 𝙁𝙤𝙧𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙊𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙨𝙢: 𝙍𝙚𝙜𝙜𝙞𝙚 𝙆𝙧𝙖𝙮

28 ☆ 𝙎𝙝𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧: 𝙅𝙤𝙝𝙣𝙣𝙮 𝘿𝙤𝙜𝙨

29 ☆ 𝙒𝙖𝙭 𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙮: 𝙀𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙤𝙧

30 ☆ 𝘾𝙝𝙤𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝙉𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙎𝙢𝙞𝙩𝙝

31 ☆ 𝙑𝙞𝙗𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙤𝙧 𝙒𝙖𝙧: 𝙅𝙞𝙢 𝙃𝙤𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙧

Hello, I hope you enjoyed if there is and grammar mistakes or misspellings sorry about that feel free to let me know in the comments, have a great day/afternoon/night!

♥ mx-pastelwriting does not consent to their work being copied, translated, or reposted on any other platform without permission.

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scarfacemarston · 7 months

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Fluff Alphabet Prompt (x reader)

Send me a character and a letter and I'll do it for ya! If your tagged fave isn't on the list, feel free to request anyway. No guarantees. Bonus for Abigail since she's my fave. A bonus for Marvel or Dragon age since I'm new at those, but have at it! A - Affection (how do they show affection to their s/o)

B - Best Friend (what are they like as a best friend?)

C - Cuddling (do they like to cuddle? And how would they do it?)

D - Domestic (do they want to settle down? How good are they at cooking and cleaning)

E - Ending (if they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

F - Fiancé (how do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

G - Gentle (how gentle they, both physically and emotionally?)

H: Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

I: I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

J: Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they're jealous?)

K: Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you?

L: Little Ones (How are they with kids?)

M: Mornings (How are mornings spent with them?)\

N: Night (How are nights spent with them?)

O: Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

P: Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Q: Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every detail in passing, or do they kind of forget? )

R: Remember (What is their favourite moment in your relationship?)

S: Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

T: Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, and gifts?)

U: Ugly (What would be a bad habit of theirs?)

V: Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

W: Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

X: Xtra (A random headcanon for them) Z: Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

#arthur morgan x reader #john marston x reader #abigail roberts #sadie adler x reader #molly o'shea #cassandra pentaghast #natasha romanoff x reader #cullen rutherford #dragon age fenris #fenris dragon age #isabela dragon age #dragon age isabela #yelena x reader #bucky barnes x reader #sean macguire #charles smith

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uwmspeccoll · 2 months

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Copper Sun

Last week we brought you Harlem Renaissance poet Countee Cullen's (1903-1946) first major poem The Ballad of the Brown Girl. Today we present Cullen's second collected book of poetry, Copper Sun, published in New York by Harper & Brothers in 1927, with illustrations by the same artist who illustrated Ballad, the unrelated Art Deco artist Charles Cullen (1887-?). Copper Sun is a collection of over fifty poems that explore race, religion, and sexuality in Jazz Age America, and particularly the possibility of unity between white and black people, as exemplified in the two Cullens, one black, the other white.

View more work by Countee Cullen.

View other books illustrated by Charles Cullen.

View other Black History Month posts.

#Black History Month #Countee Cullen #Charles Cullen #Copper Sun #Harper & Brothers #harlem renaissance #Art Deco #African Americans #Black writers #Black poets #African American writers #illustrated books

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palmofafreezinghand · 5 days

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By an act of fate Charles Evenson finds himself in Ashland, Wisconsin searching for his missing wife. cw: references to domestic abuse and infant death.

on ao3 here.

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 6:07 PM.

Washburn, Wisconsin.

“Edward, no.”

The car engine roared to life before the front door had a chance to slam shut.

“Edward, please.”

Within seconds the coupe was speeding down the dirt road, leaving a cloud in its wake.

“Edward, don’t.”

The woman was still pleading long after the woods had swallowed the view of the automobile. Her cries were heard by no one but a confused, but sympathetic, doctor.

__________________________________

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 9:01 AM.

Union Depot. Ashland, Wisconsin.

A steam whistle pierced the air as Charles Evenson’s train lurched out of the station, without him.

He skidded to a halt at the edge of the depot. He desperately bent over to catch his breath, his knees cracking as they moved. Between the bullet in his hip and his age, the sprint across the station had his irregular pulse pounding against his skull. He grimaced as a toddler waved at him from the train window, pointing at him and then getting his mother’s attention. Charles lazily waved at the young woman gaping at him through the moving window, sneer never leaving his face. She caught his gaze, quickly looking away, pulling her son from the window in what seemed to be a mix of guilt for catching the train and… fear.

“Excuse me, sir,” a shrill woman’s voice said behind him. He took a deep breath, attempting to wipe the irritation off his face, and turned to face the voice. An older, stout woman was standing in front of him, holding his wallet and cane in her hands. “I believe, you dropped these.”

“Yes. Thank you,” he said, taking his belongings. In his haste, he had failed to notice.

“Did you miss your train?” She asked.

It was such a pity for a woman to have neither brains nor beauty, hopefully she was a half-decent cook. Although perhaps she was not as dim-witted as she appeared and used idiocy as a ruse to cover a much larger sin for a woman to possess: inquisitiveness.

“Yes. I did not realize the service I took from Saint Paul was to a different station,” he huffed, tucking the wallet back into his coat pocket.

Charles had naively believed his secretary could book his trip efficiently. Misplaced faith meant he was forced to run a mile and a half in a Wisconsin winter in ten minutes, miss his train, and endure a dull conversation with a prune.

“You are not the first to make that mistake,” she smiled. Her teeth were yellowed and crooked.

He refrained from rolling his eyes, the woman was older than his mother, and he could be polite, even if it took every ounce of his willpower.

“You are from Saint Paul?”

“No, I live in Columbus. I was in Minnesota for work.” The work was smuggling hundreds of dollars worth of moonshine, a detail best kept secret.

“The only other train East today is towards Chicago. It doesn’t leave until nine this evening.”

“Of course, it doesn’t,” Charles sighed. He flipped open his wallet and searched for a bill. His fingers first found a five but he quickly stuffed it back, fishing out a single dollar bill instead.

He extended the dollar to the woman, she waved it off with her wrinkly bony fingers. What would it take to get her to leave?

“No, no. Enjoy your time in Ashland. Perhaps now you can say hello to Mrs. Bauer,” she said, slowly walking away from the platform and back to the main doors.

“Who?” He called after her, leaning down to pick up his baggage.

“The woman in the photograph,” she said, turning to face him. He frowned and she quickly amended her statement. “Your wallet was open to a woman’s picture. Anne Bauer is it not?”

His eyebrows furrowed. Was there a picture in his wallet?

He dug in his pocket for the wallet, and flipped it open, greeted by a woman he had not seen in nearly eight months: his wife.

Paul — Charles’ third eldest brother — had offered to take their portraits as a wedding present. Charles had still thought of her as lovable when he slipped the print in his wallet, the day before he left for the Front. It had been against protocol — which dictated all identifying artifacts were removed from your body — yet carrying a reminder of a woman he liked the idea of seemed necessary at the time.

They had their… differences, and in the eight or so months he had lived without her he had missed her a handful of times. The morning he awoke to find her gone — four sunrises after she truly left — he had been livid, which was quickly taken over by fear. The blood in their marital bed, the dried dirt under his nails, the occupied grave he had dug in her parent’s orchard. Details pointing to a sinister answer, she did not leave him in a fit of hysteria, he had escorted her out of this life.

Reluctant to admit, even if only to himself, that he was a murderer he had visited her cousin in Milwaukee, who had once harbored her for two weeks. Mary swore on her own children’s lives she had not seen his wife and threatened to report the disappearance and all she knew about Charles’ conduct to the authorities if he did not leave.

He returned home and concocted a lie about how he came home one night to find the lock broken and his wife missing. The neighbors who had heard screams of terror and fits of rage did not believe this lie, but they never said a word otherwise which is all that mattered.

It had not crossed his mind she could still be alive, his conscious free. He held the wallet out to the old woman whom he was praying was confused. “This was the photograph?”

“Yes. That’s her, the widow who teaches in Washburn.”

That bitch.

“You are a friend of hers?” She raised her left eyebrow at the word friend.

An emphasis, there was no mistaking the meaning of. It was odd for a man to keep an image of a woman, who was not his wife, on his person. Especially when the woman was in a wedding gown.

What relation would make it not odd?

“My sister. I had not planned on visiting her since the trip was intended to be short but seeing as I will be in town until late I may be able to visit.”

“Her brother,” the old woman smiled. “She’s such a sweet gal. Despite her circumstances. Has she had the babe yet? Last I heard she was almost due.”

His stomach lurched. She had still been home nine months prior. Of course, she could have betrayed him causing her to flee. But deep in the pit of his stomach, he knew this was not the case.

“We have not been able to write frequently as of late,” Charles lied, voice almost shaky. “She is busy, as you could imagine. Last I heard she had not, no.”

“Well, do give Mrs. Bauer my regards,” the woman said before finally turning away for good.

“Oh, I will.”

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

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 9:25 AM

Washburn, Wisconsin.

A crisp ten-dollar bill had been enough to convince the cab driver to take Charles twelve miles to the small shoreline logging town and wait for an hour.

In the almost half hour since he had realized his wife might be alive, and more significantly he might have a child, he wafted from well-disguised rage to sorrow. If it turned out that the crone in the station had a riddled memory and mistook his wife for an innocent widow would he be disappointed? If his wife was alive and well could he convince her to return home? How would he explain her initial disappearance or the potential child? Perhaps they could move?

He was getting ahead of himself, he first needed a plan to meet ‘Mrs. Anne Bauer.’ If Anne was his wife, he could not simply waltz into the schoolhouse and demand she accompany him. She was charming enough to convince the town he was a madman, a threat, a danger. He needed to meet without an audience, at her home. Yet, if Mrs. Bauer was a widow whose only sin was bearing a mild resemblance to his wife he could not approach her at home without being escorted out of town by a Sheriff.

As he approached the town’s tiny one-room post office he paused to observe the first townspeople he had seen. A middle-aged couple were making their way down the stairs, arms linked, the man carrying a stack of envelopes in his free hand. The woman’s face turned to surprise when she spotted a young blond man packing boxes into the back of an automobile.

“Dr. Cullen!” The woman exclaimed, dropping her husband’s arm.

The man, apparently a doctor, turned to face the woman and Charles was able to catch the man’s face. Odd, was the only way to describe the man.

“Good morning, Mr. And Mrs. Birch,” Dr. Cullen said, stalling his packing to give them his full attention.

“I have been searching for you but you’ve been practically missing this past month. My niece is staying with us for the season, you must come for dinner,” the woman insisted.

“Oh, I appreciate the invitation, Mrs. Birch. But I must decline, I have been told I am an awful dinner party guest, I am utterly incapable of upholding conversation not concerning diseases and organs.”

“Then I will serve goose liver,” she countered.

The doctor laughed but was unmoved. “Thank you but that will be unneccessary, Mrs. Birch.”

“I will convince you one of these days,” she said pointedly, turning back towards her husband and linking her arm through his again. “Do not let her persuade you, Doctor,” Mr. Birch said over his shoulder.

“Arthur, hush,” Mrs. Burch said, lightly smacking her husband.

The doctor smiled to himself as the couple walked down the street.

“If you told them the truth you were attached she would relent,” Charles said, walking towards the doctor.

“Oh, I am n- How did you? What gave you that impression?”

“You have the air of a man shackled by a doe-eyed girl.”

“I would not use the term shackled,” Dr. Cullen said quietly.

“Ah, you are hoping to be attached.” “Perhaps,” the doctor smiled at his feet.

Charles knew soon enough the young man would realize the trap that was a blushing innocent but for now, he was intoxicated by the thrill of a nice girl.

“Do you live around here?” Charles asked. He figured if anyone were to know the people of a town it would be the doctor.

“Yes, further North. I work in the city,” Dr. Cullen said, resuming sorting his packages. “You are visiting, I presume.”

“Yes, Anne Bauer, do you know her?”

The doctor froze for a split second, something that should have gone unnoticed. “I believe the name sounds familiar,” he said slowly, focusing unnaturally on his task. He had loaded all the boxes and was now unnecessarily sorting them.

“She’s a widow, currently expecting, a teacher.”

The doctor nodded, ‘mhm-ing’ to himself. A noncommittal, unsatisfactory answer.

Charles dug his wallet out of his pocket, pulling the photo out of the wallet. He handed the paper over to the doctor. “Her?”

The doctor held the photo delicately, staring at it for half a minute. “She is young here, but yes, I knew her,” he said, finally tearing his eyes from the image. “You knew her well?”

“Yes, yes, we’re quite close. If you could tell me wher—”

“I apologize for being the one to break this news, Anne passed last month.”

Charles could feel his jaw drop. His legs felt like river reeds, swaying in the stream. “She… She’s dead?”

“You have my deepest sympathies,” Dr. Cullen said with solemnity.

“The child?”

“Her son passed shortly before her, lung fever.”

Charles Evenson had a son that he lost every chance to know because of his own selfish, cruel actions.

“Th-thank you,” Charles told the doctor, starting to walk, more accurately stumble, back down the street. He did not hear the doctor call after him offering him the photo and asking if Charles was alright. His mind was lost in images of a son that never would be.

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

Saturday, February 19, 1921. 5:57 PM.

Washburn, Wisconsin.

Carlisle could hear his two companions inside as he made his way slowly down the dirt driveway. The familiar banter was quickly becoming one of his favorite sounds. While the transition into their world had not been entirely smooth, Esme had become a priceless addition to his life.

“Oh, I loathe this one,” Esme sighed as Edward began to play Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 23.

“It’s Beethoven,” Edward responded curtly, continuing on with the composition with masterful precision.

“It is utterly depressing.”

“Depressing,” Edward scoffed.

Carlisle smiled to himself as he parked the automobile. Esme was still reluctant to express any of her opinions freely but when she did allow the two men to know her thoughts on music it often sparked heated debates.

“I imagine this is what plays in a murderer’s mind before he kills.”

“You have too vivid an imagination for your own good,” Edward teased.

Carlisle tried to open the door quietly, so as to not disturb the scene of domesticity but his efforts were interrupted by a pleasant, “Good evening, Dr. Cullen.”

“Good evening, Ms. Platt,” he said, moving quickly to join the pair in the sitting room.

“Please, call me Esme.”

“I will not drop honorifics while you insist on calling me Doctor,” he said for what had to be the twentieth time, earning him a roll of her eyes. He took a seat on the opposite end of the couch, listening to Edward play the “depressing” tune. Esme returned her attention to the book in her lap.

Carlisle allowed his eyes to slip close briefly while he listened. “I suppose it is rather intense,” he acquiesced, opening his eyes as Edward began to play even more passionately.

“Not you too,” Edward huffed, attention never leaving the keys.

“Thank you,” Esme smiled slightly, she still had yet to freely smile in the time he had known her. “How was your day?”

“Quite fine,” Carlisle said. For hours he had debated how to broach the subject of the man in town. Esme’s constitution was delicate, to put it mildly. To remind her she was mourned could be potentially disastrous. Yet, as soon as he saw her his resolve to keep the man a secret crumpled. “I met someone in town I would like to ask you about.”

“Oh?”

“He was quite charming, very personable. He was not from Ashland. You once mentioned you have a brother, correct?”

“Harry,” she nodded, “he died in the war.”

That complicated the matter. Carlisle had presumed by the man’s reaction he was a close dear connection, one personally affected by the loss. Her brother seemed the logical conclusion based on how Esme discussed her childhood. How awful for her to have lost both her beloved brother and husband to the war.

Edward’s fingers halted mid-note. “Carlisle,” he said between clenched teeth. “Think of that face again.”

Carlisle did as instructed, unsure what significance the old friend of Esme’s held in the boy’s mind. Although, Edward had been overly paranoid about leaving any trace of Esme in Washburn’s history, going as far as to erase hospital records that so much as mentioned her son. Whomever this past connection was had left Washburn without fuss as soon as he realized who he sought was no more. Edward was, as usual, overreacting.

“When did you see him?”

“A quarter past nine?” Carlisle guessed. “Edward, the man poses no threat.”

“You have no idea the threat,” Edward said, standing from his bench and storming out of the room in one swift furious move.

Esme’s gaze followed Edward from the piano to the doorframe, and a look of recognition hit her face. “Did he have a cane?” She asked quietly.

“Yes,” Carlisle said, turning his attention back to her. Esme’s eyes were wide with an emotion he dared say was fear. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Esme was off the couch and bolting after Edward. Carlisle followed out of pure confusion.

“Edward, please,” she pleaded, running down the hallway.

“Esme, stay,” Edward spat in a tone harsher than Carlisle had ever heard him use, throwing the front door open.

“Edward, do not do anything to him.”

“Go inside, Esme.”

“No,” she grabbed his arm. He flinched but froze in his step, refusing to use force to remove her. “You are not to find him. I am pleading with you.” Her voice was close to a tearless sob.

“Esme, the things he did to you,” Edward hissed. A statement that made Carlisle’s stomach turn. The things he did to you. The wedding portrait he had stored away in his medical bag. The man’s shock at the passing of her son. How Esme flinched every time someone raised their voice. No?

Edward nodded brusquely in Carlisle’s direction. “He must be dealt with.”

“Edward.”

“I will not kill him,” Edward said quietly, in a tone not entirely convincing. He placed one hand over Esme’s on his arm. “I promise.”

“Who is this man?” Carlisle asked, stepping towards the two. Although he presumed he knew a fraction of the answer already.

Esme glanced back at him eyes wide, mouth agape. Edward used her moment of distraction to pry himself away, marching towards the automobile.

“Esme will explain. I will be back.”

“Edward, no.”

The car engine roared to life.

“Edward, please.”

Within seconds the coupe was speeding down the dirt road, leaving a cloud in its wake.

“Edward, don’t.”

The woman was still pleading long after the woods had swallowed the view of the automobile. Her cries eventually turned into explanations which turned into tearless sobs.

When Edward finally did return it was with clean hands, finding Charles had unfortunately made his train and was out of Ashland, alive and well.

#charles evenson #esme cullen #esme platt #carlisle cullen #edward cullen #my stories #twilight fanfiction #thank you thank you thank you to the anon who requested this!!

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agirlnamedbone · 1 year

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The Night Hank’s Hand Caught on Fire by Charles E. Cullen

#charles e cullen #charles cullen #outsider art #folk art #appalachian gothic #horror #oil painting #op #southern gothic #body horror

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eddieredmayneargentinablog · 1 year

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Watch: "Evil Embodied: Eddie Redmayne's Chilling Performance as Most Prolific Serial Killer | Netflix

Oscar®-winning actor Eddie Redmayne discusses his immersion into the role of serial killer Charlie Cullen in Netflix original film The Good Nurse. Director Tobias Lindholm and co-star Jessica Chastain praise the actor's full-body performance and the dignity he brought to it.