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dwellordream · 3 years

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“Girls’ schools promoted an intense female peer culture which contrasted with the disciplines of moralistic home environments. Evidence from the accounts of girls attending the myriad female seminaries and girls’ boarding schools throughout the Northeast suggests that their academic programs were relatively gentle, and that their peer culture was powerful and often fun. Despite the best efforts of outnumbered teachers, relations with friends tended to overshadow lessons learned. Overwhelmingly when girls wrote home to their parents, they described the girls they had met, and the antics they had shared; in diaries they noted the romantic intimacies they had formed, with academic work generating only occasional mention.

Girls’ peer life at school was high-spirited, collective, and ritualized all at once. Teachers themselves often participated. At Miss Porter’s in Farmington, Connecticut, in 1860, teachers organized a costume party, suggested characters for everyone, and helped sew costumes—perhaps in part a sewing lesson. (For Lily Dana, suggestions included an elf, Mischief, or a witch.) At a Prospect Hill School party in 1882, townspeople came, the girls wore flowers and white dresses, and Margaret Tileston reported that she had done the quadrille with Miss Clarke and the gallop with Miss Tuxbury—concluding that she had had ‘‘a very nice time.’’

Girls remembering their days at convent schools report similar good times. Julia Sloane Spalding recalled elegiacally her years at Nazareth Academy, a school run by the Sisters of Charity in Louisville, Kentucky, in the 1850s. ‘‘The sisters allowed us to romp and play, dance and sing as we pleased and our stage performances were amusing, if they had no greater merit. Musical soirees, concerts, serenades and minstrelsy kept our spirits attuned to gladness. Varied by picnics, lawn parties, hayrides, phantom parties, nutting parties in summer and candy pullings and fancy balls with Nazareth’s colored band to fiddle.’’

Exclaimed Spalding, ‘‘O what fun!’’ in fond reflection on the good times among the sisters who served ‘‘good substantial sandwiches, cakes and fruit’’ from ‘‘great big baskets.’’ She concluded, ‘‘and so, the spice of life conduced to our health and happiness.’’ Mary Anne Murphy arrived at Nazareth Academy with her sister in 1859 during a quadrille, the slave musicians calling out the figures. She and her sister stood in ‘‘wonderment that such fun was tolerated in a convent.’’ Whatever the nostalgia of middle age, certainly these reflections suggest that elite Catholic and Protestant girls’ academies left some of their richest memories in collective fun.

If teachers sponsored some activities, they implicitly sanctioned many more. Wilfrida Hogan attended the Sisters of St. Joseph convent school in St. Paul in the 1870s and remembers fondly her class, which was known for its lively irreverence: ‘‘Each girl seemed to view the other as to who could play the biggest pranks, or have the most fun.’’

Ellen Emerson overflowed with delight in a letter to her mother (significantly, not her father) while at Miss Sedgwick’s School in Lenox, Massachusetts: ‘‘Every night we do things which it seems to me I can never remember without laughing if I should live to be a hundred. The most absurd concerts, ludicrous charades, peculiar battles etc. etc. Then the wildest frolics, the loudest shrieks, the most boisterous rolling and tumbling that eye ever saw, ear ever heard or heart ever imagined. I consider myself greatly privileged that every night I can see and join such delightful romps.’’

When teachers were around, the pranks were more likely to occur upstairs in student bedrooms. Lily Dana and friends joined together to victimize two other girls by putting crumbs in their bed, and cutting off candle wicks. Another evening Dana noted that she ‘‘Had some fun throwing pillows and nightgowns,’’ and though Miss Porter caught her, it did not seem to dampen much her spirits. Teachers at girls’ schools were occasion- ally disciplinarians, clearly.

One teacher told Lily Dana that ‘‘she supposed my mother let me do everything,’’ and the sisters at St. Mary’s Academy in South Bend, Indiana, turned the piano to the wall in order to keep girls from waltzing with each other. Yet students often emerged victorious; at St. Mary’s they played combs for dance music instead. (One participant reported that ‘‘the Sisters had to give up, for they knew not what to do.’’) The ideology of nurture combined with the shared exuberance of age mates overpowered much teacherly remonstrance.

It is sometimes hard to read such tales of schoolgirl exuberance without wondering whether the inmates had taken over the asylum, however, so a corrective is in order. One such account which requires a second look is the spirited account of Agnes Repplier, In Our Convent Days (1906), about her time in the late 1860s at a Pennsylvania school run by the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. Repplier writes of the pranks and passions of her band of seven partners in crime, in an ebulliant account designed to appeal to a readership newly attracted to childhood naughtiness in revolt against Victorian propriety. It is clear in retrospect, though, that she must have concealed or minimized an- other side to her experiences. For the denouement of her story is her expulsion and removal from a school she adored.

Peer cultures could also be cruel and hurtful beyond the control of evangelical teachers, as the practices of hazing in British public schools testify. Some of the most painful memories of inclusion and exclusion in girls’ schools centered around that most primal of media, the sharing of food. Food boxes, customarily sent from home, were the occasion for impromptu parties, a demonstration of wealth and taste, or an opportunity to play favorites.

The elation which greeted such arrivals might well prove a commentary on the regular fare at boarding schools, which sometimes undoubtedly was very poor. (The advice giver Mary Virginia Terhune’s critique of girls’ boarding schools included the accusation that they fed their students from a ‘‘common vat’’ which supplied breakfast, dinner, and supper all together, a practice partially confirmed by one account of eating the same stew at least twice a day at an Ursuline academy in San Antonio in the 1890s.)

At any rate, the arrival of food from home occasioned select gatherings and provided opportunities for discrimination among friends. When one friend’s mother brought good things to eat, Josie Tilton noted that ‘‘we’’ had a feast tonight, explaining for the future who she would always mean when she said ‘‘we’’—‘‘Lizzie, Emma, May and I’’— the groupness secured by inclusion in this select group of diners.

Lily Dana suspected a friend of being miserly and so snuck into her room to inspect. ‘‘There was a box which had been filled with cake, part of a pie and several other things filling her trunk nearly half full. . . . If I had a box sent to me I think I should give my friend more than ‘five or six cookies.’’’ If girls could feel short-changed by each other, relations with parents could also strain over the sending of food boxes, which represented extremely conspicuous con- sumption for girls attempting to ‘‘belong.’’

In an unusually direct letter home in the 1840s, Maria Nellis passed on to her parents her unmediated hurt and sense of disadvantage in the competition for food—and the status that came with it. Elizabeth got her box yesterday and was favoured with six times more things than I was. Her box was so large and heavy the master found it his match to carry it upstairs. She has 4 kinds of cake, nuts, apples, candy, clothing and every thing else, but after all, Dear Poppy, I am not jealous. . . . When you sent that box you did not send half what I asked. I was very disappointed. You said it would be eatables, but it wasn’t. You sent only a few apples, one cake and some clothes. Why didn’t you send me some nuts? I haven’t had a nut yet this winter, and indeed I expected nuts above all things. E. Fox had a box worth speaking of. Now that shows that you don’t care enough for me to even send me a few nuts.

Intermittently, Nellis regained control, but her grievance was palpable. Finally at the end, she acknowledged to her parents that she might be hurting their feelings, reassured them that she loved them all with ‘‘a deep and fervent love,’’ and promised better behavior in the future. Clearly at stake for her was both status in the school world and a primitive sense of deprivation in her own family.

As the correspondence suggests, the emotional atmosphere in girls’ boarding schools was not only intense but more expressive and enacted than that within moralistic, Victorian households. Within private, female, boarding academies, duty-bound Victorian daughters learned languages of sentiment, desire, and emotional excess censored from other parts of their lives. The elaborate conventions accompanying the expression and affirmation of affection among boarding-school girls, sometimes involving teachers as well, was indeed a separate ‘‘female world of love and ritual,’’ as Carroll Smith-Rosenberg affirmed in a classic article about nineteenth-century women’s culture.

In recent years, Smith-Rosenberg’s ‘‘Female World of Love and Ritual’’ has been attacked for its overgeneralizing characterization of an exclusively female emotional sphere in the nineteenth century, but her strongest evidence confirms the significance, the power, and the longevity of girls’ boarding school friendships, which were enacted through elaborate rituals in a range of schools.

The rituals of boarding school life centered around the making and breaking of special friendships, known variously as ‘‘affinities,’’ ‘‘specials,’’ or ‘‘darlings’’ and increasingly as either ‘‘smashes’’ or ‘‘crushes.’’ One way of expressing interest was to ‘‘filipine’’ with someone, to leave her a surprise gift outside her door. (When Lily Dana was caught, she needed to give her gift, a large apple, outright.) Such relationships played out in diaries, letters, and the poetry of autograph books. Girls expected to pair up for many school activities and entertained a variety of ‘‘dates’’ with different girls for walking, going to church, and sleeping.

Sally Dana wrote home to her mother explaining that she was following her father’s advice not to form special friendships too soon, and so had ‘‘slept in eight different beds.’’ During these private moments, girls would share secrets about their own likes and dislikes, each other, their teachers, families, and their school lives. The intricacy of such social calendars opened ample opportunities for misunderstanding and frayed feelings.

These peer relationships characterized elite female seminaries in the North- east, but they also appeared in a range of schools, including the African American Scotia Seminary, founded by the American Missionary Association in Concord, North Carolina, following the Civil War. Scotia had northern roots, which may have influenced its student culture. Glenda Gilmore tells us it was modeled on Mount Holyoke, and was ‘‘calculated to give students the knowledge, social consciousness, and sensibilities of New England ladies, with a strong dose of Boston egalitarianism sprinkled in.’’

Roberta Fitzgerald went to Scotia in the early twentieth century and kept a composition book, likely in 1902, which was filled with the talismans of schoolgirl crushes. A note inside addressed to ‘‘Dear Roberta’’ asked, ‘‘Will you please exchang rings with me today and you may ware mine again,’’ and Roberta herself wrote a sad poem to a friend ‘‘Lu’’ who had thrown her over.

And so you see as I am deemed

Most silently to wait

I cannot but be womanlike

And meekly await my fate.

Ah! sweet it is to love a girl

But truly oh! how bitter

To love a girl with all your heart

And then to hear ‘‘Cant get her.’’

And Lulu dear as I must here

Relinquish with a moan

May your joys be as deep as the ocean

And your sorrow as light as its foam.

On the back of the notebook, which also contained class assignments, was a confidence exchanged with a seatmate. ‘‘I was teasing Bess Hoover about you and she told me she loved you dearly.’’

For those much in demand, this charged atmosphere of flirtation and intimacy in the North and South represented an exhilarating round of fun and sport. For those less secure, diaries and letters presented an obvious outlet for the anguish of the neglected. Agnes Hamilton, a member of a Fort Wayne clan which sent several daughters to boarding school on their way to prominent careers in progressive America, experienced some of both. Sometimes she basked in the glow of family reputation; often she worried over her own inability to keep up with her illustrious cousins. Her unusually detailed accounts document an entire school culture rather than just an individual emotional life.

Hamilton’s first impressions of school social life at Miss Porter’s School were favorable, but even these revealed insecurities to come. In an entry from November 1886, when she was seventeen, Hamilton noted that ‘‘Farmington is just as perfect as they all said it would be, the girls, Miss Porter, and all.’’ Her reservation had to do with her own imperfections: ‘‘But I don’t think I am the right sort of a Farmington girl.’’ Even so, Agnes was in demand, describing a flurry of close attentions from numerous girls. A week later, in her cousin’s absence, she received displaced attentions:

Yesterday Mannie was very nice to me. I suppose she thinks I am lonely without Alice. We walked past the fill around by the river to the graveyard. Then she came in and we talked for an hour. All evening we were together. This afternoon we walked together too for Tuesday is her day with Alice. We went down to the green house where Mannie gave me some lovely roses. I would give anything to know what she thinks of me. . . . Will I ever be able to talk and be jolly as other girls? Some girls are frightfully stupid and yet they can make themselves somewhat agreeable. I have struck up a sudden friendship with Lena Farnam. We were together Saturday afternoon and evening and Sunday I asked her to be my church girl in Alice’s place.

Agnes was still in a position to be picky, noting one drawback: Lena ‘‘seems very nice indeed but I wish she were not only fifteen.’’ Lena was far from the only prospect. Agnes noted another new friend: ‘‘I have seen a great deal lately of Edith Trowbridge too. When she overcomes her shyness she will be exceedingly nice.’’ Not surprisingly, with all the intensity of the socializing, Agnes mentioned with no comment that only three out of thirteen in the class were prepared for their lessons that Tuesday. In those early weeks, Agnes Hamilton’s enthusiasm for this exciting life of emotional intrigue was palpable. The next week (she seems to have written on Tuesdays), Agnes announced to her diary ‘‘the jolliest crush in school’’ involving one of her very own intimates of the week before.

‘‘I walked with Edith Trowbridge this afternoon, on purpose to have her tell me about Lena. I hinted and hinted in vain. I told her about every other crush in school but she never said a word about Lena’s, so at last I told her that I knew all about it but even then she would not say a word about the subject. I hope she will tell Lena so that she will speak to me about it next Saturday when we are driving.’’ The triangulation of such relationships increased the possibilities for intrigue. Agnes wearied a bit of the uncooperative Edith, though, observing that though ‘‘very nice . . . she did not get over her stiffness.’’

Agnes Hamilton seemed to be trying to do her schoolwork, but her roller- coaster social life intervened. One day when she was preparing for class, a friend came by to teach her a dance step, from which she was interrupted by the arrival of a buggy she had rented to take another friend for a ride, the same girl whose ‘‘jolly’’ crush had amused her the week before. (‘‘The more I see of her the better I like,’’ she now reported. ‘‘Her face is rather attractive at first and then it grows on one.’’) When she returned, she found another visitor who stayed till it was time for tea.

The result: ‘‘I have not looked at my Mental since Thursday.’’ By the end of the same day, yet a new ‘‘crush’’ had taken over when Agnes got word of someone’s interest in her, and Agnes wondered ‘‘if I have ever been as actively happy.’’ The frenzy had settled down a week later, when Agnes announced that she had all her walking days ‘‘just as I want them.’’ Each day of the week was assigned a different companion, with whom Agnes would exchange intimacies and gossip, using the rituals of girls’ school life to structure its emotional extravagance.

One must conclude that the intensity of the social life was seen to serve some purpose, for evidence suggests that it was allowed to flourish until the turn of the century. (Lily Dana noted that Miss Porter’s permission had been sought for at least one and probably more sleeping dates.) At that time, new sexualized interpretations of girls’ and women’s friendships brought a crackdown on such friendships. At the time, though, they appear to have received official sanction. In fact, one of the first of Ladies’ Home Journal ’s ‘‘Side Talks with Girls’’ took up the question of ‘‘School Girl Friendships.’’ The Journal endorsed such girlish relationships for their innocence and energy and their precious brevity, saluting ‘‘the giddy, gushing period’’ as one which ‘‘never comes to some and to most it soon passes.’’

In particular, it contrasted this girlish spontaneity with the superficiality of the jaded young lady. Its contrast of ‘‘young girls, lively, radiant, energetic, spirited, loving girls’’ with ‘‘young ladies who talk of their beaux, dresses and the surface shows of society’’ represented another version of a conventional warning against precociousness. Girls’ crushes on other girls were still perceived as innocent and healthy—and would be well after doctors first began to cast suspicion over such relationships in the 1880s and 1890s.”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Competitive Practices: Sentiment and Scholarship in Secondary Schools.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

#victorian #history #education #sexuality #american #jane h. hunter #how young ladies became girls

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nyctimus · 5 years

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It had been the stupidest fucking argument.

Most of them were, really. Felix had a talent for starting shit. Always had. He was too goddamn defensive, always; Shoulders tensing, jaw clenching, his guard rising high at the barest provocation, or whatever he managed to take as such. His therapist had given him something about how that was him trying to protect himself and privately he thought that was funny as fuck considering how it seemed to just bring him more trouble, not less, but whatever.

This one had been over some pretty little blonde gal who’d been a little too touchy feely at the last party they’d gone to. ‘Just a get- together with some friends,’ Ty had said, and in Felix’s world- not the one he’d grown up in, not the one he had one foot in by way of dating Tyler Lodgston, the one he belonged in now- in his world, a get- together with some friends was a night spent sharing green, taking turns playing some shitty first- person shooter on multiplayer and chipping in to buy a pizza or two. In Ty’s world, a get- together was like… ridiculously over the top glitz and glamour, champagne flutes, gourmet appetizers. Anyways, that was besides the point. Sort of. Just another thing to scrawl on the list of reasons why he and Ty were incompatible, even if they’d spent five fucking rocky years together, now, on and off. Five years. Five years of highs and lows and trouble and overcoming that trouble despite all the odds, five years down the fucking drain because of some blonde bitch that Tyler said didn’t even matter.

Yeah.

She didn’t matter, but somehow she’d managed to fuck everything up between them. Felix ground his teeth, a traitorous thought sneaking in. Was that fair? Well, why did it matter if he gave a shit whether it was fair or not? Because he should be honest with himself. Something between them was messed up, and it would have been messed up even if that blonde girl had never existed. He and Tyler were broken. Supposedly for good this time. Supposedly, Tyler was too fucking exhausted for his shit anymore. Yeah, well Felix was fucking tired too. He’d been kicked out in the past- had spent a couple nights on Joey’s couch, and then either they’d patched things up or he’d hopped to another friend’s couch until they had. He’d left before, too. Had sworn to himself and Ty that he wasn’t ever coming back, but it hadn’t ever lasted. Obviously.

This time, though, it was going to fucking last.

Felix was going to make sure of it.

He was on Joey’s couch now, his head hanging backwards over the edge, staring listlessly across the room. He’d already smoked a bowl, had spent the time since he’d gotten here with a backpack stuffed with his shit- the shit he’d earned himself, the tanks, the jacket, the little remnants from his life before Ty that hadn’t been tossed out and none of the shit Ty’d given him- crying and then getting high and then laying listlessly on the couch. It was nearly eight, now. Seven fifty- four.

Ty’s parents' place was across town, in the nice part of the city, and their New Years Eve party was starting in six minutes. There was no fucking way he was supposed to be there, but nobody’d officially rescinded his invitation. Joey’d left the room, just for a second- just to grab a couple beers- but the guy’d known him for years, now, and he ought to know that leaving an upset Felix unsupervised was a surefire way to have really, really bad plans being put into action.

He was out the door before Joey’d come back and out of sight before the man would be able to start looking for him, and an hour- and forty- five minutes later, nearing ten P.M., he was waltzing in the Lodgston’s door. Fashionably late, in his old, worn leather jacket, his white tank that had a tear in one side, his favorite boots that Tyler had always hated. He didn’t have much of a plan. He was hurt and angry and the only clear- cut idea he had was to make sure that Ty felt the same way and that everyone fucking knew it, too. To make sure that Ty didn’t get to toss that charming smile at everyone and play at being fine, pretend like Felix hadn’t ever mattered.

Five years. Felix had wasted five years on the guy. They were a mess, they’d been a mess from the start and it wasn’t like Felix could claim he’d done much to try and fix that but certainly wasn’t the only one to blame. Tyler was at fault, too, sleazy fucker, so fucking full of himself. Felix wanted to hate him. Thought he might be able to if he could just figure out how to shut down the parts of him that loved him.

The party was in full swing, by now. So long as Felix avoided anyone that was gonna wanna talk to him, it’d be easy enough to fly under the radar until he figured out what he was gonna do and he’d had enough to drink to go through with it. As if his rebellious choice in attire wouldn’t have him sticking out like a sore thumb. First order of business, he found the open bar, and only after three drinks- thrown back quicker than they really should’ve been- did he start scanning the room.

That just resulted in him drinking more.

Eventually, though, he’d had enough to have him feeling almost numb, almost fine. He was a little too empty to be fine, but this? This was better than nothing. Time had passed, somehow, and he’d managed to avoid anyone that knew him. Another round of shots for courage and then he turned his back on the bar, scanning the room. When he laid eyes on Ty, it felt almost like something was being ripped from his chest. Even so, he was far too stubborn- and far too fucked up- to rethink all of this and just go back to Joey’s. No, instead he started weaving his way across the room.

Before he got to his target, though, he stumbled across someone else. Into them, rather- quite literally.

Tate.

It wasn’t possible to mistake him for his twin, really, that bleached hair was one significant difference between him and Tyler, but there were other, subtle differences too. Their build, their style. Tyler hated his brother. Black sheep of the family, Tate was, and despite being able to kinda empathize with that, Felix’d never had much to do with him.

But…

After a second of staring, staying slumped against the body he’d collided with, he straightened up a little and offered a lazy grin. Didn’t bother moving away or anything, no, Felix just tossed an arm around Tate’s shoulders. He was obviously not sober in any sense of the word, and if they wanted to they could all just go ahead and blame that for his behavior, his actions. If nothing else he’d make sure Tyler knew he couldn’t, though. He’d make damn sure of it.

“Tate,” He greeted the man cheerfully. Jubilantly, as he soaked in the warmth of his body. “Hey, buddy.” He patted his shoulder twice, a friendly gesture, when he couldn’t even for sure recall whether they’d had so much as a single conversation before. It was bold. Bolder than he usually was, and whether that was due to the shit in his system or the way his broken heart was bleeding anger and hurt all over the damn place was anyone’s guess.

“You can help a guy out, can’tcha? You, uh...” He lifted his free hand in a lazy wave, gesturing at the room at large without ever taking his eyes off Tate’s face. “Enjoying the festivities?” As if festivities wasn’t putting it lightly. This was over the top, even by their standards.

@tristfulwordsmith

#this is... 1.3k........ how Obnoxious im so sorry #talix p #Tate&Felix 1 #new year; new me

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hypnoidvoid · 5 years

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Uhhhh for the prompts can you write about reddie just goofing around and then accidentally finding themselves in a compromising position??

[Title: Twisted Up]

A/N: Yo listen, this is the kind of shit I live for. Especially if it involves Reddie playing Twister and both being too stubborn to lose, no matter what position they end up ;)

Pairing: Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak, (minor) Bill Denbrough x Stanley Uris, (minor) Beverly Marsh x Ben Hanscom

Words: 2.2k

// Link to Read on Ao3 //

Permatags: @edstozler @kaspbrak-eddie @noahschnapp @richiefuckfacetozier @reddies-spaghetti @tozier-boy @eds-kas @thatgazebobullshit @honeybeehanlon @constantreaderfool @reddie-for-anything @s-tanleyuris @beepbeepdickie

Game night was no time to fuck around.

The Losers Club fucking around? Absolutely not. This shit was serious.

Bill looked down at his hand of cards (pretty much the whole deck at this point), then to Stan’s complacent face from across the table. His features spoke ‘there’s no fucking way you’re winning’, and he was fucking right…. maybe. The worst part about all this is that both of them bet $50 on a game of luck, $50 that neither of them really wanted to or could afford to sacrifice, but both did anyway, and Bill had spat mad smack the entirety of their game.

Uno was no laughing matter.

Running his eyes over his fan of cards, Bill hesitantly chose a green 8 and slid it across the table. He was satisfied with his pick, for Stan had played all yellows and reds for the past 6 turns, and yes, he counted. The odds seemed to be in his favor with this track record. Stan pinched his lips and anxiously scratched the underside of his chin with the hand not holding his last card. He took dreadfully long, in Bill’s opinion, and laid down the the only card he had, but upside down.

Getting impatient, Bill rustled, “Well s-show it already! There’s n-nuh-no strategy, just lay down t-thu-the damn card, Stan!”

Stan hung his head in defeat and reached for the pile of shuffled scrap cards, “Fine.”

“T-T-That smug fuh-ucking face all for nothin-”

He sharply retracted his hand and flipped a green 9 over to slam on top of Bill’s card without looking up.

“You mother f-fuh-f-fucker.”

Devious, slit pupils peeped from underneath his tight curls, “Looks like you owe me fifty big ones, Denbrough.”

“Fifty b-bucks yeah, not five huh-dred,” Bill slumped in his chair like a pouty child, defeated. He wanted to buy an upgraded XBOX controller with that money, and a new bean bag chair with the $50 he was preemptively expecting to win from Stan. Instead, he sat in his metaphorical salt marsh of being short $50. Stan only straightened his posture and gleamed, holding out a flattened palm for his reward.

A crash of pots and pans hurdled out from the cabinets and on to the linoleum floors, puncturing the ear drums of everyone in the Hanscom household, even the cat. A collective flinch among the Losers was shared from the clanging metal.

“Fuck, sorry fellas!”

Beverly popped her head out from around the corner of the kitchen, “Dumbass thought Eddie hid his Christmas gift in the cabinet.”

Mike, who had been observantly watching the Uno game from the couch piped up, “And was it?”

She licked her finger and slicked a curl behind her ear, “Nope.”

“Fuck!” Richie yelled again.

Normally, game nights would be held at Bill’s house, but tonight was an exception. Ben’s mom was visiting his lonely aunt in Washington and asked her responsible son to watch the house. Of course she allowed him to have friends over, she trusted him more than God himself, but even Ben had to admit that keeping his house out of harm’s way was a big task. A task, but one that was worth it to have his best friends brighten his home on a snowy winter’s eve.

Eddie’s head breached underneath Beverly’s, “He’s not even close,” and mouthed to Mike ‘it’s in the trunk of his own fucking car’.

“Gimme a hint?” Richie hailed.

Eddie just endearingly smiled at his friends in the living room without turning his head, “Absolutely fucking not, Rich.”

“Fuck!” He chirped for the third time.

Waltzing with a chipper pep to his step into his living room, Ben held both hands behind his back, “Hey guys, I found an old game of mine. I used to love this one.”

“How old can it be Benjamin, you’re 18,” Stan snorted, pocketing the money he won from Bill.

Ben bellowed a characteristic bellied laugh, “Old enough to still be fun.”

Beverly skipped out of the kitchen and attempted to snatch the item Ben was hiding behind his back, “What is it? What is it, what is it, huh?”

He gently pushed her hip aside to divert her grabbing twirl, and managed to plop a kiss on her nose as she was scooted to his left, “Twister, honey.”

She swiftly yanked the game out of his hands on the outturn of her twirl and shook her body with excitement, “I love Twister!” Clutching the box to her bosoms and tipping a foot off the ground, she gave Ben a firm kiss on the lips.

Bill sat closely next to Stan on the couch, with Mike lounging on the arm, “Y-Yak.”

“Don’t be such a bitter butter, Denbruh,” and Richie kissed the air consecutively in his direction, after sneaking behind Eddie and pulling him into a suffocating hug.

“I-I think you mean Nu-nuh-tter Butter.”

Richie happily planted sloppy pecks onto Eddie’s rosied cheeks as he squirmed away, “Yeah whatever.”

Through sullied giggles, Eddie meekly protested, “Richie, fuck, Richie STOP!”

As Eddie made his way to the couch, Richie obediently followed, with his arms looping around Eddie’s waist and mimicking his short-legged gate. Eddie may have told Richie to stop, perhaps even a thousand times, but here he was, placing his heated palms on top of Richie’s on his hips and leaning his head back against his chest.

“Who wants to play? We need four players.” Ben asked, laying out the plastic gameboard with the help of his girlfriend. Beverly splayed out across it, even in her primly ironed dress, to flatten the thing out for gameplay.

Richie blew a tickling raspberry into the side of Eddie’s neck, initiating a surprised yelp.

“Okay so Eddie wants to play, any other takers?”

“Really?”

“Oh me, please me good sir!” Richie snarked after being elbowed by Eddie, who was nearly in his lap.

Mike sniggered, garbling under his breath so only Stan and Bill could hear from the couch, “Get a damn room, motherfuckers.”

“I’ll play, I’m on a winning streak anyway, Bill, want to bet again?” And Stan shot a coy glare at Bill as he stood up.

Bill puffed his chest, “Yeah m-me too. Count m-me in.”

Even though she was disappointed she didn’t get to opt in and play this round, Beverly was pleased with the opportunity to spin the color directory alongside Mike and Ben. She made sure she held the wheel so that if there were chances to make this game as tedious as possible, she would have the liberty to cheat if need be and make that decision. Right now, she was their God. And Beverly Marsh was going to make this game as inconvenient as humanly possible.

Sitting with her legs awkwardly crossed on the shag carpet against Ben’s body, she announced with a devilish lull, “So, who’s first?”

“Bill,” Eddie chortled coincidentally in sync with Richie, who nudged him kindly in agreeance.

Beverly spun the wheel, “Right foot red, Bill.”

Many turns came and went without problematic intervention, snide comments, or even side chatter. The farther the game deepened, the more serious it got. The four playing were in no mood to lose to their childhood friends, and in Bill and Stan’s case, their significant other. Even Richie, who took nothing seriously and absorbed certain things with a grain of salt that should be taken with a brick of concrete, and who at other times could make events that would usually be fun and games become life and death. Twister was a gladiator’s battle.

Eddie admired Bill and Stan’s relationship; how he wished that he had had something like that. As he pinched Eddie’s side to make him squirm, Richie thought the same thing.

Unfortunately, Bill and Stan relinquished their efforts relatively soon. They were both struggling, and without words made knowing eye contact, crumpling to the floor simultaneously so that they both lost at the same time. As much as Bill would have loved to beat Stan once tonight, at any fucking game that they played really, he found a peaceful truce to be just as satisfying, especially, when it resulted in extra affection that he wouldn’t have gotten if he had boastfully won. Losing the $50 and a round of Twister was worth it if he went home with a pleased Stan. A happy Stan was the best Stan and every Loser could attest to this. You didn’t have to date Stan to know this.

“Left foot yellow, Eddie,” Bev cackled, knowing very well that the arrow had landed on a different color and direction for her to announce. Bill and Stan cuddled close on the couch, watching Richie and Eddie continue their chaotic game of tangled limbs.

Eddie shot her a horrified glance, “This game is hacked, there’s no way. There’s no way, Ben? Help? Bill?”

Ben calmly overlooked Beverly’s shoulder to see that it indeed should have been right foot blue, “Yup, left foot yellow.”

Stan let out an incredulous twitter with Bill’s arm around him, blatantly amused.

There was no hiding that grin. Richie’s face darkened into a smirk that could have physically assaulted Eddie with his satisfaction, but instead, Bev and Ben did it for him.

“Listen to the Lord Eds, She hath spoken.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Ben?”

“Sorry bud. She hath spoken.”

Begrudgingly making his body twist over, Eddie had no choice but to straddle Richie’s torso to reach his toes of his left foot to touch the closest yellow circle, otherwise risking losing the game. Their groins pressed against each other too tightly, even for Richie to keep his propped body up in pristine form. This position made it fucking hard to maintain any kind of strength, focus, or composure.

Richie’s face blushed crimson with his delight, “Bev, next? Please?”

“Right foot blue.”

This was a harmless enough turn; all Richie had to do was shift his foot one circle up. He did so with minimal grace, and was able to support Eddie’s body weight on top of him. Eddie lightly bounced as Richie shifted his body weight under him, and if Eddie didn’t feel his sprouting boner beforehand, now it was painfully obvious. There was no hiding the excitement in Eddie’s pants either, from Richie’s point of view.

Sitting in Ben’s lap, Beverly spun the arrow of the wheel and unleashed a harpy’s laugh, “Right hand red!”

Both Eddie and Richie’s faces dropped. She couldn’t be fucking serious.

“Ben? Is she fucking serious?”

Even Richie weakly asked with droplets of sweat making their way down the side of his face, “I’m dyin’ here, you trynna kill me Haystack?”

Leaning up from his comfortable perch, Ben sternly analyzed the chart in Bev’s lap, and for the first time it had actually landed on what Beverly shouted aloud, “Right hand red, she’s not lying.”

Eddie shook his head, making eye contact with Richie, “Don’t hate me for this.”

Richie unsuccessfully gulped the growing lump in his throat, his eyes widened to a cartoonish size, and his breathing picked up, “I won’t, trust me. Go for it.”

Extending his body over Richie’s while still straddled, Eddie scooted his short frame forward to place a hand on a red circle. Eddie’s crotch hovered directly over Richie’s face and he worked to the best of his ability to keep himself from relaxing even an inch. Otherwise, he’d literally be sitting on his face.

“Rest in pieces, Richie,” Mike giggled.

“Can it, Michael,” Eddie barked.

The rest of the Losers not playing were muffling fits of laughter. Even Stan, who initially found this ploy to be childish, was now hiding his head in his shoulder to keep from outwardly laughing. Seeing Richie struggle so hard was a damn treasure.

Eddie’s crotch brushed Richie’s nose and he whispered to himself, ‘Fuckin’ Christ, Eds’.

His body began to horribly tremble. He was close to buckling completely; from holding the same position with his noodle arms for so long, and from the electric surges of arousal he felt swarming his pants. The tickle his nose endured was the cherry on top, and there was no avoiding the sneeze building in his sinuses. A fucking sneeze doomed him to a loss.

“Achooo!”

Violently sneezing into Eddie’s crotch, both of them collapsed, with Eddie falling onto Richie’s face. Exactly what Eddie didn’t want to happen. Eddie scrambled to roll off of Richie, flustered beyond his control. They whipped their heads to look at each other for a moment of silence before breaking out into laughter with their audience. Both of them were scarlet, and not just in the face— but everywhere.

Richie sat up dumbstruck, quickly crossing his legs to avoid himself further embarrassment. He flashed a goofy grin at Eddie with fluttering eyelids and a wink, “I don’t know, I think I fucking won.”

Eddie, who also had his legs crossed, laughed into his hands, “You lost the game, liar.”

Pushing himself off the floor to tackle Eddie, Richie smittenly cooed, “Wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout the game.”

If they weren’t dating before, it was bound to happen sooner or later, especially after that tomfoolery. Dumb boys, dumb boys. One day it’ll happen.

#reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #beverly marsh #ben hanscom #mike hanlon #bill denbrough #stanley uris #losers club #drabble #oneshot #my writing #hans writes #hannah writes #it 2017 #it 1990 #it fandom #it fanfiction #it au

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jennycalendar · 5 years

Text

imperfections (69/?)

read it on ao3!

a spotlight on a different relationship dynamic this chapter!!

Xander had literally never seen Giles this happy, especially in the face of an impending apocalypse. Generally, Giles was all Stiff-Upper-Lip Guy, even in his most relatively cheerful moments—but here he was, late at night, waltzing Jenny round the living room and humming along to a song on the radio. It was like the proposal had brought out a new side to Giles, and honestly, Xander was really glad about it. The terrible couple of hours where they’d been sure Giles was going to die—that had majorly sucked, and seeing Giles this lit up with delight made things feel like they might finally be getting back to normal.

As such, when Jenny tugged him aside and entrusted him with what she said was an “incredibly important assignment,” Xander couldn’t help but feel like he’d been given a soft toss. Keeping an eye on Giles during the apocalypse? Giles? Totally Capable Librarian Man? Jenny might as well have asked Xander to stay at home and watch TV while the grown-ups saved the world. He wanted to tell her that, but…Jenny was letting him stay with them, in a warm, cozy house with home-cooked meals and family movie nights. Xander couldn’t disagree with her if it might mean going back to living with his dad, so he kept his mouth shut.

That got hard when he had to watch everybody else getting ready for the apocalypse.

“Buffy, Faith, before we head down to kick the hell-beast’s butt, I need you to check in on that bomb,” Jenny was saying, strapping a knife to her thigh.

“Bomb?” Buffy repeated.

“Jack O’Toole was trying to chat me up in chem,” explained Cordelia, who was applying lip gloss and loading a crossbow at the same time. Somehow. Honestly, Xander really didn’t know how he’d landed a girl as incredible as Cordy, but he counted himself lucky every day. “Said something about some bomb under the school. Probably nothing, but it’s at least worth looking into.” She considered. “Knock his head around a little if he doesn’t tell you how to turn it off, Faith.”

Xander glanced over at Giles, who looked just as happy as he had ever since he and Jenny had gotten engaged. Also a little nervous, but Giles always looked a little nervous, so it really didn’t seem like anything worth keeping him company over. “You’ll be all right?” Giles was saying to Jenny.

In answer, Jenny took Giles’s face in her hands and said something, quietly, that Xander didn’t attempt to make out. He turned to Willow instead, but Willow was busy discussing spells with Creepy Demon Substitute Teacher Lady. And Faith was polishing her knife, and Buffy was tying her hair up in prep for battle, which left…Wesley, for some reason. Wesley seemed to have latched himself even tighter onto Anyanka after she’d stood him up, buying her excuse about a flat tire way too easily.

No way was Xander feeling low enough to talk to that guy. He sat heavily down on the couch, feeling more useless than ever.

Giles kissed Jenny goodbye one last time on their front porch, feeling the old, familiar terror rise up in him as he looked at her. The woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with—it would be so poetic, so painful, if she died tonight. It would fit the pattern of his life: happiness snatched away only seconds after he realized it was there. And then he would be alone, again, with no one to hold him and kiss his hair and tell him she wanted him, even with all his life’s absurd complexities—

“Baby,” said Jenny, “get your shit together. We still have a wedding to plan.” That made Giles smile; he couldn’t help himself. Warmth spread through him as she smiled back. “I love you,” she said. “I promise I’ll play it safe.”

“I love you too,” said Giles, and tried to smile as he watched her turn and go. He couldn’t stop thinking about how quickly things could go from perfect happiness to—he had left his house, weeks ago, looking for Jenny, and ended up with his throat slit in a derelict old mansion. He could have died. He should have died. Some part of him would die, permanently, if he lost Jenny tonight.

Faith stopped as she was leaving, turning on the porch steps to give him a strange look. “Hey, man, you know it’s gonna be okay, right?” she said, a note of genuine concern in her voice. “You look really fucked up right now.”

“Thank you, Faith,” said Giles absently, and headed back inside, shutting the door behind him.

Xander was still sitting on the couch, staring up at the ceiling with a positively miserable look on his face. Giles empathized. His old instincts said that he should leave Xander to his own devices, but Jenny had taught Giles quite a bit better than that. Sitting down on the couch next to Xander, he said, “Would you like to talk about it at all?”

“No,” said Xander, glaring at the ceiling.

“All right,” said Giles. “Can you help me make cookies?”

“Don’t fucking patronize me.” Xander turned his glare on Giles, then froze, flinching back. “Uh. Shit. Man, I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget how, how you guys are being nice enough to let me live here, and I just, I need to keep remembering that—”

“Your living here isn’t a privilege, Xander,” said Giles, confused. “If you wish to air a grievance, we won’t turn you out on the street.”

“You say that now—” Xander’s voice broke. Looking mortified, he scrubbed at his face. “Jenny doesn’t want me out fighting with everyone else,” he said. “She made some dumb excuse up about you needing company, but I got the message loud and clear. This one’s a big battle and she wants to make sure I stay safe.”

Lord, there was a lot to untangle here. Giles honestly wasn’t quite sure where to start, and latched onto the easiest one to explain. Unfortunately, this was also the most honest one, and he had to take an unsteady breath before saying, “It wasn’t an excuse, Xander.”

Xander gave him an oh, really? look.

“The incident with Kralik affected me rather more than I let on,” said Giles carefully. “I don’t feel entirely ready to enter the field of battle, and required—” He swallowed, ducking his head. He felt as though Xander might think less of him after his admission, but he knew Xander’s feelings would be helped by it, and so he soldiered on. “I required company,” he said. “Jenny suggested you, on the grounds that we both thought you might treat my situation with the required sensitivity.”

Xander looked a little stunned.

“I do apologize if your feelings were hurt by any perceived insult,” Giles continued a bit shakily. “I truly never meant to offend—”

“Oh, man, Giles,” said Xander. He now looked upset in an entirely different way. Without a word, he leaned across the couch and hugged Giles—an awkward hug at a bad angle, but a hug nonetheless—and a rather overcome Giles had to blink very fast to stave off tears. “Are you okay?” Xander asked quietly.

“Well,” said Giles. His usual brush-offs weren’t coming to mind. “Well. Not quite. But your company really does help, Xander. Please don’t think Jenny—that she was giving you an easy assignment in order to keep you safe.”

Xander pulled back, looking a little embarrassed. “Kinda hard not to think that when she put me in charge of Hypercompetent Watcher Guy,” he said, leaning back into the couch and doing his best to look like he hadn’t just hugged Giles.

“Xander, I’m touched, but I’m hardly hypercompetent,” said Giles gently. “I’m simply doing my best in a rather difficult situation.”

Reluctantly, and a little wryly, Xander smiled. “That makes me feel kinda better,” he said.

“Oh?”

“I’m doing my best in tough times too,” said Xander. “Makes me think someday I can pull off the kind of stuff you do.”

“I fully expect you’ll surpass me within the next five years at least,” said Giles, grinning a little when Xander smiled back.

Giles started some chocolate chip cookies, and roped Xander into helping. “This is an extremely important life skill,” he informed Xander, who was currently attempting to pick shards of eggshell out of the egg in the mixing bowl. “At some point, you’re going to make some drastic mistake, and your significant other will want recompense. Baking always works in that regard.”

“Yeah?” said Xander, grinning a little. He’d just gotten a pretty tricky piece of eggshell out without breaking the yolk. “Does it work on Ms. Calendar?”

“Almost always,” said Giles. “I made her apology brownies after I accidentally recorded over one of her terrible action movies.”

“Might not work on Cordy,” said Xander contemplatively. “She’s always on some diet.”

“She’s rather young for that,” said Giles, sounding mildly concerned.

“I know!” Xander agreed. “I’m gonna tell her you said that, because she totally needs to hear it. I tell her how pretty she is all the time and she just goes—” He pulled a face.

Giles rolled his eyes a little, smiling. “Romantic partners can be a bit obtuse,” he said. “They tend to assume you’re biased because you love them.”

Xander blinked, then blushed. “Yeah,” he said. “Uh, you think I should tell Cordy I love her?”

Giles looked over at Xander. “Do you?” he said.

The answer to that question made Xander’s heart pick up and his cheeks flush. He ducked his head, looking down at the bowl.

“Of course,” said Giles awkwardly, reading Xander completely wrong. “You two are rather young to—that is, I would never suppose—”

“Yeah, I do,” said Xander to the eggs. It was the first time he’d told anyone. “I love her a lot. She’s smart, and she’s snarky, and sometimes we hang out in her car and she tells me all the latest gossip.” He smiled a little shyly, first at the eggs, then at Giles. “She makes me laugh.”

Giles was looking at Xander in a way that made Xander’s chest hurt, kinda. He’d always wanted an adult to look at him like that. “Well,” said Giles. “That’s wonderful. I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear it when you feel ready to tell her.”

“Maybe I’ll tell her when she gets back from the world-saving,” said Xander contemplatively. “You think that’d be a good call?”

“I think it’s a very important decision that only you can really make,” said Giles. “Are you done with the eggs?”

“What?” Xander glanced down at the egg, carefully picked out one last shard, and cracked another one, this one a little more precisely. The yolk broke, but the eggshells remained outside the bowl. “Hey,” he said, grinning. “I did it!”

“Good job,” said Giles, clapping Xander on the shoulder. “Help me mix them in and we’ll be half done with the batter.”

“Baking takes a long time,” groaned Xander, following Giles over to the larger mixing bowl.

The cookies were in the oven when they got a call from the library. Giles, who had been largely calm throughout the entire baking process, scrambled for the phone, picking it up before it had even gotten through its first ring. “Hello?” he said, sharp and anxious.

Xander waited, heart in his throat.

Giles’s shoulders relaxed, his face softening. “Darling,” he said. “Yes. Yes, we’re making cookies. Yes.” He paused, listening. “That’s—that’s wonderful news. Is the—” His smile flickered. “Oh. So you still have to—all right. Yes.” He swallowed. “I love you too. Stay safe.”

What’s going on? Xander mouthed.

Giles held up a hand, then hung up the phone. “They defused the bomb, but the Hellmouth is only a few minutes away from opening,” he said.

Xander thought about Cordelia up against a big, gross hell-monster and felt sick. “When are the cookies done?” he said.

“I don’t know,” said Giles. “I think that I would rather like to bake something else right now.”

Anything was better than waiting around. “Isn’t the oven in use?” asked Xander.

“Willow likes pudding, doesn’t she?” said Giles. “We can make that on a stovetop, and then we can make some hot chocolate for,” he swallowed, “for when they all come home.”

Home. Xander liked that. He liked that almost enough not to think about his friends fighting evil while he made fucking pudding in a kitchen. “Yeah, okay,” he said.

“Xander?” said Giles, and crossed the room, then placed his hands on Xander’s shoulders. This felt more deliberate than Xander’s dumb, clumsy hug, and the way Giles was looking at him reminded Xander a little bit of the way Giles sometimes looked at Buffy, and the combo of those two things made Xander almost unable to meet Giles’s eyes. “They’re going to be all right,” said Giles, just the way Jenny always said it. “Come now. Let’s make some pudding.”

It was three in the morning, Giles and Xander eating cookies and pudding in front of the television, when the door burst open and a chattering horde of people tumbled through. Cordelia’s hair was burnt off on one side, and Faith was leaning heavily on Buffy, and Jenny had what looked like a messed-up wrist, but they were all alive. They were all alive.

Xander stood up very fast.

“Oh my god, Xander, don’t look at me!” Cordelia shrieked, attempting to hide behind Willow. “I have to get a haircut! I look like some lopsided Before picture!”

“Before what?” Willow asked, mouth twitching.

“Hi, honey,” Jenny was whispering, and Xander saw that Giles’s face was buried in Jenny’s shoulder. He was shaking. That was a lot for Xander to process, especially since Giles had held himself together impressively well for pretty much all of the night. “Hi. Hey. We’re all okay.” She pulled a face. “I mean, I probably need to get my wrist checked out, but I break bones all the time. Nothing new.”

Xander crossed the room to help Faith off of Buffy, who looked pretty drawn and exhausted herself. “I can get her up to bed,” he said to Buffy.

“No, it’s okay,” said Buffy, and took Faith fully in her arms, giving her a soft kiss. “You kicked ass,” she whispered.

“Sure did,” Faith agreed, starry-eyed.

“Please stop,” said Cordelia. “Gag-worthy.”

“Hey, Cordy, I love you,” said Xander suddenly. It felt like something he kinda just really had to say, seeing her there in all her Cordy-ness. The world had almost ended, but Cordelia Chase was mostly just upset about her haircut and excessive PDA—and for some not-so-stupid reason, that made him love her just so much.

Cordelia blinked, peering out from behind Willow. Her hands fluttered to her hair. “But I look the worst right now,” she said breathlessly.

“So?” said Xander.

Cordelia bit her lip, smiling, and ducked her head. “I love you too, loser,” she said, and crossed the room, leaning in to cup Xander’s face in her hands and kiss him. She smelled like burnt hair and demon blood, and Xander felt kind of sick from all the pudding he’d been eating, but none of that took away from the fact that it was the best kiss of his entire life.

“Okay, everybody needs to stop kissing and go to bed,” called Jenny from the couch. “We’ll take it easy tomorrow, but right now I think we all really need a break—”

“I love it when you take charge,” said Giles happily.

Cordelia pulled back, bumping her nose against Xander’s. “Love ya,” she whispered, then giggled, like she almost couldn’t believe she was lucky enough to say it.

“Super glad you’re not dead,” Xander whispered back. “You wanna stay over?”

“Safe sex, kids!” called Jenny, who was shepherding Faith and Buffy up the stairs.

“Thank you for totally ruining that, Ms. Calendar!” Cordelia called back, but tucked her arm into Xander’s anyway.

#fic #imperfections #as i finish more and more of this fic it's just....emotions are high

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maddie-grove · 5 years

Text

Bi-Monthly Reading Round-Up: November/December

Playlist

“When I’m Gone” by Brenda Holloway (Gone Girl)

“I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston (At the Queen’s Summons)

“Doctor My Eyes” by Jackson Browne (The Ask and the Answer)

“I Can Love You Better” by the Dixie Chicks (Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow)

“The Bad Touch” by Bloodhound Gang (Storm)

“Suspicion” by Terry Stafford (Trapped at the Altar)

“Smokey Places” by the Corsairs (The Diamond Slipper)

“You’re My Best Friend” by Queen (Someone to Trust)

“Praying” by Kesha (The Hostage)

“Castle Rock” by Barnaby Bright (Bledding Sorrow)

“The Circle of Life” from The Lion King (Monsters of Men)

“Disturbia” by Rihanna (I’ll Be Gone in the Dark)

“It’s All in the Game” by Tommy Edwards (Doomed Queen Anne)

“Locking Up My Heart” by the Marvelettes (Beware, Princess Elizabeth)

Best of the Bi-Month

The Hostage by Susan Wiggs (2000): In the chaos of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, backwoods trader Tom Silver kidnaps heiress Deborah Sinclair, hoping to make her industrialist father compensate the victims of his greed and negligence. Nothing goes according to plan, however, and these two people who should be enemies become anything but. I absolutely loved this book; the combination of slow-burn romance and action-packed non-romantic plot was perfect, and Deborah’s arc is just beautiful.

Worst of the Bi-Month

Bledding Sorrow by Marilyn Harris (1976): The cash-strapped heir of an ancient Yorkshire estate, his improperly medicated American wife, and a working-class coach driver are forced to reenact a Tudor-era tragedy, because of...reasons, I guess. I wasn’t too disappointed when I realized that this was Gothic horror instead of Gothic romance--I like scary stories, too--but this isn’t so much a novel as a long parade of pointlessly dismaying incidents. The characters are generally powerless to avoid their fates and, what’s more, they don’t have the opportunity or inclination to struggle very hard. Their helplessness might work if there were a compelling explanation for it, but Harris only makes a few vague suggestions (i.e., “Reincarnation?” or “House evil?”). Also, one of the supporting characters is such an egregiously offensive gay stereotype that he would probably make Jack Chick exclaim, “Whoa, tone it down!” The style was decent, though, and I had a few good laughs along the way.

Rest of the Bi-Month

I’ll Be Gone in the Dark by Michelle McNamara (2018): In this posthumously published true-crime book, McNamara details a series of burglaries, rapes, and murders that plagued Sacramento and Southern California during the 1970s-1980s, believed by her and many others to be the work of one man, dubbed the Golden State Killer. McNamara does a wonderful job capturing the strange false tranquility of Californian suburbia circa 1980, and she presents the (often convoluted) facts clearly but never salaciously. The good taste and empathy of her style kind of undercuts any passages along the lines of “perhaps researching serial killers is deeply unsavory,” but that was my only issue with the book.

The Ask and the Answer by Patrick Ness (2009): In the first sequel to The Knife of Never Letting Go, young Todd Hewitt, having left behind the world he knew forever, deals with increasingly morally complex and traumatic situations. Meanwhile, his new friend, [redacted], wrestles with similarly thorny and upsetting issues. This is a worthy sequel to one of my favorite books I read this year. I missed the road narrative of the first installment, but the complicated ethical dilemmas and the ever-switching power dynamics very nearly made up for its loss.

Monsters of Men by Patrick Ness (2010): In the final book of Ness’s trilogy, [redacted]. This was the weakest installment, but only because of some fairly minor structural issues, such as some initial narrative choppiness, that I probably wouldn’t have noticed if the first two books hadn’t been so well-structured as well as thematically fascinating. The payoff is pretty fantastic, in any event. Also, Todd’s whole...thing with the Mayor is one of the most gloriously weird, fascinating relationships I’ve seen in a YA novel.

Someone to Trust by Mary Balogh (2018): In Regency England, twenty-six-year-old Lord Hodges decides to do the proper thing and get himself wed; however, his narcissistic mother, not content with the significant emotional damage she’s dealt him over the years, keeps interfering with his search because she’s worried he’ll marry someone who’s not hot enough by her standards. Meanwhile, his thirty-five-year-old BFF, Lady Overfield, has resolved to accept the suit of a staid but pleasant acquaintance...but something just doesn’t feel right. You know what does feel right, though? Waltzing and talking about deep shit with Lord Hodges...and the feeling is mutual!!! This isn’t the most action-packed romance, but it’s super-cute and I was 1000% sold on Lady Overfield’s subtle awesomeness.

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn (2012): Unhappily married and resignedly living in his Missouri hometown, Nick Dunne suddenly finds himself as the prime suspect in his wife’s disappearance and apparent murder. What the fuck is going on? I spent like five years of my life debating with myself whether to read this book, and I’m glad I did (long after its relevancy had peaked, of course). It’s easily the weakest of Flynn’s three novels--its sense of place isn’t as strong as Sharp Objects or Dark Places, although I understand that’s somewhat intentional, and neither main character works as a representation of an actual person--but it’s a propulsive read and it’s pretty damn funny.

The Diamond Slipper by Jane Feather (1997): Lady Cordelia Brandenburg travels with her BFF, a teenage Marie Antoinette, so they can get hitched to the Austrian ambassador to France and the Dauphin, respectively. Two problems: Cordelia’s new husband is a fucking monster, and she’s fallen in love with the grieving brother of the husband’s mysteriously dead first wife. This novel probably isn’t to everyone’s taste; it kind of zigzags between a semi-cutesy fairy-tale feel and depictions of horrific abuse, and the effect is somewhat jarring. I enjoyed its use of historical details, though, and I liked the heroine a lot.

Beware, Princess Elizabeth by Carolyn Meyer (2002): In this historical YA novel, Elizabeth I narrates several incidents in her life from cradle to throne, focusing on all the times that her half-sister Mary came super-close to having her executed. Although I found the structure of the novel somewhat choppy, I really liked the portrayal of Elizabeth’s complicated relationships with her pious, increasingly suspicious half-siblings, plus the plot had plenty of action.

Doomed Queen Anne by Carolyn Meyer (2001): In another installment of Meyer’s Young Royals series, Anne Boleyn explains her journey from awkward child to unconventional, controversial courtier to VICTIM OF TOTAL RAILROADING. This novel was even choppier than Beware, Princess Elizabeth, mostly because Elizabeth’s story is better-suited to the episodic plot structure, but I have to say I love this portrayal of Anne Boleyn as much as (if not more than) I did at twelve. Her motivations aren’t high-minded or altruistic, but she’s got feelings, damn it, and she has a right to fight against being treated like shit! Also, Meyer gives her a sixth finger on one hand, which was probably not the case historically, but it’s cool that Anne is portrayed sympathetically while also having a body that’s stigmatized by society.

Trapped at the Altar by Jane Feather (2014): In the early 1680s, Catholic Lady Ariadne Daunt and Protestant Sir Ivor Chalfont live in Daunt Valley, a makeshift community of loosely related lawless aristocrats who lost their lands in the English Civil War. Ariadne and Ivor are force to wed by the community “elders,” who hope to send them to the royal court as a religiously flexible power couple. This already-tense situation is made more awkward by the fact that Ariadne is in love with another man, while Ivor is in love with Ariadne. This novel is part of a small subset of romances that would be better as historical fiction. I loved the unique (albeit nightmarish) setting of Daunt Valley, the exciting journey to London, and the well-portrayed court intrigue. I even quite liked Ariadne. However, Ivor was such a shit. Ariadne is upfront with him about her love for another, but, because Ivor “loves” her, he acts like she��s morally obligated to go along with the whole thing. He never really forgives her for not being a virgin on their wedding night, and his reaction when he finds out she’s been using birth control is bloodcurdling. Also, Feather throws away an interesting dynamic where Ariadne has genuine feelings for two complex men in favor of making Ivor’s rival a creepy stalker (but also an embarrassingly ineffectual sissy).

Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow by Jessica Day George (2008): A nameless Norwegian girl who can talk to animals agrees to live with an enchanted polar bear for one year in exchange for her family’s deliverance from poverty, secretly hoping to find the answer to her beloved brother’s sadness as well. She finds herself way in over her head, though, with a curse that goes back centuries or longer. I enjoyed this retelling of “East of the Sun, West of the Moon,” and I thought a lot of the concepts were really clever (hint: this is neither the first girl nor the first polar bear). In execution, though, I didn’t like it as much as Edith Pattou’s retelling, East, which has a stronger sense of place and better-developed minor characters.

Storm by Donna Jo Napoli (2014): Sebah, a sixteen-year-old Canaanite girl, loses her home, her family, and her entire way of life in a sudden deluge that drowns the whole world...almost. After weeks of surviving in trees and on rafts, she manages to stow away on Noah’s Ark, where she rooms with some bonobos and learns way too much about Ham’s marital problems. I thought this was a very creative book with some delightfully weird earthiness, but it becomes somewhat static once Sebah boards the ark and meets a character who kills too much of the tension.

At the Queen’s Summons by Susan Wiggs (2009 update of 1995 original): Pippa, a street performer in Elizabethan England, claims the patronage of Aidan O Donoghue, a minor Irish king, in order to save herself from arrest. Aidan, a goodhearted fellow, goes along with it. This was a pleasant story, but I can remember almost nothing about it. I love Susan Wiggs, but her Tudor Rose trilogy is kind of a snore.

#books #reading

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clairekatswritingcorner · 6 years

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Just in the Nick of Time

Word Count: 2,180

Summary: Alexys is busy closing up the clinic one night when a mysterious stranger turns up, winded and wounded, and collapses right in front of her in the lobby.

*Author’s Note*: First of another batch of commissions for @bad-blue-moon-rising and her precious selfship with Tom! The first time I saw him I got so excited because…masks are so neat (but then I realized I didn’t do a lot with it T^T oh well). I hope you enjoy!

“Looks like that’s everything.”

Alexys was finishing up yet another long day at the vet clinic. Although the clinic itself had closed an hour or so ago, it was common for the dutiful pet doctor to stay a little later than everyone else, ensuring that everything was organized and taken care of before she headed out. Sometimes there’d be clean up or supply orders that could technically wait until the next day, but Alexys rested easier knowing it was all done before she left. Some of the other employees considered her dedication to be a little on the extreme side, but tonight her propensity for working overtime was going to kickstart a fateful encounter.

The young woman gathered her belongings and made her way for the main lobby. Slipping around the check in desk, she already had the key out so she could lock up for the night. To her surprise, it seemed she wasn’t going to make it outside without one more problem barreling through the doors and falling into her arms—quite literally, in this case.

Alexys couldn’t help letting out a small shriek as an unfamiliar man stumbled through the entrance, panting and sweating as he tried to stay on his feet. He didn’t have much strength left, and he’d used the last of it making it into the safety of this building; or at least, he hoped it would be safe. He’d been in more life threatening situations before, and situations just like this more often than he would have liked, so he expected the outcome of this one to be no different. He’d make his way to some random building, hide away inside until his partners could come find him, and do what he could with what he had to tend to his wounds.

Alexys dropped her bag, and the man dropped to the floor. He was on his knees, groaning and holding his side, clearly in some sort of physical distress. He may have been in some kind of mental distress, too, considering the state of panic he was exhibiting. It was hard for Alexys to imagine someone not feeling panicked in a situation like this; the man looked like he’d just barely managed to escape some sort of fight for his life. It was a little hard to tell the extent of both his wounds and his demeanor due to his layered clothes, and a very striking yet peculiar mask that hid his face.

Her first thought after her initial shock was that it was a little ironic; the fact that he was wearing an animal mask, that is. It appeared to be the visage of a white fox, although Alexys reminded herself in the midst of her arbitrary mental detour that now wasn’t the best time to be getting distracted by his appearance. This man needed medical attention, and the longer she stood around in paralyzed confusion, the more his chance of survival dwindled.

“Uh, uh, I’ll call an ambulance!” Her words were a little garbled, all fighting to pile out of her mouth at once as a rush of adrenaline seized her body. Suddenly, everything was moving too fast, all at once, and she knew she had to react quickly if she wanted to keep up with it all.

She knelt down beside the bag she’d dropped, frantically sifting through its contents in her haze of both determination and horror. How could she be so stupid, why was she reacting this way? She was used to dealing with emergencies, even emergencies that treaded the razor thin line between life and death. She’d dealt with a handful of such instances today, and yet right now she just couldn’t seem to pull herself together. She supposed maybe it was because now she was dealing with a human being instead of an animal, although it wasn’t like she didn’t care deeply for the patients she treated. Maybe it was just due to the severity of the situation, and the fact that she was alone, and the clinic was so quiet that the lack of sound was more oppressive than any loud noises would have been.

She shrieked again when the man grabbed her wrist. She was just getting ready to dial 911 as his strong, rough hand seized her arm, his expressionless mask staring at her with a kind of eerie intensity. Was he going to hurt her? Was this actually some sort of set up, a plan to prey upon her sympathies until she let her guard down like one of those schemes you hear about on the news? Now her blood ran cold with the realization that she might have just waltzed into an obvious and life-threatening trap. She was so concerned about this mysterious stranger’s wellbeing that she hadn’t even considered worrying about her own safety…this may turn out to be the greatest mistake she’d made in a long time.

“Don’t…” His voice was weak and raspy, and Alexys felt herself starting to tremble in fearful anticipation of what his next demand might be. “Don’t call the police…”

“What?” She was honestly dumbfounded, and her befuddlement was almost strong enough to snap her out of her traumatically concerned state.

“Don’t call the police,” he said it again, with a little more strength this time, although apparently that was all the strength he had left. As the last word left his mouth he collapsed, slumping facedown on the floor as he finally succumbed to the blackout that had been encroaching on his vision since he’d entered the facility.

Alexys wasn’t sure why, and she knew it wasn’t advisable, but…she wanted to listen to his words. She didn’t want to betray his trust. Even if he hadn’t really had a choice in giving it to her, since the regrettable state of his body was what determined whether he was going to pass out or not, she felt like she had some duty to help him. Surely it wouldn’t do her any good to commit such an act, but something in her heart encouraged her to do so with no reservations. In a way, a hurt animal had just drug itself to her doorstep, and it was her policy to do everything in her power to save any hurt or ailing creature brought before her.

She may only be a vet, but she had enough basic knowledge to get him patched up. She could only hope there wasn’t any severe internal damage, because if that were the case he might not make it until morning. She wasn’t sure why he was so insistent on her not calling for help, determined to the point that he implored her with his last conscious breath. Then again, perhaps he’d gotten into a scuffle that involved him getting in some trouble with the law; it certainly didn’t seem like what had happened to him was simple or unintentional.

Although she was confident she could tend to his wounds at least somewhat, she had to acknowledge that he was much larger than any of the normal patients she dealt with. There also weren’t any techs around to help her maneuver him around, so she spent a good five minutes or so wrestling him onto a gurney she could use to get him back into one of the operating rooms. She didn’t plan on doing anything too significant, like cutting him open or trying to pop bones back into place, but she knew she could handle giving him the stitches he required in at least one or two places.

“So much for making it home early,” she mumbled to herself as she got back into the sterile parts of her uniform. She always left later than everyone else and getting home before midnight or one o’clock would have been an early night for her. But she wouldn’t have been able to sleep knowing she left someone untended to, or kicked them out, or got them in trouble by calling the police who might not actually do anything to help them. As disruptive as this situation was, it’d become her responsibility, and she was going to see it through to the end.

As she got to work removing the parts of his clothing where she could see blood seeping through, she examined his mask out of the corner of her eye. His eyes were probably shut behind it, completely immobile and blank as a result of the restorative state his body had defaulted to. Should she remove it and see what kind of damage had been done? There didn’t seem to be any blood flowing from his ears or neck or dripping from his face. There were a few streaks of blood smeared across his mask, a stark contrast to the white background they disrupted. From the way they were positioned, she was fairly certain they weren’t made of his own.

But there also seemed to be a weight to the mask, an invisible one that encouraged her to stay as far away from it as possible. She didn’t want to touch or displace it, or even try to clean it, for fear that she would disturb the individual whose identity was currently locked behind it. For now, it wasn’t imperative for her to know who the mask belonged to, who had made their way so unceremoniously into her clinic but refused the help she tried to offer in the form of getting him to the nearest hospital. In retrospect, this was the nearest hospital, even if it wasn’t one for humans…and since she was able to moderately treat his injuries, it was a sufficient enough place for him to stay.

After getting the wounds she could see disinfected and patched up, she laid a blanket over him and went to grab a cup of water. She’d had to remove his jacket and cut part of his pantleg to reach the cuts trapped below, and she took the salvageable parts of his outfit to get them washed. When she returned, she found him still asleep, and sat with him for a while trying to decide what to do next. She couldn’t leave him here to wake up alone, but she couldn’t really take him anywhere else, and she wasn’t sure if it would be wise to take him with her, only to discover she’d invited unsolicited danger into her home.

She was starting to feel a little drowsy when the man made a groaning noise, his limbs rustling under the blanket. Alexys perked up and came to his side, touching his shoulder gently out of her reflex to comfort patients. The man instantly flinched away, and Alexys took a step back, keeping a cautious eye on him. He’d just been through quite an ordeal, but considering how violent it seemed, she couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t going to instigate some kind of problem himself.

“Where am I?”

The more he woke up the calmer he became, but Alexys kept her distance. “You’re in a vet hospital. You came charging in here from outside, but I don’t know where you came from before that. You were hurt pretty badly, enough that you passed out from the pain and blood loss. I treated the wounds that I could, but I don’t really have the tools or expertise to inspect you for internal injuries—”

“And who are you?”

She was a little hesitant to respond. “My name’s Alexys. I’m a veterinarian at this clinic, and you’re lucky you came when you did, because I was just getting ready to lock up for the night. Would you mind telling me who you are?”

“Alexys, huh?” the man replied, sounding a little amused. Alexys wasn’t sure what was so funny about her name, and she also wasn’t going to let him sneak away without getting an answer to her own question. Before she could repeat herself, he started speaking again. “Well, thanks for your help. Looks like I got here just in the nick of time. Without you I don’t think I’d have woken up from that black out. And thanks for not calling the cops, too. I don’t have any personal issues with them, but uh, you could say that thanks to my work they definitely have more than a few issues with me.”

Alexys crossed her arms and allowed him to keep going. “Anyway, that’s kind of a lot to get into. It’s pretty late, and I’m sure you were hoping to be home by now.”

It didn’t seem like he was going to hurt her, which was a relief. “I was. But I’m not leaving here until you at least give me your name.”

The stranger chuckled, entertained by something she still couldn’t figure out. To her surprise he lifted the mask from his face, revealing the considerably handsome appearance of a man with dark eyes, wavy hair, and a short wavy beard to match. Alexys blushed involuntarily in response, much to her own embarrassment.

“The name’s…Tom,” he answered with a half grin. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Alexys.”

#self insert #selfinsert #self ship #selfship #oc x canon #self insert fic #self insert fanfiction #selfship fic #selfship fanfiction #my writing #claire writes #one shot #bad-blue-moon-rising #commission

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littlemissnellie · 7 years

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Vladislaus Straud never quite recovered from the breakdown of his engagement with Morwenna Montfort. Their whole relationship may have been orchestrated by their parents for the sake of enhancing their families, but Vlad fell in love with her regardless, so to suddenly realise that his feelings were not reciprocated was a real blow to his confidence. And when he found out that Morwenna had dumped him in favour of another, rather than her just not feeling as if she would work in a relationship with him, all the sorrow that had built up inside him crumbled away to reveal a furiously burning anger, fuelled by nothing but pure jealousy.

Whilst Morwenna went on to lead a happy, fulfilled life, Vlad wallowed in his own self-pity for years and let his jealousy warp him into a monster that he saw all too often to be scared of anymore. He could barely bring himself to leave his house, let alone go out and find true love, which is why before he knew it he'd inadvertently committed to a life of seemingly eternal solitude. That is, until word got around to him about the local orphanage…

Living on the outskirts of Windenburg was just as isolating as it sounded, but the small community that Vlad quickly built up were all so loyal to him that he almost considered them to be family. So when one woman, who had recently become a mother for the second time, went up to him whilst he was on one of his rare outings and asked him if he'd ever considered having children of his own, he didn't really know how to respond. Although after almost awkwardly explaining to her that he did not have any sort of female companion, which prevented him from having his own children, she went on to tell him about the new orphanage that was being set up across town, where she was certain that any of the children there would be grateful for any parent, regardless of marital circumstances.

So, after a lot of deliberation, and quite a significant interior overhaul, Vlad left his house one, late autumn morning alone, but returned that afternoon with two rather special companions: his son and daughter. They weren't from the same family, but that didn't matter; they were now; they were a part of his. The two children were practically the same age, with the boy being a mere five months older, but with both in their excitable, yet curious toddler stage, age had no meaning to Vlad, he didn't have time to ponder the matter when he was constantly running around after them.

Vlad didn't always like to admit it, but that woman had been right, having a family of his own was exactly what he needed. After losing Morwenna and the life that he would have been able to have with her, his own life had no direction, he felt as if he didn't have a purpose. But his two children changed everything. They depended on him, they needed him, and he needed them.

As the years passed though, and his children grew up, their independence blossomed and they started to need their father less and less. But after finding so much comfort in their dependence, the warmth his children once brought into his heart faded into nothingness, leaving it just as cold and empty as his house felt when they were out at school or with what little friends they had.

With every day that passed Vlad felt the divide between him and his children widening, but more significantly with one than the other. It was more common than not to go whole days without even seeing his daughter once. Secluding himself in his office didn't help with repairing this somewhat broken relationship, but a rather bad habit of Vlad's was running away and ignoring his problems instead of facing up to them. Unless a force greater than that of his own brain propelled him into doing something, it was usually left undone, untouched and unthought-about. And reconnecting with his daughter sadly seemed to fall under her that category.

Despite Vlad's strained, and rather turbulent (whenever they did cross paths), relationship with his daughter, the relationship that he had with his son was relatively strong. Yes, he often put pressure on the boy, and discipline was the foundation of the household, which sometimes caused a rift between the two, but other than that, he was a very loyal, determined, ambitious young man that Vlad was quietly, but extremely, proud of.

As thoughts of his son drifted through Vlad's mind, the sound of his footsteps running up the stairs drummed in chorus with his heart beat. The heaviness of the thudding was what immediately told Vlad that it was his son rather than his daughter, who preferred to drift around the house like a spirit. But the second that the boy burst through the office door, his lips slipped into a firm, disapproving frown.

"Dad!-"

"What have I told you about coming into my office like that when I'm trying to work, Maximus?" Vlad said curtly, letting out a long, irritated breath as he fixed his eyes on the stack of papers in front of him.

"Sorry, Dad," Maximus, who really preferred just 'Max', but often had no choice in the matter when his father was around, mumbled before hurriedly, but gently, closing the ornate door behind him.

"Now, what matter is so urgent that it compelled you to disrupt my work in such a manner?" Vlad asked slowly, lowering his fountain pen onto his desk and crossing his hands over each other above it. The quizzical look he sent his son would have sent a shiver down anyone else's spine, but Max took no notice and rushed over to his father with as much frantic eagerness as he had run up the stairs with.

"Have you seen the headline of today's paper?" he asked, thrusting the now slightly crumpled newspaper in his father's face as his own became masked with concern.

‘Golgotha Family Return To Their Infamous Manor’

Vlad's blue eyes scanned the page with equal concern as his son's, but that soon turned to a churning mixture of anger and anxiety as the reality of the words upon the page sunk in. The family that took everything from him all those years ago, the family he thought that he'd rid himself of for good...were back?

"You think it's true?" Max asked cautiously.

"Well...there's no reason for the local press to lie, is there?" Vlad replied, pursing his lips and stiffly straightening out the newspaper.

"But...they can't just come back like this, can they? They left the house to the town, it was going to be reno-"

"It's their property, son. Apparently they can do as they please with it," Vlad said shortly.

"But, Dad, after everything they did-"

"Maximus-"

"They can't just come in and take over everything again! Windenburg's changed, the people here have changed-"

"Maxim-"

"They don't have the same power they did before. Windenburg's our family's territory now, they can't just-just waltz back in and act like they never left. The community listens to us now; we're the strongest strain there is."

The more that Max seemed to be working himself up, the more eerily calm Vlad seemed to become. It took a lot of thought and reflection, which wasn't exactly easy for a vampire like Vlad in any sense of the word, but the more that he pondered his rivals' return to the town, the less concern it brought to him. His son was right; they were the strongest family by a mile now, where influence was concerned. No matter how popular the Golgothas may have been when they left town, years had passed since then. The town had changed, and so had the people in it, the Strauds more than anyone. They held a lot of power over Windenburg now, and Vlad was not about to undo all his hard work and give it up so easily.

And so, as he looked up at his son, who was nervously running a hand through his messy, mahogany hair, which was clumsily tied back with a midnight black bandana, but unsuccessfully trying to hide this from his father, Vlad set down the newspaper and cleared his throat.

"You're right son, and we'll let the precious Golgotha family know that. All in good time, of course…"

#sims 4 #sims 4 story #Golgotha Manor #Vladislaus Straud #Maximus Straud #littlemissnellie #ts4 #ts4 story #golgotha manor story

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weannewashere · 6 years

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2017

I lost my grandpa. He was my biggest fan, present at all the major events in my life, always reminding me to include “Razon” whenever I write my name so that people would know I was his granddaughter. For all those times he was there for me, I wasn’t by his side when he passed - I missed it by a few hours. Cancer takes the best people, and it had been months of going in and out of the hospital and nights spent in pain. His death was my first major loss in 28 years.

I started teaching. Four subjects, six classes. For the first five months of 2017, I slept at 10PM and woke up at 1AM to prepare lessons for college students who I hoped would be convinced to care about health inequities and the world beyond their immediate neighborhoods. The non-stop preparation made me miserable, but hearing that our classes made them rethink the way they view public health made me think it was all worth it.

RJ and I stopped talking. We had broken up in early 2016, but the slow, tricky fade that comes with “maybe we should give it another chance” and “let’s still try to be friends” dipped into 2017. It’s difficult to take responsibility for a falling out because essentially you’re admitting to being the villain, but I’ll admit that by the end of the story, I was the person hurting someone who genuinely would’ve given me his world at that point. It wasn’t fair to him that I stick around much longer. We’re no longer in each others’ lives now, but every now and then I see him post about his adventures on Facebook – a marathon here and there, a conquered mountain over the holidays, a dive in some paradise – and I’m sincerely glad to see that he’s happy and doing what he loves.

I fell for someone. How do I talk about it – being fidaa for someone you’re not just attracted to but whose qualities you also genuinely admire and respect, and finding out the person feels the same way? Do I talk about the fairy tale part – the long walks on the beach and the conspiratorial winks, the dinners in palaces and the forehead kisses, the airplane flights, the midnight waltzes, the talking about the future? Getting to know his family and his dog and being shown his childhood photos, entering his world and being allowed to see the many different sides and nuances to him? Or do I talk about the part that comes after – the reality of distance, the weight of expectations, the resistance of religion and culture? Having to choose between a friendship or a relationship and deciding in the end to go with the safer, some say smarter, path even if it leaves behind a dull ache? A lot of it feels like a lifetime ago, a function of things happening and ending so fast, I suppose. Maybe we were in over our heads, maybe we gave up too easily or maybe we gave it the best we could. It’s still something I think about every now and then, but no matter how things worked out, I’m very thankful Vishal became and still is part of my life.

I got rejected for a scholarship I had based a lot of my dreams and plans on. It’s funny how one sentence can completely change the direction of your life – suddenly I didn’t have an escape plan from my mundane life anymore, suddenly I didn’t seem good enough or smart enough or inspirational enough, suddenly my global health dreams seemed even further away, suddenly the possibility of a relationship with someone I deeply cared about was quashed. But they say when God closes a door, some way He opens a window. I’m still trying to find where those windows are haha and sometimes it feels like I’m trying to break some of them open by myself, but I’m trusting His plan, and who knows where it will take me.

I got disillusioned with religion. That’s hard for me to admit out loud, a pastor’s kid and a relatively active member of the church, but I promised myself I’d be vulnerably honest with this blog post. My spiritual life definitely took a dip last year as I struggled with the concept of tradition, legalism, exclusivity, and how religion can divide and dismiss people. My tiny SDA bubble was popped and I had many different conversations with friends from different faiths – Hindus, Catholics, Taoists, Buddhists, deists, atheists – all wonderful, intelligent people whose beliefs and values were sincere and valid. I questioned almost all of my own beliefs, trying to reconcile what I had always been taught with the ones I was now coming across, hoping God wouldn’t feel betrayed by my doubts and instead recognize that I was sincerely trying to find out the truth about Him. I’ve been praying more and more lately though and working out my faith again, asking that I become the type of Christian that reflects the goodness of Jesus.

I lost my phone. It wasn’t just a gadget – I had bought it in Geneva and it contained all my memories since then, everything I’ve discussed here. Audio recordings of my grandpa snoring and saying “I love you” that I had kept because I didn’t want to live in a world where he wasn’t able to tell me that anymore. Thousands of meaningful Whatsapp messages. Photos of everywhere I’d been. But oh well. If anything, losing my phone was probably the universe telling me to move forward and start anew with a blank slate.

I realize now that I’ve been talking about 2017 with what feels to me like a very somber tone, when actually, it was quite an amazing year when I think about it. I traveled to seven different countries in five months. I stepped on the marble floors of the Taj Mahal, saw the lights of the Bund and The Peak in their full glory, presented a paper in Thailand, watched the sun rise over Angkor Wat, swam with millions of sardines in Moalboal, and went scuba diving in Boracay. I adjusted to work and have somehow regained my old motivation and productivity back, while maintaining work-life balance. I met new people – Ines, Adrian, the La Union peeps, Jessy. I reunited with old friends – my AUP kids, my Salty Interns, my ISKRABS. I went ahead and applied for grad school anyway, because I can just pretend tuition fees don’t exist, right? Haha. I learned how to float, it turns out all you need to do is to keep breathing (ooh is that a metaphor for life). I stopped being apologetic and embarrassed about my feelings and emotions, because they’re just as valid as everyone else’s. I became both hopeful and cynical, reflective and extroverted, affectionate and uninhibited, determined and purposeful. I’ve said that my entire 2017 was a plot twist, a year I couldn’t have predicted when I started it months ago.

Which now brings me to 2018. It’s been a while since I’ve started a year with what feels like a blank slate – I have no blocked-out dates on my calendar, no confirmed major events or trips to look forward to, no sure milestones planned. I’m not sure how I feel about that. From where I stand it feels like a filler year, and part of me just wants to get it over with and skip over to 2019. But the optimistic part of me says that maybe the vagueness of this year is why I should be excited – there’s so much room for 2018 to surprise me. Anything could happen. And maybe anything will. But I’ll stay on my toes and drive my own life, because if there’s anything I’ve learned from this year, it’s that my life is a product of my choices.

I honestly don’t want to close my 2017, but like the protagonist narrating the end of a feel-good movie where she undergoes significant character development, sheds some naivete, and finds herself standing alone yet strong in the end, I’ll end this on a positive note and give the future a chance, for the best is yet to come. The best is yet to come.

vimeo

Happy new year, y’all.

#travel #daily

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recessanger91-blog · 5 years

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We Need to Talk About 'The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel' Season 2 Ending

This post contains spoilers about season two of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, now streaming on Amazon. Stream It

As the title of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel season two finale suggests, the episode’s theme is about being “All Alone.” It’s a stark contrast to the hoopla of the nine previous episodes, which ranged from the meticulously orchestrated events at the Steiner resort in the Catskills (hair appointments, Simon Says, Susie’s “search party”) to the supremely entertaining road trip Susie and Midge took for a mini comedy tour. Midge and Benjamin’s courtship was also nice to look at, just like an expensive piece of art. Through the nine episodes, there was always something going on, some dramatic, over-the-top but all too familiar problem to solve, and of course, a fresh glass of tomato juice at Abe’s disposal.

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In “All Alone,” it’s business as usual for the main cast, but only if you concentrate on screen time. For the most part, instead of the chipper and chaos, we have some characters experiencing solitude for the first time, while others are just breaking into or rediscovering the best version of themselves, something Rose tried to achieve in Paris earlier in the season.

For starters, it looks like Abe is getting ready for “a really good fight” involving a lawyer (and if he has his way, some really good signs) in wake of the Bell Labs/Columbia drama. Joel is sitting on a hefty check from his father but refuses to leave the factory. (Is he afraid of being alone?) Lenny Bruce, Midge’s confidante and fellow comedian, has allowed the profession to catch up to him and apparently, his marriage. Susie, meanwhile, must consider life with two clients: Midge and Sophie Lennon, who’s just asked Susie to be her manager. (For now, this secret belongs to Susie and Susie alone.)

In an uncharacteristic move (and without much thought) Midge agrees to go on the road for six months with singer Shy Baldwin as his opening act. Remember, this is the same girl who brought too many outfits to both the Catskills and her east coast tour. This spur-of-the-moment behavior is new—and gives her life.

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But by the episode’s final minutes, Midge realizes that comedy—specifically, being successful in the comedy world—comes with a price. (It already has, from how it affected her children to all the work it took for her to tell her parents.) As she says to Joel in the scene that likely made your heart jump, right before that ~kiss~:

I said yes, just like that, didn’t think about it. didn’t think about anything or anyone. Just yes. And I understand, now. Everything’s different. I can’t go back to Jello molds. There won’t be three before thirty, for me. I just made a choice. I am going to be all alone for the rest of my life. That’s what I just decided in the five minute phone call. Amazing, isn’t it? I’m gonna leave really soon, barely enough time to get packed, especially the way I travel. And I don’t want to be alone, not tonight. Tonight, just for tonight, I really need to be with someone who loves me.

Midge and Joel’s hookup at the factory shouldn’t come as a surprise, considering the flashback to the night of their engagement (when Midge was a blonde and Joel had the power to stop traffic) at the beginning of the episode. These kids were in love once, and will be in love with each other until the end of time, despite what it says on the divorce papers that may never come.

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As the shock of this moment slowly wears off (give it a few more days, or just rewatch season one to remind yourself of what Joel did to get to this factory situation), here are some other lingering thoughts. Don’t theorize too long, though—season three is just around the corner.

Will Midge actually go through with the tour? Technically, Midge hasn’t signed anything and we haven’t seen Susie actually connect with Shy Baldwin’s people to finalize the contract. Given her reasoning for arriving at Joel’s (“just for tonight”) and her determination to pack with limited time, all signs are pointing to her being on the road after her hookup.

Will Susie eventually tell Midge of Sophie Lennon’s offer? Signing someone as big as Sophie Lennon could possibly be the highlight of Susie’s career, but will her loyalty to Midge get in the way? Seeing as Susie keeps the news to herself through the end of the episode, I expect some sort of big confrontation scene to pop up on season three. That, or it was all a dream. (Sophie Lennon’s house does behave an awful lot like a dream, from the mystery rooms to the free coats.)

What’s going to happen to Benjamin? If the charms of Zachary Levi didn’t sweep you off your feet/make you want to buy oversized suits for your significant other, you may skip this point. But for fans of Midge and Benjamin, it would be awful for the show to build him up in season two only to have Midge go back to Joel or worse, be single while she’s on tour and becoming famous. The look of Midge’s face in reaction to Abe finally saying yes to Benjamin’s proposal in the season finale should be enough for anyone betting against a wedding in season three. Then again, who doesn’t love a good TV love triangle?

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Who will Abe sue? Until the writing of this piece, I was convinced that Abe was amped up to sue Bell Labs and Columbia University. But if the episode’s theme of being alone also applies to Abe, should viewers be worried about an Abe and Rose divorce? Mrs. Maisel writers: If you’re reading this and are considering this direction, please just have them go back to Paris so they can reunite with Simone the dog and waltz by the Siene!

When will the Lenny Bruce and Midge Maisel ship set sail? Some fans have been shipping Lenny and Midge ever since they met on season one (#TBT to him bailing her out of jail). On season two, they share some nice scenes, including one on the night of Benjamin and Midge’s date. The real Lenny Bruce died of a drug overdose in the mid-1960s, which doesn’t give this dream storyline a lot of time, so @writers, again, if you’re reading this, give the people what they want, even if it’s a couple of nice dates or more bailouts!

Source: https://www.cosmopolitan.com/entertainment/tv/a25442063/marvelous-mrs-maisel-season-2-ending-theories/

#read more #see more #check it out #interesting #learn more

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flauntpage · 7 years

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Time is Already Running Out For The Los Angeles Clippers

Blake Griffin exits the shower, kicks off a squeaky pair of blue flip flops adorned with the Los Angeles Clippers logo, and starts to dry himself off. He eases his way into a pair of light blue jeans that are intentionally shredded just above the knee, then takes a seat at his locker—two small oranges rest by his side while a baby-sized red Powerade sits half empty on the floor.

Cloaked in a shearling coat and milk-white sweater, Griffin saunters across the room to face about a dozen media members. In what can most politely be described as dry, filtered analysis of the 22-point loss Los Angeles just suffered against the New York Knicks, Griffin squints through a series of questions about his team’s now nine-game losing streak, the longest of his eight-year career.

On this night, and for the foreseeable future, he's the organization's sole mainstay. Chris Paul is in Texas. DeAndre Jordan is an unrestricted free agent whose name will swirl in rumors until he’s either dealt or the trade deadline passes. Doc Rivers was demoted from his President of Basketball Operations duty a few months ago, and entered the season with Las Vegas believing he was likely to soon lose his head coach job as well. The harsh reality of NBA life with one, and not two, top-20 players battling on your behalf has officially smacked Griffin and the Clippers in the face.

All three of their most important offseason additions—Danilo Gallinari, Patrick Beverley, and Milos Teodosic—have already missed significant time, forcing Rivers to not only throw Wesley Johnson, Austin Rivers, and 23-year-old rookie Sindarius Thornwell into the starting lineup, but also piece together bench units that feature several new faces who’re unsure of their role in a fresh environment.

“I fell into a good situation in Houston where I was a main catalyst for the second unit,” new Clippers forward Sam Dekker told VICE Sports, right as Jordan strode by flashing a genial middle finger in our direction. “And now I’m trying to work to get into that role here in L.A., and at times it hasn’t gone as quickly as I’d like. But that’s okay. That’s basketball.”

Now 5-11 and at the mercy of a cutthroat Western Conference, Los Angeles’s season might have derailed before it could leave the station. According to FiveThirtyEight—a prognostication that doesn’t factor in poor health—the Clippers have a 27 percent chance to make the playoffs. They’re on pace to win 36 games (one fewer than the Knicks and the same as the Orlando Magic), and finish 11th in their conference.

With Paul and J.J. Redick gone, they lack a nightly identity, curiously attacking the offensive glass despite transition defense being a core tenet of Rivers-coached teams for the past decade. They rank fifth in offensive rebound rate, after placing 24th, 29th, and 24th in the three previous seasons, and one side effect is that the percentage of their opponent’s possessions that start in transition leads the league. (Not good.)

Even though they manage decent looks whenever an opponent doubles Griffin on the block, only two teams have a lower assist rate than the Clippers: the Portland Trail Blazers and Phoenix Suns. “When the ball sticks we aren’t as good of a basketball team,” Dekker said. “When the ball is not moving you’re easy to guard, and we know that. So we have to do a better job of moving the ball and cutting and playing with pace and putting energy in the ball. That makes the game so much easier.”

The uphill climb is understandable—considering almost every player on the team, healthy or not, is making some kind of adjustment inside this overhauled roster—but still worrisome. Griffin’s True Shooting percentage is at a career low and he’s shooting 41.3 percent from the floor, in large part because only 19.8 percent of his two-point field goals are assisted (down from a career average of 63.3 percent before this season began).

That 19.8 percent is nearly 10 percent lower than LeBron James right now, and anyone who’s watched the Cleveland Cavaliers play basketball this year knows how much offensive responsibility weighs on the four-time MVP’s shoulders.

Griffin’s situation isn’t dissimilar. The percentage of his shots launched with seven or fewer seconds on the shot clock is up approximately eight percent compared to a couple seasons ago, L.A.’s offense is 9.5 points per 100 possessions worse when he sits, and he’s surrounded by inexperience and unfamiliarity for the first time in over half a decade. Different teammates are learning how to contribute in a new system before they can grasp how to accentuate their franchise player’s strengths.

“I’ve always been that go-to guy, whereas now I’m learning to be that role guy,” Thornwell told VICE Sports. “It’s good because I get to see the other side of the game, and learn how to play off the ball and stuff like that, but it’s kind of frustrating in a sense because I still want to score.”

Before Monday’s loss, I asked Doc Rivers if there was anything he could point to, besides the injuries and late-game woes (L.A.’s crunch-time offense is worst in the NBA—a predictable script that droops between Griffin post-ups and Austin Rivers unhinging himself from reality), that might explain his team’s inability to end their streak.

“Probably what you just said, the injuries and the crunch-time woes,” he chuckled. “Because of the injuries, there’s not much you can do, but I like the fact that we’re still in every game. You take three of your top six players out of your lineup, you’re gonna probably struggle. But we’ve had a chance in all but two I would say, and two of them we should’ve boarded the bus before the game.”

Despite their unlucky health, New York represented a golden opportunity for the Clippers to turn things around and sink their teeth into a marshmallow-soft schedule. Their next five opponents are NBA punching bags (the Atlanta Hawks, Sacramento Kings, Los Angeles Lakers, the Rudy Gobert-less Utah Jazz, and Dallas Mavericks), and Beverley is finally back in the starting lineup.

They’ve outscored opponents by 9.7 points per 100 possessions when Jordan, Gallo, and Griffin share the floor, and Teodosic’s intoxicating pass-first mentality may singlehandedly reverse the team’s self-serving modus operandi. But a long-term solution for some of this team’s problems might not exist. Their defense, for example, is filled with miscues, hesitation, and physical shortcomings.

Only 8.1 percent of their opponent’s shots are attempted with a defender inside two feet of their airspace (coverage defined as “very tight” by NBA.com), which is a league low. Meanwhile, 29.7 percent of their opponent’s shots are “open,” and just two teams allow a higher percentage. This is bad. Watch below as Griffin and Johnson needlessly miscommunicate a switch, leading to an open three for Jae Crowder.

And here’s Rivers turning into a statue as the weakside defender who shouldn’t be afraid to help off Dwyane Wade to prevent LeBron from waltzing in for an easy dunk.

The personnel doesn’t help. Whenever it makes sense to do so, offenses are happy to throw their playbook out the window just to exclusively set ball screens with whoever Lou Williams is guarding. They then watch with Mr. Burns’s finger-tapping delight as the Clippers combust into ashes. (The Clippers play like a 55-win team when Williams is on the bench, per Cleaning The Glass.)

Add everything up and it’s both hard to envision Los Angeles making the playoffs and unfair to count them out. It’s a long season, and who’s to know if the Denver Nuggets, New Orleans Pelicans, or Portland Trail Blazers won’t suffer a series of crippling injuries right as the Clippers find themselves on the mend.

But this is a contract year for Williams, and both Jordan and Austin Rivers can opt out of their deals in July. Doc's job security isn't great, and just like last year, L.A. may soon find itself in a situation where too many players have one eye on the future instead of being all in on today.

“It comes down to playing hard and sticking together, and when things are going good, staying level headed, and when things are going bad, staying level headed.” Dekker said. “There’s some times we could do that better, and that’s where teams have taken advantage of us. We’ve got to stay positive, keep working, and know that things will turn around. And they will.”

Time is Already Running Out For The Los Angeles Clippers published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

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amtushinfosolutionspage · 7 years

Text

Time is Already Running Out For The Los Angeles Clippers

On this night, and for the foreseeable future, he’s the organization’s sole mainstay. Chris Paul is in Texas. DeAndre Jordan is an unrestricted free agent whose name will swirl in rumors until he’s either dealt or the trade deadline passes. Doc Rivers was demoted from his President of Basketball Operations duty a few months ago, and entered the season with Las Vegas believing he was likely to soon lose his head coach job as well. The harsh reality of NBA life with one, and not two, top-20 players battling on your behalf has officially smacked Griffin and the Clippers in the face.

And here’s Rivers turning into a statue as the weakside defender who shouldn’t be afraid to help off Dwyane Wade to prevent LeBron from waltzing in for an easy dunk.

But this is a contract year for Williams, and both Jordan and Austin Rivers can opt out of their deals in July. Doc’s job security isn’t great, and just like last year, L.A. may soon find itself in a situation where too many players have one eye on the future instead of being all in on today.

Time is Already Running Out For The Los Angeles Clippers syndicated from http://ift.tt/2ug2Ns6

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flauntpage · 7 years

Text

Time is Already Running Out For The Los Angeles Clippers

And here’s Rivers turning into a statue as the weakside defender who shouldn’t be afraid to help off Dwyane Wade to prevent LeBron from waltzing in for an easy dunk.

Time is Already Running Out For The Los Angeles Clippers published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

0 notes

flauntpage · 7 years

Text

Time is Already Running Out For The Los Angeles Clippers

And here’s Rivers turning into a statue as the weakside defender who shouldn’t be afraid to help off Dwyane Wade to prevent LeBron from waltzing in for an easy dunk.

Time is Already Running Out For The Los Angeles Clippers published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

0 notes

flauntpage · 7 years

Text

Time is Already Running Out For The Los Angeles Clippers

And here’s Rivers turning into a statue as the weakside defender who shouldn’t be afraid to help off Dwyane Wade to prevent LeBron from waltzing in for an easy dunk.

Time is Already Running Out For The Los Angeles Clippers published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

0 notes

flauntpage · 7 years

Text

Time is Already Running Out For The Los Angeles Clippers

And here’s Rivers turning into a statue as the weakside defender who shouldn’t be afraid to help off Dwyane Wade to prevent LeBron from waltzing in for an easy dunk.

Time is Already Running Out For The Los Angeles Clippers published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

0 notes