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salmankhanholics · 6 months

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★ Trade experts explain why no Hindi or Pan-Indian film clashes with Salman Khan’s films at the box office: “He’s 100% an ORGANIC star; clashing with him can prove SUICIDAL”!

Nov 7, 2023

Salman Khan’s Diwali release Tiger 3 is nearly a week away and the excitement is tremendous. What’s interesting is that it’ll have a solo release of sorts, as no other Hindi or Pan-India South film is clashing on the same day. In fact, Salman Khan has not faced a clash since 2010. The last time that happened was when his 2009 action super-hit film Wanted was released on the same day as Rani Mukerji-starrer Dil Bole Hadippa.

Dabangg (2010), Ready (2011), Bodyguard (2011), Ek Tha Tiger (2012), Dabangg 2 (2012), Jai Ho (2014), Kick (2014), Bajrangi Bhaijaan (2015), Prem Ratan Dhan Payo (2015), Sultan (2016), Tubelight (2017), Race 3 (2018), Bharat (2019), Dabangg 3 (2019) and Kisi Ka Bhai Kisi Ki Jaan (2023) released with no competition. Antim (2021) faced a collision with Satyameva Jayate 2 (2021) but then it didn’t feature the superstar in the lead.

Other stars haven’t been that fortunate. Shah Rukh Khan’s Dilwale (2015) and Raees (2017) were released alongside Bajirao Mastani (2015) and Kaabil (2017) respectively. SRK is at his best position arguably right now and yet, his next film Dunki will have to share screens with Salaar on Christmas 2023. Aamir Khan’s Laal Singh Chaddha clashed with Akshay Kumar’s Raksha Bandhan last year. Salman’s last few films have not done well and yet, no one is ready to come on the same Friday as him.

We asked trade experts about this rare phenomenon. Trade veteran Taran Adarsh said, “He has a huge following and is a darling of the masses. The business he has generated over a period of time in mass pockets is phenomenal. Though he has had a rough patch, he's the pied piper of Bollywood.”

Trade analyst Atul Mohan, in agreement, exulted, “Salman is a very big hero of the masses. He has always had such a huge fan following; Shah Rukh Khan ka aisa following ab bana hai. Aamir Khan never had such a mass pull. Salman’s craze is one of a kind. Hence, filmmakers are wary of clashing their films with him. Itna bada hero hai, kaun takkar lega iske saath?”

Girish Johar, producer and film business analyst, remarked, “Salman is the only superstar who people want to see on screen. He has the maximum on-screen superstardom out of all the actors. It’s a very critical factor. He’s also not on our social media every time, going to malls, opening ribbons, dancing, etc.”

He continued, “Unfortunately his films have not worked as he hasn’t paid much attention to the storytelling, packaging, direction, etc. He has that power that if he gets these things right, then there’s no stopping him. That’s why many are wary of clashing with him as they know that at least in the opening weekend, their film will get butchered.”

Raj Bansal, the owner of Entertainment Paradise cinema hall in Jaipur, explained, “Salman Khan is an action hero. When no one was doing action, he was the only action excelling in this genre. Somewhere, his confidence shook and he also did non-action films like Tubelight (2017), Prem Ratan Dhan Payo (2015), etc. Only Bajrangi Bhaijaan (2015) worked in this regard. But even when his films were gadbad, they still made Rs. 100 crores plus. There was a time when the hit films of Akshay Kumar and Ajay Devgn did Rs. 100 crores. But Salman’s flop films do Rs. 100 crores even today! And his hit films have done more than Rs. 300 crores. It’s thanks to him that the industry realized the true potential of a Hindi film. Hence, clashing with him can prove suicidal.”

He also said, “He’s 100% an organic star. Even Sunny Deol is.”

Girish Johar added, “If he moulds himself to the sensibilities that cater to his fans and also provides intelligent content, then sky is the limit. I think Tiger 3 will do well. It ticks all the right boxes.”

Taran Adarsh also said along the same lines, “Tiger 3 being a brand and essaying a role that is much-loved, I am sure it’ll have a great run and a huge opener.”

#salman khan #Trade Analyst #Taran Adarsh #Atul Mohan #raj Bansal #tiger 3 #organic hero #salman Khan is organic hero #masses #t3

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bibliocratic · 4 years

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Jonmartin prompt: Jon wants to cuddle Martin very badly and is also super awkward about it, like "how do I touch you without my elbows crushing something"

(post 160, jonmartin)(this is… well, it’s sort of what you were after? hope it’s ok!)

It’s not easy, the slapdash and imprecise art of communication. Martin’s never been particularly adept. His words trip over footholds of his own making on their way out of his mouth. He has a stammer he’s never quite rid himself of, his words too earnest or too anxious to showcase any finesse at the skill.

And Jon…

Well. Jon.

It wasn’t simple before, twisting the tape back to the start of all this, Jon talking like a car trying to jump start when things felt too personal, his indelicate sincerity that struck with all the tenderness of an anvil. And Martin likes to think they were both getting better, before. They had three weeks of stumbling, artless practise, their amateur declarations witnessed by no-one but the wind and evening-dappled fields that stretched like lazy days for miles around.

And now.

Martin wouldn’t say Jon’s up to managing much talking now.

Oh, he’s not silent. Chatty in his own way, and the conversations they have are tug-of-wars, teasing, testing to find the edges their pieces slot into.

Easy isn’t the word for it though. Martin supposes, it was never going to be.

They’ve stopped for a few days to gather themselves. They’ve made it as far south as Melrose on the borders, and it would have been a pretty market town, antique fairs and village fetes and a eye-catching ruin of a fourteenth century monastery, if the Hunt hadn’t passed this way, maybe the Spiral too. There isn’t much left here in the way of civilisation, and little to nothing in the way of humanity. There are shadows like the imprints on wall after the outpouring shock of a bomb, but their limbs do not concede to the shape of limbs. They sway as leaves on a branch, like they’re hanging from where their feet are stuck to the ground, and Martin tugs them clear of their gathering places.

They’ve managed to let themselves into the half-unhinged door of a little high street shop that used to sell fancy card and stationary. They had tried an art gallery further up the road, but the Dark had started to take root there like black mould, and it’d eaten away the ground floor to yawning inky nothing.

Martin asks Jon if they’ll be safe here, and Jon rallies himself wearily, Looks. He replies that nothing will come for them, and that’s as much as they can ask for these days.

Above the shop, accessed via a back-room still plugged up and packed with unopened boxes, up carpeted stairs on which bundles of unopened notebooks and special occasion cards balance committedly against the will of gravity, there’s a small flat. The decoration in the flat is… interesting. It’s more something one of Tim’s friends would have had, the few times Tim got Martin to go out with him for one of his ‘de-stress Friday’ sessions. Martin would laugh at the wall-hangings like indoor curtains, the posters of the zodiac and some tie-dye hippy representation of chakras, the bong even still on the coffee table in the poky living room, except his attention is slightly more taken up by Jon at the moment. Leant against him like a downed tree, his eyes drooping closed and his legs fast failing him, shuddering from the effort of taking the stairs.

The way here was treacherous. There’s a town further north about forty miles swallowed by the Vast. Jon tries to avoid Seeing as much as possible, of course he does, and Martin will never ask that of him outright, never, but they’ve had to check if the way is safe a number of times. And each time he opens the door or whatever metaphor Jon uses to understand it, it drains something from him it takes a long time to claw back.

Martin drops his backpack by the entrance. Divests Jon of his. Jon sways and blinks with lidded eyes, and his gestures are sloppy, poorly formed. Martin ends up carrying him to single bed off to the right of the staircase, the room still wreathed in the old stale smell of tobacco and weed.

Once Jon’s out for the count, Martin checks the doors, the windows, their rations and supplies with the religious militancy of a man who knows what happens when they don’t. He counts out rations, makes careful notations in his notebook with a stubby pencil sharpened by his pen-knife. The cupboards of the flat are mostly a bust, but there’s a few cans of baked beans, tinned peaches, and the delight of finding a single can of tinned custard, which Martin stashes to surprise Jon with later.

There’s a billy bookcase next to the non-functioning TV, crowded full of precarious piles of console game boxes and disordered books and back issues of the Fortean Times. Martin peruses through a number of books on mysticism, the paranormal and how one can access their inner self before he finds a glossy hardback on origami to entertain himself.

The sky outside is dark and scratched with an ugly bruising colour, but it’s likely to be only mid afternoon. Martin ventures back down the staircase and grabs some coloured card before he settles back into the spring-less corner of a battered settee draped with a brightly adorned throw blanket. There’s another, equally obnoxiously shaded blanket of clashing colours, and he places it over himself and gets comfortable.

It’s a few hours later when he hears the bed squeak. A clearing of a throat, the unsteady padded steps of someone who hasn’t found their equilibrium just yet.

Jon pushes the door open with a sighing squeak and peers blearily around.

The nap hasn’t helped at all by the look of it. Martin turns mid-fold and gets to see a crime scene of disturbed sleep evidenced on Jon’s body. One of Martin’s long-sleeve t-shirts rucked up, the under arms and ring around his neck patched damp. His skin rippled with a thick sweat, hair coming wildly and carelessly from the band he’d tied it back in. He’s rocking on the balls of his feet like he’s still following the motion of running, and his eyes as he stares at Martin are unnaturally dilated, unnervingly steady even as he scrubs his face with his hand.

“Hey,” Martin says carefully. Knowing to keep his voice pitched low, calmer than Jon feels right now. “Are you… everything ok?”

Jon pauses, blinks just too slowly to seem natural, and shakes his head.

“What’s wrong?” Martin asks. “If you can… if you want to say, that it.”

Jon pauses. It’s habit now. A nervous tic. Mulling over what he wants to say and how he’ll say it.

He has to be so careful with how he says things.

Martin’s expecting a truncated gesture or two. A stumbling sign that Martin will have to parse, backed up by a thousand other signifiers of meaning in their home-spun language. But unusually, Jon clears his throat, bites his top lip anxiously before he opens his mouth.

Like tuning in a radio station mid-programme, someone else’s words ring out.

“I allowed myself some brief hope,” Jon’s voice sloshes out of his mouth with a South American cadence. “that maybe he’d just left me, maybe he’d escaped with just a divorce. But no. One call to the housing association confirmed that, as far as they were concerned, I’d always lived alone.”

Most of the statements Martin doesn’t recognise. He’s not been cursed with an encyclopaedic knowledge of them after all, a forced and unwilling archive now capable of speaking in every voice but his own. They’re all the same anyway. The recycling of other people’s tragedies and miseries, their worst days committed for posterity and recited dutifully by the archive Jonah Magnus created to house them.

Jon usually doesn’t share the content of his dreams.

“Nightmare?” Martin says, deliberately lightly. He puts down his truly butchered attempt to make a swan and watches as Jon swallows, brings a hand to his mouth to gnaw at a nail.

He wonders if that’s the right word, knows in his heart it isn’t, not really. Because nightmares are a twisting of things that both are and aren’t, a plaited deceitful recollection of an unkind brain. Jon’s dreams are a hideous witnessing, with no hope of challenge of change.

Jon jerkily nods, before he says in that awful ventriloquism:

“… regarding a series of misplaced objects lost over the course of three months.”

Jon’s started to rub his arms. His lips firmly closed again, as though embarrassed he’s shared the history he’s been watching in his dreams. But he did share it. And that’s notable.

Martin holds up a corner of the blanket on the settee, and chides “Get in here, or you’ll catch your death”, and Jon’s crossing the distance as though he was waiting for the signal.

They don’t say anything for the while. Jon folds himself up against Martin’s side like a gangly greetings card, like one of his obviously failed origami projects. Martin puts an arm around his shoulder and consigns himself to the rather shocking robbery of body heat that’s rapidly occurring. Jon accepts the arm, but the tension is still wound through his marrow, and he doesn’t calm like he usually does.

“This one really bothered you, didn’t it?” Martin says.

A twitchy up-down motion.

“How come?” Martin asks, before: “If you want to talk about it. If not, well, I can tell you all about my grand adventures in paper folding. A wild ride, I can promise.”

Jon raises an eyebrow at the truly dazzling menagerie of wobbly animals, and huffs a stale laugh.

He brings out his hands from where he’d buried them in the furnace of Martin’s space, and makes a sign, a twisting hooked hand motion - Spiral. And then, shakier, flatter, his fingers closed like shutters – Lonely.

“As far as they were concerned,” he repeats with a mournful and stolen tongue, “I’d always lived alone.”

He makes a sign again, and meets Martin’s eye like he’s been trying not to – Lonely.

Jon reaches out, and like setting fingers to the board of a violin, delicately fits his hand against Martin’s. Like he’s memorised exactly the places where they go, the coves and shorelines where their islands can align.

Martin’s grip has never been as careful. His fingers engulf Jon’s smaller size, cushioning them in a sturdy grip.

“You’ve not lost me,” Martin says, reading in between the lines of Jon’s gestures. “I’m here, yeah? Alright. And we’re together. I’m not lost.”

Jon makes a grunt of acknowledgement, inclining his head in agreement, impatiently, as though he knows all this, like he begrudges being reminded. But clearly this knowledge hasn’t stained every part of his waking yet, because there are tears slipping unwanted from his eyes and his hand grips Martin harder.

His gaze flickers like a camera shutter from the floor and its foot-scuffed rug to Martin, back and forth. Martin wishes, not for the first time, that Jon could just ask for what he wants. Could stop feeling like he needs to justify every out-reaching motion to himself, approaching physical affection like he’s trying to do the cryptic bloody crossword.

He’s learning. They both are.

“What do you want me to do?” Martin asks instead.

Jon’s eyes finally linger on him. Cheeks damp, eyes red. He removes his hand from Martin’s grip like he’s unmooring a ship from port. His next movements being planned behind his eyes. A methodical consideration of angle, of intent, of reciprocation that’s as much caution as it is overthinking. Martin wonders sometimes whether this is the Jon he always was, or the Jon that’s been made by this world and all that’s been laid against him. Maybe it’s one or the other or both, or maybe it doesn’t matter much any more. This is Martin’s Jon, the Jon that is, the one that is thinking about how he’s going to place his limbs as though there’s a wrong way to it, who will steady himself before he’ll reach out. But who always does, eventually, in his own time.

His arms encircle Martin’s neck now. A pause, a release of air, before he’s pulling back, fretting like something hasn’t worked. But he clearly wants something, enough to push through his dissatisfaction, face folded in on itself unhappily before it sets in determination and then he goes for around Martin’s chest, fingers steadying, finding their own bony handholds in the material of Martin’s jumper. The right angles of his elbows, the washboard of his ribs felt under his shirt, they don’t have any give and Martin shifts a little to ease the hard sensation of it, try and reorient them better. Jon picks up on this, already trying to shift again or perhaps even move away, and if his tongue could still form apologies, he’d be making them.

Martin’s arms come round decisively, closing the circuit of them.

“Stop fussing,” he murmurs, and Jon quietens. Face against the round of Martin’s chest, the hand that’s not still gripped vice-like carefully combining through his damp hair.

“This ok?” Martin says finally, wanting to know, wanting Jon to feel like he can tell him.

Jon lifts his head. Nods, brings their lips together for a skimming kiss, like he’s sealing the sentiment.

He shuffles his body so he’s wedged next to Martin, taking up any crevice he finds. After a moment, pulling and positioning Martin’s arm back over his shoulder, so it drapes heavy and solid and present. A lightness on his face that sleep couldn’t achieve but a victory Martin likes to claim as his own every time.

It is no hardship for Martin to understand every one of these expressions just fine.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #no cws or tws #fluff #post 160

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kikizoshi · 4 years

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My (Rough) Thoughts on Shipping Self-Inserts With Canon Characters

Obviously, if you’ve read some of my newer works, you’ll know that I don’t mind OCs, and I feel similarly towards self-inserts. In fact, I’m in pretty high favour of them (good published authors have used themselves and their experiences as great inspiration many a time, and with much success--Dostoyevsky did so a lot!).

However...

With self-inserts, I find that shipping can be quite... problematic.

I’d like to start with an experience of my own, a basic one, where I wrote a self-insert ship fic. It was... bad, but bad isn’t always indicative of the self-insert style. I remember the way I imagined it was myself in the story, interacting with the characters just like I would in my head, and how great it was to put it onto paper. I was invigorated, it gave me purpose, and I swore to write a new page every day. It was my first fanfiction, and I still enjoy reading it occasionally (even if no one else would).

But that piece isn’t my current ideal for writing, and there are several things I could’ve done to improve. Like, certain writing conventions served to tear me straight from a story, no matter how I tried to gloss over them in my mind.

Signifiers such as ‘(y/n),’ or ‘(h/c),’ ripped me right out of the screen and back into the room around me. Reading about how, “She looked up with her (e/c) eyes happily,” even if only for half a second, I lost my transfiction, and engagement stuttered as I knew I’d be ripped away again.

Strawmanning was another of these problems. The ‘bully’ characters weren’t anything more than a few cookie-cutter lines (not even stereotypes!), whereas the heroic me had the last word, expertly cutting through their paper-thin insults and winning for myself a glorious victory. Rather than highlight virtuous aspects of my character, however, this win only served to make my writing contrived, which goes with my next point.

Shipping myself with a character was perhaps my downfall. Now, don’t get me wrong, my beloved and I had some awesome dialogue about how we should use the honorific ‘-kun’ to make people think we were dating, but overall, neither of our characters were enhanced by each other. I was still my Holy self, the other character shared in my Light, and everyone else were unworthy heathens below.

So what could I have done differently, and what caused me to take such a self-indulgent turn?

To answer my second question, well, age was definitely a factor. I was ten, I believe, and not highly capable of self-reflection, something which is needed in spades in order to artfully insert oneself. I wanted an easy story, one where I could be with the character I wanted and never be in the wrong, and so that’s what happened, at the expense of both our characters (as I’ll elaborate on further down).

To answer the first, I’ll need to take a slightly deeper dive.

For signifiers, I believe why I used them is the key. There’s a difference between self-inserts and reader-inserts, although the two are often mixed, which makes sense (who’s to be the reader-insert if not oneself, or one’s close friend?).

My story was not a reader-insert, though, nor was it ever in my plans to share it, to make it accessible for a friend. (And not even for the purposes of this discussion will I share it with you now, perish the thought.) The only reason I’d thought to add in signifiers of personal traits, of which I knew very well, was imitation. I noticed that every other person on Quotev wrote their fanfictions that way, and so I followed suit. In hindsight, though, it would have been much better to just describe myself or, if preferred, just leave it vague.

I do believe, by the way, that the distinction between self-inserts and reader-inserts--or where we muddle the line--should be something kept in mind when writing. How do you know what’s in-character if you don’t know which character you’re writing about, after all?

For strawmanning, or making a ‘Mary Sue’ of myself, well, there’s a quick explanation. I loathe being wrong. Don’t you? And yet, it’s a real hinderance if I want to write myself into a story. I can’t stand being wrong, I fear it, but characters with no failings are, frankly, boring to follow.

So if they’re so boring, and I don’t want to be wrong, what can I do? Well, I could not write myself. Or, I could use that as a character flaw, and incorporate it into my writing. Maybe, instead of valiantly slicing through the bullies’ insults, my character could think that’s what they’ve done, while the narrator knows full well they’ve made an arse of themself.

And now... onto my main point as stated in my headline--shipping!

In order to ship myself with a character (let’s say Nikolai), I think, honestly, that a perfect storm is needed. 1) I’d need a deep understanding of Nikolai and 2) an extreme level of self-awareness so that 3) I can know whether or not being with Nikolai would be right for me.

Just because I like a character doesn’t mean that he’d automatically like me.

And in fact, I can say with certainty that, if Nikolai were to come to cross paths with me, he’d think nothing of me and forget me the next day. Such is the sort of realism that’s necessary, I think, if we’re not to mould the characters of our affection into someone entirely different, whom they fundamentally are not. If keeping Nikolai’s full personality is my genuine goal in writing, I cannot, therefore, ship myself with him, and I cannot write a self-insert fic about him loving me with any believability or integrity as a writer.

This isn’t to say that I can’t write a fic with both of us interacting, though. I could, of course, get unexpectedly trapped in a trash can, and there’d be nothing for him to do but generously help me out. The line there, however, is to not try to push him past his limits. If I truly respect him, then I wish for him to stay my truest version of him.

If I do wish to mould his character, however, then all that goes out the window. Suddenly, he’s whatever I want him to be, and we can go have a weekend getaway without complication... but I’d need to be careful.

There’s a fine line between character interpretation and character butchering. Personally, respect is a massive part of my relationship with my character. If I don’t respect a character, I end up misrepresenting them, putting false words and actions in their mouths, and polluting the fic.

So what should I do if I want to mould them to like me (and I can’t change myself without actually changing myself in real life), but I don’t want to disrespect them?

Well, it’s actually pretty easy within Bungō Stray Dogs. In order to change a character, it’s important, I think, to keep some of their core values, and in BSD characters’ cases, the core themes of their namesakes.

(I’ll have to use Fyodor for this next example, by the way, since I cannot for the life of me come up with a situation that would grant me closeness to Nikolai.)

I’d never, ever make Fyodor choose me over his goals, for example (and in fact, very likely, he wouldn’t let me). However, there are still the quiet moments to think of. Were he perhaps a bit more like Alyosha (character from The Brothers Karamazov, by Dostoyevsky), more willing to make time for those he cares about, so long as we had known each other a long time prior, even if my intellect didn’t compare to his, loyal companionship and decent conversation over a good cup of tea is enough, I think, for a decent scene. (This takes some, though not all, inspiration from Dostoyevsky’s relationship with his second wife, as well as Alyosha’s relationship with his love interest.)

I believe the change should be in-keeping with his character, something slight, so that he remains the man I love and respect while still being able to be himself.

(Now, I’m also aware that I can’t come from a place of complete sincerity, since I don’t want to be with Fyodor, but the example still, I think, was necessary.)

To recap how I think I could do self-insert fiction better:

-I’d keep engagement in mind.

-I’d try to watch for unintentional perfection.

-If I don’t want to change a character, then I: evaluate if they’re right for me.

-If I do want to change a character, then I: keep them the truest form of themself at their core, and make only necessary in-character changes.

So... yeah, those are my rough thoughts. None of this is intended to be OC harassment, by the way, and the only fic I ever referred to here was my own. The itch just came, since I’ve been thinking about this for years, to flesh out my thoughts a bit. I hope anyone who managed to make it this far got something out of this, and thanks for reading <3

#thoughts

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takeiteasypeasybaby · 4 years

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Save Me: Chapter 7 - What Comes Next?

~Hey guys! This is chapter 7 in ‘Save Me’. Molly and Negan clash as she finds herself completely at his mercy in the Sanctuary. I hope you guys like it and chapter 8 will be out on Wednesday! ~

Molly knew that this would be the end for her. She was literally in the belly of the beast, surrounded by enemies and unknowns. The Devil stood before her.

He waited, keeping his hand stretched out to me as if he knew I would take it.

He was wrong, he knew nothing about me.

Instead of taking his hand, I jumped to my feet on my own.

He looked as if he didn't know whether to scowl or smile. On reflection, he was that type of man, unpredictable.

Always.

He leaned closer to me until I felt his breath on my neck as I looked round at all of the men smiling sinisterly, as if they knew what he was planning.

He slowly and calmly whispered 'you turn me on so goddamn much, you know that?'.

At first I was mesmerised by him, every syllable he annunciated playfully like he was testing me.

I took a second before snapping myself out of the trance, it was like being under a spell, like losing control and I hated every moment of it.

He lifted his head back up to mine until we were locked in each others eyes.

He thought he had me, he thought that he had won.

From his point of view, my eyes were soft and entranced by him, which they were at first but now, they had hardened to him and all I could see was everything I had lost, that we had lost because of him.

I didn't show any hint of what I was about to do, but kept him occupied with our eyes entranced by each other.

He chuckled to himself, thinking that I was just like every other girl that I bet he'd made swoon.

Arrogant bastard.

For the first time, I smirked then smiled at him before I punched him square across the face.

I'd always loved working out, becoming the strongest I could be so when the time came I could defend myself and show that I wasn't some weak girl who could be manipulated or moulded like putty.

His chuckle died as soon as I hit him, he almost doubled over when I did which made my smile grow even stronger.

Of course his men raised their weapons to me once I'd struck their beloved leader but I didn't care at this point.

I just kept my eyes firmly on his, not caring about anyone else, just his reaction.

His shock was written all over his face, just beginning to slightly scowl at being disrespected in front of his men.

He raised his hand by his side, flat, so that his men knew not to shoot me.

They lowered their weapons slowly, this time in actual fear of me.

This made me smile even more.

Negan came close to my face again, as if he wanted more.

Kinda fucked up when you think about it, but I expected it.

It's funny how someone's body language gives off their entire personality without barely having to say much to each other.

I lowered my gaze to his nose, then to his lips as if we held eye contact our lips would have touched.

He whispered again this time with his mouth near mine, 'I am about fifty percent more into you now'.

As much as I wanted to hate him, there was something about him that captivated me.

I couldn't place it, so much so that looking at him again made me scowl in confusion.

I thought that I could read exactly who he was, but I was wrong.

There was certainly more to him than this, and I would figure it out. Especially if it was a weakness we could use to take them down for good.

Once Negan had spoke, he lingered, his eyes tracing visual circles over my lips as he examined me. Smiling while he did so.

He eventually pulled away and instructed his men to tie my hands and cover my eyes so that I didn't know where I was going.

Smart.

As he instructed his men, he gazed at me like I was an enigma he was trying to work out.

Suddenly a Saviour behind me pulled my hands roughly behind me and bound them with a thick rope.

I winced and struggled at being restrained.

Another came over and pulled a piece of old worn cloth over my eyes, tying it tightly.

Negan's smile was the last thing I saw before I woke in darkness.

They must have knocked me out on the way to wherever we were headed because when I woke I had a surging headache and felt a cold hard almost metallic floor beneath me.

The blindfold was no longer over me but I still couldn't see.

There was only a small strip of light at the bottom of a door in the room.

I occasionally heard footsteps go past but for the most part, silence. Nothingness.

I sat up, my hands still bound behind my back and felt another wall behind me.

The room was small, almost cell-like.

Great, I thought. I'm now the Saviour's prisoner. The bastard should've just killed me.

Time went by, just as I was falling asleep the door swung open.

It was a large heavy looking metal door which looked like it only locked from the outside, so I couldn't escape.

The light entering the room suddenly blinded me for a split second while my eyes adjusted.

I looked at the shadow standing before me which morphed into a man as I regained sight.

He was a large man with stern features. I remembered him, he was the one that tied me up.

He stepped into the room quietly, as if he wasn't supposed to be there before saying 'hey there, you okay?'.

Feeling dehydrated since I'd gone a day without water, I asked 'can I have some water?'.

Looking briefly out into the hallway, to check if anyone was there was sign number one.

He knelt down before me, much too close, before sighing and saying 'I should introduce myself, I'm David...I wonder if you remember me from last night'.

He looked down smiling as if he was proud of himself.

Then he looked up suddenly with a hunger in his eyes, 'do you?' he repeated.

I scanned over him before sarcastically saying 'no sorry'.

'Well, I can forgive that, last night was kind of a shit storm'.

He paused, looking over me like I was a piece of meat and he was the butcher.

'I was the guy that used that rope to tie you up. I always keep some close, there's just all kinds of fun and interesting things you can do with rope' he said while stroking up my bare arm.

I tensed, knowing how this would end. I couldn't show fear. I would not .

'God you're pretty', he sighed further, 'if I give you some water, which is not something I'm supposed to do will you do something for me...something that your not supposed to do'.

He looked down towards my chest.

'Will you?', he said sternly and growing impatient at my silence.

He ripped my t shirt, exposing part of my bra as I gasped in fear.

He leaned in to my ear, in a way that felt different from when Negan had yesterday.

'Tell me how thirsty you are' he whispered.

I looked at him straight in the eyes before whispering through gritted teeth, 'go to hell' and head butted him straight to the ground.

He fell backwards before laughing and saying 'oh shit, fighting's just gonna make it last longer'.

He knelt back up and started to unbuckle his belt before continuing, 'which for the record is fine by me'.

I thought that this would be the end, when all of a sudden there was a loud whack against the door frame with a baseball bat.

It was Negan.

'HEY!' he yelled, 'what the hell are you doing in here?' he asked sternly.

'Negan, sir...' the Saviour said reluctantly, 'do you really think I need you to answer that?' Negan said angrily.

He walked forward to the rapist before saying, 'I can see that you're trying to rape this woman, you were trying to rape this woman weren't you?'.

He looked down while Negan inched closer to him.

Negan flicked a glance in my direction before continuing, 'ah, this is some unacceptable behaviour, rape is against the rules here, I wouldn't wanna be somewhere where it wasn't, someone in charge who let something like that fly'.

Negan shook his head, exhaling hard before pulling out a knife.

He held it up to the rapist's face.

'David...you've really crossed the line here' Negan said warningly.

'I'm sorry sir' he said hurriedly as if somehow he could escape his fate.

Negan looked at him for a second before plunging the knife through his neck.

'You know what? I do not accept your apology', he said as he pulled back the knife.

I wasn't surprised by the violence, yet my eyes widened as he fell to the floor.

I was purely confused that he had killed one of his own men.

Negan stood over me, looking at me for a second before whistling, 'Hey!' to his men outside the room.

'Get Molly here a new t-shirt' he said softly before crouching in front of me with his bat in one hand.

I was surprised he remembered my name.

'I'm sorry you had to see that...sorry about the rope too, probably overkill, but you did cause one hell of a fracas yesterday' he said while untying the rope.

It was only when the light from the corridor shone against his face did I see the bruise I'd created yesterday when I hit him.

I felt zero remorse.

I stretched out my arms, they were sore but I felt less vulnerable now.

I was grateful, but I would never show it. I thought he must be working some kind of angle to gain my trust.

'You know what? I gotta hand it to you, you got some beach ball sized lady nuts coming in all kamikaze like that. But, big question here, and I need the truth on this one, did Rick put you up to this?' he asked while pointing the bat at me.

I scoffed while smiling, 'Rick? Your bitch? No.'

He chuckled loudly at that.

But all I could think was how much did he know about all of us? He obviously knows that I am part of Rick's group and I guessed about the outpost too.

So, why didn't he just kill me right now?

Smiling he said, 'either way you must of thought it was gonna be the end coming in on your own-some like that'.

I looked down defeatedly, thinking about how things could've been different.

'But that's not the way it's gotta go, uh huh, just the opposite, you see this' he said gesturing to both of us, 'well this could be the beginning'.

I glanced at him questioningly, still silent.

He crouched before me once again, this time placing the knife he used to kill that man with, in front of my feet.

'This knife is yours now, you could try to use it and take me out, but considering I am standing above you holding a baseball bat that doesn't seem real smart. Now, you could use it to slit your wrists which would be a damn shame but I get it. You could sit there, do nothing and wait for old David to come back to life and eat your face off which would also be a damn shame and kinda nuts but to each their own'.

He paused.

'Or, you could use that blade and stop ol' rapey-davey from becoming dead alive rapey-davey, save yourself, join the cause'.

He turned about to leave before saying, 'I know what i'd do'.

I glanced over his face before saying 'what?' quietly.

'I'm a man short, hell you can't really call this piece of shit a man but still I'm short and you got those beach ball sized lady nuts so I wanna harness the heat coming off of em'.

He moved closer.

'You, can help me run this place one day, all of us together, following the rules and working on the same side of things. That's all this was ever about and it still can be for you' he said softly.

I could never become a Saviour, I hated everything about them and I just wanted to get back to my family. I wanted to see Tara and Maggie.

But I had to be smart.

He leaned closer before crouching once again, 'take some time to think about it, whatever you decide, so it shall be. No pressure'.

He leaned closer, his eyes wandering about my face like I was a rare gem in his hands.

'Again I am sorry you had to see that, even though I know you have seen some things, I just want you to understand. We are not monsters' he whispered glancing from my eyes to my lips again.

He stood up once again and then just left.

Leaving me in the darkness again with a monster by my side...

Rosita's POV//

I had been walking for what felt like hours.

I'd tried to remember the direction the truck had been going but I ended up getting lost at every turn.

I loved Molly like a sister and the thought of losing her broke my heart.

I was just about to abandon ship when I came across the smell of pungent rotting flesh.

Through the woods, I followed the stench which made my eyes water until I saw in the distance a large factory building with what seemed like fencing all around.

Walkers bodies were piled up outside and the amount of trucks made me realise, I had finally found it.

I smiled to myself, before making my way towards the compound.

I wanted to kill Negan, but I knew that I had to find Molly first, whatever it took.

On closer inspection, the walkers were on spikes in between two rows of wire fencing as an almost no mans land between the outside world and the depressingly dark abandoned factory.

I was close the fencing, sneaking round until I got to the trucks when I saw a figure in the darkness.

He looked at me, unmoving until I said 'shit.'

With light now hitting the man just enough to make out who he was, my eyes widened.

It was Dwight.

He must have been coming back from a supply run.

He stopped his car before jumping out and ran towards me, knife in his hand.

But I was smart, I managed to block his attacks and disarmed him wrapping an arm around his neck and mouth to keep him quiet.

This was my favourite move.

With the end of my gun, I knocked him on the head with it.

He fell unconscious.

I had tape and rope in my backpack so I wrapped him up and pulled him into one of the cars parked outside.

But with Saviours patrolling everywhere, I had to leave Molly and pick my moment to up and leave.

The only way would be to cause a distraction.

I found a flare in my backpack and set it off so that it flew into the other side of the compound.

Within a few minutes, dozens of Saviours were over at that side of the compound checking it out.

I smiled to myself before starting the engine.

Hearing the engine and seeing me drive off, they started firing.

I ducked at every shot, windows smashing and bullets firing into the doors.

I had escaped and now had a Saviour to take back to Rick but I still felt upset thinking about how Molly was still in there, or worse, dead.

It didn't take long before I recognised the glistening trail of syrup on the road as reflected by the car's headlights and knew I was headed home.

This was made all the sweeter by the fact that I now had Denise's killer in the backseat.

A few hours later, Dwight still unconscious and just pulling up to Alexandria, I reached Rick on a walkie talkie.

He was asleep and so was Michonne but was awoken by its sound.

I said quietly 'I'm back and I have someone who will interest us all'.

At this, Rick and Michonne made their way hastily with a couple others to the gates.

I pulled into Alexandria and dragged out Dwight.

Rick just simply said, 'isn't that the prick we made the deal with?'.

I nodded 'uh huh'.

They decided to put him in Rick's basement and watch him until he awoke.

Daryl wasn't told until the morning because they felt certain he would kill him straight away without a second thought.

And just like that, they had one of ours and we had one of theirs.

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thedazedyouth · 5 years

Text

It’s You Who Hung The Moon 4

This is just the prologue

There are many kinds of fear, Trevor learned this the hard way.

The fear he felt sleeping on the streets for the first time was suffocating, freezing his body in place. The fear when he was far too young to be alone and a strange man followed him down a dark alleyway was empowering, pushing him to fight and leaving his mind no time to think, only act. And the fear of being kidnapped, left disoriented and alone made him cautious, sure to never repeat the same actions that landed him there.

But this kind of fear. . . this fear was reserved for completely powerless moments.

A kind of fear he hadn’t felt for years.

Until he met a hitman that was too trusting and somehow not trusting enough. Until he and Alfredo Diaz were separated from each other’s side for the first time in days, and left in the hands of a man that wanted them both dead. Trevor felt that pounding fear slither across his chest and tangle itself in his brain.

Trevor sat on the damp and cold ground, hands tied behind him and a blindfold placed over his eyes.

He was alone.

He didn’t know where Alfredo was.

And he was scared.

This wasn’t apart of his plan. Trevor didn’t predict this outcome. They were supposed to be together, captured yes, but able to fight together; but Sparks had put them in different cars with no way of knowing if the other followed. Alfredo might not even be alive, butchered as soon as they got Trevor.

It would’ve been his own arrogance that got Fredo killed.

Trevor sat there for roughly an hour, drowning in his guilt before he heard someone enter.

“Oh, how the mighty fall.”

Trevor could hear the smugness in Sparks’ tone, and practically snarled in response. Although he was blinded, Trevor wanted to test his luck against the man; but he was learning not to underestimate Sparks. Trevor needed to know where Alfredo was, if he was still alive; but couldn’t show the clear attachment.

“Just wait, Caden,” Trevor said, smoothing his emotions into a cocky attitude. “The Fakes don’t take it lightly when someone kidnaps one of their own.”

Despite his warning to the crew, Trevor still had hope that someone, anyone, had noticed something, heard even a small rumor that would alert them to his predicament.

Sparks chuckled. “Really? Well, last time I checked they were a bit preoccupied with the Vultures and haven’t even noticed your absence.”

So now they decide to listen to me? Trevor couldn’t blame the crew though. The deal was more important than pretending the Fakes would even know where to start looking for him, more important than even bothering to find him. He understood completely. Probably would’ve yelled at them if they did drop everything.

“Oh, and before you try anything,” Sparks said, “Mr Diaz will be the one to pay for it.”

Trevor never liked religion, couldn’t get behind it, but thanked every god he could name. At least Alfredo was alive, there wasn’t much Trevor could ask for.

While now he had reason to fight, something to push through the fear with, Trevor still couldn’t move. Not with Alfredo on the line. Trevor would never do anything to intentionally hurt him; although it was his dumb plan that put them in this situation. Trevor had spent too long trying to help him, he wouldn’t throw it all away. If they lived through this, Trevor would be sure to apologise for all the risks.

So he waited.

“Is that all you wanted, Caden? To gloat and make threats?” Trevor asked. He still couldn’t figure out Sparks’ plan.

If Trevor died, then the Fakes would be sent into a fury, a cold and calculated attack that would reduce Sparks and his crew into nothing but ashes. They wouldn’t unravel, wouldn’t turn into anything less than the sadistic, mad men and women they were known to be. Trevor trusted that much to be true; but he also trusted that he wasn’t the right person to target if complete chaos was wanted.

“No, Mr Collins,” Sparks said. “I want so much more. While your crew hasn’t noticed your capture yet, they will very quickly realise their mistake in leaving you alone.”

Sparks paced, walking in circles around Trevor; who despite the blindfold was always acutely aware of his position. Even as Trevor’s mind raced through all the information he had, he still wasn’t able to understand anything Sparks was doing.

Trevor was worth so much less than anyone else in the Fakes.

Sparks sighed, deeply and clearly annoyed. “You don’t get it, do you Mr Collins? You’re worth more than you think.”

No, I know my worth and I’m perfectly okay with it.

Sparks left as suddenly as he entered, leaving Trevor to his thoughts again. He pushed away the voice that whispered just how worthless he was, everything he’d done that put him below human, with a promise to wallow in his self hatred later; and put his focus onto what was more important: Alfredo.

The fear that threatened to consume him had moulded into a burning rage, a fury that demanded revenge to quench it.

Trevor knew exactly who Alfredo was; he had been the same person only a few years ago. He understood the loneliness that comes with survival, knows the struggle of trusting and opening up after a lifetime of reason not to. And he knew where Alfredo was heading.

That is, if Trevor hadn’t stepped in.

The Fakes joined Trevor’s life too late, yet still when he was reparable. They couldn’t save him from every horror, but they found his broken pieces and held them while he slowly put himself back together; although one or two pieces may forever be missing, he was still more whole than before.

And Trevor knew it wouldn’t take Alfredo long before he was a shattered remain of who he once was. Even if Trevor didn’t fully believe that he would be the one to help Fredo, he would at least start the process.

That’s why he jumped in to save Alfredo from Sparks only a few days ago. A glint in the sniper’s eyes was enough to let Trevor know. From then, every action Alfredo made reminded Trevor of himself; drawing away to stitch his own wounds, keeping a clear exit in sight, but once that guard was dropped, they both became different people.

Trevor wouldn’t be himself if the Fakes hadn’t scooped him from the streets, and he wanted to do the same thing for Alfredo. Give him the idea of home, of a family, and let him choose to save himself. It wouldn’t have been fair to let Fredo rot in the Los Santos streets, everyone deserves to be redeemed, and Trevor would be damned if he took that away from Alfredo.

He didn’t have much time to brood.

Sparks only left ten minutes ago, but it had to be him that entered again. And when Trevor listened, he wasn’t alone.

There was someone scuffling against the ground, fighting and struggling against every step. Trevor let his head roll back and didn’t fight the smile when the person spoke.

“Get your fucking hands off me.” Alfredo fought against the men that half carried-half pushed him into the room with Trevor.

The blindfold was removed, and after adjusting to the sudden change of light, Trevor finally saw Alfredo again. He was relatively unhurt, just a couple bruises littered his face and a hardened glare. But his eyes softened the moment they landed on Trevor, his expression relaxing only for a second before he eyed Sparks.

“I thought I’d be generous, let you two see each other one last time before I kill you,” Sparks said.

Alfredo was thrown onto the ground just a few meters away from Trevor, who resisted the urge the move closer. They both kept their gaze forward, to Sparks instead of each other.

Sparks paced in front of them, rolling up his sleeves and grinning like he’d won the lottery. “You won’t believe how long I’ve wanted to do this. But know this, it ain’t gonna be pretty. I want to make a statement with you, Mr Collins,” he said. “Something no one will forget.”

Threats didn’t cause any fear in Trevor anymore, but what did was the panic that warped Alfredo’s face.

The first punch came without warning, Sparks’ fist connecting with Trevor’s nose with a familiar crack. He barely noticed the warm blood trickle onto his chin; Sparks struck again, and again, and again.

After one particularly hard punch, Trevor found himself staring at Alfredo as he attempted to regain his senses; but between the stinging pain and Fredo’s worried face, Trevor couldn’t think about anything else. Couldn’t figure out a plan to get them both out safe, couldn’t even think of anything to say to possibly stall Sparks.

He might have said that out loud, that or Alfredo read his mind; either way, Trevor realised he wasn’t alone.

Somewhere along the way he had forgotten that Alfredo was living a life similar to his, and that meant that the sniper was a much better fighter than any random civilian.

Alfredo charged Sparks, slamming his body into the side of his; sending them both tumbling to the ground.

A hand gun slipped from Sparks’ waistband as he collided with the floor. With Alfredo in a different kind of danger, Trevor worked fast. His hands slide from their binds, like he desperately wanted to do an hour ago. Trevor moved for the gun; barely registering what he’s doing as he shot the few lackeys standing guard.

He turned, looking for Sparks but froze just before pulling the trigger. His scuffle with Alfredo ended with a knife to the latter’s throat. They were only a few steps away.

Trevor almost smiled at the blood dripping from Sparks’ nose, like his own wound, and the blood that was wiped on Alfredo’s forehead. At least he had gotten a few solid hits in, Trevor felt his heart swell with pride.

Sparks wasn’t feeling the same joy, he pushed the edge of the knife deeper into Alfredo’s skin; not hard enough to break it but it served as a warning enough.

“Drop the gun, or he gets it,” Sparks hissed.

Sparks had wisely positioned his body almost directly behind Alfredo’s; who seemed unfazed by the ordeal. He kept his gaze on Trevor, don’t do it, I’m not worth it. He knew Trevor could hear his silent plea, but just hoped he’d actually listen to it.

Trevor’s heart beat just a little bit faster when he understood what Fredo wanted.

“What do you want, Caden?” Trevor asked, c’mon think of something. “Money? Power? Killing me, killing Alfredo won’t get you that.”

Trevor knew it was stupid to give Sparks time, knew that the longer he stayed, the less chance he’d have at getting out. But right then, he didn’t know what else to do.

He might be able to shoot Sparks, but the only open area was his head, and he’d end up deafening Alfredo if he even made it.

Sparks laughed. “Well, he,” Sparks pushed the knife deeper, “is going to die because he failed me. And like I said, you are worth more than you think.”

Trevor had an idea. As subtle as he could, he made a few gestures and prayed that Alfredo could read him just as well. Fredo seemed to get the gist of it, his hand hung low as he counted using his fingers.

On three, Alfredo moved his body to the side, ignoring the knife nicking his neck.

Trevor fired.

Sparks howled in pain as the bullet ripped through his shoulder, and howled again when Alfredo brought his head back against his already damaged nose.

Trevor fired, but the chamber was empty. He tried again, but nothing. He knew instantly that the single bullet would’ve been used on Alfredo, shot in front of Trevor before he was likely beaten to death.

Trevor and Alfredo ran.

They were sprinting out the door before Sparks had a moment to react. They were let out into a white hallway, it twisted at either end with no clear sign of where they went.

Trevor took a second to think, before choosing left and taking off at full speed once he knew Alfredo was following him. He expected to run into some guards, run into anyone else, but the compound was empty. The only sound was their feet slapping against the tiled ground, and Sparks yelling in anger.

The hallway twisted again, taking them right. There was no windows, no way of knowing where they were, only closed doors spread out.

They were at a disadvantage, Trevor knew it, Sparks would have more knowledge of the layout of the place with they were running blind. They needed to regroup, plan their attack.

So without warning Trevor slowed, Alfredo almost slamming into his back, and attempted to open one of the doors. The third one he tried was unlocked, and they quickly entered, shutting it gently behind them to not alert anyone who might be around. It was a small storage closet but was good enough for a breather.

“So. . .,” Trevor started but found that no words would come. It seemed that in the presence of Alfredo, Trevor’s poisoned dagger of a tongue refused to work.

Fortunately, Trevor didn’t have that effect on Alfredo.

“How bad is it?” Alfredo gestured to his face and shoulder, the stab wound would not go unacknowledged by him.

Trevor tried to smile, tried to play it off but Alfredo’s hardened stare killed any lie before he could speak them into existence.

He breathed in deeply. “Face hurts a shit ton, nose is broken but nothing that would slow us down. My shoulder is killing me though, running just made it worse.”

Trevor was rarely that honest that quickly. It was a shared trait in the Fake AH Crew to cover injuries, even though everyone else would yell at anyone who tried it; they’re all a bunch of hypocrites.

Alfredo nodded. “Yeah, okay. Look, I don’t think we’re gonna be able to just run away from this. We gotta end this.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

Trevor followed Alfredo through the building, keeping pace with a small jog; just slow enough so his shoulder didn’t burn too much but fast enough so they made progress.

The whole building was mostly empty, in the whole five minutes they crept around they only ran into two people; both alone and too easy to take down, even in their injured states. It seemed that Sparks was all bark and no bite. Alfredo and Trevor were both armed now, it didn’t take much to scare one of the guards into showing them the armory; because of course Sparks had a whole armory.

With plenty of ammo and an assortment of weapons between them, Alfredo and Trevor looked for Sparks.

But there was never a change in the building, never a new colour wall or door, never even a sign pointing somewhere; and it was hard to believe that they were going anywhere and not running up and down that same hallway.

Finally, there was something, an indication that they were in fact moving.

They approached a door slowly, Alfredo leading them towards the grey metal door that stood out against the white walls and doors. Fredo counted silently again, on three Trevor ripped open the door, while Alfredo looked for enemies.

It was a plane hangar that they entered, a big one. It turned out that Alfredo and Trevor were a level up; despite never seeing a staircase or elevator in the building. But they stood on a platform that circled around the walls of the hanger, a staircase to their right.

They ducked immediately, thankful for the boards covering the railing so that when they peered over top, only the tips of their heads would be seen.

Down below stood Sparks and a couple dozen men armed to the teeth. In small groups, the pair could easily take them down; but so many would be a challenge. It wouldn’t be enough to deter them, though.

No, it had to end right there, right then.

A silent agreement passed between Alfredo and Trevor, whatever this was, it was fun.

There was no need for a plan, no time for words; they went in guns blazing and hoped to see each other at the end of it.

#fake achievement hunter crew #FAHC #Trevor Collins #alfredo diaz #geoff ramsey #Jack Pattillo #jeremy dooley #Gavin Free #michael jones #it's you who hung the moon series

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paulmay42 · 5 years

Text

The Brexit Years

All the President’s Men #5

Well, I might be leaving the country soon. I haven’t decided, not yet, but with an invitation like this, I am tempted.

Donald Trump took a sip of his Dr Pepper.

I offered him something to eat.

“What? No, I don’t think so.”

“We have some very nice pork pies. Very English, very traditional.” I lifted up the glass cover to let him examine my wares.

“You eat these things?” He did not seem impressed.

“They’re full of real meat,” I said, limply.

“They look like shit. They got mould on them.”

“That’s just the lighting. They’re nowhere near their sell-by date.”

“I don’t think so.” He settled himself on the bar stool. He had the air of a man who wanted to talk.

I’d seen this before. People come into my bar, down here in the basement of Number Ten, Downing Street, and they feel the need to talk to me. I guess I just have that kind of face.

“It’s Monty, right?” Donald peered hard at me. “Well I hear you’re a regular guy.”

I shrugged. “I guess I-“

“The thing is, Monty, I’m a man in a position of power. A powerful man. In a position. I have some power and I’m in a position to use that power.” He wagged his finger.

I agreed with him.

“You wanna know who inspires me? Because let me tell you, Monty, I am inspired. I can be inspired. By one man in particular. You wanna know who?”

I said yes.

“Many years ago, two thousand years ago, in a place called Galilee, there was a shepherd, right?”

Oh good God, no.

“So this guy, he’s a humble guy. You know what I mean. He’s got sheep. And one of those sticks, to take care of the sheep.”

“A crook?”

“So one day,” continued Donald, ignoring my contribution, “he thinks to himself, I don’t need sheep. Sheep are boring. All I do, all day, is sit here and look at sheep. I don’t get to see no one. I’m on a goddamn mountain. So, you know what? That guy, he became a carpenter.” Again, the finger. “That was a smart move. A business move. Shepherding was a dead end. Being a carpenter, now that was clever. I’m gonna guess he was pretty good at it. This guy, he had connections. He came from a good family. So, he’s a fucking amazing carpenter. I can see this guy making furniture, you know, and the local Romans, maybe they’re like, hey, I hear you make good coffee tables, my wife needs a coffee table. But you know what happened?”

I was fairly sure I did.

“So, this guy, he spots a new opportunity. He sees people fishing. He’s like, wow. Why did I not see this before? Why am I wasting my time making coffee tables when I could be making big bucks down at the lake?”

I had to step in. “We are talking about Jesus, right?”

Donald became very solemn. “Our Lord. I knew you was a clever guy, Monty. Our Lord Jesus. You know what? He became a fisherman. So, this guy, he’s done all these things. I’m telling you, Monty, if he’d lived, he could have done so much more. I’m thinking textiles. I’m thinking architecture. This guy had the balls to do anything. And that,” he said, with the finger, “is why I am driven to be just like him.”

I looked past Donald to the two ‘assistants’ in black suits who were waiting by the door. The bar was empty. It was late and I wanted my bed but when the President demands a midnight drink, you don’t argue.

A thought occurred to me.

Now, as I just said, it was late. I was tired. And perhaps I was just a little bit fed up with having men in black suits examine me through impenetrable shades as if they wanted to kill me but hadn’t quite worked up the enthusiasm.

“Mr President,” I said, “could I ask you for an autograph? Not for me, for a friend of mine who has been guaranteed the fuck of his life if he can get your autograph. Apparently, his girlfriend is a big fan.”

Donald nodded, pouting, then shrugged. “Sure.”

He scribbled his name on a serviette.

“So, this girl, she’s a looker, huh?”

“I don’t know. But I have to say, her boyfriend has a face like a butcher’s chopping block.”

Donald stared at me, then grinned. “That’s funny.” He turned to the two men behind him, as if to share the joke, then shrugged and turned back. “Fucking Secret Service, got no sense of humour. Monty, listen, if you wanna new job, come look me up in DC. You’d be very successful in the States.”

So there it is, a personal endorsement from the President of the United States. My only reservation is that he didn’t pay the bill, but then neither does most of the Cabinet, so I can’t really complain too much.

#satire #comedy #politics #original writing #writeblr #writers #Donald Trump

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do-you-want-mawr-blog · 6 years

Text

A beginning of a new chapter

After the years that followed Gilneas’ downfall, not everyone escaped with the evacuation to Teldrassil. Feral Worgen, corrupted wildlife, Blight. All remained behind after the population left. Those, and Rhodri Savage with his meagre pack trying to survive them all.

(This is quite an old, old story when Rhodri was first created! Whilst I’m no longer as proud as I was at the time, it would be a disservice to the character to not post this along with the other shorts I plan to write.)

With a snuff and the gaping yawn of an old, sleepy wolf, Rhodri awakens. His blissful mid-afternoon nap had greeted him to the thousands of slapping splashes made by the rain in its tireless war on the Headland’s prisoning crevice walls rising from the land in violent defiance. Sleepy, Roman silver eyes, contrasting against his fur the same colour of the storm clouds outside, blink into focus, groggy and old.

Scarred lips smacking obnoxiously as his monstrous head, along with the rest of his gargantuan body, stretches from the curled position on the dreary cavern floor. An eruption of tremendous applause from cracking, aged bones that notifies the others sharing the area with him of his arrival back in the world of the conscious.

An unfortunate wind sends a battalion of the cloud’s soldiers off course, likely costing them a concise victory, to instead disrupt the Worgen’s waking ritual by soaking his shifting back muscles in shivering water. Such is the price of guarding the entrance of their den. The leader has to make sacrifices, after all, even the smallest ones.

His rusting, horrendously homemade armour wasn’t faring much better as it laid distraught beside him. The freezing downpour getting into the crevices of its weathered, painted copper pieces, all caught embracing scraps of steel in a scandalous display of inter-metal relations and quickening the mould that had engrossed the worn leather strips that bound it all together. Even worse still, the same fate occurred to the weapon that made everything happen, the decision to pick it up that changed their lives, his poorly smithed Claymore. A weapon that was only meant as a training exercise for Kelsie’s husband to attempt to smith his biggest blade yet, one that only the largest of soldiers would be able to wield. Or one oversized butcher, as Rhodri proved.

His memories of their change were disrupted by the reality of it. Vicious snarling and snapping coming from behind him, only moments before the whimpering of an injured, young male. A pathetic yelp that caused his wistful mind to react on instinct and set him up for his daily wrestle to keep his position of leadership.

Even without any of his stolen or salvaged items, there were no Worgen, whether sane or feral, that could pose much threat to the beast that the Alpha had become, and that includes those that were meant to be part of his animalistic family.

Irritated eyes swivel around to land solely on the cause of the ‘lovable’ bullying, and they unsurprisingly find the two brothers picking on Charlie as they always do. Eamon and Logan Hall, the pair always needing to fill their lives with hostilities and bitterness, and such emotions are always directed to the easiest target they can find, either prey or, as they were doing now. The ‘runt’ of the pack, Charlie Reynolds, laid cowering beneath the two, arm hugging close to his chest dripping with his crimson blood that started the beginning of an unwanted paint job in their cliffside home.

Now was not a time for thought, bargaining or begging, now was the time for punishment, which Rhodri meted out with swift justice towards the brothers. A mere cracking of tired leg bones in action again was Logan’s only warning before the brunt, brutal impact of his leader’s uncovered shoulder against the brother’s sinewy side, sending the smaller male scraping his claws for anything to latch onto to halt his progress towards the cave’s jagged wall. Attempts that were evidently fruitless as the second collision was almost as pain-inducing as the first and left him joining Charlie in the whimpering choir as he collapses to the welcoming comfort of the stone floor.

Eamon wasn’t as dim as his sibling and swiftly caught on that they were in serious trouble, but pride wouldn’t allow him to cower, only to turn on his brother’s assailant even if that meant sharing his fate. While the wrecking ball of an Alpha Worgen had his side towards him after his barreling manoeuvre, the junior took his defiance of being unable to attack who he wanted and poured it into his resolve to leap at the uncovered, naked leader and do as much damage as possible.

The result, perhaps, wasn’t as significant as he had hoped. The older brother plummeted towards Rhodri, landing on a rugged back stretched tight like a canvas, smothered in multiple scarring from previous assaults. Like a proud artist, Eamon eagerly added another stroke to the masterpiece as chipped claw raked through toughened flesh and yellowed fangs found a weak grip near the nape of the trunk that supported the alpha’s head, but that’s where his success ended.

Whilst the assailant merrily gnawed on Rhodri’s back, sounds of furious howling spelling vengeance bounce off the den’s compact, slick walls as the huge Worgen recovers for a counter-attack.

Throwing his weight into his tirelessly worked arms, the seasoned fighter shoves his bulk backwards and launches Eamon off his vulnerable, weak stance. The pup swiftly finding himself scrambling under the sudden, bone-breaking pressure of a monster crushing his rib cage by sheer weight alone.

After a sudden thwomp against Eamon’s snout with fisted claws as he clambers off the trapped brother, Rhodri helps the beaten challenger gather his bearings behind the bloodied nose whilst he’s dragged across the dirtied floor to be tossed into the shameful pile that Logan makes the foundations of.

With brother’s whimpering mercy in unison, Rhodri rises over them on his back legs, dominantly displaying everything his nudity allows, before erupting the outcome with a victorious howling that rivals the storm raging outside.

As this announcement draws on, three other, slender Worgen come scampering from crevices deeper in the den to add their unique, feminine voices into the fray of their Alpha’s. All of the females slimmer, smaller than the other males of the pack, yet none of them share the lack of modesty that the others seem to insist on, draped in tattered clothing as they continue their sporadic outburst of wolven singing.

As the song dies down, one of the latest arrivals pads her way to the side of the boisterous Alpha Worgen, her sleek, distinct steel fur glistening under the stormy-lit skies brightening the cave enough to reveal her strikingly similar set of silver eyes as she glares down to the defeated brothers.

“Dad, they’ve got the message. They start up again, I’ll ‘andle ‘em. Get yourself cleaned off at the shores.” comes a rough proposal in her canine dialect, Silvia always the one to make sure that her father didn’t neglect his own well-being.

As the Worgen’s words catch Rhodri’s ears, there’s a grunt of agreement as he falls down to all fours, giving a final growl of a farewell before he skulks off to gather his armour whilst abandoning the absurd and clumsy weapon at the entrance. The pack left behind in the care of his daughter as he ventures into the wilderness of the headlands.

Roaming a short distance away to equip his rag-tag grouping of plating that make his clothing of choice, Rhodri enjoys the pattering of rain against his skin as he observes the thunderous war above. His outer legs loosely draped by the unrespectable attire thanks to an overworked belt stretched across the waist and strained leather strips around the thighs. The choice intentionally failing to hide the proportionally sized testicles, acting as a clear display of his status as the dominant male in the area.

His shoulders sharing a similar fashion of armouring using a harness around his upper torso, leaving him looking like an abandoned, old castle whose roofing is desperately hanging on for grim life, subjects to the will of the weather, or in this case, Rhodri’s movement. Begrudgingly dressed as an unemployed teenager asked to adventure outside by his parents after several days of lying about, Rhodri sets off in his skulking hike towards the shore after his less than graceful scramble down the dangerously soaked rocky outcroppings beneath the den’s only exit.

The lupine man is soon meandering through the decaying ruins of the headlands, destroyed portions of ancient housing still standing despite the local downpour. Their existence almost reflecting the people that once inhabited the landscape of Gilneas, resolute in their purpose despite all the odds, with the relentless vines and moss smothering them that would eventually cause its downfall. Such as the Forsaken and the Horde would do with their own actions to the peninsula that jutted from the landscape in southern end of Silverpine Forest.

Travelling without distraction, the Worgen was left to his thoughts. Distant whispers that fell back towards the drastic change of his entire world only a few short years ago.

The assaults of the feral Worgen across their lands after the Court Archmage Arugal unleashed them to combat the mindless scourge, only to then have their ‘saviours’ turn on the population to add to their savage ranks by infecting them with the transformative curse.

The Forsaken followed next under the leadership of Sylvanas Windrunner, a faction of supposedly willful living corpses that allied with the Orcs, both intent of breaking down the stalwart Greymane Wall.

They were left broken as a nation whilst caught in the jaws of war and violence that enveloped the land, that was until the Kaldorei, the Night Elves, made their appearance known. With the help of their wizened druids who had knowledge of the curse that plagued them, they taught them how to control the form that Rhodri now wore like a second skin. Their ships came as well, allowing evacuation of the citizens to distant lands he never learned the name of. Lands that he and the rest of his kin were meant to escape to, but not before the Horde made their next push from the ocean. The would-be pack split off from the crowds and forcing them to flee into the wilderness to hide from the renewed assault against their capital.

Abandoned and cut off from the evacuation routes, Rhodri led the few trusted survivors to his butchery’s storage warehouse that an old friend owned and kept stocked for trading, supplying them with dried meat and locations across the headlands where the wildlife could be hunted. Luckily Rhodri remembered where he kept the maps hidden away in the hunter’s personal cabin nearby, no sign of the owner ever seen since.

Such is that they embraced their change, some more than others, but they survived. Within a few months, the band of sane Worgen uncovered the destruction of war upon their homeland, a contamination of plague as a parting gift courtesy of the Forsaken. It’s revolting, stomach-churning gases and slime spreading through the heart and city of Gilneas, leading to Rhodri making the decision of scraping by on the outskirts as the beasts they had become.

Coming to the end of the ruins, Rhodri found his eyes drifting to the skyline of the withering city caught in the same rainstorm as he was. The odd, suffocating stench that his nostrils picked up from the billowing winds reminded him that it still reeked of death even as far out as he was.It wasn’t long until he saw something new on the horizon. A lone sail towering over the docking of Keel Harbour, the quaint harbour town once acting as the first stop for the fisherman to unload their catch.

This ship wasn’t a forgotten remnant of those times, though. It was sitting there, proud, boastful, elegant in craftsmanship and ability to resist the abysmal weather, a behemoth of Human origin as far as Rhodri knew.

In the distance amongst the collapsed houses, the vessel, as well as the oncoming shouts of crewmen floating towards his grey-tipped ears, were all unknowing of the effect they were having on the Worgen’s mind as it filled with hope. Perhaps, this time, they might make the evacuation, if only a lifetime too late.

#Rhodri #Savage #Short Story #world of warcraft #Gilneas #Worgen #OC #literature

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withickmire · 6 years

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all i’ve ever known is how to hold my own (but now i want to hold you too)

Fandom: Deltora Quest Pairing: Jarred/Anna Summary: The beginning is the hardest part. Notes: @zahroreadsthings prompted me to write their proposal ages ago, and here it finally is.

The first time he asked her had been an accident.

He had been careless. He never could sleep in the hottest nights of summer. The night before he had tossed and turned for hours, sheets glued to his sweaty skin, before he gave up and rose from bed. He had been tired in the morning, too tired to work, surely. But Crian had gone to the other side of the city, and Jarred did not want the old man to return and find that he had done nothing. He had lived in the forge for nearly two years, and he still sometimes felt like an unwanted guest. It was not true, and he knew that deep down. He knew it by the gruff way Crian would clasp him on the shoulder to show his approval; by the way Anna always offered to share the blackberries she picked from her garden, because she knew they were his favourite, too. Still, he worked hard every day, never able to shake the fear that he might lose his home again.

The morning slipped into the afternoon as he worked. He knew he should stop to rest and eat, but that seemed like too much effort. Instead he kept working, his muscles straining against the bellows, until they slipped in his sweaty hands and the fire roared, smoke blowing into his face, and flames lapping eagerly at his arms. Anna had come running at his cries.

And now he sat in the kitchen as she pounded a poultice in her mortar and pestle. Jarred’s wound did not hurt so much anymore. The shock had been worse than the pain. But still, Anna had insisted on treating it.

“I have seen infections in worse,” she had said, putting her arm around him in the yard, as if he needed help walking to kitchen.

Her touch had been gentle then, but watching her pound away at the poultice made him worry for what might come next. Besides, the paste was a very unappealing shade of green, and the smell was far worse.

“Give me your arm,” she ordered, staring determinedly at the wound, and not his eyes. Very purposefully not at his eyes, he thought. A few strands of curly black hair had escaped the tight braid she wore when she worked. Jarred wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to brush those threads of hair away from her face. He imagined her hair would be soft under his calloused fingers.

Without a true word of warning, she smeared her poultice across his prone flesh. He gritted his teeth so he would not scream again, but the foul mixture burned worse than the fire. On reflex, he tried to pull himself free, but her hand on his arm was deceptively strong.

“Do not,” she warned. She looked at him then. Her green eyes were hard, angry even. The burning in his arm faded slowly, as if leeched away by her poultice. Jarred sighed his relief, and Anna let him go.

“You can be so foolish sometimes,” Anna said crossly, but Jarred had closed his eyes. He had not realized how much the burn hurt, until the pain was gone. He sighed in relief.

“You are wonderful,” he sighed. “Oh, I will marry you one day.”

His heart clenched in horror as the words slipped carelessly from his mouth. What a stupid thing to say. His eyes flew open, but Anna was smiling. When she saw him look at her, laughter tumbled from her lips. She released him, and leaned back in her chair, still smiling. She thought he had said it in jest. “I was not truly cross,” she said. “I was only worried. But you must be fine, if your sense of humour has returned.”

His own laughter came only a moment too late. “Yes. I must be.”

Anna shook her head, and began to wrap bandages around his arm. Jarred wanted to shudder at the feeling of the slime on his arm being pressed tighter to his skin, but her fingers on his flesh helped him forget.

———————

The second time was when they first kissed.

Three years had passed since Jarred had stumbled into Anna’s life. It was his first kiss and her second. Jarred had never thought much about what his first kiss might be like. But he had known what the thick tension in the air felt like, when they knew what was meant to happen, and yet both were just a bit too frightened to lean that fraction closer. It had been cold that night, when she led him to the garden. She had brought him out to show the beautiful blood-red flowers that bloomed when the moon was at its highest in the sky.

“Do you see, Jarred?” she had said excitedly, pointing downwards. “If you look closely, the petals are threaded with blue strands. They look like veins under the moonlight, do they not? I wonder, are the petals like our skin, or are the veins under our flesh moulded after theirs?”

She had leaned over, and traced the veins of his arm with her finger, past the slight scar from the bellows. “I do not know,” he had said, pretending his shiver was from the cold.

The air crackled, as if lightening had struck the ground between them. Her hand had trailed up his arm to his shoulder, and then to the rise of his cheekbone. They stood in silence for a moment. The world around them was gone. Jarred leaned down, breaking the spell, and kissed her lightly. Her lips responded, and he finally threaded his hands through her hair. It was not as soft as he had imagined it might be, but it hers, and he loved it.

He pulled away to breathe, and her shining eyes stared up at him.

“Marry me,” he said he exhaled.

Anna stepped away, her bright eyes flickering across his face. She smiled nervously. “Not now,” she murmured. She pulled her hand away, and kissed him again—time on his cheek— and returned to the cottage.

Jarred wondered for a moment if they were too young, but he knew that wasn’t true. She had just turned seventeen, and he would too, in only a few weeks. In Del, where many died in their youth, it was not uncommon for people younger than him to wed. And surely Endon had… no, he did not want to think about Endon. Jarred watched her go, and touched his fingers to his lips, wondering if he had just ruined his own life.

———————

The first time she asked him was the only time she did.

It was spring, nearly two years after their first kiss. Nothing had been ruined, as he had feared in that moonlit moment. Instead, everything had bloomed, like Anna’s red flowers. There had many kisses since, but little talk of the future. Jarred cared little though, not when her work-rough hand was in his. They were shopping in the market, trading sometimes, for many in Del had little coin to spare. They stopped at the butcher’s and ordered half of a scrawny chicken. As they waited, a gaggle of children burst into the store. None of them could have been older than thirteen, and all had dirty hair, and poorly-patched clothes. Jarred could count their ribs through the thin fabric of their shirts. The butcher had gone to the back, to retrieve the chicken order, and when she returned her already dour mouth turned downwards as she saw the children.

“We came for chicken, too, Miss!” the leader of the group crowed. He pulled a length of cloth from his satchel. It was not particularity fine, but clearly made with care.

“My father made this,” the boy boasted in his child’s voice, although it seemed to be likely stolen. “You will find nothing better. We want food for this!”

The butcher grunted, unimpressed, and pointed to a sign on the counter, directly at the boy’s eye level.

Jarred watched as the boys’ eyes flickered, uncomprehending, between the sign and the woman. Anna finally stepped forward.

“She only takes coin,” she said softly to children, gesturing at what the sign read.

“That is fine,” the young boy said after a moment’s silence, clinging to his pride. “I heard the meat is rotten here, anyway.” He turned around, and his loyal group followed as the butcher spluttered angrily. Jarred saw their hungry, heartbroken faces as they left.

Jarred blinked. “Can they not read?” he asked Anna.

“It is not so uncommon,” Anna grimaced and squeezed his hand. “Many in Del work too hard to teach their children anything more than what is necessary for survival. My mother could not read or write, or so my father once told me.”

Jarred was taken aback. “How could I have not known?”

Anna shrugged as Jarred collected their order. “It is accepted here. Perhaps it is easy to not notice because you spend all your time with Grandfather and I. I was simply born lucky.”

Jarred took a deep breath, ashamed of his ignorance and privilege— not a new feeling at all. Again, he saw the desperate faces the children had worn. He kissed Anna on the cheek, and ran right out of the shop.

The bell tied above the door tinkled as Jarred pushed outside. Her looked around for the children, finally spotting them nearly disappearing in a crowd headed toward the city centre.

“Wait!” he called after the group. They did not hear, or did not listen, and vanished in the crowd. Jarred gave chase. His legs were longer and he had more meat on his bones, and so it was not long before he caught up with them. “Stop!” he called.

The lead boy stopped and turned. His blonde hair had turned dark with sweat. He flinched as Jarred stepped forward; all of his performative courage gone.

“I am not going to hurt you,” Jarred said, keeping his voice soft. Somehow, he knew what he must do. “Are you hungry?”

“No!” one of the children said— a tiny girl with straggly brown hair. An older girl shushed her, and all of the children stared up at Jarred, their faces a mess of apprehension and hope.

Jarred did not step closer, instead he stretched out his hands, holding the paper-wrapped package of chicken. “It is not much,” he said quietly. “But you can have it.”

“We do not need it,” the blonde boy said proudly, though he could not tear his hungry eyes away from the meat.

Jarred faked a casual grin. “I know,” he said. “But everyone likes chicken.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed, and he reached forward, tentatively accepting the package. He hugged it to his scrawny chest, as if worried Jarred would take it back. Then he turned and ran without a word of thanks, and his friends followed. Soon they were swallowed by the maze of Del’s streets.

Jarred turned back the way he had come, and suddenly there was Anna. She was breathless from running, and the midday sun twined strands of scarlet into her black hair. Jarred remembered the first time he went to the market alone, and was conned into buying bread for nearly five times what he should have paid. His heart sunk— had he done it again?

Anna grinned, and she walked towards him.

“Did I make a mistake?” Jarred asked, although he knew in his heart that he had not.

“No,” Anna shook her head, still smiling, though her face was flushed as if she might cry. “You brilliant, beautiful man. Marry me. Marry me, and be mine.”

Jarred laughed. “You would marry me? A foolish blacksmith who gave away his supper?”

She stepped forward. “I do not speak in jest. You know I love you. You know it.”

Jarred’s heart beat painfully against his chest. “Do you mean this?

Anna was so close. “Yes. Marry me. Marry me today.”

“Today?” Jarred smiled, and took her hand. The streets were busy, but he eyes only for her.

“There is no one else I wish to start my life with,” the smile was still strong on Anna’s face, but she had begun to cry. “Why not start now? I want to be with you always. I want to grow old with you. I love you.”

Pinpricks of tears stung at Jarred’s eyes. He had felt the same way for years, and had known deep inside that she did too. His heart was very full. So often he felt alone and afraid. But not with her, never with her. “Let us start now.”

———————

“It is our love, not our duty, that binds us on this day. You will shine in the light of my heart, and when I am lost, I will find my way home by the light of yours. Let my soul be your shelter, let my hands heal your wounds. I will stand against your fears, and I will be the cause of your joy. We shall be equal in all things, and divided in none. Let not war, nor sea, nor enemies part us. When death comes, it will be in my arms that you find rest. On this day, I give to you my soul, my love, my heart. This I vow.”

#deltora quest #i was heavily inspired to finish this by zann's gorgeous art #yes i did borrow the title from hadestown don't @ me that song makes me cry #i expanded a bit on the valentine's scene at the beginning #and the Classic Deltoran Wedding Vows i've used before too #it feels so good to write! uni has been so intense this semester! but classes finish wednesday and exams are spread through april #so i'll have more time to work on fic and original stuff that i'm excited to share!#except i also signed up for summer classes because i love to suffer #tldr i missed this!#jarred #anna #jarred x anna #my writing

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aion-rsa · 4 years

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The Boys Season 2 Unveils the Daddy Issues Behind the Toxic Masculinity

https://ift.tt/2GXXppR

This article contains spoilers for The Boys season 2.

Most male monsters in fiction are made by women. Or, at least, it’s women who tend to get the disproportionate share of the blame when their creations turn out to be significantly less than civilized (perhaps because, historically, most of them were written by men). The most famous examples of murderer-moulding mothers are probably Norma Bates, Cersei Lannister, Olivia Soprano and, of course, Mrs. McAllister (momma raised a real little trap-setting psycho there). In real life, too, serial killers like Ed Kemper, Ed Gein, Ted Bundy and Dennis Nilsen were all brutalized or disappointed by their mothers to such an extent that to some people the link between their formative maternal experiences and their misdeeds seems as tight and as strong as a steel cable.

This isn’t the case with Amazon’s The Boys, where it’s bad or inadequate fathers who provide male characters with the bulk of their nefarious neuroses and murderous motivations. Wee Hughie (Jack Quaid) inherited and internalized his father’s cowed outlook on the world to the point where he almost didn’t fight back when Vought tried to brush his girlfriend’s death in an A-Train wreck under the carpet. Billy Butcher (Karl Urban) was raised under the fast fists and hot temper of his old-school, tough-guy dad, whose mantra seems to have been kick first and don’t ask questions later, unless the question is: “Do you want me to fucking kick you some more?” “John” a.k.a Homelander (Antony Starr) doesn’t have a father in the conventional sense – as far as we know – but he was treated coldly, cruelly and dispassionately by his scientist ‘dad’, Jonah Vogelbaum (John Doman). So to what extent have failed father figures forged the monsters who sit upon the show’s chessboard? What else is missing from their lives? And what could prove the key to their salvations?

The previously mentioned The Sopranos is a ripe comparison, being that it also deals with familial legacies, internecine struggles, and toxic masculinity. The hallmark HBO show took the bold step of sending its proto-typical alpha-male mob boss Tony Soprano (James Gandolfini) to a shrink to deal with his panic attacks and baseline depression. His sessions with his psychiatrist, Dr. Melfi (Lorraine Braco), teased out the revelation that the root of his anguish and anxieties was his own mother, the irascible and melodramatic Livia (Nancy Marchand), who in the first season shifted her life-long modus operandi from trying to kill his spirit to literally trying to kill him. It’s not hard to trace a direct line from that callous maternal influence to Tony’s behavior, and its internal and external consequences (especially when you’re dealing with Melfi’s favoured Freudian approach, for which parental trauma is its raison d’etre). But as the series – and Tony’s therapy – progressed it became clear not only that Tony’s life was richer and darker than his mother’s input allowed for, but also that Livia herself wasn’t the two-dimensional, havoc-wreaking demigod of Tony’s fears and imagination.

She, too, had been a victim of sorts; a slave to poverty and discrimination (on grounds of both race and gender); in thrall to a violent, charismatic criminal, a man who thought nothing of throwing men a beating, chopping off their pinkies or shooting them dead; a man who was out with one of his many mistresses on the night that she miscarried a baby and needed him by her side. Tony, his son, takes these revelations and buries them, as deep as they’ll go, partly because Tony’s world is a man’s world and men get a pass, but mainly to avoid the bright bulb of introspection from falling upon his own, very similar behavior. His mother gets the blame, but who really made Tony?

The world of The Boys is, to an extent, a man’s one, too, except that the boys here don’t get a pass. Given its title, it’s a surprisingly feminist show for one that is also, on the surface at least, a testosterone-fuelled superhero show (albeit one that takes an anti-superhero stance). The female characters are strong, but not inhumanly, infallibly strong like some of the Marvel heroes they parody. They’re flawed, human, and fascinating. They kick ass, they fuck up, but they’re never one-note or scapegoats. Of course there are bad women and mothers out there in the real world, and we shouldn’t shy away from imagining or creating those kinds of stories, but what we’ve seen on TV and film over the last decade or so is the steady opening up of a multiplicity of perspectives that’s been busy enriching our cultural currency. We should roll with that for a while. There’s a lot of lost ground to catch up on.

The Boys Season 2 Succeeds By Allowing Its Female Characters to Shine

By Lacy Baugher

The Boys Season 3: What to Expect

By Lacy Baugher

Perhaps much of the appeal of stories about bad mothers relies on our preconceptions of motherhood and the expectations that have always been laid upon women to be not just good mothers, but perfect ones. A bad mother stands out more than a bad father because for much of human history it’s been almost impossible to be classed as a bad father.

Let’s take Butcher. Without his own father’s brutality he mightn’t have been capable of becoming the effective, remorseless killing-machine we know and love, but, on the other hand, without his father’s brutality, he mightn’t felt the urge to pursue his vendetta in the first place. He might have been more like an immediately post-A-Train Hughie. But here’s the rub, because, arguably, a world with Homelanders needs Butchers, and plenty of them. There’s a weird and tragic duality at play here. Homelander is who he is largely because of his own failed father, so really the two men are destroying each other, and the world around them, because of their daddy issues.

Butcher himself is a flawed father figure. He uses a grief-wracked Hughie as a pawn to pursue his own vendetta against The Seven, showing the same sort of callous disregard Homelander might show an underling. But through Butcher’s influence Hughie learns to be (or is forced to become) bold, assertive, even brutal; the sort of son his own father could never have let him be; wouldn’t have known how to kindle. In time, almost despite himself, Butcher comes to care about Hughie, albeit not always in a conventionally paternal way. Mother’s Milk (Laz Alonso) tells Butcher early on this season that Hughie is his ‘pit canary’; if something bad happens to Hughie, then Butcher will know he’s gone too far. So if Butcher can be said to be the kind of father that Hughie never had, then Hughie, in turn, can be said to be the conscience that Butcher long forsook in favor of bloodshed.

For better and worse the men in The Boys are made by their fathers, but that only tells half the story. Their fathers, and they themselves, are aided in their osmotic, Franken-Freudian fuck-ups by the sometimes literal, sometimes figurative absence of a mother figure. Hughie’s mother? – MIA; Butcher’s mother? – passive; Homelander’s mother? – accidentally hugged to death by a young Homelander (she was a scientist Homelander had thought of as a mother, not his biological mother).

The lack of a maternal presence bleeds most noticeably into Hughie’s and Homelander’s lives. Hughie is insecure and desperate for attachment. His romance with Starlight (Erin Moriarty) is sweet, but carries a mild undercurrent of mommy issues. What Hughie really seems to want from Starlight is words of encouragement, validation, co-dependency and a tuck-in at bedtime. Even though their relationship is sexual, there’s something charmingly chaste about it at the same time.

It would be impossible, though, to trump Homelander’s mommy issues, manifested as they are by a fierce predilection for suckling, and a fondness for warm titty milk. Homelander may be peerlessly physically strong, but of all the show’s characters – and this is perhaps something of an understatement – he’s the most psychologically fragile.

Dr. Vogelbaum laments that the lack of a mother in Homelander’s life made him aggressive and full of hate. Putting aside for a moment this rather idealized notion of women and motherhood, if we assume that in Homelander’s case the observation is correct – and that Homelander is also on some level aware of how he’s been warped by this absence (the roots of his fetish surely can’t have escaped him) – then it’s interesting that he would choose to rob his own son, Ryan (Cameron Crovetti), of the loving maternal influence of which he himself was deprived.

By stealing Ryan away from his mother near the end of season two – by fracturing their bond and their reality – he risks making Ryan as miserable as he was as a child; worse, in truth, because Homelander never had a loving mother to miss. While The Boys deals very well with its female characters, it hasn’t yet explored motherhood in any great depth, except to show the consequences to fatherhood when it’s absent. Season 3 may very well add some texture by exploring in flashback form Stormfront’s (Aya Cash) relationship with her now-departed daughter, or by bringing Hughie’s mother into the fold, now that we know she isn’t dead.

While Homelander’s actions vis a vis Ryan are fuelled by his malignant, myopic selfishness, and his screaming God complex, the evolution of his feelings towards the boy hinted at a capacity for redemption. As hellish as the family unit Stormfront manipulates Homelander into creating – Nazi eugenicist mother, psychopathic father, and kidnapped child – the experience of being in that family seems to soften something in him, at least for a short while. He appears receptive to and empathetic towards Ryan’s fears, and even appears not to relish the idea of Stormfront filling his head with racist propaganda. Just for a moment, salvation seems possible.

Ultimately, though, no one can allow Homelander to guide Ryan’s destiny, potential for change notwithstanding. Ryan is too powerful and volatile to risk Homelander stamping his skewed outlook upon his soul. Ironically, the act of saving his mother from Stormfront propels Ryan along the same trajectory as his father – both have now killed their mothers. I wonder if Ryan, like Dexter before him, will be born in blood, the splatter pattern arranging itself into the shape of Homelander’s cape.

Butcher isn’t Ryan’s father, but his fealty to his dead wife and her cast-iron concept of family helps raise him from the swamp of his primal urges, resulting in him doing the right thing by both her and the boy who is the son of his greatest enemy. Clearly Butcher isn’t his own father either, his selflessness here indicating an encouraging break from the poor way he was parented.

Perhaps The Boys isn’t trying to communicate anything about solely fatherhood or solely motherhood but rather family itself; its power to make someone belong; its power to save. The family Homelander experienced was predicated on a falsehood, but he liked the feel of it nonetheless, and it threatened to humanise him. Butcher has a family now, too – his friends, The Boys, the people around him who would die for him, and vice versa – and a surrogate son in Hughie. Kimiko (Karen Fukuhara) and Frenchie (Tomer Capon), whatever faint promise of romance swirls around them, have found for now a joyous familial bond, like brother and sister. And Mother’s Milk is now back in the bosom of his estranged family, a moment that must rank among the series most touching.

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All Happy families, then? For now. But Homelander might have something to say about that in season three.

The post The Boys Season 2 Unveils the Daddy Issues Behind the Toxic Masculinity appeared first on Den of Geek.

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conundrum-rp-blog · 6 years

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Under the cut you can check out all the players that have been accepted for their roles. Congratulations! Please take a look at the instructions at the bottom of the page. For those who haven’t been accepted this time around, don’t be discouraged! Send me a message if you want more feedback on your application and I would love for you to re-apply in the future! Congratulations again to all of you and Welcome to CONUNDRUM!

✦ Rae, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Emmeline Vance. “Emmeline feels guilty about not being able to fully be there and support those who she feels need her, especially since she needs to be there for her friends and family more than ever nowadays. She’s used to being the emotional rock, dealing with other people’s baggage & helping them sort it. With her own optimism draining as life drags on, she feels guilty for not having enough energy to deal with the problems of others, & she’s slowly running out of ways to help.” I can’t wait to see how this turns out. The dichotomy between the old Emmeline and the new one is one of my favourite things in your application. Great job!

✦ Roman, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Corban Yaxley. “Everyone knows they’re someone to be feared, even if they haven’t seen it first hand, but those who have seen it know better than to cross them. Their anger is something hidden behind smiles as sharp as knives, something sinister lurking beneath. They like their violence to be dramatic but quiet, something that can rarely be tied to them directly, more likely to take out an enemy behind closed doors when violence is involved. There are whispers of the things they’ve done that swirl around constantly, and yet no one seems keen to suss out if they’re true or not, and no one wants to risk getting on their bad side by poking their nose somewhere it doesn’t belong.” Dramatic but quiet is a perfect way to describe what Corban does; and it’s a recurrent theme all throughout your application. I honestly can’t wait to see how they fit into this universe!

✦ Shannon, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Fenrir Greyback. “It was not the allure of blood purity that drew Fenrir to the Death Eaters’ ranks, but instead a promise of freedom. Years of living life in hiding as a second class citizen has turned him cold and ruthless, willing to do anything if it meant bettering the station of not only himself but the rest of his pack. Pureblood, mudblood, halfblood, none of that shit every mattered to him- a human was a human no matter who fucks who. The only reason why he’s willing to act as the Death Eaters’ glorified attack dog is because their deal is currently the best on the table. Now, should someone change that then he may find his loyalties changing as well.” I love to see the difference between the other Death Eaters and Fenrir. The fact that you really put the focus on Fenrir’s objectives was amazing, and I can’t wait to see him interacting with everyone else! Your Face Claim change to Jon Bernthal has been approved.

✦ Dean, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Thorfinn Rowle. “Thorfinn returned back to normal within a few months. His self righteous and cocky demeanour flew back and it was almost as if he’d never been sent away. Though he had a streak of vengeance, furious that he had to endure such a tormenting event in the first place. With a temper like his and his place in society slowly turning back to normal, it wasn’t long before the Ministry issued a whole apology to the families involved in the imprisonment. But it didn’t leave it trials, the media, with Thor’s career as a Quidditch star, would pick up on any little detail of Thor’s activities. He had to be a lot more careful, which was unusual for the man since he was never really used to being on his best behaviour.” I really liked this headcanon in particular because I can’t wait to see it develop! Thor has been so sheltered his whole life that it will be amazing to read how imprisonment changed him. Amazing job!

✦ Lucy, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Daisy Hookum. “In the light of her friends’ losses, Daisy has given up her magic. She might not have pulled herself entirely from the wizarding world yet but it felt like a safe first step. She hasn’t made a declaration of it, not until she’s sure she can handle it. It was another form of protest, as well. The entire war, every terrible, horrible thing she’d had to read and hear about, was caused by one thing – magic. Tucking away her wand and putting it out of her mind felt like a silent war that she had taken up with the entire world and it felt powerful, in its own ways.” Amazing! Such an original twist to the skeleton! I’m so eager to see how this plays out!

✦ Becky, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Narcissa Malfoy. “Let it be known that Narcissa Black begins her life as a soft, gentle creature. This is a reminder that ice takes time to form. That children are neither good nor bad, but something in between that teeters on the edge of being both. With shielded smiles and knowing eyes, it is her family who encourage her into the darkness. Her bloodline are named after stars; they shine through the gloom and know how to cope with it, but she is a flower plunged into a world where she should not thrive. Should not grow. It is for this reason that she fights harder to stay alive. It is for this reason that her life is theirs to mould and shape.” I chose this headcanon in particular because it shows Narcissa’s struggle so clearly; and the push and pull between rigid ice and softness is definitely going to reach top levels in this universe. I sincerely can’t wait to see how it evolves! Your Face Claim change to Emma Rigby has been approved.

✦ Emily, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Alice Longbottom. “The road back from hell is not one easily navigated by an Angel. Her halo is dented, its shine dulled. Her wings quiver at the base of her spine, unable to soar. The Lestranges were her demons, clawing at her skin as they sought to silence her voice - afraid of its contents. But even fallen angels can learn how to fly again. The art of being broken, Alice has learnt, is a matter of opinion. To the naked eye, she appeared shattered beyond repair - a mere shell of who she once was. They were mourning her before she had begun irreversible decay. But Alice knew better. She knew that pieces could be knitted back together. She knew that just because something was chipped, it didn’t mean you should throw it away. It took patience, but she navigated her course back to the light.” This was such a gorgeous way of portraying Alice’s struggles! I love how much detailed you put in every single section of your application and I can’t wait to see how Alice fits in this universe! Your Face Claim change to Laura Harrier has been approved.

✦ Nic, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Gideon Prewett. “They think that war to him is just another game and that his brother and all of his restraint was the one keeping him in check — but when it was his brother that was lying in the mud there was no rampage or explosion or mad dog released from his leash, only unnerving stillness as he waited faithfully by Fabian’s bedside until he woke. Beneath the joke for every occasion, Gideon has always been a man of his convictions and in that moment Gideon experienced a fundamental change inside of him.” The moment I read this part of the application I was hooked. I can’t wait to see that change in Gideon and how he navigates through it. Great job! Your Face Claim change to Richard Madden has been approved.

✦ Nikki, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Andromeda Tonks. “Andromeda can’t say that she was always the rebellious child. She wasn’t. In fact for most of her life she was obedient, the perfect daughter. Never had she spoken up, debated, or acted in any way unbecoming of the Black name. For her, it was easier to behave and focus on her love for her sisters and family. It was easier to think that if she kept her head down nothing would affect her. That was probably why her being with Ted came as such a surprise, it was her first true act of rebellion and her greatest betrayal. Andromeda never regretted it.” I really liked this part of the application because it’s a nice twist to the usual interpretation of Andromeda. We don’t really know about her history that much, so it’s quite curious to think she was much like her sisters once and then changed to the point of leaving her family. Great job!

✦ Dana, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Dorcas Meadowes. “After Voldemort’s downfall, Dorcas considered for a time stepping away from the wizarding world and venturing into the muggle world instead. As a baker, it would have been easy to integrate herself into the muggle community, open another shop and begin a new life without the threat of those in the magical community hanging over her head in such a way again. As relative peace fell over the community for some time, Dorcas remained where she was, however, as recent events have transpired, it has come back into her mind once more of stepping away and wondering if she should have done so before it was too late.” I chose this headcanon to comment on because I thought it was very original and unique, and I wonder how these thoughts will develop once Dorcas gets more and more involved in the war. I can’t wait to see what happens! Your Face Claim change to Summer Bishil has been approved.

✦ Ryan, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Amycus Carrow. “There are no nightmares, there is no regret, there is no afterthought. Amycus doesn’t fall asleep every night tossing and turning over the lives he took, he doesn’t think back and feel any type of regret over what he did. He slaughtered people, he sliced them up, he butchered them, he tortured them to the point where he had them begging for death and he enjoyed every single minute of it. Killing people doesn’t bother him, hurting people doesn’t bother him, being a monster is second nature to him. Amycus isn’t a man with redeemable qualities. He’s a bastard that takes delight in being a bastard. Every terrible, sadistic, and monstrous thing he’s done or will do is because he enjoys it and because he is not a man that gives a damn about the people he destroys in his wake.” Why did I choose this part, you might wonder? Basically because I always have a soft spot for a good old villain, who’s evil just for the sake of being evil; and I thought that was a very brave choice to make when it comes to your interpretation of Amycus. I’m eager to see him in action! Your Face Claim change to Michael Trevino has been approved.

✦ Ash, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Evan Rosier. “She joins the likes of her cousins, seating herself at Narcissa’s side in the common room, wearing identical unimpressed expressions, rings of gold and silver weighing down their fingers. She looks across and draped along the leather couches are Mulciber, Rowle and the Carrows. It feels more like a reunion than anything else. Faces she’d seen and known from galas and dinner parties since she was a child are all her housemates now.Diamond tipped hair-pins hold her curls in place, the edges sharpened a point. It’s too often she contemplates ripping them out and driving them into the eyes of those around her. But that is part of her mask, too – she must continue to squash her volatile nature down, she must blend in seamlessly. She must charm and enchant, distract, conceal and evade. Evan must hide in plain sight – and she’s become good at it.” I adored this quote because I feel you portrayed Evan’s mask perfect and how she successfully hides her violent nature in order to fit in. Spot on! Excellent job! Your Face Claim change to Jasmine Sanders has been approved.

✦ Maggie, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Frank Longbottom. “He’s not here for glory, not here to be remembered or create his name for history. He wants to be a hand, do what he can. The Order and the war did have a part in his decision to try and be an Auror, even as it’s was so far doubted he wouldn’t make it through training. His brothers believing that he would grow sick at the sight of what he was meant to run into, classmates believing he may not be smart enough. And his amount of personal training, the amount of hours he spent studying through the hours of the night were never to prove them wrong or the idea that he was afraid of failure, it’s just how he works. Giving everything. And there was a war going to begin, so he gave everything. In canon, he was a “well-respected auror,” and did make a name for himself, but not for being the top of his class, but for honest hard work and care.” I mainly chose this quote because the idea of a hero with a tender heart - as you described earlier in your app - is extremely original, and it’s something I absolutely relate to Frank. I loved that approach, and I can’t wait to see him in action!

✦ Nell, you’ve been accepted to play the role of Marlene McKinnon. “Known by the big backyard where children would fly around and play all seasons, Quidditch has always been a big tradition in the family, making many of the family members pursue careers in that field. Warm tones, wooden details and a clean cut design decorate each and every room of the house, old cottage vibes coming from a place that has seen generations of families pass by. Marlene and her siblings lived there with their parents, Richard and Deidre, and their dog Dalek— named after Liam’s favorite show and probably one of the few muggle things Marlene sort of understands. She’d never had any plans of leaving, until the murder happened. When death eaters attacked their home that night of july of 1981, marlene fought her hardest to save everyone. “remember what moody trained you for, what the order taught you.” it wasn’t until she heard her sister scream as the body of their mother fell in front of her that she realized she couldn’t win.” I swear this was one of the hardest decisions I’ve had to make in all my history as a roleplay admin. What I loved about your app (and the reason I chose that quote) is how much detail and originality you poured into Marlene’s history, her family life and how she felt when the worst happened. Amazing job! Your Face Claim change to Phoebe Tonkin has been approved.

Again; congratulations to all of you and thank you for showing an interest in this group! Now that you’re here, this is what you need to do next:

Follow EVERYONE

Track all of the tags (found HERE)

Make your character account send it in within 24 hours

Open up your askbox

If for any reason you need more time to get your account in, don’t hesitate to message me so I can keep your role open! If I don’t get a message from you then I will assume you’re no longer interested in keeping your spot. Once you send your account, you’ll be provided with the necessary links and we can get started! And of course; HAVE FUN!

#accepted

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bookxofxfables · 7 years

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The Children in the Wood

Now ponder well, you parents dear, These words which I shall write; A doleful story you shall hear, In time brought forth to light. A gentleman of good account, In Norfolk dwelt of late, Who did in honour far surmount Most men of his estate. Sore sick he was and like to die, No help his life could save; His wife by him as sick did lie, And both possest one grave. No love between these two was lost, Each was to other kind; In love they lived, in love they died, And left two babes behind. The one a fine and pretty boy Not passing three years old, The other a girl more young than he, And framed in beauty's mould. The father left his little son, As plainly did appear, When he to perfect age should come, Three hundred pounds a year;

And to his little daughter Jane Five hundred pounds in gold, To be paid down on marriage-day, Which might not be controlled. But if the children chanced to die Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possess their wealth; For so the will did run. "Now, brother," said the dying man, "Look to my children dear; Be good unto my boy and girl, No friends else have they here; To God and you I recommend My children dear this day; But little while be sure we have Within this world to stay. "You must be father and mother both, And uncle, all in one; God knows what will become of them When I am dead and gone." With that bespake their mother dear: "O brother kind," quoth she, "You are the man must bring our babes To wealth or misery. "And if you keep them carefully, Then God will you reward; But if you otherwise should deal, God will your deeds regard." With lips as cold as any stone, They kissed their children small: "God bless you both, my children dear!" With that the tears did fall. These speeches then their brother spake To this sick couple there: "The keeping of your little ones, Sweet sister, do not fear; God never prosper me nor mine, Nor aught else that I have, If I do wrong your children dear When you are laid in grave!" The parents being dead and gone, The children home he takes, And brings them straight unto his house Where much of them he makes. He had not kept these pretty babes A twelvemonth and a day, But, for their wealth, he did devise To make them both away. He bargained with two ruffians strong, Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young, And slay them in a wood. He told his wife an artful tale He would the children send To be brought up in London town With one that was his friend. Away then went those pretty babes, Rejoicing at that tide, Rejoicing with a merry mind They should on cock-horse ride. They prate and prattle pleasantly, As they ride on the way, To those that should their butchers be And work their lives' decay: So that the pretty speech they had Made Murder's heart relent; And they that undertook the deed Full sore now did repent. Yet one of them, more hard of heart, Did vow to do his charge, Because the wretch that hired him Had paid him very large. The other won't agree thereto, So there they fall to strife; With one another they did fight About the children's life; And he that was of mildest mood Did slay the other there, Within an unfrequented wood; The babes did quake for fear! He took the children by the hand, Tears standing in their eye, And bade them straightway follow him, And look they did not cry; And two long miles he led them on, While they for food complain: "Stay here," quoth he, "I'll bring you bread, When I come back again." These pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went wandering up and down; But never more could see the man Approaching from the town. Their pretty lips with blackberries Were all besmeared and dyed; And when they saw the darksome night, They sat them down and cried. Thus wandered these poor innocents, Till death did end their grief; In one another's arms they died, As wanting due relief: No burial this pretty pair From any man receives, Till Robin Redbreast piously Did cover them with leaves. And now the heavy wrath of God Upon their uncle fell; Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, His conscience felt an hell: His barns were fired, his goods consumed, His lands were barren made, His cattle died within the field, And nothing with him stayed. And in a voyage to Portugal Two of his sons did die; And to conclude, himself was brought To want and misery: He pawned and mortgaged all his land Ere seven years came about. And now at last this wicked act Did by this means come out, The fellow that did take in hand These children for to kill, Was for a robbery judged to die, Such was God's blessèd will: Who did confess the very truth, As here hath been displayed: The uncle having died in jail, Where he for debt was laid. You that executors be made, And overseers eke, Of children that be fatherless, And infants mild and meek, Take you example by this thing, And yield to each his right, Lest God with suchlike misery Your wicked minds requite.

#[Fable]

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alicethruthelookingglass · 6 years

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“If I were king,” the trailblazing mathematician Émilie du Châtelet wrote in the 1730s, “I would reform an abuse that cuts out, so to speak, half of humanity. I would allow women to share in all the rights of humanity, and most of all those of the mind.” It took a century for her fantasy to take on the first glimmer of reality.

In 1835, a quarter century before Maria Mitchell earned her place as America’s first woman astronomer and led the way for women in science, Caroline Herschel(March 16, 1750–January 9, 1848) became the world’s first professional woman astronomer. Together with the Scottish mathematician Mary Somerville (for whom the word “scientist” had been coined a year earlier), 85-year-old Herschel became the first woman elected Honorary Member of the Royal Astronomical Society for the eight comets she had discovered in her prolific life as a “sweeper” of the stars.

Herschel’s monumental legacy and her ninety-eight years of earthly perseverance — a lifespan that exceeded the era’s average life expectancy by decades and stretched through the French Revolution, the Civil War, the rise and fall of Napoleon, and the invention of the railroad and the telegraph — are all the more impressive against the backdrop of the inordinate hardships she had to overcome from a young age.

Of her ten siblings, four died in early childhood. At the age of eleven, Caroline contracted typhus fever, which nearly killed her. She would later recount the aftermath of the attack in Memoir and Correspondence of Caroline Herschel (public library):

For several months after I was obliged to mount the stairs on my hands and feet like an infant; but here I will remark that from that time to this present day [at age 71] I do not remember ever to have spent a whole day in bed.

The illness damaged her left eye and stunted her growth. For the remainder of her life, this tiny woman of four feet and three inches swept the skies with her twenty-foot Newtonian telescope and one good eye.

But many more obstacles stood between her and astronomy, perhaps most crucially her mother — an illiterate woman who was determined to make Caroline useful in domestic duties and was adamant that the girl shouldn’t be distracted with education. It was the father, an admirer of astronomy, who secretly taught her music and science when his wife was “either in good humour or out of the way,” and who one frosty night took young Caroline out to make her “acquainted with several of the most beautiful constellations [and] a comet which was then visible.”

He eventually arranged for her to be tutored by a young woman whose parents lived in the same Hanover house as the Herschels. To receive her lessons, Caroline would rise before dawn, meet her tutor at daybreak, and study until 7 in the morning, at which point she would have to resume her duties as the household’s Cinderella. But this faint promise of scholarship barely lasted a few months — tuberculosis claimed her young tutor’s life.

The summer after Caroline’s sixteenth birthday, her father had a stroke, which paralyzed the entire left side of his body. He died several months later, leaving the young woman in stupefied grief. To alleviate her mourning, her brothers William and Alexander suggested that she join them in Bath, England, where William, to whom she was deeply and abidingly attached, had taken a position as an organist at a local church. William beseeched and beseeched, but the mother was unyielding. In a bout of desperation, Caroline knitted two years’ worth of stockings for the family to stave them off in her absence. Mrs. Herschel finally relented and Caroline set out for England.

Caroline joined William with the intention of training as a singer so that she could accompany him in concerts. But although she became an accomplished vocalist, her loyalty to William, at that point and ever after, was so great that when she was invited to perform at a prestigious festival, she declined on the grounds that she never wanted to sing in concerts where her brother wasn’t the conductor.

It was in Bath that William grew increasingly enamored with the cosmos, until he decided to limit his work as a music teacher and focus on his newfound love of astronomy. Too poor to afford instruments and too proud to ask for loans, he taught himself to make mirrors and build telescopes, and Caroline became his steadfast assistant in celestial observations.

She recounts:

I was obliged to read to him whilst he was at the turning lathe, or polishing mirrors, Don Quixote, Arabian Nights’ Entertainment, the novels of Sterne, Fielding, &c.; serving tea and supper without interrupting the work with which he was engaged … and sometimes lending a hand. I became in time as useful a member of the workshop as a boy might be to his master in the first year of his apprenticeship.

[…]

When I found that a hand was sometimes wanted when any particular measures were to be made with the lamp micrometer, &c., or a fire to be kept up, or a dish of coffee necessary during a long night’s watching, I undertook with pleasure what others might have thought a hardship.

William enlisted her assistance “to run the clocks, write down a memorandum, fetch and carry instruments, or measure the ground with poles” — a line Adrienne Rich would later incorporate into her tribute to Caroline. When one of his telescope mirrors had to be cast in a mould of loam made from horse dung, Caroline faithfully pounded vast quantities of manure in a mortar and spent hours sifting it through a fine sieve.

When she learned to copy star catalogs — painstaking work that consumed countless days — she started to notice gaps in the data. Feeling compelled to remedy them, she began making her own observations. In the summer of 1782, at the age of thirty-two, Herschel embarked on her own catalog and made her first independent discoveries the following year — a nebula missing from the famous Messier catalog and, crucially, the dwarf elliptical galaxy now known as Messier 110, a companion to the Andromeda Galaxy.

Herschel not only devoted her life to astronomy but nearly lost it to the passion for observation. In a diary entry from the summer of her first discoveries, she recounts a most improbable incident, at once gory and glorious in its attestation to her selfless heroism in the name of science. She writes on July 8, 1783, shortly after she and her brother built a new Newtonian telescope:

My brother began his series of sweeps when the instrument was yet in a very unfinished state, and my feelings were not very comfortable when every moment I was alarmed by a crack or fall, knowing him to be elevated fifteen feet or more on a temporary cross-beam instead of a safe gallery. The ladders had not even their braces at the bottom; and one night, in a very high wind, he had hardly touched the ground before the whole apparatus came down. Some labouring men were called up to help in extricating the mirror, which was fortunately uninjured, but much work was cut out for carpenters next day.

That my fears of danger and accidents were not wholly imaginary, I had an unlucky proof on the night of the 31st December. The evening had been cloudy, but about ten o’clock a few stars became visible, and in the greatest hurry all was got ready for observing. My brother, at the front of the telescope, directed me to make some alteration in the lateral motion, which was done by machinery, on which the point of support of the tube and mirror rested. At each end of the machine or trough was an iron hook, such as butchers use for hanging their joints upon, and having to run in the dark on ground covered a foot deep with melting snow, I fell on one of these hooks, which entered my right leg above the knee. My brother’s call, “Make haste!” I could only answer by a pitiful cry, “I am hooked!” He and the workmen were instantly with me, but they could not lift me without leaving nearly two ounces of my flesh behind. The workman’s wife was called, but was afraid to do anything, and I was obliged to be my own surgeon by applying aquabusade and tying a kerchief about it for some days, till Dr. Lind, hearing of my accident, brought me ointment and lint, and told me how to use them.

That same Dr. Lind remarked that “if a soldier had met with such a hurt he would have been entitled to six weeks’ nursing in a hospital,” but Herschel soldiered on with complete composure and continued making observations despite her injury. She concludes the diary entry with charming matter-of-factliness that bespeaks her superhuman devotion to science:

To make observations with such large machinery, where all around is in darkness, is not unattended with danger, especially when personal safety is the last thing with which the mind is occupied.

The heroic incident was memorialized nearly two centuries later in a portion of Alfred Noyes’s lengthy poem “Sir John Herschel Remembers,” from his 1922 collection Watchers of the Sky. The poem’s protagonist — the great astronomer and inventor John Herschel, son of William, nephew of Caroline — remembers how his aunt’s intrepid devotion to astronomy inspired his own:

He saw her in mid-winter, hurrying out, A slim shawled figure through the drifted snow, To help him; saw her fall with a stifled cry, Gashing herself upon that buried hook, And struggling up, out of the blood-stained drift, To greet him with a smile. “For any soldier, This wound,” the surgeon muttered, “would have meant Six weeks in hospital.” Not six days for her! “I am glad these nights were cloudy, and we lost So little,” was all she said.

#Hooked on the Heavens: How Caroline Herschel the First Professional Woman Astronomer Nearly Died by Meathook in the Name of Science How a pa

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3one3 · 7 years

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The Sequel - 804

Moving Day

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

The new house was a total transformation from the one André and Christina bought in August. It no longer felt dated and dark inside. The colors and textures on the walls, floors, and ceilings were modern and soft and coherent from room to room. The air inside even smelled better. The wood paneled basement scent was gone, and all that wood on the ceilings was hidden under white paint. The worn wooden floors were replaced with a mixture of contemporary darker finishes and in some places, large tiles. The heavy, orangey, burly wood staircase and balcony above the foyer were simply gone- replaced with metal slats and small, refined, dark wood railings. Some rooms had new track lighting since many had no built-in lighting to begin with, and the kitchen had a big wrought iron chandelier filling some of the empty space made by the cathedral ceiling. The kitchen was really the most amazing aspect of the transformation.

The sunroom’s doors were changed out for windows, and the black cabinets and dark granite countertop went all the way around but for the stainless range with 7 different cooking surfaces. There was a built-in butcher block next to it, before the smaller of the two sinks. One of the areas between the windows featured some bookshelves for cookbooks or display items, and the other had glass-fronted cabinets for dishes and glasses. All the other storage was in the counter-height cabinets and in the enormous island in the middle, with the wine refrigerator and the breakfast bar. There was no space left for the regular refrigerator, the two ovens Christina requested, or the necessary pantry. Zoe decided to build a wall between the kitchen and what used to be the den and was supposed to become the new dining room. She put the appliances there with lots more cabinets to eliminate the need for the pantry, and even put a small gas fireplace in between. It shrunk the dining room a bit but the family never really had indoor sit-down dinners for tons of people. The kitchen was also where Christina decided to have her first cranky fit on Wednesday.

“Half the storage is too tall for me to reach,” she complained to André while Zoe was out of the room. “I have all these cabinets for pots and pans and utensils and stuff but if I put all the food over there then I can’t reach most of it without a ladder, and that’s the only place with shelves that are good for pantry supplies. You can’t dump seasoning bottles in a deep drawer. Even the shelves for dishes and stuff- I can only reach the first two.”

“So we’ll get you a ladder. What’s the big deal? You can have a little step that matches the cabinets.”

“It’s inconvenient! I don’t want to have to move a stepladder around with me while I’m cooking, or trip over it, or-“

“Well what do you want me to do about it, Prinzessin?” the footballer sighed. “It’s done now. This is the way it is. Do you want to waste energy being upset about it or move on?”

“Chriiiiis!” Zoe shouted from somewhere else in the house. “Come look at this!” Christina bit her lip in front of André, figuratively biting her tongue, and then stomped off in the direction of her decorator.

Why does she always have to find something to complain about? Today is the first day we start moving into this beautiful house and she has to find something wrong instead of focusing on everything that’s good, he grumbled to himself, following her and Lukas through the empty living room. He wasn’t enjoying the start to their new life. His wife missed her flight first thing in the morning and couldn’t even give a real explanation as to why, and then she made him wait for an hour at the airport for Stefanie to arrive from London with the dogs so that they didn’t have to come back to get her or wait for her to take a taxi to the apartment. They wanted to go straight to the barn and start getting it ready for the first horses coming the next day, and he had to remove the pitchfork from Christina’s hands and drag her over to the house just to show it to her. That drove him crazy. He couldn’t understand why she wasn’t eager to see their new home. He couldn’t understand why she wasn’t all excited and already talking about where to put the furniture. All she was interested in was spreading shavings in stalls while Lukas played in them, and installing hardware for hanging buckets and crossties and such. Stefanie and Tom had it all under control though. The younger rider was hanging the white boards for the feed room and the schedule, and the new stable manager was unloading a pallet full of grain. It was not as if between the three of them they couldn’t get the place serviceable for the 4 horses coming on Thursday. Tom managed to get horse show stabling ready for them in half a day, on his own, all the time.

All André wanted was for his partner to show some sign of looking forward to getting settled in their new home together. He knew it was going to be tough for her, and that she was still worried about the future, but he thought she should have been, at the very least, happy that they were going to be together every day again. That was something he anticipated with nothing but happiness. He couldn’t wait to have the family together without an expiration date. Christina was right there but her demeanor said she wasn’t enthusiastic about being there in the future, and that maybe her head wasn’t even there in the present. And the BVB man didn’t understand that either, because everything seemed normal and fine when they talked while she was in Mallorca. There was no sense that something happened with Juan, for example, that might be on her mind, or taking her away from the immediate moment. He was also sort of afraid to ask her about it, because there was a better than good chance it would result in a fight.

Lukas’ playroom evoked a smile on his otherwise cold and detached mom’s face. He got the old kitchen- the long and narrow room at the back of the house with tons of cabinets and lots of windows. There was no time to coordinate with Aidan to get him there to paint a custom mural for him on the short wall at the end, so Zoe did a pre-made wallpaper-like installation of a beautifully illustrated jungle scene instead, and got her painters to do some freehand vines reaching out from it down the two adjacent walls, curving around the cabinets and windows. She showed Christina all of the special features, like safety measures that would prevent Lukas from opening drawers and climbing into them and getting trapped inside, and the short white curtains on his windows. Even if he climbed on something to reach them, he couldn’t get them wrapped around his neck, and there were no blinds with a cord to get into trouble with. He had a built-in daybed, an upholstered chair in his size, two low tables, a blackboard on the wall, and his own TV. They opted to keep the black and white vinyl tile floor since it was good for playing on and easy to clean, and then covered some sections with rubber play mat and some with an area rug.

“You are such a lucky little munchkin,” Christina cooed to her son before setting him down so he could explore his new space. “There are like 40 animals hidden in the jungle for us to find and learn about,” she told him, referring to the densely packed scene with a jaguar, ocelot, different monkeys and birds, ground dwelling mammals, big frogs, and snakes. If he doesn’t grow up loving animals, it won’t be because we didn’t try hard enough. Most kids get dinosaurs or spaceships or something. This kid gets animal-themed everything.

“I think she likes it,” André stage whispered to Zoe.

“Oh, I love it! Thank you so much, Zo!”

“I thought I was going to get the congratulations for the kitchen,” Zoe demurred, teasing.

“Actually, I-“

“Meant to say that the kitchen is wonderful too,” André interjected before Christina could complain. She frowned at him, but Lukas “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy’d” her before she could then divert her complaint towards him as well. The little boy found the chalk right away and wanted his mom to watch him draw. Unbeknownst to her, Lukas had already checked out his playroom. He’d already been there a few times since the remodel was pronounced “complete”. Zoe showed his dad some of the features of the big boy play room during the art break. The old dining room, right off the kitchen, was converted into a new grown-up hang out spot, with room for the pool table and the leather couches from London, a big TV and a pull-down projector screen, media cabinets for gaming systems, the hub for the home-wide stereo system, a minimalist designed bar area, and French doors out to the patio.

Because the two boys had already had the tour, the bigger one hoped Christina would love the master suite as much as she did the playroom. Her dressing room was, in his opinion, way too nice for her. It was a true fashionista’s closet with a place for everything. It was dark and sort of sexy in there with the textured black baroque wallpaper, and the shiny black acrylic cabinets, wardrobes and shelves mixed with frosted glass, and the crisp, bright white of the mouldings and ceilings, her chrome-framed mirrors, and the complicated metal chandelier with black “crystal thingies” hanging from its various “arms”. Zoe showed him a gray rug that felt like plush bunny fur to him, which would have a home in there once Christina’s things were moved in. To André it was an aspirational closet, almost like the aspirational coffee mugs he got for her. It was a closet that could belong to a kind of girl she wanted to be but didn’t necessarily think she was yet- emphasis on the “yet”. He wanted her to feel like a girl with a sexy, cool-girl closet. She already was that kind of girl in his eyes, and she picked everything for the room herself.

The reigning World Cup champion couldn’t even get as far into the tour as the dressing room. She made it into the bedroom, which was nothing special since there was no furniture in it yet- just freshly painted slate gray walls, neutral ceiling with some new recessed lighting, and fresh matching neutral wall to wall carpeting- and then responded to Tom’s summons back to the barn. The hay guy was there with 400 bales to drop off, and no helper to unload it. He had a motorized conveyor belt tool to move bales off his enormous truck, and needed Tom and Christina to organize and stack it in the garage off the side of the indoor. They didn’t have a lot of room for it alongside all the heavy equipment, some of which hadn’t even been delivered yet, so it had to be stacked high. Tom wanted to build big towers and use the forklift to get the bales up there, and needed the boss to climb up and move them into place. That was the end of the guided tour. Zoe didn’t have time to wait around. She had other projects going on and was about to surrender four whole days to getting the Schürrle house set up when their belongings started arriving on Thursday. André thanked her again and assured her that Christina really appreciated everything she did for them, and that she’d probably be more forthcoming with that gratitude once the furniture and other decor was all installed and it looked more like a home than a house- more like something to which his wife could have an emotional reaction.

He offered to help with the hay even though he didn’t really want to. Espen was there so he didn’t need to babysit Lukas, and Stefanie borrowed the G-Wagon to run back into Dortmund to deliver payment for her and Kyle’s new apartment and get the keys before the leasing office closed. His wife told him that he wasn’t allowed to do that kind of physical labor, and he didn’t know how to take that. On the one hand, she was right. It wasn’t a great idea for him to stack hay bales. Tom ordered orchard grass, Timothy, and some alfalfa, so each bales ranged from 50-70lbs. André didn’t need to add lifting and carrying heavy hay bales to his workout, and to his already troublesome lower back problems. He wasn’t dressed for it either. So he stood around helplessly and watched Christina work harder than he thought a girl with that kind of dressing room should have to, and in truth, he knew she didn’t have to. That was Tom’s job and nobody would bat an eye at a rider like Christina expecting him to take care of it. Nobody would expect a rider like her to put on gloves and get sweaty. The footballer appreciated that she was willing to put in the hard work, to do her share, to cultivate the teamwork and sense of family in her stable, and to refrain from seeing herself as the top of the management chart. He also wished she would just let the others deal with it so that they could see the rest of the house together, or do anything together, really, and he had a hard time not seeing her willingness to work as a willingness to avoid the house, or even to avoid interacting with him because she knew he expected her to have more to say about the house and the move and she still didn’t want to talk about it much.

Christina was exhausted by dinnertime. Stefanie helped when she got back, but her coach did a lot of the heavy lifting until they all realized how stupid their arrangement was. There was no need for André to stand there and do nothing when Tom could show him how to operate the forklift and thus free himself up to do some of the backbreaking work. He didn’t bother trying to get Christina to do it because she was perpetually afraid of using the heavy equipment and either hurting someone or breaking it. They got their 11 metric tons of hay put away neatly, as well as a few hundred pounds of extra grain, installed water and feed buckets in all the stalls, put up brackets for salt licks, hooks for halters, crossties, and hanging tack hooks, installed hoses, and unpacked new supplies like brooms, shovels, muck buckets, and cleaning products. That was all stuff they decided to just buy new instead of bringing it over from London, where some of it would still be needed anyway. Tom and his family were all moved into their new house, and Stefanie went home with him for the night. Espen took Lukas, Lucky, and Spencer home in her new Audi AWD wagon provided by her employers as part of her relocation benefits package. André took Christina out for pizza because she said she was too dirty to go anywhere nicer.

“You should have a nice bath when we get home, or a long hot shower,” he suggested as she rubbed her lower back and typed something on her phone in their booth-for-two.

“Mm.”

“Who are you talking to?” And why can’t you pay attention to me on your first day here?

“Daniel.”

“Oh.”

A solid three minutes passed without any further communication at the table. They ordered pizza and salad and neither thing turned up to break the silence. The waitress didn’t stop by. Christina never put her phone down. After the first 60, every subsequent second made her husband’s irritation grow. He just wanted to converse with her, and exist in the same place. It wasn’t even necessary to talk about the house or the barn if she didn’t want, though that seemed ludicrous to him given the circumstances. That was the main thing happening in their lives in that moment, so to ignore it would be weird. André felt like Day 1 of her living in Germany was Day 1 of her punishing him for making her move- like she was intentionally being cold, obstructing, and disinterested to make sure he understood that she didn’t want to be there and blamed him for her having to be.

“Should I have gotten my own table?” he asked snidely when he got tired of waiting for the iPhone in the Givenchy star and stripes case between them to be put down.

“Wha?” the rider asked asked, still absent.

“Are you going to be on your phone all night? Do you want some privacy? Should I sit somewhere else?”

“Why are you so rawr?” she asked back.

“I haven’t seen you in weeks and you can’t put your phone down for 5 minutes to acknowledge that I currently exist in the same general area as you do?” André questioned with plenty of accusation.

“Daniel keeps asking me questions about-“

“Don’t care.”

“Then don’t ask me for an explanation.”

“Great.”

“What is your problem?”

“You.”

“Of course. I’m always the problem. There’s always a problem. We can’t not have a problem. I can’t come here a single time without a fight.”

“Do you even want to be here? I think that’s the problem. Every single time you come here, you don’t want to be here.”

“Right now? No, I don’t wanna be here. Why would I? Why would I want to sit here with you while you get passive aggressive and sour because you need my attention immediately and can’t wait? What are you, 4? You can’t sit quietly for a few minutes? Even Lukas doesn’t have a tantrum over having to wait. He’s two.”

“Next you’re going to say this attitude right now isn’t because you don’t want to live here and the time is up and now you have to.”

Deep breaths, Christina advised herself, trying not to overheat. André infuriated her. It started earlier in the day when he couldn’t summon even an ounce of sympathy for her over the high cabinets in the kitchen. Then he was disappointed that she wanted to go do the work that she was there to do. His inability to entertain himself for 5 minutes while she talked to Daniel about a chronic lameness issue with one of his horses that she had experience in dealing with failed to impress her too. For the player to then accuse her, again, of not wanting to live with him, made it all so much worse. She was tired of fighting with him, and sick to death of his insecurity and belief that she didn’t want to be there. One day he’s going to accuse me of not wanting to be with him and it’s going to make me want to say he’s right, she thought, staring blankly into his unique blue eyes while a busboy put down empty plates for them and a metal pizza stand so that they’d still have room once their pie was delivered.

“Do you want to try this conversation again?” she suggested once the guy left.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your students, or some kid,” her husband warned.

“I pretty much don’t want to talk to you at all right now. Would you prefer that?”

“Fuck you, Chris. Fuck you being like this. I don’t even want to know you right now.”

“Well I’ll just leave you to enjoy your dinner without me then,” Christina offered with a pleasant smile before taking some cash out of the card wallet in her jacket pocket to leave on the table on her way out. She went outside and around the corner to request an Uber ride to the apartment. Her heart was broken by what she perceived as André’s biting heartlessness, and each piece of her heart was filled with anxiety, because if they couldn’t even get through one day without fighting then their new life together on their new estate was doomed. The whole thing felt like a huge mistake. It was as if she was voluntarily committing herself to an immediate future full of the unhappiness and depression she’d been working so hard to defeat and eradicate from her life. She needed a shower and the counsel of her best friend. All of her luggage was in André’s car, so when Espen let her in she borrowed a t-shirt from his closet to put on after the shower, and locked the bedroom door to keep him out.

He was furious with her for leaving him there and embarrassing him, and for leaving a fight instead of resolving the situation. Most of all he was furious in general that Christina had developed some resolve and wouldn’t take his berating her anymore. A few months earlier she would have cried at the table, or pleaded with him to not attack her. She didn’t even seem to get emotional at the pizza place. André asked to have the food packed up to-go, and he brought it home to eat, not for her. Her luggage remained in the car.

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