#me showing my art like a five year old showing off their macaroni art
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no thoughts just kira in tacky patterned shirts
#kira nerys#ds9#ds9 art#ds9 fanart#star trek art#me showing my art like a five year old showing off their macaroni art
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love in the time of p.t.a meetings {marcus moreno} - 2/5
summary: your kid has taken a liking to marcus moreno - and frankly, so have you {series masterlist}
warnings: swearing, mentions of divorce & very brief mentions of his wife’s death
i don’t normally update series this quickly but this was originally one imagine that reached about 11k words lmao so it’s all written, just being split up. i’ve also decided it’s gonna be 5 parts instead of 3, cos i reread the ending and realised i was not done by a longshot. enjoy!
- jazz
Mondays. You hated ‘em.
Everything just seemed so...amplified. The peace and relaxation of the weekend was over and everyone had to go back on the grind. The traffic always seemed worst, the clock seemed to tick backwards and you just wanted to be at home, in bed. After an incident involving the dog, a toaster and a small pan fire, you were already running twenty minutes late and you knew in your soul that your child’s shoes weren’t on the right feet. That, and also he was wearing a Chewbacca onesie to school. It had been a compromise. As in, he was refusing to go to school unless you let him wear the damn thing. It was a compromise. You’d lost.
On the bright side, the past weekend had been the best you’d had in a long time. Jack had spent all of Saturday afternoon at the Heroics headquarters and he was so worn out, he’d slept through all of Sunday. Marcus Moreno must have a been a fucking wizard, because you’d been trying to tire the kid out for five years. You made a mental note to do something in return, though you sensed there was nothing on God’s green earth that could possibly amount to babysitting the world’s most exhausting child for six hours. You were allowed to say that, because Jack was your world’s most exhausting child and you wouldn’t have changed him for anything.
‘New week, huh buddy?’ You glanced at Jack in your rear view mirror. He was sat on his booster seat, legs dangling back and forth and a power ranger action figure in his hand. ‘A fresh start.’
‘Can we listen to the song from Cars?’ Jack ignored your comment.
‘You gotta try and behave yourself this week. You’ve seen what happens to people who do follow the rules, right? They get to go work at the Heroics-’
‘- I wanna listen to the song from Cars!’
You wanted to have a deep conversation. Jack wanted to listen to Life Is A Highway. That was...actually, it was exactly how you’d expected that to go. It wasn’t that off of the time you were trying to explain your divorce to him and he’d interrupted you to demand that you put Toy Story on.
‘Sure thing, kid.’ You rolled your eyes, reaching across to hand him on your phone. ‘D’you know how to spell it-’
Your sentence was cut off by the sound of guitars blaring from the speakers. At least he could work out Spotify.
By some miracle, you managed to make it the school with a few minutes to spare. Because most people had dropped their kids off earlier (see: on time), the lot was pretty empty. That meant you could once again dump your car without regard for the painted white lines -- who had time to park properly on a Monday morning? That was for people who had their shit together.
Leaping out the car, you almost cursed when you tripped over your heels. You didn’t have to wear them, but since you’d started working in a managerial role at your office, you figured it made you look a little more professional. And what was the harm in being a few inches taller? It made you feel powerful.
‘C’mon, J.’ You pulled open the back door, helping Jack leap out the car.
‘You know, I’m starting to think you can’t park your car at all.’
‘Marcus!’ Jack practically flew out the car, his tiny body suddenly jolting with excitement.
‘Morning, buddy.’ He replied; he then moved his brown eyes to gaze at you, offering a smile. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey, how you doing?’ You greeted him. ‘I don’t normally see you here in the mornings.’
‘Yeah, I normally drop Missy off at the front but it was one of those mornings, you know? She was taking a little more convincing than usual to go in.’
‘My kid is in a Wookiee onesie and backwards Thomas the Tank Engine shoes and you have the audacity to ask me if I know those mornings? I am those mornings.’ You replied.
Marcus chuckled. ‘I think it’s a look. I especially like the Lightning McQueen sunglasses.’
‘Do you have a super suit?’ Jack asked. ‘Can I try it on?’
‘C’mon, Jack. You’ve already managed to get a tour of the HQ.’ You ruffled his hair. ‘And we gotta get going to school.’
‘But I wanna ask more questions.’ He muttered. ‘I have over a hundred.’
‘Don’t I know it.’ You murmured under your breath. ‘But school is more important.’
‘I don’t wanna go anymore.’
‘I let you wear the onesie. That was our agreement, remember?’
‘All good superheroes have to get an education.’ Marcus reasoned. ‘And if you go in, maybe I can show you my suit at some point?’
'Okay!’ Jack grinned. He wrapped his arms around your waist in a quick hug, before peering up at you with a toothy smile. ‘See ya later!’
He turned on his heel and ripped his backpack from your hand, suddenly speeding up the path and towards school. Had...had that just happened? For once in your life, had you not had to wrench him from the car and wrestle him through the school gates? Move aside, Harry Potter, because Marcus Moreno was the new wizard in town. You might have been a little jealous that he was so good with your son but at the same time, it made you like him even more. He was the first parent at the school that had leant into Jack’s wild tendencies. And, whilst you tried not to think too much about it, even his own dad had struggled to do that. It made your heart warm a little.
‘You are seriously my favourite person.’ You chimed, leaning back against your car.
‘Kids with character are way more fun than kids who are well-behaved.’ Marcus replied.
‘I spent forty-five minutes scraping string cheese out the USB port of my computer yesterday, but sure.’
He chuckled. ‘No, I’m serious. I don’t encourage Missy to misbehave but she does get herself into some situations. I choose to see it as a testament to her intelligence rather than disobedience.’
‘I refuse to believe for a second that Missy ever misbehaves.’ You shot back back. ‘She seems so well-behaved.’
‘What you see in the parking lot is not a reflection of our whole lives.’ He reminded you.
‘Right, because despite appearances, I’m actually a very put together parent.’ You snorted. ‘But I get what you mean.’
‘I gotta get to work now, but it was good to see you.’ Marcus pulled his car keys out his pocket. ‘I was serious about that suit thing, by the way. He saw my katanas on Saturday.’
‘Katanas?’ You spluttered. ‘My kid managed to start a fire last week out of nothing and you want to give him katanas?!’
‘Maybe I can show you how to use them.’ He flashed you a smile. ‘And then you can pass on the knowledge.’
‘That’s probably an even worse idea.’ You shook your head with a laugh, pulling open your car door. ‘I’ll see you around.’
‘You as well. Have a good day, pretty lady.’
--
Did you stop thinking about your exchange at any point during the day? Absolutely not. In fact, you’d already written an email to the local deed poll office to change your legal name to Pretty Lady.
No, but in all seriousness, you’d been a little giddy about it. Had he been flirting? That didn’t seem like a long shot. You got on well, you’d hung out a bit over the weekend and not to toot your own horn, but you were by no means bad looking. Tired and a little frazzled, sometimes? Yeah. But anyone would have been lucky to have you and you were doing a better job at recognising that, especially since your divorce.
You were almost ecstatic when it got to 4PM and you hadn’t received a single call from Jack’s teachers. That meant that he had behaved, and what Marcus had said had worked. Because you worked past his finishing time, he usually went to the after-school club till you could come to collect him - it had been a lifesaver, especially since you couldn’t always leave early. He usually came home with some kind of weird arts and crafts. Last week, it had been an unidentifiable item made of dried macaroni and glitter. He’d placed it pridefully on the old fireplace in your lounge.
After saying goodbye to your co-workers, you headed out the building. Your office was right in the city centre and not too far out from the school. It was a nice place to be; your lunch hour, when you could head out to a street cart and eat your food in the local park, was usually the highlight of your day. It was when you could exist just as you. When you were at work, you were in charge on your entire department. When you were home, you were a parent 24/7. That time to yourself was vital.
As you were heading to your car, your phone began to ring. Your heart almost jumped out your chest when you saw Marcus’ name - he hadn’t called you before, only texted to sort out the previous weekend’s plans with Jack. You quickly organised yourself (he couldn’t see you, dumb ass) and cleared your throat.
‘Hey, everything alright?’ You brightly greeted him.
‘Hey! Are you out of work now?’
‘Yeah, I’m literally just leaving. What’s up?’
‘Look, I hate to do this but I’ve had an emergency at work - superhero related, you don’t wanna know - and I’m not gonna be out for hours.’ Marcus sounded stressed. Yeah, I feel that you thought. ‘Would you be able to pick up Missy and possibly have her for a few hours? If not, that’s totally-’
‘- I’d be glad too!’ You interrupted him. ‘I owe you one anyways for the weekend. And this morning, actually.’
‘You don’t owe me anything.’ He sounded surprised that you’d even imply it. ‘But I will definitely owe you for having Missy.’
‘Hey, it’s cool!’ You insisted. ‘Do you want me to drop her off at yours later?’
‘I can come and collect her if you text me your address?’
‘Perfect.’ You smiled. ‘I’ll see you later then?’
‘You’re a lifesaver.’ Marcus said. ‘I’ll text Missy to let her know to find your car instead of mine. I would ask for your plate number, but your car is...’
‘...bright red, covered in dents and hard to miss?’ You finished his sentence.
‘Exactly.’
You’d been in the same situation before; pulled between work and parenting, with Jack stuck at school and an important meeting that felt like it was never ending. It was hard to get a sitter on such short notice - or afford one, sometimes - and it was just another one of the million, stressful situations that single parenting could get you into. If you could help Marcus even a little bit, of course you were going to. You knew he’d do the same for you. Heck, he had done the same for you.
Jack and Missy were both chatty on the way home. Given that she was a little older than him, her conversational skills were strikingly better. It was nice to ask someone about their day and not get where are my Cheetos? as an answer. From what you gathered, she hated science class, enjoyed gym, and her favourite subject was lunch. That didn’t come as a surprise to you - her dad was a literal superhero and probably encouraged physical activity.
(You’d seen his arms, okay? They were more than enough to go on. I digress).
The only thing that made you wish you’d had a little more notice on having her for the evening was the state of your apartment. The place wasn’t bad; you’d lived there for the better part of eight years, and it was crammed with soft furniture and millions of blankets, as well as photos of you and Jack and his questionable art projects. It was just that you hadn’t done the dishes that morning, there was a mountain of shoes by the door and the pancakes from the previous night were still stuck on the roof.
Missy barely blinked an eye; the minute she saw your dog, she’d abandoned her bag and was playing with him.
‘Hey buddy!’ She grinned. ‘What’s he called?’
‘That’s Oppy.’ You replied, hanging your jacket up. She didn’t need to know that it was short for Optimus Prime. No guesses on whose idea that had been.
‘He’s so cute!’ Missy continued. ‘I’ve been asking dad for a dog for ages but he won’t budge.’
For some reason, that surprised you a little. Marcus might have been the leader of a super-hero team and a public figure, but you could tell he would do anything for his daughter. You knew because it was the same for you with Jack. He might have ruled your whole life but you would have hung the damn stars in the sky for him if he asked
‘They’re a lot of work.’ You reasoned. ‘I have to wake up every morning at 6AM to make sure he gets a walk. Then there’s the matter of-’
‘- mum! Optimus Prime pooped in the bathroom!’
‘The matter of that.’ You murmured under your breath.
The rest of the evening went pretty smoothly. You fed the kids some leftover takeaway and between the dog and Netflix, they were easily entertained. Jack seemed to take a liking to Missy, which was good because it meant he wanted to sit with her the entire time instead of bouncing off the walls. She had the same patience as her dad, especially when he asked her a million questions about superheroes. It took her twenty minutes to convince him that Batman wasn’t her uncle, and a further fifteen to make him believe that she hadn’t met Captain America.
Jack had asked you a few times about whether or not he would get siblings. Of course, it would be different to any interactions with Missy because he would have been the oldest, but it did get you thinking. You were finally in a place where you were moving past your former relationship and healing from the wounds. Time wasn’t much of an issue either - you’d had Jack when you were young and barely out of college. You couldn’t possibly imagine having any more kids right now, not when it was just the two of you, but in the future? You’d never rule out meeting somebody new. If anything, you were hopeful. Your first relationship had been your only one, and it had ended badly. You wanted to experience love for what it actually was, and not what you thought it was supposed to be.
Not long after 7PM, there was a knock on your door. By that point, both Missy and Jack had passed out on the sofa with Star Wars playing quietly in the background. It had been her idea to watch it - she had good taste. Marcus had clearly done a good job.
‘Hey!’ You greeted him as you pulled open the front door. ‘Come in quick, it’s fucking freezing out there.’
‘Thank you.’ Marcus came inside, dusting a few snow flakes out his hair. ‘Seriously, I can’t say it enough-’
‘- it’s fine!’ You shook your head, offering him a smile. ‘Missy’s been great. She’s really chatty and it was nice to have a coherent conversation with someone that isn’t about Paw Patrol. But was everything at the office okay?’
He was quiet for a minute. ‘Yeah. We uh, we lost someone. A hero.’
‘Shit, man. I’m sorry.’ Your voice fell quiet. ‘You wanna come in? You look like you could probably take a moment.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course! Missy and Jack are both asleep on the couch anyways.’ You pointed through to the living room. Marcus leant over to have a look, smiling slightly at the sight.
‘Thank you. I’d appreciate that.’
He took a seat at the kitchen counter. Your old bar stools were a little old and wobbly, but Marcus didn’t seem to notice. If anything, he admired the place. It was cluttered as hell and filled with useless, old items - cook books you didn’t use, random magnets, assorted toys - but it was nice. His house always felt a little cold and clinical. He’d moved a lot over the course of Missy’s life and now that he was retired from the field, he’d sworn to her that their current house was going to be permanent. Whether or not it felt like home was another question entirely.
‘I would offer you a drink but all I have is..’ you paused, opening the fridge. ‘Nesquik, vodka or apple juice.’
‘You know what? A Nesquik doesn’t sound too bad.’
‘I like your thinking, Moreno.’
After quickly fixing up the two drinks, you slid into the seat beside him and handed him one. You had never in a million years imagined a situation where Marcus Moreno would be in your kitchen drinking chocolate milk, but here we were. It had clearly been a long day for him and you had enough of those to last a lifetime, so you knew how it felt. Coming home after a day that had beat your ass into the ground and having to put on a brave face for your kids was difficult at best.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ You gently asked.
‘Yeah, I’ll be okay - it just always fucks me up a bit.’ Marcus murmured quietly. ‘Hits a little too close to home.’
He wasn’t an idiot. He knew that you knew what had happened to his wife. You knew why he’d retired, and why he and Missy had moved away from their original city six years ago.
‘Sorry, that was too deep-’
‘- it wasn’t!’ You quickly cut him off. ‘I’ve had random women come up to me at pick up time and say they’re sorry to hear about my divorce. People I don’t even know. So really, after that, nothing is too much.’
He smiled slightly. ‘They always say they’re sorry but why would you bring up a subject if you have to apologise for it?’
‘Exactly!’ You replied. ‘Especially when I’ve moved on. It’s been a year.’
‘It’s the same with me. Missy and I miss her everyday but we don’t mope about it. We just...we look back with fondness on the good memories we have. You can’t move forward if you’re stuck in the past, no matter how much it sucks.’
‘That’s...that’s wise.’ You blinked in surprise. ‘S’pose that means I should take down the dartboard I have with my ex’s face on.’
‘From what I’ve heard, he seems like he should have more than a dart board.’ Marcus snorted - then he froze. ‘Wait, not that I’ve heard stuff, I mean...I don’t listen-’
‘- Marcus!’ You whacked his arm. ‘It’s fine. One of the other kid’s mums started telling me about the terrible divorce someone was going through but she realised she was gossiping to the one who was going through it.’
‘I don’t know how much of what I’ve been told is true, but it sounds like it was bad.’ His hand hovered over where yours was rested on the counter.
‘The rumours pretty much get the gist of it.’ You replied. ‘But we were talking about your thing, so I don’t wanna take away from that.’
‘Hey, it’s okay.’ He finally moved his hand, fingers gently curling underneath yours to intertwine them. ‘If even half of the whispers are true, he sounds like an asshole. You and Jack both deserve better than that.’
Whatever people had said, it had sort of covered the gist of it. You’d married too young and had a kid too young - your ex had been a terrible husband and an even worst husband. He’d chastised Jack for being...well, being Jack. He’d stay out late with his friends, spend money on things neither of you needed and tried to make you take the blame for it all. After giving him a few too many chances, you’d finally reached breaking point and kicked him out. Filing for divorce and taking on being a single parent was single-handedly the hardest and bravest thing you’d ever had to do. In a way, you were glad you’d done it when Jack was still so young - he didn’t really understand any of it, even when you’d try to explain it in child friendly terms.
‘I think people judge me for it a little sometimes.’ You confessed. ‘They see me struggling but they know I made the choice to separate from him, like I brought it all on myself.’
‘That’s bullshit.’ Marcus plainly stated. ‘Parenthood isn’t a dependent thing based on whether or not you’re still married to the other parent. It’s unconditional and permanent.’
‘I should tell him that, but I also don’t want him back in our lives.’
‘I know it’s none of my business, but he doesn’t deserve Jack. He’s one of the best and brightest kids I’ve ever met.’
‘Thank you. I’m glad he doesn’t seem like a complete lunatic.’
‘He doesn’t deserve you either.’ Marcus continued. ‘Again, I might be out of place saying this but you are...you’re amazing. I was a wreck when I was suddenly on my own and you’re still holding everything together and working your ass off.’
‘You’ve noticed?’ You quirked an eyebrow.
‘Yeah, in passing.’ He admitted. ‘I remember I once saw you carrying three separate science projects at once and then Carol made a passing comment that you were on your own and...I just kinda admired you from afar.’
‘You, Marcus Moreno, admired me?’ You blinked at him in disbelief. ‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘I wish I’d had my shit together half as much as you did when I lost Missy’s mum.’
‘But the difference is you didn’t have a choice in your situation. I chose to boot his dad out-’
‘- you gotta stop discrediting yourself.’ He shook his head. ‘And stop blaming yourself. You did what was right for your kid and that is the most admirable thing of all.’
‘You really think so?’
‘I know so.’
The conversation slowly drizzled away, leaving you two to just look at each other. It was hard to tear yourself away from his brown eyes - there was a lot going on behind them. Fear, pain, anguish, admiration. He was one of the most mind-blowingly impressive people you’d ever met; single dad, superhero, electric car owner. He probably didn’t have a mortgage too and that was kinda hot. You were none of those things and yet, here he was, with you, managing to connect on a level that you never had with anyone. Both of your situations were tough, but they’d brought you together.
Marcus Moreno was pretty fucking fearless (came with the job, you figured), and he wasn’t afraid to make the first move. He slowly inched his head forward and in return, you gravitated towards him. Your lips met halfway in a soft kiss, his hands moving to firmly hold your waist as he pulled you closer.
You almost stumbled out your chair with the movement, but his grip on your hips meant you didn’t slip. Instead, he placed you up on the counter, standing up as he did. It took you a moment to adjust to the position, but with your legs resting on either side of his, you could reach forward and lean on him. You had one hand tangled in his hair and the other on the back of his neck - you’d surprised yourself with that. It had been months since you’d kissed anyone, but you weren’t as rusty as you thought.
‘Oh my god, is the superhero gonna be my new dad?!’
Marcus suddenly jumped backwards at the sound of Jack’s voice. He was stood in the doorway, post-nap hair covered by a lopsided Chewbacca hood. His eyes were like dinner plates, even though he was grinning from ear to ear.
‘Uh...’ you glanced between him and Marcus. ‘We were just...we were...’
‘I had something in my eye.’
‘He had something in his eye.’ You quickly agreed. ‘But now it’s out, so Marcus is gonna go home.’
He knew you didn’t mean it rudely - it was more of a desperation thing. The longer he stayed, the more questions Jack would come out with. Missy could have overheard too and that would have been twice as much to explain. So really, the sooner he got out, the better.
‘Yeah. I’ll uh, I’ll grab Missy.’ Marcus said, scratching the back of his head. ‘Thank you again for looking after her.’
‘You don’t need to keep thanking me.’ You shot back.
He disappeared into the living room for a moment, reemerging with a sleeping Missy in his arms a moment later. Your eyes met again, and he gave you a soft smile.
‘I’ll call you.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ You nodded. ‘See you, Marcus.’
--
True to character, the next hour was spent being pelted with questions from your over-curious son. He didn’t shut up once when you were bathing him and he got even louder when you were reading him his best time story. On the bright side, you’d managed to get him to change out of his slightly manky Wookiee onesie and into a clean Buzz Lightyear one. Normally, you would have argued that he couldn’t live in pyjamas, but if it kept him quiet? It was a price you were willing to pay.
‘Night, kiddo.’ You pressed a kiss to his forehead, switching on his nightlight. ‘Remember our deal, yeah? If I buy you a Happy Meal tomorrow, you won’t mention what you saw to any of your friends?’
‘You said library was bad.’
‘No, it’s bribery.’ You corrected him. ‘And do as I say, not as I do.’
‘Sounds bad, but okay.’ He sleepily murmured. ‘Night.’
‘Night.’ You stood up, flicking out his bedroom lights.
‘Wait, mum!’ Jack suddenly sat up, as though he’d remembered something. ‘You never said no.’
‘No to what, buddy?’
‘When I asked if the superhero was my new dad.’
Well, fuck.
taglist: @naivara-duneimith @1-2-3-4-5metalfingers @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky @lyanna-the-giantsbane @phoenixhalliwell @crazycookiecrumbles @bitchin-beskar @comphersjost {message me to be added!}
#marcus moreno x reader#marcus moreno imagine#marcus moreno x you#marcus moreno x y/n#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character headcanons#pedro pascal characters x reader
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I'll state from the beginning that the images below display the sort of sweet synchronicity to which only love can give life:
MaAndPaShipping is the best ship, and here are five reasons why:
1. It Made James
Like the boy do yer? Ever felt the slightest tingle of warmth at the mention of his name?
Well get down on yer knees and give thanks to his mother and father for gifting him to the world!
Where would we be without their remarkable commitment? Could James have grown into the dandified dream boat of your desires if deprived of the safety provided by his parents?
Had they not brought him up, he'd be dead, The Dog of Flanders fantasy made reality. If miraculously he survived, foraging in the wild is not conducive to a foppish personality.
Is that to yer fancy? No? Then let's have a little respect. The luxury Ma and Pa gave enabled his macaroni tendencies to reach such heights.
Their love created him! How can it not be celebrated?
You lot would ship Jessie's parents but you can't, because she has no dad, and I don't suppose you'll ever assent to his obvious identity of Windy Miller, although 'Jessie Miller' has a wonderful ring to it, so what can be done?
Should a Pa Jess be conjured for the purpose, he still buggered off, didn't he? Where's the allure in a faithless git?
I can't comprehend the obsession with Ma Jess. As soon as here she's stiff, and what is there to remember but coercing her daughter into eating snow?
Hey, I named her. What more do you want from me?
I'd rather have the living, visible ancestors, if you don't mind.
Yeah, says the history fanatic.
Why not make the most of the chances offered, and follow a devoted couple whose love made a difference to your existence?
2. Canon!
There are many ships which I find repulsive for involving depravity, or absurd as the subjects haven't met, or don't inhabit the same fictional universe.
Video et taceo: I see and I say nothing.
Neither does anyone. Forcing decent folk in to incest, bestiality etc. is quite alright.
Perverted ideas are left alone, but woe betide a Rocketshipper, because that's offensive.
It may be the only original ship left standing, with proper evidence and sanctioned by Nintendo, but no, it's fair game for undermining. People pick at your arguments, quibble constantly and NEED to register their objections NOW. You MUST be made aware of opposition. You're not to be permitted your views the way those with twisted tastes are indulged.
Why, out of tens of thousands of combinations, does making Jessie and James an item provoke hostility?
The strength of negativity actually serves as validation, for why be so concerned if it's an impossible relationship?
However sick they are, I'm not anti any ship. I can't muster sufficient interest to do it, and if I scroll on, I forget. I certainly don't attack those responsible.
Anti-Shipping is inherently nihilistic for promoting loneliness. They aren't against Rocketshipping through wanting Jessie and James to be with someone else, as an alternative is not readily available, so the outcome of it is neither finding a companion.
MaAndPaShipping attracts no sourpuss silliness, for 'tis canon beyond question. There's nothing about being 'just friends' when married with a son.
How's the state of your O.T.P.? Not looking too clever I expect, and what's your contribution: wishing, and hoping, and thinking, and praying?
Cast it off! None of that longing is necessary in these quarters, as MaAndPaShipping is a fait accompli.
Hallelujah! Wallow in that Love!
Don't you yearn for at least one ship that all of us accept by default, to the extent these aristocrats are spoken of as a single unit?
Across the internet, Ma and Pa are bracketed as 'James's parents', never 'he' and 'she', always 'they', barely counting as distinct characters. That's how undeniable the love is between them. Sheer indifference has awarded it a blessing from everyone.
MWAH-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!
Of course, now I've drawn attention to it the moaning will start, but we all know a spoilsport when we see one.
If they had any legitimate complaints they ought to have mentioned 'em before this piece highlighted the marriage!
Except it won't have occurred to 'em previously, proving the eternal, indissoluble quality of MaAndPaShipping.
You get good value with this one.
Find a post referring to Ma and Pa as individuals and I'll have written it, for that's what you call ironic.
3. It's a Fine Rocketshipping Proxy
I was at primary school when Pokémon hit the West like the bright, bearded meteor it is, atomizing all competition for a child's attention.
I have shipped Jessie and James before I knew anyone else did it, unaware shipping was even a thing.
There are other pairs where I think: 'That seems to fit', but it's incomparable to what I feel for them.
It is part of me. I bleed it.
I have shipped it longer than most Tumblerries have dwelt upon the earth.
I used to believe, what with the hints and manga finale, that this resolution was inevitable, and all I had to do was wait.
Well I've been patient for two decades now, thus when I look at the modern incarnation, and realise it's no nearer to that goal, and instead is further away, waiting starts to wear a bit thin.
I resent the lack of appreciation shown to the fans by the cretins in charge, how any meagre shippy inclusion is done not with an interest in deepening bonds, but with the blatant cynicism of moulding us into performing monkeys dancing to their manipulative tune.
I dislike being treated like a sea lion, expected to clap me flippers at the wave of a fish, or as a panting dog begging at top table, where, because they're desperate to maintain the status quo, every scrap flung down from above now comes with an Anti-Ship kick in the teeth, just to be sure nothing progresses. Not whilst the franchise can still be milked for all it's worth.
I have lost faith Rocketshipping will happen. What passes for Pokémon today carries not the remotest indication of any intention on the so-called writers' part to finish it that way.
Even if it did, it's not my Team Rocket, it's those skeletal, gargoyle bastardisations. My Jessie and James never got the reward they deserved.
I'm somewhat in the market for a replacement. Beneath this loathsome carapace of acid and ice beats the tender heart of a true romantic, and it must have an outlet!
Shipping Ma and Pa provides a certain spurious relief, because it's as close as you can get to Jessie and James without it being them, both biologically as his parents, but they're so similar to the duo it counts as proof in itself.
Holy Matrimony! is prime Rocketshipping territory, not merely the balloon lift, but many slight additions are as important, like the haircuts matching.
Ma and Pa are therefore Jessie and James in the past, present and future:
The past for representing Jess 'n' Jamie gone Victorian, and we've all wondered how that'd turn out.
The present as it's there right now, absent of suffering the shameless whims of morons to get what you want. 'Tis yours to savour.
The future as a glimpse of Jessie and James once married with children, and they agree:
That's how they play it given the opportunity!
What, James in blue, for his and Pa's hair, and Jessie wearing purple, like Ma's, with a red shawl for her own, and Ma Jess's orange earrings to copy the beads?
• Money!
• Bun!
• 'Tache!
• Classy pad!
• Fancy gear!
• Pampered pet!
• Identical cups of Earl Grey!
4. Original Blend
Ma and Pa have only got two fans! We care more than the entire fandom has in twenty years!
Rocketshipping art is ten a penny, so why not display a pioneering spirit, sharpen up those pencils and be inspired?
Let your mind expand and marvel at the possibilities of these unchartered territories, and I'll reblog it if it's nice.
Pay attention to the condition of it being nice. I'm not putting up with any old toss.
Real Ma and Pa is what I want too, not those Sinnoh coffin-dodgers.
It's never been done! Every drawing breaks new ground!
I don't like fan fiction, but I wouldn't say 'no' to that either. Recall the 'nice' stipulation again.
Come on, be the first amongst your friends and get ship shape!
5. It Gives Us All Hope
Suppose your favourite amour one day became canon: you imagine that's the end of the matter?
Well it ain't.
Between Ash, Misty, Brock, Jessie, James, Gary and Tracey, there are three-and-a-half out of fourteen parents (Flint doesn't count as a complete man) and one out of twenty-eight grandparents, and that's not enough!
If the series drew to a close with your beloved couple apparently walking into the happily-ever-after, there's no guarantee it'll endure. In fact, the odds are they'll split up within a few years and leave another generation to fend for themselves or starve.
That's right, so don't presume the final episode is all you need to worry about. Can you rest easy knowing it'll go pear-shaped once the camera stops rolling?
It's futile soothing one's worries with:
Oh, but they know what it's like to be alone. They'd never inflict such stress on their children.
Oh really?
Look at that poor showing of grandparents. Either Pokémon has a system reminiscent of the sci-fi film Logan's Run, where everyone over thirty is vapourized, or these disappearing maters and paters were themselves victims of abandonment.
I bet when they settled down, they thought it'd be different for their kids, they'd make sure of it, but no, off they went down that same route of feckless self-indulgence, and that's being kind assuming they intended not to repeat history.
Depressing eh? What's the good in any of us surrendering to romance, real or otherwise, if love is but a mayfly of emotion, and all dreams are doomed to die?
Then Ma and Pa arrive, and suddenly the storm clouds part for a ray of heavenly light.
It's not only that they made the effort in what was probably an arranged marriage and have stayed together from youth, it's that they've stayed together when no one else has, which augments its value.
When separation is commonplace, sticking it out becomes rarer and rarer as any belief in the sanctity of wedlock erodes with every failure.
If they didn't bother, why should I? What's the use when it won't work?
Once that idea enters your head, it's over, and your gloom-laden attitude fulfils itself.
Society is collapsing about Ma and Pa's ears, but they persevere nevertheless, refusing to buckle under the turgid malaise engulfing the arrogant and weak.
It's bloody beautiful, man!
You may suggest an environment of supreme wealth erases normality, and to their class and time period divorce is still taboo, so they don't really have much of choice but to remain wedded.
Ah, but it's not as if they simply tolerate one another for appearances, or carried on for the sake of their son (which is more than anyone else did besides), not when he walked out on them.
They've been married longer than James has lived, so at least eighteen years (don't all squeal at once), and they're still blissfully contented!
They hold hands!
They use terms of endearment like 'dear' and 'my precious'!
They were made for one another!
They work as a team!
They want the same thing for James!
It could bring a stone angel to tears it's so beautiful!
See what success can be achieved when you try? When you endeavour to love the one you're with and make yourself worth loving in return?
Better that than chucking 'em at the first sign of trouble.
Ma and Pa is such an irrevocable union even the despair of losing their only child failed to tear 'em asunder, and that'd defeat many, but not this husband and wife.
Be grateful, for it means all is not in vain.
It doesn't have to be misery and pain: love can last despite the pressure of a wretched, hollow culture bent on self-destruction. Your ship might just succeed too.
God bless 'em for keeping the magic alive!
...
Why do I have the presentiment that I'm going to regret encouraging support?
#maandpashipping#team rocket#ma james#pa james#ma and pa james#james#jessie#james's mom#james's dad#james's parents#rocketshipping#kanto#holy matrimony!
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Can I get a witness
Story No. 8 of my Season 7 Countdown Project. Thank you to @fezzle for the prompt!!
Summary: “Wow, someone read her Wikipedia page.” “No, Jake, I wrote it.”
Amy begs Jake for details about the Honorable Laverne Holt. Takes place at the end of Your Honor. (Read on AO3.)
Jake’s not sure how he managed to go 35 years without knowing that claustrophobia is a real and terrible thing and not some made up word that other people use when they want to sound dramatic. (Other people who aren’t his amazing girlfriend. Amy hates enclosed spaces, and he always believed that hate is real, but let’s be honest – he kind of thought it was a control-freak thing. Now he knows she was correct to fear imminent asphyxiation.)
But this is the second time in a week that he’s been stuck in a tiny room with walls that are definitely closing in like something straight out of freakin’ Indiana Jones and an air vent that is absolutely sealed shut because it’s obvious he’s not getting enough oxygen and that’s why he’s gasping and his head is spinning and there are weird sparks dancing at the corner of his vision.
Holt and Laverne are still talking and maybe they’re saying something to him now, he’s not really sure (his eyes are still squeezed shut to avoid listening to them – it made sense at the time). Jake is just about to ask Holt to break out a slide rule and calculate how much air is left in the interrogation room – because there are three people in here now, damnit, and surely that’s at least two too many – when the door suddenly shoves open and Jake opens his eyes and there’s Amy, hesitating at the threshold, eyes gone wide as she takes in the occupants.
“Oh! Sorry, I thought this was empty, I’ll just-” And she goes to close the door again.
Their chorus of “No!” ricochets off the walls. Jake literally dives for the door and pulls it wide open. He’s panting, which is making it difficult to take in deep breaths of the sweet, sweet bullpen air outside this tiny asphyxia chamber.
“Um,” Amy says, and neatly sidesteps so Jake can escape. He stops just outside the room and closes his eyes and spreads his arms wide, chest expanding to make more space for his lungs to fill with oxygen.
“Thank you, Detective,” Holt says. Jake glances over in time to see Amy making a face like a (very cute) fish, mouth opening and closing wordlessly as Holt escorts his mother out of the interrogation room.
“Sir,” Jake says, because he loves Amy so much, “I don’t think Detective Santiago has met your mother.”
Holt scowls at him – he’s been remarkably, and scarily, emotive since Laverne showed up at the precinct – but it’s a brief thing and then he’s smoothly turning back to Amy, even as Laverne steps past her son and reaches out a hand.
“Laverne Holt,” she says.
“Oh, I know,” Amy says.
Jake swears her whole body is vibrating, like she’s barely holding her very molecules together right now. For a second he’s afraid she’s going to admit to stanning Laverne online but then Amy seems to get some small hold on herself and she throws her shoulders back as she pumps Laverne’s hand.
“I mean, I’m aware of your incredible career, your honor,” Amy says. “You’re an inspiration.”
“Thank you, that is very kind of you to say,” Laverne says. Jake notices that she doesn’t tell Amy to call her by her first name. He’s pleased and disappointed (though much more the former – look, they’re super competitive, it’s their thing).
“Thank you for saying that was a kind thing to say,” Amy says.
That’s when Jake intervenes, taking his beautiful, insane, super intense girlfriend by the arm and pulling her away.
“And thank all of us for fresh air, wide open spaces and Goldfish crackers,” Jake says. “Come on, I’m starving.”
+++
In the breakroom, Amy grabs the Goldfish bag out of Jake’s hand and establishes ground rules: one cracker for every detail about Holt and Holt’s mother.
“Does the detail have to be about both of them?” Jake says.
Amy glances up, thinks it over. “No. Either is acceptable. But it must be something you learned because you were hanging out with them. God, I can’t believe you got to hang out with Judge Holt. What does she smell like?”
“Old library books, Pledge, and a little bit like Christmas trees,” Jake says.
Amy hands him a cracker. “Pledge, like the wood cleaner?”
Jake nods and says, “For her gavel, I guess?”
“What does she call Holt?”
“Raymond,” Jake says, and grabs another cracker.
“Did you see any baby photos? Class pictures? Prom photos? Oh my god, were there any photos of him in a speedo?”
Jake stares. “That is a very weird thing to ask, and no. No speedo.”
“He was on the diving team!” Amy says.
“He was?”
“He told us about it during the morning briefing like two weeks ago, Jake.”
“I do not remember that,” Jake says.
“So, no photos?”
“Oh, there were photos,” Jake says. Amy leans over the table toward him, one hand buried in the Goldfish bag. “Tiny Holt. Tiny bowtie. Tiny slide rule.”
“Oh my god,” Amy says. She absently drops five crackers in front of him.
“And there was macaroni art,” Jake says. “An infographic about education spending in the Johnson era.”
He’s never been more grateful for his amazing ability to recall information that he doesn’t understand or care about than right now, when Amy bends half over the table and places both hands on his face and kisses him hard, lips smacking against his.
“Tiny Holt made macaroni PowerPoint,” Amy says, still so close he can feel her breath on his chin. “I love him.”
“It’s weird when you say that while your hands are on my cheeks,” Jake says.
“Oh, sorry,” Amy says, and backs away. Her own cheeks are flushed.
“It’s cool, just thought I should note it’s also weird,” Jake says, cheerily.
Amy rolls her eyes a little and then passes the entire Goldfish bag across the table. She rests her chin in one hand and says, “Tell me more.”
So Jake tells her everything: He describes the art on the walls of the living room and the “regular” room that was filled entirely with books. He admits he never got to see Holt’s childhood bedroom, but he got Holt to say “kowabunga, Mother,” which is almost better, they both agree.
He tells Amy about Holt’s disagreement with his mother over George Kenderson (“Henderson?” Amy says. “Kenderson,” Jake says. They both make faces.) and about their promises to be 5 percent more physically affectionate. Jake tells her that Laverne was sad after her husband died, and that she didn’t want Holt to know so she never talked about it, and he really appreciates it when Amy takes his hand and squeezes his fingers.
He tells her that Holt and his mom hugged in the end, even though he doesn’t know that for sure and they said they didn’t.
“But it felt like a hugging moment,” he says.
+++
Later that day, Jake texts Laverne and invites her to brunch. She says yes and requests that he bring Detective Santiago. Amy says it’s the best thing that’s happened to her all year, and Jake’s not even mad about it.
End Notes:
Title is from Oakland Nights (Bash Brothers).
I feel like so many missing scene fics could/should be written about Amy and Jake recapping after the events of an episode. Hm. Maybe that’s another project someday.
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What Happens in Bali...
There are certain announcements you just shouldn’t make on April Fools day.
A/N: Fluff. Very light mention of smutty happenings.
Words: 4033
It was only half past three in the afternoon and Alex had already had one hell of a day.
For starters, she’d woken up late only to trip over Shawn’s guitar case on her way out of the bedroom. A stubbed toe wasn’t enough to ruin her day but instead it was her husband she cursed under her breath as she grasped the handle of the guitar case. How many times had she begged him to stop dropping his shit in the most inconvenient places? There was an entire room in their home devoted to his guitars so why in the world did he insist on leaving it outside of the bedroom door where she was bound to stumble over it? Frustrated, she’d picked up the case to move it to its rightful place just for the lid to fall open and Shawn’s favorite guitar to spill to the ground. It smacked the ground with a loud thud, the neck broken off at a right angle, narrowly holding on by the strings. “No no no no…” She whimpered to herself, kneeling down to scoop up the broken instrument. As she immediately pictured herself packing a bag and driving off into the sunset to avoid admitting she busted his most prized possession, Shawn rounded the corner.
“Honey, where’s the-” He stopped dead in his tracks the second his eyes fell on the guitar, his jaw going slack. “Oh god, what did you do?”
Her panicked eyes met his as she scrambled to her feet. “I’m sorry, it was an accident! You left it right in the doorway, I tried to move it and I don’t think you even latched the case shut…” Alex chewed on her lip, carefully picking up the neck of the guitar with shaky hands. “Maybe we can put it back together?”
Rubbing his jaw with his face turned towards the ceiling, he stood in silence, seemingly trying to filter whatever it was he wanted to say. After a long pause, a deep and frustrated sigh escaped him. “It’s one of a kind, custom made. The one Mayer gave me. It can’t be fixed or replaced.” The disappointment in his voice ate away at her, as much as she wanted to remind him it really wasn’t her fault to begin with. No matter who was to blame, something incredibly meaningful to him was irreparably damaged and her heart broke for him.
Letting the pieces drop gently back to the ground, Alex rose to her feet and pulled Shawn’s hands into hers. A more sincere apology was working its way to her lips when she felt a small hand on her calf. Glancing down, her gaze was met by little brown curls and doe eyes that matched her own. “Good morning, Matty.” Reaching down to pick up their two-year-old son before he could touch any jagged pieces of splintered wood, she notices his eyes focused on Shawn. Almost looking for…reassurance? Shawn mouthed something back to the toddler, although Alex couldn’t quite make it out.
“Apwil Foos, Mama.” Matty’s sleepy voice finally announced, his head still on a swivel between Alex and Shawn. For a minute, she was totally lost trying to interpret toddlerese. That is until the deep frown on Shawn’s face stretched into a devious grin, his fist reaching out to Matty for one of their father/son fist bumps. It’s then that it dawned on her…it’s April 1st. How in the world did she not see straight through this ruse? She was literally on her way to the kitchen to cover cherry tomatoes in chocolate as her own April Fool’s joke. She should have immediately guessed that this whole broken guitar act was her husband’s way of beating her to the punch. Putting her palm on one of Matty’s ears and leaning his head into her shoulder to cover the other one, she narrowed her eyes at Shawn. “You asshole,” She hissed, quiet but sharp. “That was so mean! I was freaking out!” Seeing the all too pleased look on his face didn’t help matters and it took all of her energy not to give him a swift kick in the shin. Looking back down at the pieces again, it now occurred to her how cheap and flimsy the wood looked and how light it had been in her hands. That little shit had a cheap replica made just to send her on a guilt spiral.
“The look on your face? Priceless.” Shawn didn’t even try to hold back his laughter, which only got his little shadow started too. Matty always wanted to be in on every joke, even though he rarely understood what was happening. It was next to impossible for Alex to stay angry while surrounded by the laughter of her boys, but she wasn’t going to let Shawn get away with it so easily.
“Laugh it up,” She raised her eyebrows and shot him a frosty grin, pushing Matty into his arms. “I’ll get my revenge. Just wait.” Their prank wars had only escalated over the years and April Fool’s Day was the ultimate challenge considering they were usually each on high alert. Last year, she’d convinced him that he’d leaked naked photos of her which culminated in him trying to schedule an emergency conference call with his entire team at five in the morning. Two years ago, he’d fooled her with what turned out to be a fake (and incredibly unflattering) tattoo of her face on his back. Point being, she would never have had her guard down had it not been first thing in the morning before she’d fully cleared the sleep from her eyes.
“Oh, you mean those tomatoes you hid in the back of the fridge?” The look on Shawn’s face couldn’t have been more smug. “You’re going to have to try harder than that. I don’t think you’re going to get me this year.” Hoisting Matty to sit on one of his shoulders, he glanced up at his giggling son. “You’ve made your Mom lose her edge, buddy. She used to be so good at pranks, now your Dad is the master. If you’re lucky, I’ll teach you the art of deception.”
“You absolutely will not teach our child how to deceive us.” Alex rolled her eyes, hard, watching nervously as Matty leaned a little too far backwards on Shawn’s shoulder. Thankfully, Shawn had this eerie sixth Dad sense where he always managed to catch Matty by the shirt or an ankle before he totally wiped out. This time it was an ankle, Matty laughing his head off as he hung backwards over Shawn’s shoulder. It took a minute or two for Alex’s heart to start beating again (did a toddler really need to be 6+ feet off the ground??) and she reached out to peel her son off of his father and bring him back into the safety of her arms. “Consider that, Shawn. He’ll be sixteen and joyriding in your car before you know it and it’s not going to be my fault.”
Shawn contemplated this, knowing his wife had a really, really good point. Matty had an endless supply of energy and it probably wasn’t the best idea to teach him how to use it to mess with them. He’d likely do enough of that on his own. “Fair enough. Sorry, bud.” Engulfing his little family in his arms, he planted a kiss on each forehead. “Happy April Fool’s Day, good luck getting me back.”
This earned yet another eyeroll from Alex, but her head was already swimming with ideas for vengeance. Could she have his car towed while he was at the studio that afternoon? No, too obvious. Convince him her parents were fighting and her Mom was coming to stay with them indefinitely? No, too frightening. Was he right about her losing her edge? Had she lost her special touch at taunting and tormenting her husband? No way, she’d come up with something. She had to. “Just give me a real kiss and clean up this dumb guitar before I send the real one off the balcony.”
His eyebrows shot up at her threat, but they both knew it was completely empty. “You would never.” Leaning in, he brushed his lips against hers teasingly, still withholding the kiss she’d demanded. “You love me too much.” This was true, he had her there.
“Maybe so, but all is fair in love, war, and April Fools.” She grumbled back, using her free hand to wrap in the hair at the back of his head, pulling him all the way in for her morning kiss.
Alex had spent the better part of the morning running errands, hoping for divine inspiration to strike her when she least expected it. So far? No luck. Taking Matty into the grocery store probably wasn’t the best idea, considering it took every ounce of her mental strength. Making it through the supermarket with Matty was as close as she would ever get to playing an extreme sport. Whether it was scooping him up seconds before he’d pulled out the bottom box of a display of goldfish crackers or wrangling him off of the top shelf he’d managed to climb up in the cereal aisle, she was pretty sure she could cancel her gym membership and create her own CrossFit style fitness program based entirely on chasing toddlers around public places. A woman with two small children passed by her, one crying about the flavor of jam they’d picked and the other swiping an entire shelf of toothpaste into the cart as she shared a knowing look with the frazzled mother. The tight but soft smile they shared was the equivalent of throwing a Mom gang sign to show their support for one another. As they passed out of view, Alex stared down at Matty. “I think you’re going to be an only child, sir.” She wasn’t sure if it was the smug look that he shot her (and god damn, why did he have to look just like his Dad?) or the fact that she was passing a wall of pregnancy tests, but the thought hit her like a ton of bricks. Bali. Fucking Bali.
When she insisted over and over that she didn’t want anything for her birthday other than to go out for brunch and whatever trinket Matty could make her out of dried macaroni, that hadn’t satisfied Shawn. But Alex just wasn’t the materialistic type, not to toot her own horn or anything. She’d just never been a big fan of jewelry, she was the queen of thrifting and had a penchant for vintage clothing versus whatever Hermès or Saint Laurent was peddling, and other than her phone, what electronics did she really need? Travel, though, that was her Achilles heel. She could never say no to a trip, would bend over backwards if it meant making an adventure happen. Of course, Shawn was well aware of this weakness. Thus, what she thought was a ride to her birthday brunch was really a ride to drop Matty off with Shawn’s parents before catching a flight. To Bali. The number one destination on her bucket list.
Being that it was a last minute, spur of the moment trip, she hadn’t put a lot of thought into packing her bag. In fact, Shawn’s exact words had been, “Yyou have thirty minutes to pack before we leave for the airport, sorry.” Thus, there were several things she’d forgotten. One, her cell phone charger. No big deal, she’d use Shawn’s. Two, sneakers suitable for hiking. Not a problem, she could pick up a pair when they got to Ubud. Three, her birth control. Yeah, that one was an issue. It wasn’t like this was just a trip to LA where she could pop into any CVS pharmacy and grab an emergency supply of her super specific birth control prescription. It was a ten-day trip. To Indonesia. And it wasn’t like she was going to just…not have birthday sex with her husband in one of the most beautiful villas she’d ever seen in the most breathtaking place she’d ever been.
They had mutually agreed to wait another couple of years before giving Matty a sibling. Shawn had an impending tour starting later that year and neither of them could imagine trying to manage two little ones on the road. Ever since Matty was born, they’d decided that he and Alex would travel along with Shawn whenever possible. It wasn’t always realistic and it was rarely easy, but it kept them together and that was all that mattered. Before they’d even decided to try for Matty, they’d swore to one another they’d give him as fulfilling of a childhood as they could. To them, fulfilling meant creating memories for Matty he could look back on fondly later, shared with both of his parents and surrounded by love. So no, it wouldn’t be a normal childhood by any definition. Matty’s first steps had been on a moving tour bus. His first word had been in Spanish while they were at a café in Buenos Aires. He’d already seen more of the world in his short two years than most people saw in a lifetime. But Alex wouldn’t have it any other way. Yes, it was difficult to calm a teething baby in a different hotel room every night or to find something akin to Cheerios in a foreign country when that’s the only thing Matty would eat. Yes, there were nights that she wanted nothing more than to tuck Matty into his own bed rather than a green room pack and play. However, those things paled in comparison to her son getting to see his Dad every day. To be there to catch him after those first steps. To spin him around in celebration after that first word. To make him laugh, to wipe his tears, to just simply be there. All of that being said, it wasn’t impossible to do with one child. But adding another to that mix? It just wasn’t something Alex was ready to do.
Yet that didn’t stop her from letting Shawn push her up against the shower wall in Bali, thrusting into her as the warm water cascaded over their joined bodies. She’d mentioned to him after unpacking that she’d forgotten to pack the pill and maybe they should pick up some condoms. It was one of those suggestions they both nodded over with no intention of actually accomplishing. And within twenty minutes, there they were having risky shower sex with reckless abandon. After that, their shared mindset was that the damage was done and they might as well enjoy their trip unencumbered. It wasn’t like Matty happened the FIRST time they had completely unprotected sex, so the chances that a ten-day vacation would totally derail their two-year plan didn’t seem likely.
But now, as she sits on the edge of the tub waiting for not one, not two, but three pregnancy tests to reveal their results, Alex can’t help but feel incredibly foolish over their tropical fueled heedlessness. Deep in her thoughts as Matty sits on the floor in front of her, ramming a toy firetruck into her ankles and driving it up and down her calves, she lets out a long sigh. Bali Alex™ really hadn’t had future Alex in mind when she insisted on having sex on every surface of that villa, sans goalie. The simultaneous sounds of the front door creaking open, Matty’s feet scurrying out of the bathroom, and her cell phone alarm blaring to announce the moment of truth yank her out of her thoughts and bring her back to reality. A reality where there were a total of six pink lines in front of her. Well…she does love adventure, doesn’t she?
There’s no sense in making a big production out of it, so she simply marches out into the kitchen with all three positive tests clenched in her hand. Matty is already there, perched on the kitchen counter eating what appears to be rocky road ice cream. She grimaces at the sight, knowing the sugar rush to come considering she’d already caved and given him gummy worms at the supermarket. “I come bearing ice cream for Matty and wine for Mommy, since I’ve been feeling incredibly guilty all day.” Shawn holds up her favorite bottle of red, two glasses already waiting on the counter.
“Hold that thought, oh, maybe for the next eight months.” Alex sidles up to the counter, grabbing one of Shawn’s hands so that should could place all three tests into his palm. “Three of a kind, Mendes.” The look on his face as he stares down into his palm quickly changes from confusion to shock and then…amusement? He hands the tests right back to her, shaking his head in the process.
“Whoa, you’re pulling out the big guns, eh?” Now the look of confusion transfers to her face. “Not gonna work, Alex.” What? It’s not like she expects him to pick her up and spin her around or anything (okay, maybe she does), but this really isn’t the reaction she’d expected. What the hell was he even talking about? And then, for the second time that day, it hits her. April Fools Day.
“Wait…you think this is an April Fools joke?” Her eyes nearly double in size, an incredulous laugh leaving her chest. “This is the absolute worst thing you can joke about on April Fools, I would never.” She truly wouldn’t. There were certain topics that were just off limits when it came to pranks and this was possibly the biggest one. Yes, she could be ruthless when she wanted to be, but she’d never cross this line.
“That’s what you want me to think.” Shaw’s guard is still up, eyes raking over her to pick up any sign that points to her lying. He knows her tells. The way she always looks up through her eyelashes. The way she always drops one hip, trying to look calm and collected. He can read her like a book. But right now…she must be putting on the performance of a lifetime. Because the tone of her voice sounds a little too earnest, the look in her eyes a little too disconcerted. He’s ready to cave, about to pull her into his arms, until the memory of the prior April 1st fills his head. The one where her voice had been quaking and her skin burning red as she showed him risqué photos of her he had supposedly leaked. He remembers how quickly that quake turned into a belly laugh and how she’d done a victory lap around their bedroom declaring herself winner of April Fools. Nope. She must be desperate to one up his prank and she was just going to the greatest length she could. “You waited for it to become socially unacceptable and THEN you strike. Classic Alex, you almost got me.”
“Okay, so how did I fake these positive pregnancy tests then? You think I’m out running around stealing pee from pregnant ladies?” She’d folded her arms against her chest, eyebrows raised to challenge him.
“I don’t know, you can probably buy fake ones on the internet or something.” He finds this completely plausible, shoulders shrugging as he steals a bite of ice cream from Matty’s dish. If he could get a cheap replica guitar made with ease, why couldn’t she figure out how to fake a pregnancy test? “Wait, does this go all the way back to Bali? Were you already setting me up then?” The scoff this earns from her feels like it further proves his suspicion. To him, it seems as though she’s laying it on too thick.
“You are going to feel so stupid when this kid shoots out,” Alex laughs softly to herself, reaching up to brush non-existent salt off of his shoulder. “And I’m never going to let you forget it.”
It’s still dark when she wakes to his fingers running softly down the skin of her back. As her eyes slowly flutter open, she sees the red numbers on the alarm clock reading 12:01am. She knows exactly why he’s still up and why he’s tugging her from sleep. “Mmm, you just been laying awake waiting for the clock to strike midnight?” At the sound of her voice, his hand snakes around her waist to pull her backwards against him, her bare skin pressing against his.
“Yes.” He momentarily buries his face in her hair, taking in her scent, waiting with bated breath to hear what she’s ultimately going to say. To see which direction their lives are about to go. “This isn’t a prank, is it?” His fingers ghost across her flat stomach, tracing circles and shapes that give her goosebumps.
“What are you hoping to hear?” She shifts on to her back so that they can lock eyes, the mixture of fear and excitement reflecting between them. But the fact that the excitement outweighs the fear calms the endless train of thoughts surging through her head.
“I’m hoping I was wrong.” His hand stills, as he takes in every detail he can. The freckle under her right eye, the curve of her hip, the way her chest rose and fell with every breath. She places a hand on top of his, threading their fingers together.
“As always, I’m happy to tell you that you were wrong.” A soft giggle floats from her but it’s quickly captured by his lips. Despite the fact that they’re wholly unprepared, despite the fact that this derails their plans, this kiss is filled with relief. Relief that they have one another to navigate life with, come what may.
When the need for air finally becomes too much, their lips part, foreheads resting against each other in quiet satisfaction. He brushes his thumb across her stomach once more, a smile spreading across his face. “Our Bali baby.”
“We can’t call her that, we’d have to start calling Matty our “backseat of the Jeep baby” and I think he might resent that.” Yes, she’s boldly calling this baby her. She can’t say why, but she has a pretty good feeling about it.
“Backseat of the Jeep? No way, that’s not where Matty was made.” He rolls on to his back, pulling her half way on top of him. He knows it has to be too early and maybe it’s just the moonlight streaming through the window, but he swears she’s already glowing. “Bathroom of the AMA’s.”
“Oh, okay sure, that’s MUCH more poetic.” She swears her eyes are going to hurt from rolling so often in a twenty-four hour period. “We get one trip to ourselves and what do your dumbasses do? Make another baby.” She hides her face in his chest, but he can still feel that grin of hers.
“Happy Birthday?” It comes out as a chuckle as he reaches to pull her body up further so that her face hangs over his. “I mean, are we really that shocked? We knew this could happen, we did literally nothing to prevent it. I don’t want to speak for you, but I think we wanted to let this happen?” They weren’t the type of couple that sat down and made long lists weighing the pros and cons of every decision. They were more of an “I jump, you jump” couple that just took life as it came and went for the ride. So it wasn’t unnatural that this is how they’d end up adding to their family – by exploiting a mistake like forgotten birth control and silently letting fate take it’s course. Or maybe that was just an incredibly refined way of making an excuse for the fact that they were stubborn about wanting raw sex on vacation, no matter the consequence. Either way, everything would work out. They both knew that without a shadow of a doubt.
“I think maybe we did.” Alex admits, bumping her nose against his before stealing another kiss. Her teeth close teasingly against his bottom lip, pulling it lightly. “But really I just wanted to get rawed on vacation, let’s be honest.”
Tagging @fourtristattoos for Dad!Shawn week 🥰
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Captain Marvel Review (Spoilers)
Rating: 9/10 (9.5/10 on second viewing)
Recommend?: Hell, yes. I think anyone can enjoy this movie, certainly any MCU fan, but I would especially recommend it for 8-12 year old girls. I found it very inspiring.
Summary: This movie has a lot of great humor. I enjoyed Carol as a protagonist and look forward to seeing more of her. Goose is a star. All the performances are uniformly good or great. There are some story weak points, but they did not detract from my overall experience.
I would compare this movie to coming inside from a cold day, wrapping yourself in a blanket and sitting in front of a roaring fire while eating some of your mom’s macaroni and cheese or a hot cup of soup. It is definite comfort food, not high art in any way (ETA: this is not meant as a criticism, seeing as none of the MCU movies are high art and I have gotten more from the MCU than from any art film). It is so supremely satisfying. that I cannot fault it too much.
More details and spoilers below the cut.
First of all, just a brief note about my theater experience. The audience was a comfortable majority men, and almost everyone was under 35-40. My showing was maybe 3/4 full. It was the first out of four or five showings tonight. The crowd was enthusiastic and laughing along.
The tribute to Stan Lee at the beginning was very touching. I love the way his cameos showed up in the logo. My theater broke out into spontaneous applause afterward. Then, the opening shot with all the dust flying up gave me strong Infinity War flashbacks. At first I thought they were showing the actual crash where she received her powers, but it ended up being just a dream.
I like how they immediately showed Carol’s cockiness and sense of humor when she woke up Yon-Rogg (Jude Law) and challenged him to some sparring. I wish they had developed that relationship more, but I think that short scene did a good job encapsulating how Yon-Rogg pushed her (and negged her), making it believable that he was the villain all along but subtle enough that Carol wouldn’t recognize it. It’s also a good contrast to their last fight.
I liked the world-building of Hala. I thought everything was very sleek and well-realized. Although not the most original; it basically looked like a cleaner version of Bladerunner or Coruscant to me.
I thought it was great how they jumped right into the action with the Starforce mission. It was suspenseful. They used the Skrulls effectively, and I did not see the first few Skrull reveals coming.
Then, I thought it was interesting how the Skrulls were able to manipulate Carol’s memories, and I liked that scene. However, given that the Skrulls are not supposed to be the bad guys, I think it would have been better if they had made at least some attempt to convince her that the Kree were lying. It would have made her eventual realization more impactful.
I loved her crash to earth and her navigating the human world. The de-aging on Phil Coulson and Nick Fury was good; I never noticed it after the first few shots. I loved the fight on the train and the beginnings of the buddy cop vibes between Carol and Fury.
When Carol separated from them, I loved the scene in the internet cafe. The nostalgia was really strong in that scene, and throughout. Also, one of the most satisfying parts was her stealing the motorcycle of the guy who told her to smile. It was like my ideal revenge fantasy.
When it went back to SHIELD, I do think it got a little repetitive and infodump-y. They seemed to want it to be absolutely clear who was a Skrull and what the Skrulls were through dialogue, but I felt that the movie had already shown that information adequately.
Once Carol and Fury were back together, the movie really picked up. I thought it shone from there on out. I loved her discovering more of her past and Goose the “cat.” The chase scene throughout the archives was fun, and Carol flying the plane was great.
When they got to Maria Rambeau (Lashana Lynch), I felt her bond with Carol. I thought both Larson and Lynch did a great job showing their connection with relatively little screen time. The shipping vibes are pretty strong between them if you want them to be.
My last sentence notwithstanding, I did enjoy that there was no romantic subplot. The movie didn’t need it. I’m very romance favorable in general, but it was still refreshing. Particularly because the most likely love interest, at least in mainstream Hollywood terms, was horrible.
I did like the twist that the Skrulls were merely trying to survive and find a new home, but it is one of those areas that show some weakness in the storytelling. That reveal raises a lot of questions about the Skrulls’ earlier actions. Also, I thought Carol accepted it way too easily. As stated before, I think it would have been so much stronger if the Skrulls tried to convince hear earlier, and we see Carol struggling with reconciling her life with the Kree and the Skrull perspective. Furthermore, they introduced themes of refugees/genocide, but they never really went anywhere with it.
I thought the reunion between Talos and his family was very sweet.
Then, my very favorite part was when Yon-Rogg and the other Kree captured Carol and were trying to reprogram her, when she reached her full binary powers only by embracing all parts of herself. It was so wonderful when she said, “Yes, I was only human.” Then, the montage of her standing up while the glow grew around her!!!!!!!
Her fighting with her full powers was also a wonder to behold. It was amazing, and I loved it. It was admittedly mostly spectacle and flash, but they did enough to build Carol up to make it feel earned. Also, Goose’s attack with the tentacles was cute and fun; it did remind me very much of The Force Awakens.
My second favorite part was her final confrontation with Yon-Rogg. I just absolutely loved how he tried one more time to make her fight him on his terms instead of her own. When she refused to give his specious argument any credit, I wanted to cheer.
I don’t think they did enough to explain why Fury didn’t try to contact her before IW beyond her saying only to use the pager in emergencies. But that’s a minor nitpick. I also wasn’t a big fan of how Fury got the idea for the name of the Avengers Initiative from Carol’s Air Force nickname, but the way the Avengers theme started as he typed up the proposal was great.
The end credits were really fun and pretty. I loved the first post-credits scene that ties into Endgame. It was so great to see (almost) all the original Avengers again; I forgot how much I’ve missed them. When they were fooling around with the pager and then Carol suddenly appeared behind them, my theater broke into more spontaneous applause. The second post-credits scene was not much, as per usual, but Goose was cute.
My ultimate conclusions from the movie are as follows: I think the MCU is in good hands. I look forward to seeing more of Carol and seeing her interact with the Avengers. I think she is a great, dynamic heroine with a lot of potential. However, I do not feel as if I have the full measure of her character; currently, she is quite possibly not even in my top 10 MCU characters. I am also a little more concerned than I was before I saw the movie that Marvel will have her defeat Thanos single-handedly, but everything else points to them all working together, so I hope I am wrong. This movie is just a joy to watch. For me, the great moments sprinkled throughout outweigh the aforementioned criticisms.
I’m going to hold off officially ranking Captain Marvel, but my initial impression is that it would fall somewhere in the top 3-5 MCU movies. I will probably try to see it again before it leaves the theater.
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OCT Days 16 - 19
Day 16 Back to business today, walked the beach to Seal Rock where Erin slipped and slid down an algae covered hill in a fraught bushwhacking attempt. The girl is out here in light blue leggings and a white shirt (and sleeping in a white tent??), so she was tempting fate let’s be honest. Zoey and I looked on helplessly in our black and gray attire.
Art by Zoey (it me!!! 🥰)
Waited out high tide on a giant rock and ate lunch until it was time to stage an unnecessarily dramatic river crossing. As much as I hated rock climbing I will admit that the techniques + body awareness come in handy. Maybe everybody should learn some climbing basics when they’re a kid. Not my kids though, they might fall in love with it and then I’d have to spend hours every week in a sweaty climbing gym ❌
Staying in a yurt tonight we booked on Hipcamp. Our host is a kooky middle-aged woman with a stoner stay-at-home son, classic duo. She talked endlessly and it was hard to break away, exhausting! Feeling stuck in a conversation where I have to match energy or respond in a specific way is a fast track to dissociation for me. Spent the night in my little shell writing a blog post and reading Year of the Monkey by Patti Smith. I’m loving it but not making much progress… I’ve been reading high most nights so I’m trapped in an endless cycle of reading the same pages over and over. Fine by me, I could live in this book.
Yours truly at work, don’t talk to me!!!!
Day 17 All day beach walk with a stop in Waldport for lunch. Chubby’s for burgers and fries + an espresso milkshake from the coffee shack next door = best trail grub so far. We’re close to the end of our trip so we can finally buy shit without having to carry it for 100 miles 🙏🏻 Stopped in a bookstore but it sounded like the elderly shopkeep was watching some sort of animal birth video on her computer so we didn’t stay long 🥴
No lie I lost weight on this trip
Our last hiker-biker tonight! We grabbed the only spot with a fire pit and after a bunch of other campers showed up the camp host brought us extra wood and suggested we share the fire. I was hesitant as usual but a few cool people joined us and it turned out to be super fun. We really vibed with this badass old guy named Ross who’s done a bunch of big hikes and laughed at all of our jokes. I made our dinner but fucked up and accidentally dumped all of the macaroni into a bush while trying to drain it. Multitasking in social situations is basically impossible for me but at least I almost finished the food before doing something stupid. We were still full from Chubby’s anyway.
I did have this BuzzBall before making dinner…
Day 18 Last hiking day. We were packed and walking well before our usual wake up time to make the bus to Eugene via Florence. Shocked to discover that morning on the beach is clear and calm, maybe starting around noon every day wasn’t the best strategy lol. We really wanted to try this place Luna Sea in Yachats at the suggestion of our crazy Hipcamp host, but given the bus schedule we had to order right when they opened. It was good but 10:30 am is a ridiculous time for fish tacos, fish and chips, and slumgullion (cheesy clam chowder with shrimp).
Goodbye OCT!
In the five hours we had to kill between buses in Florence we got coffee, bought more books, sat around at the park, and fought off a pack of 7 disobedient bloodhounds. Some weird people on the bus to Eugene and it was HOT when we arrived. Dropped our bags at a normal funky hostel (Seaside, do better!!) and had a trail celebration dinner at this Japanese tapas place in the Whiteaker neighborhood. Poke and cucumber salad and pickled things and onigiri and spicy shrimp and sake drinks, soooo good. I can’t wait to go back to Japan.
Don’t let our smiles fool you, sharing poke is a bad idea
This is my summer of exploring affordable second-tier cities and OKAY! Eugene is actually pretty fun! After dinner we hung out an outdoor bar with karaoke and cheap beer and the bartender agreed to put pickle juice in mine without complaint, which is my personal benchmark for a great spot. I got a little messy near the end, but come on…is it really a night out if I don’t end up crying at some point? Can’t run forever!
Day 19 Erin flew out at 6 am because she has a job 😬 Zoey and I got smoothies and hung out at the river all day with our friend Josh, who is notorious/beloved among a big group of outdoorsy Bay Area people for his ambitious and often chaotic backpacking trips. The only one I’ve been on was unusually luxurious and very fun, we snowshoed Shasta and stayed in this cool train-car motel and drank giant micheladas.
We went straight to the airport from the river, and because it was 105 degrees I figured the shorts and sports bra I swam in would dry pretty quick. Lesson learned: body scanners and wet clothes do not mix. The TSA agent informed me that she would be patting down my crotch, inner thighs, butt, and chest. So…everything? And then she had to test her gloves. I had a moment of panic thinking the river had soaked me in some sort of illegal substance but I was soon released. Back to Berkeley for one last weekend 😓
Mileage: 28
Total OCT Mileage: 176
P.S. Zoey and I introduced Blossom to Dutch Bros while we were home and she had her first puppycino 🥰
Home sweet home
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How to hook a reader:-
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C.S. Lewis
“There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.”
This one is just awesome. I adore some subtle humor in a book, and it’s a great way to start out if you’re witty enough. This short and amusing opening line tells us a lot about the character in a very short time. His name also gives an indication that he is not from the land of Narnia, but is probably from England, if this book is to be similar to the ones prior to it in the series. We know something about his age in that he is referred to as “a boy” and we know that for some reason he almost deserves such a name. So there we go, immediately introduced to a primary character of the story in an interesting way.
Pride and Prejudice
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighborhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.”
In a refined witty style typical of Austen, she opens with a humorous and relatable statement. It may have been a more relatable sentiment at the time it was written, but it certainly still is. Moreover, it’s a foreshadowing, letting the reader know that the book is likely to be at least somewhat about a woman’s obtainment of such a husband.
Because of Winn-Dixie by Kate DiCamillo
"My name is India Opal Buloni, and last summer my daddy, the preacher, sent me to the store for a box of macaroni-and-cheese, some white rice, and two tomatoes and I came back with a dog."
DiCamillo sure doesn’t waste any time, huh? I love that. She introduces the protagonist, sets the scene, and presents the catalyst all her opening sentence. Just one sentence—and it’s not even a run-on. What a marvel. The protagonist’s name is very unique, which adds interest and makes the reader want to find out more, while the macaroni-and-cheese, white rice, and tomatoes add a comfortable familiarity and give us an idea of the setting. The fact that she comes back with a dog indicates that there is some type of story to be told. Because DiCamillo introduced the protagonist and the setting, it allows her to jump right into the action after the first sentence without the readers having to wonder what the heck is going on.
Chasing the Falconers by Gordon Korman
“It wasn't a prison.
Not technically, anyway.
No bars, cells, electrified fencing, guard towers, or razor wire.
People who drove by probably never noticed the logo of the Department of Juvenile Corrections on the mailbox that stood at the end of the long lane leading to County Road 413. To them, this sprawling property was just another farm – one of thousands of dusty puzzle pieces that covered this part of Nebraska.
Farm. Aiden Falconer winced. He hated that word. Sunnydale Farm, they called it – a name so deliberately cheerful it turned his stomach.”
I should admit that I kind of have a prisoner/kidnapping/spies/mystery fetish, but I think a lot of YA readers do—at least the boys and tomboys. Is this an artistic beauty of an opening? No. But is is a successful opening? Yes, I’d say so. Why? Because it got me to read the book, even though I knew nothing about the author at the time I picked it up. It was the opening sentence alone that caused me to read the book, because in those days I would usually just stop reading the book if I wasn’t entertained by the first few pages. After all, I was an action-loving YA fiction reader.
Korman introduces the protagonist, Aiden, immediately after he sets the scene, and we already know more than we think about Aiden, even though all we were told was his name. We assume he is a prisoner in this non-prison place, and can even deduce something about his age by the fact it is a juvenile corrections facility.
Saying “it wasn’t a prison” causes the reader to want to ask “what is it then?” and thus read further. We are curious as to why there are no bars or other types of security; there is some mystery aroused; some irony. Is it a perfect opening? No, but Korman wasn’t writing to win the Nobel prize, he was writing an action-adventure mystery book for tweens. The point is, Korman did his job: he grabbed the attention of his audience, set the scene, and introduced the protagonist without too much belaboring.
Holes by Louis Sachar
“There is no lake at Camp Green Lake. There once was a very large lake here, the largest lake in Texas. That was over a hundred years ago. Now it is just a dry, flat wasteland.”
I told you I had a prisoner fetish. It sure wasn’t the cover of the book that got me to read this, as I hated it, or the reputation of the author, as I had no idea who he was prior to reading the book. I believe this was a successful opening because it got me to read the book without any other sort of help, such as me already knowing about the book or the author, or loving the cover art. This is actually a lot like Korman’s opening lines. There’s a contradiction; a description of an unusual setting. Korman opens with a prison with no bars, and Sachar opens with a place called Camp Green Lake with no lake. I should also note that the first few chapters move really fast (only a few hundred words per chapter) and cover a lot of ground, while keeping the reader curious. This is the ADD generation, often you’ve got to move fast and cut to the chase to keep the YA audience’s attention.
Hoot
“Roy would not have noticed the strange boy if it weren’t for Dana Matherson, because Roy ordinarily didn’t look out the window of the school bus. He preferred to read comics and mystery books on the morning ride to Trace Middle.”
Hiassen then goes on to tell of Roy’s struggles that morning with a bully, and his sighting of said strange boy. Obviously, what caught my attention here was not the bullying, but the strange boy. Because people get bullied all the time, that’s nothing new. But a strange boy? Hey, I want to hear more about that!
From the opening lines protagonist seems to be a fairly typical boy of middle-school age who likes mysteries and comics. While this isn’t very thrilling, it is relatable and does the job of introducing the protagonist quickly. The protagonist himself does not need to be immediately very interesting if he serves as a window into a world where interesting things are happening—the strange boy in this case.
Half Moon Investigations
“My name is Moon. Fletcher Moon. And I'm a private detective. In my twelve years on this spinning ball we call Earth, I've seen a lot of things normal people never see. I've seen lunch boxes stripped of everything except fruit. I've seen counterfeit homework networks that operated in five counties, and I've seen truckloads of candy taken from babies.
I thought I'd seen it all. I had paid so many visits to the gutter looking for lost valentines, that I thought nothing could shock me. After all, when you've come face-to-face with the dark side of the school yard, life doesn't hold many surprises.
Or so I believed. I was wrong. Very Wrong.”
Oh yeah, this is a great one. Witty, satirical, humorous. This introduction has “engaging and fun” written all over it. With this introduction, I was SOLD. I didn’t read this book just because it was by Eoin Colfer, the author of the famous Artemis Fowl series, as at that point I hadn’t read any Artemis Fowl. The protagonist is introduced right off the bat, and he already has some very interesting things going on. A twelve year old detective named Moon? Sounds like it might be fun. And the following sentences are work of art; thoroughly engaging and entertaining. It reads as a humorous twist on a film noir private eye. There’s a bit of irony here too. People expect school yards to be full of innocent kids playing around, not a shrewd detective investigating dark and shocking occurrences. After Moon says he thought he’d seen it all, he ends with an alluring foreshadowing, “Or so I believed. I was wrong. Very Wrong.”
The Lightning Thief by Rick Riordan
“ Look, I didn’t want to be a half-blood.
If you’re reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close this book right now. Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal life.
Being a half-blood is dangerous. It’s scary. Most if the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways.
If you're a normal kid, reading this because you think it's fiction, great. Read on. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened.”
Though I absolutely adored and obsessed over this series, I take issue with this opening nowadays. He does two things I would generally advice against: he addresses the readers directly, which puts up a barrier of self-awareness, and he claims the story to be true in a somewhat direct manner, which somewhat draws the reader’s attention to the fact that it isn’t true. However, back when I first read the book I was totally sold. I believed everything Percy said as if the book really was written by him, barely aware Rick Riordan had anything to do with it. At that time, I believed the story as much as one could without being considered insane. (I can’t say the same for Narnia of course, I still believe it, enough to be considered slightly insane, to be honest.)
I suppose this goes to show that what works for one audience doesn’t work for another. I was at the target audience age, 11 or 12 I believe. I was less cynical than I am now. Besides that, I wanted to believe it. I was almost looking for something to believe that was larger than my life. Percy Jackson was perfect for that. It was set in the modern world with normal kids who didn’t even know they were special. The opening lines not only gave me permission to fantasize that maybe I was one of those kids too, it encouraged it. Just a warning though, this type of opening might not have gone over so well for older readers.
Stormbreaker by Anthony Horowitz
“When the doorbell rings at three in the morning, it's never good news.”
It’s often a good idea to open with the inciting incident of the story, as this line demonstrates. This opening line could be considered an understated foreshadowing. It tells the reader, “Something is going to happen soon, the doorbell ringing is going to be a catalyst for something big!” without sounding desperate for attention. And the author follows through after these opening lines, quickly moving to the catalyst of the story while introducing the protagonist.
The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux
“The Opera ghost really existed. He was not, as was long believed, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloak-room attendants or the concierge. Yes, he existed in flesh and blood, although he assumed the complete appearance of a real phantom; that is to say, of a spectral shade.
When I began to ransack the archives of the National Academy of Music I was at once struck by the surprising coincidences between the phenomena ascribed to the "ghost" and the most extraordinary and fantastic tragedy that ever excited the Paris upper classes; and I soon conceived the idea that this tragedy might reasonably be explained by the phenomena in question. The events do not date more than thirty years back; and it would not be difficult to find at the present day, in the foyer of the ballet, old men of the highest respectability, men upon whose word one could absolutely rely, who would remember as though they happened yesterday the mysterious and dramatic conditions that attended the kidnapping of Christine Daae, the disappearance of the Vicomte de Chagny and the death of his elder brother, Count Philippe, whose body was found on the bank of the lake that exists in the lower cellars of the Opera on the Rue-Scribe side. But none of those witnesses had until that day thought that there was any reason for connecting the more or less legendary figure of the Opera ghost with that terrible story.”
Alas, it opens with a prologue (though this prologue is more like a forward or an introduction than a part of the story)—a prologue in which the author claiming his fictional work to be fact at that, thus inadvertently arousing suspicion that it is not. Though who am I to criticize a classic? Especially since part of me actually believes him. Loroux claims his account to be based upon reality in such a way that causes me entertain the thought that maybe Leroux really DID somehow find out about true events and build a story around them. My conclusion? If you can be as convincing as Leroux, perhaps you should indeed have a go at claiming your novel is fact.
The Thief Lord by Cornelia Funke
“It was autumn in Venice when Victor first heard of Prosper and Bo. The canals, gleaming in the sun, dappled the ancient brickwork with gold. But the wind was blowing ice-cold air from the sea, reminding the Venetians that winter was approaching.”
It is far too poetic. How many 12 year old kids (I’m assuming that’s somewhere near her target age) are going to say, “Oh all that stuff about the autumn wind sounds like a fun read!” But I think part of that is just Funke’s style. I’m pretty sure I only kept reading after that because the book jacket promised me I was going to meet a 13 year old boy called The Thief Lord. And man, I was all over that. Bring it. Luckily for me, after that flowery opening things got a little more interesting. And yes, I ended up loving her beautiful descriptions of Venice despite myself. It was just so well-done, I literally felt like I had been to Venice myself.
So what is my final opinion on this sort of opening? It is this: don’t sacrifice who you are as a writer to fit the current market trends. Don’t sell your soul or strip down your writing just to do what’s popular. Just because a cheap vampire book might sell better than your classic tale of subtle beauty doesn’t mean you should throw out. Right now the popular thing to say is, “Use the simplest words possible! Make sure your reader never has to go to the dictionary!” People in YA fiction tell you to open your story with a shocking hooker or an action scene. And that may very well be the preferred method of actually getting youth to read your book.
But here’s an example of why you shouldn’t always do what people tell you: My mom is a poetry person. She’s the type who writes in a flowery style, and uses words that she doesn’t even know the meaning of just because they sound nice. It’s just who she is. If she stopped doing that and started trying to write a bunch of cool Percy-Jackson style action scenes, she would just lose her style and the beauty of her writing. Again, know your purpose and know your audience. My mother doesn’t write for a YA audience, she has an educated adult audience in mind—the kind of people who read Jane Austen. Conclusion to be drawn: If it’s your style, if it’s who you are, don’t substitute it for something you consider second-rate. Do what you want to do in the very best way you can.
Concluding Thoughts
I think what most of these opening lines have in common is that they spark curiosity. Of course, there is a difference between making a reader being curious, and making a reader having no idea what is going on. If you readers don’t understand a thing, it won’t make them curious—it will just send them away confused. They won’t want to know more simply because of a lack of information,they will want to know more because the information you have given them has piqued their interested while expressing that there is still more to be seen. The reader should be enticed to find out more about the character and the situation, and should be asking, “what will happen next?”
A Few Types of Openings to Try
Irony
A contradiction or opposite of some kind, something unexpected. A restaurant with no food, a fashion model pigging out, a place where the good people are in a prison and the dangerous people are kept outside the fence. Things like that. Irony can be a hard concept to grasp, but it is very engaging when executed well.
Catalyst
The catalyst is what sets your story in motion. A knock at the door, a phone call, a car crash, accidently bumping into a stranger at the grocery store, etc.
Question
This is pretty self-explanatory. The question could be rhetorical. It should be interesting and thought provoking. Like, “what would you do if you had one day to live?” But not that, because it’s overused. Something like, “If you had to decide between marrying someone you didn’t truly love, or being forever single, what would you do? Because that was my choice.” I know that one isn’t ever so original either, but you see where it’s possible to provoke some interest here.
Comparison
A simile or metaphor. Make sure to avoid colloquialisms here, come up with your own ideas. “Me trying to convince my sister that I’m not a secret agent is as hard as Galileo trying to convince the Pope that the world was not flat. Except Galileo had it easier, because the Pope was wrong.” (I know that was bad grammar, and maybe not historically accurate, but you get the idea.)
Dilemma
State a problem, or show how the character is trying to overcome the problem. For example, the protagonist missed the boat and is trying to figure out another way of getting out off the island, as the next boat won’t come for a month, and is climbing to the highest point on the island to get cell phone service.
Intriguing Character
This would preferably be your protagonist, but it could be someone else, as long as your readers don’t mistake the character you mention as the protagonist when he’s not. A teenage girl who is an outcast at her school is old news. You could introduce the character by observing what they are doing, saying, or how they look. Preferably all three at once. Express what is unique about the character.
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Jane Foster Week Day One: Space
A/N: Oh boy have I been looking forward to this so much for the last month and a half. :D I can’t believe the time has finally come, but here we are.
This first ficlet is a continuation to a drabble I wrote several years ago. It can be read here. The idea was that Jane accidentally sent herself to Jotunheim, where Loki has taken over and become king. This is what happens after he finds Jane and takes her back with him.
Hope you enjoy!
.01 Space
Jane woke up on a plushy mattress an indeterminable amount of time after blasting herself to an alien planet and being captured by the king. She was almost convinced it had been a dream when she heard the crackling fire (her lab did not have a fireplace) and remembered her bed was a secondhand cot in a dingy trailer. She opened her eyes and took in deep green sheets on a bed the size of a football field.
The room was even bigger and filled with ancient Norwegian artifacts, from the wall carvings to the decorative wooden shields. It was like one of those historical recreations they kept in museums. Except Jane doubted those phony beds stuffed with straw would ever be so comfortable as this.
The color scheme was decidedly green, with a little black and gold thrown in for good measure. Jane glanced down at herself and sighed with relief that she was still dressed. There had been no ‘bathe her and bring her to me’ nonsense. At least, not yet.
She was alone as far as she could tell. In a room this big, there was no way to be sure. The fire brightened as if aware she was awake and needed more light. It provided more than any fire should be capable of. She’d have to ask someone about that, she thought dimly, assuming this apparent hospitality wasn’t a ploy to bring her guard down. Devouring your prey was easy if they didn’t struggle.
Jane scooted to the edge of the bed. Her shoes were placed neatly next to an ornate armchair. Her jacket was folded and draped over the top. She left them for now, the floor carpeted and the room a pleasant temperature. Her first steps were uneven but quickly improved. Two chairs were positioned directly in front of the fireplace for maximum warmth, an oval-shaped table between them. She studied a dish sitting precariously on the latter, covered by a silver dome with dragon-shaped carvings around the rim. Jane was a scientific mind who prided herself in her critical thinking and problem-solving abilities, but it was at least a full minute before she realized the plate was meant for her.
She lifted the dome, fully expecting breakfast to be a bowl of mush or something not completely dead. The buttermilk biscuits with cream cheese and side fruit bowl, therefore, gave her pause. Jane picked nervously at what appeared to be an ordinary blueberry. It tasted like one too, once she mustered up the courage to eat it.
The door opened, apparently unlocked from the start. In walked the man from yesterday, the one the bigger monsters seemed to defer to. He did have a regal air about him, partial nudity notwithstanding. His red eyes followed her as she sank into a chair. A berry fell between her fingers and rolled under the bed.
“Good morning,” he said. He had a British sounding accent though Jane was pretty sure he’d never set foot in that country.
“Good morning,” Jane answered. “Um… I was just…”
“You may eat,” he said, assuming that was the reason behind her discomfort. He took the chair opposite her, steepling his fingers as she hesitantly took a biscuit and brought it to her lips. A mouth-watering aroma wafted straight into her nostrils, turning Jane’s fear to desire. She polished off the whole thing in two bites and immediately reached for another. “I take it you are satisfied with your accommodations?”
“What?” Jane asked with her mouth full. She swallowed and brushed some crumbs off her lip. “Oh yeah. It’s great. Um… I wasn’t expecting to have my own room.”
“Yes, unfortunately, the dungeons are currently full. You’ll have to make due until the mid-afternoon executions.”
Jane’s heart stopped.
He grinned. “That was a joke.”
If she wasn’t so sure he could kill her just by thinking about it, she’d slap him. “Oh, okay. Um… may I ask a question?”
“You just did,” he said, which was annoying and pedantic, but it wasn’t a no.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” Jane played with a rip in her shirt that wasn’t there before. She must have snagged it on something during the transport. “I’m technically an intruder, even though I didn’t mean to be. You could’ve locked me up for real or…”
He gave a thoughtful hum, then leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. He had ridiculously long legs and kind of amazing abs. “That is the question.”
What was that supposed to mean?
“It is true, in most situations, I would assume you a spy and have you killed on sight. And that is not a joke.” He added that last part when Jane nearly laughed out loud. “However, given the length of time since any of the nine realms have visited Midgard, I doubt you are more than a displaced traveller. That you arrived on Jotunheim of all places is an extraordinary case of bad luck, is it not?”
“I don’t know,” Jane answered honestly. She was sitting in a room more gorgeous than anything she ever thought she’d see in her lifetime with an alien king. “Is it?”
He pursed his lips, then got to his feet. With a wave of his hand, the flames died down. New artificial light took its place. It came from every direction, shining a golden hue on the walls. Jane stared at the multiple orbs in awe. None of them resembled light bulbs or flames. There was no point of origin. They’d just sprung into existence like magic.
“Your people call it electricity, I believe,” he said. “The method of lighting a room without fire… quite primitive if you don’t mind me saying.”
Jane would’ve been affronted and happy to defend her races innovations over the course of a few thousand years, but then again, there was a scientific impossibility happening before her eyes. The wheels in her head turned hard enough to break. “It’s amazing.”
His mouth twitched. “I have a proposition for you, little one.”
Jane blinked. “What kind of proposition?”
“That depends,” he paced before the fire, his long hair swaying behind him. “Do you wish to return to your homeworld at once or would you like to stay a while?”
“Wait, are you saying you could send me home?” Jane shot to her feet. “Like right now?”
“If you wish,” he said almost bitterly. “There are few corners of the galaxy I cannot find. Though before you make a decision, consider this: there is a vast universe out there your people have barely touched, is there not?”
“We’ve been to the moon,” Jane said lamely. “And there are probes as far as Pluto.”
He smiled the way a person usually reserved for a child’s macaroni art. “But my dear, you’ve been given a unique opportunity to see more. All you have to do is say the word.”
The curtains took on a life of their own, sliding aside in perfect synchronicity. They’d blended so well into the rest of the wall, Jane had assumed there were no windows. She was wrong. Without covers, there was almost nothing but windows. Jane beheld the skyline of an ice blue city, teeming with skyscrapers reaching for the stars. Speaking of stars, there were hundreds, if not thousands, twinkling like tiny jewels in the sky. Within seconds, Jane had mapped out five different constellations she had never seen before, and every which way she looked there were more. So many it made her head hurt and her heart soar.
“This… this is…”
She pressed her hands on the glass. When had she moved? She was by the fire a second ago. Now the heat of the flames barely touched her, but she had never felt warmer.
“This is merely a taste of what I can show you, little one,” he said, his lips a hair’s breath from her ear. “Say the word and I will give you the universe.”
Jane swallowed and nodded, her trance broken by the weight of one pressing matter. “But why me? You don’t even know me.”
He took her hand in his. He was wearing gloves for some reason. “I know you’ve accomplished something no one on your planet should be capable of. Not even Jotunheim has managed to create a bridge between worlds. You have achieved on your own what took the Aesir centuries.”
“I wasn’t completely alone,” Jane said hoarsely. The intensity of his gaze silenced any further attempts at modesty.
“The fact remains, little one, you are the most fascinating creature I have come across in all my years.”
How many years was that she wondered. He appeared close to her age, but his eyes were ancient. He could be well over a thousand years old for all she knew and if that were the case… either he was an excellent liar or Jane had just been given one hell of a compliment.
“Okay,” she said, breathing deeply. “First of all, if I’m going to stay a while, you have to stop calling me ‘little one’. My name is Jane Foster.”
Never did she think she’d see such honest to God joy in his eyes, though he covered it up nicely with a smirk. “As you wish, Jane Foster.”
The way he said her name was almost sinful. It shook Jane at her core and she was forced to acknowledge that in spite of (or perhaps because of) his alien features, he was incredibly handsome. “A-and, I need to let my friends know I’m okay. I can’t let them think I’m dead.”
“Very well,” he said. “We can send word to them whenever you wish. Now then, shall I escort you to the observatory?”
“You have an observatory?”
He chuckled. “Jotunheim has come a long way since I took over. Soon our cities and innovations will rival Asgard itself.”
They left the room, the door shutting and locking on its own behind them. Jane would have to ask her new friend about that later. They passed dozens of Jotunn servants and soldiers on their way to the top floor. All of them bowed before their king. None of them frightened Jane anymore as long as she kept close to him.
“Oh, where are my manners,” he said as they reached a glass elevator (they had elevators here). He took her hand and kissed the air over it. “You may call me Loki, son of Frigga, King of Jotunheim.”
“I think I’ll go with just Loki if that’s okay,” Jane said. The elevator arrived and he stepped back to allow her first entry. They were halfway to the top and looking out at the snowy fields beyond the city when it hit her. “I’m sorry, Loki? Like Loki Loki? Like… that… are you-”
“Save your questions, Jane Foster,” he smiled serenely, his red eyes no longer like blood to her. More like rubies. “We have all the time in the world.”
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The Art of Trick-or-Treating
Prompt:
Anon: Darvey take their son/daughter trick or treating for the first time
mrgaretcarter: TRICK OR TREATING WITH THEIR OWN KID(S) ps: one of them has to be a girl
--
He had come home on Wednesday evening later than usual in an attempt to finish up work so they could spend the Halloween weekend at his father's place in Boston and not be interrupted by clients with questions. It was approaching midnight when he walked in and noticed the overhead lights at the kitchen island were still on, and he turned the corner to find his wife, sitting on a barstool, with what he assumed to be dinner she had shared with their daughter at a normal hour earlier this evening.
He sets his briefcase on the floor near the island and lets out a long sigh and moves to Donna's side, pressing his lips to her temple and whispering his hey.
"Hey," Donna greets through a mouthful of macaroni and cheese. "There’s more in the oven if you’re hungry.”
"Oven?" He asks but moves away to the other side of the island to take it out anyway.
"Your daughter wakes at the sound of your alarm going off for your 5:00 am runs. Do you think I was going to test that on the microwave at midnight when I'm starving?" Donna says with a slight laugh. "I wanted to eat my food while it was still hot."
He chuckles and uses the hot pads, and notices there’s an extra plate still on the counter, so he sets the hot dish on the top of the stove as he closes the oven door and turns the stove off.
He piles the macaroni and cheese onto his plate and sits on the barstool next to her.
"How's the world of corporate law this evening?" Donna jokes as she runs her fork of cheesy noodles through her puddle of ranch dressing on her plate.
"Pretty quiet for the start of the fourth quarter of the year," Harvey says with a shrug.
They eat in silence as Donna scrolls through the various apps on her phone and looks at all the tagged pictures she's in on Instagram with interest.
"You finish her costume?" Harvey asks between bites of his dinner.
"Yep," she nods as she likes a comment that made her chuckle a little inside. "And, of course, she wanted to watch The Little Mermaid as I finished it. So we viewed it three times today."
Harvey shook his head.
"It’s your fault you know," Harvey pointed out. "You’re the one who showed her all the princesses with the same hair colour as the two of you."
She sets her phone down and stabs noodles on his plate and eats them and gives him a look.
"You can do my dishes," Donna says as she stands and sets her fork across her empty plate. "I have to pee."
Harvey shakes his head and watches as she leaves the room and goes back to their bedroom. He finishes dinner and their dishes, and he's yawning as peeks in the room across from theirs to find his little princess has decided to sleep at the foot of her bed.
When he steps into his own room, Donna is laying on her side of the bed and has stolen one of his pillows. She’s far from sleep and watches as he moves through his nightly routine. After stripping down to his boxer briefs, he climbs into bed, and she shifts to find a comfortable position as she moves closer to him.
"How long did you nap today?" He asks quietly as his fingers weave through her locks.
"Umm, five-ish hours between the two naps?" She sighs. "I’m exhausted but can’t sleep. Big surprise."
His fingers move from her hair to steal under the sheets and run down her side to her waist, drawing a pattern on the side of her growing belly.
"I can tell you a riveting tale about the meeting Jessica and I just had with Paul Porter and his bowtie trying to convince us we should switch the firm's compensation structure," he tells her while still tracing patterns on her belly.
"You paid attention?" She asks with more than a hint of scepticism in her tone.
"Well, Jessica told me the highlights. His bow tie was a bunch of little pumpkins and aliens. I was fascinated and worried at the same time," Harvey recalled.
"Elizabeth definitely gets her attention span from you," Donna quietly laughs. "But, sure, bore me to sleep."
Harvey pouts a little, but soon enough he launches into his day that had been jam-packed with meetings.
--
Thursday, the day before Halloween, is a slow start to their long weekend. Harvey decided to let Donna sleep in a little and gets their three-year-old daughter ready for a half a day of driving, but she's a little hostile in the way only three-year-olds can get away with, and she wakes Donna with her jagged crying.
He's looking apologetic as Elizabeth runs and hugs her mother's legs and Donna decides today a bribe will get them closer to a successful morning and future nap, so she suggests going out to get hot chocolate and pancakes and Elizabeth stops crying and looks up at her mother with wide brown eyes. She has to let her father put her in warm clothes since its autumn, and they compromise with one of her rejected costumes. And as Harvey helps her dress as Donna gets dressed from her pajamas into something loose and comfortable for a walk down a few blocks, he thinks about the past Halloweens they've had as a family.
Her first Halloween, Elizabeth was two months old, and Donna was in Los Angeles doing talk show rounds with the various networks promoting her film that was coming out and a new television show she was taking part in. Naturally, where mom went, the new baby went. She had taken pictures of their baby dressed in a little monkey onesie costume they had picked out when they had gone outfit shopping and sent them to him via text. It was a welcome respite from the frustrating day of court he had when he got back to his office to find pictures and a video waiting. When they had FaceTimed later that night, he watched as his little monkey fell asleep as Donna unwrapped candy she had received in the guest dressing rooms as they talked about their respective long days.
Her second Halloween, they had moved into a new building and didn’t know any of the neighbours. So, Donna had the day off from the set, and she took the little Nemo in with her to Pearson Specter and the partners and associates were kind enough to take a minute out of their day to let the two-year-old get candy. Harvey had been meeting with a client so they were a surprise in the office when he came back. Elizabeth had wiggled out of Jessica’s arms and ran to the elevators to reach for her father. It had been an Instagram-worthy photo with little hands squishing Harvey’s cheeks in an attempt to make fish lips as he grinned. That picture was a top ten of the year as it passed over 100,000 likes. A new record for her that year.
Now, her third Halloween would be the first time she'd experience trick or treating for real as Donna was wrapping her series and had gotten Thursday and Friday off and Harvey was the one with the idea to give her a real trick or treating experience like they had when they were kids. Donna reminded him that she had spent most of her younger trick-or-treating years in Cortland where the houses tend to be half a mile away or longer. He gave her a look because he was just trying to make a gesture and she laughed and told him it was sweet.
As bribed, they eat breakfast at the café down the street. As they walk, Elizabeth is between them, dressed as a little zookeeper with a little giraffe wrapped around her neck. Elizabeth's hands are in either one of Donna's and Harvey's and every few minutes Elizabeth counts one, two, 'free, and she's lifted between them, and a giggle makes its way past her lips.
Their daughter can’t contain her excitement at the little foam pumpkin the barista draws in the milky froth of her hot chocolate. While waiting for their food, Donna sets all their drinks together to show off the art of a maple leaf, a pumpkin, and a cat face in their respective beverages. Of course, little fingers that are more interested in continuing to sneak the extra chocolate powder feature in the picture she edits for her Instagram.
"You know your most loyal fans will be here within ten minutes," Harvey points out as he sees she tags the location.
"Why do you think I always post it as we're finishing?" Donna says as she shows him it's all set to be posted, but she hasn't pressed the done button. "I'd like to eat these pancakes in peace."
Harvey looks at her with slight concern as she wraps her scrambled eggs in a pancake with a bit of syrup. But he learned to stop asking, and it's not like anyone in the café is paying attention to them.
Elizabeth eats her one along with her eggs, separately, and since they're sitting on the same side, she leans into his side, and her fork touches his french toast in an effort to steal it. He takes the hint and cuts it up, and Donna laughs and shares a conspiratory grin with their daughter as father and daughter share the remainder of Harvey’s breakfast.
When they get back to the condo, it's much easier to finish packing the last minute items and loading the SUV for the nearly five-hour drive--in good traffic--to Boston when mother and daughter are sated with food.
And, it's a more leisurely drive when, a few hours in, both of his passengers are asleep, and he can listen to his music in peace.
--
When they get to Gordon Specter’s hour in the late afternoon, Marcus and his family were already there. It looked like they had come straight from school as two bright pink backpacks sit near the coat rack in the entryway. His father was watching a rerun of some show, his brother and his wife were on the couch, and it looked like the five and seven-year-olds were outside burning off energy.
He opens the door with Elizabeth still half asleep in his arms and an overnight bag hanging on his shoulder while Donna held the garment bag all their costumes were in for tomorrow night.
They say passing hellos as they head upstairs for his old bedroom to set their stuff down before heading back downstairs.
When he finally sat down on the loveseat with Donna, Katie made an effort to clear her throat loudly and dramatically.
He heard Donna sigh, and he hid his grin by pretending to check to see if Elizabeth had fallen back asleep or if she was just quietly observing the scene around her. It was the latter.
In Katie Specter's hands was the most recent issue of Vanity Fair with Donna’s face on the cover. It was fitting that she be on the October issue and get to dress up in Halloween costumes considering this is her favourite holiday.
"I see you’ve found a fascinating read," Donna says as she leans forward on the cushion she sits on. She turns to Gordon. "How many did you buy?"
"I’m kinda digging that you’re Ariel, Merida, Elastigirl, and Elsa, all in one article. But the best part is probably your little Anna," Katie laughs as Gordon pretends like he doesn’t hear Donna.
"They were going to have me be Anna, but when they saw her, well, they decided she'd make her modelling debut," Donna says with a laugh.
She gets up from the couch and moves to the kitchen to get herself water and thinks if she's hungry, Elizabeth is bound to be as well and sneaks some Chex Mix from Gordon's pantry.
"I'm wondering about the new feature coming in April 2015," Gordon says with his brows raised as he ignores the television for a moment. "Your IMDB doesn't list any projects with that release date."
It had been one of the last questions they asked what she had been looking forward to in 2015 and she had laughed before answering 'Probably my feature in April 2015' and not giving any more details.
Before she sits on the loveseat again, she turns to her audience and her hand that holds the bag of Chex Mix moves to her tunic, and smooths the material over her growing but still a moderately small bump for 18 weeks.
"Our new feature," Donna laughs. "Due like nineteen days before I have to go back to work on the new season in April."
"Shit," Marcus finally pipes up and hands over a fifty dollar bill to his father.
Gordon winks at Harvey as Donna sits on the loveseat again and she and Elizabeth dig into his Chex Mix.
--
In an effort to have Elizabeth's first real Halloween be memorable, they all decided it would be a family-themed event.
"I'm starting to regret this costume," Donna says as she catches Harvey's eyes in the mirror as she teases her hair a little more with her pick comb.
Harvey gives her an appreciative once over as she stands up straight.
She was wearing a black bateau neckline, high waisted dress that had violet, lavender, purple, white, and black tulle draping down the waist to make her look like an octopus without the gaudy appendages.
She had teased her hair with enough product to wonder if it would set itself on fire near an open flame. Her off-white hair sits in a messy beehive. She has shockingly bright red lipstick on and the most vivid blue eyeshadow colour he'd ever seen.
"Because it's supposed to rain later?" He asks.
"More like my boobs hurt, my back hurts, and I swear my feet are also starting to swell the longer I stand here," she sighs and tosses the comb in her hands onto the counter.
Harvey steps into her personal space and his hands move over her hips through the tulle. He spaces out his thumbs on either side of her lower back to find the familiar knot on either side. His thumbs work in a tiny, circular motion with ease as he presses close.
She leans her hands against the counter as she breathes in and out slowly.
"Better?" He asks after a few minutes of kneading and watching her mirrored reflection.
"It's a start," she concedes.
"Mmh," he says with a laugh as he backs away and lets her turn to face him. "You smell like baby powder."
"Can't exactly use the temporary hair dye," she says with a sigh as she presses a hand to her growing belly that's somewhat hidden in the folds of tulle.
"You could have worn a wig," he points out and regrets it as soon as she narrows her eyes.
"I just wore a wig on and off for the last month. These locks need to breathe," Donna reminds him. "And all this new hair growth is making my scalp itchy, so it's a good thing we're wrapping soon."
"Let's go get our little Ariel so we can trick-or-treat and then I can feed you. And I even went to get that god awful spumoni ice cream and some potato chips for you from the store."
Donna frowns because that's exactly what she wants. She hates that her cravings are predictably the same.
"The tabloids think my cravings are ice cream and pickles," she notes as she follows him out of the washroom.
"I bought pickles once for sandwiches," Harvey says as he shakes his head.
"Apparently if you buy ice cream and pickles at the same time, they report I am pregnant, and they assume it's for me," Donna shrugs her shoulders.
"Well, I mean, they're not wrong with one report. We just haven't officially confirmed it? Nevermind we also bought like thirty other items at the grocery store that day," Harvey sighs but drops the subject as they find themselves now on the outskirts of his father's living room with a grumpy little Sebastian, a crying Flounder, and a mischevious looking Ariel in the arms of King Triton.
"That's all you," Donna pats Harvey's arm before moving to the coat rack to get her black hoodie--just in case it does start to rain.
Harvey moves and takes Elizabeth from his father's arms.
"She hasn't done anything," Gordon says. "But I know that look, so I kept her out of the fray."
Her little brown eyes are twinkling with mischief, and her little dimples are showing as she laughs as her two cousins get reprimanded by Marcus who’s the crazy Chef Louis and Katie, dressed as Carlotta, the palace maid. Harvey tampers his own smile and figures the best course of action is just to leave the situation before he starts to laugh and set a bad example.
"Let's have you go potty before we head out," Harvey says as he walks back to the washroom on this floor to let his brother and sister-in-law handle their fighting children.
Donna had gone with a long sleeve peach-coloured leotard for Elizabeth's costume to keep her warm. Ariel's familiar purple seashell top was carefully stuck on the leotard thanks to neat strips of iron-on adhesive that's usually used to hem pants magically. She was determined to keep their three-year-old warm while trick or treating without compromising the costume, and since she couldn't sew worth a damn, improvisation is essential.
She had the foresight to get one that had buttons, so there was no catastrophes or wardrobe malfunctions as Harvey helped Elizabeth out of her green sequence skirt and lime green leggings to keep her warm. He thinks Donna will teach her to hold skirts and dresses up after she masters the main point--to go when she needs to and without prompting or them noticing the familiar "potty dance."
For his own Prince Eric costume, he'd stuck with his own clothes--a bright white button down and dark blue jeans. He had to find a pair of black snow boots, and he had folded his jeans up to where the boots and pants meet. Donna had snuck a red sash from the costume department to tie around his waist, and he sported a combover and had enough pomade to make it darker than his sandy-brown natural hair colour.
All in all, it was quite the family affair, and Donna made sure to capture the whole thing with video and pictures.
--
Gordon Specter lived on a cul de sac in one of Boston's suburban, middle-class neighbourhoods where everyone knew everybody, and there were monthly neighbourhood cookouts.
To begin, they practice at Gordon's door, and Marcus's kids participate thanks to a bribe of ten dollars from Harvey for their time.
The seven-year-old rings the bell and Gordon answers the door with such enthusiasm Elizabeth wiggles excitedly and giggles out a version of trick-or-treat and attempts to go back inside.
"Hey, wait, you don't go into the houses," Harvey says as he scoops her up. "You say trick-or-treat and then wait for candy."
Harvey nods, and they try it again. That time she doesn't go in, but as they call it a success and Gordon deposits a box of Milk Duds in her bag, she digs through her bag and hands said tote to Harvey and runs to Donna whose conversing with Katie at the end of the driveway.
There's a brief meltdown as Donna explains treats are for after its all done but her tears vanish when Donna says they can share this one box until tonight after dinner. Elizabeth doesn't know the box only holds four and Donna takes two for herself as she hands the open box back to Elizabeth as they begin at the neighbour's house for the official start.
With Gordon living on the block for the past 15 years, it’s not surprising when neighbours see Donna, Harvey, and Elizabeth with Gordon, Marcus, and Marcus' family as they trick-or-treat, they want to chat with the New Yorkers who only make the occasional holiday visit. Thankfully, they refrain and just mention they need to catch up one night when they’re still here or plan something at a later date.
Harvey's tenth grade English teacher lives a block down from his dad, so it's no surprise he spends a little more time here and makes Donna come up the driveway with him and Elizabeth. The woman reminds him that he almost failed her class by failing to participate in the theatre portion of class and wonders how he appreciates the stage and acting because he's been married to a famous actress for the past eight years.
"I'm a Donna fan, Mrs Burkowicz," Harvey shrugs. "Maybe if I had gone to tenth grade in Hartford, I would have passed English with more than a B-."
Donna bites the inside of her cheek and Harvey tilts his head and grins.
Elizabeth’s trick-or-treat sounds more like 'tick-er-teat' and Harvey stifles a laugh each time she mutters it.
Elizabeth gets an extra handful of candy despite her father's sass.
"For you and your mom," Mrs Burkowicz says as she looks to the little Ariel whose eyes are huge as she looks between her canvas tote and the lady who just gave her treats.
"No, dad," Elizabeth conspires.
Donna decides now is the perfect time to laugh aloud, and she takes Elizabeth's hand and starts to walk away.
Harvey looks back at his old English teacher, and the woman winks before shutting the door.
Donna and Harvey take turns walking up the driveways with the rest of his family as they continue moving throughout the neighbourhood.
They make it almost four more blocks before Elizabeth gets tired of walking and asks to be held by Harvey. It’s another seven blocks before she falls asleep and they go another ten before the sky begins to darken and Donna’s steps slow because her back aches, her feet are sore, and she’s hungry for something that isn't candy that she's been sneaking every few blocks from Elizabeth's bag she carries.
Donna thinks she's going to really enjoy this weekend eating through their kid's candy and wondering how many slices of Pinocchio's she can eat without getting tired of the cheesy goodness.
--
Elizabeth was still passed out, leaning against her mother as Donna lounged against the arm of the couch with her feet in Harvey’s lap as he sat on the far cushion and absentmindedly worked his fingers against the muscles and tendons in Donna's feet and calves. They were waiting for Katie and Marcus to get back with the pizza, pasta, and salad before waking Elizabeth. With Elizabeth draped alongside her and stuck between her mother and the couch, Donna's skirt and dress material were pulled enough that everyone in the room could really see the swell of her belly.
"You know what it is yet?" Gordon asks as he watched his daughter-in-law run her fingers through her daughter's hair as the less boisterous Specter family shared the room. The other little kids are in the kitchen trading candy and drinking a can of soda they're not really supposed to have in an effort to get a sugar rush while mom and dad are away and grandpa's in charge.
"Uh, a few days ago, the ultrasound tech accidentally said it’s a girl," Donna says as she looks over at her father-in-law with a small smile. "95% certain."
"Both my sons, surrounded by females," Gordon chuckles. "Did Marcus let you know they’re trying for a boy?"
Harvey shook his head, but Donna nodded.
"Katie was wondering if we’re going to have another. I told her we needed to get through birthing this one before thinking about a number three," Donna says honestly.
Gordon chuckles, and Harvey already feels slightly overwhelmed by the thought.
As Harvey and his father play catch up, Donna finds a fantastic photo of the three of them where her bump is visible and decides to let her fans in on their secret. After all, its been almost a month of speculation since Vanity Fair was published with her cryptic interview answer and thankfully her coworkers and the set crew kept mum even as fans began to stalk the set more and tweet at her fellow cast members.
In the photo outside on the lawn of Gordon's house, Elizabeth is having a little meltdown, pulling on the tulle skirt of her mother's and therefore showing off her baby bump as Donna, as Ursula, kisses Harvey, as Prince Eric. When Katie sees it on her own feed the next day, she jokingly demands a photo cred, and when Donna does indeed photo cred her username, Katie ends up with hundreds of new follower requests.
She posts another two during the weekend in Boston. One of the backs of the entire crew walking down the sidewalk--she doesn't like to feature the faces of little ones, including her own, just to keep something private. The last is a shot of Harvey and Elizabeth as they sit on the rug and sort out the Halloween candy. In the photo, Elizabeth is sharing an M&M with her father.
That weekend, Donna tells Harvey they should really do the whole neighbourhood-type trick-or-treating every year, and she hopes the family-themed trick-or-treats last at least until Elizabeth is a teenager and therefore becomes too cool to dress the same as her soon-to-be sister.
Harvey wonders if it’d be appropriate to also buy a house in New York to escape to for the weekends. And, for future trick-or-treating adventures. And, maybe to even start hosting holidays and inviting people and having enough room to spare.
#darvey#darvey fic#donna x harvey#author: harrietspecter#prompt#halloween prompt#one shot#rated t#not connected with my AU. I just like the name Elizabeth for a baby girl
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Interview: Listen to Kasabian's sixth album 'For Crying Out Loud,' Serge Pizzorno tells us why
Every album bar one, of Leicester band Kasabian has reached Number One on the UK album charts. In 2014, they also won Best Album and Best Band at NME’s 2014 awards, and that summer proved themselves worthy Glastonbury headliners. Their sixth album, released earlier this year, knocked Ed Sheeran off his perch and has been deemed their best yet, so why aren’t they bigger here?
Could it be their creepy moniker with its associations to a member of the Manson gang? Perhaps it’s the fact that each album tries to shape-shift from the one before, making it hard to peg them? Or is it because British lad and larger swagger; the cornerstone of their music, doesn't always translate out of the pub and across the pond?
Maybe it’s as simple as we just haven’t heard the songs? In 2014 they did a nominal 9-city tour and the album 48:13 hadn’t been released when they were on the road here. Prior to that, they had been absent for five years*. Their then record label's reluctance meant that albums from that period – Velociraptor and West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum weren’t even released in America. And the band are hardly heard on radio.
But if ever there was a time to give Kasabian a try, For Crying Out Loud, their latest, serves as an excellent entry into their oeuvre. It includes electro-banger, "Ill Ray;" the feel good vibes and modern psychedelia of "You're In Love With a Psycho;" "Good Fight" a perfectly structured pop song where they discuss feelings (very unusual for lad rock); and even a love song "Put Your Life On It."
The album was written in six weeks. A self-imposed deadline by songwriter, co-vocalist and guitarist Serge Pizzorno, in an effort to do things radically different from 48:13; which delivered the thumping and addictive "eez-eh" but took a year and was laden with experimental interludes, electronic loops and bleeps.
For Crying Out Loud is largely guitar-based, with an electro-indie sound that marked their first ascent in 2004 with the likes of other guitar bands such as Arctic Monkeys and The Libertines. Songs were written mostly on Pizzorno’s Rickenbacker before it was taken to the rest of the band which includes Tom Meighan, Chris Edwards, Ian Matthews and Tim Carter.
We speak to Pizzorno ahead of their Bay Area show this Sunday, Sept. 24 at the Regency Ballroom, to find out about why he thinks we should check out their latest album. And after 20 years why he doesn’t care if detractors don’t appreciate his lyrical skills.
AXS: You set a task for yourself to write an album in six weeks – within that what other guidelines were there – like, you must talk about feelings? Or that you should try and take the Berry Gordy Motown approach?
Serge Pizzorno: Yes, I was really strict because at the time, I was really into pop structure. The art form of songwriting, of writing a truly great song. Experimentation has always been my go to: messing about with form and changing things up. This album was the opposite: nothing could be longer than three and a half minutes, I could only use the guitar to write and it had to be written quickly. It was just to see what that would feel like. It happened really quickly, then we recorded it and put it out.
AXS: One of the other guidelines, I read was writing in 9 to 5 shifts rather than late at night? Was that out of necessity cause you have kids or was it to see what kind of a different color you might get?
SP: Exactly that. I found it really productive though because it made me appreciate my time in the studio. I tended to get loads done and the next day I couldn't wait to get back in. I was shocked because in my head I was adamant, "like I can write what I want, when I want." Obviously, when I set out to do this I didn't know that it would work. I am very reactionary so if you ask me now, how I will write the next one, I'll probably say I'm going back to Jamaica for a holiday and to the spend some time there writing. You know for that complete change of scenery again and see what gets written.
AXS: You’ve said For Crying Out Loud is the best record you’ve ever made – why? Don’t bands say that after every new record? Critics have said their fair share but in your opinion, what sets this one apart?
SP: I didn't say that. Tom said it.
AXS: Oh that Tom!
SP: Yes exactly. (laughs) I wouldn't have called it our best record. I don't like to think like that. It does have a sort of Punk, street-disco theme. Seventies are a big influence but here, it's been put through modern filters.
AXS: Last time, you came to America for a very short tour. Before that you hadn’t been here for 5 years*, do you still feel America is worth another shot?
SP: We love touring and we love America so we will always tour here. But we're not 18 anymore, and not able to just jump in a van and play live shows for six months. It just doesn't suit my personality. Being on the road is for adventure, gathering information and allowing yourself to be influenced by what you see. Then you take it home and make stuff out of it. I need to create and I can't do that if we're constantly on the road. My time's better spent elsewhere. But like our gig last night in New York, it was insane and we all looked at each other and said: "I wonder, what's happened?" I mean if the gig is crap, you can understand but it wasn't. It was really good. I'm scared now, all the other gigs have a high bar to reach.
AXS: Why should Americans listen to “For Crying Out Loud,” apart from the fact that we might get a history lesson with “Ill Ray” (the video is based on the finding of King Richard III's bones in a Leicester parking lot)?
SP: (laughs) That's right. It's pure feel good music; there's not many albums like that being made at the moment. It's pretty hard to write. I think it's very easy for artist to fall back on pain and write music from there. It's such a mad time all around the world, For Crying Out Loud is positive, makes you want to dance, or go out and do something by the end of it. I don't know... I would never go too deep in trying to sell an album to anyone, I believe everyone should listen to whoever they want; do whatever you want. But if you want a record that is uplifting and has an amazing energy, this is it!
AXS: Speaking of that track – the video is very interesting, could you tell us about the idea behind it?
SP: I received a load of treatments and they were all terrible. I was on holiday, and I thought: "I best come up with an idea." So in the cab ride with my kids from the hotel to the airport, I wrote the treatment; scene by scene, on my phone. Then I have a friend who's a director (Dan Cardan), and it just so happens, his girlfriend is Lena Headey (Queen Cersei from Game of Thrones); obviously writing a queen in there, I don't think that could be any better queen in the world right at this moment. And that carpark where King Richard III's bones was exhumed, it's such an iconic scene from my hometown.
AXS: Crazy food references, the UK press seem to give you a hard time with “I’m like the taste of macaroni on a seafood stick.” There’s a kookiness to it that matches the mood in “You’re In Love With A Psycho” but perhaps it isn’t as elegant as an Alex Turner turn-of-phrase. But why do you do it? Just for a laugh, to goad those critics? Or it just makes sense to you?
SP: Everything is done to piss people off, let's face it. (Laughs) But that line made me laugh, first and foremost, there is always humor behind our songs. And secondly, there's always people that would just get the joke, those with that surrealist humor; it's too tempting not to write lyrics like that. It's a booby trap: if you don't get it, it's like "see you mate." They're my favorite lines in every song. What's annoying is that critics tend to just concentrate on that and miss all the other nuggets of beauty like quoting Charles Bukowski in a pop song. It's something to be celebrated but they won't mention that because it doesn't fit in with the narrative they have written about you: "Now, we perceive you as hooligans so you can't be possibly clever." Well, there's more to it than that.
AXS: One of my favorite songs on the album is “Good Fight” it has an almost doo-wop feel and is so uplifting – can you tell us a little bit about your inspiration for the song?
SP: Just came from a loop, the beat of an old Motown flow. I was also thinking about Nirvana Unplugged and the chorus from "Spiders From Mars." And the song wrote itself really.
Kasabian Tour
Sept. 23—Los Angeles, CA—The Wiltern
Sept. 24—San Francisco, CA—The Regency Ballroom
www.axs.com
__________
*2 years
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not that bad | mingyu
well this is longer than i expected. tbh i totally strayed from the actual request, i’m sorry @chichewy for the really really long wait :c it literally went from something cutesy and sweet to what will be a multi-part story?? i honestly kind of ran with a few ideas and it turned into this,,, i’m hoping to just write a second, final part just to wrap shit up but knowing me this might actually turn into this blog’s first ever series. grats, requester! sorry if this isn’t what you wanted...
word count: 6.3k
trigger warnings: mentions of smoking, alcohol, swearing
contains angst/fluff, high school setting
“Man, you’d never thought you’d say this, but you’re starting to miss the old dickhead.”
hope you enjoy <3
Ugh. It seems like no matter where you go, he’ll find a way to bug you.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can spot him in all of his smug, self-absorbed glory, swaggering towards you, hands in his pockets and his eyes glittering with malice. A wave of loathing washes over you, and you turn your back to him and go back to rummaging in your locker for your math notebook, hoping you’ll blend in with the crowds of kids swarming around their lockers. What an annoying buttwipe. A spot of humility would do him a world of good.
“Hey there, (y/n),” Kim Mingyu says cheerfully.
Damn. Guess he spotted you.
“Hello, Mingyu,” you say stiffly, slamming the locker shut with a tinny slam. Nice to see you, pissface.
“I can see you’re as amiable as ever.”
“Would you please move along? I have classes to go to,” you say as calmly as possible.
“I have to ask,” he says in a sing-song voice, leaning against the wall casually. “Don’t think I didn’t forget today.”
Oh, great. Here it comes. “Listen, I do not want to--”
“May I please, pretty please, with a cherry on top and with all the sincerity in the world, go out with you, dearest (y/n)?”
You aim a kick at his shins (which he dodges hastily) and snarl, “Over my dead body. Get out of my face, scum, and stop bothering me. It’s been two years, get over it.”
He makes a pouty face, the corners of his mouth turning downward. “Aw. You’re no fun. I know you’re bound to crack someday,” he calls over his shoulder as he lopes away easily, a shit-eating grin on his face.
“You wish!” you yell after him, incensed, but as always, he gets the last word. Ugh. Annoying little prick. Why can’t he just get the message that you have zero interest in him? He’s just too goddamned insistent to give up on winning your heart. Under normal circumstances, you’d be rather impressed by his tenacity, but really. The guy’s been pestering you every day since the ninth grade to go out on a date with him. The first few times were kind of endearing, you suppose, like some sort of weird way to get you to become friends with him, but after the fiftieth ask, you were getting a little tired of his game. After the hundredth, you were getting more than a little angry. The five-hundredth, you’d resigned yourself to the fact that he wasn’t going to let up until you graduated or you agreed to a date. Whichever came first. (Hint: It was going to be the former.)
Still, you can’t help but ponder over ways to get Mingyu off your back as you head upstairs for class. Graduation’s still not quite around the corner and you’ll have to endure his remarks a little while longer, which definitely won’t be good for your sanity. You need a way to distract him or give up on you… but how? You push the classroom door open with your foot and squeeze through, chewing your lip in concentration. It’s nearly empty, so you’re free to slide into an empty desk in the back, mulling over the problem in your head. He’s too set on winning your affections (which is as likely to happen as you are to growing an extra big toe) and doesn’t seem to have much interest in anybody else. And Mingyu’s not exactly a loner in school; he’s got plenty of friends who’re dating and hanging out with their own significant others. It’d be easy for him to get in touch with someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone else. Wearing down his patience: out of the question. Matchmaking: out of the question. So now what?
Unfortunately, the bell pierces through your reverie and startles you out of your thoughts. Damn. Guess you’ll have to solve this dilemma another time. The only problems you’ll be solving for the next half hour are going to have to be math-related, by the looks of the work the teacher’s handing out.
Mingyu’s freaking out.
He knows he should be concentrating on the novel he’s supposed to be reading, but his mind’s stubbornly refusing to focus on the task at hand. His eyes read and reread the paragraph he’s been poring over but nothing’s really registering in his brain. Damn it. He hates to admit it, but no matter how hard he tries, his thoughts keep straying to one thing. Or rather, someone.
It’s obvious who it is, of course, but it doesn’t stop him from saying it in his head. (y/n). I can’t stop thinking about (y/n). Then he cringes. Gross, Gyu. Even he hasn’t stooped to such lengths before.
Bluntly speaking, he likes you. More than he knows, frankly. You might think he’s just joking with you, but he couldn’t deny that there’s some level of feeling behind it. He might even say he loves you except for the fact that he’s terrified of you. Or, more specifically, how he feels about you. Never has he ever felt so deeply for someone before. It’s all he can do to keep a cool front around you, trying not to show how affected he is. You’ve grabbed his emotions, twisted and tangled them together until they became an indistinguishable mess that he can’t pull apart. How he doesn’t explode into a pile of awkwardness every time he sees you is beyond his comprehension.
Today, however, feels… different. The way you had glanced at him as he walked away this morning… it looked strange. As if you were planning something. The feeling’s unsettling and he wishes it would go away, but he can’t concentrate on anything else. It dogs him and worries him to no end, like an itch demanding to be scratched. There’s a feeling of foreboding at the back of his mind, worrying, fearing. Are you going to really put your foot down this time? Make him back off, leave you alone permanently? The mere thought of it sends waves of terror through his whole body. He can’t do that. He won’t do that.
Anyway, you can’t have been thinking that, Mingyu reasons stubbornly. You might hate him, sure, but he’s quite sure that you wouldn’t try anything like that. He’s certain that there’s a teeny tiny part of you that doesn’t quite despise him. (He grins at that.) Still, the worry’s still eating at him stubbornly, and he can’t help but feel that something significant is going to happen soon. His eyebrows pull together. Significant doesn’t mean bad, but… he just can’t shake the sense that you have something up your sleeve. A terrifying something.
“Ahem.”
Mingyu jerks up from his book and thoughts, his knee knocking painfully against the desk. Shit. “Y-yes?” His eyes dart around wildly before focusing on the livid face of his teacher standing right in front of his desk. Oops. Looks like he’s been spotted.
“I can see that some of us are having a hard time concentrating,” he growls. The vein in his temple is bulging quite prominently as he spits out the words. That… can’t be good. “Did you hear my question, young man?”
Gulp. “N-no, sir.”
“Do you need me to assign more work to make up for the breath I’ve wasted lecturing this class?” The teacher slams a hand onto Mingyu’s desk, making his pencil skitter to the floor. “I don’t appreciate your daydreaming, Mingyu. Cut it out or someone is going to have a detention on his hands!” He yells the last few words into his face, his breath smelling of ham and cheese sandwich, and stomps back to the front of the room. “Well? Why are you all staring like a bunch of fools? Get back to work!”
As the class murmurs assent, Mingyu slides deeper into his seat. Thanks for the lecture, Mister Ham-and-Cheese Breath.
It’s only when he tries to read the paragraph for the umpteenth time does the solution come to him.
How can you pull something on him if he doesn’t talk to you?
Mac and cheese for lunch today. You’d rather eat the container than the yellow sludge inside of it. Maybe you’d be more accepting of the poor excuse for macaroni if you were in a better mood, but your week’s been just as dandy as a lump of cow shit.
It’s the fifth day he hasn’t bugged you. You’re getting antsy. (Pun unintended. Shut up.)
Not that you don’t dislike this new feeling of freedom in your life. You can talk to your friends, eat lunch in the caf, or read books in the library freely knowing that Kim-fucking-Mingyu isn’t going to be at your heels. Your fork makes scraping sounds against the cheap plastic bowl as you play with the macaroni absently, lost in thought. The past few days have been peaceful, but...
Man, you’d never thought you’d say this, but you’re starting to miss the old dickhead.
He’s annoying, sure. He’s got a dopey-looking grin, sure. And his laugh gives you mad urges to glug a good bottle of tempera paint from the art room, sure. But he does have his ways of making you laugh or giving you something to smile about for the day, even if you don’t necessarily emote in front of him. He’d never live it down if you did, come to think of it. Regardless, there’s something charming about that asslicker that you can’t help but miss.
Just a tiny bit, though.
Like, a miniscule particle in a sea of intense dislike.
Either way, you’ve been feeling slightly unhappy because of this new development. It’s like wearing a pair of jeans every day for years and then all of a sudden you can’t find them. Not necessarily bad, but not necessarily good either. You’re not that cut-up about it, are you?
Right?
Then again, you’ve been ready to tear the buttcheeks off anyone that’s tried to talk to you for the last few days, so there’s no use lying to yourself.
Correction: It fucking sucks that Mingyu’s not talking to you.
You stab a piece of macaroni with your fork a little more forcefully than usual. There, that’s more accurate.
Honestly, you’re baffled by this sudden change in him. What’s made him stop talking to you all of a sudden? Did you do something that might’ve hurt him? Even at your worst he’s never been scared off by your attitude; Mingyu just brushes it off and comes back the next day like nothing had happened. He must have other reasons, then. But what? You can’t have done anything to make him go away. So then…
He did it voluntarily. Which means he decided to move on with life and to stop pursuing you.
He met somebody. He is now happily in a relationship and feels no need to try to win you over.
No way he’s given up on liking you. Must be option b). Certainly, it’s hard to imagine Mingyu actually (gasp) giving up on you and going for another person, but the possibility’s there. Good for him, you suppose. Finally getting out there and meeting other people. It stings a little that you still haven’t really dated anyone yet, other than the odd crush here and there, but hey, if it gets Mingyu off your back, you’re all for it.
Odd that he’s been avoiding you about it, though. It’s not really like him to keep his trap shut. Knowing him, he’d probably be announcing it every ten seconds through a megaphone (“ATTENTION. MEN, WOMEN, AND ANYTHING ELSE YOU REFER TO YOURSELF AS, I AM, IN FACT, NO LONGER SINGLE. THAT IS RIGHT, I HAVE STARTED TO DATE SOMEONE. THANK YOU. HAVE A NICE DAY.”) and showing off to anyone who’d listen. Fat chance he’d keep it under wraps.
Unless it’s something else that you’re totally unaware of. Maybe you’re just really oblivious and the answer is right under your nose…? Ugh. You pick up your container and scrape the leftovers into the bin, frowning to yourself. Why are you even so worried about this, anyway? You’re not even friends with the guy; you’ve got nothing to fret over. Stop freaking out, (y/n). If he’s stopped talking to you, then hooray for your sanity and goodbye shitty mornings! You’re happy about it. Nothing’s concerning you. You’re happy about it. You’re happy about it. You’re happy about it. You’re happy.
Are you?
“Yeah,” you said to yourself sternly. “Of course I am.”
You pry off the final gunk of dried cheese and lob it into the garbage. It’s still streaked with orange goo. Gross.
Of course, he knows that as soon as he started the whole avoiding thing with you, he was never going to be able to last for long. He likes (loves?) you too much to evade you forever.
Whether or not Mingyu likes it, he knows that he has to eventually talk to you and hear you out, even though he’s certain he won’t like what he’s going to hear. And now he’s gone and made the situation even worse, if your demeanour from the past few days is any indication. He literally shut you out for days without a word, without even the slightest warning. You, even after years of bitterness and dislike, would be confused, and possibly hurt. The thought made him wince with guilt, but he just can’t bring himself to confront you. Not now. He can barely stomach the idea.
No matter how vehemently opposed he is to this, he can feel himself melting each time he sees you, wanting to talk to you again, hear you laughing, talking, even just snapping at him. If only he had the willpower to do it.
Should’ve known that you’d come to seek him out instead, though.
He’s just having a refreshing drink at the water fountain, feeling the rivulets of sweat run down his forehead as he bends down to slurp up the cold water gratefully. Gym had been unusually rough today; Mingyu’s muscles feel exhausted and his arms ache from overexertion. All he wants to do now is collapse onto a soft bed in the infirmary and wake up around next month. He’s half-considering heading to the nurse’s office with a bullshit excuse to get some sleep until he feels a sharp tap on his sweat-soaked shoulder.
“Hey, you,” a very familiar voice snaps at him from behind. “Ugh, of course you have to stink when I finally corner you!”
Oh, no, it’s you.
He opens his mouth to shoot a sarcastic reply back – but not before inhaling a large amount of water and coughing wildly. So much for a snappy comeback. “Shut up,” he manages to wheeze through a bout of choking.
“Right back at you. Listen, can we talk? After you finish up your coughing fit, that is.” You give him a few slaps on the back as he wipes his face on his sleeve. “I’ve got some things to ask you.” Your tone’s shifted to something more serious as you .
Fuck. Get out of here, now. Shrugging off your hand, he straightens up and avoids your questioning stare. “I- I gotta go,” he stammers, and nopes out in seconds.
As he darts past gaggles of freshmen, he can’t erase from his mind the image of you, confused and upset, standing alone by the still-running water fountain.
Sooyoung, the most popular girl in your class and probably the whole school to boot, is having a birthday party. Brilliant. She’s invited pretty much the entire grade to her house this weekend, and of course, that means a pretty pink little card sprinkled with glitter and crudely-drawn hearts is sitting in your locker today.
Hi, (y/n)!
You’re invited to my house this Saturday for my birthday bash! RSVP by Thursday! See you then~!
Sooyoung
You read the card again, chewing your lip. Hmm. Parties are alright, you suppose, but you’ve never exactly enjoyed the few you’ve gone to in your life. But it’s not like Sooyoung’s a shitty person. On the contrary, she’s warm and bubbly and friendly and all of those marketing buzzwords. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go to just this one, stick around for a bit and leave early before things get too rowdy. You’ve been lacking some excitement in your life lately, it’d be good to loosen up and drink a little too much for one night, make out with a stranger or something.
And… and you hate to admit it, but you need to stop thinking about Mingyu and that humiliating fountain incident a few days ago. The two of you haven’t spoken much since, and you don’t think you can bear even looking at him. You’re more than a little angry, and even more confused than before. Just thinking about it makes you shudder to yourself. He’s driven you to distraction.
Before you know it, you’re pulling out your phone, dialing in Sooyoung’s number and leaving her a voicemail. “Hi, it’s (y/n). I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be going to your party this weekend. See you then.” You stand there for a few seconds, not sure what else to say, and finally tap the “End Call” button. That could’ve gone better, but hey, you’re in.
The bell rings, and you walk to class with a spring in your step. The only thing on your mind is how on earth you’re going to pull together an outfit for the party. Too bad you have no idea that Mingyu’s been invited, too.
You give yourself a once-over as you look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. You don’t exactly look radiant, but you could do a lot worse. Your hair’s been tamed somewhat and looks quite nice under the fluorescent lights, and there’s actually some color in your cheeks. As for your clothes, the best you could say was that you looked… halfway decent.
Mumbling a goodbye to your mom and dad, who’re too engrossed in the programme on television to respond, you pull on your jacket and grab the keys to the car. Your parents don’t mind you using the car on days like these, as long as you don’t drive around for too long and bring the car back in good condition. Not that the latter rule matters much, anyway. Looking at the rusty Corolla sitting in the driveway, you can’t help but think a few good kicks would be enough to do it in.
You hop in, slam the car door shut and stick the key in, giving it a good twist. You’re pulling out the little invitation from your pocket, squinting at the address as the engine rumbles to life… until it suddenly stops. “The fuck?” You hiss, trying again, but all you get is a feeble cough. Oh, God. “No, no, no,” you whisper, slamming the dashboard with your palms desperately. “C’mon, c’mon.” The car stays heartlessly, coldly, unforgivingly silent. The gravity of the situation dawns on you in that moment, and you groan in frustration. Of course fate just had to pull some shit on you at the last minute. Now you’re stuck in an old beater of a car that just won’t start and late to a party you’d been so excited about for the past few days. God fucking dammit. You have no phone numbers to any of your friends attending the party and you have no way of contacting anyone to give you a ride. And telling your parents is out of the question. No telling how long it’d take for the car to be fixed – by the time the car’s in working shape, you’ll have missed the entire party. Still, you flick through your contacts desperately, praying that at least someone, someone can give you a quick ride to Sooyoung’s place.
Your eye catches one name, though. It stands out from all the rest, probably because of the excessive emojis next to it.
Mingyu~ 💗🌟😍
You can’t even remember when he managed to seize your phone and put his number in, but right now, you don’t care, you really just don’t care. You’re calling him in a heartbeat, praying that he’ll answer you and maybe give you a ride. He’s bound to be going, too, so if he hasn’t left yet…
“Hello?”
A wave of anxiety closes your throat off for a second, and you have to clear your throat to answer him. “Hi, it’s, uh, me.”
He’s quiet for a moment. A long pause. You can practically feel your heart beating in your throat, but then he replies playfully, “Hey, there. Wasn’t expecting you to call me… ever, actually. Did you need something?” You can almost see him wiggling his eyebrows on the other end, and you have to bite back a laugh. Thank God he’s not acting weird after your encounter the other day. That makes things easier.
“I’m in,” you blow some air out of the side of your mouth, “a bit of a pickle, actually. I can’t exactly drive myself to Sooyoung’s party and you’re the only person whose number I have that’s been invited, so…”
“So, what?” He’s teasing you and you know it, but you can’t be sassy with him now. You need that ride pretty badly, so you try to be nice.
“So I need you to drive me there even though I know you might say no and then I’ll be stuck without a ride and probably won’t be able to go to the party but if you can’t or don’t want to, that’s okay anyway, I’ll just find another way there or even hitchhike my way there or something?” You babble desperately. “Please?”
“Who said I was going?”
You blink. That thought never occurred to you… but now that you think about it, he’s right. Of course there was no guarantee he’d be going to the fucking party. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Dread, ice-cold dread seeps into your veins, and all you can do is sit there.
Until his warm laugh pierces your ears and you swear your vision’s going red as he chuckles, “Don’t worry, of course I’m going, (y/n). Everyone got an invite, and no one’s stupid enough to turn down an invitation to a party like Sooyoung’s.”
“You imbecile!” You whisper-shriek at him furiously. “Don’t freak me out like that! Can you hurry up and haul your ass over here?”
“Fine, fine,” Mingyu says, still trying to hold back laughter. “I’ll be at your place in a sec. What’s your address?”
As you rattle off your street and house number, you can’t help but feel a sudden rush of feeling for the boy. Gratefulness? Affection? Things are sort of… awkward between the two of you right now, and the fact that he’d accept driving you somewhere without hesitation despite that is reassuring. Maybe he isn’t such a dick after all.
Wait, what are you thinking?
“Umm, is anyone there?” Mingyu asks again, and you give a little start. Oops. You zoned out on him.
Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you laugh and quickly answer him. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“I’ll be at your place in a jiffy, don’t worry about it,” he says briskly, and you can hear the sound of his car starting up. “Thank God you don’t live too far from me.”
“Really?”
“I live maybe two or three blocks down from you. I can’t believe you didn’t notice before,” he admonishes you.
“Yeah, well, why’d you still ask me for my address, then?” You shoot back, irritated, but Mingyu only snorts in response.
“I’m gonna hang up now, (y/n). Would be a shame if your ride was charged with using a phone while driving, eh?” You roll your eyes.
“Fine. Hurry up, okay? We’re fifteen minutes late and Sooyoung doesn’t live as close to you as I do, unfortunately.” Before he can respond, you end the call swiftly and stow your phone away into your pocket. Yes! Looks like you’re still going to that party… even if you’re forced to sit in the same vehicle as Mingyu for a period of time. Not to mention that it completely defeats the purpose of this party anyway. Aren’t you supposed to be forgetting about Mingyu and your confusing feelings for him? Then again, beggars can’t be choosers and sometimes you’ve just gotta take what you can, no matter how bad it seems. You stare at the clock on the dash impatiently, willing the minutes to go by faster and glancing at the wing mirror repeatedly as you wait for Mingyu.
Why are you so excited to see him?
You’re outside leaning against your car, earbuds stuffed in your ears as he pulls up next to the curb. You haven’t noticed him yet, too into the music to hear him, and he takes the opportunity to observe you and brace himself.
He’s beyond nervous. The mere thought of being with you, just you, even for just a few minutes, sends shivers down his spine. Who knows how he might majorly fuck it up? You were right; things are really weird between the two of you right now and it’s putting Mingyu on edge. Saying something even the slightest bit off could very well end whatever remnants of friendship you both have left. He can barely believe you called him of all people to drive you to Sooyoung’s party.
Yet he can’t help but feel hopeful. He’s close, so damn close to becoming more than your adversary. Hell, he’d be over the moon if you just stopped being so difficult. You dodge every pitiful attempt he’s made at catching your attention easily, and it’s exciting yet frustrating at the same time.
Tonight’s the night he’s going to win your heart. He’s sure of it.
You glance up at him just as the thought forms in his head, and a smile dances across your lips before settling back into a scowl. In a heartbeat, you scurry to his car and fling the door open with a flourish. His mouth twitches as he sees you, dishevelled and flustered and as usual, annoyed.
“You’re so slow,” you accuse him as soon as you buckle your seatbelt and he drives away. “I swear I was waiting for an hour before you arrived. You sure you don’t live as close as you say you do?” A lock of hair dangles from your forehead, and he has to fight the urge to tuck it back behind your ear.
“Well, I’m sorry to keep you waiting, your Highness,” he answers back snarkily, trying not to stare at you for too long. You look jaw-droppingly stunning to him, the very vision of beauty, even with your bland clothing and overlarge winter jacket. Your cheeks glow, your eyes shine with mischief, charm and a dozen other things that make his heart do a backflip, and you smell of… you. A mixture of scents that blend together to scream your name as clearly as if you’d said it out loud.
You huff and fold your arms across your chest, staring out the window as he drums his fingers on the wheel. Traffic’s good tonight, so you’ll be at Sooyoung’s in a few minutes. A comfortable silence falls over the two of you before Mingyu finally says something.
“You look decent.” He tries not to give away too much in those three words, trying to make it seem like a throwaway comment, something said just to be polite. You snort.
“Yeah, right. I could be wearing a sack for all you cared and you’d still say something nice about it,” you snicker, and he can’t help but smile too.
You’re painfully right – he really can’t care less about what you’re wearing. Nothing really hinders your looks. “Well, it’s a compliment nonetheless. Can I get credit for that?”
“No, you can’t.”
“Of course, your Highness.”
You seethe at the term of endearment, but the smile that he shoots you is too charming for you to be mad at for long. Sometimes Mingyu’s quite proud of the way he can worm his way into the affections of anyone.
That is, up until you came along.
“You don’t look too bad yourself,” you say suddenly, and he nearly cricks his neck as he spins around to look at you. A compliment from (y/n)? He must be dreaming. You’re just texting a friend of yours to kill the time, but from the way he’s staring at you, you might as well be singing Italian opera at the top of your lungs. His chest swells with pride from your words; he really did try to clean up for this party and he’s happy you noticed. Though it’s just a dress shirt and some black jeans, it’s better than his boring school attire. “Thank you very much,” he manages to say with a cheeky wink.
Grinning to himself, he makes a left and arrives in an austere-looking neighborhood, filled with houses with more rooms than he can easily count and high iron gates deterring passer-by from entering. Ah. So this is where Sooyoung lives.
“Nice neighborhood, huh?” He asks you, whistling at a particularly grand-looking mansion, and has to bite his lip to stop a smile as he sees your eyes widen at the sight of the house.
“It’s huge,” you breathe in wonder. For once you don’t have any sharp words to throw at him, and he enjoys seeing your awe.
In moments, he spots the house. It’s impossible to miss, with the cars lined up by the curb and a few late groups still stepping out of their respective vehicles, and the music floating out of the windows is loud, bassy and cuts through the quiet night sharply. Glancing at you, he parks behind a shiny black Lexus and gets out of the car. You’re about to follow, but he motions for you to stop as he dashes around the car to the passenger side and opens the door for you slowly, the way a chauffeur would. It’s cringey, but he feels proud when you step out of his car, which is nowhere near as elegant as the Lexus in front, with a grace of your own.
“Thank you, kind sir,” you smirk as he closes the door behind you. “You are truly a gentleman.”
“I try,” Mingyu smiles back, and he holds his hand out for you to take… which you decline. Guess you have your limits. Still, you allow him to walk a little closer than usual to you as the two of you climb up the short flight of stairs to Sooyoung’s massive house, where the doors are wide open and full of teenagers stumbling around, dancing to music and shoving each other around playfully. Sooyoung herself is at the front, beaming as you and him draw close.
“Hey there, (y/n)! Hi, Mingyu! I’m so glad you could make it,” she gushes, opening her arms up for a hug. Mingyu stifles a chuckle behind his hand was he watches you attempt to pat her on the back awkwardly. “I was afraid you wouldn’t show; we’re half an hour into the fun and you hadn’t showed up until now!”
“It’s not a problem,” Mingyu says, gently extracting you from Sooyoung’s clutches and giving her a hug too. “You look great!”
Sooyoung smiles bashfully and smooths the front of her cream-coloured dress, but she looks at (y/n) and gasps, “Are you kidding me? Look at your date, Gyu. I’d keep an eye on them and make sure no one gets too close!” She runs a hand over the material of your shirt. “Where did you get this, by the way? It looks so good on you!” Before you can reply, she turns around to leave, mentioning something about getting drinks for you, and vanishes into the crowd.
Mingyu looks at you for a second, and the two of you burst out laughing. Sooyoung’s joy is just too contagious and the two of you are giddy with excitement. “Let’s go,” he encourages you gently, and soon he’s leading the way through the throng of people. There are tables full of food and drink, a sound system blasting music that echoes on all sides, couches full of sprawled-out bodies and snoozing stragglers. Mingyu’s in his element, waving to friends scattered around the huge room and grabbing as much food as he physically can from nearby tables. Even the chips are top-quality and expensive, like the rest of the Park household. He’s just turning around to offer you a soda when he realizes his hand’s empty.
Where did you go?
You’re halfway up the stairs when Mingyu notices you’ve disappeared, thank goodness. Otherwise you might never have gotten another chance to duck out for a bit.
Frankly speaking, you need to forget Mingyu’s here. The whole purpose of this entire party (at least for you) is to continue your normal life without him. There’s no denying the strange feelings you’re starting to get when you’re near him (and when you’re not near him too), and it’s bothering you. A lot.
Upstairs, the party’s much less crowded, and people are lying on the chairs lazily, munching snacks or playing softer, quieter music from small speakers – nothing like the louder stuff downstairs. There’s a calmer atmosphere about it, but it’s awfully dark and you also see that many people up here are seniors, older kids. They leer at you as you pass by, hands hiding the whispers they exchange with each other. Cigarette smoke wafts from the darker corners of the room, and you wince a little. Sooyoung, let smoking and alcohol cross the perfect threshold of her perfect home? Impossible. Discomfort tingles through your body, and you want nothing more than to get away from this room and go home. Where’s Mingyu, Sooyoung, any of your friends?
Someone calls your name from a corner of the room, and it’s not a voice you recognize. You take a step back and bump into another guy, who snarls at you aggressively. Oh, man. This isn’t safe. Sputtering apologies, you hurriedly turn away and try to feel your way to the stairs as quickly as you can.
“(y/n)!” Speak of the devil. It’s Sooyoung herself, dashing towards you with a wide smile on her face. You try not to let the relief show on your face. “Where’d you go? I swear I went to grab us some food for one second, and the next second, you were gone.” She hands you a glass of what you hope is Coke, which you accept politely, and takes a sip from her own drink. Her eyes look a little unfocused, and you can tell she must be drunk. What’s in her glass?
“Where’s your date?” She says slowly, leaning against the wall for support. “Don’t tell me you ditched him! That’s not very nice of you…” Wagging a reprimanding finger at you, she nudges the glass towards you. “Hey, drink up. Let’s chat. What’s your date’s name… Mingyu or something?”
“He’s not my date.” You pretend to take a drink from your glass to appease her.
“Then who is he? Just,” she raises her fingers up to make air-quotes, “friends?”
Sooyoung’s drunk, of course, but her question makes you pause. What is Mingyu to you, exactly? A friend? Your archenemy? Or something more than all of that? You look helplessly at Sooyoung, and her eyes grow as big as saucers.
“Oh. My. God.” She threw her head back and laughed, a full, no holds barred laugh that sloshes half of her drink onto the expensive carpet. “Are you in loooove? In love with the guy that you’ve hated for-?”
You scowl at her and shove her back, but there’s no real anger behind it. “No, I’m not in love with him, as you say. I’m just sort of…”
Her hand touches your arm gently, eyes full of sympathy, and in that second, she looks completely sober. “Confused?” Sooyoung smiles at you, a real, true smile that didn’t come from drinks or anything like that. Suddenly she doesn’t seem so inebriated or far away. She seems like… a friend.
“I… maybe,” you mutter, disconcerted from her sudden change in demeanour. “I… I think I should go. I’ve spent too much time here and it’s getting late.”
“You just got here!”
“Yeah, and I want to go. I had a great time, Sooyoung, but I think I should leave now. I’m sorry,” you say sincerely, patting her shoulder. Sooyoung looks dismayed, but she sets her drink down on a side table and nods.
“I can give you a drive home, if you want,” she offers kindly, digging in her purse for her keys, but you shake your head.
“You’re drunk. No way am I letting you drive me,” you scold her. “Mingyu can drive me home. Stay and enjoy your party, okay? It’s your birthday, anyway.” You give her a one-armed hug, which she returns happily. Maybe after this, you might be able to consider Sooyoung another friend.
She grabs your hand and leads you down the stairs anyway, determined. “Alright, but stick close with me. A ton of weird-ass people gatecrashed this party and I don’t want you mixing up with them.” You try not to giggle as she elbows past everyone in your way and scrambles down the stairs quickly, her grip never faltering.
“Can you see him?” Sooyoung has to yell in order for you to hear. “Or should we go into the crowd and find him for ourselves?”
You can’t hear her though. The blood pounding in your head drowns out whatever words she says after because you’re focused on one thing, and one thing only.
Mingyu.
And he’s not alone.
disclaimer: i’m so happy i finally wrote this... thing? probably the first time in a while that i’ve taken my writing more seriously haha. i can’t wait to write more for this, maybe make it a two-shot or even three-shot lol. i hope you liked it, stay tuned for the next part :3 as always, DON’T TAKE THIS SHIT SERIOUSLY. (also mad props to admin sunshine for putting up with my bullshit and adding those goshdarned italics.)
btw i just discovered the small text thing and HOO IT’S COOL
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Hyperallergic: Beer with a Painter: Jennifer Coates
Jennifer Coates, “Large S’more” (2015), acrylic on canvas, 60 x 72 inches (courtesy Freight & Volume Gallery)
“Here’s some macaroni! And here is rigatoni…” Jennifer Coates says to me as she moves paintings around in her studio. It’s hard not to smile and feel like I’m being offered dinner as well as a studio visit. There’s a generosity and enthusiasm — and total willingness to put herself out there — when Coates is talking about ideas or sharing her work. She loves to joke about all things bodily and will talk about alien life, scatology, politics, and painting in equal measure. She is also a fierce gardener, cook, competitive baker, and musician — a vocalist and violinist in a couple of bands.
Coates’s recent work depicts food: spaghetti and meatballs, sprinkle cookies, and s’mores. Her work is about matter and viscosity, but it is also rooted in grid-like structures, repetitive mark-making, and very sophisticated paint handling. I remember being struck by her painting “BBQ” (2014), which I saw in a pop-up group exhibition — thinking it was intense and elemental, and a great painting joke at the same time. Against the backdrop of a painterly grid (a grill seen from above), was a huge slab of meat — which was also just substance: fire, heat, and red paint.
Jennifer Coates (courtesy the artist)
Coates has developed this interchange in all of her paintings since. Mass-produced and nostalgia-filled foods, like Almond Joy candy bars and thick deli sandwiches, are shown in cross-section. Their overall forms suggest biomorphic shapes in modernist abstract painting. They also look weird and over-the-top, gooey and oozing. Acrylic paint, slathered, smoothed, and textured, is likened to the synthetic colors and substances that are part of processed convenience foods, food dyes, and cake icing. Drips of creamy paint become syrup, pasta sauce, and melting cheese.
Coates received her BFA from the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts in 1995 and her MFA from Hunter College in 2001. She was the subject of a solo exhibition, Carb Load, in 2016 at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, Philadelphia. Collaborative work with her husband David Humphrey was shown in 2015 in a two-person exhibition, Plus Onus, at Arts + Leisure, New York. Prior solo exhibitions were held at Kinz, Tillou + Feigen (2008) and Feigen Contemporary (2006) in New York. Coates’s writing on art has been published in Modern Painters, Time Out New York, and Art in America. She’s also authored a horoscope column for the blog Two Coats of Paint and co-curated the exhibition The Swerve in 2016 at Ortega y Gasset Projects, Brooklyn, New York. She is known for her artist lectures / visual essays exploring the phenomena and scientific-social history of bubbles. A solo exhibition of Coates’s work, All U Can Eat, is currently on view at Freight + Volume Gallery, New York, through April 16.
* * *
Jennifer Samet: You grew up in a suburb of Philadelphia. I’m guessing, based on what you have told me about your background, that you didn’t actually grow up eating the mass-produced foods that have become a subject of your work.
Jennifer Coates, “Grilled Cheese” (2016), acrylic on canvas, 12 x 12 inches (courtesy Freight & Volume Gallery)
Jennifer Coates: In 2016, I had a show, Carb Load, at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. My mother came to the opening. She was saying to everyone, “I just want you to know, I did not feed Jennifer these foods.” And it’s true! My parents prided themselves on their gourmet cooking skills. I learned to cook from my dad. My friends at school would all eat tuna fish sandwiches on white bread with the crusts cut off. They had ravioli from the can. Those foods freaked me out. And I was just not cool and got teased for everything — from playing the violin to having nice, cute lunches, like a roast beef sandwich with mustard on multigrain bread.
So, I am recapitulating my sense of being an alien as a child. “I’m wrong, everything I do is wrong. I’m different from you, and I don’t understand you.” It is a comfortable perspective, in a way.
JS: Was art-making a part of your childhood? Were there artists in your family?
JC: Drawing was my thing. I drew all the time, picture after picture of wide-eyed little girls. They were like children of the corn, recurring and repeating and multiplying. In high school, I remember being miserable and thinking, “The only thing I have control over is what is on this piece of paper.” From time to time, it’s good to tap into that original impulse — when art history and contextualizing your work can start to take over. It’s about trying to make sense of how to be a person.
Recently, I found a drawing I made for my father, when I was eight or nine years old. He had sprained his ankle, and I was trying to make him feel better. So I made this drawing of an enormous hamburger with five different patties and all kinds of condiments, and his tankard of beer. It’s like you have one idea your whole life, and that’s it.
Jennifer Coates, “Cotton Candy” (2016), acrylic on canvas, 14 x 11 inches (courtesy Freight & Volume Gallery)
My maternal grandmother was really amazing. She took art classes starting in her 50s, and then went back to school to get her BFA when she was already a grandmother. She lived in Canada, and when I visited, I slept in her studio, with stacks of paintings. I saw her thesis show when I was in high school. She had learned how to cast in bronze, she made jewelry, and she made these ambitious paintings that were embedded with her experience of being a Jewish immigrant. She was a difficult person, but always very interested in what I was up to. It meant a lot to me.
JS: There’s something you told me a few years ago in your studio that I always think about. You said you grew up with an atheist Jewish mother and that experimenting with spirituality felt like the most forbidden thing. It was very funny. I’ve been thinking about it, since I know you explore relationships between the Occult and modernist art. You also consider your work to have a devotional, iconic quality.
JC: Yes, when I was an undergraduate at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, I met my friend Sarah Peters, the sculptor. She was involved in a born-again Christian community. Sometimes I went to church with her. I didn’t know if I believed all of it, and I wasn’t necessarily attracted to organized religion. But there was something so ecstatic, which was attractive to me. And yes, I would worry that somehow my mother was going to discover me saying, “Praise Jesus!”
I liked how the ecstatic reorients you to the moment you are in, and wakes you up. My mother saying, “God doesn’t exist… and tell your friends,” just didn’t do it for me. I think anything that makes you feel liberated, in terms of how you see reality, is a good thing. A whole world opens up when we really look at all the things that we put on our bodies, and put in ourselves. I’d rather have that be magical than neutral.
Jennifer Coates, “Picnic I” (2013), acrylic on canvas, 48 x 48 inches (courtesy of the artist)
JS: At that time, when I visited your studio, you were making abstract paintings with a lot of pattern and tessellation. When and how did you move into the food-based paintings?
JC: Around the time you visited, I was probably working on “Picnic” (2014). It was a skeletal black warping grid with stuff oozing out of it. I was frustrated with it and didn’t want to be in this nebulous architectural abstraction anymore.
For a few months, I was background processing, trying to figure out where I wanted to go with the work. I had a couple of experiences that affected me. I visited Nicole Eisenman’s studio. She has known my work for a long time. I saw the painting “Under the Table 2” (2014) in the studio, which shows a huge cutaway of salami, and people hanging around the table. There are flecks of fat and meat in it. I was amazed by the painting, and Nicole said, “You could have painted those dots in the meat.” I thought, “Wow. What would it be like, to go from what I’ve been doing, to painting salami?”
Then I came across an image of a Claes Oldenburg sculpture, “Cash Register” (1961). I thought about how it was completely of its moment, but it also looks like it was dug out of the earth. It was like an ancient sculpture.
I also saw photographs of a friend’s vacation in Iceland. There were beautiful, primeval landscapes, and images of him and his wife, sitting at picnic tables, eating little snacks. Little by little, something started to cement in my head, where I thought, “I can talk about the sublime – this radiant, transcendent presence that I’m trying to coax out of paint, and also anchor it back to the everyday.”
I decided it would be really exciting to go back into the black grid with a gingham pattern. It didn’t change anything about how I was painting. But I named it, and made it specific, so that anyone looking at the painting would read it as a picnic blanket or tablecloth. On this particular surface, everything that happened on it or erupted from it felt food-oriented. A stain wasn’t just a painterly stain; it was a barf stain or something that spilled over. That was the beginning of the food.
JS: It seems that your concern in these paintings is to establish an equivalence between the paint and the food substance. Is that accurate?
JC: Paint can do what it wants to do, and the references can be multiple and diffuse. If I am doing a spray of paint, it is icing as well as a Jackson Pollock move. The food often just stages an opportunity. Is it going to be a Pointillist business, or a zip down the middle, or Abstract Expressionism? It became a way to have a lot more fun.
You also begin to think about all the weird decisions that go into preparing foods. There are aesthetic decisions that are not just about nourishment. You want things to look a certain way, or have a certain ratio of liquid to solid. That struck me as exciting to explore.
When you are spreading something on a piece of bread with a knife, you put it on in a special way. Some kids like more peanut butter, and some like more jelly. There are always aesthetic decisions. And I thought, “Well, that’s funny. Maybe making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is a painting indoctrination experience.”
Jennifer Coates, “Cherry Danish” (2016), acrylic on canvas, 48 x 48 inches (courtesy Freight & Volume Gallery)
JS: I wonder why, if you are in search of the spiritual, your subject was mass-produced food. Aren’t they kind of polar opposites?
JC: Embedded in it is a critique. These processed foods are toxic — for us and for the planet. If you buy a Danish, you get a plastic-encased thing. You open it up, and the thing inside has more in common with the packaging than it does with something from your grandmother’s kitchen. How did this food become what it is? It is now made from synthetic chemicals, but why is it the shape it is? The Danish is a spiral — an ancient shape. So, for me, it’s a way to meditate on both the mysterious and toxic nature of processed food.
JS: What kinds of discoveries have you made as far as relating food shapes to symbols and forms?
JC: They are theories more than discoveries. I am sort of a conspiracy theorist-type person. I love this idea of, “Guess what?! This thing that you are so used to and never consider is actually the bearer of ancient ritual religious behavior.” I love making up stories about where things came from and finding deep-time precursors — shape rhymes throughout history.
It is interesting that as human beings we’ve been attracted to certain kinds of forms and shapes and behaviors. We tend to say, “It’s just decorative,” but what if there is something in our anatomy that draws us to similar patterns?
Lately, in lectures on my work, I am making connections between pasta shapes and entoptic forms. Entopic phenomena are the result of your visual cortex seeing your neuroanatomy. Experiments, like the ones that Heinrich Klüver did in the 1920s, have shown that people under the influence of certain hallucinogens draw specific patterns and shapes. The shapes are categorized and called “Klüver forms.” Similar kinds of forms and shapes can be found in petroglyphs and early Paleolithic art.
Jennifer Coates, “Everything Bagel” (2017), acrylic on canvas, 72 x 72 inches (courtesy Freight & Volume Gallery)
When I was doing excavation into the bagel shape, I saw images of yoni carved stone forms found in Israel eight thousand years ago. They are thought to conform to fertility or female genitalia worship. They were circular shapes with a hole in the center and a slit down the middle. For me, that’s all I need. You get a bagel, but it’s a bearer of this ancient ritual, affiliated with matriarchy and female shamans.
JS: So when you say they are theories, you’re not necessarily tying to prove them? I know you are interested in the work of Terence McKenna, the ethnobotanist and mystic. How did his work influence you?
JC: When I come up with a theory, it’s not verbal — it is visual. I lay out the pictures.
I want to trust the visual part of my brain — the part that is intuitive, and has shape recognition and pattern recognition. I’m trying to prove my theory through images. My hope is that if you are allowing yourself to think purely visually, you can be very thorough and engaged with what’s around you.
I got into Terence McKenna through the painter Steve DiBenedetto. His lectures are archived online, and I have listened to them constantly in my studio for years. McKenna changed my way of thinking. The desire to dig into history, improvise, and make up a story came from him. McKenna read everything, but he plays with all of the information and ideas. He’s not beholden to any of it. He wasn’t a scholar or a scientist. He just says, “Here’s what I think.”
JS: It seems as if you make a lot of painting jokes in your work. The sprinkles or dots can be abstract ellipses. Are you interested in Pattern and Decoration artists, or Op Art? Who are the figures in art history you are talking to the most?
JC: There are a lot of painting jokes. There are all kinds of moments where I think I can pretend to be this or that artist. It is very satisfying. With the bread and the popsicle paintings, I think about Rothko and Color Field painting. How can the popsicle be radiant? I’m thinking about a color relationship where the paint isn’t just naming something, but also transcending itself.
As for Pattern painters, I’ve always liked James Siena’s work a lot. I like Bridget Riley, but I would want to pee on it. I always want to do something to mess with Op Art.
Turner is somebody I come back to over and over and over again. The moments of light in his paintings are the most impressive and the most physical, but they are also the most ethereal — barely there. It is abject light and also transformative. I love that you can have something be really mucky and crusty, and also a ghost.
Jennifer Coates, “PB&J” (2015), acrylic on canvas, 48 x 48 inches (courtesy Art Museum at the University of Kentucky)
Hopefully, what comes across in my work is a kind of heightened devotional object that has a radiant presence. I was thinking about sacrificial stone altars. The slab, where an animal is getting killed with a knife, is like the first abstract expressionist painting. So making a sandwich and spreading substances around with a knife is like a weird descendent of the sacrifice. Peanut butter and jelly can look like bodily fluids or innards. It is gooey business.
JS: Do you see your paintings as feminist in the sense that they are acknowledging this kind of messiness? It is what Mira Schor talks about in “Figure/Ground” (1989), which is an essay you have cited as an influence.
JC: When I was an undergraduate, I was obsessed with Kiki Smith and body art. It was the early 1990s — that moment when body art was prominent. I took a feminist art history class at the University of Pennsylvania. I came from the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, where you draw from life and study anatomy. That art history class showed there was a way to use the body to communicate a political, feminist message. That concern with how the body is fragile, and breaks down, and there is pee and blood — I was really into that. And that interest has never left me.
Jennifer Coates, “Sandwich To Go” (2016), acrylic on canvas, 40 x 30 inches (courtesy Freight & Volume Gallery)
So for me, paint is very bodily. As much as it sort of organizes itself to be a depiction of something, it’s also always restating itself as this amorphous pile of goo. What’s a more amorphous pile of goo than the innards or a decaying corpse? I was trying to paint a sandwich, but then I said, “It is a fucking bloody vagina.” That’s what it is. I want it to look like that. If someone sees something that’s embarrassing and kind of weird, a stain that’s wrong, then I feel good.
I’m really excited about those moments where it becomes unruly and messy, anti-logic or anti-gravity. In his book The Swerve, Stephen Greenblatt discusses ancient Greek and Roman atomistic theory. The idea was that tiny particles shower down in the cosmos, moving in parallel lines. Every now and then, one goes out of its path. That is when things interact. It is that interruption of the pattern, and that interaction, which causes things to happen. Evolution happens. Systems self-exceed. Things progress when there is a mistake. So, I prefer the mistake.
The thing that makes many artists interesting is how they re-tool the past. They confuse our relationship to what we thought was familiar. You have to trust that part of your brain — the part that goes, This, on top of that. Something erupts from the matrix and the orderly. Then, all of a sudden, everything is exciting.
The post Beer with a Painter: Jennifer Coates appeared first on Hyperallergic.
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