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batrachised · 1 year

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The Curious Case of Walter Blythe

Where to begin with Walter Blythe?

Of all of Anne's children, the narrative repeatedly denotes Walter as an "other," so to speak. He stands out, particularly in contrast to his siblings like Jem. Where Jem is dashing, Walter is sensitive; where Jem is bold, Walter is dreamy; where Jem is brash, Walter is poetic. Jem marches off to WWI like the typical naively gallant soldier, while Walter, from the beginning, recognizes its cost and horror. Walter, due to these characteristics, can sometimes come across as a bit of a shrinking violet. Although he's intended to be sympathetic, child me didn't really appreciate him in comparison to the more practical and humorous characters. Now that I'm older, I recognize just how complex Walter is. Child me saw a dreamy, high-strung boy with nothing deeper; adult me realizes the rock firm sense of character underlying that dreaminess.

As we continue with the Anne series, we learn one of the reasons for LM Montgomery's emphasis on Walter: he dies in WWI. His last words to Rilla in the form of a letter stick with me:

Rilla, the Piper will pipe me 'west' tomorrow. I feel sure of this. And Rilla, I'm not afraid. When you hear the news, remember that. I've won my own freedom here—freedom from all fear. I shall never be afraid of anything again—not of death—nor of life, if after all, I am to go on living. And life, I think, would be the harder of the two to face—for it could never be beautiful for me again. There would always be such horrible things to remember—things that would make life ugly and painful always for me. I could never forget them.

This closes Walter's intended narrative arc. From when he was a child, he had the shadow of death over him--LM Montgomery marks him as doomed in Rainbow Valley--and as an adult, he has to grapple with his fear of the war (a sensible fear, a moral fear that bestows his character with a rich legitimacy I failed to notice as a child) until finally, he accepts it in the above passage. It's a powerful yet heart wrenching acceptance, too, because the passage recognizes there is no happy ending for him here--even if he were to live, he'd suffer from PTSD for the rest of his life (yet another entry in my, "lm montgomery stories do have grit, you know" list).

So, what about Walter's unintended narrative arc?

Or perhaps intended, although LM Montgomery might not have had the vocabulary for it (we can never know). But what I'm referring to here is that Walter could be read as gay. This goes beyond the stereotypical dreamy sensitive man, to the fact that Walter never shows an interest in women at all. Even when his supposed love interest Una is discussed, it's in very tepid terms. After ignoring her and her interest in him for years, he remembers her the night before he dies and hopes all is well with her. Not the usual gushing passages we see from LM Montgomery.

For years, I absently understood this interpretation as reasonable but unintended--until I came across as fascinating academic article that discusses Walter in the context of LM Montgomery's other work, Walter's closet. The article begins similarly to what I've just stated:

Already, we see the themes broadly discussed. Walter as somewhat of a misfit, a social outcast of sorts, in comparison to his male peers of the day. The article expands on the contrast between Jem and Walter:

It also comments on Walter's flouting of gender roles and gender expectations. As the article describes, Walter has "a lack of masculinity" relative to the other characters. Now: this is stereotypical masculinity. Being loud and pugnacious does not make a man. But in LM Montgomery's times, it did. See the following:

it also shows the reaction of the other characters, a reaction that is--possibly--somewhat outsized to someone who simply likes poetry. The implication here is that like the audience, the characters also believe that Walter's characteristics mean that he could be gay.

So, so far we have evidence of Walter not fitting into stereotypical gender roles--but wait! That doesn't mean that he's gay. That just means that in LM Montgomery's time, gender roles were a very tight box to fit into, and so someone with less masculine interests could have a hard time and be viewed as an outcast, a "sissy," as Walter is called.

That brings us to the next point: although Walter's interest in poetry hardly means he's gay, his complete lack of interest in women could.

Here we see the phenomenon from earlier, where the character's reaction to something about Walter seems outsized for what the something is--as if the character knows something, or understand something, we don't.

Beyond the curious lack of interest in romance for a LM Montgomery character, there are also loaded statements that--to be fair!--could mean a thousand things, but in the context of what we've seen so far, seem pointed towards Walter's unique struggles as a non-masculine man.

The author recognizes that LM Montgomery could simply be writing against typical notions of manhood but once again, we hit the issue of Walter's asexuality. Perhaps LM Montgomery simply wanted to go against the grain there too, but the author notes the oddness:

and lastly, here we reach the part of the article that made my jaw drop. While it's impossible to know LM Montgomery's intentions, this example is what cemented my theory--just a theory!--that perhaps LM Montgomery deliberately based Walter on someone or someones she had observed in real life as a pastor's wife.

Now, here's the thing. We can't know whether Walter was intended to be gay, whether LM Montgomery simply wanted a foil to the typical masculine hero, whether he's simply LM Montgomery's pet idea of the ideal man, someone who is more emblematic than real. But to me, the evidence is there. It's not just the lack of traditional masculinity, it's the lack of romantic interest in general. It's not just the fretting over Walter's sensitivity, it's the implied slurs and worries over his salvation. It's not just the lack of romantic interest in general, it's the fact that LM Montgomery implies, even if accidentally, that someone--a boy--similar to him has a crush on him, or is at least, drawn to him.

My theory--and I have literally no evidence for this, to be clear, so I guess it's more something I wonder about--is whether LM Montgomery observed men like this in her work as a pastor's wife and wrote them into her stories. She claimed that she never based her characters on anyone real, but I think it's fairly obvious that her life on the Island, working with its residents, was a source of creative ideas for her. I don't necessarily believe there would be someone specific, but rather, as the passages above state, people with "tendencies" that she had observed over the years. Muddying the waters further is Walter's status as an emblem rather than a character. He doesn't come across as a real person in a lot of ways, unlike the rest of LM Montgomery's characters, which makes my idea much less likely.

If you made it to the end of this long post, I'd love (I mean it) to hear your thoughts!!

#anne of green gables #aogg #walter blythe #anne shirley #rilla of ingleside #rainbow valley #i told ya'll i have the RECEIPTS #when i first read this article i was shook bc i had always been like “ya you can interpret it that way”#but it was the first time I realized it might have some way have been deliberate #world war 1

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middle-earth-mythopoeia · 2 years

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Give me some Gollum hot takes

I would love to! Thanks for the ask! :)

It’s not really a hot take, but Sméagol is honestly one of my favorite characters in LOTR. It’s partly because of what he represents in terms of the importance of pity and mercy in Tolkien’s works, and it’s partly because I just find him a really interesting and enjoyable character. Yes, he’s a scheming, lying murderer, but he’s not all bad, and I can’t help but feel sorry for him. He’s repulsive, but also pitiable, and somehow kind of...adorable?

Here is proof, for those that don’t believe me—a recording of Tolkien himself voicing Gollum: https://middle-earth-mythopoeia.tumblr.com/post/625469443457351680/i-cant-believe-i-just-found-out-that-tolkien-did

Just listen to the way Tolkien does the Gollum voice! Like, yes, Gollum is a murderer and a would-be cannibal, but he sounds so cute! I’m not ashamed to say I reference this scene all the time, because it’s just so fun to quote. "Is it nice, my precious? Is it juicy? Is it scrumptiously crunchable?" Also, Andy Serkis’ version of Gollum is so clearly based on Tolkien's own Gollum impression, and I love him for that!

There are so many good Sméagol scenes, but I love the part in LOTR when Sméagol is thinking about what will happen if he gets the One Ring back, and he says, "Perhaps we grows very strong, stronger than Wraiths. Lord Smeagol? Gollum the Great? The Gollum! Eat fish every day, three times a day, fresh from the sea. Most Precious Gollum! Must have it. We wants it, we wants it, we wants it!"

It’s adorable that eating fish every day is Gollum’s only goal if he gains ultimate power. But it’s also really sad! That's all he wanted. He was corrupted by the Ring for hundreds of years, but he was still just a hobbit at heart, wanting to be left alone to eat his favorite food in peace.

A scene in The Two Towers that really gets to me is this one:

And so Gollum found them hours later, when he returned, crawling and creeping down the path out of the gloom ahead. Sam sat propped against the stone, his head dropping sideways and his breathing heavy. In his lap lay Frodo’s head, drowned deep in sleep; upon his white forehead lay one of Sam’s brown hands, and the other lay softly upon his master’s breast. Peace was in both their faces. Gollum looked at them. A strange expression passed over his lean hungry face. The gleam faded from his eyes, and they went dim and grey, old and tired. A spasm of pain seemed to twist him, and he turned away, peering back up towards the pass, shaking his head, as if engaged in some interior debate. Then he came back, and slowly putting out a trembling hand, very cautiously he touched Frodo’s knee – but almost the touch was a caress. For a fleeting moment, could one of the sleepers have seen him, they would have thought that they beheld an old weary hobbit, shrunken by the years that had carried him far beyond his time, beyond friends and kin, and the fields and streams of youth, an old starved pitiable thing.

This breaks my heart. Poor, poor Sméagol.

Anyway, this wasn’t meant to be a sad post, it’s a Sméagol appreciation post. I think it’s really impressive that Tolkien wrote him as a character who is so sinister, threatening, and dangerous, and yet also managed to make him so wretched and pitiable.

And on a totally different note, one of my favorite things about Sméagol is the strange way he talks, not just the hissing and the "gollum, gollum" and "my preciousss" but the odd vocabulary. Like this scene in Dead Marshes:

‘No, we have got no fish,’ said Frodo. ‘We have only got this’ – he held up a wafer of lembas – ‘and water, if the water here is fit to drink.’ ‘Yess, yess, nice water,’ said Gollum. ‘Drink it, drink it, while we can! But what is it they’ve got, precious? Is it crunchable? Is it tasty?’

I love that Gollum says “crunchable” in both The Hobbit and LOTR, and they used it in the LOTR movies too! In the movies, Gollum says, “No, no birdses. No crunchable birdses to eat.” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PLtR5r-2YGM&feature=emb_title)

And I have a kind of embarrassing story about that. I sometimes forget that not everyone has memorized the entire script of the LOTR movies, and I (erroneously) assume that when I quote them people will get the reference, which has led to some really awkward moments... Like the time I was eating lunch outside with coworkers, and I saw some sparrows on the ground, and since the sparrows were cute, I pointed to them and said, "Ooh, crunchable birdses!" Well. My coworkers did NOT get the reference, and suffice it to say they were a bit disturbed.

#asks #Smeagol #Gollum #crunchable birdses

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anxious-burrito-babe · 2 years

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an incredibly unnecessary linguistic analysis of like twenty seconds of dialogue in prey (2022)

I was really surprised to see this movie explore themes of gender, siblinghood, and power. there's a scene where Naru and Taabe are really grappling with this as she tries to convince him to help her hunt the predator:

NARU: We need to go back out. Far, beyond the ridgeline. TAABE: No. NARU: Kay well I’ll hunt alone if I have to TAABE: You can’t. NARU: Do I need your permission, war chief? TAABE: It’s not about permission. You can’t. I had to carry you back.

here, Naru is clearly mocking Taabe and the authority he apparently assumes over her. Taabe doesn't deny the "chief" comment, but instead attempts to explain that, based on the previous scene, she lacks the ability to follow through on her goals. in his eyes, she is putting herself in harm's way.

what really struck me here (because I'm a huge nerd) is the word "can't" here. for a native English speaker, permission and ability are tangled up in this word. through the economy of this exchange, the audience easily understands that Naru is not simply struggling against traditional gender roles, but a similarly frustrating underestimation of her ability. this scene is a brilliant set-up for later moments in the movie where Naru ultimately takes advantage of how she is continuously underestimated.

but my question (again, being a massive nerd) is: what happens to this scene in the Comanchee dub? how does that version engage with the question of permission and ability?

it's difficult to tell from the subs alone, which are a (in my opinion) messy gloss toward the English dialogue. to my eternal outrage, there are no subtitles in Comanche. if I wanted to find out exactly what the actors were saying, well, I'd have to transcribe as best I could as a non-native speaker and make do with online Comanche language resources. for the curious, I'm including an incredibly shitty and lazy transcript of the dialogue that I used to work out what was going on. if by any chance any Comanche see this post, I would love to hear any corrections (otherwise do not at me bc as a linguist about to start my phd kI’m already ashamed of the transcript LMAO). anyway, here's what I managed to cobble together after listening to ten second segments of dialogue fifty billion times, with the subtitles written in parentheses:

NARU: u:k pitsaku. u:nitu mirak (We need to return there, going that way) TAABE: oi (No) NARU: megu nana patakh mia (Well I’ll hunt alone) TAABE: ke aan (You can’t) NARU: na se para eala xaya kui? (Do I need your permission, Chief?) this line of dialogue was rough for me rip TAABE: ke ama kuit. ke aan. na se ama kutsahajt (It’s not about permission. You can’t. I saved you)

and here are some relevant words I pulled from an online Comanche Dictionary :

• pitsa miʔarʉ (return, go back, move away from)

• miarʉ / miarʉ̠ (go, walk)

• kee (no)

• nanihtʉbinitʉask (ask permission)

• tsahkwitsoʔai (save someone's life)

I haven't yet been able to find information about modals in Comanche to figure out how "ke aan" relates to "can." but besides making it painfully apparent that my transcript is fucked up beyond belief, comparing the vocabulary to the dialogue revealed a few things. one, Naru is talking about going by herself, and talk of hunting seems not to enter the picture. two, while the English dialogue has Taabe discussing permission, in the Comanche he apparently rejects the label of Chief. to me, this is a more humble treatment of Taabe's character. he doesn't believe he has earned that title and makes clear that he just wants to protect his little sister.

is the difference as striking as I thought? no, but that doesn't make it any less interesting (remember, huge nerd here). i wish we had true Comanche subtitles so it was eaiser to appreciate the subtext more. even better, I'm mourning the missed opportunity for full Comanche dialogue as the original script intended, with both Comanche and English subs. there are even jucier scenes I'm planning to look into more to catch other subtleties. either way, I'm delighted we got to see a powerful Comanche woman kick predator ass and hear her talk about it in Comanche too

#prey 2022 #prey spoilers #comanche #linguistics #indigenous languages #did anyone ask for this content? no #do I particularly care? also no #i'm so excited for this movie to bring more love to comanche #the tribe seems to have been working really hard to promote their language

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monstrouscrew · 2 months

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Malevolent episode 39, live commentary backup.

spoiler: we liked it.

note: we won't be sharing our emotions about the finale with others online. got work to do and dreamscapes to walk.

we have our plush Arthur to scream into its soft and warm, huggable presence.

онсказалпоехали и жмякнул play

Jjjjjjjjaune. these gorram topics. нихера разговорчики пошли, woke tumblr vocabulary.

also i feel uncomfortable when i hear the word "relationship". a truly unspeakable horror.

Arthur's "..yes, yes." at Jjjjaune's "a way to separate us". don't you want it, human?...

ARTHUR OH MY GOODNESS. a model chaotic neutral. 🤣🤣🤣 poor Jjaune. you've got voices, yeeeeah.

dear Arthur Lester. don't fuck this up, please. be a good medium. be a vessel. for a few minutes. also, Noel, that's the time for using the names first ><

yes, got that joke about Karen xD

all the italktobothofyou stuff...

on the one side, we're a bit envious. because we know the fact that we are the crew is either not taken seriously or is seen as a mental disorder. or... the human fields, we don't trust others after that.

okay, Arthur fucks up being a good vessel, too. personality is a curse.

Noel has seen some real shite, yeah... Maybe we'll draw him. we like his manner of speaking. of course he'll die eventually, of course.

Jjjaune, ffs, WHY DON'T YA PRESS THESE FUCKING BUTTONS

also Jjaune: "aren't you just a cute wet cat who haven't beaten a man when you was a P.I.?"

Arthur can be scary. he can. (i wish i could be like that, not just "cute uncanny valley")

well, fuck you, Percy :DD dammit, now I'm also wondering what happened.

...

the part about that speck of dust was good. the ending, though... godmother coming to those in need. and a man who doesn't see the stars anymore.

Jjaune NOW YOU FORGET NOEL????? what is this shit. wut.

booooys. to take this object as far from the humans as possible you'll have to travel far beyond the path of reason. you know what the hell it means.

Marie is such a nice old woman :) and... Arthur isn't a good man. yet... it's warm to have it imagined.

a letter from Oscar. whoops.

also.

wait NOEL what's up.

(okay may they throw this letter away or just lose it)

ohhh we see.

our golden majesty is a theatre kid, of course 🙃

what do we know about Ancient Egypt and the rocks falling from the sky?

enough to appreciate this episode. sometimes deep space delays are very useful :)

#k's wave #malevolent podcast #malevolent episode 39 #malevolent spoilers #yes we say JJJJJJAUNE like in french deal with it #there's a pun in our first language and you won't understand it #the jester team #thx to the podcast for my cat plushie Arthur and my dolls #masked #because fuhg human u won't see us cheering in the tags

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doctorbunny · 3 years

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MILGRAM theory time: Haruka!

This isn't going to go super in depth (famous last words) but there's a few heavily debated parts of Haruka's MV I want to share my findings/thoughts on because I think this is my new special interest and during my quest to get best boy's song to 1 million views I have been looking over his first MV with a fine tooth comb so to speak.

Disclaimer: As the Jackalope said in the "This is the MILGRAM" trailer, we don't necessarily know everyone's crime from just the first video, its possible that a lot of things will be re-contextualized in the second MV, however I am not psychic or bilingual and thus will only be working with content released before August 20th 2021 and translated into English (which could cause some language/cultural details to be lost on me as translation is not a 1 to 1 process).

TW for discussions of ableism, child abuse, murder and animal death. Also this is really long so sorry to all the people that follow me for non-MILGRAM stuff

Firstly, I want to start on the topic of Haruka as a person. He is disabled. He does not have 'the mind of a child' (although he is 17, making him legally a minor in both North America and Japan). He is not just 'child-like'. And he is not mentally ill (well he might be, in the sense that many disabilities like Haruka's have strong comorbidities [where a person has two or more conditions but neither directly causes the other] with anxiety, depression and PTSD, but usually when I see people talk about him 'struggling with mental illness' they go on to refer to aspects of his disability). Sometimes on tumblr, people like myself, will see canonical traits written into a character and identify them as being traits associated with our disabilities/mental illness and headcanon them as such. Sometimes this even involves saying things like "It's basically canon!" Although we understand that these characters were probably not the result of a writer intending to write a disabled person. When I say that Haruka is being written as a person with a neurodevelopmental disability, I mean the writer intended to write a disabled character and wrote them in a way that they wanted the audience to pick up on. As an autistic person (which is one of many neurodevelopmental disorders and also something I probably didn't have to specify because who else would be writing an essay about a series they got into a few days ago at 11 o'clock at night) I really like how Haruka has been written so far. There's definitely some parts of him that have been exaggerated so abled normies can pick up on his disability (namely how his MV 's main motif is really child-like drawings) but the writers also included a lot of smaller details I appreciate like how it is noted he avoids eye contact when talking to other people and is depicted as nervously pulling at his sleeves in official artwork, or how he says he finds his prison uniform (which has tight straps) 'relaxing' and when he gets nervous/tense, he will dig his fingernails into the palm of his hands. (These last two potential being examples of 'self stimulation' [aka stimming] where a person seeks out specific sensory stimuli in order to help regulate their nervous system/emotions, in this case the tight uniform creates a comforting, secure feeling [you may have heard about some people preferring to sleep under weighted blankets for this reason] and digging nails into his palms sounds uncomfortable/painful but is done in an attempt to deal with a greater sensory discomfort caused by the situation/environment) I also appreciate the depth he is written with, he struggles to communicate verbally but in his MV and interactions with other inmates is shown to have insecurities, opinions and a consistent thought process (this is all basic character stuff but unfortunately not always present in disabled characters)

Also I want to add that (in terms of what we've been shown so far) Haruka did not kill anyone because of his disability/mental illness. Disabled people are not inherently more innocent than abled people. But there is no disability/mental illness where a symptom is that you kill people and real people have to live with the stigma when you speak carelessly and suggest things like "Haruka is the kind of mentally ill person who kills people as a cry for help" 🧂 (or at the very least real people have to read BS like that and cringe). TL;DR Haruka is less child-like and more onion-like (as in, he has layers) 🧅🧅🧅

Now is the actual theory stuff, oops:

Every prisoner in MILGRAM is supposed to have committed murder in some way, obviously considering Yuno just had an abortion (which i personally do not consider an act of murder) whilst Mu literally stabbed someone to death, this definition is stretched a bit. But it is not agreed upon yet who Haruka killed/how many people he killed or why he killed.

In his MV he is shown to have chased after his dog into a forest, seen something off-screen, then beaten something into a messy pulp with a rock. Some people think the dog is a red herring and that Haruka actually killed his mother/the girl from the fireworks show/his brother. I do not agree.

First: I believe Haruka when he says he doesn't have a brother. The MV literally starts by Haruka looking in the mirror and then switching between the him now

and a really similar looking younger child who just so happened to be a key feature of his memories (I don't have the vocabulary to explain it but its like cinematic parallels that establish this is the same person at different points of their life)

Its not impossible that this is Haruka's secret younger brother, but i think its unlikely. I saw someone saying they had to be different people because Haruka looks less happy than the child but like, most 17 year olds are less visibly happy than when they were 7 (or however old the child is meant to be). Life happens.

So when Haruka is shown pushing the child around and eventually strangling him, this isn't meant to be literal (homicide or suicide), but a representation of how conflicted Haruka feels about his younger self, who may have committed the murder (if you've ever been kept awake cringing at memories of something you said in the past and wishing you could go slap some sense into your former self, this is like that but 10 times more self loathing). The lyric "I am always repeating yesterday," implies he might think about this specific past event a lot.

Moving on, its pretty well accepted that Haruka's parents were abusive in some way and Haruka internalised a lot of it: he constantly apologises, he says in his interrogation questions that his one wish come true is that "[he] want[s] to be loved" and describes in his MV how when he couldn't find the words he was looking for ("you're unfair") one of his parents "would get angry at me and say “You’re hopeless.”". He seems to know its unfair but also still says he 'loves' his family, possibly mistakenly believing it is his fault, but also showing an awareness of his situation (and how his parents might behave).

Now, the MV is stylised in a way that makes certain details unclear, but there is one clear detail showing that Haruka's dog was killed

This is the first close up of Haruka and the dog. Haruka's mother is just out of frame supervising, but they look pretty happy. Notice how the puppy has a silvery chain for a collar. Somehow, this dog gets out of the house but only Haruka is shown chasing after it (whether his mother was searching elsewhere or didn't bother following her disabled son into the forest is unclear). Either way, young Haruka is now in the forest, unsupervised.

By the time he finds the dog, there is already blood, suggesting it was initally attacked by something else.

is this a sigh of relief from a boy whose finally found his beloved pet or a jealous weakling glad that nature took its course and he is finally free of that meddling mutt stealing all his mummy's attention? /j

I think this shock at the discovery that 'there is blood on his hands' could imply that rather than literally getting the blood from his dog, Haruka has seen his already injured dog and realises that if the dog got out because of him (he is previously shown to be aware his parents seem to blame him for everything) then he is the reason his dog is injured/dying and will be blamed for it. (this scene plays over the lyrics "It’s fine, though it’s really not It’s really fine, though I don’t really think so When I tried to understand it, You’ll make that disappointed face again" suggesting he is trying to avoid making his parents disappointed and letting the family pet escape into danger is something that could make them very disappointed)

now we get into rock murder (this is present-day Haruka implying that this is either: not how the scene really played out; the writers really wanting the audience to know that this was Haruka's doing and not someone else's; or this turns into a separate incident that happened much later [although note that the red sky and blue moon is the same as when young Haruka first appears at the start])

b the corpse is beyond mangled now, but its clearly the dog because the silver chain collar is still there, to the right of the body. (circled in red for your convenience :3)

My hypothesis is: Haruka didn't set out to kill his dog, but upon finding it injured (we don't know the severity aside from bleeding and also it not being able to run away from Haruka kneeling down above it w/ a big rock so it could range from treatable with a lot of vet help to already on death's door, TBH I don't think Haruka would know the difference) He knew he'd be blamed for this; made into a villain who let the poor puppy come to harm. He panicked and killed the dog out of some idea that it would make him the victim here (since he'd be found crying over a dog corpse, which might make a parent go comfort him rather than getting angry about what could've happened to the dog). This is over the lyrics: "I cried, I screamed I wanted to be a pitied and loved weakling I was in denial, I was in denial I just had to make sure I’ve become a victim, I’ve become a victim" (there's another theory that he was also jealous of the dog, which could work here too, since this is not some calculated plot; rather its a rash decision) This ties in with his Japanese song title (translated as Weakness) which is a play on a phrase sort of like "The strong eat, the weak do not" to become "The weak are eaten by society" or "The weak eat each other to survive" [once again I am reminding everyone this is based on second hand information from the youtube comments section (from users mitchki and Alphaistic) because I do not speak Japanese] This second meaning (The weak eat each other to survive) makes sense under the reading that Haruka killed his dog in order to 'survive' making his parents disappointed for the dog escaping.

Miscellaneous points:

We don't know where Haruka's necklace came from yet, it must be a gift since the most expensive thing he's ever bought was cotton candy. The younger child in the video isn't wearing it and neither is his mother or the girl in the purple dress.

Haruka's home seems quite big, at the start we can see a large flower garden outside the window and there's a forest in walking distance. This might suggest his family is quite wealthy

Haruka probably did go to school at some point as homeschooling is not a legally accepted as an alternative to public schools in Japan. (However it is estimated that up to 5000 families homeschool, this is uncommon) A lot (about 62%) of Japanese schools apparently have a 'special needs' classes and there are about 505 schools focused on educating intellectually disabled students (although I do not know which sort Haruka would've needed as whilst intellectual and development disabilities can be comorbid they aren't the same). Now, if children aged 7-14 don't go to school, their parents receive a fine, but its possible that if Haruka's parents are wealthy, they just paid it to avoid sending him to school. (This might imply they wanted to hide him or were generally ashamed of him in some way) However high school education (for students over 14) is not legally required and its likely that even if Haruka went to elementary/middle school, he hasn't been around people his own age in at least 3 years. As he seems quite lonely and glad that the other prisoners give him attention.

I don't think Haruka's parents are divorced and if they are, its not his father who left. Haruka mentions in the 30 questions that he thinks he disappointed his father. But still includes him as part of his family ("My father and mother and me"). A theory I've seen is that his father was disappointed by his son being disabled and left. but developmental disabilities (especially in non verbal and semi verbal children like Haruka) can be diagnosed before the age of 3, so I feel it is unlikely that Haruka would bring up his father if he left that early in Haruka's life

All MILGRAM prisoners have covered one of DECO*27's older vocaloid songs (DECO*27 is a well known producer who composes the music for MILGRAM) Haruka covered 'Two Breaths Walking' (https://youtu.be/puXLfVWrz2Q) which is about a boy's first relationship and how his mother's jealousy set him up for failure as the relationship becomes toxic (specifically it has some very funny out of context lines like "Whose breasts are you sucking on now?") so yeah, mommy issues: the song (Also: some people say in the song, the boy kills the girl at the end, but this isn't literal, TBW is the first of a trilogy of songs about the same relationship, it is followed by Android girl then Two Breaths Walking: Reloaded and the story resolves with the couple reuniting as adults and getting in the relationship again, although its not necessarily as abusive as before, its still implied to be codependant ending on the line 'We should live like oxygen tanks, sucking breathe from the words each of us exhale, until our last breathe')

In all seriousness, the scene where younger Haruka is walking through the city with his mother but it keeps repeating until older Haruka pulls the younger one away might indicate an attempt to focus the happier memories of his parents (since this is also over the lyrics "Why is it breaking? Tell me why? Please don’t change If I tried and couldn’t say it, You would get angry at me and say “You’re hopeless.”" which depict a worse scene) I think both his parents are still physically present but have become far more emotionally distant, not giving him as much attention, which exacerbates his loneliness from not having any friends his own age to talk to

And if one of his parents did leave? I think its likely his mother since she is shown disappearing out of his reach after the dog-incident (inferring she got angry/disappointed in Haruka anyway) This could also be where he got his necklace from: Its something his mother used to wear (although this is 100% a guess) and that's why its shown to be important to him

This one is just me, but i didn't realise until a rewatch that when Haruka is watching the younger him and the girl running together, the background has fireworks. Haruka mentions fireworks being a key memory to him so I wonder if this was one of the first/last times he got to make a friend...

On three separate occasions in the interrogation, Haruka mentions not liking animals. Despite this, he is depicted as sleeping with a rabbit plush and on his birthday art (I'd include that too but tumblr only allows 10 pictures per post, so here's a link) he is standing next to a giant blueberry and strawberry cake with two bunny themed biscuits at the side. Through my experiences of seeing Japanese fandom art on pixiv, sometimes rabbits are used to insinuate a character is cute and timid in fanart.

Meaningless details: Haruka sleeps with his necklace on; he sleeps on a bed and not a futon; at first I thought he woke up holding his plush's hand but his hand is merely next to the toy; and considering the state of the pillow and blanket, I wonder if he moves a lot in his sleep or if the is just because in this case he seems to be waking up from a nightmare about the dog incident...

Final note: I've spent so many hours writing this I don't remember if i was building up to any big finale or not but I hope you enjoyed reading this! Feel free to add on in the comments/reblogs.

#haruka sakurai #milgram #milgram theory #001 #text post #essay #long post

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f0rever15elf · 4 years

Text

Gold Rush

Pairing: Modern!Ezra x f!reader Word count: 6,391 Rating: T+ Warnings: Slight swearing, short description of a brutal injury, mention of medical opiate administration via injection

Find the continuation of the story with Colorado Rocky Mountain High

Summary: It’s been a long time since the precious mineral rush hit the Rockies of Colorado. So when national news breaks of a potential gold vein left untouched in your quiet little town, no one is prepared for the rush that follows. And you certainly weren’t prepared for the man you meet.

A/N: So, I adore Ezra’s vocabulary and accent. I felt like a modern twist on it could be interesting. Someone really needs to control me when I start writing these oneshots xD

Masterlist | Ao3

You would never forget the day you first laid eyes on him. He looked a mess, dirt and soot clinging to his sweaty face. Mud clung to his coveralls, and his hair stood up in all directions having just taken his safety helmet off, a little blonde patch catching your eye. He looked positively exhausted as he lounged on a boulder set off a little bit from the rest of the commotion. The grueling heat from the mid-day summer sun did little to help the heat you felt rush to your cheeks when his warm brown eyes locked on yours. You averted your gaze quickly, scurrying off to finish your work in preparing the food for the new prospectors.

Your little mountain town tucked up in a secluded region of the Colorado Rockies had always been exceptionally quiet. That is, until a kid happened to stumble upon the start of what looked to be a gold deposit. It wasn’t unheard of, the mountains were rich with all kinds of valuable minerals. Hell, some of the towns got their names from the gold and silver deposits that brought them to life. Finding something here though, in your quiet and reclusive neck of the woods, was something your town was drastically unprepared for.

News broke nationally and within a week the town was flooded with prospectors and independent contractors all vying for their piece of the pie. The economic boost for the town was good, but the available resources were minimal, and the town felt the burden. There wasn’t enough room in the one bed and breakfast the town had to house them all, making little tent camps near the edge of town a very common sight.

Naturally, the close knit community rose to the occasion, coming together to make community meals for the visitors. Communal lunches were the most anticipated time for the workers, and they would flock to the picnic tables to fill their bellies as soon as the lunch bell rang. Most were nice and talkative, thanking the town for doing this for them, and promising to go visit the shops when they finished for the day. Some kept to themselves, staying quiet. Others would talk your ear off, but you had to approach them first. It was a strange new normal, but one that was easy to fall into routine with.

It’s been a little over a month now, and prospecting is in full swing. The little bit of gold the boy had found was just the beginning of one of the richest gold deposits this region of the Rockies had ever seen. More and more miners made their way to your town every day, and your new full time job became helping with the meals; making food runs down into the nearest large supermarket or tending to the vats of food that seemed to always be simmering away. But even when you were distracted with all of this hubbub, it seemed impossible to forget the man with the small blonde patch.

Today is a grey day. The clouds thick in the sky promise heavy rains. Yet still the lunch bell rings, calling the prospectors from their mine shafts and tents to come and join the community for food. The man with the blonde patch sits closer today, his usual boulder taken over by two of the newer prospectors whose names you had yet to learn. As you work, you feel his eyes following you, watching you like a hawk as you do your best to ignore it. Quite a few of the prospectors spent time ogling you, but this man’s gaze consistently feels different. Arms full of things to take back to your house to clean, you begin making the trek up the incline that leads to your house when lightning cracks the sky. The resounding rumble of thunder through the canyon scares you out of your wits, and the dishes go crashing to the ground as you lose your footing, stumbling backwards. You close your eyes, preparing yourself to hit the ground, knowing you’d be tumbling for a bit before you could regain yourself, but the ground never meets you.

“Careful there, sunshine.” The voice is honey thick, a deep Tennessee drawl that borders on music as it drips from the lips of the man who catches you. Opening one eye, you look up to see the man with the blonde patch holding on to you, having been the one to keep your from falling down the hill. You open your other eye as well, looking up at him for far longer than you are sure was proper before your cheeks grow hot and you scramble to get your footing again.

“I’m so sorry! The thunder frightened me, I didn’t mean to..I just...I – Thank you.” You blabber as you crouch down to start gathering the dropped and scattered dishes, cramming everything back in the chili pot.

“Not a worry, sunshine. Would have been a mighty rough fall there.” He crouches down to help you gather the dishes, only pausing to look to the sky when the first few drops land on his face. You look up with him and sigh.

“It’s going to be a hell of a storm.” His beautiful eyes turn back to you at your comment, an eyebrow raised. “The season is changing,” you grunt, getting to your feet. “Best to make sure your tent is secure, sir. Else this rain and the wind that will come with it will blow it half way down the canyon.”

“I appreciate the advice, but I do not believe that to be something I need concern myself with presently.” The way he spoke, words pouring from his mouth with such sweetness, was unlike anything you had ever heard. “I haven’t a tent to my name, you see. Just the clothes on my back and tools on my hip.”

“You didn’t bring a…?” Your voice tapers off in concern and confusion as the drops fall more rapidly, the rest of the prospectors dispersing to tend to their own things. “Come inside with me. You stay out in a storm like this you’ll get sick. Come on.” Turning, you begin your trudge uphill again, eyes on the sky as you wait for it to bottom out. The strange prospector follows you in silence, his tools clanking on his belt with every step.

And then it happens.

The sky opens up, the deluge drenching you both and you let out a small scream, sprinting down the street to the safety of your porch, the man hot on your heels. “C-Colorado rain is always so damn cold,” you chatter through clenched teeth, opening your front door and kicking off your soaked shoes. You’re half way to the kitchen when you realize the man hadn’t come in after you. Looking back over your shoulder, you see him standing just outside the doorway, the spitting image of a drenched kitten, conflict clear on his face. “Don’t just stand there, come inside where it’s warm.”

“It would be rather impudent of me to make a mess of your home in such a way.” You wave your hand at his comment, setting the dishes on the counter before returning to him.

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t alright with it. Come on, you’re letting the cold in.” When he still doesn’t move, you roll your eyes and grab his hand, tugging him inside before shutting the door behind you. “You can use my shower to get cleaned up. Go on.” You all but push him down the hall, him protesting in far more words than necessary as you do. “There’s towels in the wicker basket. Use whatever you need.” You turn to leave, stopped only by his hand catching your wrist in his gentle grip.

“Thank you, sunshine.” You look up at him, struck by the sincerity on his face, in his eyes. “I am beholden to your unbridled grace and kindness.” You flash him a shy smile and nod as he drops his hand from your wrist.

“I’ll get you something dry to change in to once you’re done getting cleaned up.” Your voice is soft as you turn, letting him to his business as you go to find him some clothes. It is at this time that you’re beyond grateful that your brothers were so damn forgetful, having left several articles of clothing at your place every time they visit. Humming a low tune, you rummage through their chest of forgotten clothes, pulling out a v-neck you’re pretty sure will fit him along with a pair of gray sweatpants that might be just a touch too short. They were better than nothing, at least. You quickly fold the clothes, setting them in the hallway outside the bathroom door before knocking.

“Sir, there are warm and dry clothes for you in the hall way. I’ll wash your wet ones when you’re out.” Over the sound of the running water, you catch a muffled, loquacious reply. You have only been speaking to him for a few minutes, but he’s already proven to have a more robust vocabulary than most anyone you’d met. Chuckling, you make your way back to the kitchen to get the dishes cleaned up, resuming your humming.

A bit later, you’re interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing. You look over your shoulder to see the prospector there, leaning against the doorway into the kitchen. Relief washes over you when you see the clothes did fit, making a mental note to not tell your brothers that you were giving away their clothes. “Enjoy your shower?”

“The breadth of generosity you’ve show this old man of ill repute is without measure,” sugar sweet words drip from his lips again, bringing a heat to your cheeks.

“Oh please, it’s nothing, really.” You gesture outside to the torrential downpour. “If you have no shelter in this type of weather, it has the potential to bring a rapid end to your prospecting career. The nights are too cold up this high to go to sleep drenched to the bone.” Your eyes rake over his figure, settling on his hair again, sticking out in all sorts of directions after having towel dried it. A smile pulls at your lips before you look back at his face.

“Well, all the same sunshine, I seem to find myself indebted to your good graces.” The corner of his mouth tugs up in a lopsided smirk that makes your heart stutter.

“Well if that’s the case, help me dry the dishes and I’ll call us square.” You grin and toss a towel to him as he joins you at your side. “By the way, I don’t think I ever got your name.”

“How discourteous of me! I go by Ezra. Just Ezra. Pray tell what name such an absolute vision of beauty such as yourself goes by?” You can’t help the giggle that bubbles from your lips as a heat rushes to your cheeks. You give him your name, a nervous air in your voice. He nods, repeating your name back to you and you can’t help the shiver that runs down your spine as your name sounds like liquid gold on his lips. You wouldn’t mind hearing him say it again and again, you think.

“I like that name. Ezra. I think it suits you.” You flash a smile as you hand him a pot to dry. “Tell me though. How have you been here since the rush began, yet still you don’t have so much as a tent to cover your head?” His laugh is deep and rich as he takes the next dish, drying it thoroughly.

“I find it more prudent to be frugal with one’s earnings in such a tumultuous line of business as freelance prospecting. Nature tends to provide what my mortal body needs as far as shelter, so the earnings I amass in mining go towards improving my station.” You nod, turning off the water as you hand him the last plate.

“And you’ve been living this way for how long?”

“By my approximation, I’d say I’m just about at the ten year mark.”

“I can’t imagine the lifestyle is easy…”

“There is an ache that lingers in my bones, no doubt, but the drive to press ever on towards greatness...well, that is what distinguishes those who simply chase a dream of getting rich quick from those of us who yearn for something beyond that which words can describe.” He turns, leaning against the counter to cross his arms, eyes staring off into space. You’re quiet for a moment as you watch him, taking note of the creases on his weathered face. Laugh lines linger along the corners of his lips, and smile lines accent the corners of his eyes. He is beautiful in every sense of the word.

“And when you reach the end of the vein here? Where will you go to next?” His eyes refocus on you and he smiles, pondering the question for a moment.

“I suppose that entirely depends up the riches chanced upon during my toils in your hospitable hamlet.” The way he says riches as his eyes watch you strikes a chord within you, and you have a feeling that it isn’t just the gold he is speaking of. Something about this man bewitched you, and you find yourself struggling to break eye contact with him. His smile is warm and welcoming, but there is something there just below the surface that hints of danger. And it thrills you. Another crack of lightning and rumble of thunder startles you from your trance and you push away from the counter with a nervous chuckle.

“Well, I do hope you’re able to find what you’re looking for here, Mr. Ezra. Please make yourself at home, I’m going to go set your clothes into the wash for you.” You turn and all but sprint down the hallway to the bathroom, Ezra chuckling in the kitchen behind you.

As you start his laundry, you take a moment to compose yourself. Your heart is racing and your hands trembled in a nervous excitement as they braced against the washer. The air around Ezra is different, you think. Something about the man sets him apart from those you had had the chance to speak to so far, and you are determined to figure it out. After calming yourself to a reasonable level once again, you make your way out to join Ezra in the living room. He’s found your meager book collection, helping himself to one of your novels, and the sight of him perched on your sofa with it balanced on his knee looks like the most natural thing in the world.

“Avid reader?” you question, sitting down on the other side of the couch, tucking your feet up underneath you.

“I have been known to indulge when such an opportunity affords itself to me.” He flashes you that lopsided smile that you just can’t help but return before re-affixing his eyes to the text in front of him. You watch him for a time, trying to learn as much about him as you can from his posture, his looks, until your eyes drift to the window behind your couch. The rain blurs the windowpanes, turning the landscape into some abstract watercolor painting and all that can be heard is the sound of the rain accented with the occasional turn of the page as Ezra reads. Relaxing into the couch, your eyes slowly slip shut as you drift off into a peaceful sleep.

When you finally come around, the sun has set and the rains have stopped. The house is quiet save for a gentle fire in the fireplace, one you hadn’t set before falling asleep. A blanket has been delicately draped over you and you smile to yourself. You sit up and rub the sleep from your eyes, searching for the friendly prospector. “Ezra?” Your voice is heavy, still thick with sleep as you stand to look for him. You find him outside on your porch, leaning against the siding as he looks out over the canyon visible from your home. “Ezra? Is everything alright?” He simply nods, not looking over to you. The full moon illuminates his skin in the most radiant of ways, accentuating every curve and plane of his face, brightening that little blonde patch in his hair. It left you near breathless. A shiver runs through you at the crisp mountain air, left cooler after the rains, and you wrap your arms around yourself to cope. Ezra shifts his attention to you.

“You should be inside, sunshine. The cold will do you no favors.” He pushes off of the wall, turning to usher you back inside. You hear it though, the slight sadness in his voice that wasn’t present earlier today. You allow him to lead you back inside, shutting and locking the door behind him before you turn to face him.

“What’s wrong, Ezra?” A flash of emotion crosses his face so quickly you aren’t even sure you actually saw it. But if you did...for a moment he looked almost...pained…

“Nothing, sunshine. The chill of the night just leaves an ache in my bones, is all.”

“You’re lying,” you whisper, stepping closer. Perhaps it was the bleariness of sleep that still lingered with you that emboldened you. Or perhaps it was the tantalizing aura that surrounded him that drew you in. Either way, you find yourself staring up at him, concern shining in your eyes bright as the full moon outside. His smile is forced, you can tell, as he puts his hand on your shoulder.

“Little gem, I promise you, the weight I carry is not something I need burden you with. Your hospitality has been unparalleled, and I will not permit myself to impose on you more than I already have.” His warm, tender eyes search yours, begging for you to listen to him. But stubbornness has always run hot in your veins.

“Didn’t I tell you before?” You reach up and take his hand gently in yours. “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure. Ezra, what’s wrong?” His hand twitches in yours before he gently pulls away, his smile significantly sadder.

“The life of a reprobate like myself should never tarnish the luster of someone like you, sunshine. I will not give you my sins to carry.” He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear before smiling and moving past you to lay down on the couch. A glance to the clock shows you’ve well missed dinner time, sitting at 8:30 now. With a sigh, you meander back into the living room, taking a seat on the floor in front of the fire, letting the heat warm your soul from the chilly night air.

“We all have our own sins to deal with, you know.” Your voice is low as you watch the sparks wick up the flue. You can feel his eyes on your back, waiting for you to continue. “Everyone has a story. But the mountains don’t care about that. They don’t care about who you were before you arrive here. They don’t care about blood on your hands or the loss you’ve endured. They were here long before us and will remain here long after you or I return to the stardust we are made of.” You turn your head to look over your shoulder to see Ezra still staring at you, the fire flickering in his chocolate eyes. “The mountains offer you a chance, Ezra. That’s why I’m here...and as fate would have it, it’s why you’re here as well.” You turn your face back to the fire, Ezra staying quiet for some time behind you.

“The life I have taken to isn’t an easy one, gemstone.” His voice is low and gruff, his drawl more prominent. “I’ve done things in this life that I am ashamed to admit. Lost as much as I’ve gained, taken as much as I’ve given. And every single soul I’ve urged on to whatever follows this painful existence torments me every time I attempt a moment of respite.” The sigh from his lips is heavier than any weight you’ve ever carried, and it pains you to know he carries it alone. “I tell myself it’ll all be worth it in the end. That I’m toiling away day in and day out for a greater purpose. But it’s been near a decade, gemstone, and the end never nears.”

“You’re tired,” you whisper, turning around to look at him, taken aback by the shine in his eyes. “You’re tired and lonely. I can’t even imagine how heavy your soul feels carrying everything you do all alone, and still managing to put a smile on your face. Lord knows I couldn’t...not ‘till I came here, that is, and the town helped me bare my burden. Ezra, I don’t think it’s a coincidence you ended up here in our town. I really don’t.” You flash him a gentle smile, standing up to grab another spare blanket from the linen box, handing it to him. “Think about it, okay? Stay here for tonight. This cold is no place for anyone right now.” He takes the blanket from your hand, perplexity painting his face as you smile down at him. “Goodnight, Ezra. I hope the fire keeps the specters at bay for you tonight.” He nods as you turn, heading back to your room after turning over the laundry. He was odd, but you liked him.

Bright and early you hear a rummaging in the kitchen, the smell of bacon permeating the air. Stretching, you stumble from bed, following your nose and growling stomach. Ezra is there in your kitchen in just the sweats he was borrowing, humming to himself as he cooks. The broad expanse of his back is littered with faded white scars, some that looked to be from blades, and some from burns. His humming voice is lovely, you think, smiling as you lean against the doorway to watch him. He seems so at home, you feel it inappropriate to disturb him. It’s when he turns to put a bowl in the sink that he catches you from the corner of his eye.

“Well good morning, sunshine. I beg your pardon but I permitted myself the liberty of preparing a warm breakfast for the two of us.” His smile that pulls at his lips is brighter than last night, and you felt certain the dread that plagued him had passed for now.

“Did you sleep well?” You inquire, moving into the kitchen to pull down two glasses to fill them with orange juice.

“A specterless dream for the first time in what seems like forever, gemstone.” He places his hand on the small of your back as he moves past you to keep you from bumping back into him, setting the plate of eggs and bacon on the table. The touch feels electric, and you find yourself shocked in how much you enjoy the feeling.

“The mountains have that effect on a weary soul,” you smile, bringing the glasses over. “Coffee?”

“That would be magnificent. But I don’t presume that the mountains have much to do with the reprieve I was so graciously afforded last night.” Your smile doesn’t fade as you put the coffee pot on to percolate, taking down two mugs after the fact.

“Pray tell what you think might be the source of such a thing?”

“I do believe it might have a thing or two to do with the enchantress that graces my vision in the radiance of the morning light.” Heat floods your cheeks as the coffee pot buzzes, the smell of fresh brew mingling beautifully with that of the bacon. You pour two cups, handing Ezra his before joining him at the table.

“I’m a simple mountain girl, I doubt it has anything to do with me.”

“You humble yourself far too much, gemstone. A heart of purer gold than the ore I mine, and the shining soul to match.” He holds his mug up in a toast before bringing it to his lips. “Ones like you are few and far between.”

“And ones like you even more so, I would say.” You return his toast before serving yourself a bit of breakfast. “Thank you for cooking, Ezra. It was very kind of you to do.”

“But the smallest thanks I could give in return for such philanthropy as what you have shown me these past twelve hours.” He chuckles, eating rather quickly, a habit that you feel was one developed over the long time spent in his lifestyle. He finishes well before you, standing to clear his plate. “I’ve imposed for far too long, I fear. I’ll change and be on my way. Gold doesn’t mine itself, I’m afraid.” You chuckle and nod, standing to stop him as he moves towards the hallway.

“Ezra, you are welcome here always. Tent or no tent, you’re welcome to kick your feet up on my hearth whenever you wish. And I do mean that.” Your voice is soft as you look up at him, eyes to match. He returns your gaze, a gentle smile working his way across his lips as he smooths your bed-messed hair.

“There is that heart of gold, my little gemstone.” The tenderness in his voice warms you through, and your heart aches when he steps away. “But I won’t impose a moment longer.” His smile stays as he goes to collect his clothes, quickly changing in the bathroom before making his exit, heading back down to the mine.

And so the days continue. The miners would come for lunch and you would help to serve it, each day Ezra staying close to you to keep you company. His honey dipped accent brought you more joy than you thought a simple sound could, and it made the days pass more quickly. In the evenings when he was done at the mine, he would come to your doorstep, leaning against the support as he talked with you, reveling in the laugh he was able to earn from you with his tales. Each night, you would offer him a warm place to lay his weary head, but every night was the same. A polite decline and an insistence that he could not allow himself to burden you more than he already had before he would excuse himself, heading back to the ridge where the trees would keep him company.

The night he doesn’t come to talk to you, you find yourself watching out the window for him, worry seizing your heart. The sky had been boiling as you had finished working in your yard for the evening, waiting on the loquacious prospector to come and keep you company as he had for weeks now. Rain was coming, you could feel it in your bones, a chill gripping you as the night grows colder. As far as you knew, Ezra still hadn’t purchased himself a proper shelter to ward off the rain, and that thought terrified you. No one should be out in such conditions, no matter how much they felt they deserved to be.

Lightning cracks the sky, your worried reflection flashing back at you for the briefest of moments as the bottom opens out of the sky. A Colorado thunderstorm, true to form. A shiver runs through you at the thought of Ezra out in this, and you decide it best to start a fire in the event that he happened to stumble to your doorstep. And no sooner have you worked the fire up to a low roar in the hearth, do you hear a knock at the door. You wrap your knit blanket around your shoulders, moving to open the door, and there he stands looking more akin to a drowned rat than you have ever seen. Lightning illuminates his face and all you can see is pain, sending your heart into a sprint as you reach for him, pulling him inside.

“Ezra, oh my God, what happened? Why were you out in this?” You lead him into the living room, sitting him down in front of the fire to dry him out and warm him through. “Are you hurt, what happened?” He only groans, leaning forward until his face rests against your shoulder, his breathing ragged. Your arms gingerly wrap around him, holding him to you. “Ezra, you’re scaring me, what happened?”

“A-Accident. In the mine. Rock slide. Hurt m-my arm…” He groans and your throat all but closes as your blood runs cold. You pull back gently, cradling his chin in your palm. The way his forehead creases in pain terrifies you before you even so much as see his arm. You pull back just enough to see the blood soaking through his drenched jacket, his arm cradled at an unnatural angle.

“Oh fuck…” You pull back, easing him down as gently as possible as you pull out your phone, cradling his head in your lap. After the third ring, a gentle voice answers. “Dr. Renslier, I need you to come to my house right away. I have an injured miner here. His arm is badly hurt and he’s bleeding through his clothes. I’m scared to move him…” Ezra’s breath hitches as he bites back another groan, guilt settling in his stomach at causing you so much worry.

“G-Gemstone, stop those tears…” He reaches up with his good hand, wincing as it jostles his right arm, to wipe the tears from your cheeks. “An incorrigible man such as myself is undeserving of such acts of affection. Save those diamonds, little gem.” You tilt your head into his touch, fear still paralyzing your heart.

Dr. Renslier was the only doctor in town, a retired surgeon from Denver Medical Center. He was the best of the best during his time there, and decided to take his skills to this little community, settling in with his wife and their three dogs. The town loved him, and he was one of the few people you would trust with your life in a fraction of a heart beat. So when your door opens and you hear his voice calling from the doorway, a wash of relief floods over you. He kneels next to Ezra, already pulling out scissors to cut away the bloodied jacket. The sight this reveals has your stomach turning and you fight to keep dinner down.

“W-Well? How bad is it doc?” Ezra’s usually rich voice is weak and strangled as he battles with the pain. “Give it to me st-straight.”

“It’s...not good. I don’t think...I don’t think we can save it.” Bone protruded through what was left of the skin in multiple places, the breaks jagged and splintered. “Even if we were in Denver I don’t think I could...save this.” He rummages in his bag for a syringe, tapping out the air before squeezing the flesh of Ezra’s shoulder, administering the injection. “That will help with the pain.” He grumbles about the storm as he pulls out a tourniquet, tying it off just below the shoulder. “We need to get him to the office. He’s going to need a transfusion and I need to operate, now.” You nod as you shift out from under Ezra, him already feeling the effects of what you could only assume was morphine, before helping the doctor to carry him to the car. You elect to ride along, knowing he would need help getting Ezra inside before the nurse on duty would take over.

As soon as you are ushered from the operating bay, you stagger to a chair, sitting down heavily as the adrenaline finally wears off. Tears brim and spill over once again before you drop your face to your blood covered hands, sobbing. Eventually, your sobs turn to whimpers turn to pained sniffles before exhaustion overtakes you, succumbing to a fitful sleep. You are awoken by the nurse, a gentle, pity-filled smile on her face. “He’s out of surgery and resting in a bed now. We need to get you cleaned up before you can see him, ok? We have a set of scrubs you can wear for now.” You simply nod, getting up to follow her as she leads you to the bathroom. The scrubs are folded neatly on the bench by the sink and you smile despite yourself.

Once clean and dressed, you make your way back out to the hall, the nurse waiting to lead you to the recovery beds. You feel as if you could collapse in sobs once more seeing Ezra laid up as he is, face pale and IV drip in his arm. Small bandages littered his face and what you could see of his left arm. As for his right...all that was left was a nub just below his shoulder, tied off in a neat bandage. You draw up a seat next to him, taking his hand in yours, drawing circles along the skin with your thumb. You would wait here for him to wake, you decide.

And so you do, falling asleep with his hand in yours. The feeling of his hand twitching in yours is what wakes you, your eyes snapping open to check on him. The groan that slips from his lips sounds so pained. Slowly, his eyes flutter open, squinting at the bright lights of the med bay before they land on you. A smile tugs at those lips of his when he realizes you were still there, beside him, and he squeezes your hand weakly.

“My little gemstone…” His voice is hoarse, but sweet, traces of that honey slowly returning. “Did you stay here the whole time?”

“As long as they would let me, Ezra.”

“You really didn’t nee-” You cut him off before he could finish the sentence.

“I wanted to. Please don’t ask me to leave, Ezra, because I won’t. I’m not leaving your side.” Rich chocolate eyes grow glassy at your proclamation, hips lips pressing into a tight line, but he nods all the same, secretly relieved that you wanted to stay with him.

“You must believe me a damn fool for finding myself in such a predicament.” His voice is tinged with humor, and you flash him a tired smile, shaking your head.

“It was an accident, Ezra. You said so yourself. I’m just relieved you’re alive to joke about it.” You return the squeeze to your hand and his eyes travel down to where you have interlocked your fingers with his. “Ezra,” you say quietly, drawing his eyes back to yours. “I want you to stay with me.”

“Well, I imagine that will certainly be preferable to the minute comforts an institution such as this could afford me whilst I recover as best I can…” His voice trails off, tight at the end of his statement as he looks to what remains of his arm.

“That’s not what I mean,” you whisper, your voice trembling with trepidation. Concerned eyes find yours again, an eyebrow arched. “I want you to stay with me. No more roaming, no more running...stay here. After the rush leaves, I want you to stay. With me.” His lips part slightly as you vocalize a desire he has had since the day he first followed you home.

“Sunshine, I couldn’t possibly be such a burden on you.”

“Dammit you bullheaded man! Listen to me! You aren’t a burden, you aren’t a hassle. Arm or no arm, I want you here, with me. Sharing my home, my life. I want that, Ezra.” You pick up his hand, bringing it to your lips to brush them over his knuckles. “I want you. I want an us…” You clench your eyes closed and you feel him pull his hand away before he lays it against your cheek.

“Gemstone...look at me.” You do as asked, looking up at him with glassy eyes that match his own. “Do you mean it? Do you really want me here? Is that what your heart is singing to you?” You nod, laying your hand over his against your cheek.

“Yes, Ezra, and I think it has been since the day you followed me home. Please, Ezra…” Confliction flashes in his eyes as he watches your face, your tears spilling over once more and he quickly wipes them away with the calloused pad of his thumb.

“No tears for me, little gemstone. I...I’ll stay…” You blink, almost not believing the words that came from his mouth.

“You...you mean it?”

“I do. My bones are tired, gem. My soul is tired. And since you extended such kindness to me that night, my dreams have left me in peace. All I dream about are your eyes which hold galaxies and your musical laugh. And being next to you…” You turn your head to nuzzle his hand, warmth flowing through you as you take in his words before you look back to him.

“We’re not so different then. You haven’t left my dreams, or my thoughts, since that night.” Ezra chuckles lowly before letting out a yawn, sinking back into the pillows. “Rest now, alright? I’ll be here when you wake.” He nods, pulling your hand away from where it holds his to your face, bringing it to his lips to place a feather-light kiss to your knuckles before laying it to rest by his side, his eyes slowly slipping shut.

The gold rush brought many people to your quaint little mountain town; miners and prospectors, dreamers and fighters, men and women with delusions of grandeur and those just trying to scrape by. But out of all of them, all of those you had befriended in your time helping to ensure they were fed, the one most important to you was Ezra. You don’t think it was a coincidence he ended up running to the same town you did so many years ago. The universe worked in ways no mere mortal would every truly understand. But that didn’t matter. So long as you had him by your side, the universe could act however it saw fit. Because with Ezra here beside you, your two weary souls could finally find solace in the cradle of the mountains.

~~~~~

Tag lists: Permanent: @ahopelessromanticwritersworld, @tangledlove27, @paintballkid711, @lose-eels, @adamdrivercouldchokeme

Tag lists are open! Requests are open!

#Ezra #ezra prospect #ezra x reader #ezra x you #ezra prospect x reader #ezra prospect x you #ezra x f!reader #ezra prospect x f!reader #prospect #pedro pascal #my fic

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thetypedwriter · 3 years

Text

Firekeeper’s Daughter Book Review

Disclaimer: Please keep in mind that all of my in-depth reviews contain spoilers.

Firekeeper’s Daughter Book Review by Angeline Boulley

Well, this book review came quicker than I thought it would (which after weeks since my last published review for an actual novel that may sound absurd, but I promise it isn’t).

There’s a lot of great things about this book and a lot of really important representation, but I also found it to be an incredible slog to trudge through.

Firekeeper's Daughter by Angeline Boulley is the story of a girl by the name of Daunis Fontaine who finds herself stuck between two worlds: her Fontaine side, also known as her zhaaganaash or white side, and her Native side, or known as her Anishinaabe side, or even more specifically, Ojibwe side.

The debut novel from Boulley mainly describes Daunis’ struggle between these two worlds, the important people in them, and the war within herself to follow her heart, her gut, and her mind.

In the background of this identity struggle, or perhaps largely influenced by it, Daunis finds herself inexplicably tangled up in a secret federal investigation into a specific type of meth being produced in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula that affects people not only in her community, but other Native communities as well.

Suddenly finding herself becoming a spy, Daunis starts to learn and keep secrets, those in regards to the investigation as well as those regarding her feelings for fellow investigator-Jamie Johnson-an undercover narcotics cop posing as the cute new highschooler in town.

As Daunis deals with her own internal struggles, her community, her relationships, and her burgeoning romance, her past, future, and present all collide and come to a head in this new novel.

Now. Reading this summary, you might be thinking: this book sounds awesome! Love? Undercover cops? Drugs? Mystery? It has everything.

And you’d be right.

When I first read the jacket cover for this novel I knew it was a book I was inevitably going to read. Everything from the gorgeous cover art, to the intriguing summary, to the representation of Native Americans, I was completely drawn in.

Too bad I didn’t like it very much.

I will start off by saying that I think this book is incredible in its realistic depiction of the Ojibwe experience and I know how important it is to increase representation of all kinds of people and backgrounds in literature, especially YA literature.

Boulley did an absolutely stunning job of relaying the nitty-gritty of the Ojibwe community-the elders, the geography, the food, the stigma, the finances, the politics, the reputation, the racism, the prejudice, the community, the love, the healing, and so much more.

I always am in awe when authors utilize the golden rule of write what you know. Per the back jacket of the novel, Boulley herself states that she is an enrolled member of the Sault Ste. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians and an active storyteller of the Ojibwe community.

This is beyond incredible. Having an accurate and active portrayal of people writing and drawing from their own experiences are powerful and significant. I could taste, feel, and see how clear and how real Boulley made the novel.

I questioned a lot of things during this read, but the Ojibwe community in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula was not one of them. From vocabulary to the extreme details depicting Sugar Island to the care and craft when talking about specific ceremonies like funerals, Boulley did an outstanding job of bringing in what she knows from her own experience and that of her community in order to breathe life into these pages.

This was by far the best part of the novel for me.

On the back jacket, Boulley also states that she was a former Director of the Office of Indian Education at the U.S. Department of Education. While I did not know this until a few minutes ago when I sat down to write this review, I am in no way surprised.

The book was extremely intelligent. I could viscerally tell that Boulley knows her stuff and does her research. Everything from biology and chemistry processes and vocabulary, to mushroom identification, to legal matters like having an underage informant, politics regarding becoming a member of the Ojibwe Tribe, and due process of the law regarding FBI cases was very clear cut, very detailed, and obviously very accurate.

I appreciated how much time and effort was put into this, even if I did find a lot of it bone dry and dull, I still could appreciate the time, effort, and knowledge to make sure that everything in the novel was precise and correct.

That being said, it also made the book come across almost like an informational pamphlet at times, or like I was reading non-fiction. I understand being accurate, and I applaud her for that, but I don’t need or want five pages of in-book description of how one of these processes work. Just give me the bare-bones outline and I will go from there and look it up more if I so desire.

This brings me to my first critique of this book and a large reason it was so tedious to get through: it was mind-numbingly long.

Now. I just read a 2,000 page fanfiction not that long ago. That is long, you could argue, and you would be right. But, none of All of the Young Dudes was a bore to get through (sad, sure, but not boring), whereas whole sections of Firekeeper’s Daughter were too dragged out and too explicitly explained that I inevitably got bored and nodded off.

The pace was too slow and too bogged down with unimportant details, like Daunis’ daily visits to the elders or her overthinking every single thing, or her making lists of all the things she doesn’t know (these are long lists).

She often spends whole pages grieving about her Uncle David as well as her best friend Lily, and while understandable and realistic in real life, it was not fun nor productive to read about over and over and over again.

Take for example, the very beginning of the book. It takes over 100 pages for Daunis to realize the new-boy-next-door isn’t who he says he is and that he’s actually an undercover cop here to investigate a new strain of meth and asks for her help.

Over 100 pages of set up.

It was so goddamn boring.

It got better once she became involved with the investigation, but then so did the whining, the overthinking, and the reflecting. The first 100 pages could have been condensed to 20. No joke, I would have gotten the same exposition out of that I did.

In addition, despite things taking so long or not serving a purpose, I was often confused about what was happening, which is an overall unpleasant experience. Boulley simultaneously describes everything and yet nothing at the same time.

The reason for this discrepancy is because she often used native language to describe feelings, events, people, etc and while some of the words I learned over time, often the words left me confused or bewildered.

I appreciate the use of native language, but it also left me with big gaps while reading or made me struggle to put pieces together as they were happening.

The pace of the novel overall was incredibly bad. Things either took 12 years or two minutes. The actual plot to show up? 12 Years. Daunis and Jamie to fall in love classic YA style? Two minutes. Daunis to find Uncle David’s notebook? 12 years. The final confrontation of the bad guys? Two minutes.

With any event, it either felt sluggish or way too quick and mashing these two together in one novel was disorienting and frustrating, not to mention it made me not want to read.

Additionally, while I generally thought the plot was very interesting, who doesn’t like undercover cop stories? I thought all of the characters were very forgettable or downright shells.

Daunis was...a textbook female character in my eyes. The way she spouted off knowledge like the periodic table to fall asleep or reciting the scientific method wasn’t cool or new, it was irritating.

To me she wasn’t real.

She was someone’s idea of a female character who seemed cool, but wasn’t. Nothing about Daunis made me think of her as a great character. If anything, she just seemed like an empty vessel I was reading the book through, like the book was happening to me instead (cough cough Mary Sue).

Some of you may be upset with this statement, and that’s fine, but other than her love of science, her knowledge of geography, and her ties to the community, nothing about Daunis was a real person.

She hardly had friends, I don’t recall learning anything she liked or disliked (other than Jamie, hockey, and running) , and she was entirely surmised of the people who had left her and the identity struggle she had been born with. I don’t mean to undermine people who struggle with their identity, I know that’s important, but there is more to people than just that.

None of the other characters are frankly worth mentioning.

You might ask, what about Jamie? The shadowy, scarred love interest?

*Shrugs*

He’s fine. Genuinely that’s all I can say about him. We don’t even learn his real name as Jamie Johnson is a fake. All I know is that he’s got curly hair, a scar, and doesn’t know who he is. It’s hard to like a character when the character themselves have no idea of who they are.

The other characters either die or are in the background to progress the plot along.

To be fair, it’s a good plot. It’s intriguing, it’s mysterious, and I learned more than I ever thought I would about meth and mushrooms, but it doesn’t make up for the dead-end characters or the pacing issues.

I didn’t hate it, but I also didn’t like it. I guess I can say that I feel indifferent about this book, although the representation of Native Americans bumps it up slightly for me from being dead average.

The storytelling isn’t spectacular, even if the idea is promising, but if you have been searching for representation like this in YA I can see how this book would be much more impactful and important and I’m happy to have it as a part of the YA collective.

Recommendation: At the end of the day, this novel is a true smorgasbord. I love the representation, the draws from Boulley’s real life, and the intelligence, but I didn’t see any of the characters as real people, the pacing issues made it hard to gain and keep interest going, and the dialogue often came across to me as someone's warped version of what teenager’s sound like.

Score: 6/10

#firekeepersdaughter #angeline boulley #ya fiction #YA Books #YA literature #book blog #book review #Book Recommendations #YA Book Review #ya book rec #nativewomen #nativebooks #representation in fiction #book rec #book reccs #6/10

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nakovesh · 3 years

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Foster

Nako heard the buzzing of wings well before its source alighted her doorstep. Her lips ticked up in a small, wry smile and she continued her work, hammer singing against metal. Rise and fall, rise and fall. She felt, more than heard, a gathering of aether and then a soft pop, like a twig snapping somewhere close behind her.

“Little One!” a small voice announced impatiently. “You will open your door!”

The Miqo’te’s ears flickered back toward the voice and she set down her hammer, finally turning with a smile on her soot-brushed face for the Sylph who had so insistently bypassed her door.

“Well, greetings to you, too, Lynxio,” Nako chuckled, crossing the room to obediently open the door. “It has been some time!” To this, the Sylph, a creature that appeared as little more than a flying cabbage with a face, buzzed impatiently.

With the door open she paused, her head cocked to one side and a fist planted against her hip, expression expectant. There didn’t seem to be anyone or anything there until something shuffled in the brush near to the door. Nako frowned, her head canting slowly to one side, eyes squinting to catch more movement.

Fear. Uncertainty. Pain. Longing for the memory of a soft touch that would come from above.

Lynxio was speaking again, but to Nako it was as if their words were spoken from the other side of a dense grove, the sounds muted and distant, catching snagging on leaf and moss on their way over. Instead, she focused on a small, damp nose as it hesitantly pushed its way through the overgrowth just beyond her doorstep. It was then that she caught sight of one large black eye, framed in long, tawny lashes.

“A fawn,” Nako said softly as she crouched to squat in the doorway.

“As this one just said, Small One!” Lynxio quipped, voice tinged with gentle irritation. “It was found not far from the Hawthorn, wandering and alone.”

Nako reached into a pouch at her hip, fumbling about for a moment until she produced a small piece of dried fruit. With the flake resting in her palm, she extended it toward the gradually approaching fawn who paused before shuffling closer once more, all lanky with ungainly limbs and ears. Lynxio hovered just over her left shoulder, rapidly beating wings buffeting her hair.

“This is the way of the Wood, Lynxio,” Nako said absently as she held her hand very still. “Beasts must eat, and so they hunt, sometimes leaving younglings like this in the wind. You know this.” Nako’s words weren’t admonishing, so much as wrote, spoken from a simple acceptance. The fawn finally approached her hand, damp nose brushing with the barest of touches against her fingertips. With her teeth set in her lip Nako suppressed a giggle.

Lynxio’s buzzing rose in pitch, something Nako had come to recognize as a Sylphic scoff. “Yes, but the bleating of this Hooved One displeased this one,” the Sylph huffed in their bell-like tone. “Small One knows well the arts of caring for the great and meek beasts of the Wood, and especially how to calm its bleating babes.”

Nako smiled faintly at this, watching the fawn nibble timidly at the fruit. She felt Lynxio switch shoulders impatiently, wings clipping the tips of her ears in their hurry to which Nako winced and flicked them back, away from the source of their beating.

“But Little One. Nako,” Lynxio hummed with a rare use of her given name. That brought Nako up short. “An oath is an oath, a bond a bond, and as you well know a deal a deal! Dear Little one, make not this one appeal!” the Sylph chimed in gentle warning.

Nako grimaced at that, causing her hand to jerk slightly and startle the poor fawn. She sighed and softly clicked her tongue, beckoning it back toward her crouched form. “There is no need to bring up old contracts, Lynxio,” Nako sighed, opening her arms to allow the shivering fawn into her embrace. “I have no intention of breaking any deals, oaths or bonds no matter how silly the stipulations may be.” Nako paused, smirking a bit at her own words, quietly impressed with her growing vocabulary as she pressed a soft kiss to one of the fawn’s ears.

“If it is bleating that bothers you, the bleating will cease,” Nako intoned softly as she rose to her feet, cradling the small, gangly creature. “The stone jar, there, by the window.” Nako nodded toward the object by a table laden with ingots and billets. Take a spoonful of the powder within and pop it into that mug just there. The kettle is by the forge.”

Lynxio’s buzzing lowered an octave, something Nako long took for Sylphic grumbling, but they did as bade anyhow while Nako set the fawn on a blanket. Crouching over the trembling creature, Nako tried to calm herself, to be a beacon of safety as she stroked softly over the fawn’s velvet ears. Slowly, gradually, the trembling ceased.

Warmth. Calm. Safety after ceaseless panic. Weariness. Lingering pain.

Nako looked the young deer over, focusing on that hint of pain until her eyes alighted on its hind left ankle. Lifting it gingerly, Nako closed her eyes and drew in a long breath. She felt the pulse of aether course through the fawn’s form, uninterrupted until it reached the point where she held it. There the aether stuttered and shivered, gathering at the point of injury. Fractured, but not broken. Fortunate. Nako released the breath she held, and with it some of the Shroud’s rich aether eagerly flowed into the breach.

Opening her eyes, she smiled down at the drowsy creature and released its hind limb. Aether could do much, but she would have to wrap the limb later to make certain the joint held fast. For the moment though, a bit of food and rest was in order.

Much later, Nako hummed softly to herself as she passed a whetstone over a newly finished blade. The fawn dozed in its nest of blankets to the slick, rhythmic sound of metal on stone. The sound abruptly stopped as a low whistle sounded from the open door and a chocobo the color of lightly browned toast dipped his head to peer inside.

“Good of you to show up, my noblesteed,” Nako chided gently with a fond grin. “I suppose you are wondering about the little mote of fur over there? No, you cannot eat him.”

To this the chocobo scratched his talons on the stone step and whistled his apparent assent.

“Well, of course I need you to look after him, Appa,” she huffed, apparently responding to the whistle. “I cannot look after him while I’m at the forge and he will appreciate leaning against your legs as he did his mother’s.” With a shrug she resumed the use of the whetstone.

The fawn in question lifted its head, blinking slowly as it spied the chocobo. The chocobo shuffled through the doorway with a soft, questioning coo, plodding over strewn tools and crates to reach his new charge. Once he reached the blanket nest, Appa lowered his beak, patiently allowing the fawn a fumbling sniff.

“Why not take him to go play? He could use a good stretch of that hind leg, you know,” she muttered as bent over her work.

Appa chirped and nodded his feathered head toward the door and the fawn, apparently taking this as an invitation, rose on stumbling hooves. With the chocobo leading the way, the pair made their way toward the door.

“And be gentle!” Nako said sharply, not looking up from the blade.

The chocobo whistled in agreement, and with oaths settled and deals fostered, made his way into the Wood.

#ffxiv #ffxiv rp #mine #ffxivwrite2021

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charlietheepicwriter7 · 4 years

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Hey, Little Songbird

Chapter 3 - AO3

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The place Dupain-Cheng took him to was a small bakery not far from the school. Stepping inside, the smell of fresh baked bread assaulted his nose. In the display case, dozens of macaroons in all colors lined parchment paper next to croissants and cream-stuffed pastries. Felix expected Dupain-Cheng to get in line to order; instead, the girl skipped the line, approaching the woman at the register directly. "Hi, Maman," Dupain-Cheng greeted.

Felix wanted to scoff as he watched mother and daughter hug. Of course, she'd take him to her family bakery! She wouldn't be able to afford any of the places his pallet was used to. But... despite his first instinct, the establishment did have a rather... warm feel to it, further embellished y the downpour outside. And the food did look impeccable. Not his usual fare, certainly, but one day off his diet wouldn't hurt him.

"Welcome home, Marinette," her mother greeted. Her eyes met his and furrowed with confusion before her expression smoothed out. "Who's your friend? He's never dropped by before."

So she could tell him and Adrien apart. Good.

"Ah! Maman, this is -"

"Felix Graham de Vanily," Felix cut in smoothly, smiling charmingly. "I'm new in class and your daughter has been kind enough to help me gain my barrings at Fransis-Depoint. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mme. Cheng." He bowed at the waist, eyes lowered. He wanted to make a good impression -

"It's nice to to meet you too, Felix," Mme. Cheng nodded, seemingly amused. "Why don't you two grab something from the back and eat upstairs." She glanced at the line, which had only grown in number since they arrived. "It seems like it's about to get full down here."

"Thanks, Maman." Dupain-Cheng pressed a kiss to her mother's cheek. "Come on, back here."

Felix followed her behind the counter and into the kitchen beyond where an extremely large man, presumably her father, was icing a particularly tall wedding cake. "Hey, Dad! Felix and I are just grabbing some food before going upstairs."

The father smiled, surprisingly calm about his daughter arriving with a strange boy in his shop. "Go right ahead! There's some fresh chicken salad and cold cuts in the fridge if either of you want them."

They each loaded up their plates, but when Dupain-Cheng started to ascend the stairs, Felix hesitated. He looked back at M. Dupain. "Sir... Forgive me, but how do I pay for this?" Father and daughter exchanged a shocked glance. "I didn't get a chance to properly observe the menu, so otherwise I'd-"

"Don't worry about it!" M. Dupain laughed. "No friend of Marinette has to pay! Consider it the 'friends and family' discount."

Felix frowned. He didn't really consider them friends yet; acquaintances, yes, but not friends. Though, if the quality of his classmates refused to improve, she might end up being the only person he could stand talking to on a regular basis. "Sir, I must insist-"

"They're not going to let you pay, trust me," Dupain-Cheng said. "You're not the first person to try, nor are you going to be the last. Just come on." She went upstairs and Felix reluctantly followed. He wasn't used to other people doing favors for him. Usually people wanted favors, thinking he'd be naive enough to allow them to ride off the Graham de Vanily family coat tails. Felix never allowed that mentality to stick around him long; no one had ever been stupid enough to try more than once.

The familial part of the home looked nothing like the elegant, cold entry hall of his family's manor, nor did the connecting living room resemble any parlor or sitting room that he's ever been in. It looked well-used, lacking the meticulous housekeeping that the maids kept, with a blanket crumpled up on the couch and a video game console pushed to the side, like someone had finished playing in a hurry. He could see into the open kitchen from the living room and noticed that although it looked clean, there were dishes stacked in the skin. Was this how commoners lived? Clearly despite their beloved establishment, the Dupain-Chengs weren't nearly as well off as some of the other members of their school, like himself, Adrien, and Chloe. So how did they attend? The tuition was rather costly; did she get in on scholarship?

Of course, Felix had enough sense not to ask her about her family's financial status. Things simply weren't done in polite society, and while Felix often didn't feel the need to follow those unspoken rules, there was no need to insult someone in their own home.

Dupain-Cheng sat on the couch while Felix took the love seat nearby, sitting gingerly upon it as though it could bite him. Despite the home being so banal, Felix found himself... liking it. It was warm, much like how the bakery below was warm, with a lingering sense of comfort radiating from every square centimeter of the home. He found himself sinking into the plush of the chair without meaning to.

To distract his mind, he tucked into lunch, only to find his meal delicious. He paused after a single mouthful. Somehow, the simple meal was able to rival those made by the professional chefs in his family's employ. Good work deserves to be complimented, so Felix told Dupain-Cheng so and she flushed. "T-Thanks. I'm sure my parents appreciate it," she said with a cough, having swallowed some of her food wrong. "Would you like to go over where we are in the curriculum now?"

"Yes, that would be quite useful."

She showed him her notes for their classes and just as he thought, he was already ahead in most subjects. The only exception was literature, but only because his school had focused more on British authors than French. Still, it wouldn't take for him to catch up. But there was still one thing about the day that bothered him and since Dupain-Cheng volunteered her service, he asked, "I am unsure if this falls under you assisting me around the school, but could you explain what that Lila girl was trying to do today?"

Dupain-Cheng set down her utensils and exhaled heavily. "What has she lied about this time?"

"Apparently I pushed her after a greeting. Which is odd because I had no idea she existed before class." Not that Felix really cared. But saying he pushed her was a step too far; he has far more subtly than direct physical assault. At least be clever when you try to slander him!

"Huh, so she's directly attacking you already? That's weird, I could have sworn she'd make up some lie about forgiving you and promising to help you meet your favorite celebrity if you promised to be nice."

He scoffed, but Dupain-Cheng made no similar noise. Like... she was serious. Oh God, she was serious. "Are you telling me people actually believe that swill?"

"Most of our class, Mme Bustier, and our principal. Fortunately she hasn't started working on making the people in other classes believe her yet, but there are a handful there too." It seemed as though speaking about it unleashed a dam inside the girl. "And it doesn't make any sense because most of her lies can be disproven with either an internet search or a phone call! She claimed that she saved Jagged Stone's cat from an airplane, but was there any media coverage from it? None at all! She claims to go on all these expensive vacations, but either her photos got damaged on the way back or she just shows the class stock images of generic tourist stuff. And the volunteer work! Sure, I can understand charities not advertising who their workers are, but all you'd have to do is call them and every charity she's mentioned ends up saying that a Lila Rossi never worked with their organization. I just... I don't understand how they can keep falling for this stuff! None of them even bother to consider that she could be lying!" Her chest heaved after her rant, but she looked relieved, like she'd finally been able to get it off her chest. "They... none of them even think that I'm telling the truth," she continued in a small voice. "They all think that poorly of me."

Their... classmates, as much as Felix hated to admit any relation to those morons, had really done a number on her. He found empathy to be distasteful, especially with his plan to become a ruthless business man later in life, but he could help but pity her. Not that he'd ever admit it. Perhaps he could change the subject? Or at least lighten the mood.

"I'm going to be surrounded by idiots then. Lovely." She shot him a hurt look. "Well, not you. Obviously. Though seeing past such a clear liar isn't really a point towards you as it is a negative three against the others."

"You rate people on a point scale?" Her eyes were starting to lighten, brighten.

"Only when I need to inform others of how lowly I consider them." He sniffed haughtily.

"Does that mean you think better of me than them?" she teased, a small smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

"No need to get a big head now; it's not that you're better, but rather that you're less awful." He smirked in return, hopefully letting her know that he was returning her tease. At least, he thought that's what he was doing. He never really understood how to communicate with his peers in a fashion that reflected well on him.

"I'm pretty sure that's the definition of better though."

"Well, if you're so desperate to claim the title, you could always prove it." Felix folded his hands under his chin. "Prove that you, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, are worthy of my time."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not sure if I want it now."

He frowned in disappointment, but inside he was triumphant. "Truly a shame; and here I wanted to get to know the real Dupain-Cheng... But alas I fear that knowledge will forever be out of reach."

"Who says 'alas' anymore?"

"Well!" he huffed, "Just because you're unused to refined vocabulary doesn't mean you have to insult me, Mademoiselle!"

The verbal sparring went back and forth for a while and as rapier wit battled rapier wit, Felix found it hard to keep a smile off his face.

Taglist: @graduatedmelon @novicevoice @dur55 @kris-pines04 @18-fandoms-unite-08 @moonlightstar64 @bee-a-garbage-shipper @sol-o-shade @kittyotakunoir666 @tinyterror333 @allieoftheenemy @marichat00 @xgxmxtx

#felinette #canon felinette #canon felix #felix graham de vanily #marinette dupain cheng #tom dupain #sabine cheng #ml fic #ml au #miraculous ladybug #miraculous fanfic #lila salt #class salt #ao3 feed #hey little songbird

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anhed-nia · 4 years

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BLOGTOBER 10/7/2020

I missed THE GOLDEN GLOVE at Fantastic Fest last year. It was one of my only regrets of the whole experience, but it was basically mandatory since the available screenings were opposite the much-hyped PARASITE. As annoying as that sounds, it was actually a major compliment, since what could possibly serve as a consolation prize for the most hotly anticipated movie of the year? Needless to say, I heard great things, but I could never have imagined what it was actually like. I'm still wrapping my mind around it.

Between 1970 and 1975, an exceptionally depraved serial killer named Fritz Honka murdered at least four prostitutes in Hamburg's red light district. Today, we tend to think of the archetypal serial killer in terms of ironic contradictions: The public is attracted by Ted Bundy's dashing looks and suave manner, and John Wayne Gayce's dual careers as politician and party clown. Lacking anything so remarkable, we associate psychopathy with Norman Bates' boy-next-door charm, and repeat "It's always the quiet ones" with a smirk whenever a new Jeffrey Dahmer or Dennis Nilsen is exposed to the public. The popular conception of a bloodthirsty maniac is not the fairytale monster of yore, but a wolf in sheep's clothing, whose hygienic appearance and lifestyle belie his twisted desires. In our post-everything world, the ironic surprise has become the rule. In this light, THE GOLDEN GLOVE represents a refreshing return to naked truth.

To say that writer-director Fatih Akin's version of the Fritz Honka story is shocking, repulsive, and utterly degenerated would be a gross understatement. We first meet the killer frantically trying to dispose of a corpse in his filthy flat, wallpapered with porno pinups, strewn with broken toys, and virtually projecting smell lines off of the screen. One's sense of embodiment is oppressive, even claustrophobic, as the petite Honka tries and fails to collapse the full dead weight of a human corpse into a garbage bag, before giving up and dismembering it, with nearly equal difficulty. The scene is appalling, utterly debased, and yet nothing is as shocking as the killer's visage. When he finally turns to look into the camera, it's hard to believe he's even human: the rolling glass eye, the smashed and inflated nose, the tombstone teeth and cratered skin, are almost too extreme to bear. Actually, suffering from a touch of facial blindness, I had to stare intently at Honka's face for nearly half the movie before I could fully convince myself that I was, in fact, looking at an elaborate prosthetic operation used to transform 23 year old boy band candidate Jonas Dassler into the disfigured 35 year old serial murderer.

Though West Germany remained on a steady economic upturn beginning in the 1950s and throughout the 1970s, you wouldn't know it from THE GOLDEN GLOVE. If Honka's outsides match his insides, they are further matched by his stomping grounds in the Reeperbahn, a dirty, violent, booze-soaked repository for the dregs of humanity. Though its denizens may come from different walks of life, one thing is certain: Whoever winds up there, belongs there. Honka was the child of a communist and grew up in a concentration camp, yet he swills vodka side by side with an ex-SS officer, among other societal rejects, in a crumbling dive called The Golden Glove. The scene is an excellent source of hopeless prostitutes at the end of their career, who are Honka's prime victims, as he is too frightful-looking to ensnare an attractive young girl. These pitiful women all display a peculiarly hypnotic willingness to go along with Honka, no matter how sadistic he becomes; this seems to have less to do with money, which rarely comes up, and more to do with their shared awareness that for them, and for Honka too, it's been all over, for a long time.

Not to reduce someone’s performance to their physical appearance, but ???

To call Dassler's portrayal of Honka "sympathetic" would be a bridge too far, but it is undeniably compelling. He supports the startling impact of his facial prostheses with a performance of rare intensity, a full-body transformation into a person in so much pain that a normal life will never become an option. His physical vocabulary reminded me of the stage version of The Elephant Man, in which the lead actor wears no makeup, but conveys John Merrick's deformities using his body alone. Although there is an abundance of makeup in THE GOLDEN GLOVE, Dassler's silhouette and agonized movements would be recognizable from a mile away. In spite of his near-constant screaming rage, the actor manages to craft a rich and convincing persona. During a chapter in which Honka experiments with sobriety, we find a stunning image of him hunched in the corner of his ordinarily chaotic flat, now deathly still, his eyes gazing at nothing as cigarette smoke seeps from his pores, having no idea what to do with himself when he isn't in a rolling alcoholic rampage. The moment is brief but haunting in its contrast to the rest of the film, having everything to do with Dassler's quietly vibrating anxiety.

Performances are roundly excellent here, not that least of which are from Honka's victims. The cast of middle-aged actresses looking their most disastrous is hugely responsible for the film's impact. These are the kinds of performances people call "brave", which is a euphemism for making audiences uncomfortable with an uncompromising presentation of one's own self, unvarnished by any masturbatory solicitation. Among these women is Margarete Tiesel, herself no stranger to difficult cinema: She was the star of 2012's PARADISE: LOVE, a harrowing drama about a woman who copes with her midlife crisis by pursuing sex tourism in Kenya. Her brilliant, instinctive performance as one of Honka's only survivors--though she nearly meets a fate worse than death--makes her the leading lady of a movie that was never meant to have one.

So, what does all this unpleasantness add up to, you might be asking? It's hard to say. THE GOLDEN GLOVE is a film of enormous power, but it can be difficult to explain what the point of it is, in a world where most people feel that the purpose of art is to produce some form of pleasure. This is the challenge faced by difficult movies throughout history, like THE GOLDEN GLOVE's obvious ancestors, HENRY: PORTRAIT OF A SERIAL KILLER, MANIAC and THE TEXAS CHAIN SAW MASSACRE. Describing unremitting cruelty with relentless realism is not considered a worthy endeavor by many, even if there is real artistry in your execution; some people will even mistake you for advocating and enjoying violence and despair, as we live in a world where huge amount of movie and TV production is devoted to aspirational subjects. (The fact that people won't turn away from the Marvel Cinematic Universe movies, no matter how monotonous and condescending they become, should tell you something) How do you justify to such people, that you want to make or see work that portrays ugliness and evil with as much commitment as other movies seek to portray love, beauty, and family values? Why isn't it enough to say that these things exist, and their existence alone makes them worth contemplation?

A rare, perhaps exclusive “beautiful image” in THE GOLDEN GLOVE, from Fritz Honka’s absurd fantasies.

You may detect that I have attempted to have this frustrating conversation with many people, strangers, enemies, and friends I love and respect. I find that for some, it is simply too hard to divorce themselves from the pleasure principle. I don't say this to demean them; some hold the philosophy that art be reserved for beauty, and others have a more literary feeling that it's ok to show characters in grim circumstances, as long as the ultimate goal is to uplift the human spirit. Even I draw the line somewhere; I appreciate the punk rebellion of Troma movies as a cultural force, but I do not enjoy watching them, because I dislike what I perceive as contempt for the audience and the aestheticization of laziness--making something shitty more or less on purpose. A step or three up from that, you land in Todd Solondz territory, where you find materially gorgeous movies whose explicit statement is that our collective reverence for a quality called "humanity" is based on nothing. I like some of those movies, and sometimes I even like them when I don't like them, because I'm entranced by Solondz's technical proficiency...and maybe, deep down, I'm not completely convinced about "humanity", either. However, I don't fight very hard in arguments about him; I understand the objections. Still, I've been surprised by peers who I think of as bright and tasteful, who absolutely hated movies I thought were unassailable, like OLDBOY and WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN. In both cases, the ultimate objection was that they accuse humans of being pretentious and self-deceptive, aspiring to heroism or bemoaning their victimhood while wallowing in their own cowardice and perversity. Ok, I get it...but, not really. Why isn't it ever wholly acceptable to discuss, honestly, what we do not like about ourselves?

The beguiling thing about THE GOLDEN GLOVE is that, although it is instantly horrifying, is it also an impeccable production. The director can't help showing you crime scene photos during the ending credits, and I can't really blame him, when his crew worked so hard to bring us a vision of Fritz Honka's world that approaches virtual reality. But it isn't just slavishly realistic; it is vivid, immersive, an experience of total sensory overload. Not a square inch of this movie has been left to chance, and the product of all this graceful control is totally spellbinding. I started to think to myself that, when you've achieved this level of artifice, what really differentiates a movie like THE GOLDEN GLOVE from something like THE RED SHOES? I mean, aside from their obvious narrative differences. Both films plunge the viewer into a world that is complete beyond imagination, crafted with a rigor and sincerity that is rarely paralleled. And, I will dare to say, both films penetrate to the depths of the human soul. What Fatih Akin finds there is not the same as what Powell and Pressburger found, of course, but I don't think that makes it any less real. Akin's film is adapted from a novel by Heinz Strunk, and apparently, some critics have accused Akin of leaving behind the depth and nuance of the book, to focus instead on all that is gruesome about it. This may be true, on some level; I wouldn't know. For now, I can only insist that on watching THE GOLDEN GLOVE, for all its grotesquerie, I still got the message.

#blogtober #2020 #the golden glove #fatih akın #heinz stronk #jonas dassler #margarete tiesel #difficult cinema #horror #slasher #serial killer #period piece #adaptation #historical #biopic #fritz honka #i may have been watching a lot of powell and pressburger movies recently #sorry...

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starfiretheninja · 4 years

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BBRae- Shaking Off the Dust

This was originally a piece for the BBRae Zine, but that got cancelled. Regardless, I was proud that I got another piece done for these two and still want to bring it into the world. Enjoy!

Despite being part demon, a creature associated with darkness, Raven had a standard sleep schedule. The headaches induced from staying up too late tended to aggravate her powers and often required a longer meditation session to alleviate. On this particular night, however, the trilogy Raven was close to finishing was simply too much of a cliffhanger to leave until morning. Her extended reading session paid off, as the book ended on a surprisingly non-cliché and satisfactory note and she was only suffering from mild thirst.

Nothing a little tea can’t cure, Raven thought as she stood up, stretching her tense legs.

Leaving the quiet of her room, she noticed a dim light down the hall. Shuffling past Beast Boy’s room, she blinked wearily at the light that peeked out from under his door. Only unintelligible mumbling sounded from inside. Raven shrugged, figuring he was up late playing a tough level of Mega Monkey: Apes Rising on his GameDude console again. He hadn’t done that in some time, but old habits die hard.

With that, Raven continued on her way. Having made it to the kitchen and satisfied her parched throat with warm herbal tea, she came back past Beast Boy’s room. This time, she heard a yelp, followed by the crashing of Beast Boy and what sounded like a stack of comic books hitting the floor.

Raven sighed. She couldn’t let that go uninvestigated. At the very least, she felt she had to know if Beast Boy had managed to break a toe tripping over his massive collection of nerdy treasures again.

Opening the door, she spied Beast Boy rubbing his face. Around him were his possessions, pulled from his closet and tossed around the room in what, to her eyes, was a haphazard mess. The garbage can in the corner was stuffed well past the brim with dolls—action figures, as he insisted—that Raven was certain he had had since the Tower was first built. Beast Boy caught sight of her. Surprised, then sheepish, he attempted to stand amidst the scattered pile surrounding him.

“Care to explain what you’re up to on this once peaceful night?” she inquired as he morphed into a hummingbird, flitted over the pile, and returned to his human form right in front of her.

“I’m, uh, cleaning up a bit,” he said, clearing his throat.

“If by ‘cleaning’ you mean ‘purging your room of all of your cherished comics and collectibles’.”

“If you’d like to help, then it would get done quicker. Heck, you could pick it all up with your powers.” He gestured towards the remaining work. Raven didn’t take the bait.

“I’d rather not be partially responsible for the post-cleaning regret you could have.” She took a pointed look at his belongings, as if to emphasize just how much he was suggesting tossing out.

“Aw come on, Raven.” He picked up a random comic by his feet and waved it. “Do you really think I’ll miss Goo Goblins #37? I think I’ve moved on past that one.”

Raven shrugged in slight agreement. The admittedly campy-looking comic was certainly goofy enough to make a seventeen-year-old question if he was engaging in appropriate level material. Still, Beast Boy was always one to cling to childish endeavors.

“If you insist,” is all she could comment. If he was truly ready for such an adjustment, she wouldn’t be the one to stop him.

Grinning satisfactorily, Beast Boy took to scooping up his disheveled comics and setting them in lumps just outside his room. Raven stepped further into his room to allow him through the open door.

“I’ll just set these out here for now. Then I can get them into boxes and maybe even pass them out to some kids at their schools. I know a few Dirty Dan fans who would kill for some of these issues,” Beast Boy thought out loud, already beaming at the thought of making a kid’s day.

“Just as long as their parents don’t object,” Raven snarked, hoping that Dirty Dan wasn’t about a kid who refused to take a bath. The last thing Robin would want was a surge of complaints from parents claiming they were bad influences on the youth.

Watching Beast Boy’s slow progress, Raven’s curiosity got the better of her and she leaned down to investigate what kind of reading Beast Boy had invested himself in for all of these years. There were plenty of brightly colored covers of fictional superhero groups. Why these were written when literal superheroes saved the world was beyond her. Beneath that was a handful of light horror, with cartoonish monsters chasing hapless teenage victims. Perfect for a demographic who hadn’t witnessed literal demons in their lifetime. Next was . . .

Raising it up for a closer look, it dawned on her just what she was holding.

“Wait, is this-?”

“Crud! My bad!” Beast Boy rushed over to carefully take the book from her hands. “This must have been mixed with my Deranged Daredevils collection. I wasn’t going to throw this one out, promise.”

Beast Boy reached over her to place the book on the singular chair in the room. So far, the supposed ‘safe’ pile consisted of childhood classics, Insect Care for Dummies, 1001 Drop Dead Puns, and a few wildlife encyclopedias. The newest addition was gifted to Beast Boy by Raven for his first birthday after the team had formed. Back then, she hardly knew him, but didn’t want to deny him the joy of receiving a gift from someone he always reached out to. So, she decided on something that could either come across as a gag gift or a genuine appeal to his interests, despite her complete uncertainty on whether or not he would appreciate it.

When he ripped open the packaging and read the title, The Essential Calvin and Hobbes, he lit up.

“Oh, cool! I’ve read some of these before! I don’t know half the words that come out of the kid’s mouth, but the tiger is pretty cool! Thanks, Raven.” He gave her a classic toothy smile and Raven was admittedly relieved that he didn’t reject the gift or feel any disappointment.

That was years ago, though. Was he still so attached to that particular book? Raven had given him far more personal gifts since getting to know him on a more familiar level.

“Why is that one an exception?” she posed the question as he squatted next to the pile she was looking through.

“Hmm?” Beast Boy looked back for clarification, and a light bulb went off.

“Oh! That’s easy. Because you gave it to me. You probably knew I wouldn’t get half the jokes, but you took a chance anyway. Maybe I’d get it eventually, you know?” His voice trailed off at that last statement.

There it was. Something truly was nagging at him, then. That something had pushed him to embark on a spontaneous cleaning spree to either distract or remedy. While Beast Boy was, oddly enough, the toughest one on the team for her to read empathetically, he was normally easy to understand by his actions alone. However, she had noticed a pattern with him over the years. He was the best at wearing a mask. Robin attempted to remain stoic, but one could still tell what he was feeling. Beast Boy, on the other hand, played pretend. Concealing aggravation and hurt with a stream of jokes was his fallback. This left him with buried sadness, which was never good for the long-term psyche.

Considering how to approach the situation, Raven supposed prodding him a bit would perhaps bring more clarity as to the cause of his distress.

“Hmm. I figured your vocabulary would expand.”

“When, though?” Beast Boy let slip out. He asked so sullenly, the way that a child would when they were seeking approval. Raven recognized this tone from her time spent with Melvin as she began her early teen years. The girl wanted more independence, but a part of her still sought to know that Raven was proud of her in everything that she did.

Upon realizing his slip-up, Beast Boy’s eyes darted around the room. He nabbed a toy from the pile before him and held it up.

“Does this one bring back memories or what?” he chuckled, beaming a large smile. It was the singing monkey with the cymbals that sounded while Raven’s manifested fear chased the Titans throughout the Tower.

Raven sighed softly. That was a poor diversion and he knew it.

“Beast Boy, why are you doing this?” she queried, gesturing around the room. “This ‘spring cleaning’ is too out of character to come out of nowhere.”

“Can’t a guy want a little more walking room?”

“Not when it involves pretending that nothing’s wrong.”

Raven’s eyes met his. He held contact for mere moments before the façade cracked.

Beast Boy’s false smile slowly dropped. He knew he shouldn’t be hiding from her. Raven was one of his best friends, after all.

“’s not a big deal,” he mumbled, looking away.

“It is if it’s bothering you,” she responded, gently touching his shoulder to get his attention. Beast Boy turned back to her, setting the monkey down.

How would he start?

“It’s kind of complicated.”

Raven had the time for him.

“Then start from the beginning.”

With that, Beast Boy sat back, leaning his cheek on a propped-up knee. Raven lowered herself into a crisscross, fully facing him. He took a few moments to collect his thoughts, memories reflecting clearly in his eyes.

“Back, ah, with the Doom Patrol, I was just a kid when Mento started training me. He saw that my powers could be controlled and used for the greater good. And I wanted to be a hero! I wanted to help others. But I wasn’t used to getting shot at or transforming so much I passed out. It was rough for a while. And I messed up. A lot.

“Mento never let me forget any of the mistakes I made, even long after I learned from them. Sometimes, it took longer than it should have to learn, but I eventually got it. But that wasn’t good enough for him. It was for Rita, but Mento was the one in charge, so there was never an end to it.”

Beast Boy exhaled, stopping for a moment to likely push away memories that were crawling out of unpleasant depths of his subconscious.

“And that’s part of why you left?” Raven prompted.

“That was a big part of it. Just one day decided that I had enough, and I thought I could grow stronger if I became the sidekick of someone who could actually help me build on when I did something right. And when I met you guys, things were finally different, and everyone could rely on me in a fight. That felt good and I thought that maybe I wasn’t a total screw up after all. But today, with the mission I just- I messed up really bad and I knew what I did wrong right as it was happening.”

Oh.

Raven and Starfire had split off from the boys to tend to another emergency and didn’t hear back from them until after their mission was complete. Robin had seemed somewhat frazzled, but otherwise they had been successful as well. She hadn’t heard about any particular difficulties on their end.

Beast Boy continued on, his frustrations spilling out at this point.

“I mean, Robin and Cyborg were able to fix it, but Mumbo almost got away. We had him, but I slipped up and he did a lot more damage before we nabbed him again. That’s the kind of dumb mistake I made when I was just a kid, except back then, people died.” He nearly choked on his last words.

Raven’s thoughtful expression instantly morphed into a mixture between solemnity and shock. She had no idea he carried such a weight.

“Beast Boy . . .”

He let out a humorless laugh, his eyes unfocused and unwilling to meet hers.

“Do you ever just . . . get frustrated that you haven’t changed at all? Sometimes I still feel like the kid that can’t follow an order without screwing something up. I’m trying to get better at my job, but that’s not enough when lives are in danger,” he agonized, reaching up to grip his hair in his fist.

His emotions were beginning to overwhelm him. Beast Boy was so used to holding these demons in that he didn’t know how to handle them when they reared their ugly heads. And he hated himself for dumping his worries on Raven. She didn’t need to be dragged into his problems; he should be able to handle them on his own by now.

However, one fact that Beast Boy forgot was that Raven was a healer. She knew that part of the healing process included recognizing the hurt so one could fully recover.

“Beast Boy, you’re right to feel frustrated over this.” Raven began gently, so as to properly acknowledge his despair. “But you have grown up through the years that I’ve known you.”

“Today might prove you wrong,” he sighed defeatedly.

“One bad day doesn’t always indicate a pattern. Failing to react well under pressure happens to even the most disciplined of people.”

“Does it happen to you?”

Raven blinked. Where did that come from?

“What do you mean?”

“You’re always so in control and know what to do. I just don’t know if I can ever be as level-headed as you are.” Truthfully, though he complained about her supposed standoffishness when they first met, Beast Boy always admired her ability to remain calm. She could be cranky at times, but Raven was the Titan to turn to when you needed sage-like wisdom and a calming presence.

“. . . Not always.”

Beast Boy paused. He met her earnest and somewhat hesitant eyes. Where did that come from?

Raven pressed her lips tightly together, then, ever so slowly, began to speak.

“Sometimes . . . I think that I’m still as much of an isolated shut-in as when the team formed. You guys understand my snark, but I still go too far at times and I can tell the others don’t want to tell me that I hurt their feelings. We all struggle with insecurity, Beast Boy, no matter how well we hide it.”

Beast Boy leaned toward her, resting a hand in the space between them.

“You’ve grown so much though, Raven. I’ve noticed how much more you smile nowadays, and you actually talk to us about what you’re thinking about. I don’t think you would have been caught dead in my room like this when we first met,” he cracked a small smile, realizing just how intimate their situation was.

Raven relaxed, quietly grateful that the Beast Boy she knew was reemerging.

“No, I wouldn’t have.”

Now it was her turn.

“But the same goes for you. You take initiative when it’s called for and frankly, some of your strategies are the reason we make it through rougher battles.”

“Name one time,” Beast Boy held up a finger, still not entirely convinced.

“The initial charge against the Brotherhood. Morphing into a jellyfish to filter Scarecrow’s fear gas. Disabling that bomb as a cockroach so you wouldn’t be detected or incinerated,” Raven listed off confidently.

Beast Boy looked down, pondering her words. His shoulders relaxed and a soft smile slowly crept up onto his cheeks.

“Huh. I guess that was pretty mature of me,” he chuckled.

“You know,” she started, peering her head down to catch his eyes once more. “If you’re so worried about making mistakes, maybe talk to Robin about changing your training routine. Having variety might help your ability to react appropriately to any situation.”

“Yeah. That’d probably be a good place to start.”

“Also,” she began, gesturing to the mess around them. “Growing up doesn’t mean getting rid of your childhood joys. It just means you step up without being asked to.”

“I suppose you’re right. But I’ve been meaning to clean up for a while. Kind of hard to stay focused with so much clutter in your room.”

“Maybe leave it until you get a good night’s sleep,” she suggested.

“Eventually, but first there’s something I want to try.”

“And that would be . . .?”

Beast Boy reached back and grabbed the treasure that had sparked their night of revelations.

“Giving this book a try.” He waved the Calvin and Hobbes compilation before her. “You’ve granted me so much wisdom just now, I must have aged a few decades mentally. That is, if you’re not too tired.”

His hopeful expression was too much to pass up, especially at a time when he had opened up so much to her. It was out of character, but Raven was willing to give it a shot.

“I think I’m up for a little humor.”

Beast Boy mock grabbed his heart.

“Such an anomaly only comes once every other blood moon, so I’ll have to cherish you discovering your sense of humor.”

“The anomaly will pass faster the longer you talk about it.”

“Got it.”

They sat on the floor together, each holding one end of the book. Page by page, Beast Boy laughed outwardly at Calvin’s incessantly precocious dialogue. His eyes lit up as he brushed Raven’s shoulder, giddy to share the joke with her. Raven, in return, chuckled at Hobbes’ playful antics and allowed Beast Boy to see her rare carefree expressions.

What happened next truly made their night. The punchline was perfectly worded and timed for the both of them and they shared a singular moment of genuine laughter. Raven’s only a brief chortle and Beast Boy’s a lengthier guffaw, but the laughter of two friends nonetheless.

Raven could have denied the moment and blamed her increasingly delirious state. But she wasn’t about to deny Beast Boy the rare opportunity to have made her laugh. After all, sharing this moment with him was the best feeling she had all day.

#bbrae #beast boy #raven #teen titans #fanfic #i write

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harrystylescherry · 4 years

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EARLY MORNING GLORY (Harry FanFic) Chapter 6

banner by hsogolden

What it is: a slow burn, friends to lovers, harry au where he’s just starting out and it takes place in NYC.

In this chapter: friendship, maybe some jealousy, a lil curveball maybe

Word count: 2.5k

In case you missed it: SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

Wattpad Link: tumblr will never be FULLY caught up because I’m still uploading a new chapter to Wattpad every week so if you want to binge the whole thing so far, click that link

here we go:

introducing lukas

I was in the shower washing my hair when my phone began to ring but I ignored it. And then it rang again. And again. And again. Disturbed by how someone could break the solitude that one often seeks while showering, I crept into the cold air and grabbed my phone before answering. “What.”

“Hey, Auden. It’s Lukas.” His deep voice rang in my ear.

“Yeah, I know, Luke. It’s 2020, I have caller ID.”

“Oh, right. Anyway, do you wanna get together tonight maybe?” I could hear the hope dripping from his voice.

“I can’t. I started working nights remember?”

“Well, then maybe we could go out to lunch? After class?”

“Luke, I refuse to have sex with you in a public place. That’s not my thing.” I laughed.

“I know that but, I was thinking that maybe this time we could go out and not do the sex part.”

Realization dawned on my face, “Oh. You mean like a date?”

“Yes.”

“Uhm, sure,” I sighed, “yeah, I guess we could do that.”

“Okay, cool. I’ll meet you in front of the west building?”

“Yeah, bye, Lukas.” I hung up before he could say it back.

I met Lukas when he came into the shop a few months ago. When he asked me to help him look for a book we got to talking and it turned out that we both wanted to be novelists—but that was about the only thing we had in common. He was beyond sweet, the complete opposite to how blatantly bitter I can be, he didn’t appreciate the wondrous effects that caffeine had on a person’s soul, and his vocabulary was completely vacant of sarcasm. Once we started talking, he told me that his year long relationship with some girl had just ended and he wasn’t in a place to date someone new yet. I hastily agreed that I was in the same boat and suggested that we make what was between us a purely physical exchange.

It was going great until about a month ago when he started asking me on a dates and one day I finally gave in. I only agreed because he kept trying to guilt-trip me about how unfair it was that we never got to spend any time together other than when we had sex and he took it as me not wanting to be friends, which I knew was a lie because friends didn’t go out on dates.

I had been doing a great job avoiding him since summer started and I took the night shift. He was taking summer classes during the day and I was working at night and since I had become friends with Harry, I didn’t really think about him—which was a problem since Luke was a hookup and Harry was a friend.

I spent the entire subway ride and walk to our non-existent campus thinking about what I was going to say to him, whether I was going to pretend that maybe something more could work between us or if I would be honest and tell him that there was nothing more and there never would be.

I could tell him that it wasn’t him that was the problem, but that it was me—which wouldn’t even be a lie. I did this all the time with the guys I ‘dated’ and by ‘dated’ I meant late night touching and talking with no labels and no attachments. I could never find it in myself to commit and I knew it was rooted in fear but Lucy liked to say my issues were because no guy was ever good enough.

I didn’t want to hurt him—I never wanted to hurt any of them because even though I may not have had actual feelings for any of them, I did care about them. Him and I were real friends with some added benefits, some good benefits. I knew that no matter what I did his feelings would end up hurt. The truth wasn’t going to help and neither was the pretending.

I turned around and went back into the elevator, taking it down to the subway station below the school. I waited anxiously, muttering, begging the train to hurry up so I could get back home. The minute the subway doors opened I ran in and took a seat in the corner. I spent the longest twenty minutes of my life ignoring the texts from Luke asking where I was.

I knew I was an awful person. Every step I took closer to my apartment building caused that thought to echo in my head. I admitted that I was terrible and accepted that this cruelty might just be the thing that lands me in Lilith’s lap. My fate had been sealed and I’m just going to have to dodge Lukas for the rest of my existence.

I heard someone clear their throat and looked up from the ground.

“I knew you would ditch me.” He smirked.

“What are you doing here?”

“You think that I don’t know you, but I do. You’re a chicken shit. You can’t handle real dates. I know you.” Lukas followed me as I walked up the stairs and into the elevator.

“That’s not true. I’m not afraid of anything. I just had a lot to do today.”

“You didn’t answer my texts.”

“My phone died.”

“Liar. You were just on it.”

“How did you even beat me here anyway?”

“I left class early on purpose. I knew you would ditch me.”

“I didn’t ditch you!” I unlocked the door.

Before I could get myself inside Lukas pushed me up against the door and kissed me.

His hands were on my waist and then in my hair, his tongue sliding over mine. I fumbled with the doorknob behind me before finally shoving it open and pulling him inside. I slipped my fingers through the belt loops of his jeans and dragged him towards my bed. He pulled off my shirt, his lips traveling lower and lower before they reached the top of my jeans. He pushed me onto my bed, hovered over me, and winked.

I fell back onto the bed, panting, with Lukas laying beside me.

He propped himself up onto his elbow and looked at me, “You get better and better every time. How?”

I shrugged, “Magic.” He shook his head and pulled me into him. I didn’t mind the cuddling after sex. I actually enjoyed it; it was comforting and it was nice to feel cared about something. I loved intimacy, I loved late night talks, but I couldn’t love the responsibility of caring for another person when ninety-five percent of the time I can’t even care for myself. I was also worried that I wasn’t capable of it.

“So…” He trailed off.

“Hm?”

“When are we going to discuss what happened?”

“What do you mean? Nothing happened.”

“Exactly,” he turned me onto my back so he could look at me, “Nothing happened because you ditched me.”

“I…I wouldn’t say ‘ditched’ exactly…I just—“ that’s when there was a knock at the door. “Oh, look at that. Someone’s here, I’ll be right back.” I leaped up from the bed and threw Lukas’s t-shirt over my head.

Before opening the door I looked through the peep hole and was greeted by electric green eyes. “Shit.” I opened the door, “Hey, Harry.”

“Hey. Did I wake you?” He gestured towards my attire with furrowed brows.

“Oh, no, I was just doing some cleaning around the apartment.” Harry peeked in, shoving his head in the small gap I allowed between the door and the frame and the dip between his brows deepened when he saw the pile of men’s clothes laying in the middle of my apartment.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Who is it?” I cringed at the sound of Luke’s voice coming from my bed. Then I cringed even more when he emerged in only his underwear. Obviously caught, I opened the door wider and revealed a shirtless Lukas.

“Hi, I’m Harry.” He took a few steps inside, “I’m a friend of Auden’s.”

“Oh, I’m Lukas. She’s never mentioned you.”

“Funny, she’s never mentioned you either.”

Lukas sent me an accusatory look, “That’s weird since we’re seeing one another. We’ve been seeing each other for a while now actually.”

“We are not seeing one another.” I looked at Harry and then at Lukas, “We can’t be if we never go on dates.”

“We would be if you would stop ditching me.” Lukas mumbled under his breath.

“Oh my God, enough.” I ran my hands through my hair. “Harry, Lukas and I are not a thing, that’s why I never mentioned him. And Lukas, I never mentioned Harry because you and I aren’t a thing which means it’s none of your business who my friends are.”

“Well,” Harry spoke up, “I was just stopping by to see if you wanted to get some lunch.”

I nodded, “Yeah, definitely. Just give me like twenty minutes to shower and get dressed and then we’ll go, okay?” He nodded and made his way over to the couch.

“Are you serious?” Lukas took a step closer to me and lowered his voice, “You’ll go to lunch with him but not with me.”

“Harry and I are friends, Lukas, going to lunch with him doesn’t make anything messy.”

“Fine, I’ll go.” He put his hands up in surrender and grabbed his clothes off the floor, shoving on his pants and sweatshirt.

“Yeah, good idea.” Harry smirked and I shot him a look before opening the door for Luke.

“What do you see in that guy?” Harry asked once he was gone.

“Sex—good sex.” There was no point in lying to him and I wasn’t one of those people that were ashamed or embarrassed about having a sex drive.

“Really? That’s all? You don’t like him or anything?”

“I mean, I like him but I don’t like him like him, you know?” I grabbed a pair of jean shorts, underwear, a bra-lette and a loose white tank top from my wardrobe before walking towards the bathroom.

He trailed behind me, “I don’t get it.”

“What part of it do you not understand? All him and I have between us is sex, that’s it. It’s a physical thing and it’s going to stay that way.” I whirled around to face him, “What, jealous?” Say, ‘yes,’ my inner voice begged. On the outside, I was joking. I was poking fun at the fact that he cared, but on the inside I wanted him to say yes, to let me know that part of him wanted me in that way.

“Not at all,” he shook his head, as if the idea of him being jealous was the most ridiculous idea in the world. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Harry, I’m not going to get hurt. I’m a big girl and the whole arrangement was my idea. This is what I do.”

“It is?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s not what I do.” He said under his breath.

“Well then it’s a good thing neither of us have to worry about falling for one another.” I sent him a wink before closing the bathroom door.

“I have a question.” Harry said.

We were on our way to the subway station. We hadn’t spoken much since our exchange after Lukas left. Every bout of silence was awkward and while I knew that there was a bit of hostility between Luke and Harry, I didn’t understand why he seemed so annoyed with me. I knew the comment I made about us not falling for one another may have been a bit uncalled for since it implied I could never feel a certain way about him, but I was frustrated at his lack of jealously which signaled to me that he couldn’t like me in that way.

“Why don’t you date? As in, seriously date,” he asked when I gave him my attention.

I laughed nervously, “If I’m completely honest with you, I need you to promise to not judge me.” When he promised, I let myself explain, “The situation with my parents was bad—and that’s putting it nicely. I don’t really ever remember them being nice to each other. They were cold, and always yelling and fighting. Neither of them really seemed to know how to love someone else in that way and I knew both of them had it rough growing up and I always assumed that was why—they were just doomed. I think I’m doomed, like it’s hereditary or something. I don’t want to think it but I do. I’m terrified of hurting someone the way my parents hurt one another and I’m terrified that I’ll end up handling the hurt the same way my mom does. I get all panicky when stuff starts to get serious with guys and I always break it off. It’s just the way it is.”

Upon the admission, I could hear Lucy and Ev yelling at me in my head. I knew if they heard what had just come out of my mouth that they would be upset with me. They’ve both been trying for so long to get me past what happened growing up but I couldn’t let it go. For a while, Lucy tried to make me go to therapy, but I couldn’t do it. The idea of going to therapy made me feel slightly embarrassed and I convinced myself that whatever ‘issues’ I had weren’t even serious enough for therapy.

When he didn’t say anything, I continued, “That being said, I wouldn’t hate being with someone. A major part of me wants that. I write about it all the time. I really do love the idea of being loved and loving someone, but, I don’t know,” I shrugged, “it’s just complicated I guess.”

Harry was the only person that heard my admittance of maybe wanting a stable relationship in the future. I never told Lucy that I wanted those things at some point, I think, maybe, because she’s the same way as I am. We never had any reason to talk about real, romantic, adult relationships because neither of us were trying to pursue one.

“I get it,” he said, “but I disagree. You’re not a cruel person and you seem like the type to learn from other’s mistakes, not repeat them.”

“So I’ve been told.” I gave a sad smile and reached up and squeezed my shoulder. “What about you?” I asked, trying to turn the conversation onto him. “What’s your love life look like? We’ve never talked about this before.”

He laughed lightly, “Nonexistent, but looking.” He smiled at me.

“Are you a relationship guy?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’ve had hookups before but they weren’t long term or anything, like you and Lukas.”

“Interesting.” I looked him up and down, “You don’t really seem like the relationship type.”

“But you do.” I rolled my eyes at him and we descended the stairs into the station.

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles au #one direction #one direction fanfic #one direction fic #one direction imagine #one direction blurb #boyfriend!harry

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hpoelzig · 4 years

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Hurwitz on Classical Music

David Hurwitz is a music critic who currently has a YouTube channel upon which he presents his ever-growing body of reviews of recordings of classical music. I very recently discovered this wonderful resource, but I had known him over the years for his written reviews for High Fidelity, Fanfare, Amazon.com, and Classics Today (he’s a founder and executive editor). An ebullient curmudgeon with a rich vocabulary, Hurwitz presents his thoughts and feelings in an earthy, energetic manner. Clearly, he’s quite “well-listened”—and I’m curious as to how he currently evaluates recordings, whether he uses headphones or speakers and what sort of sound-reproducing facilities might be his “rig.” There are quite a few videos, with sometimes several added in a day, so I’ve yet to find whether he’s mentioned that somewhere amongst them.

Unsurprisingly, since Hurwitz resides in Brooklyn, over the decades we’ve both attended many of the same concerts. I lived in Manhattan for 35 years, near Carnegie Hall and Lincoln Center, and was at many performances in those venues as was he. We’ve likely passed close to one another a number of times without meeting, a pity, since I suspect we’d enjoy hours of conversation about the music for which we both have such passion. I value that Hurwitz is a fellow musician (a percussionist—as was I in my early years of college) and he’s also a fellow tam tam aficionado—he mentions he has a collection of them amongst his personal array or percussion instruments (I’d love to spend some time with those!). He is deeply conversant with the scores for the works he’s discussing, and may even have played in performances of such pieces over his career. He also values many of the same mainstream composers I favor (including Mahler, Shostakovich, Dvořák, Haydn, Strauss, Sibelius, Brahms and Bernstein) and he has written “Owner’s Manuals” regarding their works. I’m now tempted to read those. He’s even done scholarly rebuttals to the folks who promote early performance practices regarding use of vibrato. Hurwitz, contrarily to most, contends it was commonly in use. He also shares my love for some lesser-known composers such as Nielsen, Leifs, Gillis, Lloyd, Englund, Koechlin, Pettersson, Raff, Shapero, Kalliwoda, and Magnard.

From the episodes I’ve currently enjoyed, Hurwitz typically does not play examples of the recordings that he is discussing, and, to be fair, that would add a great deal of time to the video blog, so that’s not a problem. He may at times be speaking to the part of his audience who are also similarly well-listened, dismissing some performers who are generally considered to be weak in certain repertoire without necessarily making it abundantly clear why that would be the case. Those coming to this channel who are new to classical music might not at first grasp why he either raves for some or condemns others to the “schwach” bin. However, I’m discovering that his tastes frequently coincide with mine, as he has similar aesthetics about what qualities make for both exemplary music and performances of it. And, he’s made clear, both in the episodes and in the spirited comment stream for them, his perspective. These quotes from him in response to comments on his review of versions of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony (he wears a tie when discussing this work) make things abundantly clear:

“It's not wisdom, just experience, and there are many commentators who, I'm sure you will discover, also bring a useful fund of experience to bear on their judgments. There are also a lot of fakes and phonies, unfortunately, but that comes with the territory. If I may make one suggestion? Take your time, live with the music and your favorite versions, then perhaps sample another and see how it strikes you. There's no hurry—the point is that the experience should be as enjoyable as possible. I meant what I said originally—there is no performance out there that someone doesn't love, but if you want to try to get the "best" versions, more important than seeking out the advice of others is to know your own preferences, so you have a basis to judge what they say. Be selfish. It's your money and your time!

“Of course no hard feelings. You are more than free to disagree with me, and I respect that. Of course Karajan sounds different from Szell, and I greatly prefer Szell, but I chose Karajan not because I like him, but because he had a distinct point of view that he realized superbly in that recording, and I felt obliged to give credit where credit was due. That is the difference, sometimes, between criticism and mere fandom. I do feel an obligation to acknowledge different interpretations, take into account the general consensus, and consider other factors beyond my own personal preference. It may not exactly be "objective," but it isn't totally "subjective" either. I see it more as an aspect of professionalism as a critic. I take great pride in recognizing excellent work, whether I happen to like it or not, and telling listeners about it so that they can come to their own conclusions.”

I’ve been pleased to discover that Hurwitz shares my thinking about the quality of Rachmaninov’s Symphony No. 1 (his best—and we share admiration for Ashkenazy’s recording), but, in contrast, I do like the actual bell sounds in the first movement, which for me directly evoke Rimsky-Korsakov’s orchestration of the Boris Godunov coronation scene while Hurwitz prefers that passage to be less literal. My readers might know of my Mahler connection (including my years with the Gustav Mahler Society of New York which began in 1976) and I frequently find that Hurwitz knows and appreciates some of the more obscure Mahler recordings…Muti’s 1st, Slatkin’s 2nd, Barshai’s 5th. Our listenings and evaluations often coincide, but we don’t always agree. While he prefers the wind band arrangement, I love hearing the full orchestral version with choral parts for the Berlioz “Funeral and Triumphal Symphony.” Singing “Gloire et Triomphe” while conducting “air baton” always adds to my enjoyment of that splendid work.

Hurwitz’s video blog reviews are definitely worth your while, whether you are beginning to explore classical music or are a seasoned aficionado. So far, he’s clued me in to some treasures that I’d not yet enjoyed, including Finn Mortensen’s splendid symphony and Fricsay’s superb reading of Dvorak’s 9th. Many of the recordings he mentions are currently posted on YouTube. While he doesn’t provide links, but you can easily find them, so you need not deplete your funds ordering hundreds of CDs. Do your listening and then you can purchase those CDs that intrigue you most. You’ll quickly get used to his raspy voice and cheerful monologue. The sight of his smiling face framed by the pagan halo of one of his substantial tam tams will be a welcome sight.

For many, getting acquainted with classical music is a rather Hellish experience. I know, for I’ve spent decades assisting people to discover the glories achieved in that art form. There are centuries worth of material and thousands of performances of wildly varying quality, and that can be a formidable barrier. Would-be initiates to this vast repertoire often need a knowledgable guide. So, I suggest you let Mr. Hurwitz be Virgil to your Dante as you descend what might seem at first to be the nine circles of the abyss, but which will instead ultimately prove to be an opening of your ears to transcendent beauty. Queue Liszt’s “Dante Symphony”—with the optional fortissimo conclusion to the choral Magnificat—volume turned up!

—Peter H. Gilmore

#David Hurwitz #classical music #classical music reviews #symphonic music #chamber music #choral music #Beethoven #Mahler #Shostakovich #Nielsen #franz liszt #antonin dvorak #leonard bernstein #charles mackerras

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