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feliciagarrivan · 1 year

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INSIDE THE WHITE CUBE: NOTES ON THE GALLERY SPACE, PART I

A RECURRENT SCENE IN SCI-FI movies shows the earth withdrawing from the spacecraft until it becomes a horizon, a beachball, a grapefruit, a golf ball, a star. With the changes in scale, responses slide from the particular to the general. The individual is replaced by the race and we are a pushover for the race—a mortal biped, or a tangle of them spread out below like a rug. From a certain height people are generally good. Vertical distance encourages this generosity. Horizontality doesn’t seem to have the same moral virtue. Far away figures may be approaching and we anticipate the insecurities of encounter. Life is horizontal, just one thing after another, a conveyer belt shuffling us toward the horizon. But history, the view from the departing spacecraft, is different. As the scale changes, layers of time are superimposed and through them we project perspectives with which to recover and correct the past. No wonder art gets bollixed up in this process; its history, perceived through time, is confounded by the picture in front of your eyes, a witness ready to change testimony at the slightest perceptual provocation. History and the eye have a profound wrangle at the center of this “constant” we call tradition.

All of us are now sure that the glut of history, rumor and evidence we call the modernist tradition is being circumscribed by a horizon. Looking down, we see more clearly its “laws” of progress, its armature hammered out of idealist philosophy, its military metaphors of advance and conquest. What a sight it is—or was! Deployed ideologies, transcendent rockets, romantic slums where degradation and idealism obsessively couple, all those troops running back and forth in conventional wars. The campaign reports that end up pressed between boards on coffee-tables give us little idea of the actual heroics. Those paradoxical achievements huddle down there, awaiting the revisions that will add the avant-garde era to tradition or, as we sometimes fear, end it. Indeed tradition itself, as the spacecraft withdraws, looks like another piece of bric-a-brac on the coffee-table—no more than a kinetic assemblage glued together with reproductions, powered by little mythic motors and sporting tiny models of museums. And in its midst, one notices an evenly lighted “cell” that appears crucial to making the thing work: the gallery space.

The history of modernism is intimately framed by that space. Or rather the history of modern art can be correlated with changes in that space and in the way we see it. We have now reached a point where we see not the art but the space first. (A cliché of the age is to ejaculate over the space on entering a gallery.) An image comes to mind of a white, ideal space that, more than any single picture, may be the archetypal image of 20th-century art. And it clarifies itself through a process of historical inevitability usually attached to the art it contains.

The ideal gallery subtracts from the artwork all cues that interfere with the fact that it is “art.” The work is isolated from everything that would detract from its own evaluation of itself. This gives the space a presence possessed by other spaces where conventions are preserved through the repetition of a closed system of values. Some of the sanctity of the church, the formality of the courtroom, the mystique of the experimental laboratory joins with chic design to produce a unique chamber of esthetics. So powerful are the perceptual fields of force within this chamber that, once outside it, art can lapse into secular status—and conversely. Things become art in a space where powerful ideas about art focus on them. Indeed the object frequently becomes the medium through which these ideas are manifested and proffered for discussion—a popular form of late modernist academicism (“ideas are more interesting than art”). The sacramental nature of the space becomes clear, and so does one of the great projective laws of modernism: as modernism gets older, context becomes content. In a peculiar reversal, the object introduced into the gallery “frames” the gallery and its laws.

A gallery is constructed along laws as rigorous as those for building a medieval church. The outside world must not come in, so windows are usually sealed off. Walls are painted white. The ceiling becomes the source of light. The wooden floor is polished so that you click along clinically or carpeted so that you pad soundlessly, resting the feet while the eyes have at the wall. The art is free, as the saying used to go, “to take on its own life.” The discreet desk may be the only piece of furniture. In this context a standing ashtray becomes almost a sacred object, just as the firehose in a modern museum looks not like a firehose but an esthetic conundrum. Modernism’s transposition of perception from life to formal values is complete. This, of course, is one of modernism’s fatal diseases.

Unshadowed, white, clean, artificial, the space is devoted to the technology of esthetics. Works of art are mounted, hung, scattered for study. Their ungrubby surfaces are untouched by time and its vicissitudes. Art exists in a kind of eternity of display, and though there is lots of “period” (late modern), there is no time. This eternity gives the gallery a limbolike status; one has to have died already to be there. Indeed the presence of that odd piece of furniture, your own body, seems superfluous, an intrusion. The space offers the thought that while eyes and minds are welcome, space-occupying bodies are not—or are tolerated only as kinesthetic mannequins for further study. This Descartian paradox is reinforced by one of the icons of our visual culture: the installation shot, sans figures. Here at last the spectator, oneself, is eliminated. You are there without being there, one of the major services provided for art by its old antagonist, photography. The installation shot is a metaphor for the gallery space. In it, an ideal is fulfilled as strongly as in a Salon painting of the 1830s.

Indeed, the Salon itself implicitly defines what a gallery is, a definition appropriate for the esthetics of the period. A gallery is a place with a wall, which is covered with a wall of pictures. The wall itself has no intrinsic esthetic; it is simply a necessity for an upright animal. Samuel F. B. Morse’s Exhibition Gallery at the Louvre (1833) is upsetting to the modern eye: masterpieces as wallpaper, each one not yet separated out and isolated in space like a throne. Disregarding the (to us) horrid concatenation of periods and styles, the demands made on the spectator by the hanging pass our understanding. Are you to hire stilts to rise to the ceiling or to get on hands and knees to sniff anything below the dado? Both high and low are underprivileged areas. You overheard a lot of complaints from artists about being “skied” but nothing about being “floored.” Near the floor, pictures were at least accessible and could accommodate the connoisseur’s “near” look before he withdrew to a more judicious distance. One can see the 19th-century audience strolling, peering up, sticking their faces in pictures and falling into interrogative groups a proper distance away, pointing with a cane, perambulating again, clocking off the exhibition picture by picture. Larger paintings rise to the top (easier to see from a distance), and are sometimes tilted out from the wall to maintain the viewer’s plane; the “best” pictures stay in the middle zone; small pictures drop to the bottom. The perfect hanging job is an ingenious mosaic of frames without a patch of wasted wall showing.

What perceptual law could justify such (to our eyes) a barbarity? One and one only. That each picture was seen as a self-contained entity, totally isolated from its slum-close neighbor by a heavy frame around and a complete perspective system within. Space was discontinuous and categorizable, just as the houses in which these pictures hung had different rooms for different functions. The 19th-century mind was taxonomic, and the 19th-century eye recognized hierarchies of genre and the authority of the frame.

How did the easel picture become such a neatly wrapped parcel of space? The discovery of perspective coincides with the rise of the easel picture, and the easel picture, in turn, confirmed the promise of illusionism inherent in painting. There is a peculiar relation between a mural—painted directly on the wall—and a picture that hangs on a wall; a painted wall is replaced by a piece of portable wall. Limits are established and framed; miniaturization becomes a powerful convention that assists rather than contradicts illusion. The space in murals tends to be shallow; even when illusion is an intrinsic part of the idea, the integrity of the wall is as often reinforced by struts of painted architecture as denied. The wall itself is always recognized as limiting depth (you don’t walk through it), just as corners and roof (often in a variety of inventive ways) limit size. Close up, murals tend to be frank about their means—illusionism breaks down in a babble of method. You feel you are looking at the underpainting and often can’t quite find your “place.” Indeed murals project ambiguous and wandering vectors with which the spectator attempts to align himself. The easel picture on the wall quickly indicates to him exactly where he stands.

For the easel picture is like a portable window that, once set on the wall, penetrates it with deep space. This theme is endlessly repeated in northern art, where a window within the picture in turn frames not only a further distance but confirms the windowlike limits of the frame. The magical, boxlike status of some smaller easel pictures is due to the immense distances they contain and the perfect details they sustain on close examination. The frame of the easel picture is as much a psychological container for the artist as the room in which he stands is for the viewer. The perspective positions everything within the picture along a cone of space, against which the frame acts like a grid, echoing those cuts of foreground, middle ground and distance within. One “steps” firmly into such a picture, or glides in effortlessly, depending on its tonality and color. The greater the illusion, the greater the invitation to the spectator’s eye; the eye is abstracted from an anchored body and projected as a miniature proxy into the picture to inhabit and test the articulations of its space.

For this process, the stability of the frame is as necessary as an oxygen tank to a diver. Its limiting security completely defines the experience within. The border as absolute limit is confirmed in easel art up to the 19th century. When it curtails or elides subject matter, it does so in a way that strengthens the edge. The classic package of perspective enclosed by the Beaux-Arts frame makes it possible for pictures to hang like sardines. There is no suggestion that the space within the picture is continuous with the space outside it.

This suggestion is made only sporadically through the 18th and 19th centuries as atmosphere and color eat away at the perspective. Landscape is the progenitor of a translucent mist that puts perspective and tone/color in opposition, because both contain, among other things, opposite interpretations of the wall they hang on. Pictures begin to appear that put pressure on the frame. The archetypal composition here is the edge-to-edge horizon, separating zones of sky and sea occasionally underlined by beach with maybe a figure facing, as everyone does, the sea. Formal composition is gone, the frames within the frame (coulisses, repoussoirs, the braille of perspective depth) have slid away. What is left is an ambiguous surface partly framed from the inside, by the horizon. Such pictures (by Courbet, Caspar David Friedrich, Whistler and hosts of little masters) are poised between infinite depth and flatness and tend to read as pattern. The powerful convention of the horizon zips easily enough through the limits of the frame.

These and certain pictures focusing on an indeterminate patch of landscape that often looks like the “wrong” subject introduce the idea of noticing something, of an eye scanning. This temporal quickening makes the frame an equivocal and not an absolute zone. Once you know that a patch of landscape represents a decision to exclude everything around it, you are faintly aware of the space outside the picture. The frame becomes a parenthesis. The separation of paintings along a wall, through a kind of magnetic repulsion, becomes inevitable. And it is accentuated and largely initiated by the new science—or art—devoted to the excision of a subject from its context: photography.

In a photograph, the location of the edge is a primary decision, since it composes—or decomposes—what it surrounds. Eventually framing, editing, cropping—establishing limits—become major acts of composition. But not so much in the beginning. There was the usual holdover of pictorial conventions to do some of the work of framing—internal buttresses made up of convenient trees and knolls. But the best early photographs reinterpret the edge without the assistance of pictorial conventions. They lower the tension on the edge by allowing the subject matter to compose itself, rather than consciously aligning it with the edge. Perhaps this is typical of the 19th century. The 19th century looked at a subject—not at its edges. Various fields were studied within their declared limits. Studying not the field but its limits, and defining these limits for the purpose of extending them, is a 20th-century habit. We have the illusion that we add to a field by extending it laterally, not by going, as the 19th century might say in proper perspective style, deeper into it. Even scholarship in both centuries has a recognizably different sense of edge and depth, of limits and definition. Photography quickly learned to move away from heavy frames and to mount a print on a sheet of board. A frame was allowed to surround the board after a neutral interval. Early photography recognized the edge but removed its rhetoric, softened its absolutism and turned it into a zone rather than the strut it later became. But one way or another, the edge as a firm convention locking in the subject had become fragile.

Much of this applied to Impressionism, where a major theme is the edge as umpire of what’s in and what’s out. But this is combined with a far more important force, the beginning of the decisive thrust that eventually altered the idea of the picture, the way it was hung, and ultimately the gallery space: the myth of flatness, which became the powerful logician in painting’s argument for self-definition. The development of a shallow literal space (containing invented forms, as distinct from the old illusory space containing “real” forms) put further pressures on the edge. The great inventor here is, of course, Monet.

Indeed the magnitude of the revolution he initiated is such there is some doubt his achievement matches it, for he is an artist of decided limitations, or one who decided on his limitations and stayed within them. Monet’s landscapes often seem to have been noticed on his way to or from the real subject. There is an impression that he is settling for a provisional solution; the very featurelessness relaxes your eye to look elsewhere. The informal subject matter of Impressionism is always pointed out, but not that the subject is seen through a casual glance, one not too interested in what it’s looking at. What is interesting in Monet is “looking at” this look—the integument of light, the often preposterous formularization of a perception through a punctate code of color and touch which remains (until near the end) impersonal. The edge eclipsing the subject seems a somewhat haphazard decision that could just as well have been made a few feet to left or right. A signature of Impressionism is the way the casually chosen subject softens the edge’s structural role at a time when the edge is under pressure from the increasing shallowness of the space. This doubled and somewhat opposing stress on the edge is the prelude to the definition of a painting as a self-sufficient object—a container of illusory fact now become the primary fact itself, which sets us on the high road to some stirring esthetic climaxes.

Flatness and objecthood usually find their first official text in Maurice Denis’ famous statement in 1890 that before a picture is subject matter it is first of all a surface covered with lines and colors. This is one of those literalisms that sounds brilliant or rather dumb depending on the zeitgeist. Right now, when we’ve seen the end-point to which nonmetaphor, nonstructure, nonillusion and noncontent can take you, the zeitgeist makes it sound a little obtuse. The picture plane, the ever-thinning integument of modernist integrity, sometimes seems ready for Woody Allen, and has indeed attracted its share of ironists and wits. But this ignores that the powerful myth of the picture plane received its impetus from the centuries during which it sealed in unalterable systems of illusion. Conceiving it differently, in the modern era, was an heroic adjustment that signified a totally different world view, which was trivialized into esthetics, into the technology of flatness.

The literalization of the picture plane is a great subject. As the vessel of content becomes shallower and shallower, composition and subject matter and metaphysics all overflow across the edge until, as Gertrude Stein said about Picasso, the emptying out is complete. But all the jettisoned apparatus—hierarchies of painting, illusion, locatable space, mythologies beyond number—bounced back in disguise and attached themselves, via new mythologies, to the literal surface which had apparently left them no purchase. The transformation of literary myths into literal myths—objecthood, the integrity of the picture plane, the equalization of space, the self-sufficiency of the work, the purity of form—is unexplored territory. Without this change art would have been obsolete. Indeed its changes often seem one step ahead of obsolesence, and to that degree its progress mimics the laws of fashion.

The cultivation of the picture plane resulted in an entity with length and breadth but no thickness, a membrane which, in a metaphor usually organic, could generate its own self-sufficient laws. The primary law, of course, was that this surface, pressed between huge historical forces, could not be violated. A narrow space forced to represent without representing, to symbolize without benefit of received conventions generated a plethora of new conventions without a consensus—color codes, signatures of paint, private signs, intellectually formulated ideas of structure. Cubism’s concepts of structure conserved the easel painting status quo; Cubist paintings are centripetal, gathered toward the center, fading out toward the edge. (Is this why Cubist paintings tend to be small?) Seurat understood much better how to define the limits of a classic formulation at a time when edges had become equivocal. Frequently, painted borders made up of a glomeration of colored dots are deployed inward to separate out and describe the subject. The border absorbs the slow movements of the structure within. To muffle the abruptness of the edge, he sometimes pattered all over the frame so that the eye could move out of the picture—and back into it—without a bump.

Matisse understood the dilemma of the picture plane and its tropism toward outward extension better than anyone. His pictures grew bigger as if, in a topological paradox, depth were being translated into a flat analog. On this, place was signified by up and down and left and right, by color, by drawing that rarely closed a contour without calling on the surface to contradict it, and by paint applied with a kind of cheerful impartiality to every part of that surface. In Matisse’s large paintings we are hardly ever conscious of the frame. He solved the problem of lateral extension and containment with perfect tact. He doesn’t emphasize the center at the expense of the edge, or vice versa. His pictures don’t make arrogant claims to stretches of bare wall. They look good almost anywhere. Their tough, informal structure is combined with a decorative prudence that makes them remarkably self-sufficient. They are easy to hang.

Hanging, indeed, is what we need to know more about. From Courbet on, conventions of hanging are an unrecovered history. The way pictures are hung make assumptions about what is offered. Hanging editorializes on matters of interpretation and value, and is unconsciously influenced by taste and fashion. Subliminal cues indicate to the audience its deportment. It should be possible to correlate the internal history of paintings with the external history of how they were hung. We might begin our search not with a mode of display communally sanctioned (like the Salon), but with the vagaries of private insight—with those pictures of 17th-and 18th-century collectors elegantly sprawled in the midst of their inventory. The first modern occasion, I suppose, in which a radical artist set up his own space and hung his pictures in it, was Courbet’s one-man Salon des Refusés outside the Exposition of 1855. How were the pictures hung? How did Courbet construe their sequence, their relationship to each other, the spaces between? I suspect he did nothing startling. Yet it was the first time a modern artist (who happened to be the first modern artist) had to construct the context of his work and therefore editorialize about its values.

Though pictures may be radical, their early framing and hanging usually is not. The interpretation of what a picture implies about its context is always, we may assume, delayed. In their first exhibition in 1874, the Impressionists stuck their pictures cheek by jowl, just as they would have hung in the Salon. Impressionist pictures which assert their flatness and their doubts about the limiting edge are still sealed off in Beaux-Arts frames that do little more than announce Old Master—and monetary—status. When William C. Seitz took off the frames for his great Monet show at the Museum of Modern Art in 1960, the undressed canvases looked a bit like reproductions until you saw how they began to hold the wall. Though the hanging had its eccentric moments, it read the pictures’ relation to the wall correctly and, in a rare act of curatorial daring, followed up the implications. Seitz also set some of the Monets flush with the wall. Continuous with the wall, the pictures took on some of the rigidity of tiny murals. The surfaces turned hard as the picture plane was “overliteralized.” The difference between the easel picture and the mural was clarified.

The relation between the picture plane and the underlying wall is very pertinent to the esthetics of surface. The inch of the stretcher’s width amounts to a formal abyss. The easel painting is not transferable to the wall, and one wants to know why. What is lost in the transfer? Edges, surface, the grain and bite of the canvas, the separation from the wall. Nor can we forget that the whole thing is suspended or supported—transferable, mobile currency. After centuries of illusionism, it seems reasonable to suggest that these parameters, no matter how flat the surface, are the loci of the last traces of illusionism. Mainstream painting right up to color field is easel painting, and its literalism is practiced against these desiderata of illusionism. Indeed these traces make literalism interesting; they are the hidden component of the dialectical engine that gave the late modernist easel picture its energy. If you copied a late modernist easel picture onto the wall and then hung the easel picture beside it, you could estimate the degree of illusionism that turned up in the faultless literal pedigree of the easel picture. At the same time the rigid mural would underline the importance of surface and edges to the easel picture, now beginning to hover close to an objecthood defined by the “literal” remnants of illusion—an unstable area.

The attacks on painting in the ’60s failed to specify that it wasn’t painting but the easel picture that was in trouble. Color field painting was thus conservative in an interesting way, but not to those who recognized that the easel picture couldn’t rid itself of illusion, and who rejected the premise of something lying quietly on the wall and behaving itself. I’ve always been surprised that color field—or late modernist painting in general—didn’t try to get onto the wall, didn’t attempt a rapprochement between the mural and the easel picture. But then color field painting conformed to the social context in a somewhat disturbing way. It remained Salon painting; it needed big walls and big collectors and couldn’t avoid looking like the ultimate in capitalist art. Minimal art recognized the illusions inherent in the easel picture and didn’t have any illusions about society. It didn’t ally itself with wealth and power, and its abortive attempt to redefine the relation of the artist to various establishments remains largely unexplored.

Apart from color field, late modernist painting postulated some ingenious hypotheses on how to squeeze a little extra out of that recalcitrant picture plane, now so dumbly literal it could drive you crazy. The strategy here was simile (pretending), not metaphor (believing): saying the picture plane is “like a –––––.” The blank was filled in by flat things that lie obligingly on the literal surface and fuse with it, e.g. Johns’s Flags, Cy Twombly’s blackboard paintings, Alex Hay’s huge painted “sheets” of lined paper, Arakawa’s “notebooks.” Then there is the “like a window shade,” “like a wall,” “like a sky” area. There’s a good comedy of manners piece to be written about the “like a –––––” solution to the picture plane. There are numerous related areas, including the perspective schema resolutely flattened into two dimensions to quote the picture plane’s dilemma. And before leaving this area of rather desperate wit, one should note the solutions that cut through the picture plane (Fontana’s answer to the Gordian surface) until the picture is taken away and the wall’s plaster attacked directly.

Also related is the solution that lifts surface and edges off that Procrustian stretcher, and pins, sticks or drapes paper, fiberglass, or cloth directly against the wall to literalize even further. Here a lot of Los Angeles painting falls neatly—for the first time!—into the historical mainstream; it’s a little odd to see this obsession with surface, disguised as it may be with vernacular macho, dismissed because of geographical misplacement as provincial impudence.

All this desperate fuss makes you realize over again what a conservative movement Cubism was. It extended the viability of the easel picture and postponed its breakdown. Cubism was reducible to system, and systems, being easier to understand than art, dominate academic history. Systems are a kind of P.R. which, among other things, push the rather odious idea of progress. Progress can be defined as what happens when you eliminate the opposition. However, the tough opposition voice in modernism is that of Matissé and it speaks in its unemphatic, rational way about color, which in the beginning scared Cubism gray. Clement Greenberg’s Art and Culture reports on how the New York artists sweated out Cubism while casting shrewd eyes on Matisse and Miró. Abstract-Expressionist paintings followed the route of lateral expansion, dropped off the frame, and gradually began to conceive the edge as a structural unit through which the painting entered into a dialogue with the wall beyond it. At this point the dealer and curator enter from the wings. How they—in collaboration with the artist—presented these works contributed, in the late ’40s and ’50s, to the definition of the new painting.

Through the ’50s and ’60s, we notice the codification of a new theme as it evolves into consciousness: How much space should a work of art have (as the phrase went) to “breathe?” If paintings implicitly declare their own terms of occupancy, the somewhat aggrieved muttering between them becomes harder to ignore. What goes together, what doesn’t? The esthetics of hanging evolves according to its own habits, which become conventions, which become laws. We enter the era where works of art conceive the wall as a no-man’s land on which to project their concept of the territorial imperative. And we are not far from the kind of border warfare that often Balkanizes museum group shows. There is a peculiar uneasiness in watching artworks attempting to establish territory but not place in the context of the placeless modern gallery.

All this traffic across the wall made it a far from neutral zone. Now a participant in, rather than a passive support for the art, the wall became the locus of contending ideologies and every new development had to come equipped with an attitude toward it. (Gene Davis’s exhibition of micro-pictures surrounded by oodles of space is a good joke about this). Once the wall became an esthetic force, it modified anything shown on it. The wall, the context of the art, had become rich in a content it subtly donated to the art. It is now impossible to paint up an exhibition without surveying the space like a health inspector, taking into account the esthetics of the wall which will inevitably “artify” the work in a way that frequently diffuses its intentions. Most of us now “read” the hanging as we would chew gum—unconsciously and from habit. The walls’ esthetic potency received a final impetus from a realization that, in retrospect, has all the authority of historical inevitability: the easel picture didn’t have to be rectangular.

Stella’s early shaped canvases bent or cut the edge according to the demands of the internal logic that generated them. (Here Michael Fried’s distinction between inductive and deductive structure remains of one of the few practical hand tools added to the critic’s black bag). The result powerfully activated the wall; the eye frequently went searching tangentially for the wall’s limits. Stella’s show of striped U-, T- and L-shaped canvases at Castelli in 1960 “developed” every bit of the wall, floor to ceiling, corner to corner. Flatness, edge, format and wall had an unprecedented dialogue in that small uptown Castelli space. As they were presented, the works hovered between an ensemble effect and independence. The hanging here was as revolutionary as the paintings; since the hanging was part of the esthetic, it evolved simultaneously with the pictures. The breaking of the rectangle formally confirmed the wall’s autonomy, altering for good the concept of the gallery space. Some of the mystique of the shallow picture plane (one of the three major forces that altered the gallery space) had been transferred to the context of art.

This result brings us back again to that archetypal installation shot—the suave extensions of the space, the pristine clarity, the pictures laid out in a row like expensive bungalows. Color field painting, which inevitably comes to mind here, is the most imperial of modes in its demand for lebensraum. The pictures recur as reassuringly as the columns in a classic temple. Each demands enough space so that its effect is over before its neighbor’s picks up. Otherwise the pictures would be a single perceptual field, frank ensemble painting, detracting from the uniqueness claimed by each canvas. The color field installation shot should be recognized as one of the teleological end-points of the modern tradition. There is something splendidly luxurious about the way the pictures and the gallery reside in a context that is fully sanctioned socially. We are aware we are witnessing a triumph of high seriousness and hand-tooled production, like a Rolls-Royce in a showroom that began as a Cubist jalopy in an outhouse.

What comment can you make on this? A comment has been made already, in an exhibition by William Anastasi at Dwan in New York in 1965. He photographed the empty gallery at Dwan, noticed the parameters of the wall, top and bottom, right and left, the placement of each electrical outlet, the ocean of space in the middle. He then silkscreened all this data on a canvas slightly smaller than the wall and put it on the wall. Covering the wall with an image of that wall delivers a work of art right into the zone where surface, mural and wall have engaged in dialogues central to modernism. In fact, this history was the theme of these paintings, a theme stated with a wit and cogency usually absent from our written clarifications. For me, at least, the show had a peculiar after-effect; when the paintings came down, the wall became a kind of ready-made mural and so changed every show in that space thereafter.

Brian O’Doherty shows at the Betty Parsons Gallery under the name of Patrick Ireland.

#gallery #gallery space #white cube #art exhibition #exhibition #art research #research #articles

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avilawinther04 · 2 years

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Three Uses For Motorcycle Skis

Motorcycle skis are attachments that can be attached to the wheels of a motorcycle. They move up and down to absorb bumps. Because the wheels are lower than the skis, the motorcycle has propulsion and steering capability. Motorcycle skis have a wide range of applications and are popular with many bikers. Here are three great uses for motorcycle skis. Read on to learn more about these devices! We also look at some motorcycles with skis. Indian motorcycle skis Motorcycle enthusiasts may already be familiar with Indian Motorcycle skis. The company originally designed them and later began selling them in bolt-on kits. These skis are a great addition to any motorcycle because they provide support for the bike and operate independently based on foot pressure. They allow the rider to lean the bike to his or her desired angle and give the bike the perfect balance. In addition to skis, you can even purchase a ski conversion kit that converts your bike to a snowmobile! Indian Motorcycle has a long and varied history. In 1901, George M. Hendee, a bicycle manufacturer, decided that he needed a machine to pace bike races. He teamed up with Oscar Hedstrom to create a motorized bike that caught the attention of fans. The company then went bankrupt in 1953, and various organizations have tried to keep the Indian name alive for years afterward. However, in 2011 Polaris Industries bought the company and began marketing new motorcycles with Indian styling. Husqvarna 256 When you see a custom Husqvarna 256 motorcycle, you may be reminded of that famous James Bond scene where Roger Moore is riding a ski to chase down the bad guys. While he's not always successful, he usually ends up winning. The Husqvarna 256 motorcycle ski was first developed for the Swedish defense force in the early '60s and became famous for its ski mode. The Husqvarna 256 motorcycle was used by the Swedish army during the 1960s and has since become a cult classic. It is so unique that it was first used by the Swedish military in snow patrols, and the motorcycles have now been brought back to life by the owner of 6/5/4 Motors in Stockholm. The shop owner named the bike Thage after his father, a legendary character from Swedish military history. Narke GT95 electric jet ski The Narke GT95 electrojet is a fully electric, motorcycle-style jet ski with 95 horsepower and a 31-mile range. Its hull uses deflection technology to reduce friction and improve stability at high speeds. Moreover, you can take incoming phone calls while riding your jet ski! In this article, we will take a closer look at the features of the Narke GT95 electrojet. The new GT95 electrojet from Narke is the third generation of its e-motor-powered personal watercraft. The first version of the Narke electrojet, the GT45, sold out almost immediately. This new model is designed with more power and a longer range, and it costs around $57022. The GT95 is a little larger than the GT45 and is available in different colors. You can purchase this jet ski online at Narke's official website. Husqvarna 256 with skis The Husqvarna 256 with motorcycle ski is a reconditioned machine that recalls the scene in a James Bond movie, when Roger Moore is chasing baddies on his motorbike. Usually, Bond wins the chase, but in this case, he's riding skis. This bike, which was designed for the Swedish defense force in the 1960s, is named after the owner's father. This 1968 Husqvarna 256 with motorcycle ski is a true piece of Scandinavian history. It's a Swedish military motorcycle, and it's an excellent example of a reconstructed machine. The 6/5/4 motors workshop in Stockholm has restored this machine to factory specifications. The Husqvarna 256 comes with a pair of skis and a set of snowshoes. Biski Designed for off-road riding, motorcycle skis are a fun way to travel during the winter. Choose the type that best suits your motorcycle and get ready to enjoy the winter's great outdoors. These skis can keep you upright and safe on snow-covered roads, while also offering some lateral support. You can even customize the style to fit your style. In less than 5 seconds, you can convert your motorcycle into a jet ski! Originally, Marek installed skis to keep his motorcycle upright, copying a design used by the Swedish Army. The skis were vital for control in the snow , and he lifted them when he hit tarmac, pushing them down to support the bike. He also used studded tires to keep his motorcycle upright and safe. But the roads in Siberia were permanently covered with hard-packed snow and ice. This made driving a motorcycle difficult.

#snow #s

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bobmccullochny · 2 years

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November History

November 17 1558 - Queen Mary I of England died and was succeeded by her half-sister, The 'Virgin Queen' Elizabeth I of England.

1827 - The Delta Phi & Sigma Phi fraternities were founded at Union College in Schenectady, New York. Along with Kappa Alpha Society and Sigma Phi Society, the trio were informally called the 'Union Triad'.

1855 - David Livingstone became the first European to see Victoria Falls in what was now present-day Zambia-Zimbabwe.

1869 - Suez Canal (Egypt) opened, linking the Mediterranean & Red seas. It is 102 miles long.

1871 - National Rifle Association was organized (in New York City) by Army and Navy Journal editor William Conant Church and General George Wood Wingate.

1894 - Daily Racing Form was founded in Chicago, Illinois by Frank Brunell.

1894 - H. H. Holmes (Dr. Henry Howard Holmes), one of the first modern serial killers, is arrested in Boston, Massachusetts. He killed between 23 and 200 people.

1911 - Omega Psi Phi Fraternity Incorporated, it was/is the first black Greek-lettered organization founded at an American historically black college or university, on the campus of Howard University in Washington, DC.

1947 - The Screen Actors Guild implemented an anti-Communist loyalty oath.

1952 - Archeologists reported finding a 2,000-year-old mosaic floor at Circum, Cyprus, that depicted a scene from Homer's Iliad.

1968 - Heidi Game Scandal - NBC cut the AFL championship to show the children's film Heidi and millions missed the Raiders beat the Jets, 43-32. The movie started at 7:00 PM. The game ended at 7:07.

1969 - SALT (Strategic Arms Limitation Talks) discussions opened in Helsinki, Finland.

1970 - A patent (#3541541) was issued to Doug Engelbart for the computer mouse - an "X-Y Position Indicator for a Display System".

1973 - In Orlando, Florida, President Richard Nixon told 400 Associated Press managing editors "I am not a crook."

1978 - The Star Wars Holiday Special aired on CBS

1992 - Dateline NBC aired a demonstration show General Motors trucks blowing up on impact, later it was revealed that NBC rigged test.

2001 - The Justice League premiered on The Cartoon Network. The initial team included Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern (John Stewart), The Flash (Wally West), Martian Manhunter (J'onn J'ones), and Hawkgirl.

2004 - Kmart Corp. announced it was buying Sears, Roebuck and Company for $11 billion USD and naming the newly merged company Sears Holdings Corporation.

#Todays smile

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marlahey · 4 years

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wsitd part fifteen (sneak peek)

a shawn mendes rpf fic rating/warnings: can anyone tell I still find fandom really annoying misc notes: so...hello again. literally so much has happened since the last time you saw me, so much that all I can really say at this point is that I hope you’re all safe and well, despite everything. I swore I wouldn’t abandon this fic and I haven’t! thank god for that. I wish I could’ve finished it for today as planned, but my job’s been nuts for the last few weeks and it totally ruined my writing mojo. in any case, here’s the first last ~3k of we stumbled in the dark. happy second birthday, wsitd. I can’t believe how old you are, suddenly. thank you to everyone who’s messaged me over the last little while and especially in the last few months when this last part was only like 300 words deep and felt so vast and scary. I can’t tell you how much your support has meant to me. (oh and pls just pretend for the sake of an upcoming scene not found here, Taylor’s Lover is already out in the world. just– just pretend. you’ll see.) so without further ado: (previously; start at part one here; find all parts here) (toronto; now) Shawn wants to FaceTime. Slide to answer.

His voice appears first. “Before you say anything, it’s not as bad as it looks.” “What–” You straighten automatically. “Shawn? Are you okay?” Bruises. On his beautiful face. Bruises and a tiny cut below his left eye, the beginnings of a scab along his jaw. Shawn’s rueful expression calms the start of your heart, like jumper cables jolting a battery into a steady rhythm. “I’m an idiot.” “What happened?” you demand, trying not to sound shrill or hysterical. He’s not dying. But his face. “You’re going to laugh at me.” “I won’t.” You’re too glad to hear from him – it’s been two weeks of rain checks and brief goodnight calls. Shawn sighs. The soft light of whatever room he’s in makes his features hazy. It’s late in Nashville. “I fell off a Bird.” “A what now?” “It’s a…” Shawn chuckles like he knows what he’s about to say sounds ridiculous. “Like a motorized scooter?” “Is that even a thing?” Your phone pings with messages: too-high, too-bright angles of him grinning, one hand on the handlebars of said motorized scooter, shots from behind of Parker and Geoff that are too blurry to be Kelsey’s work. Your heart pangs. “So totally worth it, huh?” He laughs. “Yes. Absolutely. I just wanted to tell you first before I like, story it or whatever. Didn’t want you to worry.” “Aren’t you performing? That country music thing?” “Tomorrow,” Shawn nods. You’re too late to conceal your wince. “National television, I know.” “Good thing you’re not just a pretty face?” He laughs so hard that he tips out of frame. Joy blooms inside your chest. “Ow. I think I bruised a rib. Damn El, way to kill a guy’s ego.” “Yeah,” you retort, “because your ego definitely needs taking down a peg.” It’s so easy with him. Somehow you’d forgotten that, amidst everything. A strange kind of sadness sticks in your throat. It clearly shows on your face because Shawn tilts his head. “What is it?” You almost say, nothing. “I miss you,” comes out instead. It feels like weakness, this honesty. You couldn’t really articulate why. “I’m sorry, I–” “I miss you too.” Shawn cuts you off so rarely in conversation that you genuinely stop out of surprise. His smile softens, oddly serious, as though he can hear the lost words: I know I put us here. “Every day.” There’s nothing accusatory in it, nothing reluctant or angry. Shawn says, I miss you, like he’d say, I love this song, with unequivocal certainty and ease. How can you feel better and worse at the same time? “One day at a time, right?” Shawn says gently. You nod. It’s what you agreed, after all. “You should get some rest,” you say. “Near death scooter experiences have to be exhausting.” Shawn snorts, his laugh crinkling around his eyes. It settles you in a way that you have to hang onto, in the days to come. “You sure you’re okay?” you ask, partly so he can’t pose the question himself. “Totally fine, El. I promise.” He’s giving you the out and you both know it. Shawn’s fingertips brush the edges of his camera, like he’s reaching for you through it. (He’s probably just adjusting his grip, but it’s a nice thought nonetheless.) “Call me tomorrow?” he asks. “We have the day off. Maybe we can watch a movie or something.” “Sure. Sweet dreams.” Shawn never hangs up first. He’s always still looking when you end the call, like he’ll never be able to stare for long enough. *

(new york; then) You If you only had one day in NYC what would you guys do with it?

Parker How much time are we talking actually? You As of right now? Charlie Precision is essential Sinclair. You 37 hours. I’m on the red-eye out tomorrow. You Already packing. No one asks why, though you’re sure there are questions. The band doesn’t voice them in the group chat, much to your relief. Geoff Sophie’s all over it. Have you guys eaten dinner? Shawn Nope, cancelled our reservation last minute. Geoff Be ready in 45. Coming to get you. Brian PIZZA. PIZZA. PIZZA. Suddenly there’s like a hundred pizza emojis blowing up your phone. You’re still laughing when Ava comes to check on you. The laughing might become crying but no one needs to know that. * (toronto; now) “I’ve been thinking about getting another tattoo.” “Oh yeah?” You’d nearly forgotten how much you miss home. High Park in the spring may not be Hyde or Central, but it’s yours all year round – even if you missed cherry blossom season by a mere two weeks. You’ve been lamenting it for three minutes, Shawn mhmm-ing in your ear at appropropriate intervals. He’s in a park too, a brief respite from rehearsal. It’s nice to trade photos of the view and pretend to be together. Tell me something new, you’d asked. This qualifies. “Is this another impulsive itch?” “I thought you liked my little meditative man!” “Oh I love it,” you assure him. You can picture Shawn’s false offense so clearly, struggling not to grin like a loon in front of an eldery couple sitting on a bench as you walk past. “I’ll never forget how terrible you and Brian are at it, and I love that you now have matching tattoos as a permanent reminder.” Shawn mhmm’s again, like he doesn’t believe you. Your cheeks hurt from trying not to laugh. “I’ve thought about it, you know.” “What, meditating?” “No you goof.” You lose that fight against a giggle, a stupid smile. “I mean, nothing against meditating. I’m sure my therapist would recommend it.” “Okay, so what have you thought about?” It sounds just suggestive enough – even in broad daylight at two in the afternoon – that a shiver races up your spine. He doesn’t mean that. But now that the idea’s in your head, you’ve definitely thought about that. “El? You still there?” “Yes!” you say, a little too high pitched. You have to clear your throat. “Hi. I meant a tattoo. I’ve been thinking about a tattoo.” Shawn mutters something too low to catch, your attention caught by laughing children chasing each other across the grass. “Sorry, what was that?” “Nothing.” He’s a terrible liar, but you let it slide. “That’s awesome! Do you know what? Or where? How is this the first I’m hearing of this?” Fondness for him swells like a wave. You shrug before you remember Shawn can’t see you. “I think I just wanted to put a lot of thought into my first one. Not...jinx it, or something? You have to be 18 right, so I figured if I still wanted it by my birthday that I’d just…” “Just what?” You swallow around a sudden knot. How the hell do people maintain long distance for years at a time? This feels like agony. “Get it when we came home from tour. I was gonna… I was gonna ask you to come with me.” “I still could, if you want.” “You’re only home a few days,” you object, half surprised even as the words leave your mouth. “You promised your parents you’d spend that time with them.” “Are you planning on getting a massive sleeve or something, El?” You snort. “No. I just...I know how precious your time at home is to you.” Shawn doesn’t say anything for a moment. Anxiety drops like a stone in your stomach. “I mean, if you get it soon, it’ll be pretty much healed by the time I’m back in the city. Might be a good idea.” You wish sometimes he wouldn’t let you off the hook so easily. “And if you were really mean, you wouldn’t even tell me what it was and I’d have to wait forever to find out.” “I haven’t completely decided yet,” you admit. “I know the artist I’d love though, down on Bathurst. I’ve been stalking her Instagram for like two years. I’ll send it to you.” “Can’t wait. I gotta go, I’m back at the venue. But I’ll call you later?” “See you Shawn. Have a great show.” “And El?” “Hmm?” “Unless you’re planning on getting it like, down your spine or something, it doesn’t hurt as much as everyone says. I dunno how much that scares you, but...it shouldn’t. You’re like, one of the bravest people I know.” A pause, in which you genuinely don’t know what to say. “That’s kinda dramatic. It’s not like, war or something. God. You know what I mean right? It’s really not that bad, I promise.” You haven’t cried in nineteen days. You’re not starting now. “Yeah. Thank you.” I love you. You’ve been swallowing those words for so long and you have no idea why. *

@lightsshawn: she’s gone guys we did it @cruelsummermp3: did what? @dancingwithshawn: got rid of ellie - she hasn’t been seen in three weeks! @afterglow: what the fuck is wrong with you guys? * Shawn For the record I said “Fuck that’s hot.” Shawn And then I thought it might be Shawn Too much. You Not too much at all. You Definitely not.

(new york; then) “Next!”

“I never thought I’d be so happy to line up for pizza.” You’re shoulder to shoulder with other patrons in Prince Street Pizza, inhaling the delicious scents of dough and cheese with Kelsey, Kristin, and Ava. The boys have bee-lined for the first available table that’s definitely too small for all of you, while Ava points out all the famous faces that line the walls beneath fairy lights. “I’m glad you’re here,” you tell her, barely loud enough over the din. Your sister just squeezes you gently. “Remind me to print some photos and buy some lights when I get home. I’m really digging this vibe.” “Think you’d get some use out of this?” Sometimes you could swear Ava’s purses are like Mary Poppins’.

“What the– when did you get that?” “From your Amazon wishlist, silly.” Your sister presses an Instax camera into your bewildered hands. “They’re cheaper here. I thought it might…” Ava’s smile softens. “Ease the sting a little. Be a nice project for your room? And I didn’t want you to lose that photography spark.” Not crying. “Did you put film in this already?” Ava nods. “Have at ‘er. Tonight seems like a good night.” You throw your arm around her neck, pointing the camera at your faces, twisting away from the people in line just behind you. The flash is so bright but it hurts in a way that’s almost sweet. “Next!” As predicted, there’s definitely not enough room at the table when you and the other women arrive with The Fancy Prince and a Spicy Spring pizzas. Shawn waves wordlessly towards him, sliding from the absurdly tall chair to offer it to you. As you clamber up, his arm snakes back around your chair and he steps back closer to you. On the outset it’s a space saving measure. But Shawn seems pretty comfortable eating with you essentially tucked against him. You can’t say you mind either. *

They sneak you into a bar.

(or more operatively, Kelsey slides a fake ID into your back pocket on the subway platform while you’re timing a shot of the train arriving. You gawk at it so long that you nearly trip through the doorway. It’s identical to your Ontario license – so much so that you have to check your wallet to make sure you haven’t irresponsibly lost your ID – save your birth year. Ava pointedly avoids your eyes. “Did you have something to do with the fact that I’m suddenly magically 21?” you ask Shawn. Just as he was pleased to eat pizza in close proximity, Shawn seems delighted to wrap his fingers just a few inches above yours around the centre pole inside the subway car. Looking up at him now, you know with a striking certainty that you’ll never tire of it either: the sharing space, the strokes of intimacy that seem so carefully brushed when you touch – incidental seconds hiding more yearning that you thought yourself able to feel. (You wonder if it’s mutual. You hope so.) Shawn just raises his eyebrows, reaching for the card between your fingers, but you jerk it back. “Oh no way are you seeing my driver’s photo.” “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he says, reaching into his back pocket. Shawn tightens his grip against the pole, stepping even closer as the car shifts back and forth. Something in your gut wants to flush at his words but he’s already extending an identical card to you, unabashed. The voice inside your head that used to see wanting whenever he looked at you now speaks in insistent imperatives: want. want. want. “Shawn Mendes.” You lower your voice in mock shock. “Are you telling you have–” you cast a furtive glance around the subway car, and he chuckles– “a fake ID?” Shawn tips his chin down towards you so that his mouth nearly touches your temple. “Don’t tell, El.” (You do flush this time, damn him.) The youthfulness of his face on his license startles you in a strange way. You forget sometimes that despite the two-ish years (and entire career) between you that makes Shawn feel much older sometimes, twenty isn’t exactly ancient. He can’t even legally drink tonight, for Pete’s sake. “You’re so cute,” he says quietly, like a secret. Your cheeks are hot when he hands you the counterfeit back to you. “And no, nothing to do with me.” “Will this even work? Don’t people get their licenses stolen by bars all the time because Americans don’t understand the concept of different countries?” Shawn shrugs. “Guess we’ll find out.”) You don’t end up needing the fake in a stroke of good luck, but it burns a hole in your pocket nonetheless. (Kristin hands you a red lipstick as you stand in line – “Just in case we gotta sell it.”; it makes Shawn double take in the reflection of the window.) Sophie exchanges pleasantries with the doorman at Hollow Nickel and he waves the group inside to a modest weekday crowd. “We got the first round,” says Geoff. Brian and Charlie blow a series of kisses. “Love you too, dorks.” Sophia returns with two bottles of red and a question in her eyes, to which Ava says, “Fries for everyone?” “Hear hear!” Parker tips his beer. “Got a toast in you, Sinclair?” “A toast?” All evening you’ve been thinking about Paris. And as everyone looks with warm expectancy, you finally have the words you didn’t then. “My birthday was one of the most memorable nights of my life. And I think I was worried that it was the only night like that I’d ever have. But it wasn’t really the city that I loved.” You can’t look right at Shawn. “Thank you.” You lift your glass. “For making that night and every night of this amazing journey so wonderful. I know we’ll see each other again, but I guess – we have tonight, and we’ll always have Paris. I love you guys so much.”

Not crying. “To you Sinclair!” Charlie tilts his bottle with a grin. “We’ll miss ya.” The sound of everyone reaching forward and their glasses clinking hurts too, in that same sweet and painful way. *

(toronto; now) Hey, it’s me. I think you’re either asleep or in rehearsal so don’t even worry about not picking up. I know it’s just a volunteering thing at the humane society but I’m like, weirdly very nervous about it, like god what if all the dogs hate me Shawn? How the fuck would I go on after a blow like that? I’m kidding. But only mostly. I just wanted to hear your voice before I went in. Even if it was just your answering machine. Is that lame? Probably. Anyway...god Ellie, wrap this up. I’ll let you know how it goes. *

You This is Earl and I love him with my whole heart You Sent an image You Look at those ears he’s like a bat I’m dying. Shawn Loved your photo You I’m considering him a good luck charm for my Sick Kids application. You How was the show? Shawn Good :) It’s unlike him to be so monosyllabic, smiley notwithstanding. Especially about a show. You Where are you? A crosswalk light turns in your favour. You’ve been walking just behind a couple with a giant white Samoyed, admiring his beautiful fluffiness as he sat at his owner’s heel. “Appa, yip yip!” The dog gets up immediately to walk. Holy shit I’m gonna die.

You’re literally typing Shawn oh my god I just– when your phone rings in your hand. “Hi.” You catch your reflection in the glass of a restaurant. Do you always look this happy when you talk to him? “El.” Shawn hasn’t said your name like this in a long time – not since In My Blood’s release. It immediately deflates your The Last Airbender excitement and you stop in your tracks; Appa’s swinging tail disappears around the corner. “Can you ask me again?” You turn down a local greenspace next to your building. The bustle of Queen Street fades and you press your phone closer to your ear. “Where are you, Shawn?” “Back in the hotel in Raleigh. You know that hammock thing by the window?” “In your story, sure. What time is it?” You know the answer, of course. Same time zone. “Eleven something.” Nerves pinch at the base of your spine. “And how do you feel in that hammock thing in Raleigh at eleven something at night?” Shawn sighs. “A little better now that I’m talking to you.” Your stomach jumps. “But? What is it?” The line is quiet for a moment, though you can still hear Shawn’s even breath. “I feel like I’m not doing enough.” “What do you mean?” “Remember what you said when you were filling in your application for Sick Kids? You have all this time and energy so you may as well use it to help other people?” “Yeah…I mean I spent a good portion of my day cuddling cats, but–” He huffs a gentle laugh in your ear and it feels like a victory. “Yes. I remember.” “I just feel like… like I could be doing more to help. What’s the point of having all these followers or this like, platform, if I can’t do good with it?” It seems important to choose your next words carefully. “You know your music really helps people, right? Like Morgan, from London? Like me?” Shawn sighs again. “Yeah. You know how much that means to me.” “I’m not saying you can’t or you shouldn’t look to do more – I dunno, fundraising or educating, or whatever. You’re right, you can and do reach so many people. But it’s not like Instagram is gonna solve every single major social issue in the world, or that you or any single person has all the answers or right opinions.” “I feel like an idiot sometimes,” he says, like a shameful admission. “I literally only have a high school diploma and I feel like, out of my depth all the time.” “It’s not fair that people expect you to speak about every trending topic of the day,” you insist. You can feel yourself on the edge of getting worked up, a surge of overprotectiveness you haven’t felt in a long time. “That’s not your job. What happens when you say something well-intentioned and it blows up in your face?” “That’s what I’m afraid of.” “Shawn…” It takes a second to straighten out all the thoughts now whirling around in your head. “I understand what you’re getting at. And I admire you for it, more than you know. I’m sure there’s a way to help people and use your platform in a productive way without all the...noise.” He’s quiet for a long time. “God, I miss you.” It’s ridiculous how he can still make you blush, even from hundreds of miles away. “I miss you too.” “Are you home yet?” “Just about to get in the elevator. Can I call you back?” “Yeah. Wanna watch something?” “You’re not tired?” “No. Just wanna be with you for a bit, if that’s okay.” There’s no one around but you bit back another stupid smile anyway. “Always okay.”

#shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes writing #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes fluff #mine: fic #wsitd #sorry this took literally all day lol

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suffering-and-happy-about-it · 4 years

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... I'll Be Watching You (Sriracha, Part 32.)

Description: A problematic college student gets the worst summer job of the ‘83 - Jim Hopper, the Chief of police in your hometown will have you as his secretary since his old lady Flo has two months lasting holiday. It was agreed so Hopper could let you far away from all the trouble.

Part Summary: You thought that love is strong. That love can overcome anything. But what are you supposed to do... When the person you love... Just isn't there anymore?

A/N: I'M GETTING EMOTIONAL AGAIN. I KNEW IT WILL COME, BUT I DIDN'T REALIZED UNTIL NOW. I'M SO SORRY.

Word count: 3.8 K

Warnings: Angst, fluff, everything mixed together, major character death, (mine) sadness, (mine) minor depression, (mine) anxiety... I JUST REALLY MISS HOP, OKAY?

Tagging: @nemodoren, @creedslove, @missdictatorme

Master list: H E R E

It was just another normal Thursday in the bistro. Well... Normal was too far fetched maybe. It was full because a lot of people came to the bistro to have dinner there before taking off to the funfair happening just five minutes from Hawkins. The people were in a good mood, the TV on the wall was going between news channels, showing various towns celebrating the Fourth of July.

The independence day was always great for you - huge tips, big smiles and good chatting with the costumers. You also liked to watch the fireworks on the TV, just to stop for a second and look at the colors, laughing and happiness it could cause. On days like those were, you loved your work. Ada was there with you, she always was, and another waitress came by - Camilla. She usually didn't have her shifts crossed with yours, but she was nice as well.

You were worried out of your mind for Hopper. Eleven at least called you earlier that day, telling you what was going on. She always at least told you who she’s with - but he just disappeared two days ago and people were spreading rumors that maybe, just maybe, he ran off to Indianapolis with Joyce Byers. You didn't believe any of that, but it was kind of strange for Jim to go off radars just like that. You knew that he's at least partially okay, but where he was or what he was up to, you haven't got any idea.

You leaned over the desk to take another offer, swaying your hips in the direction of table number four. What were the kids up to, you had no idea - you just knew that Eleven had teamed up with Max and that she had some relationship trouble with Mike. They told you that they have plans - and you trusted Eleven. You made a compromise with Jim that she can plan something on the Fourth of July and you kept your word. You simply trusted her, not asking any more questions.

"Breaking news." - The news suddenly shifted from a playful and happy tone to a completely serious one. Everybody, including you, in the room, looked at the screen, while you put the plates down. Could it be a fire started by the fireworks? Or did something happened at the fair? You shut up and watched the TV. Then an image of Starcourt mall in flames flashed on the screen and there could be gasps and whispers heard in the room. Your heart stopped as well, imaging Eleven anywhere near this.

"Starcourt mall is on fire. The source of the fire itself remains a mystery, but about thirty people are rumored to be inside the building at the moment." - A woman on the screen said with a completely serious, yet emotionless face. That was... Tragic. Truly tragic. How could one of the most modern shopping centers catch on fire? On the Fourth of July? Was it an error on the inside or could fireworks cause that?

"Local police Chief, James Hopper, is rumored to be inside along with eight teenagers who he intended to safe from the construction. Stick with us for news as soon as we got any." - She said and the logo of the TV station appeared on the screen.

Your look immediately traveled to Ada and your boss, who come to listen to the breaking news as well, your heart racing at the speed of light, thumping so loud that you could barely hear anything else. Hopper. Hopper was inside. In the falling apart building which caught on fire. They were yelling at you to drive there, so you nodded and not caring about the uniform, you ran to your old car.

Everything seemed to be unclear and smudged - you running to the car, starting it and driving off to the mall, breaking every possible speed limit that existed. You listened to the radio station informing on the current situation, but there were no mentions of Hopper or the teenagers. They were only talking about the firefighters and more and more policemen driving in, the sirens of ambulance cars in the distance and about how destroyed Starcourt appeared. It was slowly coming down.

You stopped in the middle of the parking lot, even leaving the motor running, just jumping off and running directly to the crime scene. You ran to where the police tape was starting, joining those who already stood there. It was indeed in flames. And it was one of the most terrifying things you've seen. Your mouth opened up as you looked at the dark clouds of smoke coming from the inside, the destroyed foyer which could be perfectly seen from the spot you were standing at and at the disoriented. Lost people standing there... Waiting for something. Anything.

You looked closely and furrowed - you realized that just in front of you, there was Steve Harrington dressed up in his Scoops Ahoy uniform sitting on the ground with a blonde girl, the medics were patching up his beaten up face and wrapping him up in a blanket. There were Eleven's friends sitting around on the pavement in front of Starcourt, everyone had a blanket over their shoulders. You noticed even Joyce Byers and Murray Bauman coming out, supported by the firemen, Joyce running to her son as soon as she saw him, not caring about the medics. She was crying her eyes out, her expression was terrified and she clearly couldn't understand a thing that was happening. But she hugged Will tighter.

And then you noticed her. Eleven standing in the middle of all of that chaos, with a patch on her forehead, dressed up in a bright yellow shirt with a black pattern, looking completely out of focus. She was searching for Hopper. Your crying got louder just because you knew she's safe.

You crouched under the tape, not caring about all the policemen that came from Bloomington, running towards her. You were screaming her name with relief. She turned to you, unable to take a gasp at the situation, she didn't know what to do at all. One of the officers almost ran after you, but Powell shook his head and caught his shoulder. Eleven was known as your daughter just as you were known as her mother. Nobody cared how you got together or that you were only about ten years apart from each other, they just knew you're family.

Eleven ran to your arms, almost bringing you down. Your hands grasped her face, your fingers cleaned it up a bit before you kissed her forehead and brought her closer to your body, almost suffocating her. You couldn't care less - the relief was just too strong.

"Ah, baby girl." - You mumbled with sobbing, still holding her in your arms. She started to cry as well, hugging your bistro uniform with her palms. Where was he? Where was your goddamn fiancé? Why wasn't he coming out of the flames? You were holding Eleven, which made you partially calm, but there was no sign of Hopper.

Joyce slowly looked around to see Karen Wheeler, Mrs. Sinclair and Mrs. Handerson running towards their boys, but then she looked at you, holding Eleven tightly. You were searching for something and Eleven was too - until her gaze fell on Joyce. She brought Will even closer when the events happening just minutes ago resurfaced on her mind. And Eleven knew what was going on in a second - and at the time, she truly started to cry.

Jim loved both you more than anything in the whole world. If there was anything he would sacrifice for, it was you two. If there was anyone that gave his life a direction and meaning, it was his daughter and the love of his life. He sacrificed himself, so you could be safe. But it dragged you to the hell and back - it was soon about to, but you didn't see it coming yet.

When you realized that maybe Hopper isn't coming out, you could swear that you felt the ground shaking under your feet. Did Eleven know that too? Of course, she did know that. She wasn't dumb.

That night, you both slept at your mother's - well, Eleven cried herself to sleep with her head on your thighs and you were sitting at the coffee table with a mug of black tea with a blanket over your shoulders, still watching the news, hoping for some news about Hopper. Your mother was with you the whole time, watching over you since your eyes were practically glued to the TV screen. And there were news, around five in the morning - but they sure as hell weren't good.

"We have another breaking news about the Starcourt mall being in flames." - The moderator said with a completely serious face - this time, it was a man. Your palm tightened around your mother's as you moved closed with your breath stuck. - "The list of the victims had finally been completed. Along with thirty citizens of Hawkins and Bloomington, there is also the name of local police Chief, James Hopper..." - He confined his speech, but you didn't listen to any of the things he said anymore. Your covered your mouth with your palm closed your eyes tightly and started to cry again. The coldness hugged your body tightly, flowing all over you, making your head spin and your heart thump a bit slower than it used to.

You pulled yourself together, but it was just because of Eleven. You needed to be strong for her - you were both suffering in your special way, but there were many things to go through. You gave yourself a few days to cry and to try to get a hold on that shock, mostly just sticking together, like cooking, or reading or just nuzzling while watching a movie. She was allowed to sleep with you in your bed, it somehow made the falling asleep easier.

After a week, you knew that you had to do something - so you decided to visit Joyce in her workplace, dropping Jane off at Mike's to spend some time with her friends, which could also make her help to feel better. You knew that you're not able to take care of Eleven on your own. You wanted to. You couldn't even say out loud in words how much you wanted to - but you hadn't your place, you hadn't even your diploma finished, you hadn't got any work... You weren't in a position to take care of your baby girl.

But Joyce could help you with that. She was surprised to see you walking in, especially with how bad you looked. There was no wonder why did you look so bad, but you looked like a ghost.

"Oh, hey there." - She waved at you with a small smile on her lips. She was looking tired as well, but at least, she did stop with living her life. She couldn't stop her whole life, not even for a minute since her need to be the rock for Johathan and Will was too strong. Eleven was also the one keeping you going - without her, you wouldn't be most likely ready to get up in the morning. Those were just things only moms could understand.

"Hi, Joyce." - You smiled back and took a sandwich out of your bag, giving it to her. - "Are you up for lunch? Took you some Bologna one, since I heard you like them the most."

Of course that Joyce was. It was a normal working day, which meant that she won't have much to do until two p.m. You sat in front of Melvald's under the summer sun and the warm wind, eating sandwiches. You knew you can talk to Joyce about the Hopper situation - she was his friend and probably, she was with him until the end. She was the first person who had crossed your mind when you thought about letting Eleven go to live her own life.

“How are you feeling, darling?” - She took your left hand to yours, looking at the small piece of silver on your ring finger. It was still there - just as she remembered it months ago when you first visited Melvald’s after that big day.

“Like a piece of fucking shit, not gonna lie.” - You chuckled bad and nodded to yourself. - “But she's making me feel better. What about Will and Jonathan? How are they holding up?”

“You know boys. They're almost adults, so they don't talk to their mamma about everything going on inside their heads. If there would be something off, I'm sure that they would come to me.” - She smiled back with sincerity. She was such a good mom and even a better human being. You haven't talked to Joyce much before you and Hop started dating, but when you got to meet her, you knew that you love that human being. She was also the one who supported your decision to date Hopper from the very start.

“I heard you'll be moving out of Hawkins?” - You asked and took a fair bit from that sandwich. You haven't eaten properly in a week, so you knew that even that small Bologna sandwich will bring you to bellyache.

“People talk, don't they?” - Joyce giggled back and nodded soon after. - “I'm thinking about Maine. But maybe ill change my mind.” - She shook her shoulders and smiled sadly. - “It will be strange to leave Hawkins. I'm living here since the day I was born and my boys do too.”

This was your time to ask her. You just prepared yourself to shoot the question out blatantly.

“What about taking Eleven with you?” - You told her a bit too quickly, taking a deep breath after that. You gave yourself a long time to think about how you'll continue the speech. - “I mean... Joyce. I don't want to get rid of her by any means, I love her with everything I have and since last week, she's the only one who keeps me in the boundaries of sanity. But she endured already too much in Hawkins - Jim told me about her escaping a lab near the town, she was surviving in the woods on her own, he adopted her and now, when he's gone... We still have each other and nothing’s more powerful than that, but I don't think I can do it on my own.” - You told silently and Joyce, even though she was already furrowing at you, didn't interrupt your speech.

“I don't have anything to give her - no flat, no money, my job isn't the best and I'm still a college student. My parents would take care of her, yeah, but... I don't think she would be happy here. Everything's going to remind her more and more as the time passes and I know so, because I already see memories of Jim every time I walk out, or when I cross the police station... And it's painful and numbing. I don't feel like I can take care of her, not at this point in my life.” - You caught Joyce's hand, looking her in the eyes, having a completely serious expression. - “Please, I beg you. Take her with you, I'll send you money for the rent and food, I’ll support her, I’ll visit you as often as I can, just... Don't let her rot in Hawkins.”

Joyce was watching your hands on her thigh, still chewing the last bite of the Bologna sandwich she took, processing all the information. There were a lot of things you tried to say and she wasn't completely sure if she caught all of them, but the things she heard, they were pretty rational as far as she could say. As a mother, she could feel how hard it must've been to even ask the questions you did or to even allow yourself to think about them.

It did make sense.

“Darling, I know it's hard for the both of you and I know how in pain you are while asking me and the least I can do is saying yes. You can count on me and Jonathan. You need time for yourself and once you're ready, I know you'll give Eleven the best home a child can ask for.” - Joyce answered with a low smile, making you cry with gratitude once again. The last thing you needed to do was to talk to Eleven about that - which was the worst part about everything.

You weren't ready to talk about the moving out until the end of August - you dodged the subject in both your head and conversations with Eleven. You told your mother and even if you had a huge argument after that, she could say that she understands why you chose such a radical solution.

When you felt like you're finally ready to talk about that with Eleven, you lit a fire on your parent’s garden and made both of you some tea while she prepared the marshmallows to roast.

“Come here.” - You smiled at her and rose your right arm. She took it as an invitation and you snuggled her up to your side, kissing her temple. She smiled and leaned a bit away from you - she was getting older and as most of the kids of her age, she started to think that things like that are cringy. - “I need to tell you something, okay?” - You whispered and Eleven nodded, while she started to roast the first pieces of the sweet treat.

“It doesn't make me happy, baby girl, but... I was silent about all of that for already a bit too long. You know I love you and that I want you to be happy, right?” - You asked with a slight furrow, watching the flames. Eleven slightly nodded, still looking away from you. - “I think it would be better if you move out with Joyce, you know?”

That was when her big, brown and widened eyes looked you in the face. You were already crying at that moment, being completely broken. She shook her head, catching your palm in hers.

“I don't want to go.” - She whispered, starting to cry as well. You palmed her face, hugging her with your eyes closed, trying to keep yourself calm. How could you stay calm in a situation like that one? - “My home is here with you, Mike and grandma. Why don't you understand?”

“And it will always be your home, baby. You just need to give me some time to find us a flat, I need to finish that degree... But then, it will be just us again.” - You whispered and cried, even more, feeling as Eleven wiggled out of your embrace. She threw the stick away, not even thinking about eating the marshmallows. You completely failed that one as a mother. You should tell her sooner and choose different words. This was just a stupid move.

“I don't want to go!” - She yelled and stormed off to somewhere. You stayed there all alone, crying and regretting ever doing this.

The following weeks were extremely hard for you. You finally visited the cabin again alongside Joyce, Steve Harrington, Jonathan, and Eleven, trying to save at least something. You cried with relief when you found all of your photo albums untouched and the framed photo still standing on the nightstand. There was even his naughty album, which you took with you as well, knowing well it has some photos of him too.

Most of all, you saved the rest of yours, his and Eleven’s clothes, moving a lot of it to Joyce’s house afterward. You kept a lot of his t-shirts and flannels, giving Eleven the ones she liked the most.

When the day of your separation came, you both lived at Joyce’s for a week to help her with packing all of the things. Joyce was making you occupied and laughing almost all the time, not thinking about what is coming. Even Eleven stepped aside from being very angry with you, she still was, but she started hugging you again and calling you mom. You and Joyce agreed on the kids staying every day of the week since you knew that they spent their best years together.

Especially sad you were about Mike - he was about to lose not only a girlfriend but also a friend he knew since kindergarten. The day before Byers left Hawkins, the house was empty, but you had a big pizza party, letting the kids do everything they wanted in the living room. And to your surprise, they played Dungeons and Dragons until the morning came around.

“Can you for a minute?” - You asked Eleven when she helped Will and Mike to pack the younger Byers’ room. She nodded, leaving the two boys alone. Joyce knew what you’re about to do, so she left the kitchen and told the kids not to come there. You gave her a small, wrapped up package, encouraging her to open it up.

It was the blue shirt Hopper gave you before you almost left for Indianapolis. It started to smell like you, since you wore it a lot, but now, it was time to pass on the legacy. Eleven knew you loved that piece of flannel, so she held it on her chest, looking you in the face. - “Why?” - She whispered.

“This shirt was really special for Jim. It’s a family tradition that one gives it to a person they love. He got it from Sara, then, and one day, he gave it to me. And it's my turn to pass the shirt on. I want you to have it.” - You smiled at her, kissing the back of her head once again.

“I love you, you know that, right? And he loves you too.” - You whispered when she hugged you so tight you could barely breathe, making you close your eyes while you closed your eyes, leaning your nose into her hair. - “I know that, mom. I know.”

And when you watched her leave with Joyce, crying her eyes out as well as everyone else, you knew that the part of you which belonged to Jim left on that day with Eleven. She was taking it away with her, leaving her behind against her will. Nancy drove you back home that night, but you knew that your world is never going to be the same as it was when they were with you.

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theparanormalperiodical · 4 years

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The REAL Stories Behind Final Destination (2000) And The 10 Creepiest Times Celebrities Predicted Their Own Deaths

It must’ve happened sometime in the early 1980s.

‘81, or ‘82, perhaps.

Some 15 year old in the ass-end of Aberdeen, Washington, was stuck in the teen funk of wanting to ditch high school forever whilst simultaneously spray painting ‘god is gay’ on hick trucks.

But when he wasn’t pissin’ off the rednecks, he was telling his friends that he was pretty sure he’d become a famous rockstar, and end his life surrounded by fame and riches by committing suicide.

He was the emblem of the era.

He would be the emblem for the next.

Kurt Cobain died on April 5th 1994 at the tender age of 27. He would not be the last person to have a premonition of his own death.

In fact, the peculiar phenomenon of predicting one’s own death or sensing something foreboding is due isn’t just some forgotten urban legend. It’s been immortalised in a franchise that has achieved a cult status similar to Cobain’s band Nirvana:

Final Destination (2000).

The thing is, the 5 Final Destination films aren’t just based on this unexplained phenomenon of predicting one’s demise. They’re also based on several horrifying, infamous deaths that have haunted America for decades.

They’ve been mocked, marketed, and made out to be utter rubbish - but the luring call of the Grim Reaper might be more real than you think.

First, let’s recap the Final Destination franchise.

James Wong has made his name in horror. From the cutting-edge directing of Insidious, to his recapturing of the media-frenzy that was the caseload of Ed and Lorraine Warren, he has led the genre in a new direction that deals with supernatural phenomena which tend to be all too real.

His earlier work, Final Destination, was no different.

The Final Destination franchise consists of 5 movies and a couple limited edition comic books. It’s achieved cult status for its innovative plotline and Truman Show-like impact on the viewers. But the thing is, like most cult horror movies, it tends to be, well, trash.

And that’s what they were.

For 5 feature length movies we see the same plot play out:

(No, I’m not being cynical, it literally follows the same damn structure every damn time.)

A gaggle of high school or college aged friends head out on a trip. One of the crew has a mysterious premonition that they’re gon’ die in like a 4K-HD-put-your-3D-glasses-on-now-and-switch-off-your-mobile-phones worthy video clip.

That person then, understandably, flips out and somehow causes a fight. The group of friends then get asked to get off the plane, or aren’t allowed on the roller coaster, or are no longer partaking in the deadly activity.

The event that was seen in the premonition then takes place. For the rest of the movie we see a series of bizarre events that threaten and take the lives of those who cheated death.

A sixth instalment is in production and attempts to break the cycle by looking at EMT workers who face ‘death’ on a daily basis.

The following of this film can be traced back to a number of reasons: there’s the vibrant lives of the characters, there’s a lovable chemistry between the actors, and there’s that idea that fate might just have our lives set out for us.

But when the last unpopped kernels are left at the bottom of the bowl and the credits fade to black, we are left with only our faces to look at in the reflection of our laptop screens. From there, those laughable traps set by death themself don’t seem so hilarious.

They seem to be real.

Maybe we are fated to die at a certain time in a certain way? Maybe the Grim Reaper does exist? Maybe we have no control over our destiny?

Jeffrey Reddick, the writer of Final Destination, directly sought out to ask these questions. And he based the original film off a true story.

“[He] read a story about a woman who was on vacation and her mom called her and said, 'Don't take the flight tomorrow, I have a really bad feeling about it.'"

She switched flights, and the one she was supposed to be on crashed.

This urban legend taps into a haunting history of premonitions of death. For millennia humans have predicted the fates of themselves and those around them whether they boasted psychic powers or not.

(We will get to that.)

Unfortunately, this franchise is based on more than just an urban legend. Some of the most traumatic death traps left by the Grim Reaper are actually inspired by real life tragedies.

Many believe the original film featuring a flight fault and exploding plane was based on the TWA Flight 800 explosion - but this occurred 2 years after the original script (which was intended for 90s icon The X Files) was penned.

But there are 3 real-life events that inspired the franchise.

#1 - The 125 car pileup in Ringgold, Georgia

In 2002, approximately 120 cars and 20 tractor-trailers collided on the Interstate just south of Chattanooga as a result of the blanket of thick fog that Thursday morning. 4 were killed and 39 were injured.

It began when a tractor drove into the wall of fog and smashed into the back of another. It then crossed several lanes, and spread the wreckage. The visibility at the time of the collision was at most 15 feet.

Only an hour later, when the fog finally lifted, could the emergency services see the full extent of the disaster.

#2 - The Le Mans Motor Racing Disaster

It’s been labelled the most catastrophic crash in the history of motorsport. No CGI could do justice to what occurred.

On June 11th 1955, Jaguar driver Mike Hawthorn pulled to the right of the track and braked for a pit stop. Austin-Healey driver Lance Macklin was following closely behind and swerved out from behind the braking car into the path of another driver, Levegh. Levegh rear-ended Macklin, overriding Macklin’s car and launching his own into the air at 125mph.

The car collided with the spectator area several times and then disintegrated, throwing Levegh onto the track where he met his instant death.

The engine and bonnet was thrown into the crowd.

Levegh’s severely burnt body lay on the track until someone finally lay a sheet over it.

It is estimated that 84 died, and 178 were injured. We still don’t know the full extent of the death toll.

This tragedy - which was blamed on the nature of the course for cars of such a speed - caused Mercedes-Benz to withdraw from racing for 44 years.

#3 - The collapse of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge

4 months after the opening of the bridge to traffic, the Tacoma Narrows bridge collapsed as a result of an aeroelastic flutter initiated by a 42mph gust of wind.

Fortunately, there were no human fatalities, but the shocking collapse was caught on film. A dog named Tubby, however, did die from being abandoned in a car on the bridge.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XggxeuFDaDU

So we know that the most iconic scenes from the franchise can be traced back to shocking disasters and tragedies. But there’s another side to the reality behind Final Destination:

The well laid plans of the Grim Reaper.

What are premonitions of death and what do they mean?

To many, having a niggling feeling about when one may pass away or even seeing it in a vision or a dream is a common part of life. And to many more, they will deem this as something as simple as anxiety making us believe we are due to die soon. However, from a spiritual standpoint, premonitions of death have much more meaning.

According to psychic mediums and spiritualists, the nagging feeling of impending death or dreams or visions of death are common - and can be real. They believe that souls can choose when they depart this world and thus signal to us when this is due.

Those with souls that are more evolved and have been reborn many times have greater ability to sense this.

Even souls that have connected together for many years - and even many lifetimes - and have formed bonds can have death premonitions regarding each other.

Whether it’s a specific date or a certain age, foreseeing your own or another’s passing can be a terrifying concept. But on the same note, this premonition could refer to a symbolic death, a bit like the death card in a Tarot deck.

Perhaps a part of yourself is dying.

(This certainly won’t be as graphic as a Final Destination death cameo.)

History has a different version of events, however.

Many have had premonitions of their own death. And many have been correct. It’s time to talk about them.

Here’s the 9 other times celebrities predicted their own deaths to an uncomfortable degree.

#1 - Tupac Shakur

This rap icon’s death wasn’t just a tragedy.

It was a mystery, too.

Many still believe that the death was faked and that Shakur is very much alive and well, whether he’s hiding in Mexico, New Zealand, or South Africa.

But the mystery surrounding 2Pac starts long before the drive-by shooting that took place in 1996 that would kill him.

“I been shot and murdered, can tell you how it happened word for word” is a line from a hit song with Ritchie Rich.

Sure, the rap genre is closely with such themes that highlight gang crime and gun violence, and sure, Tupac had been involved with violent interactions and assaults before, but this eerily accurate lyric is bound to raise eyebrows.

That being said, if he did fake his own death he would know how it would take place, right? This may be less a premonition, and more an actual plan.

#2 - Bob Marley

Music icons don’t just have a knack for writing a catchy hook and a couple verses, too. Turns out they have this habit of predicting when they will die.

Kurt Cobain’s prediction of his own passing can quite easily be overlooked by the typicality of this death within the rockstar lifestyle. But Bob Marley didn’t actually predict how he would die - he told his friends when he would die.

Marley claimed he would die when he was 36. He was right.

But the coincidence doesn’t end there.

According to Allan Cole, one of his closest friends who was told this secret, Marley had psychic abilities that he would often flaunt to the locals where he grew up in Jamaica. He was even deemed a prophet to those close to them.

#3 - John Denver

“Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane,/ Don’t know when I’ll be back again”

This singer-songwriter wasn’t just a keen musician - he was also an amateur pilot. Unfortunately, his second pastime would eerily echo his first, and foreshadow his death.

28 years after he first released Leaving On A Jet Plane, he took off on his last flight where he would ultimately have a fatal crash.

#5 - Mark Twain

As the father of American literature, Twain was used to creating universes to engage readers with timeless classics like The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. But it's our own world that would provide as poetic an end to Twain’s own story as he would to his fictional characters.

Born shortly after the sighting of Halley’s Comet in 1835, Twain would often joke that he would go out with it.

“Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in together, they must go out together.”

A day after the comet was sighted once again in 1910, Twain died of a heart attack.

#6 - Pete Maravich

He will go down in history as one of the greatest NBA players to ever hit the court - and he left it in a mysterious manner.

Having played in the world-famous league for 4 years, he claimed in an interview that “I don’t want to play 10 years [in the NBA] and then die of a heart attack at the age of 40.”

An injury caused him to leave the NBA 6 years later, completing the first part of his prediction. He died from a heart attack at age 40.

Even more intriguing, however, is what caused him to die: Maravich claimed he had a missing heart valve and should’ve died at the tender age of 20. His ability to predict his death which according to doctors would’ve been a bold assumption for such a heart problem is fascinating (and freaky).

#7 - Jimi Hendrix

He might’ve passed 4 decades ago, but the death of this guitarist is still tinged with as much mystery as the other legendary musicians and athletes populating this list. Shortly before claiming this status in 1965, he recorded The Ballad of Jimi.

“Many things he would try/ For he knew soon he’d die./ Now Jimi’s gone, he’s not alone/ His memory still lives on/ Five years, this he said/ He’s not gone, he’s just dead”

Hendrix died September 18th 1970. It was 5 years exactly to the day that he recorded that song.

#8 - Buddy Holly

On one evening in January of 1959, Buddy Holly and wife Maria had bad dreams. In fact, they had exactly the same bad dreams. They both involved a farm, an airplane, and Holly leaving Maria.

Weeks later Holly would tour the Midwest in an attempt to raise money for his family. Unfortunately, one of the airplanes he chartered for the tour crashed shortly after taking off into a cornfield. He was instantly killed.

#9 - W T Stead

The Titanic has been associated with many unexplained circumstances. This is one of them.

In 1886, Stead wrote a tale of an ocean liner colliding with another ship. Many of the passengers on that fictional ship would go on to lose their lives as a result of the lack of lifeboats.

“This is exactly what might take place and will take place if liners are sent to sea short of boats”

He would then go on to write a different story featuring a ship crashing into an iceberg.

In 1912, Stead boarded the RMS Titanic. And we all know how that ended - with a lack of a lifeboats causing excess deaths. He drowned with the rest of the victims of the tragedy.

#9 - Rasputin

As a former history student, I can boldly put forth a critical opinion of the dying days of the Romanov dynasty: Rasputin was one dodgy bloke. But what made him really dodgy was his ability to predict not just his own death, but that of the Russian monarchy, too.

Shortly before he was assassinated, he wrote a letter to the Tsarina claiming he would be killed by New Years. He also mentioned that her own family would die within 2 years.

Two days before New Year’s, he was poisoned in a rather messy assassination (no, seriously, look it up).

Within 18 months the Romanovs were dead.

Well that was a bit deathy.

Want to read something a bit more spooky and a ‘lil less sad? Check out the rest of the weekly articles on the paranormal, and stay tuned for a new real ghost story everyday by following this blog!

Are you obsessed with the supernatural? Be a part of the ultimate online ghost story experience.

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papermoonloveslucy · 4 years

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REMINISCING

July 1, 1949

“Reminiscing” is episode #51 of the CBS Radio series MY FAVORITE HUSBAND broadcast on July 1, 1949.

Synopsis ~ Liz is working on her scrapbook, and she and George reminisce about when Liz learned to drive and got her license, when Liz signed an affidavit swearing never to interrupt George's stories again, and when the butcher thought that Liz had a crush on him.

REGULAR CAST

Lucille Ball (Liz Cooper) was born on August 6, 1911 in Jamestown, New York. She began her screen career in 1933 and was known in Hollywood as ‘Queen of the B’s’ due to her many appearances in ‘B’ movies. With Richard Denning, she starred in a radio program titled “My Favorite Husband” which eventually led to the creation of “I Love Lucy,” a television situation comedy in which she co-starred with her real-life husband, Latin bandleader Desi Arnaz. The program was phenomenally successful, allowing the couple to purchase what was once RKO Studios, re-naming it Desilu. When the show ended in 1960 (in an hour-long format known as “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour”) so did Lucy and Desi’s marriage. In 1962, hoping to keep Desilu financially solvent, Lucy returned to the sitcom format with “The Lucy Show,” which lasted six seasons. She followed that with a similar sitcom “Here’s Lucy” co-starring with her real-life children, Lucie and Desi Jr., as well as Gale Gordon, who had joined the cast of “The Lucy Show” during season two. Before her death in 1989, Lucy made one more attempt at a sitcom with “Life With Lucy,” also with Gordon.

Richard Denning (George Cooper) was born as Louis Albert Heindrich Denninger Jr., in Poughkeepsie, New York. When he was 18 months old, his family moved to Los Angeles. Plans called for him to take over his father's garment manufacturing business, but he developed an interest in acting. Denning enlisted in the US Navy during World War II. He is best known for his roles in various science fiction and horror films of the 1950s. Although he teamed with Lucille Ball on radio in “My Favorite Husband,” the two never acted together on screen. While “I Love Lucy” was on the air, he was seen on another CBS TV series, “Mr. & Mrs. North.” From 1968 to 1980 he played the Governor on “Hawaii 5-0″, his final role. He died in 1998 at age 84.

Gale Gordon (Rudolph Atterbury) had worked with Lucille Ball on “The Wonder Show” on radio in 1938. One of the front-runners to play Fred Mertz on “I Love Lucy,” he eventually played Alvin Littlefield, owner of the Tropicana, during two episodes in 1952. After playing a Judge in an episode of “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour” in 1958, he would re-team with Lucy for all of her subsequent series’: as Theodore J. Mooney in ”The Lucy Show”; as Harrison Otis Carter in “Here’s Lucy”; and as Curtis McGibbon on "Life with Lucy.” Gordon died in 1995 at the age of 89.

Bea Benadaret (Iris Atterbury) was considered the front-runner to be cast as Ethel Mertz but when “I Love Lucy” was ready to start production she was already playing a similar role on TV’s “The George Burns and Gracie Allen Show” so Vivian Vance was cast instead. On “I Love Lucy” she was cast as Lucy Ricarodo’s spinster neighbor, Miss Lewis, in “Lucy Plays Cupid” (ILL S1;E15) in early 1952. Later, she was a success in her own show, “Petticoat Junction” as Shady Rest Hotel proprietress Kate Bradley. She starred in the series until her death in 1968.

Ruth Perrott (Katie, the Maid) was also later seen on “I Love Lucy.” She first played Mrs. Pomerantz, a member of the surprise investigating committee for the Society Matrons League in “Pioneer Women” (ILL S1;E25), as one of the member of the Wednesday Afternoon Fine Arts League in “Lucy and Ethel Buy the Same Dress” (ILL S3;E3), and also played a nurse when “Lucy Goes to the Hospital” (ILL S2;E16). She died in 1996 at the age of 96.

Bob LeMond (Announcer) also served as the announcer for the pilot episode of “I Love Lucy”. When the long-lost pilot was finally discovered in 1990, a few moments of the opening narration were damaged and lost, so LeMond – fifty years later – recreated the narration for the CBS special and subsequent DVD release.

GUEST CAST

Frank Nelson (Motor Vehicles Clerk) was born on May 6, 1911 (three months before Lucille Ball) in Colorado Springs, Colorado. He started working as a radio announcer at the age of 15. He later appeared on such popular radio shows as “The Great Gildersleeve,” “Burns and Allen,” and “Fibber McGee & Molly”. This is one of his 11 performances on “My Favorite Husband.” On “I Love Lucy” he holds the distinction of being the only actor to play two recurring roles: Freddie Fillmore and Ralph Ramsey, as well as six one-off characters, including the frazzled train conductor in “The Great Train Robbery” (ILL S5;E5), a character he repeated on “The Lucy Show.” Aside from Lucille Ball, Nelson is perhaps most associated with Jack Benny and was a fifteen-year regular on his radio and television programs.

Hans Conried (Mr. Dabney, the Butcher) first co-starred with Lucille Ball in The Big Street (1942). He then appeared on “I Love Lucy” as used furniture man Dan Jenkins in “Redecorating” (ILL S2;E8) and later that same season as Percy Livermore in “Lucy Hires an English Tutor” (ILL S2;E13) – both in 1952. The following year he began an association with Disney by voicing Captain Hook in Peter Pan. On “The Lucy Show” he played Professor Gitterman in “Lucy’s Barbershop Quartet” (TLS S1;E19) and in “Lucy Plays Cleopatra” (TLS S2;E1). He was probably best known as Uncle Tonoose on “Make Room for Daddy” starring Danny Thomas, which was filmed on the Desilu lot. He joined Thomas on a season 6 episode of “Here’s Lucy” in 1973.

“My Favorite Husband” was based on the novels Mr. and Mrs. Cugat, the Record of a Happy Marriage (1940) and Outside Eden (1945) by Isabel Scott Rorick, which had previously been adapted into the film Are Husbands Necessary? (1942). “My Favorite Husband” was first broadcast as a one-time special on July 5, 1948. Lucille Ball and Lee Bowman played the characters of Liz and George Cugat, and a positive response to this broadcast convinced CBS to launch “My Favorite Husband” as a series. When Bowman was not available Richard Denning was cast as George. On January 7, 1949, confusion with bandleader Xavier Cugat prompted a name change to Cooper. On this same episode Jell-O became its sponsor. A total of 124 episodes of the program aired from July 23, 1948 through March 31, 1951. After about ten episodes had been written, writers Fox and Davenport departed and three new writers took over – Bob Carroll, Jr., Madelyn Pugh, and head writer/producer Jess Oppenheimer. In March 1949 Gale Gordon took over the existing role of George's boss, Rudolph Atterbury, and Bea Benaderet was added as his wife, Iris. CBS brought “My Favorite Husband” to television in 1953, starring Joan Caulfield and Barry Nelson as Liz and George Cooper. The television version ran two-and-a-half seasons, from September 1953 through December 1955, on air concurrently with “I Love Lucy.” It was produced live at CBS Television City for most of its run, until switching to film for a truncated third season filmed (ironically) at Desilu and recasting Liz Cooper with Vanessa Brown. In addition to being aired on the CBS Radio Network, the episodes were heard on the Armed Forces Radio Network, where the commercials were omitted.

This is the final episode of Season One of MY FAVORITE HUSBAND.

An audio excerpt from this episode was included on the CD that came with the book Laughs, Luck...and Lucy by Jess Oppenheimer.

THE EPISODE

The episode opens with Liz spread out on the living room floor scrap-booking. George reminds her they are supposed to go to the movies and he hates to miss the first three minutes. Liz says that it doesn’t matter because:

LIZ: “It’s always the same: MGM presents... (roars like a lion).”

Liz is referring to the Metro Goldwyn Mayer logo, a lion with his head through a celluloid ribbon that reads ‘Ars Gratia Artis’ (art for arts sake). The lion - named Leo, naturally - roared and the motion picture began.

In 1954, Lucy and Desi began a business relationship with MGM, making several motion pictures for them and even having Ricky Ricardo work for the studio on "I Love Lucy”.

Liz finds a picture of their car - before she got into an accident and wrecked it! She ran it into a house! Flashback to George teaching Liz to drive.

The script for the reminiscence is nearly identical to the scene in “Liz Learns To Drive” aka “Driving Lessons” aka “Learning To Drive” in episode #18 on November 13, 1948, from when the characters were known as the Cugats. This is not a ‘clip’ from that episode, but a recreation of it, including guest actor Frank Nelson as the Motor Vehicles Clerk.

Their new Hudson has a starter button - not a key. Liz mistakes the cigarette lighter and the radio dial for the starter button. Naturally, she has difficulty with the clutch. Everything goes smoothly - if Liz can just remember to drive on the right side of the road! A near traffic accident scares George, but only makes Liz angry at the other driver. George has Liz stop at the Motor Vehicle Department to get her license.

On “I Love Lucy,” Ricky taught Lucy how to drive with some of the same communication problems. Most of the dramatic moments during the lesson happen off-screen. Over-confident Lucy then feels she can teach Ethel to drive, too!

The Motor Vehicles Clerk (Frank Nelson) takes Liz’s application.

CLERK: “Race?” LIZ: “Of course not. I don’t even have a license yet.”

On the application Liz gives her address as 321 Bundy, her age as 21 (!), her weight as 118lbs, blue eyes...

LIZ: “And my hair is red.” CLERK: “Naturally.” LIZ: “Well, just a henna rinse now and then.”

He then gives Liz and eye test.

CLERK: “Read those letters on the wall over there.” LIZ: “M.E.N.”

On “Here’s Lucy” Lucy Carter took her son Craig to get his license. Mrs. Carter also faced impatient clerks and a hair-raising driver’s test.

Back in the present, Liz finds a recipe for making Jell-O, which cues a commercial for their sponsor. Bob LeMond ties in the upcoming Independence Day holiday with a Jell-O raspberry pie recipe. “Back to the Coopers...” Two hours later, the Coopers still haven’t left for the movie. Still going through the scrapbook pile of photos and papers, Liz finds an affidavit.

“I, Liz Cooper, solemnly swear I will not interrupt my husband’s stories, even if I’ve heard them a hundred times.”

Flashback to the night George made Liz sign the affidavit. This scene is from “Old Jokes and Old Stories” episode #37 on March 25, 1949. As with the previous reminiscence, it is not a clip, but a recreation with minor textural alterations.

The Atterburys are over for dinner, and George is once again monopolizing the conversation with his funny but familiar old stories.

LIZ (to Katie): “One person snickers and George thinks his last name is Jessel.”

George Albert ‘Georgie’ Jessel (1898-1981) was famous as a multi-talented entertainer widely known by his nickname, the "Toastmaster General of the United States," due to his frequent role as the master of ceremonies at political and entertainment gatherings. In 1948, he was honored by the Friars Club, of which he was’ the Abbot’ in a ceremony that was later turned into a short newsreel film.

George launches into a story about their Honeymoon. Everyone has heard it so he tries to tell the story of a picnic, but Liz keeps interrupting and correcting his recollections.

Some of the same dialogue will be recycled on “I Love Lucy” in “Equal Rights” (ILL S3;E4), first aired on October 24, 1953. The rest of the TV episode was based on another episode of “My Favorite Husband” titled “Women’s Rights, Part I” aired on March 5, 1950.

GEORGE / RICKY: “We got there about 10 o’clock.” LIZ / LUCY: “It was twelve o’clock.” GEORGE / RICKY: “What’s the difference?” RUDOLPH / FRED: “Two hours.”

Back to the present time, with Liz and George still pawing through the scrap book materials. Liz discovers an old Valentine from George. Flashback to a Valentine’s Day past...

This final reminiscence is based on “Valentine’s Day” aka “Valentine’s Day Mischief” broadcast on February 11, 1949. As with the previous two flashbacks, this is not a clip, but a recreation of the script, including using the original cast, Hans Conried, as Mr. Dabney.

Liz screams “I love you, George” at the top of her voice to prove her affection for him. Liz discovers that Katie has a boyfriend. She has written Mr. Dabney the butcher a romantic poem. Liz calls him “old heavy thumbs”.

KATIE: “Some people may have better beef, but his liver’s good. And no one has oxtail and pig’s feet like him!”

Katie is embarrassed to give the Valentine poem to him, so she asks Liz to do it. Mr. Dabney (Hans Conried) arrives with a delivery from ‘Dabney’s: The Home of Happy Ham Hocks!’ Naturally, Mr. Dabney thinks Liz is the one who has a crush on him, not Katie.

The situation will be used again in “Lucy Plays Cupid” (ILL S1;E15) first aired on January 21, 1952. On TV, the butcher is named Mr. Ritter and he is played by Edward Everett Horton (above). The one who has a crush on him (since the Ricardos do not have a maid) is Miss Lewis, played by (ironically) Bea Benadaret, who plays Iris Atterbury in this episode of “My Favorite Husband.”

Katie’s Valentine is scented!

MR. DABNEY: “And how did you know my favorite aroma - Swift Premium!”

Mr. Dabney reads the poem aloud:

“If you be mine, then I’ll be thine And set your heart a-quiver. Say you’ll be my Valentine And bring two pounds of liver!

The poem is signed “Your bashful redhead”. We learn that Katie also has red hair!

MR. DABNEY: “Listen, two houses may have red roofs, but you don’t pick the one with saggin' foundation!”

Back in the living room in the present time, Liz and George realize they have missed the movie - it is two in the morning! The Coopers hug and kiss.

LIZ: “Honey, you’re my favorite husband!”

The episode ends, but Lucille Ball returns for a Jell-O commercial with announcer Bob LeMond. They sing “Row Row Your Boat” with Jell-O lyrics! The big finish,

“J.E.L.L.O, now you’re on the ball. Jell-O is wonderful, sponsors are marvelous, We’ll see you next fall!”

Lucy interrupts Bob to say a special thank you to director Jess Oppenheimer, as well as thanking the entire cast and crew by name. Lucy reminds the listeners they will all be back on the second of September. Bob adds that audiences should see Lucille Ball in Sorrowful Jones with Bob Hope.

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deans-baby-momma · 5 years

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Past Haunts-Part 7

A/N: Sorry this has taken so long to be posted. It was completely out of my hands. Anyway, WARNING: this ends in an epic cliffhanger! One that even caught me, the author, off guard when I read over it. But hey, at least you only have 3 days to wait to see what happens instead of 7. That’s good right?? LOL

“Mom, you will never believe what happened today!” Whitney eagerly jabbered as we left the school.

“Was there a fight? Is that why everyone was in the gym and an ambulance at the entrance?”

“Even worse! Some guy stuck another one’s hand in a blender during 2nd block! AND IT WAS ON!” My daughter was giddy with excitement. “They said blood went spewing everywhere. It looked like a murder scene from ‘All Saints Day’. You know the movie that makes you cry. Oh, I would have loved to have seen the science wing today!”

I hum in response as I pull out of the parking lot of the school. Yes, that movie makes me cry; not from the horror and gore of it, but the memories attached to it. I can’t tell Whitney that though. It’s ironic enough that she is totally enamored with the movie she was conceived to.

As we are stopped by the traffic light at the intersection of Walnut Street and Matthews Way, I hear the rumble of a loud engine. The closer the sound gets, I can feel the vibration in my bones. It amazes me how cars with motors that boisterous can be legal. As the light turns green, I ventured through the crossing and the roaring engine fades away. Thank god!

Whitney and I pull into the ice cream shop and head inside. The boy working behind the counter smiles at us brightly.

“What can I get you lovely ladies?”

I see him wink at my daughter and it takes everything I have to hold back and not go off. He is at least 20 years old, probably a student at the local community college and working for partying money. Way too old to be flirting with a barely teenaged girl. But as I looked at Whitney, I realize that she isn’t paying the admirer any attention and me calling him out would just cause a scene.

“I’ll take an Oreo blast and she’ll have-,” I look at my daughter for her order.

“A mint chocolate chip,” Whitney orders, looking at the menu board over the register.

We grab a seat after getting our ice cream and dive into the frozen dessert.

“Mint chocolate chip, huh?” I inquire. “Any reason you got that?”

As soon as she had voiced her order, memories threatened to bombard my mind but I held them off. His favorite was mint chocolate chip- or had been. We had shared a tub of it that night.

Whitney shrugged. "Just thought I’d try something new. Well, kinda new. It still has chocolate,“ she answers with a laugh.

After the ice cream shop, Whitney and I walked around the square to the library.

"I need to see if the new 'Genetic Psychology’ book I ordered came in. The only other copy they had, someone had drawn in it and wrote dirty words over most of the text,” Whitney explained. The last words coming out of her mouths was almost silent. “Stupid juveniles.”

While she went inside to check about the book, I sat on the wooden bench and let my mind wander, going back to Dean and what he said. 'Did he really mean it? Did he really not want to leave?’ All these years I had thought he used me to pass the time here in Fairfax. 'He took the one thing I could never get back.’ Had he really reverently held onto those memories as I had? He called it special; how special had it been for him? I was sure I was just one in a long line of girls, now women, who got a taste of Dean Winchester.

Curious about what he meant by catching up, I decide to give him a chance to explain why I never heard from him. God I must be going out of my mind, if I’m thinking about giving him a chance. But then again, maybe what he said was true. I’ll call him after Whitney goes to bed, I determine as she exits the building with a smile on her face and the book in her arms. I smile back as I shake the thoughts of talking to Dean from my head.

I look at the clock on the microwave. 10:37. It’s late but not too late. I hold the business card in my fingers as I chew on my bottom lip. Dean had changed my life in more ways than he knew. He had no idea that that one night all those years ago had altered my whole reality. What would he do if he found out? If he knew the consequences that night held, would he run for the hills? I don’t think I could handle that so I resolve to just meet up with him, let him tell his side and never tell him that he has a daughter. Yeah that sounds good, I can just not mention her, I mean that should be good. He’s only just passing through, and I’ll be just another way for him to catch up with an old friend, right?

I pick up the phone and dial the number, listening to it ring. I am trying not to hang up like a scared teenager. I can feel my heart racing as the phone keeps ringing. He answers and I suck in a breath at the sound of his voice; so much huskier than I remember. I can feel my knees go weak just hearing to it, forcing me to sit on the couch.

"Dean, it's me."

@vickiq9761 @flamencodiva @mysteriouslyme @crashdevlin @travelingriversideblues-x @akshi8278 @keymology @hoboal @squirrelnotsam @spnbaby-67 @natura1phenomenon @drakelover78 @lostinaseaoffictionalbliss @larajadeschmidt13 @tftumblin @blacktithe7

#past haunts #supernatural #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #dean x reader #after school special #spn 4x13 #dean winchester #ofc #sam winchester #angst #fluff #eventual smut

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allthefilmsiveseenforfree · 4 years

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Ford v Ferrari

I think I’ve arrived at one of the fundamental questions of my life as a movie reviewer. Is Matt Damon a good actor? I’ve seen a fair amount of his work, including his big breakout, Good Will Hunting. He gets steady work and he seems to be a nice enough guy (by Hollywood standards). But when he’s in a movie, and he’s playing a brand new character...is he actually like...doing anything? That was the question I asked myself while watching Ford v Ferrari, the based-on-a-true-story tale of the Ford Motor Company throwing more money than you or I will ever seen in our lifetimes into winning a car race in France so Henry Ford II could rub it in the face of an elderly Italian man. There’s also an argument to be made that it’s about a triumph of engineering and the human spirit akin to man landing on the moon, if the moon were France. Matt Damon plays Carroll Shelby, a retired race car driver who has been tasked by Ford to create a car that can beat Ferrari’s at the 24 hours of Le Mans. Christian Bale is the driver, Ken Miles, that Shelby insists is the only man who can do the job. So, dudes and cars and suits and Matt Damon doing a Texas accent - does this whole movie end up more “CAR GO” or escargot? Well...

It’s a proficiently told tale and I was certainly entertained. There’s enough Top Gear to keep the gearheads happy and enough emotional investment to keep anyone looking for much story or character development happy. Your dad will be more than amenable to spending an afternoon digesting Thanksgiving leftovers with this one.

Some thoughts:

Man, it’s a real sausage fest in the theater I’m in, which is unsurprising considering the movie is a sausage fest too.

The one female role goes to Caitriona Balfe as Mollie, Ken Miles’ wife. She’s got very Cate Blanchett vibes and I love her from her first moment onscreen - plus, I appreciate that these spouses actually seem to like and support each other! When the family encounters some huge money problems, she urges Ken not to quit racing entirely even though it doesn’t pay the bills, because he’d be insufferable without it. When Ken starts sneaking around with Carroll Shelby, she is furious not because he’s working on a race car with Shelby and Ford but because he was keeping it a secret from her. They have a supportive, love-filled marriage but it also sucks that Mollie doesn’t really get to have her own hopes and dreams on display in the film (what is her job? She mentions having one, but we have no idea what she does. She likes and understands cars and racing, and that’s about the extent of her character development). I’m glad she wasn’t relegated to a nag or a shrew, but she’s got a cool enough personality that I was left wanting a lot more personhood from her.

First and foremost, it’s a goddamn delight to hear Christian Bale using his actual accent for once. As per usual, he is the best part of the movie in every way, disappearing into the role of Ken Miles and his search for the one perfect lap. He’s got the mind of an engineer and the heart of a racer, Hermione Granger in a helmet, and he is so so fantastic in every second of this. I know we celebrate him every awards season but every new film I see him in makes me realize he is probably the greatest living actor of his generation, and he almost single-handedly injects the heart and soul into this film, which could have just been a mindless maelstrom of machines.

Did anyone actually call British people limeys in the 60s? What are you, dude, a pirate?

Everything going on at Ford feels very Mad Men - it’s just dudes in suits making deals and drinking whiskey and criticizing their rivals and back-biting.

Wow I sure didn’t love when Ford used a racial slur to describe Ferrari and the audience in my theater LAUGHED.

Does affability count as acting? Matt Damon is doing his best Tommy Lee Jones impersonation if TLJ were ever in a good mood, and it’s certainly winning and charismatic, but is he actually doing anything? I still don’t know. Even when he and Christian Bale are throwing punches at each other, I expect him to throw out another used car salesman grin and an “aw shucks” neck rub and everything will be right as rain. Carroll Shelby is a man of great passion and vision, and yet all I’ll remember of him is that cheshire cat smile pasted over something empty, invisible. Charisma might end up winning car races, but I don’t think it’s gonna win Oscars.

Josh Lucas is suitably stuffed shirt slimy as the de facto villain of the piece. Nothing to write home about, but you do want to see him get punched in the face.

The actual racing scenes are pretty thrilling. Racing in the rain gives me heart palpitations to even think about, and the entire sequence where the door wouldn’t close made me so anxious I thought I might hurl. But I appreciate that, unless you’re well versed in the history of this specific race, that it ends in a way I didn’t expect and which felt both narratively huge and also surprising, yet fitting. Truth is stranger than fiction, and in this case it leads to a damn good twist in the story.

I sure do hate that repeated voice over from Matt Damon though. Did we really need that? Does anybody need that voice over? And what a weird and off-kilter way to end the film. Life goes on, I guess, but based purely on the performances in this movie, Ken Miles deserved better than that tacked-on weirdo ending scene.

Did I Cry? As in all sports movies, of course I fucking did. I cried when a 12-year-old boy was asking about how to prevent his father from being at risk for burning to death if his car crashed. I cried during Ken’s last lap at Le Mans. And I cried buckets during Ken’s last lap on the test track.

You could do a lot worse for a family outing this holiday season, and Ford v Ferrari has enough going for it that it will probably be a solid crowd pleaser with a little something for everyone. While Matt Damon may not be acting, Christian Bale sure as hell is, and his portrayal of Ken Miles helps you believe in the magic of the relationship between human and machine just a little bit more. Did I drive just a little bit faster on my way home from the theater after seeing this movie? Yes I did - maybe that’s all the review you need.

If you liked this review, please consider reblogging or subscribing to my Patreon! For as low as $1, you can access bonus content and movie reviews, or even request that I review any movie of your choice.

#119in2019 #ford v ferrari #ford v ferrari review #christian bale #matt damon #caitriona balfe #josh lucas #movie reviews #film reviews

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calumbringbackthewatermelonshirt · 5 years

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Live Furious, Die Fast [c.h]

a/n: i wrote this because of @c-dizzle-swizzlex and @twoamhood so it’s dedicated to them. It’s pretty much modeled after the first movie with a bit of inspo from the others too, but like i said, i tweaked it to make it click better as i saw fit. There are also a lot of weird cuts in the movie and i couldn't include every scene so just bear with me. If you haven't seen the movie, the premise is that the boys are street racers who are running an illegal operation on the side. Enjoy! (this is still in the era of black haired cal) also, huge thanks to @calumh-excess who was crucial in the final stages of the writing process!

word count: around 8k

warnings: violence?

summary: If you haven't seen the movie, the premise is that the boys are street racers who are running an illegal operation on the side

Just for reference this is what car they all drive:

Luke: baby blue Porsche 911 GT2 RS

Ashton: cherry red 2019 ford mustang with a one cylinder nitro motor

Michael: purple honda civic with a V8 cylinder motor and green flames

Calum: jet black 1965 ford mustang GT with a two cylinder nitro system

______________________________________________________________________

Boys were dumbasses. Calum knew this mainly because he was one. Still, it didn’t change the fact that, at their core, all boys were dumbasses. This was all Cal could think as he watched one of his closest mates offer up his pink slip over a goddamn race. Dumbass. Maybe Ash was one of the best racers in L.A. but there was no reason to take that risk unless absolutely necessary. Still, it was fun to see Ash pretend that his car wasn’t as fast as it actually was. Michael had done a hell of a job with the designs for the restoration, so, aside from Cal’s own car, it was probably one of the fastest ones in L.A.. Cal was grinning, but he hand his hand over his face to keep up his stoic appearance. While Cal may not have been able to stop this madness, there was no way in Hell he’d approve of it. Still, the adrenaline from the race was a hell of a rush. Especially as Ash hit the nitro and visibly made the other racer eat his dust. He won by quite a bit, too. Cal already knew that he and the boys would have a hot meal after turning the car. Usually they just sold the cars back to their original owners, which was convenient as fuck.

“Do you have to give them so much hope?” Cal reached into his pocket and drew out another cigarette and his lighter. He lit up and took a deep inhale. This “team” as they called themselves would be the death of him.

“Aw, c’mon mate. You know it’s more fun that way.” Ash giggled and checked out his new set of wheels.

“Alright, alright.” Cal took another drag of the cig. Being the leader of this rag tag group had its perks and its downfalls, one of them being trying to control all these asshats. “You’ve had your fun. Ditch the car and we’ll rollout.”

Ash chuckled again and waved Jake, the original owner of the car, over. It was a quick deal, ten gs for his car back. Jake knew how they rolled and was prepared to give the cash over without an issue. It was simple, just a standard Friday night. That is, until the cops showed.

“Everybody clear out!” Cal shouted over the madness at the first whisper of a siren. The more people that were in jail, the less money he made off them. So yeah, it was in his best interest to keep them out. Cal watched for a few seconds as everyone bolted to their cars and peeled off the street they had been using as a track. As soon as Cal saw Ash was in his car and heading, Cal hopped in his own ride and floored it. The cops were on his ass. Mainly because he had waited so long for everyone else to clear out. It took him a hot minute to lose the majority of them, so once he narrowed it down to only three sets of red and blue lights, he was ready to be done with them. He took two hard lefts, letting his car drift, but not too hard. He made sure to keep his car hugging the curb. One of the cops drifted too hard, practically wrapping his car around the telephone pole on the corner. Cal hoped the cop inside was okay, but it was still one less cop on his ass. Cal then drifted into another hard right and then another left as soon as he had cleared the curb, steering his car into an empty storage locker. He whipped the door open and slammed the locker door shut before the cops even rounded the first corner. He stopped for a minute and caught his breath before pulling his leather jacket back on and hoofing it back onto the street. He barely made it two hundred feet before a rather late cop came sloppily around the corner. Cal knew he was in for a shitstorm when the cop made quick work of a three point turn and headed back in Cal’s direction.

“Hey, Hood. Stop right where you are. Face to the Pavement.” The megaphone crackled over the cop’s loudspeakers. Cal just thought ‘fuck it’ and sprinted for the nearest alleyway. It was probably a lost cause, though. The alley wasn’t even a dead end, and Cal knew these idiots would chase him to the ends of the Earth. So when cherry red Nissan 370Z pulled up next to him, he didn’t hesitate to hop in. Maybe it was a little stupid and a lot reckless, but the only thing he could think of was staying out of jail. He didn’t bother to look at whoever had picked him up, instead training his concentration on the sirens getting louder and louder behind them. Whoever was driving him was having none of it, taking a wide drift out of the alley. The cop behind them tried to follow suit, but was instead hit by an oncoming car.

As they sped off, two more cops approach from the opposite direction. They tried to form a roadblock with their cars, but Cal’s driver knew what they were doing. The two of them were pushed and pulled by the momentum of the car as it swerved to avoid the obstacles in the road. The cops took too long to right their vehicles, so by the time they did, Calum and his mystery driver were already long gone. The road they had taken spilled out onto the highway where Cal finally got a good look at his supposed savior. To his somewhat surprise, it was a girl, and not even the kind he was used to. Most of the chicks he hung with were either blondes or brunettes, with tube tops and tight leather skirts that barely covered anything. This girls, she didn’t appear to be that kind of person. She looked more… clean cut. A typical upper class girl if he had to guess. Long and perky honey blonde hair and yellow green eyes? Just screamed cheerleader, especially with the ski-jump nose, high cheekbones and cream-like complexion. She certainly didn’t look like a racer. But when she opened her mouth, boy did she talk like one.

“So what’re you doin’ on this half of town?” She kept her eyes trained on the road, only acknowledging through her words. Her voice, though, was so unforgettable to Cal. Husky and low, the kind that you got from smoking a few cigarettes each day.

“Dunno. Guess I got lost.” Cal didn’t know this girl, didn’t know who the hell she associated with. While Cal may not have had outright enemies, he certainly had a list of people that didn’t like him, and vice versa. It was better to be wary than the say the wrong thing to the wrong person.

“Hmm. Well, buddy, you picked the wrong place to get lost. This place gets ravaged by Johnny Tran and his gang quite a bit. You’re not safe alone out here.” This time, she spared a couple glances in Cal’s direction. They drove on for a few minutes with only the sounds of the tires treading over the concrete. They were alone on the road for quite a few miles.

Before Cal knew what was happening, a set of eight motorcycles was flainking the car. His mystery driver noticed what Cal was gaping at through her rearview mirror, muttering a small ‘shit’ under her breath. She started to accelerate, but before she could enact whatever plan she was forming in her head, one of the cyclist pulled up next to her window.

“Follow us.” The cyclist was shouting to be heard over the wind, but Cal could very clearly see the muzzle pointing right at the blonde. When he turned, he saw a twin muzzle pointing at him, too. He saw the girl’s knuckles whiten on the wheel, her nails digging into the leather. Together, with the motorcycles, they flew down the highway, on the way to god-knows-where. The blonde-haired beauty sitting next to him furrowed her brow, but Cal could someow sense that this wasn’t the only thing that was eating away at her. He studied her face, trying to decide if it was worth trying to talk to her. Before he could make up his mind, she skidded to a stop in the courtyard of a rundown chinese restaurant. When she stepped out of the car, Cal couldn’t help but notice that she was packing. She placed her hand on the door and slammed it hard, the bang echoing through the courtyard. Cal followed suit, closing the door softer than his driver but still firm. He leaned his back on the car and lit up a smoke. He was tense, but he made sure to look at ease. There was no way in hell he was going to be intimidated by anyone. Their escort circled them, prevent any sort of escape or shit. Whatever. Cal was sure to appear unbothered by any of this shit, even when Johnny Tran and his cousin Chase came speeding around the corner.

“Well, well, Hood. I think you’re a little lost.” Tran unhooked his leg for the seat and then proceeded to lean back against it, taking the girl who had ridden behind him under his arm.

“Hood wasn’t driving. Sorry though, I, uh, guess I lost my map.” Before Cal could open his mouth, his driver snapped back at Tran, her voice just dripping with sarcasm and venom. Cal felt his eyebrows tug up a little. This girl had some heat in her veins. He’d have to learn her name at some point.

“I don’t think I was speaking to you, Turell. And until I do, you had better keep you damn mouth shut.” Tran physically didn’t seem angry, but Cal could tell by Tran’s tone of voice that he was. What about this girl was making his blood boil the way it so clearly was? Every step Tran took was ripe with tension. At least now he was able to put a name to her face. Turell. He’d have Michael run a records check later. She might could be of use to him in the future. With the way she drove, there were quite a few possibilities.

“You need something Tran?” For the first time since their arrival, Cal opened his mouth. He blew the smoke out of his lungs and snubbed the cigarette out under his boot. Cal lazily brought his eyes up to meet Tran’s and cocked his head at an angle.

“Nice car you got here, Hood.” Tran strolled around the perimeter of the car, taking in every detail. “Whatta think, Chase?”

“Nice Car indeed.” Chase shrugged the machine gun he was holding up higher into his arms, making sure it was clear to the duo that he and Tran could and would use it. Tran seemed finished with the interaction. He slung his leg back over the bike and motioned for everyone to wheel out behind him. They sped off, and just as Cal and Turell were about to get back in, they heard the all too familiar high-pitched whine of motorcycles once again. Tran and Chase rounded the corner once more, but this time, instead of stopping to chat, they both brought out heavy weight machine guns. They covered Turell’s car in a smattering of bullets, shattering the glass, deflating the tires, damaging the motor. It happened in a matter of seconds, Tran and Chase gone as fast as they came. Turell just sighed and started examining the car before a look of pure fear crossed her face.

“NOS!” She screamed, immediately turning and sprinting away from the car. Cal mutter a fuck before following suit. At the last second, they dove for it, both of them hitting the dirt as the car went up in flames behind them. Turell groaned and flipped over on her back, staring at the broken wreckage of her car.

“Thanks.” Cal stood up and offered her a hand, which she ignored.

“What for?” She sounded more tired than angry, which, for some odd reason, was a relief to Cal. He could put his finger on why, but he really just didn't want to be the cause of this girl’s anger.

“Everything, I guess.” Cal watched the girl brush herself off, not even bothering to go back to inspect the wreckage of her former car. He guessed there was nothing inside she need to keep. Or rather, nothing that could have survived. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me a ten second car.” She raised her eyebrows and pointed a finger at him. The way she said it was like it was a fact, not even up for debate.

Cal chuckled, brushing off her comment. They’d work something out later, but right now, they had to focus on getting back to town.

“So what did Tran want with you anyways, Hood?” She procured a cell phone from the pocket of her leather jacket and proceeded to hold it up, desperately trying to get a shred of a signal.

“I could ask you the same question, Turell.” Cal just shoved his fists as deep into the pockets of his jacket as they could go. It was a long story, and if presented with the option, Cal almost always chose to keep his mouth shut.

“AJ.” While AJ wasn’t ashamed to admit that the way Hood said her name was kinda sexy, she just wasn’t used to the idea of someone calling her ‘Turell’. She wasn’t a huge fan of her last name.

“Calum.” Cal offered his hand to her, a symbol of their acquaintance ship. They continued on in companionable silence for a while, only having miniscule conversations every once in awhile. After a solid five miles, they came across a point where AJ finally got service. She eagerly called a cab, saving them from the remaining fourteen miles on their feet. Cal just old the cabbie his address, not paying mind to the other occupant of the cab. He figured he’d pay for it, though. To somewhat make up for it.

Cal could hear the bass booming and shaking the walls of the house from two streets away. As soon a he got home, he was knocking heads together. Worthless dumbasses. He lumbered up to the porch before turning back and seeing AJ already halfway down the block, heading in what he assumed was the direction of her house. He thought for a moment before deciding that he did trust her, at least somewhat. Enough to invite her inside, he supposed.

“Turell! Want a beer?” Cal’s voice was rough against the mostly quiet street, but he could barely hear himself think over the bass of the house. He knew that, for whatever reason, he wanted her around.

AJ turned at the sound of his voice, a small smile playing on her lips. She didn’t say anything but she did turn and start walking back towards the house. Towards Cal’s house. Together they stepped inside, her smaller frame hidden by his large one. As soon as he came into their line of sight, both Ashton and Luke jumped up from where they were sitting.

“Cal, uh hey bud!” Ashton had a beer in his hand, slurring his words a little. “We were just about to go lookin’ for you!”

“Oh, shut up.” Cal sneered at the curly haired brunette standing before him with a beer in his hand. It was nice to know that while Cal had been chased by the cops, threatened by Tran, and on an involuntary ten mile hike, the boys had been nice and comfortable back at the house enjoying beers.

Cal walked back to the doorway where AJ was standing, but not before noticing Michael trying to get in a girl’s pants in the middle of the Living room.

“Oy. Turbo. Take it upstairs. You can’t paint a car without sanding it down first.” Cal shook his head as he picked his way through the drunk bodies. These boys would be the death of him. It was then he noticed Lindy. She was the final member of their little group, not counting Mali. Lindy had always been around as far as Cal could remember, but recently she had changed in ways that Cal wasn’t a fan of. To Cal, if you wanted others to respect you, you had to respect yourself first. Lindy had basically sold her body and while Cal believed that it wasn’t his place to tell her what to do with her body, he also wasn't going to take any part in that mess. Lindy, however, seemed to have her focus on something else. Or, rather, someone else.

“Why’d you bring that skank here?” Lindy was seething. She was leaning up against the door frame, arms crossed over her chest.

“Because the ‘skank’ kept me out of prison.” Cal could hear his voice rising as he spoke to her. He needed to walk away, fast, before he lost his temper. “That your beer?”

“Yeah, that’s my beer.” Lindy cocked her head at Cal, seemingly confused. Cal said nothing, instead just grabbing her beer and walking back to where AJ was standing.

“Here. You can have any beer you want, as long as it’s a Budweiser.” AJ smiled back and him and took the bottle from his hand. She then proceeded to make direct eye contact with Lindy as she wiped the mouth of the bottle for a solid minute with her shirt. Cal honestly thought it was pretty funny. Lindy looked like she was about to explode, but AJ was entirely unbohered, instead taking a long pull of the beer.

“Hey, do you have a bathroom I can use?” She turned to Cal with a slight smirk on her face. Her voice was soft, but Cal had no trouble hearing it over the bass. It had presence, an air of respect surrounding it.

“Upstairs. Second door on the left.” AJ turned and retreated up the staircase, Calum watching the whole time she was in view. Cal felt that there was a difference between her and the girls he was usually around, something about the way she carried herself. He found the respect she had for herself, the take no one’s shit attitude endearing. The way girls around here threw themselves at him, well, that just wasn't his vibe. But AJ, it seemed that all she wanted was her car back, nothing more. Cal respected her for that. So much so that he decided it would be a good idea to bring her to his sacred space the next day: his garage.

…

AJ had no idea what she was getting herself into. Hanging around with Calum Hood and his gang was no walk in the park. Especially with their rivalry with Tran’s gang. Tran had the numbers, but Calum Hood was a very cunning man. Still, it was inconvienet as fuck to keep getting kidnapped by Tran’s motorcycle gang, which was exactly what was happening right now. Although, now when the muzzle of the gun was shoved in her face, she sighed instead of getting all worked up. She found it worked better that way. They led her back to the same dumbass chinese place, and once again, AJ stepped out of the car that Hood had let her borrow and slammed the door.

“Were the guns really necessary this time?” AJ walked over to Tran who in turned opened his arms to her.

“Little sister. How nice to see you again.” Tran engulfed her in a hug, but AJ just sighed. She and Tran weren’t technically related, but they were pretty close. Tran had sort of taken her under his wing when she was younger, and they had remained close over the years.

“Hello, big brother. Please tell me your goons all had their weapons on safety.” AJ smirked at Tran, knowing full and well they didn’t. But she was still going to give him shit about it.

“Of course. Anything to report?” Tran really didn’t waste any time getting to the point. AJ didn’t either though, so she didn’t blame him for not making small talk.

“I think I’m in. Hood is practically wrapped around my finger. Although, was it really necessary to trash my car like that?” AJ was still sort of pissed about that. The Nissan that her brother had so ceremoniously trashed had been her first car, the one she and Johnny had practically built form the ground up.

“Hey. I promised I would make it up to you.” AJ knew that Johnny always kept his promises, but she was still a little pissed. Whatever he had for her had better be good.

“Remember. I need to know not only who, but how.” Johnny took her by the shoulders and looked directly into her eyes, gravely serious.

“I understand. If anyone knows, then it’ll be Hood. He has a hand in everything in the world.” AJ just rolled her eyes. How the hell was she supposed to be gathering intel if he checked up on her every second of every day. She just turned and walked back to her car. It was typical for him to worry about her, but it was still annoying as fuck. She just sped off, back to Hood’s garage. He said he had something to show her, and while AJ may not have known what the hell he was talking about, she had some hope that it was relevant to her conversation with he brother. Much to her disdain, Hood had other plans.

“Here you go.” Hood led her over to a beat up and burnt car. A true junker. AJ wasn’t even sure she could salvage it for parts.

“The fuck is this Hood?” AJ crossed her arms and smirked at Cal, who was grinning from ear to ear.

“This is the car.” Cal spread his arms and continued to smile. “You know, the one I owe you.”

“I asked for a ten second car, not a ten hour car.” AJ rolled her lips into her mouth, still not sure where Cal was going with this.

“Listen. You put about ten grand in and a few hours of work and this car will decimate.” Cal snapped his fingers and a pasty blonde man came over and put a set of plans into Cal’s open and awaiting palm.

“We’ll see.” AJ walked in a slow circle around the car, taking in every detail of it. The body may have been rough, but the car itself was the sickest thing she had ever seen. A 1969 chevy grand sport convertible. AJ’s dream car. Hood had no way of knowing that, but it was still a pretty fucking sweet moment for her.

“You can work on it here. If you can’t find the right tool in this garage, you don’t belong under the hood of a car.” Cal smiled at her one more time and then turned and walked back to his own car, eternally tinkering under the hood. AJ just smiled and lifted up the hood of the car. When she did, she let out a small whistle. Hood was right. This car would be killer, if they could fix it up that was.

“Hey. I’m Michael.” The same man who had given Cal the plans approached AJ and introduced himself.

“AJ.” AJ shook his hand, but her gazed remain on the car. She was trying to figure out all the schematics of the car, what color of paint, where the nitro can would go, how to reduce the maximum amount of weight while keeping the car functional.

“I have some plans drawn up if you wanna take a look.” Michael cleaned the grease off his hands with a rag and jerked his head in the direction he started walking. AJ followed him, but was still thinking about that damn car. It would be perfect when she was finished. Absolutely perfect.

“Here.” Michael led her over to a computer and typed in a line of code. Some blueprints popped up a few seconds later, for her car only better. There was an amped up version of her engine, a detailed list of every part they would need, even how many horsepower the car would have when they were done.

“Holy shit, man. You should have gone to MIT or some shit.” AJ was in awe. She had wanted to go to college, but life doesn't always work out the way you wanted. AJ both understood and respected that.

“Nah. I wanted to stay here, with my brothers. It’s the only life I’ve ever known, but it’s the only life I’d want to live.” Michael grinned softly at her, vulnerable but completely at ease. He used two fingers and pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. AJ smiled back at him, happy to be a part of their small but loyal group.

…

AJ wasn’t quite sure how she had ended up here. At a barbeque. With Calum Hood and his entire gang. But the food smelled delicious, so who was she to complain? They were waiting to eat til Lindy got here with the rolls and extra beer, but AJ didn’t mind, instead enjoying a casual conversation with Cal. Without realizing it, they slipped from casually talking, to kind of flirting in a way. Neither of them realized it, but Ashton and Luke watched them closely. They had never seen Cal this happy before, but it was a nice change of pace for him. It was peaceful for a few moments, Michael lost in a book, Ash and Luke appreciating Cal’s smile, and Cal and AJ lost in their own little world. It was nice, until they heard the roar of an engine approaching. Lindy.

“Lindy. Come help me with the rest of the chicken.” Cal welcomed Lindy, with a gracious smile and a nod of his head. Lindy, however, was in no mood for niceties.

“No, it looks like you have all the help you need there, Cal.” With that, Lindy threw the beer and rolls to Ash and Luke. She then climbed back into her car and sped off, back down the street.

“Her loss. The chicken is fucking amazing.” AJ snorted, brushing off Lindy’s downright rude behavior.

“You’ve eaten?” Cal looked back at AJ, an expression of disbelief on his face. He was dumbfounded at the fact that he had been standing there the entire time, laughing and talking to her, and yet AJ still managed to steal a piece of chicken and eat it. He was really more impressed than anything else.

“Uh, no?” AJ looked at him sheepishly, answering timidly. They all knew it was a lie, but it was worth a shot to try.

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s all of us eat.” Cal stated loudly, putting extra stress on the word all. Everyone help to gather the food together and set it up nicely on the table. It was like a typical american barbeque with family and friends. Not once had she ever felt anything even remotely like this with Johnny and Chase. This closeness. This type of family. It was utterly new and fragile, and it made AJ’s heart break a little knowing it would all be over so soon. The rest of the lunch went by smoothly, just so utterly comfortable. It was an easy transition from the soft lunch, to all of them munching on popcorn and watching some awful movie on TV. They were all a tangle of limbs, spilling of the couch and onto the floor. AJ was sandwiched between Cal and Luke, Luke’s long legs slung over her own and trapping her in. Still, she wouldn't have wanted to get up anyways. Which is why she had such a difficult time getting up to leave.

“AJ. Hey. What do you say we take the grand sport out for a test drive tomorrow? You know, before the big desert races?” Cal was still seated on the couch, only now he had a fast asleep luke completely slumped onto his lap.

“Sure thing. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that, AJ slipped out the door heading back to her apartment.

Cal smiled to himself, knowing no one else had shared that moment with him and AJ. While he was more than excited for her to be able to race the car, he was still somewhat disappointed that he wouldn’t be working on the car with her everyday for hours on end. Still, he was confident that they had made enough of an imprint on her for her to still come around. Although, Cal felt that she deserved a medal for putting up with them. Between Lindy’s bullshit and the boys’ dumbassery, AJ was a whole different type of person. The type that Cal, for whatever, found himself falling in love with. He knew it was a cliche, but Cal was more than ready to be the first to say that AJ was different from other girls. Cal didn’t care about the cliche though. He believed that when you were in love with someone, that someone truly is different from all other people. That person is so different because they’re yours. And no one could truly replace them.

…

Cal and AJ met the next day at the garage. Cal hadn’t let AJ see the final results, not the paint job nor the interior and chrome detailing. So the big reveal was a sight to behold.

“You ready?” Cal smirked, thumb hovering over the button on the garage door opener. It was exciting, both of them feeling the adrenaline flowing through their veins. AJ was practically bouncing up and down, and Cal was eating up the elated expression written all over her face. It was a new sensation for him, this feeling of pure love. Sure the boys were his life, but it was nice to have something for him for once. Just his.

“Born ready, Hood.” AJ was in trouble. Everything with this fucking mission had gone so wrong, so so fast. Mainly because she had fallen for Calum fucking Hood so hard so fast. She had, like an idiot, fallen in love with her brother’s worst rival. Damn.

So Calum clicked the button and watched as AJ lit up. She gasped loudly and ran over to the car, actually hugging it. Cal couldn’t blame her though, the car was a beauty. Jet black with a multi finish chrome. An all leather interior and completely black as well. The team had even installed blue led lights in the wheel houses.

“Let’s take her out for a spin, eh?” Cal was more than ready to get behind the wheel, really see how fast she could go. But before he could react, AJ snathed the keys out of his hand and jumped into the driver's seat, forgoing the door altogether. Cal rolled his lips into his mouth, but he was smiling so hard. AJ drove like someone was after her, taking every turn or corner as a drift, screeching to a stop at every light. They continued like that for a while, retreating further and further out of town. Eventually they pulled up at a spotlight right next to a Ferrari of some sorts.

“Nice car.” AJ called out to the man across the lanes of traffic. “What’s the retail on one of those?”

“More than you can afford, sweetheart.” Stuck up bigot.

“Smoke him.” Cal muttered under his breath to AJ, ready to make this idiot with a stick up his ass eat their dust. Which is exactly what happened. As soon as the light turned green, AJ floored it. There were a few cars in front of her, but AJ had no restraints keeping her from swerving into the oncoming traffic lanes. They smoke that asshole by miles, watching him fade to a mere speck in their rearview mirrors. It was something else, honestly. Eventually they pulled into a small but packed seafood restaurant. The two of them got a table on the back patio. They had an amazing view of the ocean and could feel the cool sea breeze hitting them every so often.

“This is dumb.” AJ just blurted it out, completely unprovoked. Cal looked up in surprise, a shrimp tail hanging out from between his lips.

“What?” Cal finished chewing and swallowing before asking his question. What did she mean, this is dumb? Being with him? Racing? He hoped not.

“Just, this!” AJ knew she wasn’t articulating what she really wanted to say, but it was hard to put her pent up feelings into words.

“Keep talking like that, and you’re gonna lose your meal ticket?” Cal knew he was just pretending to brush it off, but if AJ actually meant that she thought being with him was dumb, he was going to break.

“First, I don’t need you to pay for me. Second, I just need you to stop lying to me. I want in. On whatever you’re running, I want in.” AJ relaxed against the booth seat she was sitting in, almost breathless. It felt weird, knowing she was getting this info only to feed it back to her brother. Only to use it against him.

“I’ll tell you what. We’ll see how you do at the desert races this weekend, then we’ll talk.

Cal slipped her a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket, sliding it across the table to her. Her fingers brushed his as she picked it up and looked at the address, her touch sending tingles down his spine. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

…

Tomorrow came too soon. Today was the day when she would know. If it was Hood and his gang, then her source of happiness for the past few days would al disappear. She had a strong sense of loyalty, but and issue presented itself with that. Should she be loyal to Tran, her brother, or Cal, her love? It was a difficult decision, but she knew she would face a great loss either way. She had to focus up, get her head in the game. This was a problem for later. Right now, there was two grand on the line and her reputation. She didn’t come to lose. And the idiot she was up against? A fucking ameatuer. Used his Nos within the first twenty seconds. AJ knew she had it won. She even smiled sweetly and waved as the idiot she was racing at her dust.

It was as she was finishing up her race that Tran pulled her aside to talk, still on a high from the win.

“Any new intel?” Johnny kept his grip tight on her arm, too tight for her comfort.

“No. I find out today.” AJ forcibly pulled her arm out of his vice grip. When she saw the bruises already forming on her arm, it was then she knew. Tran had never actually seen her as a sister. Merely an opportunity. A broken little girl who could be manipulated for his needs. All the times he had sacrificed her for the profit, all the bruises and broken bones she had endured. Just a means of infiltrating other gang. She was sick of being lied to, sick of being used. So she made up her mind. Her loyalty lied with Cal. Cal alone. She turned and stalked away from Johnny with no other word, merely retreating to the trailer that Cal had brought out from the group. The sun had already set, signaling the end of the races, so she was hoping to catch him. They had quite a bit to discuss. While she was sick of people lying to her, she was also sick of lying to the people she cared about. She stepped into the trailer, but before she could call out his name, she heard arguing outside the trailer. Loudly. She approached the window, staying behind the curtain, but still able to hear every word.

“You shouldn’t do this Cal. It’s not safe anymore.” Lindy was yelling at Cal, and she was starting to cause a scene. She was even tearing up a little.

“This is the last one. Chill out. We’ll be back soon.” Cal didn’t make any move to comfort her, instead just turning and walking away.

This was it. AJ could feel it, from the context to the raw tension in the air. However, contrary to what she had told Cal yesterday, she didn’t want in. She wanted them to stop. After growing closer to them, she feared for their safety more than anything. AJ had pulled off a few stunts like this with Johnny, so she knew first hand how dangerous they truly were. Now that the truckers knew they were coming, she was sure they would be arming themselves against the gang. She immediately ran out of the trailer and sprinted over to Lindy.

“Where are they going?” She grabbed Lindy by the shoulders and spun her around, looking directly into her eyes. It was clear from her conversation with Cal that Lindy was the only other person who understood the gravity of the situation.

“Get off of me, Turell. Or, should I say, Tran?” Lindy looked at AJ with fire in her eyes. AJ started chewing on her bottom lip. Shit. This isn’t what she needed right now, especially if she wanted to save the boys she had so come to love.

“Listen. It’s not what it seems. I get that you hate me, and that you don’t trust me, but right now, I’m your only shot at saving those boys. And if you love them as much as I do, then you’ll get in the car with me.” AJ removed her hands from Lindy’s shoulders, completely grave. There was too much at stake for games or jealousy. Lindy seemed to understand that, though, Together, she and AJ ran to the grand sport. They climbed in, and AJ had the pedal almost through the baseboard of the car before she was even full seated. Lindy gave her some quick directions to a shipment about forty minutes from their location, and all AJ could do was speed in that direction with her knuckles white on the steering wheel. She just hoped she got there in time.

…

This was the third truck that they had raided, and so far, Cal was hoping that it would go like the first two. But, as he learned the hard way, hopes didn’t get people very far in life. Everything had gone wrong as soon as Luke had made the jump from Cal’s car to the grill plate of the target truck. It was Ashton who had first noticed the gun, radioing it over to the others so they could abort. Sadly, it was too late to warn Luke so the blond had made the jump anyways. Cal watched as Luke realized what the driver was holding, watched as he panicked and tried to hide to avoid the spray of bullets from the buck shot. Cal muttered out a string of curse words, knowing he was powerless to stop this mess from happening. Luke was flopping around trying to find a foothold, spiraling around to the passengers side of the door.

That would have been fine if not for the fact that the wire he had used as a grounding system got tangled around his arm, bloodying it. Cal and Ash pulled onto either side of the truck and Michael took point, each of them shouting into the radio, desperately searching for a way to rescue their friend. It was then Cal noticed the jet black grand sport approaching behind them at a high rate of speed. He was so busy focusing on AJ and Lindy approaching in the rearview mirror that he failed to notice the 18-wheeler slamming into his side before it was too late. Cal felt the collision in his bones, rolling the car three times into the desert brush and ditch. His ears were ringing and everything was hurting, but he still remained focused on Luke. He heard a faint crackling diluted by the ringing in his ears, heard Ash’s voice broadcast over the radio that he was turning back for Cal. Cal wanted to respond, tell him to remain focused on Luke, but for some reason he couldn’t move his arms. He was tired, though. So tired. It was right as Ash was pulling him out of the wreckage that Cal let himself slip into the darkness.

…

This was bad. This was so, so bad. Lindy and AJ pulled up along the truck just in time to see one of the cars get smashed by it and go rolling into the ditch. The next thing they saw was Luke’s lifeless body swinging from the passenger’s side door. They both gasped and Lindy burst into tears, but AJ’s grip on the wheel just tightened. She was more determined than ever to save her friends. AJ pulled up as close as she could she could to Luke, which was sort of difficult considering the fact that the truck was swerving all over the road.

“Lindy, take the wheel!” That was all the warning that AJ gave Lindy before standing. Lindy, despite protesting, promptly slid over, taking the wheel and keeping pressure on the pedal.

AJ watched for a second to ensure her timing was just right before making the jump. It sort of felt like she was moving in slow motion while she was in the air. So much could go wrong so fast, and yet she would do nothing different even if he had the chance. AJ slammed into the passenger side door, scrambling for a foothold. This was not how she was going to die. After she felt as stable as possible while hanging onto the door of an 18-wheeler going 70 down the highway, she got to work on helping Luke.

“Luke. Hey, bud listen you gotta focus up for a second.” AJ was worried. The wire had cut him pretty deep in some places, and everything was slick with copious amounts of blood. “Luke. Put your arm around me, okay?”

Luke did as he was told despite only being half conscious. Lindy seemed to understand what was going on because she pulled that car as close as she could get it. AJ knew a chance when she saw it, so she took it quickly and without hesitation. She pushed both Luke and herself off of the turck and into the car, trying to use what little momentum she had. They made it back safely into AJ’s car, and Lindy slammed on the brakes, peeling back to check on Cal. Michael had somehow seen the entire thing, so he too circled back. As soon as they got to the wreckage, AJ knew it was bad. She had managed to fasten a makeshift tourniquet for Luke, but she knew that if they didn’t get him medical attention soon, things would not end well for curly haired angel.

“Listen. Get Michael and Ashton and get Luke to a hospital. Now. I’ll get Cal.” Lindy still seemed wary of her, but AJ knew that Lindy trusted her. After seeing her jump to and from a moving vehicle for someone AJ had known mere weeks, Lindy had to trust her. AJ watched as the second girl sprinted off and got Ash and Michael. They were off in Michael’s car before AJ had even picked her way down to the wreckage. When she did, she breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he was bloodied and bruised, but Cal was alive. That was all she needed. Him being conscious was just a bonus.

“Hey, Hood.” AJ was gravely worried, but she was also grinning from ear to ear. Cal was alive. He was okay.

“Hey yourself, Turell. You gonna get me out of here or what?” Cal grunted, obviously in pain, but there were underlying tones of softness in his voice. A certain softness that was reserved only for her. It took them a few minutes, but eventually AJ got Calum out of the trashed car and into her own. He was bleeding in various spots and his left arm was clutching his right shoulder, but he was okay. He had assured AJ of that numerous times. Instead of going to the hospital like AJ wanted and Cal absolutely did not, AJ drove them swiftly back the her apartment. Johnny didn’t know about and it had its own private garage, so they were safe there. Cal was in a lot of pain even though he refused to admit it, so much so that AJ was pretty much carrying him upstairs to her apartment. As soon as she could, AJ lowered Calum onto the bed, as gently as she could of course, and ran to the bathroom to get the first aid kit she kept there. She went back to the bed only to find Cal in the exact same position that she had left him in. AJ started to take his jacket and shirt off, with minimal assistance from Calum himself.

“Slow down there girlie. At least let me take you on a date first.” Cal was starting to slur his words a little, but AJ knew it was because of the deliria from the pain.

She worked a little faster, climbing on the bed and straddling his hips so she could see what she was doing better. The work was meticulous, pulling tiny beads of glass from under his skin, stitching the larger gashes, and cleaning and bandaging all of them thoroughly. Cal just grunted here and there, not fully aware of what was happening. AJ thought it was probably better that way. She didn’t quite know what to do with his shoulder, though. From the way it was hanging, it was probably dislocated. Johnny had done that once and it had popped back in naturally over the span of about a week. AJ just decided to put it in a sling, ice it, and hope for the best. By the time she was finished, Cal had long since faded off and the clock was approaching 4am. Her concentration had kept her from being too tired, but now that it was broken her vision was starting to blur. She decided to take five on the bed to rest a little before packing it up and moving to the couch. Just five minutes.

…

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