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ernmark · 5 years

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A prompter who asked to remain anonymous requested:

If your prompts are still open I would ADORE a continuation of Damien on Mars with human Arum. I'd love to see a continuation of that world! I'm really enjoying Damien's internal struggles that are now more modern. I'm so curious how this would resolve into his romances.

I’m trying to get back into the swing of writing again, and this one in particular called out to me.

It’s a continuation of this snippet here.

For maybe the hundredth time that hour, the Keep reminds Arum to be careful.

He scowls at the confines of his hiding place. If it’s going to insist on micromanaging every step of this endeavor, it should have found itself a mechanical puppet so it could the job itself. But it didn’t-- supposedly it trusts him to take care of it and to send him out to do these tasks on its behalf, and supposedly that means it should trust him to do it without all this incessant prodding.

What does the Keep know, anyway?

It tells him to be careful and to take his time and all the while it can’t even hide the undercurrents of pain that fill its every thought. It might pretend to be all strong and noble, but he can feel that constant ache as if it was his own, his muscles calcifying and his skin turning hard and cold and his nerves freezing in the last signal they sent before sputtering out. It’s awful. It’s distracting. And it’s a mere phantom of what the Keep is feeling at this moment, and he can’t stand the thought of letting it continue a moment longer than absolutely necessary.

And that calls for drastic measures.

His research brings him to a small laboratory at the edge of the city’s dome, its walls reinforced with homemade fortifications to compensate where the aging shields fall short. A shiny, state-of-the-art lock stands out against the dented steel and carbon fiber of the door and the surrounding wood.

He almost snorts. That lock probably cost the scientist a fortune, and it still can’t keep him out for more than a few seconds against the Keep’s portal protocols.

Almost everything about the little laboratory seems cobbled together from spare parts, with only a few bits of shiny new equipment that seem out of place among the weathered resin and dented metal. For all its ramshackle quality, though, there’s an obvious order to it all. He would consider it more carefully, but the Keep sings a warning: someone’s coming.

He flicks off the light and hides behind a corner just as the door opens.

The door slides open, and the neon lights outside cast three long shadows across the floor: one in a wheelchair, one standing, the third obviously canine.

“So... maybe go stay with Damien for a little while?” says the first, almost wheedling.

The second scoffs. “I’m not going to stop my experiments--”

“Just for a little while,” the first says quickly. “Until Talfryn and I figure it out and save the day and...”

Arum stops listening. What that one thinks isn’t his concern. All that matters is that he doesn’t call for help.

He stays in the shadows, silent and still, until the scientist all but slams the door in the man’s face and says her last goodbyes through the crack.

There’s a long, low moment as she watches him leave through the monitor by the door frame.

“Finally,” she sighs, and for a moment her exhaustion is palpable. She flicks a switch, and one by one the outdated halogen lights flicker on, illuminating the laboratory in an unnatural yellow-blue glow. She steps past the corner where he’s hiding, too tired to notice him in her peripheral vision. Her long dark curls, once piled into a bun on her head, coil around her face like vines. Her clothes are covered in glitter and shine and flowing fabric, entirely too impractical for a controlled environment, but perfectly suited for the parties and parades that filled the city streets last night. That would certainly explain her exhaustion. Her comms sits in her ear, still alight with a dying charge.

Be careful, the Keep warns again.

He doesn’t need the reminder. He only has one chance at this.

She stops. Blinks. Turns.

“Who’s--”

He doesn’t let her finish the thought before he lunges at her. She twists out of his way, but not fast enough to save her comms from his grip.

She backs away, cowering as he rights himself.

“Get out of here,” she says, her voice shaking. “Now. I have a gun, and I’ll--”

“Do you mean this gun?” Slowly he draws her blaster from his pocket, a cold-blooded smile crossing his lips. It was easy enough to find among such meticulous organization.

The scientist stumbles, her back colliding with a filing cabinet-- and then her expression changes. “Actually, I meant this one.”

There’s no time to fumble with the stolen blaster. Just move: get out of the way, knock her down, disarm her--

But no matter how fast he is, the laser bolt is faster.

Arum wakes up with a flood of sensation: the burn of his overworked synapses around his implant, the ache of a fresh bruise where he hit a counter on his way down, the secondhand pain and fretting from the Keep, the taste of ozone in his mouth from the blaster, the smell of disinfectant, the discomfort of limbs twisted in ways they shouldn’t be and held in place by steel handcuffs.

His captor paces in front of him, cradling her comms to her ear.

“Hey babe,” she says with more chagrin than he would have expected for her triumph. “I wanted to give you a chance to say ‘I told you so’. It happened again.” The cry on the other end is so loud even Arum can hear it, though he can’t make out words.

“No, I’m not-- hey-- hey, take a second and breathe. I’m not hurt, okay? I’m fine. The backup blaster was right where you left it, charged and everything. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, he’s still here. No, I don’t want to file a police report. What do you mean, why? Because the last time I did, the whole precinct showed up and confiscated half my stock as ‘evidence’, that’s why. But I would feel better if you were around. Okay? Okay. Thanks. I love you. I’ll see you soon.”

She ends the call, and he shuts his eyes and lets his head fall back against his chest.

“You can quit that already,” she says. “The stun will have worn off by now. I know you’re awake.”

He keeps pretending, just to spite her.

She huffs and rummages around in one of her cabinets. When she speaks again, her voice is immediately in front of him. “Look this way.”

She grabs him by the chin and lifts his head, and he can’t quite stop himself from opening his eyes, just in time to be blinded by a flashlight aimed directly into his cornea. He hisses and pulls back, blinking away the afterimage of the light.

“Mm-hmm,” she hums and proceeds to check his pulse. “How does your neck feel right now?”

“That’s no business of yours,” he snaps.

“You sure about that?” Two fingers under his jaw check his lymph nodes. “Because even legitimate cybernetics will malfunction after a stun blast, and the black market varieties tend to cut corners on the fail-safes. Depending on how deep it’s wired into your nervous system, it could be doing a lot of damage right now.”

As if the Keep would ever be so careless with his safety.

Arum sneers. “If you were so concerned, you shouldn’t have shot me.”

“If you hadn’t broken into my house, I wouldn’t have had to.”

“Well, if you hadn’t--” A renewed wave of pain pulses through the Keep, and Arum gasps under the force of it.

The scientist stands, her jaw set decisively. “Your cybernetic is going to keep doing that, and it’s going to keep getting worse.” She grabs some kind of mechanical device and reaches for his neck.

He jerks his head wildly to the side. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She’s patient, but impassive. “I get it. You’re in pain. The best thing we can do right now is shut down your cybernetic so we can degauss it and reboot it safely.” Her voice is so calm, so clinical, and it somehow makes the savagery of her words even worse. “I promise, it won’t hurt.”

Hurt?! Of what consequence is a little pain compared to severing his connection to his Keep? He’s never been without it, not even for a moment, not since he was a child-- what if it can’t be restored once the connection is broken?-- what if he loses it forever-- what if he can’t find his way back to it and it dies without him?--

The scientist leans in again, and he’s already planning his defense. She’s cuffed his hands, but his legs are still free. He’ll kick her legs out from under her. He’ll headbutt her if she gets too close. He’ll bite her fingers off. He’ll do anything-- everything-- whatever it takes.

But before she can make the attempt, a pounding comes on the door, followed by a muffled, frantic shout.

The scientist sighs. “Hold on.”

Before she can rise, the door slides open and a uniformed man rushes inside and descends on the scientist in a flurry of fluttering hands and babbling lips.

“Rilla!” he cries at ear-splitting volume. “My love, my light, my forever-flower-- are you hurt? I’m so sorry it took me so long to reach you, I came as fast as I could, but--”

“I told you, Damien, I’m fine.” She sets her hands on his shoulders and puts a healthier distance between the two of them. “Honestly, I’m a bit more worried about this guy. He’s got some kind of back-alley subcutaneous cybernetic, and that laser did a real number on him.”

Arum sincerely doubts that Damien heard a word of that. The moment their eyes met over the scientist’s shoulder, the police officer went pale and his eyes went wide.

“You,” Damien breathes, low and rough and far closer to the sounds he made during their fight the night before. “You-- you villain! You fiend! I let you go and this is what you do with your freedom?”

“I won that fight,” Arum grumbles.

Rilla looks from one to the other. “You two know each other?”

“We’ve met,” Arum says, in the same moment that Damien starts on another tearful tirade: “Rilla, my Amaryllis, my love, if I’d known he would come after you I never would have let him go, I swear it on my life, on my soul--”

She blinks. “Wait. So this was... what? Some kind of revenge?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Arum tells the officer. “I had no idea the two of you knew each other.” Maybe if he had, he might have looked harder for another scientist who fit Dr. Amaryllis Of-Exile’s qualifications. Bad enough when he had the memory of an impassioned knife-fight nagging at his focus; now he knows that the beautiful police officer who let him go is in a relationship, and with the woman he tried to kidnap, no less. All of this is a distraction that he doesn’t need.

His train of thought is derailed by another wave of pain from the Keep.

He doesn’t have time for this.

“Okay, then,” Amaryllis says, turning to face him again. “Then why are you here?”

“It hardly matters now, does it?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Damien asks. “He came to rob you, like the last brigand who broke in here.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Amaryllis says. “The last one went in and out with as much as they could carry. This guy had time to find one of the blasters you left, but he didn’t take anything else. He was waiting for me.”

“You think he was after you?” Damien says something else, but Arum can’t hear the words over another wave of agony. When his eyes refocus, Damien is immediately in front of him, looking ill. “--swear, I didn’t touch him--”

“It’s the cybernetic,” Amaryllis kneels beside him, that infernal device in her hand once again. “Damien, I need you to hold him steady.”

Arum tries to squirm away, but callused hands close on the side of his head and keep him still.

“No!” he hisses, but it’s lost in another cry of pain. The Keep is dying, and he can feel it-- and if he doesn’t act now, that pain will be the last impression of it he’ll ever feel. “The implant isn’t broken-- the Keep is.”

Amaryllis hesitates. “The what?”

“That’s why I came here. That’s why I--” He shudders through another wave. It’s getting worse. “I need your help, or it’s going to die.”

#the penumbra podcast #second citadel #fanfiction #writing prompt

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feargender · 6 years

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impossibility is a kiss away from reality

read on ao3 here

This wedding is shaping up to be exactly nothing like Alec’s first one. They’ve abandoned the ceremony hall in the Institute for a tree lined glade, the location of one of Magnus and Alec’s dates before they had even made a year. It was spring then, the clearing littered with pink and white flowers, golden sunshine shining down on them like the benevolent eyes of some deity, blessing their love.

It’s autumn, now, the blue and purple dusky sky meeting the treetops. A rough wood pavilion has been erected toward the center of the glade and leading up to it is a neatly grown path of gold wildflowers, flanked by rows of seats. There must be thousands of lanterns floating above it all, illuminating the scene with a serene yellow glow.

The entire day is dipped in gold.

With a little bit of effort, Magnus and Catarina orchestrated the construction of several permanent portals to the glade. One stationed at the Institute, another at the loft, another at the Hunter’s Moon. Guests are trickling in from each, warlocks and Shadowhunters and werewolves and mundanes. Simon is the only vampire present so far, the rest waiting for the sun to dip just a little lower behind the trees.

Alec watches them from the tree line, the only privacy allotted to him while Isabelle, wearing a stunning purple gown with her hair piled into a complicated twist around the back of her head, fusses with his clothes. She smooths his lapels and straightens his tie, licking her fingers to neaten his hair before he ducks out of her reach. She takes a centering breath and beams at him, eyes wide and wet beneath pretty gold makeup.

“How do I look?” he asks, gesturing down to himself. Though Magnus had joked about recycling his first wedding tuxedo, he is wearing a different one. It’s pale gold and stitched with blue, creating runes of love, longevity, luck and trust. His tie is a dark gold, and he tugs at it awkwardly, feeling constricted.

“You look ready, big brother,” Isabelle says softly, touching her fingers to the underside of her eyes, a movement Alec knows is meant to dissuade herself from crying. “I just did my eyeliner,” she mumbles, sniffling.

Alec looks away from her, giving her a moment to compose herself, and casts his eyes toward the pavilion. Before the adamas dais stands Brother Zachariah (“Please, Alec, call me Jem”). The adamas, Alec knows, will activate two new steles. One for him, and one for Magnus.

It was a conversation they had started almost a year ago. With the topic of marriage came the topic of immortality, and Alec’s lack thereof. The most obvious solution was vampirism, which Alec turned down, but in doing so left a problem. He didn’t have any interest in keeping a mortal lifespan when he could spend eternity with Magnus by his side.

The answer, in the end, was as simple as it was complex. The magic inside of warlocks is what keeps them alive, gives them their longevity. Warlocks need magic as much as they need air. If Alec were to be bound to Magnus’ magic, it would keep him alive, too.

However, no spell had proved to be powerful enough to guarantee Alec both immortality and keeping his sanity in tact. In the end, it was Catarina’s idea to ask Clary. She could make runes for necromancy, immortality didn’t seem to be much of a stretch.

Clary spent nearly two weeks in the Silent City with Jem, experimenting with new runes. Runes that could be drawn on a Downworlder, runes that could bind Downworlder and Shadowhunter irrevocably.

The rune ended up looking familiar. Sweeps and curves like an iratze, intricate like the parabatai rune. New as a baby. His future.

Movement catches Alec’s eye, an arrival from the portal leading to the loft. Quickly, Isabelle’s strong grip is on his shoulders, jerking him around, smiling knowingly. “Bad luck,” she says, “seeing the groom before the wedding.”

“This is the wedding,” Alec says, gesturing behind himself, but doesn’t fight her. The anticipation of seeing his husband for the first time in days at the altar coils pleasantly in his stomach, so he’s content to wait. The fact that Simon, urged on by the final descent of the sun, begins playing a slow song on his piano off to the side of the pavilion at that moment doesn’t hurt, either. Alec won’t have to restrain himself for long.

“Got the ring?” he asks Isabelle, who waves the silver band under his nose. “Got the stele?” She rolls her eyes, but flashes him the stele hidden in the pocket of her dress.

He offers his arm, then, and Isabelle takes it. His legs suddenly feel weak, a swarm of butterflies raging inside of him, trying to escape up his throat. Isabelle’s hand looped in the crook of his elbow is the only thing keeping him steady.

She tugs him forward and he walks, timing his steps with hers, counting in his head as he nears the flowered path. He feels the soft crunch of thin petals and dead grass underfoot, looks around at his friends and family cast in flickering shadows under the floating lanterns. He catches Maryse’s gaze, her eyes shining and wet already, hand clasped tightly in Luke’s. Luke winks at him and Alec grins.

Madzie is wiggling in her seat next to Dot and waves at him, wearing a frilly yellow dress and flower crown. Alec waves back and she giggles, gripping the edges of her seat and looking behind him, up at the lanterns, to Isabelle in her flowing gown. Her jittery excitement mirrors exactly how Alec feels. His heart is pounding, wanting to be everywhere at once; wanting wanting wanting.

He reaches the dais, Jem regarding him with what could be mirth, swathed in parchment colored robes. Isabelle takes her place just behind him and he looks down the aisle. There are smiling faces of family and friends there, happy for him. Their joy is practically contagious, but there’s no room for them in his mind anymore.

Every thought, every sense, is focused on Magnus approaching him. He has Catarina on his arm, who is murmuring something to him. His suit jacket and pants are dark gold, the shirt beneath so pale it could be white, only it glimmers in the lantern lights. His tie is midnight blue, Alec was there when he chose it.

He meets Magnus’ eyes and thinks of every cheesy romance line he’s ever laughed at and regrets. There’s no way he could ever describe this feeling to another person without writing a thousand page book about it. This is the feeling that ends wars and builds up civilizations. This is what every poet has ever been trying to convey. It almost feels like heartbreak. There is an ache in his chest, thudding along with his pulse, as his heart cracks open like a geode, revealing so much beauty inside that he may die from it.

Several eons later, Magnus makes it to the dais. He takes Alec’s hands and Alec expends an admirable amount of self restraint when he doesn’t kiss Magnus then and there before Jem ever gets the chance to speak.

“You can’t cry before I even start my vows,” Magnus chastises quietly, reaching up and brushing the few escaped tears from Alec’s cheeks. Alec hadn’t even noticed them there.

“I’m just a sensitive guy, I guess,” Alec whispers back and they dissolve into fits of giggles, which Jem waits out before his omnivoice addresses the congregation.

I have never before presided over a union, he begins, but change is a necessity of life. This marriage symbolizes the greatest change any of us here may ever bear witness to. A bridge between two worlds, forged in the heat of a love that could not be contained.

Silent Brother voices contain no emotion, but Alec thinks Jem is proud of them.

In the hush that follows, Alec realizes it’s his turn to speak. He clears the tears from his throat, draws on the memory of weeks spent planning the vows he’s about to deliver, and begins.

“Magnus,” he starts, voice awkwardly deep and ceremonial. Magnus feigns a serious expression before grinning, squeezing Alec’s hands. “Magnus,” he says again, softer, calmer, Magnus’ grip steadying him. “For most of my life, I felt like I was in a balancing act. There were too many versions of me fighting each other in my own mind. I thought that I had to sacrifice parts of myself for the good of the man I was meant to be. I was meant to be a leader, a brother and son my family could be proud of. A warrior that my community could admire. I was prepared to give up anyone ever truly knowing me, or ever loving someone wholly, for that.

“You ruined all of that. I saw you and my plans shattered to a million pieces. Every version of myself focused on you. You helped me realize that I life where I wasn’t free to be who I am wasn’t a life at all. And now I can’t imagine a life without you in it. With you, I’ve been able to be a good leader, brother, and son. A good man. Magnus Bane, the man I’m meant to be is the man that loves you. That’s the best version of myself. The me that exists when I’m with you,” Alec finishes, letting out a long breath. It catches in his throat when tears spill over Magnus’ cheeks and he shakes with a wet laugh.

“I can’t compete with that,” he mumbles, releasing his grip on Alec long enough for him to get the ring from Isabelle, who is shaking with her own happy tears, and slide it onto Magnus’ finger.

“Alexander,” Magnus says, taking Alec’s hands back in his, new ring pressing into his skin, “I have lived a very, very long time. I have seen and experienced it all, I thought I knew the extents of what the world had to offer. What my own heart had to offer. It came to a point where the idea of change disturbed me. The world around me could change all it wanted, but I would stay the same, calcified. I believed that there was nothing truly new under the sun.

“You were new. With you, I have felt things I never thought possible. I have changed. My heart is altered forever by your presence in my life. As I’ve watched you grow, I have grown also. From the morning you woke up on my couch, I knew that I would never be the same. I knew, even, that I could not go back to the way I was. I was trapped inside of myself, a living fossil. Not any longer. Now, I can imagine no better future than a future in which I get to spend the rest of my life changing with you,” Magnus finishes, smiling a watery smile before he turns to Catarina.

Alec can feel his heart in his throat, pounding in time with the tears pressing behind his eyes. His entire world is a blur. Blur, and Magnus. When Magnus slips the ring onto Alec’s finger, a broken sob breaks past his lips. Then he’s moving, grabbing Magnus by the lapels of his jacket and kissing him. Salty tears are running into both of their mouths and noses and Magnus is laughing against Alec’s lips, but this is the best kiss of Alec’s life.

Magnus pulls away first, placing his hands against Alec’s chest and saying, “I think we skipped a few steps.”

“I love you so fucking much,” Alec replies breathlessly.

“I love you, too,” Magnus says. “Forever.” He reaches behind him blindly and Catarina hands him the stele. He looks down at it in his hand as he presses it to the adamas, looking to Jem. Alec does the same, hand shaking.

Jem, with great dignity, says, Now, this marriage will be bound with a rune that will stand the test of eternity. If we can get through the ceremony without any more interruptions. He turns his head toward Alec, who just grins ridiculously as the steles gleam, activated with angelic power.

Magnus goes first, undoing Alec’s cuff on his left hand and exposing his wrist beneath, tracing a glowing, fiery rune on the bare skin there. It burns brightly, almost blinding, as Alec reaches for Magnus’ wrist. He meets Magnus’ eyes before pressing the stele to his skin, catching Magnus’ encouraging nod.

When the last line is drawn, Alec’s entire arm begins to burn. He clutches at Magnus tightly, angelic power and warlock magic both coursing through them, sparking between their bodies like lightning. It echoes in the cavern of Alec’s chest, settling beneath his ribs and against his heart, magic coiling its way up his spine with sharp fingers.

His mouth drops open at the feeling. He can feel Magnus’ life source, that magic which binds his soul to his body and his body to this earth, expanding. Wrapping around him, inside of him, taking him in. His heartbeat stutters and changes rhythm, throbbing along with Magnus’. The air is punched out of his lungs and the next breath he draws is different.

The first breath drawn with lungs that will never tire, air filling an immortal chest.

Alec glances toward Jem, who nods. Then, he’s moving in and kissing Magnus again, magic still crackling between them like a lightning storm. Magnus cups Alec’s neck with both hands, warm with life. Alec clenches Magnus’ suit jacket tightly, pressing closer.

The cheers that erupt from the assembled crowd registers, to Alec, as the sound of new beginnings, underlaid with his and Magnus’ breathing.

This is his eternity.

#malec #malec fanfic #magnus bane #alec lightwood #malec wedding #shadowhunters #kieran reaches out into the void #good to reblog #mine #i'm sobbing #i just want to see them get married pls

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tinymixtapes · 6 years

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Interview: Everything and Nothing

The hysterical pace of development in north Brooklyn led to chronic conditions for DIY art spaces like Glasslands and Death By Audio, where a fair amount of the zeitgeist that fueled said development was forged. But, absorbing the environs of Elsewhere on a damp May evening, the destruction of those haunts at least pangs with creativity. Elsewhere is an immaculate new multi-story club complex located in the Bushwickian outer banks of Williamsburg. Combined with the similarly impressive Brooklyn Steel in Greenpoint, the complex cements the fact that Brooklyn has traded its punchy underdog industrial pioneering for genuine cultural power, fueled by money and an ever metastasizing narrative of “cool,” whatever is left of that concept. At Elsewhere, the performance spaces are weightless, the sound system is enlightened, stage lights scare away so much as a speck of dust, and a 12-ounce can of Miller High Life will set you back $7. PBR isn’t even offered at the venue bar. Imagine. In the spotless Green Room, Archer Prewitt and Doug McCombs, The Sea and Cake’s founding guitarist and new bassist (Eric Claridge left the band after the 2012 album Runner due to carpal tunnel syndrome) are lounging, lost in relaxed conversation. The room is appointed with moody colored lights and high ceilings. The furniture is crisp, unsullied by debauchery. “This is my chair,” Doug bellows and points, unprompted, after standing up. He disappears from the room. The chair in question is one of those leather loungers that one expects to see cracked and ass-fitted in the accomplished dens of aged professionals — this one hasn’t a wrinkle. Sam Prekop, chief songwriter for The Sea and Cake, wearing an inconspicuous jacket over a light hoodie and with fading sand-colored hair, enters the room. He immediately moves for the chair in question and plops down. “No — get out of my chair,” Doug orders, kidding around and not, when he reappears moments later. “Oh,” Prekop drawls quietly. “Sorry.” He politely stands and Doug, cased in denim and displaying an ornately manicured Santa Claus beard, retakes his throne. The new bass player clearly is not plagued by any Jason Newsted-esque new-member alienations. In another spotless backstage room in the shell of novelty that is Elsewhere, Prekop explains his cover photograph for his band’s 10th studio LP, Any Day. “It said, ‘You should use me as an album cover.’ So it was a rare instance where I selected the image as the album cover before it was done. A weird signpost in a way, or a marker.” Any Day by The Sea and Cake The image suggests a certain against-stream dignity and beauty in obsolescence: a pile of would-be clutter is set amidst a context of control; spotless and effusive white walls contain a pile of, well, crap; an old tube television with faux-wood paneling sets the foundation for a rumpled cardboard box and errant mid-apartment-move items (a coffee mug, a dusty end-table); a bright orange thrift store couch runs out of the frame, stinging the rest of the palate with springlike frequencies, mid-flower. The stark and pristine framing levitates above diminutive sans serif lettering drowning in white space, an aesthetic as familiar to longtime fans as Prekop’s wispy coo. “I was initially drawn to [the photo] probably based on — I love that orange next to that kind of weird… that kind of green can only exist on a blank TV from the 70s — that combination. In retrospect, somehow it gained a certain resonance,” he says. “There is a sort of weird fragile nostalgia quality to it. I think it is an odd portrait of The Sea and Cake, in a way.” The band originated as its own mess of bright, spare parts in need of proper framing. After leading the critically acclaimed Shrimp Boat in Chicago, Prekop was offered funding to develop a solo project. One-by-one, local bassist Eric Claridge, guitarist Archer Prewitt, and renowned drummer and producer John McEntire joined in the recording. The Sea and Cake’s self-titled debut was released in 1994 by the venerable Thrill Jockey Records. Other than the loss of Claridge, the lineup has otherwise been a constant, despite McEntire’s recent relocation to California and the birth of Prekop’s twins nearly a decade ago. With so much personal history between the members after an improbable 24 years of recording and performing, what could possibly feel different for them this time around, with the release of a new album and a new tour? “I never have a good answer for that,” Prekop says. “Everything and nothing.” --- Around a decade ago, I lent a few of the band’s seminal albums to a friend, expecting thanks and some level of taste-validation in return for the benevolence. “It’s all very… placid,” he said, handing back the cardboard sleeves for Oui and The Fawn along with Nassau’s plastic case. Disappointed, I tried hedging him over to positivity. “Yeah, it’s very subtle, sure. But also pretty soulful and evocative, I think.” He stared back. “Not subtle. Placid.” Translation? Boring. Did I mention that part of this band’s appeal, as a college student, was the promise of enjoying the music well into middle age? The malnourished 21 year-old could definitely see himself chilling to Oui at 55. The original insight appears to be holding water. --- Subtlety is lost on the disinterested. In the streaming era, the band’s discography must all simmer together for a new listener, into one “lovely” and “gentle” risotto. Even for a longtime fan listening to much of the post-One Bedroom discography, the familiarity and distinction of Prekop’s vocals can turn monotonous. One anticipates many of the chord progressions and bridge-to-chorus drum fills on first listen. While certain production elements have calcified over time, such as embossed vocals and increasingly precise guitar takes, every Sea and Cake album carries its charms. Everybody (2007) presents an impeccably tight collection of stately pop rock, with the slow burning “Coconut” heaping wistful yearning upon the listener, narrator making peace with commitment, confessing, “You set me free.” Car Alarm draws out crashing rock (“Aerial,” “Car Alarm”), glittering electro-pop (“Weekend”), effusive jazzy rhythmics (“A Fuller Moon,” “New Schools”), and even a steel drum outro (“Mirrors”) for good measure. The surprising EP The Moonlight Butterfly offers one of the uncanny modular synthesizer compositions (“The Moonlight Butterfly”) that have come to dominate Prekop’s solo career, along with the small miracle of “Lyric,” another plaintive confessional that floats above a melancholy Eric Claridge bass groove, punctuated with decaying electronics before transforming into a spindly jam. Runner (2012) pares an M83-esque towering synth flirtation (“The Invitations”) with the achingly beautiful acoustic “Harbor Bridges.” At this point, we reflect on our history more as a friendship and camaraderie than the music. We don’t like to dissect it too much. We’re sort of the antithesis of analysis.” Should The Sea and Cake be punished for being so good and so consistent? If this were baseball, they’d be posting a damn 2.5 WAR, at least. But music is qualitative, undervalued, and in the end we want our rock & roll to channel dionysian impulses that are intrinsically unsustainable. Shatter our neural pathways with bliss one day. Haughtily cursing you the next. No love lost. “Occasionally,” Prekop says, “I feel apologetic that we’re still making records and someone might have to listen to them. But then again, it doesn’t really matter.” Indeed, Any Day carries much of “the same.” It will be heard as antiquated, beautiful, or both. There are the quiet and catchy moments (“Into Rain,” “Too Strong”) that the band deals out with a flip of the wrist, eyes askance. But the title track calls out with something else, its easy groove lifted by Prekop’s light melodies, McEntire’s understated rhythm and Prewitt’s self-possessed riffs and accents that drop like dewdrops on the edge of a glassy pond. The song is all fresh and effortless and calls back to the band’s loose and transformational early catalogue. The gift for melody was always present, but from 1994 to the mid-2000s, The Sea and Cake moved from dynamic and jammy discursions (The Sea and Cake, Nassau, The Biz) abruptly to programmed beats and synths (The Fawn), then to lush and ineffable bossa nova (Oui) and bright electro-pop (One Bedroom). The band flirted with aggression (“Escort”) and un-harshable mellow rumination (“The Leaf”), yet always returned to its ever-flowering gift for head-nodding pop and effusive romance. The classic “Parasol” and “There You Are” enter into slow trances that reward the patient. Call it Dreamcatcher Pop — this is some of the best nap music you’ll ever find (don’t miss Prekop’s genius self-titled solo album for the pinnacle of this transitory gift). The loose naiveté of the early work kept a chair open at the table for evolution, and it’s the natural selfishness of a fan to want a return to the freshness, to once more harness those old feelings. We’re all addicts for novelty. Prekop understands the nature of the beast, but does not care to cater. “There is a definite natural march to the life of any band,” he says. “When you’re starting, that’s a different kind of excitement compared to five years in. And I think, at this point, we reflect on our history more as a friendship and camaraderie than the music. We don’t like to dissect it too much. We’re sort of the antithesis of analysis.” --- The Sea and Cake were never for “everyone.” If you were a stereotypical graphic designer in the 1990s and early 2000s, though, you were probably down. And those very graphic designers, solid dudes them all, filled The Hall at Evermore as twin disco balls flitted tiny spotlights across their greying hair while industrial electro pounded for a Trump-era rave called, Let Them Have Their Phones. The band takes the stage to moderate applause and a few yelps, which quickly die away. Prekop is in no hurry to collect himself for the opening number and flashes a familiar wry grin as the public silence elongates. Notable for this patient crowd, the silence is not particularly awkward. Eventually, the steady beats, rumbling bass, and swelling (sequenced) synths of “Four Corners” (One Bedroom) fill the room. Any Day’s insistent opener “Cover the Mountain” is surprisingly raw, softened edges from the long recording process obliterated by McIntire’s crashing percussion. With the exception of a jumpy, chronic vaper hovering stage right, the full room of bought-in fans nod along, mirroring the minor movements of Prekop and Prewitt. Drummer John McIntyre shows, throughout the performance, why he became a force of gravity all his own in the 90s, via his additional work with Tortoise and as a respected Indie producer with his own Chicago studio (Soma). He demands attention, preening above the snare, chin up to the back of the room. He winces and snarls through perfect time, dominating the stage with dead set serial killer eyes and facial twitches, as a ring of sweat expands around his collar. Meanwhile, Prewitt anchors center stage, keeping watch on his shifting, exotic chord patterns, altering them up and down the neck like a clinician. He ends a riff by throwing his head back in a rare moment of exuberance, but is otherwise as measured as his own delicate and embroidered guitar work. With rising applause after a final note, he nods in shy thanks. The love from fans may not find expression in screaming, drug dancing, or tumbling flanks of drunk friends pushing their way to the front of the stage — this is not much of a “scene” — but this serene affection runs deep. Among these focused eyes and swaying bodies, there is no room for the casual follower. Kind appreciation is offered to the new songs, while the “oldies,” as Prekop calls them from the stage, elicit sighs and hard-earned affirmations. For those who have followed The Sea and Cake for two decades, these songs are vessels of memory. Immediate presence cracks them open for catharsis of the self-posessed. --- Per the graphic designers, The Sea and Cake might be seen as pretentious and aloof. Perhaps they are, but backstage Prekop never sounds like someone who takes himself too seriously. “I just think, if it feels right and positive to make a record it’d be a shame not to,” he says of the continuation of the band. “I’m quite certain that it doesn’t sound like much else.” Appropriate to his longevity as a creator, with both The Sea and Cake and other projects, he offers a take-it-in-stride model for art making. Do as much as you can. Don’t be precious. Pay attention. Your failures are venerable. “People ask, ‘How do you make sense of being an artist as both a musician and a photographer’? “It’s all work, and I’m trying to be as expressive as possible. So, it all counts. And one thing doesn’t necessarily have to make the other thing happen. I think all of the work is important at different times — on different levels. “I’m hoping to recognize good stuff that’s happening. But, it’s sort of out of my control. I equate it to photography. It’s all already there, and you have to just find it… frame it.” http://j.mp/2JyllQX

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thebibliophagist · 7 years

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⭐ Goodreads ⭐ Amazon ⭐

When womanizer Jude Sinclair meets sexy dancer Claire Anderson, sparks immediately fly. It might seem like these two were meant for each other, but Claire’s keeping a secret and Jude’s rocky family life makes things difficult. Although Claire and Jude love each other fiercely, is love enough to make their romance last?

Okay, that’s about as much PR-style writing as I can possibly muster up for this absolute mess of a book. I don’t think that there was one thing that I liked about it. Let me give a more honest summary:

Our hero is the “campus manwhore” who “gets more ass than a toilet seat.” Claire is “not like other girls” and has some serious intimacy issues. She’s also never felt a single emotion for a man. Their eyes meet across campus and they have a heartwarming conversation about how Claire’s friend has crabs -- yes, the STD. Somehow, this conversation is incredibly arousing to Claire and Jude, and they immediately fall into the most cringy, cheesy instalove I’ve ever read.

Please be aware that, while I’m not going to give away any of the major plot points, there will be some minor spoilers below.

My initial impression, from about the first 3% or so, was that Jude is a cocky jerk. I didn’t understand what Claire saw in him, and honestly, having finished, I still have no idea. I’m not sure whether Jude is supposed to seem immature, but he does. He is incredibly immature. At one point, he says, verbatim:

I love riding my bike, though. It’s probably my third favorite thing to do after hockey and sex.

Because that screams twenty-year-old womanizer, right? Certainly not twelve-year-old-trying-to-sound-cool. And let’s talk about this womanizer thing for a second, okay? I don’t have a problem with the fact that Jude has slept with the entire campus. What I do have a problem with is

His attitude about it, and

Everybody else’s attitude about it.

Because Jude can’t understand that he was a jerk. He went around telling girls it was just a one night stand, but if he ever decided to start dating, that he’d call them. Apparently, he said this to every girl. And now he can’t understand why these girls are upset that he’s dating somebody else. He says, and excuse me, but I almost threw the book across the room at this point:

“I said if I started dating I’d call, but I never promised it.”

I’m sorry, are you eight years old? Like someone got upset with you on the playground and you said, “IT’S NOT LIKE I EVER PROMISED I'D PLAY WITH YOU!” The worst part of this is that it seems like we’re supposed to take Jude’s side in this confrontation. The girl he’s talking to makes absolutely valid points. You don’t lure somebody into bed with the possibility of a future relationship if that’s not something you’re actually interested in. Jude is an entitled, sexist jerk. If you don’t believe me yet, just wait. There’s more coming. But for now, let’s move on to the next point: everybody else.

I’m not sure what kind of college Bellevue is supposed to be, but apparently, everybody knows everybody else’s business. Jude actually has to change his phone number to stop getting texts from every girl he’s ever slept with. People come up to Claire at all hours of the day to discuss her boyfriend’s sexual history. How everybody knows that Jude is her boyfriend, and, on top of that, how everybody knows about his sex life is beyond me. I mean, I went to a huge university. There were over 40,000 students, so to think that I might know about some random girl’s boyfriend is insane. Maybe this would make sense if Bellevue were a tiny college -- but they can’t be too tiny if they have such great athletics.

But even setting the suspension of disbelief aside, the idea that random people would come up to you in class or while you’re at work or while you’re walking down the street just to tell you that your boyfriend has had a lot of sex? That’s weird. Is that a thing that people really do? Do you, personally, see a girl walking down the street and think to yourself, “Oh. My. God. I think she’s that girl from Jude’s Facebook picture. I should tell her about his sexual history!” No, you don’t, because you’re not insane. It’s just this weird, unnecessary drama that adds nothing to their relationship other than a minuscule bit of tension -- because Claire legitimately doesn’t care.

Anyway, let’s talk about Claire. Claire is, I suppose, an infinitely better character than Jude. She’s strong. She’s independent. She’s not afraid to put herself first or to go after what she wants. But Claire is a huge hypocrite. She absolutely derides her deceased mother for her life choices while living a life that’s not much different. Her mother was a stripper, a drug addict, and slept around a lot. It’s understandable that a kid might have a complex from growing up with that. I get it. But Claire works as a burlesque dancer, and while she doesn’t take her clothes off for money, she does perform sensual dances for horny men while wearing only underwear. She used to sleep around with older men and do drugs but changed her life a couple years back. So what I’m getting at here is that Claire got help, something her mom didn’t have. She got clean and she stopped putting herself in dangerous situations. But, given that she experienced all of that, shouldn’t she have some compassion for her mother? Or, even if she doesn’t have compassion, maybe she could hate her mother for treating her poorly or for constantly putting her at risk. Not for her occupation.

Claire’s major characteristic, aside from her “banging body,” is the fact that she’s “not like other girls.” Now, what makes her “not like other girls,” you might wonder. Well, you see, it’s the fact that when Jude watches her dance team practices, she’s in shorts and a t-shirt. Maybe he thinks that girls do their athletic practices in ball gowns and high heels, I don’t know.

This book was so bad. Just so, so bad. I’m sorry that I have to subject you to that in this review. Please feel free to stop. I know I wanted to DNF this book so many times, so I can’t expect you to read a review about that is bound to be about as long as a full-length college essay.

Can we move on to the plot for a second? Now, in general, I have no problem with the premise. I actually really enjoy sports romances when they’re done right. I don’t mind reading about bad boys being tamed by the right girl, and I think by now everybody knows that romance is kind of my thing. But the plot is so disappointing. I saw all of the major twists coming, so even the climax of the book felt boring. When I was about 10% in, I made a note in my Kindle that “I bet this book ends with an engagement or a baby,” because I would expect nothing else from this type of book.

The writing here is a little off as well, which surprised me since most of the reviews I’ve seen have praised it for being so well-written. Well, I’m here to tell you that if you have opinions about grammar and sentence structure and the use of super as an adjective, you should probably think twice about reading this book.

So, there are weird chunks of the book where the word “ya” is substituted for “you.” Like, just randomly. I’m originally from Wisconsin, so this makes me read the book in a midwestern accent, and I know that’s not what the author intended.

• “I’ll text ya when I’m done” • “I guess you can say I missed ya” • “Yeah, whatever, don’t tell him I told you that or I’ll push ya next time” • “Wonderful to meet ya”

I just… no. And then the supers. I wish I’d been counting the supers from the beginning because there are just so many of them.

• “I’m supertired since I didn’t get in till late” • “That was superlow, Rach” • “I’m going to make love to you. Probably superfast.” • “That was supercorny” • “Mrs. Sinclair, Lucy, Angie, and Jace were amazing, good people and superfun” • “You are a superconfident man.” • “They are superhot. You should wear them to bed one time.” • “He’s a supercool dude. He can’t hate me – I’m a cool dude!” • “Lol! U dork! Say hi, he’s supernice.” • “He is great! Superawesome!” • “Each guy is looking at me like I’m trying to steal her virtue, and all the women are looking at me like I’m a piece of cake. It’s superweird.” • “You’re actually super-romantic.” • “He’s fast, though. Superfast.” • “Okay, well, Reese is supertired, so we’re going to go.”

Um, so, adjectives other than super do exist. There are words like really and very and extremely and so and quite and overly and utterly and excessively and should I go on? I think you get the point.

There are also weird anachronisms that don’t make much sense. For example, there’s this scene where Claire texts Jude to ask him if he knows “Don’t Matter” by Akon. I’m not sure if there’s an American millennial in existence that doesn’t know that song, but Jude’s all like, “LOL no! I’ll download it!” It’s hard to tell whether Jude is supposed to be too young to know it (in which case I’ll cry at my old age) or if this book was written a while ago and just took some time to be published. Regardless, “Don’t Matter” becomes their anthem -- the first of many.

A few more points on the writing and then I’ll move on to something else I hated.

I think I’d like to talk about euphemisms now. This is a difficult thing in romance writing, because the very clinical “then I got an erection and put my penis in her vagina” is not sexy, and on the flip side, something like, “then I got excited and put my love rod in her woman cave” is just cringy. It’s a fine line that can make or break a book. Well, when Jude’s narrating, he has this habit of saying things like, “Everything inside me is hard.” We all know what you’re talking about, Jude. You’re not fooling anybody. It’s not like your intestines have calcified. Your dick is hard. I was rolling my eyes so much at the sex scenes because they’re just so over-the-top.

And jumping over now to the responsibility side of things, I want to talk about safe sex. Now, both Claire and Jude have had a lot of sex. There is nothing wrong with that. I want to reiterate this -- there is nothing wrong with couples who have extensive sexual histories. But when these characters have known each other for mere days, when they know about each other’s past and decide to become intimate, I expect them to use a condom. That’s the bare minimum that you can do while still being responsible. So, sure, Claire and Jude use a condom the first time. And then never again, because they “trust each other.” You can trust somebody and still use a condom. Heck, you can be married to somebody and still use a condom. It has nothing to do with trust and everything to do with being a responsible adult.

What kind of message does this kind of writing send? The message that if you’re really horny, nothing bad will happen if you forgo the condom, provided you really, really trust the person you’re having sex with. NEWSFLASH: Anybody can say, “Don’t worry, I got tested last week and I’m clean.” Anybody can say, “Don’t worry, I’m on the pill.” Anybody can say, “You’re the only person I’ve ever done this with.” It doesn’t make it true. Especially when it’s someone you’ve only known for a few days. I absolutely despise this trend, which seems to happen primarily in new adult romances. This attitude is so damaging and I really hope that it’s not seeping into real life.

Alright, remember how I said, like 1500 words ago, that I’d get back to Jude’s sexism? Buckle up, because here we go.

“I’m the man -- I drive.”

Jude actually says this to Claire about her own car. Like, he won’t even let her drive the car that she owns. It’s not like he’s being possessive of his vehicle, or even saying that he’d prefer to drive her around in his car. Nope, he’s literally telling her that, as the woman, she should get in the passenger seat of her own vehicle. I’m sorry, I thought we were in the 21st century. I must have forgotten that we went back to the 1950s.

“Taking a step toward her, I expect her to take a step back or even run from me, but I forget that Claire isn’t like other girls.”

Okay, setting aside the once again problematic “not like other girls” trope, let’s focus on the other part of this. The fact that a very angry Jude takes a menacing step toward Claire and expects her to run from him. The fact that he wants her to be afraid of him. This is not loving behavior. This is not sexy behavior. This is unhealthy. This is wrong. And I’m glad that Claire stands up to him and doesn’t run, but then I’m also not because three seconds later, they’re in a full-on makeout session, which just reinforces Jude’s awful behavior.

“You’re basically your mother. Better pick up the crack pipe since you have the stripper part down.”

This is our hero… talking to our heroine. Somehow this is supposed to be okay since his feelings are hurt. Since he’s just lashing out in pain. But he doesn’t even apologize -- Claire has to apologize to him! I cannot believe that, in the 21st century, this is the kind of behavior that I have to be subjected to.

I’m just so done. I’m not going to read the other books in this series. I’m not going to read anything else by this author. I am so, so disappointed in this book, which somehow has a higher average rating than some of my absolute favorites. There are people that think this book is cute. There are people that think the relationship between Claire and Jude is sweet. That it’s #goals. I can’t help but feel like those people read an entirely different book.

I honestly could keep going -- my review was originally eleven pages (single spaced) of quotes, rambles, and inappropriate GIFs -- but I’ll stop here.

If you’re looking for a good hockey romance, try Elle Kennedy’s The Deal. If you’re looking for a good instalove story, try Ruthie Knox’s Madly. If you’re looking for a good college romance, try Tiffany Truitt’s Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart.

A lot of people have loved Boarded By Love, but I’m not one of them.

Final rating: ★☆☆☆☆

#book review #one star #genre: romance #genre: new adult #booklr

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