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maybankiara · 3 years

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pairing: JJ Maybank x Kiara Carrera

summary: Kie meets her housemates. For the better part of the day, it’s a warm welcome (even from one housemate’s girlfriend who lives downstairs), until JJ Maybank rolls around. Snappy and unwelcoming (and somehow never wearing enough clothes), he’s only the beginning of troubles for Kie.

word count: 8k

my foolish heart masterlist

read on ao3

Moving to Kildare is a decision Kie makes in about fifteen minutes, on a rainy Thursday. After spending four years getting her degree and a year travelling the world, returning home is nearly unfathomable. It’s a month of endless arguing, of never seeing eye to eye, and her parents’ inability to understand that she isn’t their “little Kie” anymore.

She’s had enough, so Kildare it is.

Moving to a place she’s only heard of once or twice in passing is better than living with parents who don’t give a damn about what she wants.

She packs up her belongings, counts her savings, and sets out for the town on the West Coast. No plane ticket – the prospect of a four-day bus trip is daunting, but she’s put herself through worse. The important thing is that there is nothing worthy she’s left behind.

Kie lets herself change her mind until she reaches the bus station at Chapel Hill. When she boards the bus and sits down next to an elderly man that she’ll be sitting next to for hours until the next transfer, she scours Craigslist for housemates.

If she’s moving to Kildare, she’s moving to Kildare.

The adventure doesn’t end until she lets it.

She finds a decent-looking apartment with four housemates urgently looking for a fifth. It’s cheap, too – she’s applying to jobs as the day turns into night, but there’s no guarantee of getting it. Her savings won’t last her a lifetime; she needs to get her life kickstarted.

By the time she steps foot in Kildare, it’s Monday morning, and she has a place to live.

John B. Routledge is the first housemate she meets. He’s the one who posted the ad and he’s the one who answers her calls (throughout the following days, video calls, too). He’s also the one who picks her up from the bus station.

Kie thinks about this situation as she makes her way off the bus, waiting for the driver to open the cargo so she can get her two suitcases. She is essentially agreeing to go live with four boys (granted, they’re all also in early twenties), across the country, because one of them seemed like he’s not going to kill her.

The driver takes out her suitcases and she goes to fetch them, adding a quiet ‘Thank you, have a good day.’

She walks off the bus stop and into the station, glancing around for a tall boy with floppy brown hair and a kind face. Possibly with a red bandanna wrapped around his neck. The boy is a little eccentric—and possibly overenthusiastic—but he seems kind, and he’s willing to give her a hand.

Kie doesn’t forget kindness easily.

John B ends up waiting for her at the entrance into the station, hands relaxing in the pockets of his jean shorts. His face stretches into a grin as soon as he lays his eyes on her.

‘Hey, Kiara!’

She returns the smile. ‘Hey.’

He approaches her, wearing the bandanna just like she thought. He paired it off with a half-buttoned shirt that’s almost see through – it’s the look she’d see him wearing to the beach, not to pick up his new housemate.

(Don’t judge before you meet, she reminds herself.)

John B goes in for a hug, and she awkwardly wraps her hands around his back. When they part, he glances around. ‘I’ll help you out with the suitcases.’

‘Thanks, but you don’t have to—’

‘I can’t let you carry all of that yourself,’ he argues, already reaching for the suitcases. ‘C’mon. You spent days getting here.’

Accepting that he has a point, she lets him take over, but keeps her backpack. They’re actually faster this way, too. John B tells her he parked a little out of the parking lot so he wouldn’t need to “pay the outrageous price”, and the refusal of going with the system warms her heart a little.

John B’s taller than her by a few inches and he’s got that broad-shouldered, chiselled-body look from what she can tell (his muscles are literally about to pop out of his shirt.) Usually, going into a car with someone like this and letting them drive her to their place would feel ridiculous, but the boy looks as far from menacing as possible.

(Still, Kie tells herself she’d fend him off if she had to. Truth is, she’s crashing from the lack of proper sleep and she hasn’t had food in over twelve hours and she’s a little bit exhausted.)

His car is actually an orange van filled with trinkets belonging to him and his friends; when Kie climbs into it, it feels as if it has a personality of its own. It’s as brown on the inside as it is on the outside, and she likes the whole hippie, surfer vibe it’s going on. She’s not sure if that extends to its owners, but she’s happy to find out.

John B takes care of the suitcases. She throws the backpack with them, relishing in not having to carry anything for the first time in days.

‘There’s a sandwich for you.’ John B reaches into the glove department, taking out something that Kie never would’ve guessed is a sandwich. ‘Pope made it. He’s pretty good with food.’

‘Okay, thanks.’

Kie takes it and examines it a little. John B drives them onto the road, driving close to the beach – she looks out with longing in her heart. It makes her decide to not be ungrateful and takes a bite into the sandwich that, surprisingly, actually turns out to be delicious.

John B takes a turn. ‘You ready to see your new home?’

(Kie is starting to think that smile is permanently etched on his face.)

‘Temporary home,’ she emphasises, then flinches at the intensity of her own tone. ‘Sorry. I’ve had a few long days. Right now, a bed is all I can think about.’

‘We set up your bed yesterday. The whole room is in a really good state.’

They get onto a bigger road and right into the traffic, but John B doesn’t seem to mind. He puts on a chill reggae song (is this really happening? did she get that lucky?) and hums to it, before turning back to Kie.

‘Sarah actually insisted on getting you some new bedsheets and all, so it’s all ready for you.’

‘Sarah?’

‘My girlfriend. She lives downstairs.’

‘Oh, that’s nice.’

‘Yeah, she’s pretty nice,’ says John B, in this half-dazed voice that tells Kie the couple is definitely still in the honeymoon phase. ‘How was the sandwich, by the way?’

‘It was amazing, thanks.’

He doesn’t ask anything else and she doesn’t have anything to say, so she puts up the volume up the tiniest bit, and lets herself relax a little. (Even if she’s about to be sacrificed to a cult – she deserves to breathe.)

Kildare is prettier in real life than in pictures. It’s one of the older fishing towns, with modern job prospects only flourishing in the past half a century, so most of the houses are ancient, for American standards. The beach is nice and although the waves don’t seem to be the same, she knows she’ll manage. She plans to make herself busy in town, anyway, but knowing that she’s not bound to land is soothing enough.

‘So,’ says John B after the second Marley song ends. ‘What’s your story?’

‘Oh, quite boring, actually,’ she admits. ‘Squabbled with my parents and decided to move to the other end of the country.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yeah.’

He ponders over her words a little, then gives her a glance and a warm smile. ‘Kildare is a pretty good place to start a new life.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Mhm. The best, actually. We’ve got everything you could possibly need.’

The hints of humour in his voice drag a smile out of her, too. ‘What, like housemates who try to pull a Hotel California on you?’

John B lets out a hearty laugh. ‘Exactly! But don’t tell the others.’

He embarks on a brief history of Kildare and manages to entertain her enough to keep her from falling asleep – she thinks he might be a tour guide. John B’s lived here his entire life, only moving to the city when his dad died a few years ago. He could go back to his “Chateau”, but he says there’s something nice about having his old home be a getaway, now.

By the time they actually arrive at John B’s—their—apartment, Kie feels like she knows exactly what the boy with the bandanna around his neck is made of. He’s quite simple and easy to understand.

Kie likes simple.

When they pull up in the parking lot of their apartment complex, a boy John B refers to as their housemate Pope is waiting on the porch. He ends up being a tall, dark-skinned boy John B’s age with a little less enthusiasm, but a little more maturity. He’s wearing a shirt over a tee and a pair of shorts, shaking her hand.

‘Hey, Kiara. I’m glad to finally have you here,’ he says, giving her a smile that’s more reserved than John B’s. ‘Are you sure you’re okay being with four boys?’

It’s half serious and half a joke, but she chuckles regardless. ‘I guess I’ll have to be.’

John B appears at her side, handing Pope one of her suitcases. ‘She’ll be fine. She likes reggae and I think she likes the beach, she’ll fit right in.’

Kie just looks at him, eyebrows raised.

All she gets in return is a shrug and another smile. ‘What? I saw you staring at the beach and don’t tell me you turned up the volume on that Bob Marley song.’

‘I love Bob Marley.’

‘Good, because we are all very fond of Mr Marley,’ says Pope. He tilts his head then, frowns, and looks over at his friend. ‘Does Kelce like Bob Marley?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Huh. Well, we should probably get going.’

In the end, Kie enters their apartment building with the bandanna boy behind her, and Pope in the front. Each of the boys is carrying a suitcase and John B took it upon himself to carry the backpack, too; the lack of any weight, for the first time in days, feels disconcerting.

‘So on the ground floor, there’s the Glissons,’ John B tells her. ‘A pretty charming family with one kid, but they can be loud sometimes. I can hear the kid screaming in the backyard from my window.’

John B ends up telling her the stories of all residents as they walk up the stairs. It’s interesting, and it’s all the people she’ll be seeing around for a while, but Kie can’t pay attention for more than two minutes for the life of her. Judging by the way Pope’s shoulders are slumped, he’s not listening to the boy, either.

‘This is Sarah’s apartment,’ John B says, with a smile on his face once again. ‘She’ll come by later, she’s at work right now, but she’s really excited to meet you.’

‘Oh, I’m excited to meet her, too.’

Kie finds it a little odd that everybody seems so excited to meet her, but doesn’t dwell on it. Maybe it’s normal, and she’s the odd one.

‘Yeah, she said she stalked you on Instagram, or something.’ He frowns a little, eyes shifting from Kie to Pope. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.’

Kie feels the tug at the corners of her mouth. ‘It’s okay. I don’t mind.’

At least being excited after stalking her Instagram account and therefore knowing something about her (travelling, blogging, feminism, activism, and probably some other stuff) makes sense for someone to be excited.

(She’s also slightly taken aback at John B’s tone insinuating that the boys didn’t perform a background check on her before letting her stay with them. She certainly did one on them – or tried, really, because they didn’t end up being much of social media people.)

‘So,’ says Pope, ‘here we are.’

The trio don’t dwell before opening the door to the apartment. It’s a rather newish place with walls painted a soft, creamy brown; right behind the door is a massive coat rack with a variety of styles displayed on it – from leather to plaid jackets, and an occasional winter coat. The smell of the flat is nice, surprisingly. Sweet.

John B gets in behind them, her suitcase creaking as he pulls it over the doorstep, and shuts the door.

‘So? What do you think?’ Pope has a nervous look on his face.

‘It looks nice, so far,’ Kie says, giving him a smile.

‘So far,’ John B chuckles. ‘Just wait till you see what we have done with the living room.’

‘Alright, show me. Better sooner than later.’

‘You’re gonna love it,’ says Pope, in a voice that’s either really genuine or oddly sarcastic.

She doesn’t have the time to build up expectations before the boys urge to keep going forward. They pass Pope’s bedroom on the left, next to the first bathroom, and Kelce’s bedroom is on the right. The hallway widens in the front and there’s a corridor that extends to each side – she thinks it’s a little weird that the middle of the flat is basically an intersection but hey, she’s not an architect. John B tells her it’s him and JJ on the left, and Kie’s on the right, with the second bathroom and a storage/laundry room to keep her company.

In front of them is a massive open-plan living room/kitchen, painted a very soothing baby blue all over. The room seems to be split in half by an island counter with barstools propped up around it – kitchen elements are to the left, and the couch and the medium-sized TV with a PlayStation underneath are to the right. The curtains are wide open with sun shining bright enough to make the whole place liven up.

There’s also the tiny aspect of the decor that she assumes was the boys’ touch. Road signs and traffic cones and even something long and thin that seems a little too much like a ramp are scattered across the living area. Above the couch is a massive pin board with a lot of notes, letters, postcards, schemes and designs for something that resembles cars; and all of this is put together by several different strings of fairy lights, pinned all around the walls—even the ceiling—looking like weeds, almost.

Kie lets out a surprised, breathy laugh.

It’s not that it isn’t nice. It just… not what she expected, really.

(The surfer girl in her is living for this.)

John B goes to stand in front of her, arms spread wide and a dumb grin on his face. In the middle of the living room, like this, he looks like the king of his castle – Kie’s laugh becomes a little firmer.

‘And?’

She grins, wide and honest. ‘I love it.’

The boys cheer and John B flings himself at Pope, next to Kie, smacking a high-five to his hand. They walk further into the room. Pope goes into the kitchen, and Kie and John B take a seat on the barstools. He gives them a glass of water, each (‘Sarah and I are doing this healthy living thing, so I only drink water and milkshakes.’)

‘This place is really nice,’ Kie admits, then nods towards the collection of things from the road with a smirk. ‘Not very legal, though.’

‘Are you a cop?’ asks John B.

‘No?’

‘Do you know a cop?’

‘…no?’

‘Will you tell a cop?’

‘Look, if you get me drunk enough, I’ll be the one adding some more to the collection.’

If there was any tension between them, it dissipated in this very moment. Kie’s statement seems to confirm the boys’ assumptions – she is going to become one of them, they tell her that much. It’s this fact that earns Kie a lunch because she arrived here, and John B lunch because he brought her here. JJ earns his lunch by simply not being here to make his own, according to Pope, who Kie learns absolutely adores cooking.

It’s lovely. They have a good vibe between them and they’re not excluding her, and she feels comfortable around them.

John B takes her to her room shortly after they’re all done eating their tacos.

‘There you go,’ he says, opening the door to her room. ‘It’s not much, but…’

Kie walks in and feels herself smiling. ‘I love it.’

It’s a cosy room – queen-sized bed with soft purple bedding, a long desk right underneath the window looking west with a simple white desk lamp from IKEA with a black wooden chair, three shelves on each side of the window, and a modest closet that she already knows she’ll only half fill with the things she brought. There’s enough floorspace for her to bring some decorations in (maybe a mirror and some plants – Kie always wanted that.) Her suitcases in the space between the closet and the wall, with her black backpack perched on top of one.

Like John B said, it’s not much, but it already feels more like home than her actual bedroom ever did.

‘The bedsheets, uh, they’re Sarah’s, but she’s okay with you keeping them.’

‘I’ll give them back, don’t worry.’ Kie opens the window wide, letting fresh air in. ‘What’s her favourite chocolate?’

The boy frowns, thinking. His arm is leaning on the doorframe and his forehead against his arm, and he looks both quite out of place and perfectly in place.

‘I don’t know,’ he admits. ‘She prefers milkshakes, anyway. You know, that homemade stuff. She’s trying to get me into that, but it’s just too much effort, y’know?’

‘Effort is always too much.’

‘I know, right?’ John B groans, playing along (or maybe he doesn’t notice the teasing in her voice.) ‘Anyway, I’ve got stuff to do. Pope said he’d make dinner for everybody tonight, I can let you know when that’s ready, if you want. I was thinking about having a chill night, but you’re tired, JJ isn’t back yet, and I don’t know where Kelce is, so we should do it some other time.’

Kie frowns. ‘Is Kelce not around often?’

‘Eh,’ says John B, shrugging. ‘He doesn’t like us very much, I think, but he just stays away.’

This Kelce guy doesn’t sound like he’ll be as nice to be around as the two she’s met so far, but Kie doesn’t allow concern about that to take over.

‘Knock on my door, then. I’m a light sleeper.’

John B nods, wishes her a good nap, and closes the door when he leaves.

The silence that befalls is different than the one back home. There, she could always hear the vastness of the empty space when her parents aren’t around; she would be drowning in knowing that she’s the only being alive on the premises. Even this tiny bedroom seemed more alive – if she leans out of the window, she can see Kildare around her. The apartment breaths with life.

For a moment, Kie just looks around, trying to rewrite her life in her head – this is her life now. This little bedroom, four guys out of whom two are suspiciously kind and the other two she hasn’t met, and Kildare.

It’s not a dream. The bed she sits on is a little creaky but the bedding is soft and smells like her grandmother’s backyard, and it’s real.

All of this is real.

Kie starts crying.

★

A couple hours later, John B’s knock wakes her up. She tells him she’ll be there in a few and he replies something she doesn’t catch, but she hears footsteps before she can ask.

Rolling over on the bed sheets, still wearing the clothes she travelled in, Kie feels like she woke up in a different reality. Before her nap, she managed to compose herself enough to get some of her belongings sorted – the books she brought are on the shelves, her journal and a pen are on the desk, and a clean change of clothes is neatly folded on the chair. The room still doesn’t really feel hers, but it’s starting to.

(She doesn’t want to think ahead of herself, so she doesn’t think about tomorrow, or the day after, or whatever is going to happen with jobs and—No.)

Kie rubs her eyes. Her stomach grumbles and she pushes herself off the bed; the beige walls look brighter than they were when she fell asleep. She opens the window again, leaning through it – she can see someone’s window being wide open on her floor. She wonders if it’s John B or that JJ guy.

Kildare looks pretty from here. The view isn’t the greatest, but it’s unfamiliar, and Kie loves that.

It takes her nearly half an hour to get herself to the kitchen. She ends up opting for a shower, first, because priorities are priorities and she washed herself in the disgusting bus stations for days.

She’s halfway through showering, hair all wet, when she realises that she doesn’t have a shampoo. Or anything else, for that matter. Which is terrible, because Kie is quite particular about her shower routine and the fact that he’s prevented from enjoying it, truly puts a damper on her day. Using someone else’s shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, all of that… It’s not her favourite.

In this situation, she wouldn’t really wash her hair if that’s the case (it’s curly, okay) but there’s someone’s coconut shampoo for dry hair and a matching conditioner and okay, maybe she’ll steal a little bit of that. The shower gel is one of the minty Axe ones and she knows that she will smell like a man, but it’s either that or keeping on the smell of all the buses she’d been on.

(She hopes no one will notice.)

The bathroom itself is smaller than she expected, but there’s a toilet and a shower tub and a mirror over a sink with a cupboard behind the glass, and it’s cute. The only thing she notes is that there’s only one of everything. Could it really be only one person using the bathroom? She’s the only one in this end of the corridor, and the only thing here aside from her bedroom and the bathroom is the storage that also serves as the laundry room.

It could be any of the boys. Or, actually, she assumes it can’t be Pope or Kelce, since they have a bathroom in their corridor. Probably John B, then – he seems like he cares enough about the way he looks to have some nicer hair products.

Looking in the foggy mirror, Kie feels as if the mirror is making her face look thinner than it is. That could be the case, but knowing what kind of stress she’d put herself under for the past few days… and the lack of eating…

She leaves the bathroom looking a bit better for the wear, and smelling like a minty coconut.

(I’m not trying to make an impression, she tells herself, but the lie falls flat even in her own head.)

Kie dries hair quickly with a fancy cotton towel she took—stole?—from home. She puts on the clean clothes, feeling very Lara Croft-y in her black tank top and denim shorts; it’s a confidence boost, for sure. She finishes it off with a pair of converse trainers (she forgot to pack slippers) and sets out for the kitchen. The smell of food fills the corridor, and her stomach churns.

‘What smells so good?’ she asks, right before entering.

‘Hey, Kiara.’ Pope’s leaning on the island counter as he eats out of a massive pot with a spoon, giving her a warm grin. ‘You’re looking fresh.’

‘Had a shower. Works wonders. It’s Kie for friends, by the way.’ Pope hums in response and Kie approaches the kitchen, looking into the pot. It looks like a bolognese sauce, except the colour seems is more of an orange than a begie, and there’s a few scents to it she can’t identify. ‘What’s that?’

‘Bolognese a la Pope Heyward. I’ll get you a spoon and a fork.’

‘Is it spaghetti?’

‘It’s penne, why?’

Kie pretends to gag, taking a seat at the island counter. ‘I hate spaghetti. I just can’t’—she makes a rounding motion with her hands—‘twist it the right way.’

Pope laughs as he hands her a plate and a fork. He has a nice laugh, Kie notes – it involves the entirety of his face, with his eyebrows going up a little bit. It’s sweet.

‘Yeah, spaghetti tends to be ridiculous sometimes,’ he tells her, leaning on his elbow against the counter. ‘You’ve got to cook them just the right way. Timing and salt is everything.’

‘I don’t like to cook by the rules, so precise dishes don’t really suit me.’

‘You’re more the type to cook by the heart?’

‘Eh, I guess you could say that.’ She takes the fork and pushes the penne around until it’s all mixed together – and realises just how much food that is. She brings her eyes to meet Pope’s. ‘This looks absolutely amazing, but I don’t think I’ll be able to eat all of it.

He waves her off. ‘JJ will finish it, if you don’t. He told me to leave him everything that’s not eaten by the end of the day, although he had more than a fair share already.’

Kie perks up at this, a forkful of food halfway to her mouth. ‘He’s home? I thought John B said he was at work.’

‘He came back about an hour ago. Wanted to use the shower after eating, but you must’ve been using his bathroom, so he went for a jog instead.’

There’s no way—

‘His bathroom? But I thought John B said everything was communal.’

She should’ve known the toiletries would belong to one of the two flatmates she hasn’t met. She should’ve known that at some point, her luck had to start running out.

Kie runs a hand through her hair and the scent of coconut and mint both engulf her; she pulls her hand down immediately, gauging Pope’s reaction. Can he smell it on me?

‘It’s communal,’ he says, ‘but he’s been the only one using that bathroom since Topper left. John B’s lazy, he likes to shower in the one that’s closer. Or at Sarah’s.’

‘So I can use it, right?’

‘Of course!’ he says, as if he hadn’t pretty much just told her it’s JJ’s. ‘JJ will get used to it, as long as you’re clean.’

Come think of it, the bathroom was unusually clean for a boy. ‘Is he a clean freak?’

‘No it’s more like… He just likes to have a safe space. It’s him and showers, or water in general – I often joke that he’s a siren.’

With her heart finally at peace, knowing that JJ won’t gauge her eyes out for taking a shower, Kie takes the first bite of Pope’s dish. It’s still warm and absolutely delicious, and he laughs when she lets something along the lines of a moan.

‘Pope, this is — oh my god.’

Tilting his head down, the boy’s face stretches into a shy smile. He grabs a wet glass from the drying rack and starts wiping it with a cloth, leaning against the counters. ‘Thanks. I’m having a good day, so.’

He doesn’t finish. Kie takes another bite and says, ‘So you’re cooking for everybody.’

‘Yeah. Kind of.’

‘That’s pretty nice of you. I’ll cook tomorrow, if you’ll have me. I’m not the greatest of cooks, but there’s some Asian dishes I can cook pretty well and—’

‘Kie, that would be amazing.’

‘Yeah, well – I try. Don’t judge before you try.’ Kie isn’t too keen on hyping herself up. Offering to cook is fine, but she doesn’t want anyone to have expectations.

The two of them fall into a comfortable silence; all Kie can hear is her munching on the bolognese, and Pope drying the dishes and putting them away (Kie makes a mental note of what goes where, and another note to ask what is communal and what isn’t.)

‘Why do you call JJ a siren?’

Pope seems a bit stricken with surprise at Kie’s question, but answers quickly regardless. ‘He’s like that. Mischievous, will die if away from a body of water for too long, lures a lot of people to his bedroom… He’s got quite a reputation.’

‘He’s a player,’ Kie interprets.

‘I— Yeah. Kind of.’ Pope makes a grimace that tells her he’s not the greatest fan of that. ‘It doesn’t happen to often, anymore. Work’s been keeping him really busy these past few months.’

Kie just nods. She’s not a fan of casual hookups herself (there’s gotta be…something to them) and she usually doesn’t mind someone else doing that sort of thing, or one-night stands, but she doesn’t quite fancy the idea of random people being around the apartment.

It may be a bit evil, but Kie likes to hear he hasn’t been having sex as often.

(She doesn’t even know the first thing about the guy – it is evil.)

‘What does he do?’ she asks in an effort to distract herself.

‘Mechanics. Engineering.’

‘Mechanical engineering?’

Pope frowns and tilts his head, shaking it a little. ‘Not quite. It’s complicated. He’s a really smart guy, he’ll explain it to you himself. He should be back anytime now, I don’t know what’s taking him so long. Usually he jogs for half an hour only – must’ve been a long day at work.’

Kie opens her mouth to ask what JJ does for work, when she realises that she’d kind of already asked that. Instead, she finishes her meal and then washes up, listening to Pope talk about his own issues at work (he’s a coroner, which is only slightly morbid, but somehow fits him.) He talks about it a lot, so when John B joins them fresh out of the shower and lets them know Sarah’s coming over in a bit, she’s saved. John B drags Pope into telling her some of the shenanigans the group has been up to during their long friendship, and Kie notices how much John B’s energy makes Pope more energetic.

That’s the thing about John B – his energy is contagious even when he’s not the one talking the most. Even Kiara feels more awake than she did minutes earlier.

Nothing about moving to Kildare is how she expected it to be. It seems too easy – too natural. John B and Pope accepted her into the apartment group as if she’d always been a part of it, and they’re all like a family (cooking for everybody? Where did they come from?) and Kie is not used to it.

She’s never had friends who felt like family. No, scratch that – she’s never had a family that felt this much like family.

Eventually, Kie goes to rest on the couch while John B updates Pope on the latest news about Kildare’s football team (Kie’s starting to think he might actually be a football coach, now.) Pope doesn’t seem to be listening that much, but John B doesn’t notice, so it’s fine.

She sees JJ for the first time about an hour since she came out of the shower, and he’s no more than a blotch in the corner of her eye as he marches from the main entrance into his room.

‘JJ?’ calls John B. No answer, but they hear a door shut. ‘Kiara’s here!’

‘Kie,’ Pope reminds him, and gives the girl a gentle smile.

No answer comes. The door shuts again. This time, Kie sees a boy slide by, too fast for her to see him properly – but he’s tall, with hair definitely a dirty blonde or a light brown.

Right before they hear the bathroom (her bathroom) door slam, a voice shouts, ‘I’ll be there in ten!’

Pope sighs. ‘Multiply that by two.’

‘Three.’

‘Maybe four, if he got really sweaty.’

‘He could be doing himself up for Kie.’

It’s an offhand comment that’s supposed to be a joke, including her in this whole banter thing, but Kie’s cheeks go ablaze at the idea. Not too long ago she was doing herself up for them in that very same bathroom.

(First impressions matter, okay?)

‘We apologise on JJ’s behalf,’ says Pope. He’s looking at her over the island counter, with one elbow propped up on it to hold his chin. ‘He can be a hardass sometimes.’

‘And he won’t apologise,’ adds John B. ‘Got a stick up his ass.’

‘He’s a nice guy, though.’

‘Yeah,’ Kie muses, ‘I can tell.’

The boys just sigh, telling her that they can’t convince her otherwise until he convinces her, and Kie starts cataloguing everything she knows about this JJ guy.

Tall, probably blonde, probably lean. Uses coconut-scented, quality hair products and keeps his bathrooms clean – high maintenance. Demanding, or at least that’s what she got from his asking Pope to save him the food. He seems to go on jogs often, so he’s probably sporty, caring either about his appearance or health. He’s got a job that keeps him busy and it’s got something to do with mechanics and engineering (but not together), so he’s probably quite smart. A player who’s currently on hold, so he could be cranky if there’s a lot of sexual frustration pent up. Slightly possessive (his bathroom?) and not really the one for manners, if him not introducing himself is anything to go by.

From what the boys told her, she thought he’d be fun – the guy she has in her head doesn’t seem like the guy who’d tape fairy lights all over the living room and decorate it with stolen road signs, or really like the ocean.

So, JJ – Kie’s not his biggest fan.

(He definitely pales in comparison to John B and Pope. Maybe he doesn’t take change well; maybe he doesn’t like newcomers in his inner circle.

She isn’t already making excuses for his behaviour.)

There’s the irritating iPhone message chime somewhere in the room, interrupting whatever conversation the boys have been having while she’s thinking about their friend. John B reaches into his pocket and reads the message from his phone. ‘Sarah’s here. I’ll go get her, JJ must’ve locked the door.’

‘Dumbass,’ says Pope, as if locking the door isn’t the sensible thing to do.

(Maybe JJ isn’t all bad.)

Surprisingly, Kie isn’t too bothered about the girlfriend coming up. She sounds nice, from what John B has told her, and she’s actually looking forward to a dash of femininity in the place.

Sarah Cameron ends up being an incredibly lovely girl, and a completely suitable match for John B – neither of them know when to shut up. In a good way, of course, because Kie likes listening to both of them.

‘So, how are you enjoying your room? I wanted to get you some plants and stuff, but John B said it’s probably best if you get them yourself. I know you probably don’t know a lot of people in Kildare and I thought I’d help out. Boys, as you know, aren’t the best at being welcoming.’

‘Actually, I’d say they’ve been pretty welcoming.’ Despite the fact that her housemates are engaged in a very passionate conversation about something, she doesn’t want to trash-talk them. ‘Better than I expected, anyway.’

Sarah chuckles, draping an arm over the back of the couch. ‘Just you wait, honestly. They’re absolutely ridiculous, I love them. They’re chaotic as it is, but with JJ around, it’s all hell breaking lose.’

‘That bad?’

‘That bad.’

Exciting, crosses Kie’s mind in a sarcastic tone, until she realises that she genuinely is excited at the prospect of chaos. His life’s been lacking it for a good few years now, if she’s being honest. Besides, all these conflicting statements about JJ and the lack of any mention of Kelce whatsoever is making her curious about the two missing housemates.

And Sarah is nice, which is why she says, ‘We can go get some plants together, if you’re down. I’ve been meaning to get some anyway.’

The blonde clasps her hands together, cheeks stretching into a wide grin. ‘Great! Could you do tomorrow? After three, though, because I’ll be in kindergarten until then.’

‘Yeah, tomorrow sounds great, just let me know when you’re back here.’

And any other day. Any time. It’s not like I’ve got somewhere to be.

Another part of her mind concerns with the whole “kindergarten” part, but she figures she’ll find out, eventually.

‘You drive?’ asks Sarah.

‘Yeah, but I don’t have a car here. Yet.’

She thinks of her car back home – it was a nice car. Kie loved that car, especially when something would need fixing and she and her dad would get into their ugly and old clothes and—

Kie rests her arm on the back of the couch, glancing at the girl sitting next to her. She’s wearing a floral tube top and high-waisted denim jeans, with her blonde hair loose save for the two front pieces on each side that she plaited – it’s an effortlessly chic look.

‘That’s fine,’ she says. ‘I can drive. I’m honestly so happy there’s finally a girl in the flat, I’ve been telling them that this place is lacking a feminine touch for ages. As much as I love them, it gets a little too full of testosterone sometimes.’

‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll be giving it much of a feminine touch.’

It’s a joke, but it catches Pope’s attention: ‘The most feminine thing we’ve got is JJ’s coconut hair set. I feel like that says enough.’

Kie’s cheeks flare up at the comment. She tells herself no one will connect the dots despite her smelling like minty coconut. First things first, she needs to go shopping tomorrow, and she’s happy to hear that Sarah is more than willing to accompany her.

‘So, shopping tomorrow?’ asks the blonde.

John B makes a groan that sounds a lot like “girls”, but blows Sarah an air kiss the moment she gives him the death glare.

Kie doesn’t hide her laughter, and neither does Pope hide his groan that sounds a lot like “couples”. It only makes Kie laugh harder, before she composes herself.

‘Shopping, definitely. I need things.’

‘And we can go sightseeing. I know all the best places in Kildare—’

‘Unless you’re showing her the Boneyard, you’re not showing her anything worth seeing.’

Her eyes are drawn to the unfamiliar voice coming from the corridor, and she stifles a small gasp.

Kiara Carrera has seen a fair share of shirtless boys throughout her life. Most of them, however, were expected – at the beach, at the pool, or in the bedroom. Most of them she was mentally prepared for and they didn’t catch her off-guard. Realistically, she knows he just came out of the shower – but there is absolutely no fucking need for him to be walking around in just a towel, and a loosely wrapped one around his waist most of all. Not with hair that’s still damp and dripping down his bare torso, making him look like he’s glistening.

And Kie’s got eyes – the lean muscle covering the entirety of his torso and arms doesn’t go unnoticed.

(It should.)

Pope sighs as the group watches JJ make a beeline for the hob with the sauce and the pasta on it. ‘And this is JJ,’ he says. ‘JJ, Kie.’

She tries looking everywhere but his body, and it’s surprisingly difficult. ‘Hey.’

The blond boy glances in her direction and nods, then glances at John B. ‘I went to the pier today. Had a fucking day at the workshop, the fucking asshole kept giving me the most tedious jobs just because I told him he was wrong.’

‘Was he?’

JJ snorts and fills up a plate. ‘Fuck yeah.’

As he continues telling the boys about his day, munching on the food with his back turned to Kie, Sarah indulges her in a conversation about music. Kie tries to focus, she really does because she really appreciates the girl trying so hard, but she can’t focus on anything when she’s staring at the back of someone built like that.

Besides, he’s acting like Kie’s not even there. She tells herself that she isn’t hurt, that she expected something like that – she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and…

Yeah.

He doesn’t even so much as look at her.

Not too long after that, Kie bids her goodbyes as she goes back to her room. Things seem a little weighty now that JJ’s around and the boys seem to not understand that there’s something off – it’s easier to just leave the room.

She’s got to unpack, anyway. There’s a load of clothes and knick-knacks she took from home that she needs to put somewhere.

Kie begins with her backpack, seeing as it’s got the least things in it. The first thing she takes out is the phone and the charger along with it; the device is heavy in her hand. If she turns it on, she knows she’ll have dozens of missed calls and texts, despite her leaving a note before she left.

The note doesn’t matter. They don’t understand.

(That’s why she left, but it’s not like they’ll understand that, either.)

She puts it off for a while but the pressure is on the fact that she applied to jobs with this phone number and she needs to be available. If she wants to act like a grown up then there’s some sacrifices that need to be made.

Reluctantly, Kie plugs the phone into the charger, but doesn’t turn it on just yet.

★

Kie doesn’t plan on seeing anyone again. It’s nearly two in the morning already, so she doesn’t think before she goes to the kitchen wearing nothing but an old Bob Dylan sweater and pyjama shorts.

She just wants some berry tea, really, because falling asleep in a strange bed is more difficult than she thought.

The fairy lights are on – all of them. The blue light is bright enough to shine the corridor, reflecting pleasantly from the brown walls. Kie rubs her eyes, having come out of a completely dark room.

It’s almost intimate, the little differences in colour from one set of lights to another; all in different shades of blue. It must be John B, but hopefully she doesn’t walk in on him and Sarah – not like she’s judging a book by its cover, but both of them seemed confident and open enough so that Kie wouldn’t be surprised if they have a sort of a public kink, or something.

(Sometimes it’s fun to be risky; the possibility of getting caught adds a certain kind of flavour.)

Kie steps into the kitchen, and the light shines on the back of JJ’s tee.

Fuck.

This is, like, the worst case scenario. Of all the people—

‘Hi,’ she says.

JJ doesn’t react. He’s fiddling with something on the counter, his body swaying from side to side in rhythm. He turns his head a bit to the right, reaching for a cutting knife, and she finally sees the earbuds.

Kie lets out a heavy sigh, feeling her fingers going a little cold.

(It’s not from the room temperature, because the apartment is roasting.)

Bracing herself, Kie makes a beeline for the kettle, feeling much like JJ earlier today. He still doesn’t notice; he’s humming along to a song and it’s familiar enough that she almost gets it. She checks the kettle—empty—and turns to fill it up when she nearly bumps into the blond’s chest.

JJ whisper-screams a profanity, just whatever he was holding thumps on the ground.

Kie flinches, too, so she figures an apology isn’t necessary (it’s not like she wanted to scare him. She said hi.)

Still, she takes a step back. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to— We must’ve turned around at the same time.’

‘Yeah, must’ve.’ JJ crouches and picks up the bread and whatever’s fallen out of it, all with a melodramatic sigh. ‘Can I eat that?’

She looks at his hands – ham, cheese, pickles, and a sauce. She feels her face distort. ‘Absolutely not.’

JJ sighs again, then throws it all into the bin. Kie notices he hasn’t taken out the earbuds as she fills up the kettle and sets it to boil; he delves into the fridge and starts making another sandwich.

Rude.

Then again, it is the middle of the night. She’s not feeling very chatty, either.

She starts making her tea and struggles to find the mugs and the teabags, but doesn’t ask for help. It’s odd; all she can hear is the clanking of her moving around the kitchen, JJ preparing a sandwich, and his humming along to the music in his ears.

It’s exhausting.

‘How come you’re still up?’ she asks. He doesn’t acknowledge her so she taps on his shoulder, waits until he takes an earbud out, and asks again. ‘Can’t sleep?’

‘I’ve got work.’

He doesn’t elaborate. Kie’s jaw clenches and she lets out a huff, just in time for it to be drowned out by the sound of the kettle boiling.

She goes to tend to her tea, then looks back at JJ – it must be a good sign that the earbud is still hanging off his neck. ‘What’s the Boneyard?’

‘You still don’t know?’

JJ’s tone is demeaning, almost amused – and Kie doesn’t like it the least, so she decides to be just as respectful. ‘Would I be asking if I did?’

He looks at her, for once; his eyes gaze into hers as if he’s trying to decipher her. The chuckle he lets out is a little more amused and the corners of his lips turn upwards ever so slightly.

That’s the closest to a smile she’s seen on him so far.

‘No, guess not.’

‘So, you gonna tell me?’

His hands come to a still. He frowns, then grins. ‘That’s for you to find out.’

Right.

Kie has two options here – fall back, make her tea and leave, not cause any trouble, be the best possible flatmate she could be so they don’t kick her out. If JJ doesn’t like her, that’s on him. It’s also probably what he’s expecting, for her to do all the work.

A smile flutters on her lips. Kie has never been one for choosing the passive option.

‘What’s your deal?’ she asks, pulling her mug up to her chest. ‘Having a bad day?’

He looks at her with his head tilted a little; she’s pretty sure there’s annoyance written in the wrinkle between his brows, tiredness in his bright eyes. ‘Have I not made that clear enough? What’s with all the questions?’

‘Dunno.’ She shrugs, holding her mug to her chest. ‘We’re living together, shouldn’t we try to get to know each other?’

‘I don’t really care, to be honest.’

He might’ve as well just slapped her across the face. She blinks and swallows the sudden lump in her throat. ‘Right.’

JJ puts the new sandwich on a plate and he starts walking out of the kitchen when he turns on his heel, sighing. ‘Okay, what’s your deal, then? Why’d you come all the way here from Outer Banks on such a short notice? What are you running from?’

The blue light is behind JJ, softening his silhouette and making him look like he’s glowing. Menacing or benevolent, Kie would go for the former. Her blood runs cold and that’s not a feeling she wants to experience in her new home.

(But the way he’s looking at her, it’s not menacing. It’s curious – it’s as if he wants to gauge her reaction more than the answer itself.)

What are you running from?

Instead of giving him what he wants, Kie takes a sip of her tea and ignores the liquid scorching her tongue. ‘That’s for you to find out.’

JJ raises his eyebrows and she thinks she sees a smile betraying him in the corners of his lips, shaking his head. ‘See?’

‘See what?’

‘Questions,’ he says, ‘they’re too much.’

He’s the type of guy Kie usually cannot stand – full of self-assurance and bravado that may or may not be real. He also knows how to get someone like Kie, usually very vocal and confident, into tripping over her own words.

At a loss for words, she squeezes herself into the counter so he can pass between her and the chair, when his head tilts, nose scrunched, and his eyes glancing at her hair. ‘Do we have the same shampoo?’

‘Oh, I used some of yours,’ she replies, pressing her mug even closer to her chest, forcing herself to not look away from him. ‘Sorry. I didn’t have my own, but I’ll get it tomorrow. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘It’s fine, just don’t do it again.’

‘Okay.’

He turns around the island counter and for a moment, she thinks he’s going to sit there and her mind starts wondering whether that would make her want to stay in the kitchen more or less. But he keeps walking and nods at her from the entrance into the corridor, muttering an almost inaudible ‘goodnight.’

Kie waits for about a minute, sipping her tea, before she turns off the fairy lights and goes back to her room.

(She thinks about how fluffy JJ’s hair is when dry; how deep the circles under his eyes looked under the intensity of the blue light; about the tension in his shoulders that was present the entire time she was in the kitchen.)

She plops into her bed, finishing off her tea. Her phone’s still on the desk, now fully charged, calling to her.

It’s been nearly a whole day. Dragging it out will make the whole thing more painful than it already is, so she takes it in her hands, and holds the button on the side.

Kie spends the next fifteen minutes scrolling through the sea of messages her parents have drowned her phone in. Not just her parents – there’s messages from aunts and uncles, great aunts and cousins, both sets of grandparents as well. Much like she expected, instead of keeping their problems to themselves, her parents made them everybody else’s.

Some of the messages were encouraging – her dad’s mum told her to stay safe and smart and return home whenever she’s ready; her mum’s sister said that she understands her choice. Some were the exact opposite – a lot of them called her ungrateful, or attention seeking, or childish and irresponsible.

The worst one was from her mother. Granted, it was followed by an apology and a change of attitude, but the message is clear.

If you really think you’re ready to leave, be ready to make it permanent.

Kiara goes to sleep with one thought on her mind, and it’s that even with a housemate she doesn’t like, and one that she doesn’t know, and being on completely foreing ground, moving to Kildare was the smartest decision of her fucking life.

★

next chapter

#jiara #jiara fanfic #outer banks #obx #obx fic #obx fanfiction #jj maybank #kiara carrera #jj maybank x kiara carrera #my foolish heart series

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breathinginthevapor · 5 years

Text

Hellhole

Summary: Ashton is the only good thing in your life, shining bright like a star in a black hole, but you know he’s meant for something better. struggling/poor!Ashton AU

A/N: Honestly, this is really weird and definetely different from anything I’ve ever read or wrote on here, but I thinks you should give it a read and let me know what you think. I kinda wanted to portray something not as sugar-coated as I usually do, but I haven’t ever been that struggling as I describe in here, so you’re very welcome to further educate me! I thought it was a blurb when I wrote it on my phone but apparently, it’s about 1400 words... enjoy!

TW: language, mentions of drugs, sex and alcohol

Masterlist

I don’t own the picture, it’s from Ashton’s instagram (but seriously look how pretty he is!!)

He’s panting, laying naked on his back beside you, staring at the ceiling.

“You really should paint that, ya know? Looks awful,” he comments, lips spread in a wide and tired grin.

You look at the cracks in the white paint, how it matches everything else in your shitty apartment and you feel your stomach churning. Because it matches you, as well.

You turn your head, admiring his profile. The curve of his nose, the gentle swell of his lips and the bronze coloured curls that’s spread out on your thin excuse for a pillow. He looks beautiful, like a statue or a painting or some nice artsy photograph in a museum you don’t even have enough money to visit.

He’s so out of place in this hellhole, always have been.

It’s different with you. No one ever questions where you belong or if you’re meant for something better, but it’s clear, even to strangers, that Ashton is destined for something else. Something more.

“Don’t got the money,” you shrug, and he turns and looks at you, too.

His smile fades a little, and there’s a small drop of sweat running down his forehead as he speaks, “Ya’ll just have to work a little longer at Marley’s and then ya’ll go to college and get some fancy degree and earn a shit ton of money.”

You shoot him a half-assed smile, not even bothering dreaming with him anymore. You used to, once, before you realised that you’d never get a chance to go to college or become something more. And those dreams, they aren’t even a happy getaway anymore, they just make your heart break.

Because you’ll be just like your mum, waitressing all your life and dying because of the things that keeps you sane: smokes or alcohol or even drugs if things go really downhill.

Right now, you don’t really need any of these things, don’t need to dull the pain with anything but the taste of Ashton’s lips, but without him being here and distracting you from everything, you fear you’ll go crazy.

“Yeah, maybe,” you lie, once again looking up, not wanting to meet his gaze. You might do something stupid, like tearing up, if you do.

Your eyes fixate on a small yellow spot you haven’t noticed before, and you wonder how it got there. Perhaps someone once thought it’d be a good idea to paint the ceiling with piss. You wouldn’t be surprised.

“One day, we’ll buy a nice house together and get a dog or somethin’,“ he promises, eyes glazed with a dream-like glow. “Far away from here and we’ll be happy.”

“’m too old for fairytales,” you point out, not noticing the way his eyes turn glossy at the harsh tone of your voice.

“Don’t say that, don’t say it like it won’t happen,” he begs.

He grabs your hand and squeezes it. You squeeze back. But then you let go and roll to your side, supporting your head with a hand under your chin.

“Don’t wanna lie to ya, Ash.” You hope he understands what it means that you’re honest with him: that you trust him and don’t want to hurt him.

Before he can answer, you get up, shaking the duvet off so you’re standing completely bare before him.

Sex usually doesn’t mean anything to you, no, you’re the kind of girl who likes having no strings attached and sleeping in a new bed every night, but with Ashton, you sometimes catch yourself thinking something terribly cliché like that your bodies work perfectly or that you feel loved and cherished and happy. Like there’s no place you’d rather be.

Because Ashton’s special to you, of course he is. He’s been your best friend for all your life, cleaning and stitching up your wounds when you got into fights defending him, having your back when you felt pressed up in a corner, listening to you rant for hours about getting away from this sick place, and lately, appreciating your body like you’re the piece of art instead of him. He loves you, you know that, although it’s never been said out loud.

Sometimes, in your weak moments, you wish he would. You wish he would climb a mountain or at least walk up a hill or something and just yell that he’s in love with you, that he loves you and that he’s never going to stop. That he’ll never leave you. But then you remember that you don’t even really want that.

Because you love him, too, more than you’ve ever loved anything.

You search through piles of not-clean-enough-for-closet-not-dirty-enough-to-be-washed and find your work uniform, the ugly polo which green colour looks like puke and the black pants that’s way too tight on your ass (because that’s how your creepy boss wants it).

You quickly shimmy into the pants, pull the shirt over your head and grab a pair of worn-out sneakers, turning around to say goodbye to Ashton who’s still laying in your bed with a post-sex glory surrounding him.

“Gotta work now, see ya around.”

“I’ll call you!” He shouts just before you close the door, and you feel a warmth spreading in your stomach.

“I know you will,” you whisper to yourself as you run down the stairs, hating the fact that you ever have to leave his side.

And you hate it even more when you fill a white envelope with stacks of dollar bills, leaving it in his mailbox along with a short letter from an ‘anonymous sponsor who wants him to go out and pursue his music career’, watching all of your hard-earned savings disappear.

And you curse the universe far away when you stand at the bus station, saying goodbye to him.

“I’ll come back for ya, I promise.”

“No, no, don’t ya dare come back. Once you’re out of this hell hole, never return,” you argue, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. His cheeks are already wet, and the mix of the weed you smoked earlier and the recent tears have made his auburn eyes red and puffy. “Just write me a song someday so I know you haven’t forgotten me.”

“I won’t leave you here to rot, Y/N!” he hisses, gripping your cheek with clammy hands.

“Go, Ash, your bus is leaving!” you order, debating whether to hug or kiss him goodbye before deciding on a quick embrace, and then you push him away, taking a few steps back yourself.

The further you get from him, the worse you feel, but you know it’s for the best.

He shoots you one last glance before entering the full bus, taking off to meet his future. A future that’s way too bright for you and the shabby life you’re destined.

When you get home and lay on the shitty old mattress, you prepare yourself for a waterfall of tears, but your eyes stay dry.

Not even tears will keep you company now that he’s left.

And a couple years later, your mum calls and tells you he asked for you and that she just told him you’d married and moved.

Not that you only moved a few blocks away, but then again, he didn’t ask.

You just thank her and hang up.

But one day, you turn up the radio in your shitty old car with the crackling radio and hear his voice coming out of the speaker, singing of the girl with the sad eyes, the girl he girl he grew up with, the girl he never got to tell that he loved her, the girl who was too stubborn to save herself, the girl who saved him.

And you cry. For the first time since he left, you cry. You cry so hard you have to pull over because you can’t see through the blurriness of your vision, and you scream.

You scream because you’re angry that he didn’t look harder for you, because it took him so long and you scream because it’s so unfair that you never got out of this stupid place.

But then an expensive car, you think it’s a Mercedes or something, pull over too and out comes a beautiful man with bronze coloured curls, familiar auburn eyes and a smile that could light the sun on fire and your heart skips a beat.

You’re home.

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moonywritesfanfic · 6 years

Text

I Got You Babe

“And Gryffindor gets the snitch and wins the match!” the voice came booming from every corner of the Quidditch pitch. James had played an amazing match and you could tell exactly where in the stands the Marauders stood as the screaming erupted over all else.

The group of red clad Gryffindors rushed down from the stands to congratulate James. Lily tried not to smile too big or to be too excited, it had been about three and a half weeks since Lily and James had started seeing each other. They had decided not to tell anyone yet since everyone was so invested they thought it’d be fun to make their friends sweat.

On the ground the guys all patted each other on the back and Sirius jumped piggy back style onto James resulting in a loud “OOF” from the other boy.

The girls all got their hugs in and then James smiled a goofy crooked smile at Lily and she quite convincingly remarked,

“Good game Potter” James smiled a wry smile with a quick acknowledgement of thanks trying to move on quickly.

The rest of the group decided to head to the common room for celebrations of Sirius’ doing.

“Alright, alright mates, I promise I’ll be right there, just gotta grab my stuff you lot head up” James snickered dropping Padfoot in a heap at his feet.

Lily made some mumbled excuse to the girls about leaving a scarf in the stands and she’d just walk back with James.

The loud screaming red heap left and the moment they were out of sight Lily jumped into James’ arms he twirled her around kissing her in a cloud of her own red hair.

They retrieved James’ things and headed to the Gryffindor common room for the party.

“WOOOOH YEA PRONGS” Sirius’ screams echoed above the music and every other scream and yell. James was chugging a bottle and having a right great time. The girls were in the corner sipping their drinks and watching Marlene dance, they were all very very drunk.

“KARAOKE!!” Marlene stopped and called to Sirius.

With a wave of her wand the music started and the words to Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’ by Journey started floating from the tip. Marlene and Sirius climbed onto the long table in the centre of the room as the music started.

“Lovin’, touchin’, squeezin’ each other” Sirius wrapped his arms around Marlene from behind gesturing less then gentlemanly against her.

Lily’s mind slipped and her eyes creeped over to James sprawled over the arm of a couch laughing loudly at his best friend.

“When your lover, oh, he hasn’t come home” Marlene dropped down the length of Sirius’ body hands trailing him from chin to waist above her head, whipping her hair and winking at Remus over her shoulder.

“Now it’s your turn girl to cry” Sirius dipped Marlene low kissing her on her forehead before ending the song together.

“Na na na na na na” rocking against each other, the room going wild.

“Na na na na na” Sirius spinning Marlene.

“Na na na na na na” Sirius copying Marlene’s earlier move with a trail down her body, ass popped out.

“Na na na na na” and a spin and a bow.

Lily’s attention was brought quickly back to the two on the table as the room went crazy.

“Ooookay, time to hear from the hero of the day, Mr, Jaaaaames Poooootttteeeeerrrr” Sirius drunkenly drawled jumping less then gracefully off the table.

Marlene ran over and took Lily by the hand, as she pulled her up Lily realized how heavily her head was swimming with the drinks she’d had and even though she knew what Marlene was about to do she felt the liquid courage surging through her.

“And everyone’s favourite prefect” Marlene popped Lily on the table next to James who took Lily’s elbow to steady her as she swayed.

Marlene whirled her wand and music played as words poured out from Marley’s wand. James smirked at Lily and Lily threw daggers at Marlene.

“They say were young and we don’t know,

We won’t find out until we grow,

Well I dont know if thats all true.

‘Cause you got me, and baby I got you”

James sang loud and slightly slurred while walking circles around a bewildered Lily.

The music kept going and Lily found herself walking towards James,

“Babe,

I got you babe,

I got you babe”

She swayed her hips and took James by the hand.

“They say our love wont pay the rent,

Before its earned, our moneys all been spent,

I guess that’s so, we don’t have a plot

But at least I’m sure of all the things we got.”

James spun and pulled Lily close as they danced, Lily’s foggy brain melted the room away as everyone stared at the two dancing far too close.

“Babe,

I got you babe,

I got you babe”

Lily sang this inches from James’ face, feeling quite lucky to only have these lines as her focus was drawn to his body heat and the proximity of his lips to hers.

“I got flowers in the spring,

I got you to wear my ring-”

Lily found her words and cut him off.

“And when I’m sad, you’re a clown,

and when I’m scared, you’re always around.”

Marlene and Sirius were swaying arms around each other watching the undeniable emotions build between their friends who seemed to have forgotten the rest of the room existed.

“Don’t let them say your hair’s too long

‘Cause I don’t care, with you I can’t go wrong,

‘Then put your little hand in mine,

There ain’t no hill or mountain we can’t climb.”

James twirled her and tipped her back,

looking up into his eyes Lily felt she was staring into her forever.

They whispered to each other,

“I got you babe”

Lily wrapped her arms tighter around James’ neck and kissed him, the world around them disintegrating into nothing...

A special thanks to @captofthesswolfstar for song recs ;)

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bigyack-com · 5 years

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On the road in Jamaica: Blue mountain coffee, Reggae and Bob Marley - travel

On a dull and overcast day in San Francisco, my friend Ron informs me that he has decided to spend the upcoming holidays with his family in Jamaica and asks if I would like to come along. After months of unremittingly grey weather, I do not need much persuasion to head for sunnier climes. A week later, we are on a flight to Kingston.Ron’s sister, Estelle, is waiting for us when we walk out of Manley airport, after an eight-hour-long flight. We settle into the backseat of her 4-by-4 and set off on a two-lane highway running parallel to the sparkling azure waters of the Caribbean. With 2.8 million people, Jamaica is the third-most populous Anglophone country in the Americas, after the United States and Canada. Kingston, the capital, is located on the south-eastern coast of the island. It has two major sections: ‘downtown’ and ‘uptown,’ also referred to as ‘New Kingston’. Ron’s parents reside in a comfortable villa in the affluent part of town. He has three siblings: a brother and two sisters including Estelle. They are a Mullato family, and like many Jamaicans have white, black, Indian and Chinese blood coursing through their veins, making for a striking combination. The following morning, after a sumptuous breakfast, we set off on a trip to the Blue Mountains, Jamaica’s longest mountain range, to visit a friend of Ron’s who runs a coffee plantation in the region. The area is known for the famous Blue Mountain Coffee, which commands premium prices on world markets. About thirty minutes later, we leave the flats and start chugging up into the hills. The road is scooped out of the rock as if by hand. It seems barely wide enough for one vehicle, let alone two passing from opposite ways. We drive around numerous hairpin turns and are constantly bouncing on potholes. Just when it seems like the road couldn’t get any worse, it turns to dirt. Finally, after two hours of driving, we arrive at the plantation.

B07MJ9NPS5Daniel is a grizzled, serene-looking Rastafarian dressed in loose white clothing, with a beard and long dreadlocks collected under a white turban. He greets us with hugs. “Holy Emmanuel I Selassie I Jah I Rastafari. Welcome to my humble abode” he says with a beaming smile. We climb the steps of the porch and seat ourselves on a long bench running along the verandah. The large two-story wooden home is painted in white and brown and has a rooftop terrace with panoramic views of the mist-shrouded peaks and deep valleys encircling it. A tall white woman with blonde dreadlocks comes out with a tray bearing fresh fruit and steaming mugs of coffee. She introduces herself as Gretchen, Daniel’s wife. Three children ranging from ages four to ten are trailing her. I look around and can’t help but notice dozens of tall marijuana plants growing wild all around the house. Then it strikes me. We are smack in the middle of a cannabis plantation. Daniel notices my gaze and explains that he grows both coffee and cannabis on this piece of land. He cultivates coffee for export while the cannabis is strictly for personal use. As night descends on the mountain, he builds a bonfire on a grassy knoll behind the house. We huddle around as he lights a clay pipe.

A cannabis farm in Jamaica. Daniel belongs to the ‘Bobo Ashanti’ sect of Rastafarianism, one of the more orthodox lineages within the larger movement. Bobos take their name from the Asante tribe in Africa, the original source of the majority of slaves in Jamaica. Several well-known Bobo Reggae artists have passed through Daniel’s home including Sizzla Kalonji, Capleton, Anthony B and Ras Shiloh. The next day arrives bright and clear, and after a meal of watermelon and pineapple, we bid our hosts adieu. Estelle is in the driver’s seat as usual. We head towards Trench Town. Trench Town was notorious for political gang violence during the seventies, forcing Marley to leave after an assassination attempt. Sadly, not much has changed since then. Today it is carved up into different zones, each one controlled by a leader or ‘don’. Political parties created the gangs in the 1970s to rustle upvotes. The gangs have since turned to drug trafficking, but each remains closely tied to a political party. The hostility between these rival gangs and ensuing urban warfare has turned the area into one of the most dangerous places in the world. 0805080864, 0007255535We stop in front of an unassuming restaurant with ‘Jerk Chicken’, ‘Oxtail Soup’ and ‘Red Stripe Beer’ printed on the wall in large red letters. A group of kids are kicking around a soccer ball on the street. It’s nearly lunchtime and we have decided to stop for food. We order beers and two portions of each dish with salads on the side. Jerk chicken is the de facto national dish of Jamaica; aromatic and smoky, sweet but insistently hot. All of its traditional ingredients grow in the island’s lush green interior: fresh ginger, thyme and scallions; Scotch bonnet peppers, cayenne peppers, black pepper, onion, garlic, nutmeg, paprika and cinnamon. After lunch, we walk around the neighbourhood, strolling past hard-faced youths lounging in front of shacks boarded up with planks of wood. Boundary walls covered with elaborate street art proclaiming the glories of Bob Marley and Rasta culture mark the periphery. Clothes are hung up to dry on rickety poles joined by a plastic string. Dogs sniff around piles of smouldering garbage.

A white couple, clearly American, wearing brightly coloured Hawaiian shirts, stand in front of a statue of Bob Marley, having their picture taken by a local. They are grinning idiotically with hands upraised in a victory sign. We walk back to the jeep wordlessly. Bob Marley’s voice blares out of the speakers as we drive towards the beach. Fittingly, the song is Trenchtown Rock, penned in the early seventies while he was living in the ghetto with his mother.In the Third World, especially where liberation struggles were underway, Bob was seen as both a popular musician and a revolutionary ally. When Zimbabwe won its freedom from the white Rhodesian regime in 1980, the Wailers played at the independence celebration. Nesta, as he is affectionately known to his legions of fans, succumbed to a malignant strain of cancer while at the peak of his career and passed away at the age of 36 on May 11, 1981. It is nearing sunset when we arrive at the beach. We sit on the white sand at the water’s edge and gaze at the setting sun, a perfect orb on the pink horizon shot through with streaks of gold and scarlet. I close my eyes and drift away to the sound of the water lapping at my feet.Follow more stories on Facebook and TwitterAt Hindustan Times, we help you stay up-to-date with latest trends and products. Hindustan Times has affiliate partnership, so we may get a part of the revenue when you make a purchase. Source link Read the full article

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bluewatsons · 4 years

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Edwin C. Hill, Jr., Aux armes et caetera! re-covering nation for cultural critique, 2 Volume! 115 (2003)

Résumé

Gainsbourg’s 1979 release Aux armes et cætera, an album entirely recorded in Kingston with legendary reggae musicians, takes French song where it had never geographically or musically gone before. In retrospect, we might be tempted to dismiss this cover of the French national anthem; after all, Gainsbourg had already borrowed other musical genres like jazz and disco. Yet, while Gainsbourg’s previous work had earned him recognition as a major innovator of French song somewhat because of his playful and provocative eccentricities, this song was met with a scathing, overtly anti-Semitic and nationalist backlash. Gainsbourg’s play with genres (national anthem, French song, and reggae) touched on sour spots of French identity. years later, Big Red recovers Gainsbourg’s cover of the national anthem on his release Big Redemption. While Gainsbourg only minimally alters the words of ‘La Marseillaise,’ letting the genre itself perform the critique, Big Red’s release remilitarizes and desexualizes the cover while inverting and re-inscribing the roles of revolutionary and oppressor in the contemporary dynamics of popular culture and postcoloniality. His recovery of the national anthem becomes a performance of the ‘empire singing back.’

Serge Gainsbourg’s album Aux armes et cætera (1979), entirely recorded in Kingston with legendary reggae musicians, takes French song where it had never geographically or musically gone before. Gainsbourg’s personal musical trajectory, his public persona, and his place in the history of French popular music may lead us to overlook the particular implications of this transatlantic collaboration. After all, by 1979 he had already successfully utilized jazz and disco as he would later use rap to push the boundaries of French popular music and to experiment with personal musical identity. However, while Gainsbourg’s previous work earned him recognition as an innovator of French song in part because of his playful and provocative eccentricities, the title track of this album, a reggae cover of the French national anthem, sparked public backlash. Gainsbourg’s play with genres crossed borders in ways that touched on socio-cultural sore spots and national anxieties within dominant narratives of French identity.

Twenty years later, francophone hip hop artists like Big Red, a former member of Raggasonic, turn the art of surprising national borders with new combinations of musical identity into a rule of cultural practice. With songs like ‘El Dia de los Muertos,’ a collaboration with La Cliqua’s MC Rocca, ‘1001 Nuits’ recorded with 113, and ‘Respect or Die’ from his solo album Big Redemption (1999), Big Red refutes any suggestion that today’s popular music is devoid of political content and ideological self-awareness. Vocal delivery, linguistic strategies, and artistic collaborations decenter official French and francophone identities by relocating them within the musical boundaries of the banlieue and the bled, boundaries extending beyond and cutting across those of the nation-state and the postcolony.

What follows from this transnational musical encounter? How specifically does this encounter resonate with cultural reception and the production of musical meaning? And what are the implications for discourses of power and protest in popular culture? In short, how do these two cover songs critique grand narratives of identity and live to tell ‘the half of the story that’s never been told’? I explore these questions through an imaginative and theoretical metaphor I am calling recovery, in order to propose hearing performance quotation and cover songs as musical interrogations of and recuperations from dominant narratives of identity. In this paper I argue that these musical recoveries of the ‘Marseillaise’ point up disjunctures between the histories of French universalism and imperial discourse on one hand and the reality of the postcolonial, postmodern condition on the other.6

Provocateur à la tête de chou

Serge Gainsbourg initially gained credibility as a great composer, if not so great singer, of chanson française. ‘Le Poinçonneur des Lilas’ (1958) typifies in many respects the established tradition of French song where wit and word play frame a psychological portrait of the quotidian. Here, Gainsbourg pays homage to the poinçonneur, a subway ticket puncher in the Paris metro. Haunted by the petits trous that seem destined to follow him everywhere, the poinçonneur contemplates shooting himself. Realizing that this would still be making petits trous, and that no matter how he dies he will be buried in a petit trou, he teeters on the brink of insanity. The song ends with him stuck between worlds, muttering “des petits trous, des petits trous, des petits trous.”

A slick up tempo jazz feel provides the narrative’s musical backdrop. The song depicts the daily travails of Parisian modernity in a genre strongly associated with (African) American musical culture; yet it is the French narrative, privileged by a lyrical, economic melody, that dictates the piece musically. The musicians’ tight playing, the sparse texture created through instrumentation (oboe, baritone sax, flute, piano, snare drum, and upright bass), and the closeness of the voice in the mix work with the text to produce the intimate feel characteristic of chanson française. The quick swing pattern of the brushes on the snare drum mimics the sound of the train moving down the tracks. The chromatic climbs and descents in the winds evoke the subway’s motion while dissonant contrapuntal movement and voicings between the baritone saxophone and the flute produce a musical sound effect akin to (European) police sirens; together they suggest the unexpected dark turns of the subway tracks. The double time feel (with occasional piano and saxophone double time fills) against the slower movement of the bass and melody mirrors the depressing paradox of the poinçonneur who spends all day in a bustling environment of movement while never really going anywhere. The flat second that punctuates the descending line at the end of phrases adds an ominous air that underpins the thematic of the world of the subway as it leads inevitably back down to the tonic. Essentially, the piece uses various strategies of instrumentation and rhythm playfully to create the psychological soundscape of the fast-paced and alienating life below the big city.

In the Sixties, Gainsbourg continues to musically evoke other places while he increasingly pushes the envelope on social taboos. While chanson française struggles to figure out its place (or understand its lack of one) on the UK and US dominated international music market (Looseley, 703), Gainsbourg explores the playful and pleasureful possibilities (whether financial, aesthetic, or sexual) of transnational dynamics for French musical traditions. ‘Je t’aime…moi non plus’ and ‘Les Sucettes’ (both 1969) transgressed social norms with clever if blatant play with sexual themes and innuendos. ‘Ford Mustang’ (1968) and ‘New York, U.S.A.’ (1964) evoke modernity through association with American symbols. ‘Qui est ‘in’ qui est ‘out’’ (1968) combines symbolic and musical contact with bilingual expression. ‘69 Année érotique,’ through Jane Birkin’s performance (and English accent) pulls these themes together by locating sexual encounters and musical trips in transnational movements.

Although at times Gainsbourg speaks rather than sings the text, in ‘69…’ a clean, economic melody again takes center stage, dictating harmonic and rhythmic progression. Even when he is not singing, the piano and vibraphone strongly indicate the melody without interfering with textual clarity. While the larger instrumentation, particularly the sweeping runs in the strings during the chorus, creates a potential for the grandiose, the song retains a playful intimacy. The clin d’oeil of the text suggests a faux melancholy. The lyrics evoke crossing the English channel in a ‘ferry-boat bed’ where “Ils s’aiment et la traversée / Durera toute une année / Et que les dieux les bénissent / jusqu’en soixante-dix.” Gainsbourg’s commercial successes seem to suggest the cultural acceptability of his signature strategy. His music challenges the limits of French song by relating desire and creativity to transnational (gender) encounters.

Frenchy Reggae Irie?

Considering Gainsbourg’s history we might be tempted to dismiss the implications of his 1979 release of the single ‘Aux armes et caetera,’ recorded with Sly Dunbar (drums), Robbie Shakespeare (bass), Ansel Collins (keys), and backup singers Marcia Griffiths, Rita Marley, and Judith Mowatt (the I Threes). After all, the French Ministry of Education includes Gainsbourg’s version in La Marseillaise, a book/CD put together in 2002 to help teach French schoolchildren history and civic appreciation. Jack Lang (Ministry of Culture 1981-86 and 88-93) writes in his preface that the ‘Marseillaise’ is an “oeuvre emblématique” that “fait partie du patrimoine de l’humanité.” Here, ‘Aux armes’ has been recast to fit the ‘multicultural,’ ‘universal’ take on the anthem and on French history that the book promotes: a postcolonial ‘nos ancêtres les Gaulois.’

Yet, at the time of its release Gainsbourg’s collaborative reprise triggered a scathing, overtly anti-Semitic backlash. Negative reaction, especially from the military and the far right, included demonstrations, death threats, and performance cancellations. The reaction of Michel Droit, an award winning writer and media personality as well as military veteran, has become emblematic of this reception. The conservative Droit, elected to the Académie française in 1980, writes the following for the Figaro magazine in 1979: “Que l’on veuille bien m’excuser de dire aussi nettement les choses et de manquer peut-être à la plus élémentaire charité, mais quand je vois apparaître Serge Gainsbourg, je me sens devenir écologique. Comprenez par là que je me trouve aussitôt en état de défense contre une sorte de pollution ambiante qui me semble émaner spontanément de sa personne et de son oeuvre, comme de certains tuyaux d’échappement sous un tunnel routier.”

Droit’s attack on this “profanation pure et simple de…ce que nous avons de plus sacré” continues with a description of Gainsbourg’s “œil chiasseux” and “lippe dégoulinante” (LNO, 2001). Just as Droit pits the ‘sacred,’ national ‘purity’ and moral character against the ‘polluting’ cultural presence of outsiders, Gainsbourg’s cover uncovers racist and nationalist currents in French narratives of identity.

The album comes at an uneasy historical moment; it was only “[a]fter de Gaulle and Pompidou had died [in 1974, that] it became possible to acknowledge openly that France had entered the post-colonial era, that it was a medium-sized economy rather than a world power” (Forbes 188). Still shaken from May 68, Giscard d’Estaing, just a few years before the release of the song, had called for a period of ‘décrispation’ and declared that France would be ‘governed from the center.’ May 68 suggested that revolution need not be strictly based on the class-consciousness of the proletariat; just as important as economics, cultural production can provide the ideological impetus to move people to action (Forbes, 1996). For if, as Benedict Anderson (1983) has it, mass media helps build national sentiment, popular culture was proving its ability to construct and contest national, class, and ethnic identities.

‘Aux armes’ also coincides with important intellectual trends emerging in or building from French thought and aesthetics. Works like Jean-François Lyotard’s La Condition postmoderne (1979) and Pierre Bourdieu’s La Distinction (1979) can be used to relate Gainsbourg’s cover with important developments in the study of culture. Lyotard’s work reveals the decline in power and viability of grand narratives to serve as tools of epistemological and ethical legitimation. At the same time, writers like Bourdieu recognize that popular culture and taste participate in the construction and policing of dominant paradigms of identity. The impact of these critical modes of thought will not be lost on students of popular music. Dick Hebdige’s groundbreaking Subculture: the Meaning of Style (1979) explores reggae music to reveal the powerful identity wars taking place on the surface of popular culture through networks of minor transcultural and transnational circulation. Our challenge here will be to “account for the appearance of specific fusions at [this] particular historical moment… [and] to probe the power relations implicit in… such [an] encounter” (Walser 58).

(v)Ital music and authenticity

14Irregardless of Gainsbourg’s intentions, reggae’s ability to make the French national anthem resonate with discourse of the far Right implicitly performs a musical and cultural critique which is then made explicit through socio-cultural contexts and cultural reception. ‘Aux armes’ runs the language of French republicanism into music reggae – a genre built around the expression of Rastafarian discourse and its belief in “the imminent downfall of ‘Babylon’ (i.e. the white colonial powers) and the deliverance of the black races” (Hebdige 34). ‘Aux armes’ forces the myth of French universalism to face the history of racial colonialism and its aftermath. The cover’s musical networks of meaning and the far Right’s violent reaction to them reveal the reality of French cultural insiderism and its historical roots in the colonial discourse of French universalism. Whether or not Gainsbourg’s French listeners in 1979 related reggae with the racist cultural politics of colonialism, Big Red indicates the way this connection is made by cultural practitioners of today’s francophone black Atlantic. How do these musical trajectories (French song, national anthems, reggae) and discursive traditions (French universalism, national sentiment, and black Atlantic critique) produce or contest the meaning of French identity?

David Loosely investigates the politics of authenticity in chanson française through the ‘Brel- Brassens-Ferré trinity’: «So what were they? White, male, solo performers initially leading somewhat bohemian Parisian lives, accompanying themselves on guitar or piano as befitted the intimate Left-Bank cabarets where they began, and writing songs whose lyrics were remarkable for their polish, complexity and wit, their dissidence and political incorrectness, their combination of personal emotion and social criticism. This is still chanson’s Platonic ideal.» (68)

Gainsbourg may have already drifted a bit from the stylistic path of chanson française by 1979. His penchant for provocation, his creative use of English, his taste for American symbols of modernity, and his flippant experimentation with non-French musical identities set him apart from the ‘trinity’ in many respects. Yet, Gainsbourg’s overall musical identity and his cultural reception up until his 1979 album still circulated via French song’s politics of authenticity. And despite reactions in 1979 Gainsbourg has today been recuperated by French cultural and political institutions. The public mourning of Gainsbourg’s death in 1991 and his inclusion in the state’s Marseillaise book are demonstrative of his iconic status in the mythology and ‘musicalization’ of French culture (see Looseley, 2003).

The politics of authenticity involved in the ‘Marseillaise’ create musical identity myths that are interesting to compare with those in chanson. Patriotic songs and national anthems in the West share “a great intermusematic similarity,” strongly tied to meter, tempo, lyrics, and certain types of melodic movement (Tagg, 2000). Composed in 1792 by Claude Joseph Rouget de Lisle, the ‘Marseillaise’ was named after the volunteer troops of Marseilles. The latter it took up and participated in the storming of the Tuileries during the Revolution. It was adopted as the national anthem in the late 18th century, although it was banned twice in the 19th century for its revolutionary associations. Although the ‘Marseillaise’ differs from many anthems in that Rouget de Lisle composed it as a battle march for his troops (as its alla marcia tempo and its text indicate), it generally follows lyrical and musical traditions of the genre. The melody suggests harmonic progression through arpeggios and by landing on pivotal notes during key harmonic changes and phrases. Frequent melodic leaps of fourths and fifths generate the perceived majestic quality. The text violently projects Frenchness by distinguishing the natural, free, civilized, authentic citizen- self from the barbarous Other (from within and without) who savagely attacks the (‘French’) ideas of humanity and freedom.

While the ‘Marseillaise’ constructs identity with paradigms of national inclusion based on forms of otherness and exclusion, reggae protest songs strive towards transnational solidarity along lines of oppression like ‘race,’ class, and colonialism. Bob Marley’s ‘Them Belly Full (But We Hungry)’ from Natty Dread (1974) and Max Romeo’s ‘Uptown Babies,’ off War ina Babylon (1976), inform and are informed by a crystallization of transcultural class consciousness. Rastafarianism’s interpretations of dominant narratives help connect black Atlantic culture to African history and politics. “And it was through music, more than any other medium, that the communication with the past, with Jamaica, and hence Africa, considered vital for the maintenance of black identity, was possible” (Hebdige 39). Reggae recovers the lost and officially forgotten bodies, voices, and cultures upon which European wealth, freedom, and brotherhood are built. In addition, reggae sound systems and rebellious styles provided a locus for interracial subcultural exchange (Hebdige, 1979).

Peau noire, masques blancs

Gainsbourg’s cover puts these traditions into contact with one another in a way that cannot be understood as simple black face. While the effect of parody operates musically through the mix of genre and Gainsbourg’s extra-musical image, reggae and its musical value are not being mocked at all. These musicians and this genre would soon draw the interest of American and British pop musicians. Sly Dunbar, for example, has recorded with the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, and the Fugees. Neither does the reggae genre only serve to mock French culture. Gainsbourg successfully sticks with the genre for the entire album and connects it to other cultural contexts as well. In ‘Harley Davidson,’ a song which Jacques Chirac would describe as “engraved in [his] heart” in 1991 (Drozdiak, 1991), Gainsbourg combines dub sound effects with American symbols of modernity and masculinity. His album suggests that white Frenchmen can legitimately try on reggae and participate in black diasporic culture. It may even imply that French identity actually needs to take similar routes in order to negotiate a place for ‘its self ’ in the transnational dynamics of contemporary popular culture. If Gainsbourg uses this genre to try on seductive, non-European musical forms of otherness, parody operates to the detriment of traditional French narratives of musical identity, not those of reggae.

Gainsbourg’s performance uses the three musical trajectories of ‘Aux armes’ to undermine the power of the original text to be heard, let alone to dictate officially sanctioned forms of identity. This time Gainsbourg’s ‘talk-over’ delivery obliterates the melody of the ‘Marseillaise’ by following reggae’s compositional and studio aesthetics. Musical power operates from the bottom up; drums, bass, and rhythmic riffs overtake both melody and lyrics, rendering the message of what was once an imperative singular voice ‘unreadable’ at best, irrelevant at worst. Rather than relying on traditional methods of critique, Gainsbourg’s tune musically opens up the authoritative, absolute, and non-dialogic communication of the national anthem to the possibilities of re-contextualization.2

Gainsbourg does not alter the lyrics as much as he carefully chooses and ambivalently delivers them. “Liberté chérie” chez Gainsbourg ambivalently suggests both ‘our cherished Liberty’ and a more sexually charged ‘sweet Liberty’ that emphasizes the feminine aspect of its symbolic embodiment. “Liberty, beloved Liberty / Fight with your defenders. Fight with your defenders” could make us think of his ‘Love on the Beat’ (1984) in which a woman’s ambivalent cries can be heard as signs pleasure and pain. Rhythmically, the half time feel transforms the ‘Marseillaise’ from a march into an indolent and sexually charged dance. While the anthem functions to dictate direction and to ensure efficiency of movement, building the will of troops to defend the motherland, ‘Aux armes’ suggests slow, easy bodily movement and transforms this international cultural encounter into a another kind of corps-à-corps.

While even Jack Lang, an important backer of the French institutional turn around towards popular music since 1981 (Looseley, 2003), has argued that “‘mass culture’…amounted to interference in the international affaires of states” (Forbes 189), I suggest we hear popular musical recovery by instead ‘listening otherwise.’ Unexpected musical encounters and performance quotes create a distortion that disrupts clear communication of the politics of authenticity and difference maintained through cultural emblems. Jimi Hendrix and Bruce Springsteen offer important lessons concerning musical performance, reception, and socio-cultural critique. Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Born in the U.S.A.’ offers a textual criticism of US policy that rock fails to effectively deliver as a genre. Its national ethos (Springsteen himself calls rock’n’roll America’s music) overpowers the textual criticism of war and racism; so much so that, quite sadly, even conservative American presidential hopefuls like Ronald Reagan can find it appropriate for campaigns. Jimi Hendrix’s performance of the American national anthem at Woodstock is quite different. Hendrix’s psychedelic encoding of the American national anthem uses subcultural style to distort ‘original’ narrative meaning and to perform and produce cultural critique (see Whiteley, 2000).

Gainsbourg’s strategy is to put the French national narrative in a geographic, musical, and racial place that makes us hear its message ‘otherwise.’ The musical Other, as Susan McClary has shown, “can be anything that stands as an obstacle or threat to identity and that must, consequently, be purged or brought under submission for the sake of narrative closure” (McClary 16). In ‘Aux armes,’ the message of national identity and solidarity eventually breaks down entirely for the last minute of the three-minute song. Completely eschewing melody, the musical element which traditionally constructs and focalizes the narrative voice, Gainsbourg’s cover allows rhythm and drums to completely take over and suppress the national message of the text and the national self speaking it. Rather than traversing a musical territory of otherness to reassure the integrity of the self, ‘Aux armes’ stays in the place of the Other. The latter becomes a legitimate, attractive, and possibly necessary mode of self exploration (or self undoing). Linguistic signs do not have to be changed because they are simply overpowered by stronger musical parameters which suggest the frictions and contradictions already present within those signs (see Walser, 1993). ‘Aux armes’ casts the ‘Marseillaise’ through the prism of reggae projects a heterogeneity and threatens to musically invert the traditional paradigms of French self and racial Other to racial Self and French Other. In contrast to the postmodern information society of the West that punishes or eliminates the ‘non-functional’ (Lyotard, 1979), the final musical break in ‘Aux armes’ generates ‘surplus’ bodily pleasure. Free from the dictates of melody or harmony, information or efficiency, outside “cette logique du plus performant,” the body moves freely in order to go nowhere. Unlike the poinçonneur, the rasta takes pleasure in upsetting the boundaries between stasis and movement.

Rude Boy Redemption

If Gainsbourg uses his cover to disempower the original narrative of the ‘Marseillaise,’ Big Red’s ‘Aux armes’ demonstrates the empowering potential of ‘recovery.’ His rendition includes many musical changes. The instrumentation is more sophisticated and includes new electronic sounds, saxophones with harmonies and glissandos, and a slightly more up tempo delivery and feel. Big Red also uses his trademark vocal sound in the mix; instead of the intimacy of Gainsbourg’s close microphone recording, Big Red’s Redemption commands presence in the mix through the multiple tracks of vocal space. His delivery is dynamic and proclamatory, toasting through the intro to hype up his audience. The Jamaican accent that may add an element of exoticism in Gainsbourg’s version becomes fully readable in Big Red through his signifying on key reggae words like ‘reality’ and ‘society’ pronounced with a Jamaican accent. Both verlan and Jamaican English gain importance by virtue of landing on the rime of the verses.

However, full recovery from the ‘Marseillaise’ for Big Red means re-authorizing and remembering the promise of French republican discourse, this time from the point of view of the “enfants de la téci.” While Gainsbourg follows the original lyrics to the letter (Rouget de Lisle marked ‘et caetera’ on the manuscript instead of writing out the chorus), ‘Aux armes’ is one of the more textually elaborated tracks on Big Redemption. While the ‘Marseillaise,’ like many national anthems, contains textual ambiguities and complexities I cannot fully address here, its cultural and institutional use seeks to dictate singular meaning from the top-down and to promote belief in a unified national voice. The text quite encourages defense of motherland in graphically violent detail. Identity and solidarity are based on the fear of an Other who threatens to rape your land, cut the throats of your sons, and enslave you. “To arms, citizens! / Form up your battalions / Let us march, Let us march! / That their impure blood / Should water our fields.”

The ‘Marseillaise,’ whose narrative has already suffered a musical take over from the ‘bottom’ in Gainsbourg’s cover, is now recontextualized and renarrated from below in Big Red’s ‘Aux armes:’

“Je suis le bras vengeur de ma liberté chérie Je ferai de ta demeure ma nouvelle colonie Pour l’instant tu ne pleures pas mais ça viendra j’te le dis Plus que perspicaces sont les mômes de quatre ans et demi Ils représentent une menace pour ta society Met des soldats en famas dans tous les quartiers la nuit Voitures en flammes, commissariats brûlés D’un côté les gendarmes de l’autre des gens armés Inutile de tirer l’alarme elle est cassée Qui a raison ou tort, question déplacée Je suis pas là pour divertir mais plutôt pour t’avertir Le monde doit nous revenir, soundboy tu devras courir Aux armes etc.”

Perhaps contrary to the expected comparison between today’s popular music and chanson française, it is Gainsbourg’s cover that privileges “dance over words, sound over sense, communion over cerebration, body over mind, intensity over rationality” (Loosely, 2003). In contrast, Big Red recovers from that move through a stronger understanding of the way reggae challenges these binary oppositions and their interaction with paradigms of power. The sexual play of Gainsbourg’s musical rendition has been subsumed and remilitarized. The urgency of the message dictates the soundboy run to arms, which may be both real weapons and musical ones. The “et caetera” is no longer a whimsical political dismissal and potential sexual reference, it is specifically explicated in scenarios Big Red sketches, and in the actions his music prepares the listening audience to undertake.

Conclusion ...

We might be overstating the case to imply that Gainsbourg specifically intends a type of political critique of the state and its foreign policy with respect to its former colonies. Indeed his music rarely if ever approaches straightforward political engagement. On the other hand, as Jill Forbes notes, “cultural politics in France is often considered, by parties of the Left and of the Right, as the pursuit of war by another means” (189). Gainsbourg’s flippant cover of the national anthem has been recovered by Big Red’s black Atlantic empire singing back. ‘Aux armes’ creates musical sites for wars of identity; its recovery suggests the potential for pop music to participate in the meaning of the negotiation of power and to struggle for the authority and the authorship of transnational identity.

… et caetera

Later, Gainsbourg would buy Rouget de Lisle’s original manuscript of the ‘Marseillaise’

“Le retour de Versailles fut grandiose. J’étais accompagné par Phify, d’origine polonaise. Il y avait Bambou, ma petite amie, une Niak. Moi je suis russe, juif et la voiture c’était une Chevrolet, une américaine ! Et sur la banquette arrière y’avait le manuscrit original de La Marseillaise… Étonnant !” (www.sergegainsbourg.com.fr)

Bibliographie

Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London and New York: Verso, 1983.

Bourdieu, Pierre. La Distinction:critique sociale du jugement. Paris: Éditions de Minuit, 1979.

Droit, Michel. Le Figaro Magazine. June 1, 1979.

Drozdiak, William. “The Man Who Loved Wine, Women and Song; France Mourns Enfant Terrible Serge Gainsbourg.” The Washington Post. March 8, 1991.

Forbes, Jill. French Cultural Studies: An Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996.

Hebdige, Dick. Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London and New York: Routledge, 1979.

Looseley, David. Popular Music in Contemporary France: Authenticity, Politics, Debate. Oxford and New York: Berg, 2003.

Lyotard, Jean-François. La Condition postmoderne. Paris: Les Editions de Minuit, 1979.

“Dix ans après sa mort, la passion de Gainsbourg.”, Le Nouvel Observateur n° 1893 (15-21 February 2001), p. 8-16.

McClary, Susan. Feminine Endings: Music, Gender and Sexuality. Minnesota and London: University of Minnesota Press, 1991.

Ministère de l’Éducation Nationale, La Marseillaise. Paris: Centre National de Documentation Pédagogique, 2002.

Tagg, Phillip. “Analysing Popular Music. Theory, Method, and Practice” in Middleton Richard, Reading Pop: Approaches to Textual Analysis in Popular Music, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000.

DOI : 10.1017/S0261143000001227

Walser, Robert. Running with the Devil: Power, Gender, and Madness in Heavy Metal Music. New England: Wesleyan University Press, 1993.

Whiteley, Sheila. “Progressive Rock and Psychedelic Coding in the Work of Jimi Hendrix.” in Middleton Richard, Reading Pop: Approaches to Textual Analysis in Popular Music, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000.

DOI : 10.1017/S026114300000372X

Discography

Big Red, Big Redemption. Virgin Records, 1999.

Gainsbourg, Serge. Aux armes et caetera. Philips, 1979.

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travelguideworldtour-blog · 5 years

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Best Places to Visit in Jamaica

Negril Beach

Also referred to as Seven Mile Beach, Negril Beach is just one of Jamaica’s most beautiful stretches of white sand and subtropical sea and graces the list of this Caribbean’s finest beaches. The beach extends from Bloody Bay into Long Bay and the Negril Cliffs south of town. Tucked within groves of coconut palms, resorts fringe the coast , from large comprehensive hotels to smaller boutique possessions. Water sports abound, and snorkelers will find schools of fish swimming in the clean waters. Be ready for persistent hawkers prowling the shore. A Few of Negril’s most luxurious hotels lie across the shore, such as The Caves and also The Cliff Hotel.

Dunn’s River Falls

Encompassing a hundred and eighty meters of gently terraced waterfalls, Dunn’s River Falls is among Jamaica’s most popular organic sights. The falls tumble over rocks and lime stone ledges in to the sea. You may climb the organic tiers towards the top of the falls with all the assistance of a guide and cool off at the pools in the base. It’s a good concept to wear water shoes and apparel that you do not mind getting moist. Additionally, try to organize your visit to the cruise ship crowds. This tour stops from the village of 9 Mile,” birthplace of both Bob Marley, and then heads on into the Dunn’s River Falls, to get a guided hike until the falls and a float or float from the Organic pools. Lodge pickup and dropoff, entry fees, lunch, plus a guide are also included. Snorkel around coral reefs, like a sea cruise, also curl up and play from the drinking water at the falls. Hotel pickup and dropoff is included.

Rose Hall Great House

Builtin 1770, Rose Hall is just a restored plantation house or apartment with amazing ocean views. Legendary Annie Palmer (the White Witch) ruled here with cruelty and fulfilled a violent death. Now, her home is adorned with time furniture, also you can choose from per single day tour along with a spooky candlelit day tour topped off with tales of ghost sightings.

Mayfield Falls

Located in the hills , roughly a hour drive from Negril through woods villages, Mayfield Falls & Mineral Springs is a sanctuary for nature lovers. Here, you will find two amazing water falls; 2 1 natural pools; and also a profusion of ferns, tropical blossoms, and also different rain forest flora. Butterflies and birds flit through the lush foliage, also thatched river-side gazebos beckon for pitstops. It is possible to select from a guided hike over the river or you are able to wade through the waters that are cool, clambering over glistening boulders, jumping off shore, and relaxing underneath the cascades. Make sure you create a camera and also wear water swimwear and shoes.

Kingston

At the foot of the Blue Mountains, Jamaica’s busy capital city offers a cosmopolitan comparison to the island’s most relaxed pace. Gritty and rough round the edges, Kingston could be intimidating, however, you can view some of the town’s greatest tourist attractions on coordinated tours. The Bob Marley Museum, at the reggae superstar’s former home, is just one of Kingston’s most-visited attractions, along with reggae fans can also visit the Trench Town Culture Yard Museum in the ghetto where reggae music was born. Music concerts are usually staged at Emancipation Park, a palm-studded greenspace in the center of the metropolis, along with National Heroes Park features statues of leading players of Jamaican heritage and freedom. At the point of the peninsula enclosing Kingston Harbor establishes the community of port-royal , the focus of British fortification in the late 17th century.

Falmouth

Inspired by sugar diversification and cows property, Falmouth is just one of those Caribbean’s best-preserved cosmopolitan cities. Once a top interface, town provides exemplary types of 19thcentury Georgian structure, for example a faithful restoration of the courthouse. Greenwood Great House can be just actually really a big tourist attraction within the field. Other popular what to accomplish comprise researching Great Hope Plantation, an old-established sugar and coconut plantation constructed in 1755, also basking on Red Stripe along with Burwood Beach. East of Falmouth could be your Luminous Fireplace , known for its own marine phosphorescence.

Blue Hole

High in the rainforest-cloaked mountains out Ocho Rios, the Blue Hole (also called Island Gully Falls or the Irie Blue Hole) is really just a series of scenic water holes fed by gushing cascades. Guides guide you across the area where you can explore the drops and jump off cliffs into the sterile pools below. The experience involves clambering over slippery rocks, so appropriate water shoes are suggested.

Doctor’s Cave Beach

One among the greatest beaches in Montego Bay, Doctor’s Cave Beach is an alluring strip of white sand fringed by clear waters that helped shape the fate with the popular tourist town. From early 1920s, a famous British osteopath announced that the water had curative forces after swimming here, a promise that begun to lure people from around the globe. Hotels sprouted up, and the area became a popular tourist destination. The cave for which the beach is termed was destroyed by a hurricane in 1932, but the beach is as popular as ever and is often packed with cruise ship passengers.

Port Antonio

Place between a dual haven, Port Antonio borrows the relaxed charm of a sleepy fishing village. Once a centre for banana export, then the area is less commercial compared to other hotel towns. Popular what to accomplish this include hiking jungle paths, rafting the Rio Grande, carrying a trip to Attain Falls, along with diving and snorkeling the coral reefs. A favourite swimming spot could be your gorgeous 60-meter-deep Blue Lagoon, fed by freshwater springs. Additional highlights of this area range from the 18thcentury British stronghold of both Fort George along with also gorgeous Frenchman’s Cove, the place where a fish-filled river flows to the ocean. The beaches here are an excellent mixture of sand, shallow seas, and verdant outcroppings of property. Neighborhood, Daniel’s River plunges by means of a spoonful of pure stone in a succession of cascades and pools called Somerset Falls. To day, the island is now a popular for picnics and daytrips.

Reach Falls

Tucked from the Montane Forest of This John Crow Mountain Range, Reach Falls are among Jamaica’s prettiest and most peaceful falls. A gentle hike through tropical rainforest takes one to the top of the drops at which a lifeguard patrols. You’re able to stand under the flowing cascades, explore underwater caves, and float from the fern-fringed waters surrounded by volcano. Water shoes are advised.

Treasure Beach

Love the sun, sea and sand when kicking back it with sailors in Treasure Beach. As the four public beaches which make up Treasure Beach are open to people, a visit to Treasure Beach will reward you with a real adventure with locals and an chance to see Jamaican culture in an even more fulsome way. Tempt your taste buds with sumptuous Jamaican food and proceed biking, snorkeling, drifting across the coast before the area fisherman catches and serves up freshly-cooked fish or simply kick back and relax in the darkened vibes that’s Treasure Beach.

Best Places to Visit in Jamaica

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talldarknsexy · 5 years

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Enduring Ethiopia

First impressions of Ethiopia weren't bad. The Borana tribe/region that I'd been riding through for the past few days spills over the colonially imposed border, so I interacted with the same wonderful people. They mostly lived in mud and straw huts and tended to agriculture and livestock. The men mostly wore jeans and T-shirts but the woman had ornate dresses of deep purples and turquoises, sometimes a vibrant orange or red. All of which juxtaposed with beautiful black skin and shiny white smile. I had wonderful interactions as well. Almost everyone on a motorbike would pull over to practice their English: mostly "where are you goes?" One time I gave a "good morning," to be replied with "MORE GOOD MORNING TO YOU SIR!" One fella even pulled over to ask "how can I help you?" We chatted for a bit, but it was him I ended up helping later. The heavens opened up and it started to downpour. I spotted him trying to cover a (surely already roasted) speaker on his motorbike and offered him a plastic bag. As it started to get hilly one day I grabbed onto the back of a double trailer semi truck. At the next hill I did the same with a truck that seemed almost identical. At the following hill, there he was, pulled over waiting for me. Bored, and buzzed out of his mind chewing khat (stimulating leaves)... but a friendly guy for sure! Another time it was about to rain one morning and a man shouted out to come take shelter with him. Slash offered me tea and food and introduced me to his family, including his father who'd had 25 children with 5 wives. Slash had pretty good English from working road construction with the Chinese or Egyptian contractors. We talked for a good half hour. It never did rain. These are the memories I cherish from Southern Ethiopia. Lush beautiful landscapes and friendly people. But somewhere, suddenly, that changed. Ethiopia is a country of about 100 million and so it is vastly overpopulated. I believe I also passed into a different tribal region, the Oromo, with their own language and culture. But regardless, the attention, shouts, begging, and chasing all began with great vigor. It's hard for me to convey the situation exactly, but I can best describe my days as stressful. There were endless crowds of people. Shouts of "YOU YOU YOU!!" "WHERE ARE YOU GO??" "CHINA!" "ALI BABA" "MONEY MONEY MONEY" and some "FUCK YOU's" thrown in for good measure. I didn't stop for anything except maybe the occasional bottle of water. I wasn't even able to pee on the road for about three days as I would be swarmed by children. I'd been cooking and packing a leftover lunch and made the mistake of stopping to eat where I thought I was out of view. Someone had seen me and sent the village idiot/teacher to come talk to me as he spoke some English. He asked if I would be giving him some of the plain pasta I was eating. Then he moved on to money. I pointed out that he had nicer clothes than I and I was the one eating plain pasta on the side of the road. He then asked me for a pen (typical in Africa.) I told him to use the one sticking out of his pocket and made this clear to the some dozen people that had now crowded round. Relentless, despite my pleas for him to leave me alone, he continued until I finally left. From then on, I only stopped to eat lunch if there was a police checkpoint. Two days from Addis Ababa I stopped in the city of Shashamane. It's somewhat well known for its Rasta community. Bob Marley has sung about returning to the Motherland and the emperor at the time, Haile Selassie, had offered Carribeans of African descent to return. Unfortunately, he was overthrown shortly after several thousand had arrived and they were never granted citizenship... Or acceptance from the locals for that matter. I camped at Zion Train Lodge but was a little dismayed as there there wasn't so much smoking as there was just Khat chewing. I had a dream that night that I was hanging out in present day with a childhood friend. There was a man that interrupted us with some awful singing. I told him to stop and pleaded with my friend to make him shut up, but his singing just grew louder and louder... Until I woke up. It was a Mineret blasting at full bore very close nearby. It was Saturday night at midnight, and I thought this was someone's idea of a cruel joke. But, alas it went on until 6am. Earplugs didn't help- I was up all night. The owner told me the next day that this is normal. Hearing minerets in Eastern Africa at early hours is indeed normal. But, Ethiopia takes it to the next level. Their religion is unique and their clock and calendar is something else entirely. Their day starts at 0am or 6am our time. Christian and Muslim holidays are all over the place. And it's still 2012 in Ethiopia, which also explains a bit. I rode that day exhausted and on edge. I'd had some rocks thrown at me earlier in the day and in the afternoon I saw some kids by the side of the road pick up some cow shit to throw at me. I approached them and ensured they dropped it. The kid afterwards wanted a high five... Maybe next time. With all the "YOU YOU YOU FERENGI FERENGI MONEY MONEY MONEY!" I tried to rationalize it by applying cultural context to it. But this didn't work. I imagined what it would be like to see a black man on the street in the US and yell "YOU YOU YOU BLACK MAN, SELL ME DRUGS!" (Or worse words) and throw at rock at him if he didn't oblige. The day ended looking for a guesthouse in a town with a herd of children on bicycles around me. Usually I love this, but Ethiopian children just have to be a pain in my ass. They would weave around me and stop short and there was the ~7 year old kid that rode beside me the whole way saying "Fahk you! Fahk you!" And me trying to jam my stick into his spokes at every opportunity when someone wasn't looking. I did find a guesthouse and luckily they served beer which is all too popular. It should go without saying that the food in Ethiopia is also quite unique. Most is served with a pancake-like Enjeera and either meat or sauces. The meat is by the kilo and fairly cheap, but they will ask you whether you'd like it cooked or raw. Judging by the amount of farmers and shepherds I spot shitting in their own fields, I've always opted for cooked meat... The next day I was entering Addis and being near the metropolis, the people seemed to calm down. I'd been getting wheels rolling everyday by 6am to get most of the km done before people were too fucked up on beer and Khat. So, this day I made it to the hostel there by early afternoon. I spent most of my time relaxing and running errands. I got my Sudanese visa there which in very proud of. It did take some work, but realistically a few years ago, this would have been next to impossible with perhaps a several week process. Thus, why I'd estimate 90% of cyclists still go North to South. After a few days fucking about in Addis, I set off now with a Sudanese Visa. It was a hilly 4 day ride to Bahir Dar. It was less populated here which was good and bad. I could stop to pee sometimes, maybe even eat a sandwich. But, also the rural and sometimes pastoral people meant more rock throwing. The vast majority of Ethiopians are kind and friendly. But it's tough to trust anyone or enjoy the region when even a small faction want to stone you. It is cultural, I see them throw rocks at their cattle, at each other, and sometimes passing vehicles. I'm just another slow moving target with little recourse. A slingshot would have been a great investment but was only able to arm myself with a stick and a few rocks of my own. Indeed, elders all have bamboo canes and wield them all day as a display of status. The rocks were pretty futile and I'd only scored one direct hit in the country. This probably wasn't the best idea anyways as a French cyclist had been stabbed years ago for retaliating. Often I'd try and grab an elder and point out the youngster. Sometimes they'd ensure a beating, but often they'd be apathetic. Accordingly, my Amharic vocabulary became quite colorful. I caught up with Luc and Colin in Bahir Dar. They are two Canadian cyclists coming down from Cairo. I made it in time to spend Halloween with them. We shared candy, dressed as dirty cyclists, and had some drinks. We swapped stories on the aggressive kids and drunkenly discussed our violent fantasies of what we would do if we ever caught one. The best strategy though was to just treat everyone with a smile and greeting. One afternoon there were four young adults spread across and blocking the road. Each of them wielding a cane and sickle. Not really sure what would have occurred had I not greeted them respectfully. And another time, riding by a group of armed men near a conflict zone, they shouted/asked "ITALIA?!" I'm obviously not Italian, but God help whoever is, as they had violently (and unsuccessfully) tried to colonize these people (twice.) But still, aggression aside, Ethiopians were generally quite hospitable. I rarely had to worry about being up charged for things like meals. And the guesthouses were usually pretty accommodating. One of the proprietors even inquired if I'd be interested in some "CHOOGA CHOOGA" with the housekeeper lady. The days blended together. I got run off the road by a tuk-tuk. I saw a funeral procession which is normal. But as I rode past, a slight wind lifted the sheet covering the body. It was a guy, in normal clothes, just about my age. Our only differences may have been the family and place we were born into. One day, as I was getting to the far North Western region, I was climbing up a pass and thought I heard something hit the ground to my left. I ignored it as there didn't seem to be anyone on the two hillsides on either side of me. This happened again. Just then, a large, fist-sized rock exploded on the pavement only about two meters away. I got the message! Shaken for a moment, but sped up and luckily there was a passing dump truck that I was able to latch onto up the rest of the pass. Before, Ethiopia had been manageable, but this was outright dangerous. I wanted out of Ethiopia. And indeed, this came quicker than even I expected. Only about ~100km from the border I was stopped at a police checkpoint and told I couldn't continue. I was there for about an hour and ascertained that there had been riots in the area starting three days ago and the local tribe had blockaded the road, killed some truckers, and then burnt the trucks to block the road further. They recommended I get on the only bus headed through that day with a military escort. I was pretty dismayed as I'd come this far without bus and would be taking it down the largest descent in my Africa trip. A winding 5000ft descent through the gorgeous Simien mountain range down to the Sahara. I didn't really have much choice though and my bike was hoisted onto the top of the bus. It tilted upside down and my frame bag rained down a small shower of peanuts. A few gathered round to sample the droppings. I was annoyed at descending down an incredible valley on a hot, overcrowded bus. They made a seat for me and were nice. But we stopped in the first town and didn't leave for what seemed to be hours. Now it the lowlands, sitting on the bus was sweltering. I got out and sat behind the bus in the shade. Now, I'd subconsciously noticed it, but it didn't really click with me until now. Africans, at least East Africans don't sit on the ground. Stumps, mats, chairs, yes. Ground no. I'll even see shepherds squatting indefinitely. Anyways, this gained some attention and someone brought over a chair for me. I politely declined not wanting to be the only white dude in town sitting on his chair. Eventually I lost the fight and if you'd looked down from google maps that day, you'd see a little white spec surrounded by a blob of at least 30 standing Ethiopians facing and interacting with me. I can't really complain about excessive hospitality, but if anything I travel by bike to live more like a local. And this was too much attention and a bit too uncomfortable for me. I got back on and sweated in the bus. I made friends with a student, though can't remember his name. He was a big fan of American rap. And Turkish stuff. And some other stuff. Well, I didn't understand much, but his English was worthwhile. Probably about three hours later, the passengers started protesting with police. They'd just been laying around and didn't want to continue. The passengers started yelling and I even watched my student friend plead with a cop in Amharic that I was a foreigner on the bus and couldn't stay here. I'm not sure if this was the cause... But soon we were underway again. Not long after leaving the safety of the police controlled town, there was a huge BANG out the stern side of the bus. Half the bus was in panic, but I'd noticed the noise came from the wheel well, so I wasn't too concerned. Although... I was worried that this would take another 3 hours. Our military escort had also sped ahead, unaware we had stopped. To my surprise, a nervously but determined nascar pit crew hopped out the bus, slammed some steel tools around, and in less than ten impressive minutes later, we were rolling again. We got into our destination city around 7pm... Later than I would've taken to ride there. There was a primitive guesthouse right next to the bus. And as I'd only had about $2 on me it was my only option. The bus attendant though, tried to see to it though that I paid more. It was a mud walled room and my student friend shared the room with his mom next door as they were also stranded. I got rolling the next morning around 5:30am to get past any police checkpoint before they'd risen. I didn't see any, and rode the last 30km undisturbed, with the rising sun and plenty of smiling/waving tribesman starting their day, once or twice just meters away from the remains of a burnt truck. A perfect depiction of the dichotomy between friendliness and fucked up nature of this crazy place.

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worldfootprints · 6 years

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Lying on stacked cushions on the roof of a lodge in Jordan’s Dana Biosphere Reserve, I watch a beam of green light shoot into the sky as our guide circles a constellation with the most powerful laser pointer I’ve ever seen. “That orange star, that’s the womanizer,” Ali says. “He’s always chasing the seven sisters.”

This is the Arab legend of the triangle in the east, Ali tells us: the seven sisters, the womanizer, and the bodyguard, forever chasing each other across the night sky.

Ali is one of the 17 local Bedouin people who work full-time at Feynan Ecolodge, where tonight he’s got an audience of about 30 guests on the rooftop, captivated by his stories about the sky.

The sky here is impossibly full of stars, so many that the constellations are hard to spot in the sea of pinprick lights. But Ali’s laser pointer – like a lightsaber on steroids – reaches straight into the heavens to draw them out, and we are mesmerized, our attention broken only by a shooting star.

A Long Journey Into the Desert

Getting to Feynan Ecolodge was an adventure of its own. We arrived at the lodge’s reception center near Quayqura in the west of Jordan after a three-hour drive from Madaba, the city of murals. We drove along the coast of the Dead Sea and down switchback roads into the desert, slowing to a crawl to pass shepherds on donkeys and in pick-up trucks, moving their large herds of sheep along the roads. We pulled into the small parking lot as the sun set, the sky turning first pink and then fiery red.

The off-the-grid lodge is not accessible by road, so we left our bus at the reception center as utter blackness descended – the kind of darkness you can only get in the middle of nowhere. We were deep in more than 7,000 acres of desert managed by Jordan’s Royal Society for the Conservation of Nature. It’s a natural setting for experiments in responsible tourism, where jobs and economic opportunities for local communities are balanced with protecting the country’s most biodiverse nature reserve.

That economic partnership supports 80 families in the area and more than 400 individuals. Six of them, all local Bedouin men, drove us the final eight kilometers over rocky sand in their beat-up pick-ups, rumbling into the desert night toward Ali and his tales of the stars at the candlelit lodge.

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Tea with a Bedouin Family

In the morning, as other guests head off for a sunrise hike along Bedouin shepherd trails, I climb back up to the roof. Two donkeys linger under a tree below as the sun comes up from behind the hills, and when I hear a rumbling sound, I turn to see a herd of goats running down the path. As they approach the lodge, they scatter into smaller groups under the trees, nibbling on anything green.

After a vegetarian buffet breakfast at the lodge, Ali leads us on a short walk to the nearest Bedouin tent. We approach from the side, and he clears his throat to alert the family of our presence. It’s a required courtesy so the family knows to quiet their tongues if they’re talking about secret things.

Inside, we sit cross-legged around the fire sipping Bedouin tea, made by Hmoud and his young nephew. The matriarch of the family appears with water, but then retreats to the women’s side of the tent, out of view. “If men and women sit together,” Ali says, “men don’t get a chance to talk – only listen.”

The local name for this tea is shay – but it is also known as Bedouin whiskey – or Bedouin Red Bull, Ali says with a laugh. It is strong and bitter and very sweet. “Bob Marley says, ‘no woman, no cry.’ For us, it’s no sugar, no shay.”

Learning about Local Life

As we drink, Ali tells us more about local life. All the goats we’ve seen belong to the Bedouin, who take them out grazing after breakfast. Local families still live mostly traditional lives here – but they now choose the locations for their seasonal camps based on the strength of the cell-phone signal. Ali says it’s not uncommon to see a row of phones hanging along the wall of a goat-hair tent for better reception, and that social media and texting have become important networking tools for these communities spread out across the desert. We all pull out our phones to follow Hmoud and Ali on Instagram.

When our legs begin to fall asleep, we untangle ourselves and walk back past the goats to the lodge to pick up our bags. It’s been a short visit, so we don’t have time to visit the nearby ancient copper mines, learn to bake Arabic bread, or tour the local villages by mountain bike. Instead, we pile into the pick-ups and jostle our way back to the main road, where we get into our bus and head south toward Petra. Our clothes still smell of smoke from the fire.

Back at home, I pause over Ali’s latest desert snap in my Instagram feed. I always think of him when I look up at the night sky, my hands warmed by a cup of sweet tea. His stars are lost in the brightness of the city lights, but I know they’re up there, forever seeking.

Photo: Christina Newberry

Herd of goats. Photo: Christina Newberry

Note: This experience was part of a press trip paid for by the Jordan Tourism Board.

Shooting Stars and Shay in Jordan’s Dana Biosphere Reserve Lying on stacked cushions on the roof of a lodge in Jordan’s Dana Biosphere Reserve, I watch a beam of green light shoot into the sky as our guide circles a constellation with the most powerful laser pointer I’ve ever seen.

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100days1000hills-blog · 6 years

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Before you climb Mt. Kigali

*I write this blog with a bowl of Chinese veggie-fried noodles, broccoli, a water, and open Netflix tab. Kigali is REALLY starting to feel like home. There is music blaring outside and I’m assuming it’s setting the ambiance for a celebration of sorts. It’s 7:59pm here, 1:59pm Canada time.*

Now to get to the real blog post...

Getting there is half the battle.

Last night we decided to that we would leave our house at 7am sharp so as to avoid the heat that kicks in at around 9:30. Naturally, we woke up at 7:30 and left minutes after 8. There were several drivers that we met at the top of our street but none of them had any earthly idea what we meant when we requested that they take us to Mount Kigali. Mount Kigali is the highest hill in Kigali, its elevation is 1,852m. Regardless, the drivers we first met with didn’t know. My limited Kinyarwanda allows for me to hold small conversations with big animated gestures so we didn’t get far with them. One of the drivers suggested that he could take us to Mount Kenya... I was very confused. Was there a Mt. Kenya in Rwanda or was this man about to take me to another country? I approached another driver. I tried to explain, “Mount Kigali, ni hafi Nyamirembo.” (It’s near Nyamirembo [a town]). He told me no and I just said okay and pulled up a map. It didn't help. Finally, another driver pulled up and I tried my whole spiel again with him. He perked up, “Mount Kigali! Nyamirembo!” That was our man. He ended to 15-minute long confusion and took us to Nyamirembo with ease. We saw Mount Kigali from the bottom of the hill that Nyamirembo is situated on.

Well not quite the bottom of the hill.. I’m struggling to find the words to explain where we were dropped off in proximity to Mt. Kigali. We were not close. Before we descended down the Nyamirembo hill, Michael decided to go into a nearby shop to get some chapati (which he may or may not be addicted to) and some water. Diah and I followed because we figured a 1.5L water sounded a lot better than a 500mL bottle when confronted by the visual sight of Mt. Kigali. We got our waters and finally started out journey.

I took the lead. Having read some tourist reviews, I sort of understood that we would have to be walking very close to people’s homes and through villages. I DIDN’T know that we would essentially be walking through people’s yards. The houses in the village were very close together so despite us walking on a path, we had some intimate moments with residents. It took us about 25minutes to maze our way through the village at the bottom of the hill to the base of Mt. Kigali. We crossed a street and were confronted by another village. Along this walk, we caught a lot of glances and glares. My minimal vocabulary still allows me to be polite: I would say “Mwaramutse” (good morning), “Muraho” (hello), and simple responses when others would address us first.

We scaled makeshift stairs made of bags filled with dirt and near-vertical hills with extreme caution. I don’t know about Michael and Diah but I was in awe when locals would saunter past us with a large jug of water balanced on their heads with ease. Kids waved, I waved back. We often stopped to visually map our way up the base of the hill in the village before we climbed. When we neared the edge of the village and beginning of the real climb we paused for a break. We had picked up quite the following at this time. A few local kids had been trailing us for the past few minutes. Michael suggested that we take a picture at the beginning of our hike and asked one of the local boys to take it for us. He tipped them for their willingness to help us and our climb commenced. The children followed.

About 10 minutes into our climb we looked around for the best path and I saw something moving in a burrow. My heart stopped and I saw a little puppy emerge. Michael was immediately wary. “Where’s it’s mom?” This puppy was small but by no means underfed... We didn’t even want to imagine how a wild mother would great random people playing with her puppy so we parted with the adorable fur ball. The children followed.

I don’t know if it was the altitude or the hike in itself but we all grew tiresome very quickly. We sat for a lunch break and shared some of our water and chapati with the local boys. I asked for their names in Kinyarwanda and we all introduced ourselves to one another. I pulled out my 500mL bottle and gestured that they share it, Diah did the same and we continued on well-hydrated. Michael connected his phone to my bluetooth speaker and we boomed some Bob Marley as we trekked. One of the boys, Jimmy, bopped his head along to the beat. The climb continued on like this for quite some time.

We all had our weak points, I breathed heavily while Diah wanted to be left behind (I think she was joking) and Michael kept falling. The boys made the climb look so easy. As a team, we scaled the brush, hills, dips, and water canals. I often used my hands to pull myself up so Abed, one of the local boys, offered to hold my water bottle. He insisted actually. I’d run up a steep incline, grab a tree and offer my hand back for support. It was definitely a team effort and we would not have made it up that hill without those boys.

I saw a dirt road as we neared the top. We all felt a little ignorant when we saw it. Maybe we didn’t need to be embodying Tarzan if there was a road that we could have walked up... Anyway, we didn’t think much of it before we continued on up. In retrospect, I realized that should have been the first red flag but I won’t get ahead of myself. I took the lead and hopped up a sharp incline, grabbed a tree and helped boost Michael up. The 7 of us carried on as we had been for the whole climb until one of the boys, Cedric, stopped in his tracks. I followed his gaze to a hut. I looked around and saw another. I stayed quiet and pointed to show Diah. Michael followed and I whispered what we saw. Michael didn’t think anything of it and Diah said she saw people waling above through the brush. Abed didn’t move when the others carried on and the look on his face made me think twice about moving forward. Diah and I hung back as the others moved forward.

“Hey! Where are you going?!” Abed was already taking off down the hill halfway through the sentence. Diah and I spun on our heels and ran toward the dirt road. We reached it and looked up for the others, whom we saw were being walked down by 6 soldiers. S*gar. This did not seem good. They asked for Michael’s phone and went through his pictures to make sure he didn’t take any photos. They didn’t see Diah, Abed, or myself on the grounds so they largely left us alone. The soldiers then questioned us: Where are you going? Where are you from? Canada? Why are you here? You can walk down there *he motioned below the dirt road* but you can’t go up there *he motioned above the dirt road.* Okay! Superb! I wanted to get the heck up outta there because I didn’t want my boy JT (Justin Trudeau) to have to answer to my mother if I ended up in any sort of trouble. He told us the way to leave as his fellow soldier scolded Cedric. We all carried down the dirt road with a sigh of relief that we were okay.

We neared a small village and did a few minutes of exploring there before we caught a ride down the mountain to Nyamirembo, to go get food at our favourite brochette place. It was closed. We grabbed food at another place and then came home. Once home, I happened to stumble upon the blog about climing Mt. Kigali that I had skimmed over before we left. It literally warned about the military base in the third paragraph. I told the others and we laughed. I learned my lesson and hereby urge future Mt/ Kigali hikers; make sure to read the fine print before you climb Mt. Kigali.

#whe

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playavacationblog-blog · 6 years

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Out and About in Ocho Rios

Slightly east of Jamaica's midline, the resort town of Ocho Rios is all white-sand beaches, turquoise waves and emerald hills. It's peaceful here and well suited for families, not least of all because it's accessible, appealing all year weather-wise and, thanks to the island's new network of highways, simple to reach. Travelers are catching on and love playing on beaches straight out of Caribbean central casting, knowing they are also just a few minutes away from dense rain forest, crystal clear pools and rushing waterfalls. Even the littlest adventurers can enjoy an early-morning catamaran cruise or a chairlift ride up into the mountains. Read on for how to explore this tropical playground that quietly keeps getting better and better.

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Lay of the Land

Your adventure begins on the way to Ocho Rios, as you zip along the coast-hugging Northern Coastal Highway from Sangster International Airport, only 62 miles away. The road passes through Trelawny Parish, whose mountainous backcountry is where retired Jamaican sprinter and world-record-setting champion Usain Bolt-known as the world's fastest man-grew up. Some locals say his speed is a result of growing up on a diet of Jamaican yams, a super-carbohydrate. If you pull over at one of the roadside stalls selling roasted yams cooked over an open grill, you can taste its sweet flesh for yourself, with a side of breadfruit or salted red herring or cod. There's a good chance the stall will also offer you a fresh coconut with a straw to wash it all down with before you press onward.

Once you've arrived, it's a short walk through a shopping and souvenir area from Turtle Bay Pier, where cruise ships dock multiple days a week, to the center of Ocho Rios (or Ochi, as the town is called), which is scheduled to debut a renovated Main Street and a new artisan's village later this year. Ochi is set in St. Ann's Parish, known as the garden parish because of its lush greenery and forests fed by rushing rivers and waterfalls. To take it all in and feel like you're deep in rural Jamaica, you need drive only a few minutes on Milford Road into the hills. Continue your tour by driving up the A3 through the magical Fern Gully. Just above town, the road becomes steep as it wends its way through sheer-sided hills crowded with dense green cover that turns even the sunniest of days dark. More than 300 varieties of fern, including iridescent tiger ferns, whose delicate fronds shimmer in tones of jade and purple, grow in the gully.

Roadside stalls sell wooden carvings and statues, and after three miles, the road pops out into the country town of Colgate, where you can either turn around and head back to Ocho Rios or continue on past the village of Walkerswood, where the tasty jerk marinades and hot pepper sauces of the same name are made, and to the bustling capital of Kingston, 40 miles away.

Go With the Flow

Ocho rios means “eight rivers” in Spanish, and of all the rivers that flow down the town's nearby mountains, Dunn's River leads to one of the area's most popular attractions: Dunn's River Falls (Belmont Rd.; 876-974-4767; guided tours, $20*; children, $12), a waterfall surrounded by a water park and craft village. If there's a cruise ship in port, you'll want to arrive when the gates open at 7:00 a.m. (gates open at 8:30 a.m. on non-cruise-ship days) to avoid the crowds. You'll get a good preview of the rushing waterfalls as you take the stairs alongside the falls down to a beach, where guides will organize you into groups of up to 12 people. You'll link hands and start up the falls themselves (water shoes and a decent sense of balance are a must), carefully climbing over boulders and pulling your companions up and through the water, with guides offering support. It's exhilarating fun, and reaching the top takes about an hour if you pause for lots of refreshing dips in the clear pools along the way. At the top of the falls, there's a café and a water park that caters to the littles (children must be at least 36 inches tall to climb the falls).

Just down the road at Dolphin Cove (Belmont Rd.; 866-393-5158; dolphin encounters, from $99; children under 13 must be accompanied by an adult), the entire family can either go for a thrilling swim with dolphins or stand in knee-deep water to get a kiss from one. The number of visitors is limited to ensure one-on-one time. For more splashy fun, Hooves Jamaica (Belmont Rd.; 876-972-0905; two-hour beach rides, $70; children 13 and under, $50; children must be at least 36 inches tall) runs horseback rides along the beach into the shallow waves.

To experience the coastline, you can ask your resort to arrange for a catamaran or a private boat to ply the area's translucent waves, past limestone cliffs and headlands covered in sea grapes, and stop at swimming beaches that catch your eye. Halfway between Ocho Rios and the town of Oracabessa is a tiny stretch that is great for a quick swim and snorkel (many catamaran cruises will provide snorkel gear, or you may be able to rent through your resort). Just around the next headland is Bamboo Beach (876-975-5122; admission, $11), outfitted with lounge chairs and a bar-slash-restaurant with live reggae.

Cap off your day of exploration with dinner at the always buzzing Miss T's Kitchen (65 Main St.; 876-795-0099; dinner for two, $60), whose bright dining room and new extension is tucked away in a garden. The history of Jamaica is reflected in the restaurant's cuisine, influenced as it is by many of the cultures who have lived on the island over time, from the Arawak people onward. Miss T herself makes everything fresh, from marinated fish to jerk chicken.

Mountain High

Adrenaline junkies love Mystic Mountain (876-974-3990; chairlift, bobsled and zip-line tours, $138; children 12 and under, $115)-even getting there is a blast. Hopping aboard the chairlift, you'll slowly ascend 700 feet until you're above the treetops. You'll have a bird's-eye view of the coast and Ocho Rios and can see the colors of the ocean turn from pale aquamarine to navy blue past the reef line. At the summit, you can have lunch at the café, which serves authentic Jamaican fare and tip-top views, and contemplate doing the bobsled or zip line next. The bobsled (a two-seater option is just right for small children) whizzes down the mountain on a fixed track, and you can go as fast as you can stomach. The zip line, meanwhile, traverses the forest canopy from platform to platform, high above the track below.

Afterward, consider visiting the Blue Hole, a deep limestone swimming hole in the hills south of town-either on your own or with a tour booked through your resort-or take a tube or bamboo raft down the White River to where it meets the sea at White River Bay. Calypso Rafting (876-817-8433; tours, from $25) offers outings. At the mouth of the river, schools of silver fish flash under the water while people swim and play music in the dappled shade.

History Lesson

It will surprise no one that the island's most famous resident was musician Bob Marley, who was born in the small town of Nine Mile, a 30-mile drive into the mountains, where the singer is buried at the Bob Marley Centre and Mausoleum (Nine Mile; 305-665-5379; admission, $19). What may is that Jamaica (a British colony until 1962) was home to one of England's most renowned 20th-century playwrights and composers, Noël Coward. His Firefly Estate (Firefly Hill Rd.; 876-725-0920; admission, $10; tours and afternoon tea available by appointment), about half an hour's drive from Ocho Rios, sits high above the town of Port Maria on a swath of land that was once a lookout for the pirate Henry Morgan. Coward entertained the likes of Elizabeth Taylor and the Queen Mother here until his passing, in 1973. A tour takes in the house and grounds, with sweeping ocean views from east to west and across to Cabarita Island, showcasing this part of Jamaica as the natural wonderland that it was then and is now.

STAY

RCI® affiliated resorts in Ocho Rios include:

Breathless Montego Bay Resort & Spa by UVC-4 Nights DD71

Spend the day by the rooftop pool looking out on Montego Bay, or at the Beach Club with its palapas and wait service. A59 Montego Freeport, Montego Bay Member Review: “The restaurants were terrific.”

Secrets Wild Orchid by UVC-3 Nights D541

Shares amenities with Moon Palace Jamaica. Lot 59A, Freeport, Montego Bay Member Review: “The staff was so friendly!”

Iberostar Rose Hall Beach DB89

Expect gorgeous beaches, vibrant gardens and ocean views. Rose Hall Main Rd., Montego Bay Member Review: Not yet rated

RCI® Tip

Did you know Jamaica is a popular cruise port? RCI® subscribing members can exchange their Points or a qualified Deposit and save toward the purchase of select cruises.** Visit cruiserci.com for more terms and conditions.

For complete member reviews (as member reviews have been condensed) and additional resort listings, visit RCI.com or call 800-338-7777 (Weeks) or 877-968-7476 (Points). Club Members, please call your specific Club or RCI telephone number.

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Non-RCI affiliated resorts in Ocho Rios include:

Hermosa Cove

A quiet nine-room boutique property in Ocho Rios with a private beach, Christopher's restaurant and bar and three recently added cascading pools. Hermosa St., Ocho Rios; 855-811-2683; hermosacove.com; doubles from $400 a night

The post Out and About in Ocho Rios appeared first on Endless Vacation.

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kitvinslakte · 6 years

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PT 2

The Exhiles by Ray Bradbury

"...through every country on Earth and finally left no alternative at all but exodus. You must help us. You have a good speaking manner. We need you.”

“I repeat, I am not of you, I don’t approve of you and the others,” cried Dickens angrily. “I was no player with witches and vampires and midnight things.”

“What of A Christmas Carol ?”

“Ridiculous! One story. Oh, I wrote a few others about ghosts, perhaps, but what of that? My basic works had none of that nonsense!”

“Mistaken or not, they grouped you with us. They destroyed your books—your worlds too. You must hate them, Mr. Dickens!”

“I admit they are stupid and rude, but that is all. Good day!”

“Let Mr. Marley come, at least!”

“No!”

The door slammed. As Poe turned away, down the street, skimming over the frosty ground, the coachman playing a lively air on a bugle, came a great coach, out of which, cherry-red, laughing and singing, piled the Pickwickians, banging on the door, shouting Merry Christmas good and loud, when the door was opened by the fat boy.

Mr. Poe hurried along the midnight shore of the dry sea. By fires and smoke he hesitated, to shout orders, to check the bubbling caldrons, the poisons and the chalked pentagrams. “Good!” he said, and ran on. “Fine!” he shouted, and ran again. People joined him and ran with him. Here were Mr. Coppard and Mr. Machen running with him now. And there were hating serpents and angry demons and fiery bronze dragons and spitting vipers and trembling witches like the barbs and nettles and thorns and all the vile flotsam and jetsam of the retreating sea of imagination, left on the melancholy shore, whining and frothing and spitting. Mr. Machen stopped. He sat like a child on the cold sand. He began to sob. They tried to soothe him, but he would not listen. “I just thought,” he said. “What happens to us on the day when thelast copies of our books are destroyed?”

The air whirled.

“Don’t speak of it!”

“We must,” wailed Mr. Machen. “Now, now, as the rocket comes down, you, Mr. Poe; you, Coppard; you, Bierce—all of you grow faint. Like wood smoke. Blowing away. Your faces melt—”

“Death! Real death for all of us.”

“We exist only through Earth’s sufferance. If a final edict tonight destroyed our last few works we’d be like lights put out.”

Coppard brooded gently. “I wonder who I am. In what Earth mind tonight do I exist? In some African hut? Some hermit, reading my tales? Is he the lonely candle in the wind of time and science? The flickering orb sustaining me here in rebellious exile? Is it him? Or some boy in a discarded attic, finding me, only just in time! Oh, last night I felt ill, ill, ill to the marrows of me, for there is a body of the soul as well as a body of the body, and this soul body ached in all of its glowing parts, and last night I felt myself a candle, guttering. When suddenly I sprang up, given new light! As some child, sneezing with dust, in some yellow garret on Earth once more found a worn, time-specked copy of me! And so I’m given a short respite!”

A door banged wide in a little hut by the shore. A thin short man, with flesh hanging from him in folds, stepped out and, paying no attention to the others, sat down and stared into his clenched fists.

“There’s the one I’m sorry for,” whispered Blackwood. “Look at him, dying away. He was once more real than we, who were men. They took him, a skeleton thought, and clothed him in centuries of pink flesh and snow beard and red velvet suit and black boot; made him reindeers, tinsel, holly. And after centuries of manufacturing him they drowned him in a vat of Lysol, you might say.”

The men were silent.

“What must it be on Earth?” wondered Poe. “Without Christmas? No hot chestnuts, no tree, no ornaments or drums or candles—nothing; nothing but the snow and wind and the lonely, factual people. . . .”

They all looked at the thin little old man with the scraggly beard and faded red velvet suit.

“Have you heard his story?”

“I can imagine it. The glitter-eyed psychiatrist, the clever sociologist, the resentful, froth-mouthed educationalist, the antiseptic parents——”

“A regrettable situation,” said fierce, smiling, “for the Yuletide merchants who, toward the last there, as I recall, were beginning to put up holly and sing Noel the day before Halloween. With any luck at all this year they might have started on Labor Day!”

Bierce did not continue. He fell forward with a sigh. As he lay upon the ground he had time to say only,

“How interesting.” And then, as they all watched, horrified, his body burned into blue dust and charred bone, the ashes of which fled through the air in black tatters.

“Bierce, Berce!”

“Gone!”

“His last book gone. Someone on Earth just now burned it.”

“God rest him. Nothing of him left now. For what are we but books, and when those are gone, nothing’s to be seen.”

A rushing sound filled the sky.

They cried out, terrified, and looked up. In the sky, dazzling it with sizzling fire clouds, was the rocket! Around the men on the seashore lanterns bobbed; there was a squealing and a bubbling and an odor of cooked spells. Candle-eyed pumpkins lifted into the cold clear air. Thin fingers clenched into fists and a witch screamed from her withered mouth:

“Ship, ship, break, fall!

Ship, ship, burn all!

Crack, flake, shake, melt!

Mummy dust, cat pelt!”

“Time to go,” murmured Blackwood. “On to Jupiter, on to Saturn or Pluto.”

“Run away?” shouted Poe in the wind. “Never!”

“I’m a tired old man!”

Poe gazed into the old man’s face and believed him. He climbed atop a huge boulder and faced the ten thousand gray shadows and green lights and yellow eyes on the hissing wind.

“The powders!” he shouted.

A thick hot smell of bitter almond, civet, cumin, wormseed and orris!

The rocket came down—steadily down, with the shriek of a damned spirit! Poe raged at it! He flung his fists up and the orchestra of heat and smell and hatred answered in symphony! Like stripped tree fragments, bats flew upward! Burning hearts, flung like missiles, burst in bloody fireworks on the singed air. Down, down, relentlessly down, like a pendulum the rocket came. And Poe howled, furiously, and shrank back with every sweep and sweep of the rocket cutting and ravening the air! All the dead sea seemed a pit in which, trapped, they waited the sinking of the dread machinery, the glistening ax; they were people under the avalanche!

“The snakes!” screamed Poe.

‎And luminous serpentines of undulant green hurtled toward the rocket. But it came down, a sweep, a fire, a motion, and it lay panting out exhaustions of red plumage on the sand, a mile away.

“At it!” shrieked Poe. “The plan’s changed! Only one chance! Run! At it! At it! Drown them with our bodies! Kill them!”

And as if he had commanded a violent sea to change its course, to suck itself free from primeval beds, the whirls and savage gouts of fire spread and ran like wind and rain and stark lightning over the sea sands, down empty river deltas, shadowing and screaming, whistling and whining, sputtering and coalescing toward the rocket which, extinguished, lay like a clean metal torch in the farthest hollow. As if a great charred caldron of sparkling lava had been overturned, the boiling people and snapping animals churned down the dry fathoms.

“Kill them!” screamed Poe, running.

The rocket men leaped out of their ship, guns ready. They stalked about, sniffing the air like hounds.

They saw nothing. They relaxed.

The captain stepped forth last. He gave sharp commands. Wood was gathered, kindled, and a fire leapt up in an instant. The captain beckoned his men into a half circle about him.

“A new world,” he said, forcing himself to speak deliberately, though he glanced nervously, now and again, over his shoulder at the empty sea. “The old world left behind. A new start. What more symbolic than that we here dedicate ourselves all the more firmly to science and progress.” He nodded crisply to his lieutenant. “The books.”

Firelight limned the faded gilt titles:The Willows, The Outsider, Behold, The Dreamer, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Land of Oz, Pellucidar, The Land That Time Forgot A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and the monstrous names of Machen and Edgar Allan Poe and Cabell and Dunsany and Blackwood and Lewis Carroll; the names, the old names, the evil names.

“A new world. With a gesture, we burn the last of the old.” The captain ripped pages from the books.

Leaf by seared leaf, he fed them into the fire.

A scream!

Leaping back, the men stared beyond the firelight at the edges of the encroaching and uninhabited sea.

Another scream! A high and wailing thing, like the death of a dragon and the thrashing of a bronzed whale left gasping when the waters of a leviathan’s sea drain down the shingles and evaporate.

It was the sound of air rushing in to fill a vacuum, where, a moment before, there had beensomething!

The captain neatly disposed of the last book by putting it into the fire.

The air stopped quivering. Silence!

The rocket men leaned and listened. “Captain, did you hear it?”

‎“No.”

“Like a wave, sir. On the sea bottom! I thought I saw something. Over there. A black wave. Big. Running at us.”

“You were mistaken.”

“There, sir!”

“What?”

“See it? There! The city! Way over! That green city near the lake! It’s splitting in half. It’s falling!”

The men squinted and shuffled forward.

Smith stood trembling among them. He put his hand to his head as if to find a thought there. “I remember. Yes, now I do. A long time back. When I was a child. A book I read. A story. Oz, I think it was. Yes, Oz.The Emerald City of Oz . . .”

“Oz? Never heard of it.”

“Yes, Oz, that’s what it was. I saw it just now, like in the story. I saw it fall.”

“Smith!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Report for psychoanalysis tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir!” A brisk salute.

“Be careful.”

The men tiptoed, guns alert, beyond the ship’s aseptic light to gaze at the long sea and the low hills.

“Why,” whispered Smith, disappointed, “there’s no one here at all, is there? No one here at all.”

The wind blew sand over his shoes, whining.

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