#breaking news: traumatized young man recalls moment of death

[novantinuum]

do you remember, Hero?

#botw #loz #link #legend of zelda #breath of the wild #botw fanart #loz fanart #my art stuff #breaking news: traumatized young man recalls moment of death #more at eleven

[artsy0wl]

My Son (A New Teen Titans Fic)

So I have a headcanon or two for Joey “Jericho” Wilson. One being that, due to his childhood trauma, he as PTSD. I actually made a series elsewhere where I discuss how each Titan would react to it.

I also had a little fic series planned out about Slade visiting Joey during the night since he couldn’t during the day (due to work and Adeline). It was a 5 + 1, but as it went on, it felt a hit repetative and I really wamted to do the last one where Slade gets caught. By Nightwing of all people. And they decide to have a talk.

It’s a fun little project that I thought ya’ll might enjoy.

It had been two months since Joey had joined the Titans, and two months that Slade had to carefully sneak in to see his son. He had been successful and was thankful that he had not been caught. But that didn't mean he wasn't cautious.

This night was no different. As he sat on the edge of the bed, Slade noted Joey's good health. He was healthy, his weight appeared normal, and he showed no signs of physical damage. Slade was glad that the Titans were treating him well. It was something that he was sure that Adeline made them promise, with Nightwing probably the first to experience her protective rage first hand.

As his father, all that Slade could ask for was his son being in good hands. However, he couldn't entirely bring himself to fully agree with the arrangement. If it were up to him, Joey would be with either parent, preferably both, or on his own. Joey didn't need to get caught up in all this fighting, even if he had a love for helping others.

Slade's train of thought was disrupted as Joey unconsciously flinched. His body twitched in distress as he unconsciously found himself trapped in a nightmare. One hand gently grabbed Joey's arm while the other cupped the side of his face.

"It's okay Joey." Slade comfortably whispered. "Dad's here. Everything's okay now."

Joey seemed to listen to his father as he unconsciously melted in his father's grip. When his breathing regulated and his flinching stopped, Slade adjusted Joey's blanket. Slade let out a deflated sigh.

"How long have you been there?" Slade sighed, knowing that he was being watched.

"Long enough." Nightwing admitted.

"And how long have you known?"

"Two weeks."

Slade rose from his seat to face the young vigilante. He looked at Nightwing, not with anger or resentment, but exhaustion. He didn't want to be caught after such a long record of escaping unseen. Least of all by Nightwing.

"What are you going to do?" Slade inquired. "Arrest me for visiting my son?"

Nightwing sighed, shaking his head. He approached the mercenary, cautiously, but unfazed by his presence. He gave the mercenary an unusually tired grin.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" Nightwing offered.

Slade shockingly flinched at the offer, eyeing Nightwing curiously. While spontaneous moments of kindness was nothing new for Nightwing, the fact that he was offering one of his sworn advisories coffee was. Nightwing's expression softened slightly, knowing that he had stumped Slade.

"I've been up working on tying a few loose ends for cases back in Gotham and am not going to bed any time soon." Nightwing shrugged his shoulders. "The next person up will be Raven and that's not for another two hours. And Joey not too long after that." He then glanced at Joey. "He'll still be here when we're done if you want to see him."

Slade bounced between Nightwing and his son. Joey was in a deep sleep, which was a good sign. And if he was going to be like that for a few hours, it wouldn't hurt if he stepped away for a moment.

"Why not?" Slade accepted.

A steaming mug of coffee was generously placed in front of Slade, as Dick sat on the other side of the table. Slade took it, gingerly picking it up before taking a sip. Dick's domino mask sat by him, letting Slade know that he wasn't afraid that he saw his true identity. Not that he hadn't already. They sat in silence for a few moments as they scanned each other.

"So, how did you find out?" Slade asked, setting the cup down.

"I guess it started when we initially got Joey situated in the Tower." Dick recalled, taking a bit of coffee before setting it down. "Adeline mentioned that he suffered from chronic nightmares. Mostly resulting from the trauma of losing his voice, your messy divorce, and Grant's death." Dick's coffee cup slightly shifted between his hands. "She also warned us that the events with Terra might add onto that trauma. Her recommendation, if we caught him in the midst of a nightmare, wake him up, talk him through it if need be, and get him back to bed."

"That does sound like her." Slade confirmed.

Slade could picture Adeline given the Titans a list of odd requests and requirements as well as warnings. It was probably for the best considering Joey's traumatic history. However, that didn't entirely answer his question and opened the door for a new one.

"So I'm guessing all of you do this?" Slade assumed.

"Me and Raven mostly." Dick stated. "Beast Boy was a bit untrusting of him after Terra's death." There was a brief pause as they both recalled the initial fallout. "And while he's gotten over it, he's still working on building a good relationship with Joey." Dick moved on to the next member. "Cyborg would, given that he knows a thing or two about trauma, but because of the nature of theirs being a bit different, he's not sure if he's the best candidate. Though he does well for the most part." That only left one other member. "Starfire gets it as well, and while she gets the difference between coping on Tamaran and Earth, he is a little intimidated by her more assertive nature."

Dick look at his cup thinking about their attempt to help. Or at the very least how they were handling it. It wasn't that they weren't trying, it was how familiar they were with Joey's or how they thought they could handle it.

"To actually answer your question though, we started noticing changes after the first month." Dick circled back around. "In that first month, he would wake up petrified almost every other night. He only got three hours of sleep a night in the first week alone." Dick's face twitched at the thought. "We thought part of it was because of the adjustment on top of the nightmares. Then about a month ago, his panic attacks got less frequent. He wasn't waking up as much and was opening up a bit more. Raven and I thought he was getting better. That maybe he was getting used to being here, and the panic attacks were clearing up naturally. We also thought that maybe with him being away from Adaline helped, thinking that her constant presence might have been part of the problem. Two weeks ago, Raven decided to take a step back. She's still open to helping, both as an empath and just wanting to be someone he could confide in. But at that point, she didn't feel the need to constantly gauge his emotions every night."

Dick sipped his coffee, recalling the conversation. He understood her decision. Without any incidents in two weeks, there might not have been a need to have him constantly monitored. Plus, she was starting to look a bit under the weather herself, which wouldn't benefit Joey's psyche, or what was equally as important, her health. As far as Dick was concerned, Raven retiring was probably good for both of their sakes.

"Which left me on and off." Dick continued. "I was up two weeks ago, helping tie up a few loose ends for a case involving Two Face that Robin and I worked on. I was taking a break, so I thought I would check on Joey. I wasn't overly concerned, but I figured why not? I was up so checking on him wasn't going to do any harm. When I turned the camera on, I was startled to find you in the room."

Slade twitched slightly. He vaguely recalled that night. It was ten days after Slade and Beast Boy had a sit down and cleared the air after Terra's death and another two after Slade and Wintergreen returned from a hunting trip that turned into Slade's first real contract after completing Grant's. Slade remembered feeling a paternal needing to see his son. To check on the kid to make sure everything was alright.

"You were sitting on the edge of the bed, much like you were tonight," Dick stated, "and you must have just calmed him down from a nightmare as well given how tightly he was unconsciously holding onto your sleeve."

There was a prolonged sense of silence as they took the time to digest Dick's story. It was detailed, which was a plus. However, it also left Slade with a lingering sense of tension and a need to explain himself.

"I just want to see my son." Slade admitted. "I know my job hasn't made it easy. Even less so, now that Adaline and I have divorced. My family is the one thing that is still important to me. I just wish I had more time with them. That I had done things differently." Slade eyed his coffee. "I miss my kids and I've screwed them both up in equally horrible ways. But for Joey's sake, I want to be in his life. And for my sanity, I have to be. Even if it’s in secret.”

"I understand." Dick replied, to a slightly curious glare. "I mean, as a parent, I don't understand where you're coming from, but as a child who had a parent being gone for periods of time, I understand." Another, slightly confused, glare dug into him. "Just because I grew up in a circus, and close to my parents, doesn't mean my father never spent periods of time away from us. I know two times where that happened. The first when my mother was on maternity leave with me and the second when I got a bad case of pneumonia that landed me in the hospital for a week. In both cases, Haly needed at least one Grayson to keep the show going. So my father had to spend long periods of time perfecting a one man routine." Dick took a sip of coffee. "I might not remember his time away when I was a baby, but I vaguely recall calling out for my father during the worst parts of my pneumonia, only for him not to show. I remember feeling pain from the pneumonia on top of feeling heartbroken when he wasn't there."

It might not have been what Slade wanted to hear, but it was something he didn't mind hearing either. Hearing how the other side fells, helped put things into perspective. Even if that perspective was a little different as far as history.

"You've raised a great kid." Dick complimented, catching Slade off guard a bit. "It's true. I've never met someone as kind hearted and wonderfully talented as he is. He's a wonderful human being. So if there's any positive takeaway from everything your family's been through, it's that."

Slade wasn't sure if he should take the compliment. With everything he's done to his kid, he wasn't sure if he could take credit for it, outside of half his DNA and its side effects. But at the same time, he appreciated Dick at least trying to be somewhat positive about it.

"He's the only good thing we have," Slade admitted, "not that we deserve him. But thank you anyways." Slade gave Dick an intense glare. "And thank you for what you've been doing for him. He needs people like you in his life."

"Of course. I want him to be comfortable."

After another half hour of conversing, Slade finally decided to call it a night. But not without saying goodbye to his son. He and Dick quietly waltz down the hall to Joey's room. Right as Slade was about to open the door when the door slid open on its own. On the other side, a slightly dazed Joey stood in front of them. He jumped in surprise when his sight processed what was in front of him. Which prompted Slade to glare at Dick suspiciously.

"Don't worry bud," Dick comforted, addressing Joey first, "I'm not going to arrest him. He just wanted to see you, but you were asleep. What are you doing up so early?"

"Smelled coffee." Joey signed. "Have to pee."

That was enough to answer Slade's suspicions. He couldn't blame Dick for his son's bladder and he was just as guilty as Dick was for the coffee smell. Turning his full attention back to Joey, Slade tried to think of what to say. Not expecting to get caught, he felt at a loss for words.

Joey tightly latched onto Slade, hugging him to fill his father's lack of response. His face dug into Slade's shoulder and let tears dampen Slade's coarse top. It was clear that Joey needed this almost as much as Slade did. More so even.

After a few moment, Joey gently tapped Slade letting him know he was done. He was released, and took care of any rogue tears.

"I missed you." Joey signed.

"Me too kid." Slade agreed with a soft smile. "I'm sorry I have been a bit neglectful."

"It's okay. I'm just glad you're here now." Joey turned his attention to Dick. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Dick answered, approaching him. "I'm just glad you guys got to see each other."

#Joey Wilson #Slade Wilson #Deathstroke #Jericho #Dick Grayson #Nightwing #New Teen Titans #Fanfic #Fanfiction #DC #DC Comics #AU #Precious Boy #Sleepy Jericho #Anxiety #Panic Attack #Nightmares

[alexandria-morrowgrove]

One More.

The winged illidari approached the Captain’s office, a soft knock on the door and she’d beckon her in. It was far too early in the morning for visitors the Captain knew that, but who would knock at three in the morning? “C’mon in. Wot can I do for-....Alara. Wot’s wrong?” It wasn’t like this particular illidari to willingly come into the guard captain’s office. In a firm tone the demonic woman spoke, her hellish gaze meeting the golden look of Morrowgrove’s own eyes. “I need your assistance, Captain.” Now most certainly Morrow knew something was wrong. She sat back in her office chair with a lofted brow, seeking any hint of emotion behind the armored and veiled creature before her. Like always there was nothing. A long pause between the two existed before the demonic woman spoke again. “I found the wreckage the harbor guard reported as having seen, the one you’d asked me to seek.”

There was a long pause again as both women stared at one another. “No...don’t tell me it’s who I think it-..” Before she could even finish the illidari deposited a broken necklace on the center desk. Its magic long since shattered and dissipated. “The wreckage contained azerite, whoever was on that boat is gone. No bodies near impact. No clues as to who did this either. Not unless you can read this book.” She’d set down a charred and waterlogged book next to the necklace, the glare met the Captain’s eyes again however. “This can wait.” Morrow paused mid air as she’d gone for the book initially. “Excuse you?” She asked this in a careful tone.

“While the Captain of the ship is presumed deceased I found a survivor. I need your help housing him for the night while we figure out where he can go.” Morrow stared, a survivor? “How is he?” She asked as she began to stand up. “He is not well, a leaf shakes less in a storm then this one. He has endured much and needs to be hidden from whomever has done this. I can be of assistance however, anything magical takes time to craft. I cannot make it so soon and he is too afraid right now to mention who tried to kill him too.” The winged illidari began to turn, both women opting to leave the office now. “We can take him in for the night and aid him in figurin’ it out when mornin’ comes. We owe it t’ th’ kid.” Morrow admitted.

Alara’s brow behind the veil lofted. “We owe it to him, Captain?” She paused, stopping the two to stare right at the worgen. “Yes, we owe -it-.” Morrow glared briefly. For a moment the worgen’s anger surfaced, bubbling over as lips curled back to reveal teeth. “Do no’ question it. We will find who did this t’ his ship. I have a dangerous feelin’ I can make a guess already.” The illidari stared. “A name then? Of your guess?” Certainly the illidari had plenty of questions, however for now she knew better then to ask with such a reaction appearing from her Captain.

The worgen paused, shaking her head. “No names. Only a thought. A drug cartel no’ from Stormwind. They’ve been meddlin’ into Alliance affairs t’ hook folks up t’ drugs. Makin’ victims of th’ war victims of addiction.” The worgen huffed, exhaling a puff of air through her nose. “Are you...alright? Alara?” She stopped, idly asking upon the realization of who the captain of the ship was. Alara paused, eyeing her up and down. “I will be fine when the hunt begins, Captain. There are others that need console more then I. I will begin my work come morning, there will be no escape for those seeking to harm the masses in this way.” The demon hunter nodded in her new mission, self given but important regardless. “I will inform the boy of where he will be staying this evening if the quarters I have in mind are permitted?” The worgen waved a hand. “Do it. Th’ kids in enough dangah there’s no need t’ stop half assed and risk more.” 

The two would depart, one headed out of Stormwind the other? The Stockades. 

An hour later. 

The worgen approached the now empty cell with her ears lowering. Iron bars and a lock were there, just a day before she recalled the freckled elf in the cell. A jokester, an annoyance perhaps. He’d come in to talk about the drug cartel and had done so in enough ways to land himself in the Stockades. Breaking into an office or well...trying to until the alarm had gone off. Stolen military gear to try and blend in. A clawed hand reached for a cold bar and gripped it tight. Her eyes closed and she’d inhale sharply. “Damn you.” She managed to murmur. A man she’d known less then a day dead. The last known place was here before an azerite bomb took him. Why was it always azerite? 

She stared at the empty cell as if looking for clues, a straying thought. “How do I tell y’ brothah?” She asked in a soft voice at nothing in particular. “How do I tell y’ sistah and y’ cousins and...y’ family? Do they know already? I bet they do...at least y’ niece knows.” Her mind briefly flickered to his niece, the illidari she’d sent. Well aware it was a tough job the woman was not connected really. A recent addition to the family she’d seek justice, revenge maybe. But justice in due time would come with the hellish woman on the trail. 

That cell held no answers, a chirp here from a mouse maybe? The stiff air of the underground prison, a droplet of water dripping from elsewhere even, and most of all the breaths of the Captain staring at the cobbled flooring. The furred woman’s forehead pressed into an iron bar with her eyes closing. “Wot ‘m I gonna do for y’ family Attreyu? Y’ trusted me t’ protect y’ family and I failed you. Within a bloody day y’ left where I couldn’t keep ya safe.” Her ears fell about as low as they could. She wouldn’t cry, not here. Not in the Stockades where so many eyes could be on the armored guard. The man had left her area of expertise, her safety bubble and he’d suffered for it immediately. It didn’t stop the hurt from flowing in, the pain that came with failure. This sort of ordeal rocked at the woman’s core, a hardened resolve to do what’s right always seemed to come at a cost. 

How much would become too much she wondered as she lifted her head. “I will fix this. Attreyu. Whethah y’ spirit can hear me now or no’. Y’ risked everythin’ t’ come down south. T’ investigate and warn us. I will no’ just let th’ warnin’ go.” She turned, cracking her knuckles as she sought to exist the cell. Her own gaze hardened, angered. “I will no’ let y’ death go unanswered. We’ll keep th’ kid safe...” She looked back one final time at the cell. “I promise. We’ll stop ‘em. Togethah.” she clenched her fist, enough to hear the metal of her gauntlet scream and the chainmail beg she stop. That same fist after a moment would find a wall, slamming into it as the only sign of tension release. 

The wall was fine, her hand would suffer for it later. “DAMN IT!” she shouted. A cellblock guard came over to her. “Captain Morrowgrove? This is an empty cell is everything alright?” The young man asked. She’d nod to him, waving her good hand to dismiss him. “Everythin’s gonna be fine. I’ll be takin’ m’ leave now. Thank ya.” 

Like that the armored worgen would aim to depart, don’t look back she told herself. Do not break here. Elsewhere when it is safe to break do so, but in moments of weakness she knew better. Stormwind was not kind to her moments of flaw, the moments to be frail and emotional. Her office was a haven for such moments and it would be her office she’d return to. The book given to her would need to dry and be recovered as much as possible, it was all they had left of the late elven man’s death. Besides that necklace.

The necklace didn’t belong in an evidence locker. She’d have to confront the family with that in the morning. Whenever she’d gulp down her own failure to approach them on the matter. Though it certainly didn’t feel like her fault she took it as such. What if the elf had been let go sooner? Kept longer? Would he be alive right now if they’d never met? These thoughts haunted her, as so many before often gripped at the edges of her mind. For now it was one more traumatized survivor, one more body to add to Stormwind’s terrible body count. 

One more to pray for when she’d commune with the spirits. 

(For part one of this see here titled one less. @the-elderarrow​ and @valerian-felbane​ for mentions. I hope as always the read is enjoyable! )

#plot #mention of death

[whumpbby]

Imagine a Jason who doesn't believe he is Jason Todd, the second Robin. Jason Todd died because he was weak and Antar (My friend says that means Champion in Arabic but do slap me if I'm using it wrong) is anything but weak. The Demon's Head would not allow weakness amongst his clan and Antar is amongst his favoured, so the Bat Clan is just trying to weaken his Master to strike. He especially doesn't like being called family by one who would not avenge their dead, like his would.

Ooohhhhhhhhooooohhhh!!! :O 

Jason with amnesia - and on top of that detesting the idea that he could be Jason Todd!

Listen, what IF Jay was bathed in the Pit and then ESCAPED and put hismelf back together and even the League couldn’t find him. OR he didn’t even get to the Pit, his brain started to put itself together and rejected the memories as traumatic to protect itself.   

He lived on the streets in the worst places of the world, struggled with mental and physical disabilities, saw the worst of the world and the people, and decided by himself that world needs to change - and he will start with Gotham, a cesspit of criminally insane murderers with a lauded ‘hero’ who makes nothing better. He feels a pull to Gotham, so he decides to take on the city. 

He comes in like a scourge - no games, no playing with Batman, he has no reason to play on the man’s emotions, he doesn’t know who Batman is, but somehow he knows how to avoid him. Red Hood isn’t an unmatched fighter, but he’s an escape artist of the highest level, he knows Gotham’s underbelly like he was born underground and he can disappear into the night in an empty alleyway...   

He uses his skills to clean up - and he cleans up well. He doesn’t bother with getting control over the underground, he doesn’t have the mental capacity for it, he goes straight for the throat - and that make him effective, balls of steel and lack of fear of death carry him through the half of Gotham’s rogue gallery. He he doesn’t kill them, he leaves them, well, incapacitated to the point they will no longer be a danger - or won’t be one for a very long time. Crock, Ivy, Black Mask, Zsaz, Harley, Hatter... Batch catch up to him when he’s confronting Crane and, shockingly, turns out that he’s immune to fear gas. Whatever Crane throws at him, it drips down without effect, and Crane - is pissing himself. A dark persona stalks towards him though the dark corridors of Old Gotham, a pipe int heir hands, blood of Crane’s goons dripping from it with the bits of flesh... Crane shoots, they don’t even flinch so he doesn’t know if he missed or not, his hands are shaking, he’s breathing hard, his knees are soft, because this... the face he’s seeing in the rare flashes of light (he should have made his base in a less climactic locale) horrifies him, sickly pale, half-covered in scars and these eyes - glowing green in the darkness, he’d call them dead if they weren’t... if not the naked hatred he was seeing in them... bare and burning hatred laser-pointed.at.him...

He was never as grateful for Batman’s sudden appearance as he is now, even though he gets kicked in the face by the new Robin (the kid was at the gig for a year now, but in Crane’s eyes he’s still the ‘new’ kid, it’s hard to reconcile the fact that a kid that broke your nose with one punch when you met him fr the first time is dead...). 

The Bats confront the bloody avenger - stand down, Hood, you’re surrounded! There’s nowhere to run!

But the gravelly voice (damaged voicebox? He would sound young otherwise...) tells them, “Yes. You have nowhere to run.” And all hell breaks loose, because the Hood had the place rigged to blow and Crane’s chemicals are all over the place - and he’s standing there, in the midst of it all, untouched by the fear gas around him, and in a moment when the light shines on his face, Bruce could swear... he could swear that... but that had to be the gas showing him the worst possible scenario, it had to be... Jesus, a wraith came back to haunt him and its face was painful to even recall...

#headcanon #wild dog jay #Anonymous

[nikitasbt]

Spring in a Small Town (小城之春, 1948) by Fei Mu

The label of the greatest Chinese movie ever made given to Fei Mu’s masterpiece by the Hong Kong Film Awards Association is certainly quite an eye-catcher and serious statement. The film completed in 1948 became a crown achievement of Fei Mu who is known for 16 films he made including the first colour film in China, for his passion to theatre, brilliant mind and intelligence and capability of speaking many languages and knowing various cultures. Spring in a Small Town (小城之春) was the last film of Fei Mu’s career and one of the last Chinese films of the pre-communism epoch. Fei Mu fled to Hong Kong along with many other artists after the 1949 Chinese revolution. Unable to find common points with Chinese authorities, the director was forced to stay in Hong Kong until his death in 1951. His artistic work was doomed to be disregarded and later forgotten in China till the late 1980s when the Cultural Revolution was behind. The film has been restored by the Chinese Film Archive organization from the original negative and found it’s auditory. It has gained mass attention after 2002 re-make made by Tian Zhuangzhuang.

Nowadays, many directors and critics find it to be one of the most sophisticated and exquisite Chinese dramas in history. The comparison lines between Fei Mu and Ozu or Mizoguchi are being made constantly. Wong Kar-Wai mentioned Spring in a Small Town as one of his favourite films, while famous Zhang Yimou’s Ju Dou has some common features with a 1948 masterpiece.

The story and highly psychologically charged drama concerns loveless marriage of Zhou Yuwen portrayed by Wei Wei. Her marriage to Dai Liyan (played by Yu Shi) was arranged during the war times when she was still in love with her childhood friend Zhang (Li Wei) who also appears to be a friend of Liyan. Unaware of this marriage, Zhang arrives to visit his pal who requires medical treatment. His sickness is both a matter of depression after war and heart problems. Being very sick, he feels guilty for not being able to make his wife happy.

With the long-takes and sublime cuts of Yuwen walking up and down the remnants of the old wall looking at the city from this high point and shots of her husband blaming himself for being a burden, we see the way the drama develops. The young woman has no room for happiness, yet she gives good treatment to her husband taking care of him very well. She is frustrated with a life in the countryside far from a big city with no love and entertainment. The spring comes in this so-called small town (in fact the house where couple lives is far from any towns) with the visit of young now-doctor Zhang, as Yuwen recalls the memories of the past and confesses she still loves Zhang. It becomes clear she was forced to become the wife of Liyan while expecting Zhang to return from the long-lasting war against Japan.

The disposition in this love triangle is brilliant, not a cliche sort of thing. There is just nobody who is willing to force someone to break the relationships, all three are trying hard to keep the harmony despite their actual feelings. Yuwen at some point tells she wants to escape with Zhang but realizes she it is not so easy to leave her husband.  Zhang meanwhile responds with the old feelings which are still alive as well, but he deeply respects his friend and thinks that his wife needs more of his love and warmth. Also, we get a good glimpse into the personality of Liyan who is trying to get over his emotional drama of being physically challenged. He doesn't think of himself in this regard but wants Yuwen to be happy. We see she has never been mistreated or abused, she lives a decent bourgeoise life of former nobleman housewife. Though, this life is just loveless and boring. Coming to conclusion he won't be able to recover, Liyan starts thinking of his wife's future. Once her attraction to Zhang becomes obvious, he offers Zhang to take his wife along to the city and make her happy as there is no way for him to succeed. This is the high point of drama, as we see Liyan as a loving husband, a man of consideration, good manners and responsibility. He suffers so much that attempts to commit suicide but gets saved with precautions taken by Zhang who already had ominous premonitions, in terms of possible suicide attempt of his old friend.

Zhang takes spring along with him leaving husband and wife in a small town, he is not willing to break their bond. In the end, we see Liyan and Yuwen standing next to this old wall which symbolizes the old China, losing themselves in thoughts.

The emotional part of Spring in a Small Town is very touching and tense. The characters' personalities are quite deep and they offer for studying a set of particular features they possess. Fei Mu is eager to avoid the genre of soap opera and traditional melodrama, as he is trying to show the important moment of supreme human emotion not trying to cause pain to those who love you. The film is focused on dialogues, close-ups and avoids showing other people (not counting on Liyan's sister and servant who shows up briefly). The heroes are a little isolated from the outer world, they only have ruins around them symbolizing the psychological trauma they have suffered. For Liyan, it is about the trauma caused by war while Yuwen is traumatized by the love story with Zhang and her marriage. These traumas are obvious, but heroes deal with them, just as they manage to keep living next to the ruins.

Camera work and actor's play are very expressive. Wei Wei performance should be praised for showing the delicacy of the heroine. She is just magical, wandering around the walls in some shots like a ghost and later becoming so vivid and happy during these intimate nature walks with Zheng. Wei Wei, aged 96 now, just retired from acting recently.

The film was banned in China just because of lack of sense of showing the new times' communism triumph. Nevertheless, it can be interpreted at some point as disposition between coming death of old bourgeois China (symbolized by landowner Liyan) and new beginnings portrayed by a more powerful and strong young doctor. Yet the movie remained in oblivion for decades. It's great to know that the attention to this masterpiece has come in the time when Wei Wei was still acting. Her performance deserves appreciation, and she can be called one of the best Chinese actresses for this subtle role of Yuwen.

Spring in a Small Town is no doubt one of the finest examples of Chinese cinema classics. We are delighted to live in times when it has been restored and can be found on the Internet easily after many years of neglect.

#韋偉 #fei mu #wei wei #chinese cinema #费穆 #小城之春 #spring in a small town

[imatastyporkcutletbowl]

                                                        Summary                                   

Newlyweds, Victor and Yuuri Nikiforov have it all, but things go awry when a silver-haired child is dumped on their doorstep with a message identifying her as Victor’s biological daughter. Traumatized by the sudden death of her mother, Victoria refuses to speak or to have anything to do with her new parents. But could a selfless act by Yuuri open the way to making them a family?

Chapter 1: Little Girl Lost

Soft footsteps sounded in the darkened bedroom where Yuuri Nikiforov (formerly Yuuri Katsuki) laid, curled on his side and deeply sleeping. His tall, silvery-haired husband approached the bed slowly, admiring the adorable sleeping face of his Japanese spouse. He sat down at Yuuri’s side, watching as the movement on the bed brought Yuuri awake, and he blinked his brown eyes slowly and focused on Victor, his expression both happy to see him, and sad to know they were about to say goodbye. Victor coaxed Yuuri into his arms, meeting him for several long, passionate kisses, before he sat back and squeezed Yuuri’s hand comfortingly.

“I have to go now,” Victor said in a regretful tone, “I still wish you could come with me, Yuuri.”

“It would be fun,” Yuuri agreed, “but I have to get ready for my first competition of the season. I’m going to miss you, Victor, but it’ll be fine. You need to get out there and stir things up to get people excited about the new season.”

Victor nodded.

“They’d be more excited to see us together,” he mused, smiling, “but I agree, you’re at a critical stage, getting ready for your competition. You need to focus on that. I won’t be gone long, just a few days. Yakov is going to keep you so busy, you’ll hardly know I’m gone. Just ask him anything you don’t understand, and if he starts to yell at you, hug him. It usually surprises him so he’ll stop. Yurio said he would practice the new combinations with you, so that’s taken care of.”

“And I’ll keep working on improving my Russian,” Yuuri promised, “That will give me something to do when I’m not skating, eating or sleeping.”

Victor gave him a warm kiss on the lips and an amused look.

“You mean there are times we’re not doing one of those three things?” he chuckled, “Take care of yourself, Yuuri.”

“I will.”

Victor dropped to one knee to pet the old tan poodle that laid on the bed next to his husband.

“You take care of Yuuri, Maccachin,” Victor said, hugging the dog as whined and licked the Russian skater’s face, “And take care of yourself. Good boy.”

He rose again and ran light fingertips along Yuuri’s soft cheek.

“I love you.”

“Love you too,” Yuuri whispered back, watching quietly as Victor turned away and picked up his suitcase, then carried it out of the room.

He listened to Victor’s retreating footsteps, then the sound of the front door opening and closing. Left alone with Maccachin in the now too quiet house, Yuuri rolled over in his bed and looked out the window, into the cloudy sky, where a flock of seagulls were flying by, emitting soft cries that reminded him instantly of the ocean in Hasetsu. He breathed slowly, mulling over the past year he had spent in Victor’s home country, and the turns that their relationship had taken.

Living here with Victor is the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me. While it’s true that we couldn’t be married in either of our home countries and our marriage license isn’t worth the paper it’s written on, where we live, we feel a bond that’s real, one we acknowledged when I took his surname. It doesn’t really matter what the world calls us. We know who we are, and that’s all that matters now. Victor and I are happy.

Yuuri’s eyes blinked slowly and he yawned and hugged Maccachin, who thumped his tail on the bed and licked the young man’s cheek.

We’ll stay in Saint Petersburg until we retire from skaing, he mused silently, then we’ve talked about going to settle down somewhere where our marriage will be acknowledged. I guess as much as we can be happy the way we are…everyone wants to be accepted.

Yuuri closed his eyes and curled closer to Maccachin, letting himself drift off again and sleeping for another hour before the alarm clock brought him awake and coaxed him out of bed. He deflated a little at the too quiet house and the lack of Victor’s energetic presence, but revived himself with a quick shower, before dressing in his practice clothes and heading out to meet his spirited rinkmate. He found Yurio waiting on the bridge, a few blocks away from the house, in the company of a tall, serious-faced man, who was also a member of the skating elite.

“Hi Yurio,” Yuuri greeted his friend, “Otabek. I didn’t know you were visiting.”

“Hey, pork cutlet bowl,” Yurio greeted him, “He’s not visiting.”

“I have moved to Saint Petersburg now to train here,” Otabek explained.

“Oh, that’s great,” Yuuri said, smiling.

“Here,” Yurio said, tossing Yuuri a bag filled with still warm pirozhkis, “They’re fresh. I figured you’d need some company, now that Victor’s off doing publicity. I’m surprised you didn’t just say fuck it, and go with him.”

“The competition’s going to be extra tough this year,” Yuuri said, an edge of anxiety in his voice, “and my program this year is really difficult.”

“Well,” said Otabek, “Victor wouldn’t have given you that program if he didn’t have confidence that you would master it. You’re skating has been growing by leaps and bounds.”

“Yours has been amazing,” Yuuri said appreciatively, “It’s hard keeping up with you.”

“Thanks,” Otabek replied, nodding.

“We should get going,” Yurio suggested as Yuuri pulled out one of the pirozhkis and started to eat, “Yakov will be in a pissy mood today, because his ex is going to be working with me on my new program. If I were you, Yuuri, I’d find a corner and just keep your head down and do your thing. It’s a pain being around him when she’s there, nagging him.”

“I’ll watch my step,” Yuuri chuckled, “I feel sorry for you, having to put up with the two of them.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Yurio huffed, playfully mocking him, “It’s worth it to get a program I’m going to crush you with this year.”

“You said that last year, didn’t you?” Yuuri reminded him, exchanging a smirk with Otabek, “As I recall, Victor and I both beat you.”

“The power of love,” Otabek said in an amused tone.

“Hah!” Yurio scoffed, taking Otabek’s hand, “Well, this year, I have that too.”

“I think that’s great,” Yuuri said approvingly, “Bring it on.”

The two fell in together, crossing over the bridge and completing the walk to the ice rink, where they checked in and sat down to put their skates on. Yuuri watched as each headed off to begin their training, giving a bored sigh at the thought of training without his lover there.

It’s so funny. For most of my life, I wanted to train alone. I wanted to be alone. All I wanted to do was to be on the ice and to think about how much I wanted to be as good at skating as my idol, Victor.

So much has changed.

I don’t want to be alone anymore. I look forward to every day with Victor, here or wherever we go together, whatever we’re doing. And I have friends here now. Yurio hasn’t changed at all. He still calls me names and teases me about my weight, even though I’m not overweight anymore. He’s rude, but beneath the words, I feel the connection. I’m actually friendly with some of the other skaters here, too. Victor taught me a lot about putting myself out there and making friends. That’s turning out to be a good thing. I miss him right now, while he’s gone, but I’m okay.

“Yuuri!” Yakov snapped, “Stop daydreaming and get over here.”

“Uh-oh,” Yuuri sighed, climbing to his feet and stepping onto the ice.

“Get warmed up,” the elder man said gruffly, “I don’t have all day.”

Yuuri nodded and began his warm ups, quickly falling into the routine that he and Victor used to structure their practice sessions. Within minutes, he was knee-deep in work on the step sequences for his programs, then spins and jumps. Time passed more quickly than he had thought it would, and soon practice was over and he was heading home.

“You want to go out somewhere?” Yurio asked as the two reached the bridge, “You must be bored with just the old dog at home.”

“I’m working on my Russian,” Yuuri said, taking his leave, “I’m getting better, but I have a lot to learn.”

“You learn faster by talking to natives, you know,” Yurio chided him.

“I know, but I’m tired. Yakov had me doing about a billion jumps before he was satisfied. I thought I was going to die on the last few.”

“All right,” Yurio said, smirking, “Go home and eat the rest of those pirozhkis. See you tomorrow, pork cutlet bowl.”

“Bye Yurio.”

Yuuri headed back across the bridge, turning off on the far side to stop by the market on the way home. He strolled home slowly, in no hurry to be faced with the empty, too quiet house.

Maybe I should have taken Yurio up on his offer.

He turned the last corner and headed up the street, his mind on what he was going to make for dinner. It took him a moment to notice that there was something happening on the doorstep at his and Victor’s home. A stern looking woman stood, scolding a little girl.

“Stay there!” she ordered the child, then she turned and hurried to a waiting car.

“What the…hey!” Yuuri called out, breaking into a run, “What are you doing? Where are you…?”

The car shot forward and disappeared down the street, leaving Yuuri staring after it in dismay. He stood, holding the grocery bag and trying to make sense of things, but only felt more confused as a little, scared whimper made him turn and look at the girl who had been left behind. He moved towards her in slow steps, staring at the silvery hair that was pulled up into a high ponytail, the wide, pretty blue-green eyes that he felt like he’d know anywhere.

What is this?

What’s going on?

Who is she?

“Hello,” he greeted the trembling child in Russian, dropping down onto one knee and facing her, but keeping just enough distance not to frighten her more, “I am Yuuri Nikiforov. What is your name?”

The girl rubbed her teary eyes, but gave no answer.

“Do you speak Russian?” he asked in Russian.

The girl gave no answer.

“Do you speak English?” he asked in English.

Do you speak at all? he wondered, She looks scared to death. But I saw that she reacted to hearing English. I guess that’s what she speaks.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, digging through the bag he held and pulling out the last of the pirozhkis that Yurio had given him that morning, “This is good cold, or we could go inside and warm it up. Do you want it cold or warmed?”

The girl quivered, but accepted the pirozhki. She looked down at it silently, then back at Yuuri.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged her, “It’s really tasty. It’s called a pork cutlet bowl pirozhki. It’s my favorite.”

The little girl quivered, staring at him raptly as she took a tentative bite. She chewed slowly, blinking and making no other moves as she ate.

“It’s great, huh?” Yuuri said kindly.

He spotted a note attached to the girl’s coat and carefully extracted it, opening it to read it.

Victor,

This girl is your daughter. Her mother has died and she has nowhere to go. Her mother’s wish was that, if anything happened to her, the girl would be brought to you. Her name is Victoria and she is nine years old. You will find her documents in her bag. Please do not attempt to contact members of her American family. They have no interest in her.

Yuuri looked at the girl again, his heart pounding.

It’s hard to believe, and I know Victor will question it. Who wouldn’t, right? But, I see it. She has his hair, his eyes, his nose, his lips, his ears.

This is Victor’s daughter, a daughter it seems like he has no idea at all she exists.

“Your name is Victoria?” he asked.

The girl said nothing, but gave him a withering look.

“Oh, you go by a different name?” he concluded, “Will you please tell me what it is? Or…or maybe write it? I need to know what to call you.”

The girl paused in her eating, looking at him as though considering.

“Tora,” she said in a voice barely more than a whisper.

Oh my god! I even hear it in her voice. She’s got Victor stamped all over her. She’s obviously scared. Who wouldn’t be? She’s been dumped in a country where she doesn’t know the language or any people. Poor kid. And she’s lost her mother and whatever family she had there.

“It’s nice to meet you, Tora,” Yuuri said kindly, “You can call me Yuuri. I’m Victor’s husband.”

The girl continued to chew on the pirozhki, but gave no answer.

“Why don’t we go inside?” he asked, slipping the key into the lock and opening the door.

Maccachin burst through and crashed into the girl, making her sit down hard on the porch. Yuuri started to scold the dog, then his breath caught in surprise as the girl dropped the last bit of the pirozhki and wrapped her arms around the old poodle’s neck, burying her face in his soft fur and letting out a sob. Her body shook with more silent sobs as she held onto the dog and Maccachin licked her cheek and whined.

“You must be scared to death,” Yuuri said sympathetically, “But, you don’t have to worry. You can come inside and I’ll take care of you until Victor gets back. I’m sure we can work things out. Will you come inside?”

He extended a hand towards the girl and waited silently. The girl peeked around Maccachin’s head, her damp eyes meeting Yuuri’s, and he could see she was considering. After a long hesitation, her slender hand reached out and latched onto his.

“Good,” Yuuri said, helping the girl to her feet as Maccachin barked and finished off the last of the fallen pirozhki.

He picked up the little suitcase that had been left with her, and carried it inside. The two stopped in the entry and Yuuri closed the door behind them.

“You can stay in our guest room,” Yuuri offered, leading her down the hallway and into a comfortably furnished bedroom, “Victor will be back in a couple of days. Until then, you need to stay here, in the house, unless you’re with me. You’re in a different country and you don’t know your way around yet. If it makes you feel better, Maccachin can stay here with you. He’s good at making me feel better when I feel a little lost. Maybe he’ll make you feel better too. Tora, I’m really sorry about you losing your mom. I’m sorry for whatever made the rest of the family decide to send you away. But, you’ll be okay here. I won’t let anything bad happen to you, okay?”

Tora said nothing, but nodded briefly and climbed onto the large, soft bed. She patted the bed with one hand, and again, Yuuri saw the similarity to Victor, plain in her movements.

She’s had it hard. I wonder what went on with her American family. I have so many questions. And I have to decide what to tell Victor. He’s focused on getting people excited about the upcoming season. And what could he do from so far away, anyway? Maybe I should wait and tell him when he comes home.

He looked back at Tora, who sat, holding onto Maccachin and looking out the window, into the clouds.

“The remote for the TV is by the bed,” Yuuri informed her, “There’s a bathroom in the hallway. The door is open. You can come to me if you need anything. I’ll make some dinner for us in a few hours. Is there anything you really like, that you would want me to make?”

He waited for a moment, watching the girl look out the window.

“Okay, I’ll be around.”

He left the bedroom and headed to the kitchen, where he sat down at the table and pulled out his home language course. He placed the ear buds from the set into his ears and began the lesson, listening carefully and repeating, answering questions in Russian, and trying again when he made a mistake. Intent in his work, he didn’t notice when the girl slipped into the hallway and walked down to the kitchen, where she peeked around a corner of the wall to watch him.

Yuuri focused carefully on the images in front of him, studying the pictures and naming things, then putting pictures in order and matching them with statements written in Russian. He completed the lesson, then sighed and sat back, yawning as he looked at the clock.

“Guess it’s time to make dinner. I wonder what she’d like. She wouldn’t even talk to me.”

He dug through the refrigerator and cabinets.

“What do American kids like? Hamburgers? Hot dogs? Pizza? Like we’d keep that stuff around, the way I gain weight when I get nervous and binge eat…”

He sighed in frustration and turned around, then he froze for a second as he spotted Tora watching him. She ducked back behind the wall, and Yuuri turned back to face the sink, pretending that he hadn’t seen her.

She’s curious. Maybe there’s a way to use that. I just have to keep her interest.

He reached over and turned on the radio, smiling as a familiar song came on. He sang along in Russian as he gathered the makings for pork cutlet bowl. Behind the wall, Tora peeked out at him, watching through widened eyes as he measured out the ingredients and started cooking. Soon, delicious cooking smells filled the air. Yuuri breathed in the pleasant scent, his stomach growling as he finished making their dinner. He turned around and a smile crept onto his face as he found Tora waiting at the table for him.

“Hi,” he said, nodding, “I hope you like pork cutlet bowl. It’s from Japan, just like me. It’s my favorite food. Please try some.”

He set a plate in front of her and sat across from her, with his own. The girl sniffed the steam that rose up from the plate, then took a bite. Her face lit up, and Yuuri could almost hear Victor’s happy exclamation of “Vkusno!”

“It’s good, huh? I know the pirozhki was also pork cutlet, but this is what I grew up on. I only usually eat them when I win a competition, because I eat too much and get too heavy for skating.”

He pointed out a portrait on the wall, one of Victor and him, dressed in costumes and holding each other as they swept across the ice.

“Your dad and I are figure skaters,” he explained, “We compete professionally. I’ll tell you what. If you want, tomorrow I’ll take you with me to the ice rink. You can watch me practice if you want to.”

The girl said nothing in reply, but Yuuri didn’t miss the way she continued to steal glances at the portrait as she devoured the food in front of her.

I wonder how Victor will react when he meets her. I wonder what he’ll do. If she’s nine, then Victor was twenty when she was born, which means he was nineteen when he fathered her…assuming she’s really his daughter. It’s a lot to take in. This is a lot for all of us.

I wonder what will happen when Victor gets home.

#Yuri!!! on Ice #victuuri #Victor Nikiforov #Yuri Katsuki #Victor has a daughter

[ourlastbastion]

Embers Ch. 4

Read it on AO3 or FF.Net

"You think we'll be able to find anything from him?" Maka asked.

She and Elijah stood on the opposite end of the interrogation room's glass. Inside of the small room sat Soul, and across from him was a little boy of seven, looking scared and lost, shifting in his seat, and hugging himself tightly.

When they had been told another child has been abducted, and in Pocklington again, they had not expected a witness. There hadn't been a witness in the past abductions.

But there he was, a little boy, Alex Bailey, being consoled by the other cops as they waited for his mother to arrive, waited for Elijah, Maka, and Soul to arrive, sobbing over his sister who had been taken away from him.

Maka had wanted to be in the room with Soul, with the boy. But Elijah said that it would be better not to overwhelm Alex, and Soul said he wanted to give it a shot. So, here she was, separated from the two by a layer of glass, watching as Soul pushed a tray of cookies and a glass of soda to the boy.

"I can't imagine what he's going through," Maka said softly, wrapping her arms around herself, fighting back a sudden chill. "To lose your sister, to watch stranger take her away. It's traumatizing."

"That's why this is so important," Elijah said, taking a sip of coffee he had one of the rookies grab him, staring, unwavering, at the boy. "He could very well be our break in finding these bastards."

Perhaps he was. She could only hope that were the case, watching as Soul and the boy began speaking.

It hadn't taken more than an hour. Soul remained in that room, talking to the boy, getting him to slowly open up to him, to talk to him, and that was all they needed. Within an hour, they had heard everything. And then, only an hour more and everyone involved in the case was brought to a meeting room, sitting at the table as Elijah stood and walked.

"We have a link."

It had been the words everyone there had been waiting so long to hear, had been searching so hard to find. They had a possible link between the missing children, a similarity—and yet it gave no relief, no satisfaction to any.

Elijah nodded to the photo pinned to the board and moved around the table, handing a file to each officer and the two DWMA guests while he spoke, a "Both the first and the most recent abductees were being abused. It's possible that it's just a coincidence, but we're not going to disregard it just for that."

It was only part of what Soul had managed to learn from the kid in the interrogation room.

The boy had gone to the candy store with his sister, Anna Bailey, age nine. They had been walking back, taking shortcuts, when a pair of men had approached them. They had told them they knew about their lives, said they wanted to take them someplace better, happier.

Anna had apparently known this was not right and tried to get the men to go away. The men tried to grab them, and the kids ran. Alex hid behind a dumpster, but they managed to get Anna, he had watched them drag her into a black sedan.

What else he had learned was what linked him and Anna to Amanda Lewis. His wrist and arm was scarred and bruised.

"Each of you are getting the files of different children," Elijah continued on. "You're going to dig as deep as possible, and then even deeper. If the kids were being beaten, you're not going to get their parents to admit it."

As Elijah brought the last files to her and Soul, Maka pushed herself up to stand, surveying the small group of cops and detectives. "We're not just looking for signs of domestic abuse," she added, earning a nod from the ginger detective. "Look into if they were being bullied at school, and how severely, or if there was a different figure in their life who was hurting them. Were they suffering? Why?"

"It's possible our suspects think they're saving these kids," Elijah continued, standing at the head of the table, looking down at them all with a narrowed gaze. "They think they're the heroes here and that we're the villains. If that is the case, then the chances the kids are still alive is a lot better than it had been before—they are unlikely to want to hurt the kids."

One officer raised his hand, Elijah nodded and the man—Officer Wilkins, Maka recalled—stood up. "That's not necessarily the case, though, is it?" he said slowly, eyes locked unwaveringly on Elijah's. "Angels of Death types believe they are doing good by saving their victims and ending their suffering by killing them. Look at the Robles case of '07. He murdered children he believed were being abused and thought he was saving them."

There was a quiet burst of murmurs as people around the table spoke. Elijah silenced them all with a wave of his hand.

"You're right, Wilkins. We can't be sure that this isn't another Robles," he agreed. "But personally I would rather hang on to hope that the kids are still alive, I won't force any of you to do the same. We simply don't know what they are doing after kidnapping them, I merely want to hope for the less grizzly option."

That seemed to be enough and Wilkins sat down with a nod of his head. Elijah looked around the table once more. "Any other questions? Comments?"

"What are we going to do with the kid we found?" an older, plumper woman said, she reminded Maka a little of Auntie back at the academy. "We can't really keep him away from his mother forever."

Maka found herself nodding at the woman's words, she wasn't wrong. "Because Alex is our only witness, and due to the possibility of him still being a target, he will remain in joint custody of the police and DWMA for the time being," she explained. That should be enough to pacify any complaints, as the reasons seemed simple enough; keep the boy in their security to keep him safe and in case he remembered something. It would also keep him away from his mother as social workers investigated her and his family for abuse charges.

Maka just hoped that it would be enough. She wanted to get the boy away from that terrible place, and she was determined to rescue his sister too.

"The kid will be fine," Elijah cut in. "You guys all have your files. Read them. Track down everyone who knew your kids, even the ones not listed. Check in with the neighbors, classmates and so on. Look into every little detail, nothing is too small or insignificant, got it?"

There was a chorus of 'yes, sir!' from around the room as everyone got to work.

Papers flipped, pen against paper, quiet talking as calls were made. The officers were quick to get to work, Maka noted, already diving headfirst into their cases, devoting every bit of attention they had to reading and planning. It filled her with a sense of…pride. Pride of being a part of this team, even if she and Soul were technically the new ones. Even so, seeing the others get to work so quickly and so hard filled her with determination as she flipped open her own file to see who she had been given.

Amanda's face stared back at her.

Maka's smile slipped as she looked at the file, at the child, feeling something twist in her gut.

A chair scrapped against the floor beside her. "I decided it was better to keep you and Soul here rather than sending you two to separate parts of the Yorkshire area," Elijah explained, having seemingly noticed her reaction to the file. "If something happens, I'm assuming you two want to be together. So you'll be overseeing the Pocklington cases with me."

"I see," Maka breathed, nodding her head, "Thanks. For considering Soul and I's feelings. You're right, we wouldn't want to be split up."

The unit got to work rather quickly, going over their files, looking up on databases, making calls to other precincts, arranging for trips down to their chosen towns. Soul and Maka worked together compiling a list of places to check out that they knew their kids frequented, arranged meetings with teachers, made a list of peers to interview.

It wasn't hard, but the hours slipped by, the sun quickly rising and setting, the day going by them in a blur. Several of the cops had left, gone home to pack and rest before leaving town in the morning, but a small number remained.

Maka was still focused on her file, having gone through papers upon papers of notes she had made, things to investigate on the morrow when Soul left, to hit a nearby convenience store to grab the group something to eat. She'd given him little more than a quick thank you before returning to her papers.

The local middle school, that's where she wanted to start tomorrow. She'd go to the middle school, speak with the teachers and staff, find out who some of Amanda's closest classmates were and then to question them. Find out from her peers where she hung out at, and then ask the people who frequented those spots.

Someone had to have seen something.

If both victims were being abused, then the kidnappers knew, they were watching. And they must have first found the victims somewhere before they began their observing and planning. You don't just wake up one day knowing who you are kidnapping and where to find them.

This was the first lead this case has gotten in two years, Maka was going to make sure that it didn't go to waste.

Soul had made rather quick work getting to the convenience store. The sandwiches, teas and other snacks bought and bagged. It had been rather generic, uninteresting.

It only became interesting when Soul was leaving and saw a familiar customer doing the same.

"Hey," Soul greeted before he could stop himself, watching as the young man froze and slowly turn around. Green eyes bore into red, brows furrowed, and Soul was sure he was scowling under that mask of his. "You're, ah, Haruto, right?"

The café employee waited a few moments before responding. "Yeah," it was curt, and he turned around, leaving the store.

Maka had said she felt something off about the guy, hadn't she? And now that Soul was seeing him up close, there was something about him that… felt odd. He just could not put his finger to it. But perhaps that was what drove Soul quickly followed after the man, even if it meant not going right back to the precinct.

To his surprise, Haruto was a fast walker, a very fast walker. When the store doors closed behind Soul, the guy was already almost at the end of the block, forcing the weapon to sprint to catch up. He swore Haruto sped up even more when he realized Soul was following. But, he did manage to reach the guy, matching his pace and walking at his side, between him and the street.

"Sheesh, you sure know how to book it," Soul chuckled, adjusting his grip on the plastic bag in his hand. He glanced at Haruto, he had a few bags in one hand, and Soul noticed cups of ramen, bread, and all sorts of cheap foods. "Wouldn't it have been easier to go to the grocery store for all of it? Probably cheaper."

Haruto remained silent, but Soul felt the heat in his glare.

Walking together, Soul took the moment to look at him from a closer position. The guy did not look particularly attractive, not that he looked unattractive, either. As far as Soul could tell, he seemed pretty average looking, at least from what little of the guy's face that Soul could see. Who knew, perhaps he had the most amazing smile ever seen on Earth, and that was why he had to hide his face. Not that Soul could picture Haruto as much for smiling.

He was a good few inches shorter than Soul—probably more around Maka's height—his frame narrow, thin, probably fresh in his twenties. He was dressed in simple jeans and a black zip-up sweater. Just like at the café, he still had his lower face covered by a mask and this time had black latex gloves covering his hands. Soul could see familiar bags under the guys eyes, the kind that he knew personally from not only himself, but from Crona and Maka—a sign that this guy was running on barely any sleep and had been for a long time.

"So," Soul began, earning another side-eyed glare when he broke the silence. "I'm—"

"Soul."

The weapon paused and turned his head fully to look at Haruto, mouth hanging slightly open before he found the mind to close it. Had he said his name before? No, not at any time where Haruto would have heard it. This was their first time speaking, too. "How'd you know?"

Haruto gave a chuckle, it was hollow, sarcastic. "Ya' advertise everywhere that yer a member of the DWMA with the Death emblem your mate an' you carry on yer clothes," he pointed out, giving a pointed look to the skull on the right sleeve of Souls jacket. "Once ya' know that much, it ain't that hard. You guys are easy to Google—there ain't that many albinos in yer little gang."

The way that Haruto spoke, there was an acidic contempt in the words. Either he did not like Soul, or, more likely, he really did not like the DWMA. A lot of people harbored resentment towards the academy and its member, it was something Soul had come to realize a while back, a resentment that grew more prominent after the war with the Acolytes. Or, perhaps it was that people were more open about their distrust.

"I guess that makes sense," Soul murmured as he rubbed the back of his neck. "And you're Haruto? That's what I think the waitress called you. Haruto…?"

He glared at Soul, but Soul just met his gaze with his own, steady, waiting. If Haruto wanted to play the silent stoic, well, Soul could wait his silence out.

There was an anger in those green eyes, a held in a glass jar. Soul wonder how much it would take for that rage to break free, wondered if he should even risk tempting fate—he didn't know just what this guy could do if he pressed the wrong buttons.

Eventually, Haruto heaved a sigh, shaking his head and muttering a string of curses under his breath. "Haruto Arakawa. Ya' happy now?"

"As a clam in high water."

Haruto rolled his eyes and came to a stop at a curb-side bus stop, tapping his foot impatiently against the sidewalk and shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, letting the bags hang heavy off his wrists. He looked at Soul again, eyes narrowed. "Precinct's the other way. Or ya' tryin' to follow me all the way home?"

"It's tempting, but I'd better not. My partners might misunderstand, think I'm cheating if I go home with you," Soul responded with a toothy smile and small laugh.

That got a raised brow, the heat of his glare faltering as confusion flashed in Haruto's eyes. "Partners…ya' mean meister? Ya got more than one meister? That's just fuckin' weird."

Ah, him and his big mouth. With a sheepish shrug, Soul once again adjusted his grip on the bag, feeling the plastic digging into the skin of his fingers and the weight starting to make his digits ache. Hopefully, the cheap plastic didn't tear. "No, no. I only have the one meister. I meant partners like, ah, relationship. Boyfriend, girlfriend, that sort of thing?" he said, hoping that it made sense, though it didn't really look like Haruto got it yet. "I'm in a throuple."

"The fuck's a throuple?"

Was… was this guy dense? He seemed like he was simply just an angry fellow, but now Soul was wondering if he was a little naïve, too. Most people knew what a throuple was, right? From media and shit. Polygamy wasn't exactly a new notion. Or maybe people here didn't say 'throuple'?

"A three-way relationship?" Soul tried again, turning to face Haruto as they waited for the bus to arrive. "Polyamory? When you and two others are in a romantic relationship?"

Haruto made a face and shook his head. "Sounds complicated as fuck, an more troublesome than it's worth. Havin' one S-O sounds bad enough, an here ya are havin' two? The fuck?"

Laughing, Soul shrugged once more. "Yeah, well, when you're in love, you don't really care about how troublesome it might be," and he did love them. Crona and Maka he loved them both, more than there were words to describe. "What about you? You been in a relationship before? High school crushes? College romances?"

Haruto glared at him, and Soul realized that maybe he didn't want to talk about his own personal life. Which seemed kind of unfair since Soul just told him about his love life, but, whatever. So, instead he decided to try something else. "So," A few people walked past them as they stood there waiting. "How long have you been living here?"

There was a long pause, Haruto glaring at him and remaining silent, with Soul watching him patiently and expectantly. Finally, he grumbled, cursed some more. "Don't know why it's any of yer business," He groused. "Probably around three an' a half years."

"Ah," Soul nodded. "Right before the kidnappings began."

He was sure that Haruto wanted to smack him, the rage in his eyes were growing fiercer with every second of time Soul kept taking, ever question he kept asking. "Was this unwanted followin' all yer elaborate way to interrogate me?" he asked. "Am I a suspect or somethin'?"

"No, no," Soul quickly assured him. "I was just speaking out loud. But, since you have been here since the kidnappings started," Soul paused to mentally find the right wording, the one that might irritate the guy the least. "Have you ever noticed anything that seemed suspicious?"

"Besides an annoyin' guy followin' me from a convenience store all the way home, who won't stop jawin' on about shit?" Haruto snapped back, almost shoving against Soul with his shoulder. "No, I've seen nothin'."

"Damn, you're an aggressive guy. What's got you in such a hurry, anyway? Got someone waiting for you?" It was mostly sarcastic, with this guy's attitude, Soul couldn't really imagine him having anyone waiting for him. But, then Haruto stiffened, and that fury seemed to increase to the point that Soul realized he had actually hit the nail. "Wait, you do, don't you?"

"I don't think it's any of your fuckin' business."

"Ouch. Language."

"Bite me."

What did that Amber chick see in him? This guy was as unpleasant as they came. Soul rolled his eyes, "So, who's waiting for you? I'm guessing that's why you're so angry right now." Not that he could imagine that someone actually enjoyed Haruto's presence enough to wait for him to come home.

He glared at Soul. "My lil' sister, who is probably fuckin' starvin' right now cause yer wastin' all my time."

Okay, a little sister made a lot more sense than any girlfriend or boyfriend did. And Soul was wasting his time? Even if he wasn't here, Haruto would have still been waiting for the bus, so that was just rude. But he kept that to himself, saying it out loud would have just annoyed the other man all the more.

"A little sister? I hope she's doing okay, it's probably scary for her with the recent kidnappings going on," Soul said, and then he added, quieter; "Probably not the safest to be alone."

Haruto snorted, "I'm not worried. Trust me; she'll be fine."

"Oh?" Soul raised a brow. "What's got you so confident?"

The bus was pulling up now, and Haruto had turned to face Soul, looking directly at him. His eyes were cold. An icy remorselessness that felt so wrong and Soul couldn't understand why.

"I'll kill anyone who fuckin' tries."

And with that, he climbed onto the bus and flipped Soul off.

Soul was left watching as the bus left, processing what Haruto had said. Something about the way he looked—Soul wasn't sure the guy was kidding. "Well, that'd be a quick solution to the kidnapping problem, then," he muttered, imagining the young man actually murdering numerous kidnappers. It didn't seem like an implausible feat from what he'd seen of him and his temper. "But, yikes, he's got some anger."

Just as he was running his hands through his hair, contemplating the last ten minutes of his conversation, he felt his phone vibrating in his back pocket as a familiar ring filled the air. Pulling it out, Maka's name greeted him on the screen. A quick swipe and he brought the phone to his ear.

"Yo."

"Soul, you okay?" Maka asked. "You've been gone

for a while, everything okay?"

"Ah, yeah, sorry. Ran into someone and just started talking," Soul answered, already starting his walk back to the precinct, noticing how numb his fingers had grown. "I'll tell you about it when I get back, think you might want to hear."

Crona frowned, shifting awkwardly, the dying lights of the day setting over the trees.

Beside them, Detective Barrichello sharply breathed in, crossing his thick arms over his chest, staring down at the coroners, local cops, and their fellow Interpol agents as they scavenged the area. They stood at the top of a small dip in the earth, at the creak that flowed through it, with crowds of civilians being held back by tape and cops behind them.

Barrichello sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Joggers found him. All the teeth were pulled out, the skin of his fingers and toes removed" he said, shaking his head, his expression of frustration. "We can't get an I.D. on who the victim even is this time. Even the face has been disfigured beyond recognition."

"Do we… do we know if it's the same killer?"

The detective chuckled, "If it's not, then it's a damn good copycat," he said. "We've got confirmation on a new…episode… from our guy, that coupled with a body? We will need to examine the recording to know if the wounds match, but the guy's heart was removed. No one outside of the investigations knew about that part, not even those listening to his podcasts knew he removed the hearts."

Crona grimaced, reaching over to grasp their arm tightly. They had seen the body; it was impressively horrifying. Each wound had been inflicted with purpose, with thoughtful consideration, nothing like the almost instinctive violence of the Kishin eggs, it was not erratic. The wounds were delivered not unlike an artist making brushstrokes on a canvas.

Whoever this killer was, Crona was afraid. They were afraid of him, of what he could do. He was a monster, the kind of monster you feared hid in the closet or under the bed, the kind that had no face or body, but you feared all the same.

They wished that Soul were here, or that Maka was here, if they had at least one of them, then Crona knew they would feel a little braver. But, no, that would be selfish. The two had a mission of their own that they were working on, missing kids they needed to find, abductors to stop. Crona couldn't take them away from that.

They were too focused on their own thoughts that they didn't notice that Captain Deneuve was approaching them, pulling the yellow crime scene tape up to ducking under it.

"Crona," she said sharply, causing the meister to flinch. "Walk with me."

Looking helplessly at Barrichello, the man just smiled and nudged them over to the captain who was already walking away. Just suck it up and follow her! Ragnarok snapped from within their head, their blood bubbling, a warning sensation of what was to come. But it didn't, Ragnarok remained in their veins, in their head.

Swallowing hard, Crona stumbled after Deneuve.

She said nothing for a good while, remaining silent as they passed cops, leading Crona away from the crowds and reporters looking for answers.

It wasn't until they were well away from the earshot of others that Deneuve heaved a heavy sigh. "I'm going to have to ask you something personal, kid," she said, turning to stare Crona down, arms crossed over her chest. She looked imposing. Terrifying. "I know your past, your previous affiliation. Don't worry, I didn't go snooping. It was all there in the file the academy sent me to review before accepting your aid."

Crona shifted, trying to make themselves small, as small as possible when she mentioned their past. It was still difficult for some to look past. Their mother was a witch. She infiltrated the DWMA, tried to revive the Kishin, caused so many bad things to happen, hurt so many people. It was difficult for Crona when people brought her up, brought their past up.

Blood rushed through their body, Crona felt the familiar tearing sensation in their skin as Ragnarok emerged, resting his small body against their head. "Yeah?" he demanded, his voice defensive, "What about it?"

The captain held her hands up, "I was hoping your knowledge would come in handy," she said. "How quickly he is able to get around, so suddenly and at short notice, going from one nation to another; it's likely that our killer is affiliated with the witches in some way."

"I… I was thinking that too," Crona admitted quietly. Should they have mentioned it earlier? But, Captain Deneuve didn't seem upset by their admittance, instead, she was just nodding her head in thought.

Bringing a hand to her chin, she rubbed at it, looking down to the ground in thought. "Did you ever come across anyone who possessed the ability to possibly teleport?" she asked. "Or anything similar?"

Crona thought, they really, really thought hard, tried racking their head over every witch and sorcerer they had met when serving Lady Medusa. But they came up with nothing. They couldn't think of anyone who had any sort of magic that could have made this possible. In defeat, they hung their head low and gave it a solemn shake.

"No… I'm sorry." Crona mumbled.

"Hey, it's okay, can't expect someone to know everyone," Deneuve said and shrugged. "I figured I would ask, and I didn't want to risk making a scene with too many people around."

Lifting their head, Crona looked fretfully at the captain. "This is the second kill in Brazil, I don't—he might already be somewhere else."

The captain had a look of frustration cross her face. "I know," she said, her voice sharp, but not at them. "I know… we have to keep an eye out. The police already know to contact us if they find a body matching the M.O. of our killer, and we've got people keeping track of the Podcasts, waiting to let us know when he has a new one go live."

It was all they could do for now. Continue to investigate the bodies and scenes, and wait for him to act again.

#Soul Eater #Embers #fanfiction #Adrian's writing

[cathygeha]

REVIEW

The Night Swim by Megan Goldin

 Two women traumatized

Twenty-five years apart

One suffered and died long ago

One alive suffering every day

 Two other women

Invested in the traumatized

Looking for answers

Looking for truth

 This is more than one story with the lives of four women in two eras enduring a similar traumatic experience. The story is told in chapters that speak of the present as seen through the eyes of Rachel who will be presenting information for the followers of her true crime podcast and what she says in the podcast presentations are interspersed in the story in true time as if shared while she is speaking on her program. The other portion of the story is told in letters and notes written by a person that seems at first to be a stalker but then later proves to have a story she wants Rachel to hear and in hearing she hopes that Rachel will help her find the truth about her sister and perhaps in so doing find justice for Jenny. The trial is also experienced through the eyes of Rachel and I felt as if I were there hearing it beside her.

 What I liked:

* Rachel: a tenacious, insightful, curious, intelligent woman who as a journalist looks for the truth and presents her story without bias…or would like to think she does. I would have enjoyed hearing a bit more of her backstory and wondered if perhaps she might star in a series of books in the future with each one about a podcast she is preparing for.

* Hannah: a woman with a childhood nobody should have lived through. I liked the way she was finally ready to find answers, seek justice, and perhaps find a type of closure so she can move on.

* K – the rape victim taking her rapist to trial. I was able to see through her experience the travesty rape victims face within the the court/court system

* Jenny – I think she was the star of this book even though she was long gone.

* The way the clues about the past (and the present) were revealed

* The unflinching look at bullying, rape, and other difficult topics in this book

* That the truth did finally come out before the end of the story

* The look at how people can see the same situation so differently

* That this left me caring, thinking, and wishing life could be different

* The nightingale…

 What I did not like:

* Knowing that what is was written as fiction in this book is not fiction to those who have experienced what the women in this story did.

* Being reminded again that rape victims are put on trial almost more than their rapists

* Realizing once again that the courts are not always just or that justice is not always served within courts

 Did I enjoy this book? Hmm…I did but it was unsettling in some ways and yet very very good

Would I read more by this author? Definitely                              

 Thank you to NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press for the ARC – This is my honest review.

 5 Stars

BLURB

In The Night Swim, a new thriller from Megan Goldin, author of the “gripping and unforgettable” (Harlen Coben) The Escape Room, a true crime podcast host covering a controversial trial finds herself drawn deep into a small town’s dark past and a brutal crime that took place there years before.

 Ever since her true-crime podcast became an overnight sensation and set an innocent man free, Rachel Krall has become a household name—and the last hope for people seeking justice. But she’s used to being recognized for her voice, not her face. Which makes it all the more unsettling when she finds a note on her car windshield, addressed to her, begging for help.

 The new season of Rachel's podcast has brought her to a small town being torn apart by a devastating rape trial. A local golden boy, a swimmer destined for Olympic greatness, has been accused of raping the beloved granddaughter of the police chief. Under pressure to make Season 3 a success, Rachel throws herself into her investigation—but the mysterious letters keep coming. Someone is following her, and she won’t stop until Rachel finds out what happened to her sister twenty-five years ago. Officially, Jenny Stills tragically drowned, but the letters insist she was murdered—and when Rachel starts asking questions, nobody in town wants to answer. The past and present start to collide as Rachel uncovers startling connections between the two cases—and a revelation that will change the course of the trial and the lives of everyone involved.

 Electrifying and propulsive, The Night Swim asks: What is the price of a reputation? Can a small town ever right the wrongs of its past? And what really happened to Jenny?

 Buy Links:

Macmillan

Books-A-Million

Barnes & Noble

Amazon

EXTRACT

 Chapter 1

 Hannah

  It was Jenny’s death that killed my mother. Killed her as good as if she’d been shot in the chest with a twelve-gauge shotgun. The doctor said it was the cancer. But I saw the will to live drain out of her the moment the policeman knocked on our screen door.

 “It’s Jenny, isn’t it?” Mom rasped, clutching the lapel of her faded dressing gown.

 “Ma’am, I don’t know how to tell you other than to say it straight.” The policeman spoke in the low-pitched melancholic tone he’d used moments earlier when he’d pulled up and told me to wait in the patrol car as its siren lights painted our house streaks of red and blue.

 Despite his request, I’d slipped out of the back seat and rushed to Mom’s side as she turned on the front porch light and stepped onto the stoop, dazed from being woken late at night. I hugged her withered waist as he told her what he had to say. Her body shuddered at each word.

 His jaw was tight under strawberry blond stubble and his light eyes were watery by the time he was done. He was a young cop. Visibly inexperienced in dealing with tragedy. He ran his knuckles across the corners of his glistening eyes and swallowed hard.

 “I’m s-s-sorry for your loss, ma’am,” he stammered when there was nothing left to say. The finality of those words would reverberate through the years that followed.

 But at that moment, as the platitudes still hung in the air, we stood on the stoop, staring at each other, uncertain what to do as we contemplated the etiquette of death.

 I tightened my small, girlish arms around Mom’s waist as she lurched blindly into the house. Overcome by grief. I moved along with her. My arms locked around her. My face pressed against her hollow stomach. I wouldn’t let go. I was certain that I was all that was holding her up.

 She collapsed into the lumpy cushion of the armchair. Her face hidden in her clawed-up hands and her shoulders shaking from soundless sobs.

 I limped to the kitchen and poured her a glass of lemonade. It was all I could think to do. In our family, lemonade was the Band-Aid to fix life’s troubles. Mom’s teeth chattered against the glass as she tilted it to her mouth. She took a sip and left the glass teetering on the worn upholstery of her armchair as she wrapped her arms around herself.

 I grabbed the glass before it fell and stumbled toward the kitchen. Halfway there, I realized the policeman was still standing at the doorway. He was staring at the floor. I followed his gaze. A track of bloody footprints in the shape of my small feet was smeared across the linoleum floor.

 He looked at me expectantly. It was time for me to go to the hospital like I’d agreed when I’d begged him to take me home first so that I could be with Mom when she found out about Jenny. I glared at him defiantly. I would not leave my mother alone that night. Not even to get medical treatment for the cuts on my feet. He was about to argue the point when a garbled message came through on his patrol car radio. He squatted down so that he was at the level of my eyes and told me that he’d arrange for a nurse to come to the house as soon as possible to attend to my injured feet. I watched through the mesh of the screen door as he sped away. The blare of his police siren echoed long after his car disappeared in the dark.

 The nurse arrived the following morning. She wore hospital scrubs and carried an oversized medical bag. She apologized for the delay, telling me that the ER had been overwhelmed by an emergency the previous night and nobody could get away to attend to me. She sewed me up with black sutures and wrapped thick bandages around my feet. Before she left, she warned me not to walk, because the sutures would pop. She was right. They did.

 Jenny was barely sixteen when she died. I was five weeks short of my tenth birthday. Old enough to know that my life would never be the same. Too young to understand why.

 I never told my mother that I’d held Jenny’s cold body in my arms until police officers swarmed over her like buzzards and pulled me away. I never told her a single thing about that night. Even if I had, I doubt she would have heard. Her mind was in another place.

 We buried my sister in a private funeral. The two of us and a local minister, and a couple of Mom’s old colleagues who came during their lunch break, wearing their supermarket cashier uniforms. At least they’re the ones that I remember. Maybe there were others. I can’t recall. I was so young.

 The only part of the funeral that I remember clearly was Jenny’s simple coffin resting on a patch of grass alongside a freshly dug grave. I took off my hand-knitted sweater and laid it out on top of the polished casket. “Jenny will need it,” I told Mom. “It’ll be cold for her in the ground.”

 We both knew how much Jenny hated the cold. On winter days when bitter drafts tore through gaps in the patched-up walls of our house, Jenny would beg Mom to move us to a place where summer never ended.

 A few days after Jenny’s funeral, a stone-faced man from the police department arrived in a creased gabardine suit. He pulled a flip-top notebook from his jacket and asked me if I knew what had happened the night that Jenny died.

 My eyes were downcast while I studied each errant thread in the soiled bandages wrapped around my feet. I sensed his relief when after going through the motions of asking more questions and getting no response he tucked his empty notebook into his jacket pocket and headed back to his car.

 I hated myself for my stubborn silence as he drove away. Sometimes when the guilt overwhelms me, I remind myself that it was not my fault. He didn’t ask the right questions and I didn’t know how to explain things that I was too young to understand.

 This year we mark a milestone. Twenty-five years since Jenny died. A quarter of a century and nothing has changed. Her death is as raw as it was the day we buried her. The only difference is that I won’t be silent anymore.

 Chapter 2

 Rachel

 A single streak of white cloud marred an otherwise perfect blue sky as Rachel Krall drove her silver SUV on a flat stretch of highway toward the Atlantic Ocean. Dead ahead on the horizon was a thin blue line. It widened as she drove closer until Rachel knew for certain that it was the sea.

 Rachel glanced uneasily at the fluttering pages of the letter resting on the front passenger seat next to her as she zoomed along the right lane of the highway. She was deeply troubled by the letter. Not so much by the contents, but instead by the strange, almost sinister way the letter had been delivered earlier that morning.

 After hours on the road, she’d pulled into a twenty-four-hour diner where she ordered a mug of coffee and pancakes that came covered with half-thawed blueberries and two scoops of vanilla ice cream, which she pushed to the side of her plate. The coffee was bitter, but she drank it anyway. She needed it for the caffeine, not the taste. When she finished her meal, she ordered an extra-strong iced coffee and a muffin to go in case her energy flagged on the final leg of the drive.

 While waiting for her takeout order, Rachel applied eye drops to revive her tired green eyes and twisted up her shoulder-length auburn hair to get it out of her face. Rachel was tying her hair into a topknot when the waitress brought her order in a white paper bag before rushing off to serve a truck driver who was gesticulating angrily for his bill.

 Rachel left a larger than necessary tip for the waitress, mostly because she felt bad at the way customers hounded the poor woman over the slow service. Not her fault, thought Rachel. She’d waitressed through college and knew how tough it was to be the only person serving tables during an unexpected rush.

 By the time she pushed open the swinging doors of the restaurant, Rachel was feeling full and slightly queasy. It was bright outside and she had to shield her eyes from the sun as she headed to her car. Even before she reached it, she saw something shoved under her windshield wiper. Assuming it was an advertising flyer, Rachel abruptly pulled it off her windshield. She was about to crumple it up unread when she noticed her name had been neatly written in bold lettering: Rachel Krall (from the Guilty or Not Guilty podcast).

 Rachel received thousands of emails and social media messages every week. Most were charming and friendly. Letters from fans. A few scared the hell out of her. Rachel had no idea which category the letter would fall into, but the mere fact that a stranger had recognized her and left a note addressed to her on her car made her decidedly uncomfortable.

 Rachel looked around in case the person who’d left the letter was still there. Waiting. Watching her reaction. Truck drivers stood around smoking and shooting the breeze. Others checked the rigging of the loads on their trucks. Car doors slammed as motorists arrived. Engines rumbled to life as others left. Nobody paid Rachel any attention, although that did little to ease the eerie feeling she was being watched.

 It was rare for Rachel to feel vulnerable. She’d been in plenty of hairy situations over the years. A month earlier, she’d spent the best part of an afternoon locked in a high-security prison cell talking to an uncuffed serial killer while police marksmen pointed automatic rifles through a hole in the ceiling in case the prisoner lunged at her during the interview. Rachel hadn’t so much as broken into a sweat the entire time. Rachel felt ridiculous that a letter left on her car had unnerved her more than a face-to-face meeting with a killer.

 Deep down, Rachel knew the reason for her discomfort. She had been recognized. In public. By a stranger. That had never happened before. Rachel had worked hard to maintain her anonymity after being catapulted to fame when the first season of her podcast became a cultural sensation, spurring a wave of imitation podcasts and a national obsession with true crime.

 In that first season, Rachel had uncovered fresh evidence that proved that a high school teacher had been wrongly convicted for the murder of his wife on their second honeymoon. Season 2 was even more successful when Rachel had solved a previously unsolvable cold case of a single mother of two who was bashed to death in her hair salon. By the time the season had ended, Rachel Krall had become a household name.

 Despite her sudden fame, or rather because of it, she deliberately kept a low profile. Rachel’s name and broadcast voice were instantly recognizable, but people had no idea what she looked like or who she was when she went to the gym, or drank coffee at her favorite cafe, or pushed a shopping cart through her local supermarket.

 The only public photos of Rachel were a series of black-and-white shots taken by her ex-husband during their short-lived marriage when she was at grad school. The photos barely resembled her anymore, maybe because of the camera angle, or the monochrome hues, or perhaps because her face had become more defined as she entered her thirties.

 In the early days, before the podcast had taken off, they’d received their first media request for a photograph of Rachel to run alongside an article on the podcast’s then-cult following. It was her producer Pete’s idea to use those dated photographs. He had pointed out that reporting on true crime often attracted cranks and kooks, and even the occasional psychopath. Anonymity, they’d agreed, was Rachel’s protection. Ever since then she’d cultivated it obsessively, purposely avoiding public-speaking events and TV show appearances so that she wouldn’t be recognized in her private life.

 That was why it was unfathomable to Rachel that a random stranger had recognized her well enough to leave her a personalized note at a remote highway rest area where she’d stopped on a whim. Glancing once more over her shoulder, she ripped open the envelope to read the letter inside:

 Dear Rachel,

 I hope you don’t mind me calling you by your first name. I feel that I know you so well.

 She recoiled at the presumed intimacy of the letter. The last time she’d received fan mail in that sort of familiar tone, it was from a sexual sadist inviting her to pay a conjugal visit at his maximum-security prison.

 Rachel climbed into the driver’s seat of her car and continued reading the note, which was written on paper torn from a spiral notebook.

 I’m a huge fan, Rachel. I listened to every episode of your podcast. I truly believe that you are the only person who can help me. My sister Jenny was killed a long time ago. She was only sixteen. I’ve written to you twice to ask you to help me. I don’t know what I’ll do if you say no again.

 Rachel turned to the last page. The letter was signed: Hannah. She had no recollection of getting Hannah’s letters, but that didn’t mean much. If letters had been sent, they would have gone to Pete or their intern, both of who vetted the flood of correspondence sent to the podcast email address. Occasionally Pete would forward a letter to Rachel to review personally.

 In the early days of the podcast, Rachel had personally read all the requests for help that came from either family or friends frustrated at the lack of progress in their loved ones’ homicide investigations, or prisoners claiming innocence and begging Rachel to clear their names. She’d made a point of personally responding to each letter, usually after doing preliminary research, and often by including referrals to not-for-profit organizations that might help.

 But as the requests grew exponentially, the emotional toll of desperate people begging Rachel for help overwhelmed her. She’d become the last hope of anyone who’d ever been let down by the justice system. Rachel discovered firsthand that there were a lot of them and they all wanted the same thing. They wanted Rachel to make their case the subject of the next season of her podcast, or at the very least, to use her considerable investigative skills to right their wrong.

 Rachel hated that most of the time she could do nothing other than send empty words of consolation to desperate, broken people. The burden of their expectations became so crushing that Rachel almost abandoned the podcast. In the end, Pete took over reviewing all correspondence to protect Rachel and to give her time to research and report on her podcast stories.

 The letter left on her windshield was the first to make it through Pete’s human firewall. This piqued Rachel’s interest, despite the nagging worry that made her double-lock her car door as she continued reading from behind the steering wheel.

 It was Jenny’s death that killed my mother [the letter went on]. Killed her as good as if she’d been shot in the chest with a twelve-gauge shotgun.

 Though it was late morning on a hot summer’s day and her car was heating up like an oven, Rachel felt a chill run through her.

 I’ve spent my life running away from the memories. Hurting myself. And others. It took the trial in Neapolis to make me face up to my past. That is why I am writing to you, Rachel. Jenny’s killer will be there. In that town. Maybe in that courtroom. It’s time for justice to be done. You’re the only one who can help me deliver it.

 The metallic crash of a minibus door being pushed open startled Rachel. She tossed the pages on the front passenger seat and hastily reversed out of the parking spot.

 She was so engrossed in thinking about the letter and the mysterious way that it was delivered that she didn’t notice she had merged onto the highway and was speeding until she came out of her trancelike state and saw metal barricades whizzing past in a blur. She’d driven more than ten miles and couldn’t remember any of it. Rachel slowed down, and dialed Pete.

 No answer. She put him on auto redial but gave up after the fourth attempt when he still hadn’t picked up. Ahead of her, the widening band of blue ocean on the horizon beckoned at the end of the long, flat stretch of highway. She was getting close to her destination.

 Rachel looked into her rearview mirror and noticed a silver sedan on the road behind her. The license plate number looked familiar. Rachel could have sworn that she’d seen the same car before over the course of her long drive. She changed lanes. The sedan changed lanes and moved directly behind her. Rachel sped up. The car sped up. When she braked, the car did, too. Rachel dialed Pete again. Still no answer.

 “Damn it, Pete.” She slammed her hands on the steering wheel.

 The sedan pulled out and drove alongside her. Rachel turned her head to see the driver. The window was tinted and reflected the glare of the sun as the car sped ahead, weaving between lanes until it was lost in a sea of vehicles. Rachel slowed down as she entered traffic near a giant billboard on a grassy embankment that read: WELCOME TO NEAPOLIS. YOUR GATEWAY TO THE CRYSTAL COAST.

 Neapolis was a three-hour drive north of Wilmington and well off the main interstate highway route. Rachel had never heard of the place until she’d chosen the upcoming trial there as the subject of the hotly anticipated third season of Guilty or Not Guilty.

 She pulled to a stop at a red traffic light and turned on the car radio. It automatically tuned into a local station running a talkback slot in between playing old tracks of country music on a lazy Saturday morning. She surveyed the town through the glass of her dusty windshield. It had a charmless grit that she’d seen in a hundred other small towns she’d passed through over her thirty-two years. The same ubiquitous gas station signs. Fast-food stores with grimy windows. Tired shopping strips of run-down stores that had long ago lost the war with the malls.

 “We have a caller on the line,” the radio host said, after the final notes of acoustic guitar had faded away. “What’s your name?”

 “Dean.”

 “What do you want to talk about today, Dean?”

 “Everyone is so politically correct these days that nobody calls it as they see it. So I’m going to say it straight out. That trial next week is a disgrace.”

 “Why do you say that?” asked the radio announcer.

 “Because what the heck was that girl thinking!”

 “You’re blaming the girl?”

 “Hell yeah. It’s not right. A kid’s life is being ruined because a girl got drunk and did something dumb that she regretted afterward. We all regret stuff. Except we don’t try to get someone put in prison for our screw-ups.”

 “The police and district attorney obviously think a crime has been committed if they’re bringing it to trial,” interrupted the host testily.

 “Don’t get me wrong. I feel bad for her and all. Hell, I feel bad for everyone in this messed-up situation. But I especially feel bad for that Blair boy. Everything he worked for has gone up in smoke. And he ain’t even been found guilty yet. Fact is, this trial is a waste. It’s a waste of time. And it’s a waste of our taxes.”

 “Jury selection might be over, but the trial hasn’t begun, Dean,” snapped the radio announcer. “There’s a jury of twelve fine citizens who will decide his guilt or innocence. It’s not up to us, or you, to decide.”

 “Well, I sure hope that jury has their heads screwed on right, because there’s no way that anyone with a shred of good old-fashioned common sense will reach a guilty verdict. No way.”

 The caller’s voice dropped out as the first notes of a hit country-western song hit the airwaves. The announcer’s voice rose over the music. “It’s just after eleven A.M. on what’s turning out to be a very humid Saturday morning in Neapolis. Everyone in town is talking about the Blair trial that starts next week. We’ll take more callers after this little tune.”

  Copyright © 2020 by Megan Goldin

 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MEGAN GOLDIN worked as a correspondent for Reuters and other media outlets where she covered war, peace, international terrorism and financial meltdowns in the Middle East and Asia. She is now based in Melbourne, Australia where she raises three sons and is a foster mum to Labrador puppies learning to be guide dogs. The Escape Room was her debut novel.

Social Links:

Author website

Twitter @megangoldin

Facebook

Author Blog

GoodReads

Q&A with Megan Goldin

Author of

THE NIGHT SWIM

  1. Your previous novel, The Escape Room, was set in the world of Wall Street high stakes investment banking. How did you decide to set your next book in a seaside resort community?  

 For me, part of the pleasure of writing is to explore characters, places, issues and even writing styles. When I finished writing The Escape Room, I was interested in expanding my horizons as a writer rather than embarking on a new novel that would tread similar ground to The Escape Room. I'd been reading about several sexual assault cases going through the courts and I was interested in exploring some of the issues in my fiction. Not just about sexual assault itself but about the judicial process and the effects of it on families. As for my choice of location, my process is that I sit down and start writing, and let the story unravel in a very organic way. So when I started writing The Night Swim, the setting sort of chose itself!

 2. Rachel, the main character in The Night Swim, hosts a true crime podcast.  Are you a fan of those types of podcasts yourself?  Why do you think they're so popular these days?

 I love podcasts and I listen to them often, while exercising, cooking and driving. Of course among the podcasts that I enjoy most are true crime podcasts although I also enjoy history podcasts and current affairs podcasts as well. True crime podcasts are popular because people are fascinated by the dark side of human nature. Like many podcast listeners, I became a fan after listening to Serial. I quickly became addicted to other podcasts as well. The biggest problem right now with true crime podcasts, and podcasts in general, is that there are so many fantastic ones around. I wish I had more time to listen to them all.

 3. What made you decide to write the book from a dual point of view?  Did that make it easier or more challenging to explore the parallel storylines?

 It's actually quite challenging writing from multiple points-of-view as each narrative has its own 'voice' and style  so it's quite a complicated process. I often start my writing day by spending the first couple of hours just reading back on the previous chapters of that particular point-of-view so that I can get the 'voice' back of the character before I start writing.

 4.  Are courtroom scenes difficult to write?  How do you keep the energy or tension up?

 I've read novels and watched movies with terrific courtroom scenes over the years. When done well, powerful courtroom scenes are among the most memorable scenes in films and books. So I have to admit that I rubbed my hands with glee when I had the opportunity to write the courtroom chapters. It's almost as if I'd been working towards writing those chapters my entire life!

 5. The tight-knit town in the story is torn apart over charges that the town's "golden boy" brutally attacked a young woman.  Were there any real-life cases you drew from to tell this story?

 There wasn't any specific cases that I based the novel on but there were many sexual assault cases that had been in the news over the years that I had read about. Many of them left a deep impression. When I started writing The Night Swim, I went back and read courtroom transcripts from some of these cases as well as other cases that came up in my research. I also read, watched and spoke with as many people as I could in order to get an insider view of what happens when these cases are brought to court.

 6. The parallel storyline involves someone (Hannah) leaving mysterious notes for Rachel, begging her to investigate their sister's death from decades ago.  Why was their approach so secretive, and at first, vaguely threatening?

 Hannah had a traumatic childhood because of what happened to her mother and sister. She never really recovered from those childhood traumas so she was understandably wary about whether her story would be taken seriously. She was a fan of Rachel's podcast and she truly believed that Rachel would get justice for her sister if she only knew what had happened, but she also knew that she needed to find a way to connect with Rachel and get her attention. Following Rachel, and leaving messages for her was her way of connecting. Hannah was so focused on getting to the truth about what happened to her sister that she didn't realize that it might be perceived as threatening.

 7. The Night Swim looks at how sexual assault victims who come forward often face an equally traumatic ordeal with the investigation and publicity. How did you portray this with sympathy and care, while still keeping the pages turning?

 I tend to put myself in my characters shoes when I write so I found it emotionally gruelling to write some of the chapters related to sexual assault in The Night Swim. I felt an enormous obligation to be as accurate as possible about what sexual assault survivors and their families go through. So I did as much research as possible and wrote, rewrote, edited and re-edited those scenes many times over. I did my very best to write it with the respect and sympathy that the subject matter deserves as it's a truly harrowing trauma that affects people for the rest of their lives.

 8. A nightingale makes regular appearances throughout the book.  Are you a bird lover yourself?  What made you include that in the story?

 As part of my research, I'd read about the Greek myth of Philomela. She was raped and then silenced when her tongue was cut out and eventually turned into a nightingale. There are various interpretations of the story but some suggest that the silencing of Philomela symbolises the silencing of women over the centuries. So that's how the nightingale found its way into the book. As for whether I'm a bird lover: I'm living in Australia right now and we have magnificent wild parrots and rainbow lorikeets which are the most stunning rainbow colored birds that live in the trees by my house. We're currently locked down due to coronavirus so it's somewhat liberating watching the beautiful Australian birds fly around freely even if we are stuck at home.

 9. I hear you just got a new puppy to help you and your family get through the lockdown in Melbourne.  Tell us about her!

I jokingly call her our lockdown puppy but in truth we'd been thinking of getting a puppy for a long time. She is a Labrador puppy and we were lucky to get her because in Australia there is such a demand for dogs right now that there are few rescue dogs available and pedigree breeders have multi-year waiting lists. My beloved Lab cross died of cancer a few years ago and I'd been waiting until my kids were old enough to get a new puppy. I volunteer to care for temporary guide dog puppies so our new puppy was always going to be a Lab of some description. They are beautifully natured dogs although they spend the first year tearing the house apart as they chew everything in sight. My last Lab ate books from cover to cover. With the pressures of the lockdown and the effect it has on kids, it's a welcome distraction for my kids to have a puppy to help raise.

#Megan Goldin #St. Martin's Press #NetGalley #Trial #Rape #Abuse #Bullying #Mystery #Podcast

[anthonypaulh]

JOY and PAIN - The Troubled Life and Tragic Death of Marvin Gaye

The song “Joy and Pain” forms the perfect epitaph for Marvin Gaye. Ultimately, the hugely troubled, flawed, sensitive soul lived his all too short life, somewhere between the extremes of the classic Frankie Beverley and Maze soul anthem. 

It is often said that fact is stranger than fiction, that with some events you apparently couldn’t make it up. Well, in the traumatic life of the silkiest of soul singers that is absolutely accurate. A complicated, sensitive, and passionate man, Marvin Gaye lived his life overshadowed by his violent father. 

The difficult, violent, explosive relationship with his father underpinned everything that followed in the life of Marvin Gaye. Ultimately, and tragically it would end in father shooting son after their final yet fatal bitter argument on April 1st 1984.

The contradictions of Marvin Gaye’s life started on April 2nd 1939 when he was born in Washington DC as Marvin Pentz Gay. He later added an E to his name , in the early 1960’s to ward off teasing about being Gay and also to distance himself from his father’s surname. 

His father Marvin Gay was a Reverend in a Hebrew Pentecostal church called the House of God. He imparted a very strict upbringing on Marvin junior and his 3 siblings. He was a brutal man, frequently inflicting physical violence on his children and subjecting his wife to regular beatings. Marvin junior attracted the worst of his father’s violence as he took it upon himself to protect his mother Alberta from the worst his father could do. 

Needless to say, this very violent family upbringing, left Marvin Junior scarred for life. He forever craved the love of his father who could never give him that. Despite all of his career achievements and the recognition he earned he never achieved the thing that he needed the most, his father’s love.

Nowadays we all recognise that trauma experienced by any child in their formative years is always going to lead to a troubled adulthood and in fact it is a key factor in addictive behaviour of all sorts. Hardly any wonder then that Marvin would become drug dependent and a manic depressive despite all of his fame.

It was therefore, no surprise that Marvin wanted to escape from his family as soon as possible. His first attempt to break free was in 1956 when aged 17 he enlisted in the US Air Force. But even then, the contradictions that ran through his life surfaced as he faked mental illness to extricate himself from the disciplined air force environment he hated. 

He returned to Washington DC and formed a vocal quartet called The Marquees. But after one failed single they were dropped from their recording contract with Okey records a subsidiary of Columbia. 

One of the few things that Marvin had seen as a positive from his father was the delivery style of his sermon’s in church. Marvin regularly attended and sang at the services from the tender age of 4. He drew on his father’s preaching style as he developed his own stagecraft and he readily acknowledged that it was something that played a key role in his vocal delivery.

As a singer the young Marvin was influenced by Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Ray Charles and Billy Eckstine. But success didn’t come quickly. After the initial failure of The Marquees, he continued working in Washington DC on the club circuit and started writing his own songs. 

Eventually the impresario Harvey Fuqua spotted Marvin and took him under his wing. Harvey would become the father figure that Marvin had always sought and he would shape the rest of his life and career in so many ways.

As it happens Harvey was a very good judge of talent. He had already discovered the likes of Johnny Bristol, Lamont Dozier, Junior Walker and The Spinners. Just as importantly for Marvin, his new mentor was to introduce him to the woman that would he would marry and that in itself would effectively catapult him to International fame.

In 1959 Harvey Fuqua and his group The Moonglows moved to Chicago where they recorded a few unsuccessful tracks for Chess Records. But with little sign of success the group split up and in 1960 Harvey and Marvin moved to Detroit. It would be the most important move of their lives. Hittsville USA was about to become the Sound of Young America and they would be vital cogs in that machine.

On arrival in Detroit, Marvin became a session musician, a drummer. However, his fate was about to be signed, sealed and delivered when he was invited to the home of Berry Gordy over the Holiday Season of 1960. 

Harvey Fuqua had married Gwen Gordy the sister of Berry and he distributed the first record that would become a MOTOWN hit. The record was Barrett Strong’s “Money (That’s What I Want ) and it was released on Anna Records, owned by Harvey and Gwen. Their label was later sold to Berry. Thereafter Harvey Fuqua became a song writer and executive at MOTOWN.

For Marvin, the introduction to Berry Gordy in 1960 would change his life and the history of soul music to boot. He married Anna Gordy, seventeen years his senior, in June 1963. The relationship was intense, passionate and fiery. But they were good for each other and Marvin realised that his marriage kept him close to the ear of Barry Gordy at the “Hit Factory”.

Nonetheless, Berry was always grudging in any praise of his brother in law. He recognised his talent and was especially keen to use Marvin as the leading male vocalist for MOTOWN. He saw Marvin as a cross between a matinee idol and a pop star.

Many studio workers and musicians at MOTOWN recall strenuous arguments between Marvin and Berry. They would often square up to each other in heated squabbles but Berry held the highest cards. Financially Berry called the tune and Marvin sang the songs that Berry wanted (at least to start with). What made things even worse for Marvin was that Berry owned the house that he and his wife Anna lived in. It seemed that Berry controlled his every move.

Undoubtedly, in the early part of his career, MOTOWN wanted Marvin to sing simple, pop songs. Berry Gordy wanted MOTOWN to sell records and not make political and social statements. He didn’t want to alienate the middle of the road, largely white, record buying public. 

Berry Gordy did not want to present MOTOWN as in any way threatening. In many ways he was doing with MOTOWN what Brian Epstein did with The Beatles. Keep it clean, don’t threaten, dress sensibly and get the hits. He was selling pop, upbeat, happy music. Selling was his game and money was the driver. Berry Gordy was a ruthless businessman first, second and third.

The first hits Marvin had on MOTOWN reflected the “safe” music that the company ordered. So in 1962 “Stubborn Kind of Fellow” was typical of the type of material that the business demanded. It was absolutely not the music that Marvin dreamed of making but it was successful. 

As success followed success Marvin worked with the genius in house MOTOWN production team, Holland-Dozier-Holland, and the hits kept coming. So “Can I Get A Witness”, You’re A Wonderful One” and “How Sweet It Is To Be Loved By You “ hit the charts.

Firmly established as MOTOWN’s leading man, Marvin was pushed by Berry to record a series of duets with the leading ladies on the label. Against his wishes, Marvin agreed and although he didn’t really want to cooperate the recordings produced some great moments. 

Firstly he recorded with Mary Wells “What’s The Matter With You Baby ?”, then with Kim Weston “It Takes Two”, and most successfully with Tammi Terrell “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough”, Ain’t Nothing Like The Real Thing”, and “You’re All I Need To Get By”. Later Berry forced him to record with Diana Ross although they never actually recorded anything at the same time because they despised each other.

The Prince of MOTOWN he may well have been but privately Marvin Gaye was in torment. He was deeply hurt at having to play the tunes that Berry called, and he wanted to record his own more contentious, expansive music. He felt a fraud and in fact some of the duets released under his name with Tammi Terrell were exactly that because due to illness some of her vocals were actually performed by Valerie Simpson.

Following her collapse on stage in Virginia in October 1967, Tammi Terrell was never able to perform or record again so Valerie Simpson stood in her shoes. Marvin was spun the line that he should continue recording with Valerie impersonating Tammi as sales meant money which could pay medical bills for Tammi. Marvin reluctantly went along with it out of respect and love for Tammi. When Tammi died from a brain tumour on 1970 Marvin was broken. He spiralled into depression.

By the late 60’s the relationship between Marvin and Berry could  be described as frosty, at best. Typical of the shenanigans was the saga that went on with the classic Norman Whitfield and Barratt Strong tune “ I Heard It Through The Grapevine”. It was recorded by Marvin in February 1967 but MOTOWN rejected it suggesting it be covered by Gladys Knight and The Pips. 

Only when released as an album track on Marvin’s LP “In The Groove” in August 1968 did radio stations give it the airplay that demanded it be released as a single. His classic rendition reached number 1 on the pop and RnB charts in the US and became a world wide smash hit. A victory of sorts for Marvin but the next battle of wills with Berry and “the company” was not long in coming.

In May 1969, Obie Benson of the Four Tops started work on a song he intended be recorded by the “Tops’, called “What’s Going On ?”. It was rejected by the Four Tops because it was a protest song. But their loss was to be Marvin’s gain and it would result in arguably one of the most important MOTOWN albums. 

Anna Gordy persuaded Marvin to try the song “What’s Going On ?” and it soon became clear that “What’s Going On ?” was perfect for him. From the very first run throughs it was his song, tailor made for him. But even though the studio singers, musicians and engineers were convinced he had to record and release the song, Berry Gordy was annoyed that Marvin was contemplating doing so.

As far as Berry Gordy was concerned, if the Four Tops believed the song to be inappropriate then it WAS inappropriate. It was a “protest” song and MOTOWN did not do anything that might rock any boats. Berry Gordy forbade Marvin to record the song. Effectively Marvin subsequently went on strike, refusing to record at all. 

The stand off lasted almost a year, until in June 1970 permission was granted for the single “What’s Going On ?” to be recorded by Marvin for release at an undetermined time. When it was eventually released it was done so without the knowledge or sanction of Berry Gordy. 

The strike period had actually given Marvin time to compose a series of songs he wanted to release on a concept album with “What’s Going On ?” as the title track. The contentious piece of work was to become one of the most important records ever made and certainly the most radical of anything put out by MOTOWN. Marvin openly challenged the existing social order on the album. He sang about civil rights, environmental abuse, intolerance and the record became a clarion call for anyone wanting to question the politics of the time. It was definitely NOT MOTOWN neither musically or lyrically.

As a political record, Berry Gordy did not want Marvin to continue with the album and he did not believe it would be a hit anyway. It was far too serious. MOTOWN was light hearted, fun pop. Marvin was talking about climate change before the scientists talked about it and he sang in a more jazz influenced style than RnB/pop that had proven successful for Hittsville USA. 

The seminal Marvin Gaye album “What’s Going On ?” was released in May 1971, arguably the most important year in the history of MOTOWN. The album became the biggest selling album on MOTOWN to that point and remains a key piece of work. It fused social commentary, politics, jazz , funk and soul to endure well beyond its’ time. It is still one of the most important records ever made.

Following “What’s Going On ? “ was always going to be a huge challenge but throughout the 1970′s Marvin continued to experiment with jazz, gospel, blues, soul and even more with narcotics. He managed to balance spirituality, commerciality, and experimentation with hits such as “Let’s Get It On”, “Trouble Man”, “After The Dance” and “Got To Give It Up”. He eventually divorced Anna Gordy in 1978 after what can only be described as a pained, strained marriage.

The traumatic separation inspired him to record the album “Here My Dear” and it is probably the most bitter record you will ever listen to. Marvin was leaving no doubt that he was in a deep emotional hole. His drug use fuelled terrible and dangerous mood swings as he lurched from one instability to another seeking some kind of stability and solace. 

A short lived second marriage to Janis Hunter lasted only until 1979 with divorce finalised in 1981. Marvin found himself bankrupt financially and emotionally and he attempted to take his own life.

In 1982 with the aid of old friend and mentor Harvey Fuqua,  Marvin made something of a comeback. Exiled to Britain then Belgium it was here that he released the single “Sexual Healing” on Columbia Records. The track was taken from the album “Midnight Love” which certainly had some more than decent high moments. As usual for Marvin, he fused a number of different musical influences from reggae, RnB, soul, funk and synthopop.

The success of the 1982 “comeback” allowed Marvin to clear 2 million dollars in back taxes to the US authorities. Sadly off stage, Marvin could never fend off his personal demons. All that damage that he had been caused as a child, all that trauma, all that baggage. Stage fright, paranoia, drug use and ongoing depression eventually confined the “Prince of Motown” to his Los Angeles home. It was a home that he would lose his life in.

As if somehow predestined Marvin Gaye was shot dead by his father on April 1st 1984. Yes indeed, April fools day. You couldn’t make it up could you ? In a violent argument and fight between his mother and father, Marvin tried to intervene and sadly the whole situation escalated quickly into the final, fatal act of the ultimate tragedy.

The Reverend Marvin Gay was charged with first degree murder but eventually the charge was reduced to manslaughter following the diagnosis of a brain tumour. He was sentenced to a six year suspended sentence and probation. He died in 1998 in a nursing home.

In the final analysis, Marvin Gaye will always be remembered as one of the most important voices ever to be recorded. In the pantheon of male vocal greats, he is right up there in the top echelons. He is in the same company as Frank Sinatra, Sam Cooke, Wilson Picket, Otis Redding, Donny Hathaway, Ray Charles, Nat King Cole, and now Gregory Porter.

 His work remains as relevant today as it was when it was recorded. The sentiment and messages delivered on the “What’s Going On ?” album were years ahead of their time and are probably more important today than ever.  Marvin Gaye has often been imitated but never bettered. 

Nothing in his successful music career however, could compensate him for the love and recognition he craved from his father. His whole life was a battle to achieve the acknowledgement and attachment his father didn't provide. 

In life Marvin Gaye was a restless, troubled, tragic soul. He leaves an incredible body of work and a wonderful musical legacy. Rest in peace Marvin, you will never be forgotten

[planar-echoes]

Precious Gold (Ravnica) By Matt Cavotta (3/29/06)

 I remember being proud of myself for not screaming or thrashing like an animal when the Rakdos lowlives grabbed me and put the rope around my neck. There, at the end of the noose, my life would take a turn.

Of course it would, I was going to die. But I remembered my Orzhov and I knew that it was only my body that would die. My life took a turn, though it was not the one I had expected.

It may seem like a tired old thought - that one's life could pass before her eyes. It may, but it is what happened to me as the demon followers tied me up. It may also seem odd to you that a 14 year-old girl could be so lucid, so thoughtful in such a traumatic time. I was 14 years old, but I have been pondering that moment for the last 126 years.

The End

I remember first thinking about the importance of allegiance. I was Orzhov, and I would not act like a weeping Conclaver at my moment of change. I would not let the sloppy Rakdos with their hideous laughter and manic singing shake me as I entered the world of Ghosts. I was too good for that. An Orzhov is too good for that. “You cannot fight them, Emilya,” I thought to myself. “So instead you must show them the nobility of a superior guild.” Secretly though, in the back of my mind, I knew that there would be retribution. I was comforted by this thought. The Orzhov did not go lightly on those who break contracts, defile guild territory, or injure important guildmembers.

Of course, I was just one of the Orzhov masses, but they would surely avenge the death of an innocent little girl at the hands of the Demon guild. At the basilicas, the Orzhov Pontiff would rage, as they always do, and the Ostiary Thrull would shuffle about the congregation collecting funds for the vengeance campaign. Would it be the guildmages who put the Rakdos in their place? I knew it was just a dream to dream, but would the Angel of Despair swoop in, stonefaced and glassy-eyed? I always loved to see them standing guard at the high ceremonies - dark and distant, as if they were too terrible and too beautiful to even be there. That is how I wanted to be. And so I would be, there in the hands of the Rakdos. I was comforted also by the image of our Signet in my mind. I focused on it when the laughter and the pain began to break my stoicism. It was perfect, like the guild itself – dark and powerful, yet blinding like the sun. The symbol was inspired by the legendary Culling Sun, a force beautiful and terrible, like the angels, that in dire times comes to cleanse the world of the unworthy. Would this be the wrath brought against the Rakdos? Was I worthy of such great holy retribution? I recalled my favorite tithing mantra - the little prayer we spoke as we placed coins in the Ostiary Thrull plate:

“We are the precious gold. With us Orzhova was gilt. With us it gleams most bright.”

I was worthy of the Revenant Patriarch grace. I think they would do this for me, as the sermons say they would. I was “precious gold.”

This is what I thought as life fell to the earth beneath my dangling feet. I was strong. Ghost Council of Orzhova would be proud to welcome another Daughter of Orzhova, one who did not buckle under the threats of a lesser guild. Though I was sure my body was suffering, my pride was swelling and my disdain for the Rakdos blooming as I watched them do what other foul guilds do to the innocent.

I was at the end of a noose, and my life would take an unexpected turn. My family and I were devout to the Church. We paid our tithes, went to the Orzhov Basilica for Tax-Mass and for prayer, and contributed regularly to the Protector's Fund. We comported ourselves like true “precious gold.” Orzhova, the Church of Deals gleamed because of our devotion. The gargoyles watched over it because we contributed. The Demon was kept underground because the Orzhov Pontiff performed the Suppression Rituals. Why should I have feared - there at the end of the rope and my corporeal life?

I will tell you why.

Dying was an experience very different than I had expected. It was without sensation or ceremony or fanfare of any kind. It was like walking from the parlor to the kitchen - nothing much to speak of. I do remember, before the change, seeing myself from above. I could hear nothing but a steady wind, but my eyes took note of the Rakdos, parading around in their tasteless, shabby hats, paying little attention to me. Then, just before I left that world, I saw what I thought were thrulls. From above I could see them. Waiting? Hiding?

I paid little mind to the sight of the thrulls in my early afterlife. I was still too blinded by pride to bother with it. But a seed was planted. A little seed that would grow in my spirit and shape my afterlife.

The Change

The change was also not what I had expected. I was not in a rich and wonderful ghost palace, and there were no Orzhov spirits there to show me the way to my great-great grandparents. The world was a foggy, shifting vision of a city much like Ravnica. I remembered hearing street kids make jokes and threats about a place called Agyrem. A ghost city. It sounded too mundane to be true - and they never mentioned it at mass or at the trade conventions. My mind swirled and wrapped around itself. Was this Agyrem? If it was, why did the Orzhov not speak of it? Was I unworthy of the ghost palace of the Patriarchs? Did I not conduct myself well enough in life or in death? My world was upside down.

On the other hand, the afterlife felt surprisingly similar to regular life. I could feel emotion and sensation. After so much time had passed with no reunions with passed grandparents or meetings with the Patriarchs, my emotions were mostly pain and loss and loneliness. I was again just a 14 year-old girl, missing my mum and papa, scared of being alone. My armor of pride and zeal wore off. Why were things not as the Pontiffs had said? What was I supposed to do? Mostly I just cried. Occasionally I would encounter another spirit and I would ask questions. But not all spirits are Orzhov, and each one has its own sadness to attend to.

I was confused. I was lost. But I was not yet ready to open up and allow the seed in my soul to grow. There was still too much built up. Fourteen years of the words and weight of Orzhova still held fast, but the grip was loosening.

As time passed - can't be specific about days and years as they have no meaning in my new world… As it passed, I did manage to muster the courage to explore this new Ghost City. I found myself compelled to seek out information regarding those I knew in life and, more importantly, the circumstances of my death. I was very surprised to find out how willing the dead are to speak of their lives, and of who they knew. It was a way, I guessed, to hold on to the past. I was also surprised to find out that some of the spirits of the Ghost City could move between the world of the living and the world of ghosts. These spirits were not as eager to talk, though they bore the most relevant news. It was one of these spirits that told me a little tale that seemed unimportant to him, but weighed heavily on me.

He was a stonemason who died when a Helldozer toppled a building he was working near. He was under Orzhov contract to re-pave the plaza surrounding “the crying tree.” “It was to be a very big deal,” he told me. Something about this piqued my interest, so I asked about it often. I found out quite a bit more from a young Orzhov man. He was a ragged, worn out soul. He must have been in the ghost world for a long, long time.

He told me that, after the killing (mine, I was beginning to believe), a great uproar was stirred in the basilicas. He was not there, but some of the souls he served with were. He and some like him were gathered from the ghost world by the agents of the Council and formed into a Souls of the Faultless. They were to guard the little plaza surrounding the tree where the Rakdos had killed the girl. Anti-Rakdos sentiment was rampant. People were asked to make donations to the Vengeance Campaign at the “Martyred Rusalka.” Soon it was surrounded in gold, and the ragged boy had to hold back thieves and greedy thugs for weeks. He did not see anything else. He was crushed by a rampaging Gruul “Scab-Clan Mauler” who broke their line to get to the tree. He said that his readiness was replaced with pity, and in that moment he was crushed. I felt badly for the boy. I would see him often lingering near what could best be described as a fountain. It was not water that it spouted, but nothingness. Many gathered there to gaze in and forget. I would go there to find people, to seek knowledge. I did not look to forget.

Perhaps I should have. The vision of Exhumer Thrull lurking near my dying form began to creep back to my mind. I was just starting to feel the pride of the black sun once again when the visions started feeding the seed in my soul. A Vengeance Campaign was created for me. A plaza built. The site of my death named and made a monument. But the seed grew and so did the compulsion to know more. I did not question this compulsion… it felt so natural. I was sure that it had something to do with my future. Perhaps this was the test that I must pass to gain entrance to the palace of the Patriarchs.

But what I found as I kept searching, over a period of 125 years, was not the key to the Ghost Palace. It was proof of a life deceived.

The Truth

Eventually, I would meet my father again. Neither of us would ever find mum. Papa had much to say in between the rings of the Debtors' Knell. It might have been years between our meetings, but we did manage to piece together a story that was hard for either of us to accept.

The plaza surrounding the Tree of Weeping was never completed. The buildings nearby were destroyed and rebuilt as shop fronts and high priced plaza-view dwellings. Once the shops and dwellings were sold, the masonry work on the plaza was stopped. The gold that had been gathered during that whole time funded a Vengeance Campaign that was supposed to “ruin the Rakdos forever,” but produced only one trial of a couple of street urchins who many believe were not even there. After a while, the locals forgot the tree was the site of a great wrongdoing. Some continued to toss coins at its base like children at wishing wells. Once life returned to normal, the Vengeance Campaign was allowed to slip from Orzhov minds. The pontiffs did not rage about the Rakdos – they began a crusade against the “Unholy Golgari – death farmers, depriving souls of the wonders of the Ghost Palace.” Meanwhile, somewhere, some Orzhov functionary tried to count the masses of coins piled in a secret chamber.

Masses of coins. “We are the precious gold. With us Orzhova was gilt. With us it gleams most bright.” It never occurred to us that this was not meant to be symbolic. We are the precious gold, or at least the source of it! How brazen they are, how deceitful. Shame on us for believing in them. Shame on us for thinking that all that power, all that wealth, was used only for us, and not against us. Were we too blinded by routine to notice that just a few Teysa, Orzhov Scion had coffers that were spilling over, while all of ours were emptying out? Were we too blinded by pride to think that the creators of the contracts that bound so many Ravnicans to Orzhov service might have done the same to us? Unfortunately, one must die to find this out. By then, that soul is old news - like the Tree of Weeping. That soul can no longer place coins in the ostiary's plate. That soul is forgotten.

The Twist

But fate has a sense of irony. When the manipulative minds put together the plan to raise some “martyr funds,” they made sure their contracts were all in order. The correct families would receive the correct amounts of the take. The proper businesses would be involved in demolitions, construction, and advertisement. Secretive channels would be used to deal with the Rakdos, and funds due would move through those same channels (which turned out to be “secret” enough to disappear after the attack). All possible contingencies were accounted for in mage-documents prepared by the officers of the ruling families - all possible contingencies but one.

The part of the contract that dealt with my soul was nullified at the moment when I saw the thrulls. The law-mage's own pride did not allow her to see beyond my complete devotion to the Orzhov guild. The contract called for a devout female follower between the ages of 12 and 15. It detailed which family's spirit kin would control my soul in the afterlife, and what the term of my service would be. But the contract on my afterlife was broken before it even started.

When I saw the thrulls waiting there, watching me die, something deep within me knew this was not right. Orzhov thrulls do not think – they follow orders. My subconscious knew that they were part of the plan, but my pride kept me from recognizing it. At that moment, I was no longer Orzhov (by strict definition of the contract for my soul). I had become something else entirely. A force more basic than the Guildpact settled in me. I was Rusalka – the spirit of a young innocent wrongly killed. It is the nature of a Scorched Rusalka to search for clues to the truth about her death. For me, this alone would have been irony enough, but fate is not so easily pleased.

The Beginning

There, at the end of a rope, my afterlife took a turn. After 125 years of existence in the shadow of lies, I finally had truth. And peace. But fate was not done smiling. Once again I was at the end of a rope, and things were about to change, but this time I kept my eyes open. I did not push away reality with dreams of angels and riches. What I saw was more strange than any dream. The sky was rippling above me. I heard screaming far below. My eyes followed the rope tied to my chest all the way up to its anchor point - a living mountain of rock. Above it hovered a great stone head. Eyeless. It was horrific, but I did not fear... I was already dead. Then I looked down and saw a sight that was even more strange than the great thing to which I was tied. Ravnica. The dead do not dream. They do not even sleep. How could this be?

It matters not.

The giant stone thing knelt. The rope broke free of it, and then of me. I was back home again. Alive.

Fate's dimple formed beside a wide grin. She knew that I would not fall back into the life I had before. She knew that I would come here to tell my tale, and to steal “precious gold” from the Church of Deals.

#magic the gathering #vorthos #ravnica #orzhov #church #ghost #council

[helloworlddemo1122-yahoopar-blog]

How Toni Collette Survived 'Hereditary,' the Year's Most Terrifying Horror Movie (Exclusive)

"I remember when I first started coming to L.A.," Toni Collette says as she relaxes into a sunny spot near the window on an otherwise overcast afternoon. "The woman, Jeanie Drynan, who played my mum in Muriel's Wedding, I would stay with her and she would watch Entertainment Tonight, and it was just like, Wow! I'm really just down from the Hollywood sign!"

Muriel's Wedding, the 1995 Aussie comedy in which Collette stars as the titular lovelorn oddball, launched the actress stateside with a Golden Globe nomination for Best Actress in a Motion Picture, Comedy or Musical. A few years later, M. Night Shyamalan cast her in his horror film, The Sixth Sense.

Collette starred as Lynn Sear, single mother to a dead people-seeing 9-year-old son, Cole (Haley Joel Osment). "Night had made one other feature, but Sixth Sense really was, it felt like, his first big foray into feature films," she remembers. The twisty thriller earned six Oscar nominations in 2000, with a Best Support Actress nod for Collette. (She lost to Angelina Jolie for Girl, Interrupted.)

"I know people used to campaign, even at that point, but honestly, there was nothing, nothing," Collette thinks back during a sit down with ET in a suite at the Four Seasons. Dressed in a pinstriped shirtdress, her wavy blonde hair parted down the middle, she breaks into a toothy grin as she recalls producer Scott Rudin phoning her "so early" in the morning to share the news. She was 25 years old and, Collette says, "there was no utterance about the idea of me ever being considered for something like that."

"I mean, I grew up in Sydney watching the Oscars, and this whole world just seemed so far away," she says. "When you work on a film that gets that kind of attention, you just really feel happy for everyone. Because they're long hours, people spend so much time away from their families and [give] so much to it that you just feel like, man, somebody actually f*cking saw it and got into it, you know?"

Nearly two decades after Sixth Sense, Collette, who's 45, is returning to the horror well with Hereditary, one of two films starring the actress that will be released on June 8. ("I don't think I've ever had two films come out on the same day, let alone two completely polar opposite films!" she exclaims of Hereditary and Hearts Beat Loud, a feel-good indie opposite Nick Offerman.)

Collette wasn't searching for something like Hereditary, but she is a believer that projects choose her. And this was no exception. "I know that it did because I was very emphatic about not wanting to do anything heavy," she explains. "Yet, when I read it I was like, uhh..." Her eyes turn to saucer pans and she breaks into a laugh. "'I have no choice!'"

"I was sitting in my bed in my rented apartment with the window open," she recalls of reading the script for the first time, while filming the comedy of manners, Madame, in Paris. "It was boiling hot in the middle of summer and there was loads of traffic outside, and I remember when I started reading, I was like--" Collette dramatically grumbles profanities under her breathe. "'It's so noisy.' And by the end, I couldn't hear a thing, I was so absorbed in the story. I called my agent and swore at him, because he sent me something knowing that it would do this to me!"

Photo by Nicholas Hunt/Getty Images

Hereditary writer-director Ari Aster, in crafting his own fiendish horror film, looked to classics from the '60s and '70s, including Roman Polanski's Rosemary's Baby and Nicolas Roeg's Don't Look Now, as well as Japanese horror movies and family dramas. "I knew that I wanted to make a film that served as a serious inquiry intro grief and trauma," he tells me. "And then have that curdle into something else." Collette plays Annie Graham, an artist specializing in miniatures who inherits unholy hell following the death of her estranged mother.

"It's revelatory," Collette exclaims, leaning in closer. "But not in the way that you usually associate it with. It's not a positive change in one's life. It's a sudden awareness of everything hideous -- complete betrayal, a waste of one's own life, really, [that] everything's been orchestrated and manipulated -- and there is no hope. She's trapped. I found that--" She laughs and sits back. "I'm a pretty positive person, generally. And the fact that it is lit-er-ally hopeless, I found that really overwhelming."

Discussing much else of what befalls Annie, husband Steve (Gabriel Byrne), teenage son Peter (Alex Wolff) and habitually tongue-clicking daughter Charlie (Milly Shapiro) would risk spoiling Hereditary's secrets. Suffice it to say, the family is put through the wringer, grappling with grief, trauma and, eventually, something supernatural. The whole time, Annie is white knuckling it to stay in control -- until she isn't. One dinner scene, teased in the trailers, requires not simply an outburst, but a rageful eruption in which Collette remains at a 12 for an entire monologue.

"The thing is, the whole f*cking thing felt big to me," the actress says of movie's grueling shoot in Utah. "Everybody else was walking around [on] eggshells when it came to shooting a couple of particular scenes, but I swear to god, there was not one easy scene in this film. I knew it was going to be heavy, but there just was no let up."

As for how she managed to get into the state of mind to shoot the movie's most intense sequences -- while maintaining her sanity -- she says, "It was a case of not thinking about it too much and almost pushing it away until I had to just jump in and then jump back out again." And when she was in it, she says, she let whatever happened happen. "That is actually the most freeing, great day at work for me, when I'm out of control, when I'm not completely aware of what I'm doing. I've quit berating myself and rerunning the scenes f*cking months after shooting them. It is a way to hell." She shrugs good-naturedly. "I mean, I still do it to a certain extent. Like, after the fact, Ugh, I should have done this! Or, I should have done that! But you can't take away from the validity of a moment that feels real."

It's a realization that amplified seeing her young co-stars work on Hereditary. "I was watching Alex. He's much younger than me, and he was sometimes turning himself inside out, which was..." She chuckles. "Amusing, actually. I just think I've been doing it a while now."

"Our great actors, our movie stars, have something that's sort of intangible. You can't quite put your finger on what it is about them that is so great," the director Brett Haley tells me between puffs from a vape on the Four Seasons balcony. "She certainly has that intangible quality of just, like, greatness, where you just go, Man! What the f*ck?! She's really earned her stripes, and she can do anything. Go watch Hereditary and then watch our movie [Hearts Beat Loud] and tell me Toni Collette can't do anything!"

Hereditary premiered earlier this year at the Sundance Film Festival, where it was hailed as "a new generation's The Exorcist" and "the most traumatically terrifying horror movie in ages." Collette in particular was lauded for her superlative performance, instantly prompting speculation that A24 will campaign Academy voters to consider her come next year's Oscars. When I ask for her reaction, Collette purses her coral lips -- "Uhmm." -- then laughs. "I guess it's the same thing, you know?"

"You put so much into it, for it to be recognized in a broader sense is nothing but flattering," she says. "The experience of making a film is very selfish. My experience at work is what I will take away. But you always hope that there's going to be an audience out there that gets it -- and there really does seem to be for this film." Collette leans in again, her eyes lighting up. "There's this certain palpable energy around it. It's very exciting."

RELATED CONTENT:

Summer Film Preview: 27 of the Most Anticipated Movies of the Season!

The Business of Being Nick Offerman in a Post-Ron Swanson World (Exclusive)

Toni Collette Chases Her Maid Through Paris in Madcap 'Madame' Clip (Exclusive)

#_uuid:c024df62-3e83-3710-a410-67ffb1450b80 #_revsp:new_provider_with_logo_342 #_lmsid:a0VK0000001yfWcMAI