#far goes the farrago

[ashenburst]

I CAN'T STOP LAUGHING HE'S SUCH A WET DOG

#WET DOG WET DOG WET DOG #far goes the farrago #lysanias exigo #sketch #oc #art #original art #original character #lux rambles #drawing #doodle

[annarellix]

Mysteries and cozy mysteries: some reviews

Tropical Issue by Dorothy Dunnett (A Dolly Mystery  #1)

Rita, a small, tough Scottish make-up artist is on Madeira trying to find out who killed Kim-Jim, an American make-up supremo. Also anchored off the island is Dolly, the yacht of Johnson Johnson with whom Rita teams up to get to the bottom of this foul deed. Rita’s fighting spirits are aroused despite her danger. She is not one for quitting, even when she learns she is caught up in an international drug-smuggling ring. But she also discovers that dealing with the maddeningly enigmatic Johnson Johnson is, by no stretch of the imagination, plain sailing.

My Review: I used to think of Dorothy Dunnet as a writer of historical fiction and this book was a surprise because it’s a humorous, compelling, and well plotted mystery. We would call it a cozy mystery now but it was a mystery tout court in 1983. As it was  the first mystery I read by this author I cannot compare it to other novel but I can say I thoroughly enjoyed it. Rita is a well plotted characters, a quirky and strong woman. The setting is wonderful, I’ve been in love with Madeira since forever, and loved the description I recommend it. Many thanks to Farrago for this arc, all opinions are mine.

Book page: https://farragobooks.com/book/tropical-issue/ Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/64277922-tropical-issue

Six Ostriches by Philipp Schott (Dr. Bannerman Vet Mystery #2)

It’s springtime in rural Manitoba, and the snow has finally left the exotic animal farm when an ostrich finds and swallows a shiny object. (Because this is what ostriches do.) Cue veterinarian and amateur sleuth Dr. Peter Bannerman, who surgically removes the object, which looks like an ancient Viking artifact. Soon after, people around are horrified by a series of animal mutilations. This sets Peter, and his talented sniffer dog, Pippin, on the hunt for answers. Peter begins to suspect a link between the Viking artifact, the mutilations, and a shadowy group of white supremacists on the internet. Before long Peter and Pippin are in over their heads, and the only way for them to get out alive will be to unmask the mastermind before they end up among their victims.

My Review: I always love Philipp Schott's books, both non fiction and mysteries featuring Peter Bannerman, an intriguing and well written amateur sleuth and vet. This story is darker than the first and there's some gore and graphic scene that I found a bit disturbing. That said it's another well plotted and enjoyable mystery and I hope there will be more mysteries in this series. Many thanks to ECW Press for this arc, all opinions are mine

https://ecwpress.com/products/six-ostriches-a-dr-bannerman-vet-mystery https://www.philippschott.com/ https://twitter.com/philippwschott https://www.instagram.com/philippschott/

Death on the Stella Mae By Jan Durham (Kipper Cottage Mystery #5)

Who can unlock the deepest secrets of the sea? Spring has finally sprung in the picturesque North Yorkshire town of Whitby, but high tides and easterly winds bring stormy weather. When trawlerman Daniel ‘Doc’ Holliday goes missing from his boat the Stella Mae, it looks like he was washed overboard. Widow Liz McLuckie soon has reason to believe otherwise. Someone wanted Daniel dead. But who? And how far will they go to hide what really happened that stormy night? Liz is determined to uncover the truth, with help from her motley collection of friends and Nelson the bull terrier – the ugliest (and bravest) dog in Yorkshire.

My Review: This is one of the best cozy mystery series I discovered in the last years: well plotted, light but featuring a cast of well plotted and clever characters. It always makes me wish I could travel to Whitby and I always enjoyed Nelson’s antics, he’s a sweet boy. This is another solid mystery that mixes well the different elements, keeps you reading and guessing. There’s plenty of surprising twists and a satisfying solution. Can’t wait to read the next story. Many thanks to Inkubator for this arc, all opinions are mine.

https://www.kippercottagemysteries.co.uk/ https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/123128486-death-on-the-stella-mae

Ukulele of Death  by E. J. Copperman (A Fran and Ken Stein Mystery #1)

Meet Fran and Ken Stein - a private investigator duo who refuse to let a little thing like being not entirely human stop them from doing their jobs.

After losing their parents when they were just babies, private investigators Fran and Ken Stein now specialize in helping adoptees find their birth parents. So when a client asks them for help finding her father, with her only clue a rare ukulele, the case is a little weird, sure, but it's nothing they can't handle. But soon Fran and her brother are plunged into a world where nothing makes sense - and not just the fact that a very short (but very cute) NYPD detective keeps trying to take eternal singleton Fran out on dates. All Fran wants to do is find the ukulele and collect their fee, but it's hard to keep your focus when you're stumbling over corpses and receiving messages that suggest your (dead) parents are very much alive. Ukuleles aside, it's becoming clear that someone knows something they shouldn't - that Fran and Ken Stein weren't so much born, as built . My Review: E. J. Copperman’s mysteries are never banal or predictable. When you start reading you know that the characters will be well developed and the mystery solid. And the plot will feature something very original that will make you love the story. This is the weirdest of all and one of the funniest I read this year. There’s a lot of humour and it could be called a cozy speculative mystery or a sci-fi cozy mystery. The definition it’s up to you, I thoroughly enjoyed the story and there were some details that made me laugh loud. There’s always a more serious side about the origin of Fran and Ken even if it’s packed in humour. A solid mystery with some weird twists and a lot of surprises. I loved the solution and hope to read soon other stories featuring these characters. Highly recommended. Many thanks to Severn House for this arc, all opinions are mine.

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3297526.E_J_Copperman https://severnhouse.com/books/ukulele-of-death/

All That Glitters by Mike Martin (The Sgt. Windflower Mystery Series #13)

Sergeant Winston Windflower is moving on to a new chapter of his life, no longer an RCMP officer but now a Community Safety Officer in the small community of Grand Bank, Newfoundland. But when a body is found in the bed and breakfast he co-owns, diamonds are found in the body’s digestive system, and then Windflower’s friend Dr. Sanjay, who was given the diamonds for safe keeping, is kidnapped, it’s clear that crime has returned once more to Grand Bank. Windflower finds himself back in the thick of it, helping his newly promoted friend, RCMP Corporal Eddie Tizzard, track down a ruthless diamond smuggler who will stop at nothing — kidnapping, even murder — to pull off his dirty business.

My Review: . This is an excellent mystery series and I hope a lot of people will read it because it's compelling and well plotted. Sgt Windflower is an interesting character, clever and strong. I fell in love with the descriptions of Newfoundland and it's on my bucket list of places to visit. This is another well plotted mystery, on the cozy mystery side. The pace is even, the plot is tightly knitted and it kept me guessing. A highly recommended series. Many thanks to Mike Martin for this arc, all opinions are mine

https://sgtwindflowermysteries.com/ https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/136278862-all-that-glitters

Rehearsed to Death By Frank Anthony Polito (Domestic Partners in Crime #2)

Hart to Hart via HGTV, this fabulous new quozy (queer cozy) mystery series by award-winning author and playwright Frank Anthony Polito’s features a gay couple who solve crimes while renovating houses in suburban Detroit as part of their hit reality show Domestic Partners . Now, their foray into community theater proves a major risk thanks to some deadly improvisation . . .

Peter’s first play is having its world premiere at Pleasant Woods’s community theater. His handsome one and only, JP, has the lead. Rehearsals have begun. And New York City’s award-winning, hotshot helmer, Xander Sherwood Deva, is directing. Unfortunately the controlling, arrogant, poison-barbed, egomaniacal diva has everyone on edge. No wonder he finally pushes someone over it . . . Xander is found strangled to death in the same extra-long, imported cashmere scarf he’s been brandishing like a boa ever since he arrived. In the name of making art he’s burned a lot of bridges and made a lot of enemies but which one wanted to bring down the curtain on him? As they say in the the show must go on. But not before amateur sleuths Peter and JP become Domestic Partners in Crime and try to solve this deadly real-life drama ahead of opening night.

My Review: Peter and JP are becoming a favorite couple of amateur sleuth as I love their humour and their personality. They remind me some friend of mine and I like how this novels describe how a gay couple life is exactly like any other couple and how the LGBTQ+ community is just people regardless of the gender or sexual orientation. This means that this a good story and there’s a solid mystery. I didn’t like the victim even if he made me think of Oscar Wilde in the XXI century. There’s a lot of twists, there’s a dog, and there’s an entertaining and compelling plot that kept me guessing. There’s humour, a lot of witty dialogues, and a cast of fleshed out characters. I can’t wait to read the next story. Many thanks to Kensington Cozies for this ARC, all opinions are mine

https://www.kensingtonbooks.com/9781496735607/rehearsed-to-death/ https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1272874.Frank_Anthony_Polito http://www.frankanthonypolito.com Twitter: fapolito

#mystery #cozy mystery #Kensington Books #severn house #inkubator books #ecw press #farrago #NetGalley #review

[thewrongsorts]

@moonshunned liked for a starter

It really shouldn’t have happened.

Charis isn’t a child ( or, well, not a young one, at least, ) anymore, and she’s spent years training herself not to hear the ambient farrago of internal monologues that swirl relentlessly around Hogwarts Castle. She doesn’t tune in to anyone’s thoughts unless she means to.

But it’s only the winter holidays, and this has already been a horribly long schoolyear; the dementors prowling just outside the school grounds grate on her nerves, and the half-unspoken rumors that started over the summer have only gotten worse as time goes on; and— Ahh. She could come up with any number of excuses. 

What matters is that she knocks into Professor Lupin in the hallway and her control slips for just long enough to suddenly understand why it is he looks so unwell, and the nauseous panic shows far too clearly on her face in the moment before she finds her voice again.

“Oh!” Charis wills herself to breathe again, ducking to pick up the books she’d bumped out of his hands. “Pardon me, Professor, I, ahh— I—-”

#you ever both embarrass yourself in front of a teacher AND accidentally find out they're a werewolf #f in the chat #moonshunned #closed starter #charis v: stainless angels [hogwarts] #thread: unwell #if i know how to do math at all (unlikely but possbile) she was a sixth year when he was teaching #rp: charis #// anyway lmk if this works for you! lov u lea #candere

[optimistic-violinist]

2. Band Names and Personality Differences

A/N: Hello everyone and welcome back to the CALM Band!AU. So this is the second story chronologically! The first one can be found here, one shot can be found here, and the fic that started it all here! Thanks so much for reading and for your kind comments! As always, enjoy!

Word count: ~2500

Warnings: none

Also I can't get Keep Readings to work so I'm very sorry for the long post!

Logan double checked the address on his phone and glanced back at the building. Yes, this was the place. It had taken about two weeks for them to find a time where their schedules aligned and Patton had invited them over for a song writing session at his place. It was a nice apartment building, close to downtown, but not over the top.

Shrugging, Logan entered the building. He had sent Patton a text and a moment later, was buzzed in, where he then proceeded to the fifth floor.

“Hey Logan!” Patton called from the kitchen. “Come in and make yourself comfortable, I’m just finishing up.”

“Thank you.” The music producer hung his coat up and slipped off his shoes before fully entering the apartment.

It was lovely, homey place. The front hallway led to a spacious living room decked out in blue and white with huge windows overlooking the city. A keyboard, guitar, bass, mic, and music stand were set up against the wall facing the couch and coffee table. To his right was the kitchen, separated from the living room by a bar counter. Patton was just pulling a sheet of cookies out of the oven.

“I didn’t know everyone’s favorite, so I made a couple different types.”

“That’s very kind of you Patton. You didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”

Patton just shrugged, a pleased, if somewhat shy smile on his face. “I like baking, so it was no problem.”

Logan sat on the couch, perched on the edge of it, trying to look comfortable, but absolutely failing at it. He was looking around, just kind of taking it all in, when the doorbell buzzed.

“Hello? Patton-cake, are you home?”

“Oh!” Patton quickly ran over to the PA. “My neighbor,” he quickly explained. “Hi Mrs. Foster.”

“Hi dear! Could you help me with my groceries? I think we can get them all in one load if you helped.”

“For sure! I’ll be right down.” He turned to Logan. “I’m sorry, but she just had hip surgery recently, and, anyways, this’ll be really quick! I’ll be right back.”

He was out the door before Logan could reply. Alright then. The music producer looked around and stood to go inspect the instruments.

The guitar was baby blue and obviously well loved. Logan had done some research on his fellow compatriots and knew that Patton had been playing ever since he was a kid. The bass looked newer as did the keyboard. There was a box of sheet music tucked underneath. A quick rifle through revealed loose sheet music of random pop songs, and beginner’s Disney, Pirates of the Caribbean, and Star Wars books. Patton seemed to dabble in piano at least.

Glancing at the door to make sure Patton hadn’t returned, he got up and pressed the power button and pressed a couple keys. Hm. Not a bad keyboard.

Logan shifted to be more directly in front of the keyboard and played a chord. His hands shifted and he began to improvise- he’d had a tune stuck in his head earlier and built off of that.

Logan loved piano. It had been his first instrument and he had never given it up, even when he got into electronic music and DJing. He loved that too, but he loved how logical and expressive the piano could be.

Hand over hand, he finished with a scale that ran the length of the keyboard and was left echoing, a pleasant resolution to the melody. He nodded in satisfaction and turned around only to nearly stumble back.

“Well don’t stop there,” Virgil said.

The other three were all sitting on the couch, Patton on the edge of his seat, Roman looking attentive, and Virgil actually looking at ease for once, guitar case leaning against the couch. Logan could feel a hot flush creeping up his cheeks.

“Logan that was so good!” Patton squeed.

“I say, you’ve been holding out on us! That was amazing!”

“Yes, well,” Logan cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “Ah, thank you, I suppose.”

“How long have you been playing?” Patton asked.

“Well, my whole life practically.”

“What song was that?” Roman asked as Patton got up to grab a cookie (or two) and a notebook.

“Oh, it, uh, doesn’t have a name. It was inspired by Rewrite the Stars, but I just kind of… made it up as I went.”

“We’re using it!” Roman yelled, jumping up. “That’s the melody of our first song and Logan’s going to play the piano for it.”

“Only if he wants to,” Virgil cut in. Logan made grateful eye contact, but now he was thinking.

“I suppose it makes sense. If we are trying to keep our identities a secret, then no one would suspect me of being the keyboard artist. Or of Patton being the bassist for that matter.”

“Being the basis of what?” Patton joked, settling down on the floor near Virgil. “Anyhoo, I’ve got my notebook and I’ve been working on some lyrics and I think they’d go really well with your melody, Logan.”

Virgil leaned over and pulled his electric guitar out of its case along with a mini amp and played an experimental riff. “Logan, you want to play that again?”

Logan nodded and played the same experimental starting cord, followed by another, before starting into the melody.

“Starting off alone, can make the road seem pretty long,

“Going, going, going, and before too long, you’re gone.”

Roman scooted over to join Patton on the floor, reading over his shoulder. Virgil joined in, rounding out the sound with some supportive chords.

“Thinking no one understands. No one can relate.

“You hope you don’t lose yourself, caught in a stalemate.”

“Calm down,” Patton sang. “You’re doing just fine. You’ve got others by your side!”

“Calm down,” Roman echoed. “It’ll be alright. Just keep on going, that’s how you’ll find the light!”

“When troubles come and things all change,” they sang together. “Calm down. You’re gonna be, you’re gonna be, gonna be alright.”

Logan took off, running through scales and complicated melodies, backing off to allow Virgil to knock out some impressive rifts.

“That’s all I’ve got so far,” Patton admitted.

“I love it,” Roman announced as the others trailed off and nodded supportively. Roman pulled out his phone and opened a note. “I came up with some lyrics myself. Could we somehow put them together?”

“We can always try!” Patton announced.

Two hours later, personality differences had become clear and, while they had their first song nearly done, and the lyrics for another one started, Patton called for an enforced cookie break, putting himself between Logan and Roman, who were trying not to fume, and Virgil sat on the bar counter, looking annoyed, trying hard to not quit then and there.

“I’m just saying-“

“Logan, shush. It’s cookie time.”

“I just don’t understand-“

“Roman. Eat your cookie.”

“Yes, Dad.” Roman muttered and munched on his cookie. Virgil snorted.

“These are really good Patton.”

“I’m glad you like them! And there’s plenty more, so help yourselves. Just don’t get a stomach ache!”

He really is like a dad, Virgil thought, swiping two more cookies. “Y’know,” he mused. “We still need a band name.”

“I’ve been thinking about that!” Roman cried. “What do you guys think of Dreamers Come True?”

Virgil gave a hmm of disapproval that accompanied Logan’s confused look.

“I don’t think so,” the producer said. “We need something more straight forward. Perhaps… Variety? Or Farrago?”

“Boring!” Roman moaned.

“Come on now Logan, we aren’t opera singers,” Patton joked.

Logan stared at him confusedly. “You realize ‘farrago’ is not Italian in origin. It does stem from Latin though, so I could see how you-“

“It’s a joke Pocket Protector.”

Patton seemed to sense things were heating up again. “Calm down guys.” Virgil spoke over them, before they could start arguing again.

“Maybe that should be our name,” he smirked. “Calm Down. We’ve said it enough today. And it is in one of our songs.”

Surprisingly, the others actually considered it.

“We should also probably have codenames,” Logan mused. “Calm is a four letter word and there are four of us. It would not be hard to make it an acronym.”

Patton immediately jumped in. “You could be Logic! ‘Cuz it kind of goes along with your DJ name and it starts with L and you’re the smart one in the group!” The others looked like they wanted to protest that last statement, then thought about it and realized he was right.

“And Roman, you could be Creativity since this was your idea in the first place! And your lyrics are really good.”

“I will admit, it has a nice ring to it,” Roman mused. “What about you two?”

Virgil raised his hand. “Just call me Anxiety. It’s how I feel 90% of the time anyway.”

Virgil caught Patton looking like he wanted to say something, but stopped. Instead he said, “So that leaves me with M.”

“Mom! You made us cookies.”

“No,” Logan said, shaking his head, Patton looking grateful. “Remember, people will be calling us these names.”

“What about… Morality?” Patton suggested. “I know it’s kinda weird, but-”

“I like it. It suits you somehow,” Roman said.

“You are the common sense in this group after all,” Virgil agreed.  Again the others looked like they would protest, then realized there was no use. “So is this, like, official?”

“CALM it is!” Roman declared. The others nodded.

“Sweet. I’ve got to get going, but thanks again Patton. This was… fun, I guess.”

The others bid their farewells as Virgil left and the others left soon after as well. Roman’s head was buzzing as he- or, well, his driver- drove away, and he pulled up a drawing app on his phone. After all, they would need a logo and as Creativity, he figured he could get a head start.

Taglist: @celestial-firestorm @oddball-wqri @fioxypurr @kaytikitty @purplesoul-at-hogwarts @stop-it-anxiety ((I added you cuz you said you like to be tagged in things ok byeeee))

#band au #calm band au #sanders sides #brittany writes #thomas sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #band!au #long post #i love you all

[bbclesmis]

Daily Mail: The original superhero: An ex-con with the strength of an ox and a passion for justice – Dominic West on playing Valjean in the BBC’s epic new version of Les Mis

Dominic West, 49, is set to star in Andrew Davies' adaptation of Les Misérables

The story written originally by Victor Hugo in 1862 became a hit film in 2012

The French novel is also the longest-running musical in the West End

Dominic says the story's Jean Valjean is the best superhero that’s ever written

He shared his thoughts on the challenge of bringing new complexity to the role

Dominic West walks into the room sporting a huge grin, sideburns, rust-coloured breeches, a scarf that makes him look instantly French... and a sore throat.

‘I’ve almost lost my voice,’ he croaks.

He’s midway through filming the BBC’s epic new adaptation of Les Misérables when we meet, so this is far from ideal. But he’s undeterred.

‘I’ve been shouting for justice for too long,’ he laughs.

Many drama fans will know Victor Hugo’s classic 1862 novel from the popular musical adaptation that has been playing in London since 1985, making it the longest-running musical ever in the West End.

It was turned into an Oscar-winning film in 2012 with Hugh Jackman, Anne Hathaway and Russell Crowe, but this six-part TV series – with no singing at all – goes much deeper into a story encompassing the nature of justice, the misery of humankind and the redemptive quality of love.

Dominic West, 49, revealed the complexity behind his role as ex-criminal Jean Valjean in the TV adaptation of Les Misérables. Pictured left to right: Madame Thénardier (Olivia Coleman) and her husband (Adeel Akhtar), Fantine (Lily Collins) holding a young Cosette, Valjean and Javert (David Oyelowo)

The epic tale focuses on ex-criminal Jean Valjean, his policeman nemesis Javert, and a host of characters they meet on their respective journeys through France between 1815 and 1832.

After being released from prison, where he was incarcerated for stealing a loaf of bread for his starving sister but kept in jail for 19 years for continually trying to escape, Valjean is an embittered man until an act of incredible kindness from a village priest, played by Derek Jacobi, makes him vow to turn over a new leaf.

But he soon discovers that having to show his ex-criminal papers wherever he roams means he’s unable to find work, and finds he’s being pursued by Javert because he’s failed to check in with the authorities after his release.

Six years on, he has become a wealthy factory owner in the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer.

He has a new name, is well regarded as a philanthropist and no one knows his past.

It’s there that he meets single mother Fantine, who has turned to prostitution after being sacked from his factory.

Her daughter Cosette is being brought up by the Thénardiers, a couple of thieves who run an inn, and she can’t afford to pay them.

Valjean promises to look after Cosette for the dying Fantine, but first he must flee from Javert, who’s on his heels.

The action then turns to Paris in 1832, where cholera is rife and the streets are ablaze with anti-monarchy protests.

Valjean and a now teenage Cosette are living there, but both the Thénardiers and Javert are in the capital too.

It’s a dangerous time for everyone, but as well as tragedy in the closing scenes, there is love, redemption and forgiveness.

As the series has been adapted by the king of costume drama Andrew Davies, the man who sexed up Pride And Prejudice and War And Peace, we can expect a lighter touch – as well as more nakedness – than is to be found in the average retelling of the French classic.

Andrew Davies says the musical version of Les Misérables failed to get to the heart of the story, in his version he includes various elements of love. Pictured: Marius (Josh O'Connor) and Cosette (Ellie Bamber) fall deeply in love with each other

The musical, he says, was ‘a shoddy farrago’ that failed to get to the heart of the story, whereas his version will.

‘The story has all those elements of love: romantic love, maternal love, filial and sibling love.

'It looks at those universal themes of how we live a good life.

'But it’s about much more than that.

'We live in a society that’s as divided into rich and poor as the society Hugo was talking about.

'Now, as then, there are people who end up on the streets if something goes wrong.’

Dominic, 49, is cast as the lead character Valjean, a beast of a role that he’s clearly relishing, despite his croaky voice.

‘Jean Valjean is the best superhero that’s ever been written,’ he says.

It’s a very emotional story. I’m in tears all day - Dominic West                        

‘He’s amazing. If he’s not saving kids or fighting villains, then he’s climbing up ships’ masts to save some sailor.

'It’s a very emotional story. I’m in tears all day.

'Really, I can’t stop crying. I just love this man. He’s such a good guy.

'Usually it’s hard to make good guys interesting so that people really care about them.

'But he’s fighting all the time – not only with Javert who’s on his tail, but also with his own demons.

'The odds are stacked against him, the world is stacked against him, and yet he manages to be a good guy when all the pressures around him are urging him to be bad.

'Our lives are nothing like his, but we are having slightly tougher political times right now.

Ooh la la love triangle!                                                            

While the heart of the story is about Jean Valjean and Javert, there’s another intriguing relationship in Les Misérables – between Eponine who loves Marius, and Marius who loves Cosette.

‘Marius is passionately in love with Cosette, but in my version he keeps having dreams about Eponine,’ says writer Andrew Davies.

‘That leaves him terribly upset and feeling like he’s betrayed Cosette.

'It’s not in the original text, but Eponine does keep coming into his room and I thought about how unsettling that must be to a lusty young man.’

Eponine, played by Erin Kellyman, is the daughter of Thénardier, who goes to Paris after losing his inn, but she’s nothing like her thieving father.

She meets Marius when they share the same boarding house and falls in love with him.

Eponine (Erin Kellyman, pictured) suffers unrequited love in Les Misérables as she loves Marius but his heart belongs to Cosette

But he’s in love with Fantine’s daughter Cosette, who as a girl was brought up with Eponine by the Thénardier family but is now, after her mother’s death, the charge of the rich philanthropist Jean Valjean.

‘Eponine’s story is so sad because she tries so hard to impress Marius and he’s not interested at all,’ says Erin, best known for her role as rebel Enfys Nest in Solo: A Star Wars Story.

‘So she resorts to doing what she can to make him happy rather than making herself happy.

'Everyone knows what unrequited love feels like – but not quite to this extent.’

Josh O’Connor, who’s cast as Marius, admits he enjoyed having two beautiful girls in love with him.

‘He’s madly in love with Cosette, but his feelings about Eponine creep up on him.’

Nocturnal Animals star Ellie Bamber, who appears as Cosette, says audiences will see a new side to her character.

‘You see her past a lot more – she’s been through abuse and had to grow up fast,’ says Ellie, who first played Cosette in a school musical.

‘But she goes on a journey, falls in love, confronts her abusers and is a symbol of hope.’

'We’re looking for a hero and he could be that guy.

'I’ve got kids, and I’m at that age now where I don’t want to be a villain.

'It’s much more interesting when people are trying to be good when the world is against them.’

Dominic, whose naked bottom is seen within the first half hour of the show (‘It’s all mine!’ he laughs), says it took a lot of preparation to play Valjean, who is notable for his strength.

‘It took me about ten years to read the book,’ he jokes.

‘I also did a bit of boxing training, which almost killed me.’

The pressure Valjean comes under is mainly created by Javert, played by David Oyelowo, who’s best known for appearing as Martin Luther King in the film Selma.

He first meets Valjean in prison, where he’s astounded by the prisoner’s strength.

Fantine sells her hair, her teeth – and then herself - Lily Collins

When Valjean fails to report to the authorities after his release, Javert is on his tail and some years later mysteriously turns up in the village where Valjean – without revealing his past – has become mayor.

‘Javert is the villain, but while in the musical you see him only in primary colours, in this mini-series we see his many layers,’ says David, 42.

‘When I was offered the job I realised there was an opportunity to bring complexity and dimension to a character who’s largely been marginalised as a villain.’

Andrew Davies says he believes Javert’s obsession with Valjean may have a sexual element to it.

‘He may possibly be in love with him, in a strange way,’ he says.

‘If you think about it, their relationship with each other is the closest either of them has to romantic love in the story.’

Derek Jacobi (pictured) plays a priest who reforms Valjean with an incredible act of kindness

But David admits he chose to see other motivations for Javert’s preoccupation with catching Valjean.

‘Javert sees Valjean as a mirror to himself,’ he says.

‘Javert was born in a prison to gypsy parents.

'He was born in and around criminality, and that’s the thing he’s been pushing away from, obsessively, all his life. He’s trying to kill off that side of himself.’

Dominic says the rivalry between the two characters became easier to understand as soon as they gave Valjean a northern accent and Javert a southern one, playing on regional rivalries that will be familiar to British audiences even if it isn’t authentically French.

‘We had a bit of trouble at first, thinking why is Javert so obsessed with this dude,’ he says.

‘But it all became easier when David started doing Javert in a southern accent and I started doing Valjean in a Yorkshire one, because I’m originally from Sheffield.’

More than anything it’s a study of goodness - Dominic West  

The casting was deliberately colourblind, with Adeel Akhtar, who has Pakistani and Kenyan heritage and is best known for his role in Unforgotten last year, as the thieving innkeeper Thénardier and David, whose parents were both Nigerian, playing the key villain.

It may cause raised eyebrows, but David insists it’s time.

‘The thing that’s often overlooked is that we’re taking a 150-year-old French novel and transposing it onto English life,’ he says.

‘We have long striven to make these older texts relevant to a contemporary audience, and this is just an extension of that.’

David and Dominic have been filming in a picturesque cobbled street in Brussels, where much of the Paris action in the series takes place – Paris is now too modern to play itself.

Dominic revealed he prepared for his role as Valjean (pictured as a prisoner) with boxing training

Shopfronts have been aged, satellite dishes and street signs covered up, cars replaced by horses and there’s a market in full swing outside a church with dozens of extras dressed in smocks.

There are even dog carts, which were used to transport goods at the time, being led by Great Swiss Mountain Dogs.

This is where we will first meet another of the key characters, Fantine, played by Lily Collins, the 29-year-old daughter of singer and drummer Phil.

In the musical we see only the end of her life, but here we will see the light that preceded the darkness.

The scene being filmed today shows her walking with friends to a dance, where she meets Felix, played by Johnny Flynn, who will seduce her and leave her with a baby, Cosette.

‘I love the musical, and playing Fantine is a dream come true,’ says Lily.

‘We get to flesh out the storyline we’ve never seen performed before.

'What is just a lyric in a song in the musical takes up an entire episode. We get to see Fantine fall in love and have her heart broken.’

Because of the vagaries of filming – and having to accommodate a stellar cast’s busy schedules – Lily filmed Fantine’s downfall first, before portraying the happier early part of her life.

As a single mother, her daughter is being brought up by the increasingly avaricious Madame Thénardier, played by Olivia Colman, and when Fantine loses her job in Jean Valjean’s factory in Montreuil she’s forced to sell her hair, then her teeth, then herself to make money.

Olivia Colman stars as Madame Thénardier (pictured) who brings up Fantine's daughter

But even that isn’t enough.

‘I did her death scene on my second day of filming,’ says Lily.

‘It was snowing and minus 13 degrees.

'The snow and the cold, the rags and the cobbles all helped me do the scene but it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

'By the end she has no hair and her front teeth are missing; the make-up and costume departments did the most extraordinary job.

'I sent my mum a photo of what I looked like and she said, “Oh God, no mother should ever see her child like that.”

'But being unable to recognise myself physically helped me transform myself, I’m really grateful for it.’

Lily says she had a brief chat with Anne Hathaway, who won an Oscar for playing Fantine in the film, about this tragic story.

‘I met her at a fashion event and she said hello to me. I got all nervous and said, “I’m playing you... well, not you, Fantine.”

She said, “Don’t lose yourself in the role because it can get really tough.” And she was right.

'As an actor I’ve never gone that low and it was hard to cling onto reality.’

The series, like the book, is set in the 17 years after the Battle of Waterloo in 1815.

The devastation of the battle opens the series in a powerful scene where we see innkeeper Thénardier robbing the bodies of dead soldiers. When he pulls a horse off one corpse to steal from him, the soldier is still alive.

The real Valjean     

The character of Jean Valjean was partly inspired by a real-life reformed villain, Eugène François Vidocq, who spent much of his life on the run.

A teenage tearaway who stole from his own family, his early years were spent in and out of jail and he also deserted from the army.

But that all changed when he witnessed the execution of an old friend and former thief.

Les Misérables's Jean Valjean was inspired by real-life reformed villain, Eugène François Vidocq (pictured)

He turned police informer and philanthropist, set up a factory for ex-convicts and even, in 1828, lifted up a heavy cart that had fallen onto one of his workers.

Revered as the ‘father’ of modern criminology, he set up his own detective agency and is credited with the introduction of undercover work, ballistics and he even made the first plaster cast impressions of shoe prints.

His first memoir was printed in 1829 and as well as inspiring Victor Hugo, who is said to have created both Jean Valjean and Javert from Vidocq’s story, he was also written about by Balzac, Alexander Dumas, Edgar Allan Poe, Herman Melville and Charles Dickens.

Thinking Thénardier was there to help him, he demands the name of his saviour.

That man is Colonel George Pontmercy, the father of another of the key characters, Marius.

And in another strand to the story that will be new for fans of the musical who haven’t read the book, we learn about Marius’s upbringing.

Born into an aristocratic family, he is raised largely by his royalist grandfather Monsieur Gillenormand, played by the Harry Potter and Game Of Thrones star David Bradley, because his father is off fighting and his mother is dead.

When his father returns from battle, Gillenormand refuses to allow him to see his son because he’s so disgusted he fought for the rebel Napoleon.

But when Marius – a role taken by The Durrells actor Josh O’Connor – grows up he discovers more about his father and becomes a rebel himself.

‘He comes from a well-to-do background and then he turns into a socialist to fight for the people,’ says Josh.

‘The book is partly about social injustice, but you have these beautiful themes of redemption.’

As the story moves on, we see the characters interlink against the backdrop of a volatile Paris, as Marius falls for Cosette and Thénardier’s daughter Eponine falls for Marius, while Javert pursues Valjean.

‘All of human nature is here,’ says Dominic.

‘Guilt, revenge, injustice, triumph and love – but more than anything else this is a study of goodness.

'It makes goodness interesting and that is quite rare.’  

Les Misérables starts tomorrow at 9pm on BBC1.

(x)

#les mis bbc #bbc les mis #articles #Interviews #dominic west #david oyelowo #Lily Collins #ellie bamber #cast #daily mail

[libertariantaoist]

Has there been a more disgusting spectacle during the four months of this presidency  than the sight of Donald Trump slobbering all over the barbarous Saudi monarch  and his murderous family of petty princelings? It’s enough to make any normal  American retch, especially when one remembers what Trump said  about them during the election:

“Saudi Arabia and many of the countries that gave vast amounts of money  to the Clinton Foundation want women as slaves and to kill gays. Hillary must  return all money from such countries!”

And then there was this tweet:

“Tell Saudi Arabia and others that we want (demand!) free oil for the next  ten years or we will not protect their private Boeing 747s. Pay up!”

Now Trump’s son in law, Jared Kushner, is calling  up Lockheed-Martin to get a discount for the Saudis, personally brokering  the biggest arms deal in US history. What a difference a presidency makes!

The old Trump told us that the Saudis were “mouth pieces,  bullies, cowards,” who were “paying ISIS,”  but now they’re our partners in the “war on terrorism.” Why it seems like only  yesterday that he was calling out  Saudi princes like Alwaleed bin Talal for thinking they can “control our  US politicians” – today he’s kowtowing to them.

Most tellingly, it was Trump who made a campaign issue out of the missing 28  pages redacted from the Joint congressional report on the 9/11 terrorist attacks.  In calling for their release, he painted  a scenario in which the Saudi royals assisted the hijackers and said:

“You know, it’s sort of nice to know who your friends are, and perhaps who  your enemies are.”

Does Trump know who are our  friends and who are our enemies?

While the US government,  under both Trump and Obama, has routinely maintained that Iran is the biggest  exporter of terrorism, that is utter nonsense: the Saudis easily  outdo the mullahs of Tehran. Riyadh funds radical madrassas throughout the  world that preach pure hatred of the West: they are incubators of terrorism,  and have been wreaking havoc from one end of the globe to the other for decades.  The terrorist groups that have destroyed Syria are the  progeny of the Saudis, and their allies among the Gulf states.

Most shameful of all, the  Saudis have invaded nearby Yemen, slaughtering children and women with impunity,  bombing funeral processions, and causing a famine that will kill hundreds of  thousands of noncombatants: the very young, the sick, and the old. And they’re  doing it with US assistance, a pact signed in blood under the Obama administration,  now continued and beefed up under Trump.

In all fairness, this is  nothing new as far as the US is concerned: our relationship with the Saudi monarchy  goes all the way back to Franklin Roosevelt, who cemented the alliance in  1943 by declaring that the defense of their medieval dictatorship was “vital”  to our national security: US taxpayer dollars flowed into the Saudi treasury  via the Lend-Lease giveaway. The flow hasn’t stopped since that time: indeed,  it has only increased.

And the flow will turn into  a torrent if Trump’s wacky idea of an Arab  NATO ever comes to fruition. We’ll be paying their “defense” bills unto  eternity, while they send their army of head-chopping assassins out to murder  infidels on a global scale – and US arms dealers rake in cash hand over fist.

Yes, the US-Saudi relationship  is one of the central pillars of our globalist foreign policy – but wasn’t Trump  supposed to be different? Wasn’t he supposed to be putting America first? Of  all the betrayals we’ve had to endure since he took the White House, his pilgrimage  to the epicenter of world terrorism has got to be the absolute worst. As he  kneels before the Saudi king, he humiliates all of us.

Trump’s next stop is Israel, and that’s no accident: the Jewish state is Saudi  Arabia’s main  ally in the region, although the relationship is supposed to be covert.  They don’t  even bother to keep it under wraps anymore. While the Saudis fund the head-chopping  barbarians who have destroyed Syria, the  Israelis succor them in their hospitals and then set them free to kill and  maim again. Israeli officials openly state their preference  for ISIS over Bashar al-Assad. If and when Trump’s loopy “Arab NATO” ever  comes to pass, Israel will be a silent partner.

The third leg of Trump’s  trip will be the Vatican, and there an ambush awaits him. This Pope is no friend  of the White House, and he is likely to issue a public rebuke on the immigration  issue, at the very least. The whole thing is a public relations disaster waiting  to happen, and a testament to the very bad advice Trump is getting from his  clueless advisors.

The mawkish idea of visiting  the sites of the world’s three major religions is more appropriate for a television  special than for a President on his first major trip abroad. Quite aside from  the fact that it leaves out the Hindus, the Greek Orthodox, and the Buddhists,  the whole concept is typical of the way this administration thinks in terms  of mindless clichés, catchphrases without context or real meaning.

Speaking of which, the less  said about Trump’s speech  in Riyadh the better: it was a farrago of falsehood, kowtowing, and brazen hypocrisy.  To top it off, he announced that a new “Global Center for Combating Extremist  Ideology” is to be opened in the Kingdom – which is, itself, the world capital  of extremist ideology, having done more to spread religious hatred than any  country on earth.

Of all Trump’s many betrayals  – and they’re piling up at such a rate that he’s creating a veritable Mountain  of Mendacity – this Saudi trip has got to be the one that will demoralize and  alienate even his hardcore supporters. After rising to power on the strength  of portraying Islam as inherently  violent and dangerous, he’s now joining hands with the leaders of what he  once described as “the hateful ideology of radical Islam.” It’s as if Mother  Theresa had embraced the Church of Satan.

It’s been a very long four  months  –  that seems more like four years. In voting for Trump, many of his  supporters – some of whom are now among Antiwar.com’s regular readers and supporters   –  were hoping for a return  to normalcy. What they got instead was a descent into Bizarro World.

#justin raimondo #antiwar.com #donald trump #saudi arabia

[thisdaynews]

The Strange, Nostalgic World of Obama-Biden Fan Fiction

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/the-strange-nostalgic-world-of-obama-biden-fan-fiction/

The Strange, Nostalgic World of Obama-Biden Fan Fiction

Those who choose to live in clinical denial, ahoy! This is a no-judgment zone, in which you will be urged to forget the current American president’s name—and instead enjoy escapist fan fiction about Barack Obama and Joe Biden.

Yes, there is such a thing. Past presidential fanfic masterworks—like “Kim Jong Elmo vs Dick Cheney and George Bush featuring Lapis Lazuli”—might have been relegated to online speakeasies, but so great is thenostalgie d’Obamathat new books about Barry and Joe are bringing fanfic’s nerdy tropes into the light of day in print.

Story Continued Below

Parodist Andrew Shaffer has just added a new entry to his enjoyably ludicrous Obama-Biden series, which launched last year withHope Never Diesand features the duo solving mysteries together. The second entry, published in July, is called, you guessed it,Hope Rides Again.Indie director Adam Reid’s gonzo graphic confection,The Adventures of Barry & Joe, which styles Obama and Biden as time-traveling superheroes, was released this past spring. It is here to, if not to save the day, then at least demonstrate the life-changing magic of putting our heads under the covers and pretending it’s 2015.

I respect you if you refuse to look back and entertain fantasies that Obama and Biden might return to deliver the Republic from evil. Biden on the 2020 stump might wield Obama’s name like a talisman to protect himself from criticism, but all sane voters know the Joe-Barack heyday is never coming back.

Still, tucking into the fantasies of Reid, a filmmaker whose 2010 filmHello Lonesomewas a festival darling, and Shaffer, a novelist who teaches writing in Kentucky, I decided to tolerate and maybe even open my heart to the authors’ poignant nostalgia for libmerica. It’s a powerful thing to mark the difference between today’s gruesome nonfan-nonfic—in which the Chosen One aims to delete China while annexing Israel and Greenland—and escape back to the relative paradise known as 2008 to 2016.

Now, to Uncle Joe.Hope Never Dies(Quirk Books), the first of the Shaffer mysteries—Hardy Boys-style with a YA version of the Dashiell Hammett narrative voice, but goofy—was released before Biden had announced his presidential bid; the second,Hope Rides Again,came out not long afterward. Like many an Obaman, Shaffer’s Biden opens the first novel frozen in time, just after the 2016 election, gorging on Ben & Jerry’s. This bothers Jill, Joe’s wife. In both Shaffer novels, Joe and Jill (and Barack and Michelle) are comparable to lovable, forgettable CBS sitcom duos of a decade ago:Everybody Loves Raymond, King of Queens.The dude is a charming galoot; the wife has his number.

But the real One True Pairing here—let’s not kid ourselves—is gonna involve Barack, whose communiqués Joe initially awaits like a schoolgirl scorned. “After Jill was sound asleep, I scrolled through old text messages Barack and I had exchanged a lifetime ago,” Shaffer writes. “It was an exercise in futility. If I kept picking at the wound, it was never going to heal.”

Biden mirrors the sulky American people. Is Barack Obama ghosting us?

Probably. But inHope Never Dies,he‘s not ghosting Biden, and after Encyclopedia Joe stumbles on the mystery of the murdered Amtrak conductor inHope Never Dies, the Dem Duo reunite to criss-cross Delaware in a farrago that leads them to find the mastermind of the opioid epidemic because why not. (It is not the Sacklers, FYI; fanfic is fic.)

On the cover ofHope Rides Again,the sequel, Obama wears tan as, in an Ethan Hunt moment, he dashingly mounts a rope ladder to a helicopter, giving a hand to trusty Joe. This choice, of course, expresses Shaffer’s fondness for no-drama Obama by reminding us that right-wing pundits had nothing to make hay about in summer 2014 but the president’s beige suit. In this novel, Joeisabout to announce his presidential bid, when Barack loses track of his BlackBerry—warning, the nostalgia goes deep; Obama even smokes again—and the device’s thief has been murdered. Off they go!

Joe encounters thugs, a grenade, near-disaster on an airplane. And he and Barack do, it’s true, end up, “huddled together, arms twisted like a couple of pretzels”—but they’re in a hole the size of a washing machine in the hull of a ship. By the time the police helicopter arrives for them, unfurling its rope ladder, they’ve finished off the bad guys and are ready to fly away, like Obama leaving the White House on January 20, 2017.Sniff.

If this is all high corn, there’s some actual sweetness, too: Shaffer clearly admires and somehow truly gets Joe’s geriatric efforts to be cool and, especially cringily,downwith the 44th president, with fist bumps and (yikes) even pseudo-Ebonics. It’s good someone finds that side of Joe charming.

Reid’sAdventures of Barry & Joe(Dey Street Books), the product of a Kickstarter campaign,is considerably skeevier than the wholesome Shaffer books. To clarify: None of this is slash. That’s a blessing. Shaffer and Reiddo not, I repeat donot, reprise (entirely) the Kirk/Spock erotics from the earliest days of pre-internet fan fiction. In case you somehow dodged the ’70s zines, in which fanfic was first codified, “slash” were the sexy fairy tales, mostly by women, in which the fellowship expressed on the USS Enterprise tilted into loving tendresse and then—sweetly, slowly—into … make-out jams.

Presumably Reid wants a bigger audience for his graphic novel than he’d get with straight slash.Adventuresis ultimately something called “ampersand” fanfic, meaning friendship, not romance, defines the Barry & Joe relationship. (That’s “ship” in fanfic-speak—you D.C. squares got a lot to learn.)

But, unaccountably, Reid still wants to see the former president and VP nekkid, so by panel No. 7 of the chapter called “True Bromance,” they’re drawn in a locker room, preparing to participate in a time-travel experiment by stripping down to their briefs. By No. 9, we’re to full-posterior nudity. Joe, so you know, has the dusty-rose busting-at-the-seams body of geezer strongman Jack LaLanne. Barry, while also shredded, is only somewhat slimmer. Glutes have been diligently attended to by the artists in that section, Joe St. Pierre (of Marvel), Anwar Hananu (Image Comics) and freelance illustrator Dezi Sienty. (The Adventures, which includes a grab bag of stories, aphorisms and short plays alongside the graphic components, is very much a group effort.)

Before Joe and Barack disappear into a time-travel vessel that looks like KitchenAid made it, Biden says, “Barack, I want you to know … I wanna hug even though we’re naked. Is that wrong?” Barry: “Let’s not.” Joe: “I’ll see you on the other side.”

Much of Reid’s scrapbook concerns madcap travel in the “multiverse,” in what could be a tribute to the lateMadmagazine.The taste level isMad,also. In one of Reid’s short stories, Joe returns to the 1970s, looks uncannily hot, and gets a chance to talk to his son, Beau, then 9. More than the nudity, this fictional resurrection of Biden’s son—the real Beau Biden died of brain cancer in 2015—seems far too intrusive to be even campily enjoyable.

I winced. Until that point, I’d been reading with the simmering notion that liberal democracy, now globally stifled, might come back to life with a new leader in 2020. But Beau Biden will not come back to life. Suddenly the whole project of these wish-fulfillment Obama fantasias seemed like nothing more than fodder for Trump ralliers to, as the T-shirt says, oil their guns with liberal tears. And how in the world could I write about it? One false move—one mentionin fictionthat Obama and Biden (in fiction) are (fictional) witnesses to an (imaginary) gangland shooting (in a work of fiction)—and you might end up quoted with a straight face in some daft anti-Biden propaganda that ricochets all over the internet. While I could suspend solemnity for a few hours, in this current breath-holdingly paranoid climate, there’s not enough oxygen for this much playfulness.

If the Library of Congress shelving system were remade for our time, these fanfic works might be classified as “WAFF,” because they’re meant to generate—you got it—warm and fuzzy feelings. Those are the feelings most Americans still vaguely remember from four years ago. But we’re forgetting. And before we introduce delusions about what might have been, we have an urgent challenge in the present—Trumpism, which can be stopped only with something other than naked cartoons. Thus, the Biden-Obama counterfactuals,especiallybecause they’re meant to be fun, leave me with CAPs—cold and pricklies. Nowthat’s a phrase from the 1970s that should be brought back.

Read More

#Fiction #Foreign #Obama-Biden #Politics

[bloggerblagger]

83) And the winner almost certainly isn’t .....

In about three hours - as I write - the 2018 Oscars will be announced. And having made a determined effort to see all nine of the ‘outstanding motion picture nominees’, I feel the necessity to get my retaliation in first, and give my verdict on which should win and which most certainly should not.

But before I get to the films, a brief note.

Woody Allen famously refused to be present at the ceremony to collect  his Oscar for ‘Annie Hall’, preferring to play clarinet in his jazz band in New York, and by so doing, showing his contempt for the whole Oscar farrago.

He was dead right. The Oscars and all such awards, from the Nobel Prize for Literature onwards and down,  are always, inevitably, a committee vote, and, as we all know, committees very, very rarely vote for the best and the bravest. The members of the Academy, the people who vote for the Oscars, are, effectively, just a very large committee.

Moreover, any award for something which can not be objectively measured - like a running race or a  football match - involves comparing apples with pears, oranges, cauliflower and kale, and is self evidently meaningless in any sense beyond its commercial value.

All that said, I still can’t bring myself to ignore the Oscars - I might even stay up to watch - and I shall be extremely miffed if my choices don’t turn out to be the names in the envelopes. Bricks might - probably will - be metaphorically chucked at my telly.

But why should I care? Pathetically, I suppose, it’s just my insecurity.  It comforts me if  my opinions are endorsed by others who are supposed to know what they are talking about even if I rarely agree with  professional critics,  and by the awarding of Oscars even if, as I have said, I hold the whole system in contempt. In my private battle between insecurity and reason, it seems reason loses.

So to the nominees:

‘Darkest Hour’. 

A Brexiteer’s wet dream. A nostalgic  look back at good old Winnie’s finest hour. Lots of risible dialogue and one utterly ludicrously improbable (and entirely fictitious) scene of the Conservative (but ex-Liberal and almost leader of the Kings Party) Prime Minister taking a trip on the Tube where he met some luvverly, salt of the earth types who knuckled their proletarian foreheads in appropriate awe of the great man. Gary Oldman’s make-up and prosthetics were seamless though and  Kazuhiro Tsuji ,who was responsible, thoroughly deserves to win the Make Up prize.

‘Phantom Thread’.

I hated previous Paul Thomas Anderson films, ‘There Will Be Blood’ (about an oil tycoon) and ‘The Master’ (about the leader of a fanatical religious movement)  which both seemed to me to be wildly over ‘actored’ and just risible attempts to remake ‘Citizen Kane’ ( about a press baron, as you may recall.) From the blurb I had read, I thought ‘Phantom Thread’ would be another of these - this time about a great fashion designer. But I was wrong. It is a very unusual, exquisitely made  love story about a man who makes exquisite clothes.

‘Dunkirk’. 

Another thrill-a-minute joyride  for Brexiteers; a look back at the heroic retreat across the channel in 1940 with Mark Rylance reprising his barely-moving-a-muscle, never-raising-his-voice performance as Thomas Cromwell in ‘Wolf Hall’ but this time playing a stoic civilian with the misfortune to own a small boat which he then feels obliged to take to Dunkirk as part of the rescue fleet. The stiffness of his upper lip is something to behold, and the lower quivers almost as infrequently.

Meanwhile Kenneth Branagh  gives a passable imitation of Kenneth More as a high ranking naval officer striding up and down a jetty in a  French port for a reason I can’t remember, and saying things like ‘I say!’ and ‘Good show!’ (Or maybe not exactly those words but they might just as well have been.)

‘Get Out’

This is a kind of horror film with a message which I’ve now forgotten because it’s so long since I saw it. But in a nutshell it’s a kind of ‘Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner’ with a horror twist - or several of them. I remember thinking it was quite brave and very different. but at the time I certainly didn’t think it was Oscar nominee material. Which just goes to show how wrong I can be.

‘Ladybird’

A rite of passage movie  about a teenage girl who hails - in her own words, and as it turns out, literally - from the wrong side of the tracks in Sacramento. (I never thought Sacramento sounded like the kind of place that had a wrong side of the tracks, but it seems California is not always as sunny as I’d imagined.)

The heroine, Christine,  or Ladybird as she has retitled herself, cannot wait to escape from her hyper critical and unforgiving mother and go to college as far away as she can get. It is apparently the sort-of-life story of Greta Gerwig, the writer director and has the delightful Saoirse (pronounced Sorsha I think) Ronan in the title role complete with make-up-free teenage  skin blemishes which she apparently got for the first time in her life in the year before shooting - despite, in real life, being twenty three.

Apart from the rather feeble end, Ladybird makes for a very pleasant couple of hours in the cinema. But is ‘very pleasant’ enough to deserve an Oscar?  

‘The Post’

Owing to the fact that I hate trailers - because they give so much away - I always try to time my entrance into the cinema just before the main feature. Unfortunately I cocked it up in the case of ‘The Post’, was about  ten minutes late,  and can’t discount the possibility that I missed something crucial.

Even so I got the general drift and wasn’t excited enough by the remainder to pay good money to see the bit I missed.

‘The Post’ is a piece of safe, solid Spielberg film making about the pre-Watergate scandal involving the stealing of the Pentagon Papers by Daniel Ellsberg - a cause celebre at the time. The film centres on the dilemma of  the Post’s woman owner, Katherine Graham, as to whether she should publish and be damned or follow the cautious advice she receives from her male flunkies. The theme is certainly  au courant  in that it is all about a woman being determined to exercise her power in a man’s world, but, paradoxically, the movie felt a tad old fashioned to me.

‘Call Me By Your Name’ 

…is a story of a New Yorker in his late twenties (a guess) who, in the summer of ’83 comes to assist an American professor of antiquities (or something like that) at his idyllic home in Italy where he lives with his wife and seventeen year old musical prodigy son. The visitor and the son (both of whom are Jewish though this seems entirely incidental to the story) then embark on a gay affair with the apparent  encouragement of the uber-liberal parents. The certificate at the front says it contains ‘strong sex’ but apart from a scene in which the boy attempts to fornicate with a peach, not much seemed  to go on. I  fell asleep two or three times and didn’t seem to miss much. Timothee Chalamet who plays the boy is astonishingly good and certainly deserves something for his troubles. The peach might pick up an award too if they decide to give a special Oscar for best supporting piece of fruit.

‘Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri’ 

Having already swept the board at the BAFTAS and receiving so much publicity,  there can barely be a person alive who doesn’t know that Frances McDormand gives a bravura performance as the mother of a daughter who was raped and murdered and is so crazed with grief that she will stop at nothing to force the police to do their jobs and find the culprit. Doesn’t sound like a comedy does it? And that was my problem. The film doesn’t have a consistent tone of voice - one minute it is the bleakest tragedy, the next it is played for laughs - and although I found much to admire in it, I just didn’t quite understand what the director was trying to say. 

And so  to ‘The Shape of Water’. And if that isn’t the name in the winner’s envelope, I shall be screaming “Fix!”  (and a lot worse) at the telly. 

I absolutely loved this film. It’s basically an old fashioned  B movie sci-fi story about a mute girl who falls in love with a creature from the deep,  which asks you to believe, in the face of all probability, that, for its two hours in on the screen, such a  world is possible. And it is so captivatingly done, that you do. Or at least, I did. For me ‘The Shape of Water’ is pure movie magic - stunning performances, sumptuous   styling, luscious music, and a truly moving love story.

And on top of all that, the best narrator’s voice - Richard Jenkins - that I can ever remember hearing. If you want an American V/O for a commercial, he’s your man.

[ashenburst]

WIP introduction: Far Goes the Farrago

Genre: Dark Fantasy, New Adult, Psychological

TWs: depression, drugging, self-harm, abuse, suicide, explicit gore and violence, mentions of sexual assault, religious trauma

POV: third person dual with the occasional side-character chapter

Themes: exploring sexuality and love (bisexuality, asexuality, QPRs etc), found family, existentialism, Christianity, religion, coping with trauma, discovering and choosing a path in life, growing out of friendships, nihilism, free will as obstructed by man, trust, apathy and its range, morality, wisdom of living

Estimated word count: circa 250k (130k+ written in the past year woo!)

Synopsis:

It is a tale of the unknown hero or the greatest villain: he who has forgiven the devil. But long before seeing his epilogue come true, Ulrich started off as an entirely different person: a fake hero, some unfulfilled hope, tightly promised failure. His inner demons were yet to be brutalized by the outer ones. Zachariah's already were.

The supernatural is slowly dying, banned and punished by law. Ulrich Adler is an arbiter, one of those who are trained to bring out that prohibition. As many good men, he is distraught by unjust fate, and tricked into a pact with the Devil. To battle it and prove his good, he must resort to nefarious ways - and gather a wicked motivation to keep him alive. No training could've possibly prepared him for the inhumane adventure that awaits, orchestrated by none other than the Devil himself. Therein Ulrich discovers a terrifying life of his own.

Right on his tail is Zachariah Vero, a hollow author desperate to save his friends by sacrificing the world. Doing so means overcoming the worst bits of his past, and in spite of all his demons, succeed in capturing the Devil. In the meantime, inspiration strikes, and Zachariah learns - to his horror - that breathing lives into paper is less thrilling than ripping them apart. And that, perhaps, he'd never had a life of his own.

Their clash is inevitable, both of subjective justice. The only sort that can exist. Makes for a Faust-inspired, Dostoyevsky-dipped, Nietzsche-sprinkled mess with a whole lot of blood and jokes.

Side note: Though it might seem dark, there's a ton of humor, warmth and genuine positivity in this book. Also yeah I totally knew this intro post was supposed to be made.

The 100k version is on my Patreon, and the 130k+ version will be joining it soon! The earlier versions are available on Wattpad!

I am also looking for beta and sensitivity readers!

#wip #wip intro #wip introduction #writterscommunity #writerblr #original story #original writing #writing #beta request #far goes the farrago #author #original content #original work #my writing #demon #devil

[ashenburst]

Mephistopheles pretty. Kiss the demon. Demon good (?).

#mephistopheles #mephisto #demon #traditional illustration #traditional art #art #digital art #angel #portrait #oc #original content #original character #character art #devil #far goes the farrago

[ashenburst]

He is a handsome young lad who daydreams about demon vore and deals with his enemies by sensually begging them to kill him and is just?? Having fun???

#oc #original character #wip #original content #far goes the farrago #writing #original work #zachariah vero #portrait #art #digital art #original story

[ashenburst]

If I had to have one (1) comfort character in the entire series, it would be Belphegor.

He is... obviously, a demon (but with a twist!). His role in the story is, basically, the unwilling father trope. Pictured on slide 3 is his struggle to keep his adoptive daughter Saba in check. She'd been sneaking around Hell, which is (shock!) the worst place one could go.

So, combine that trope with a lot of ash, embers, cigarettes and similar sort of smells, and you get him. Then give him the emotional hesitation all those fathers have, give him the struggle by the name of, "Why do I feel this way? What is happening inside of me?" as well as the smallest, faintest reminder that, "I haven't felt like this in centuries". Have him feel responsibility through love! Makes for a cool parent, no?

Did I also mention he's Mephistopheles' younger brother? There you have it. And Mephistopheles, strangely, respects him. Jesus I wonder why Belphegor is too cool.

#devil #demon #oc #original character #original content #art #traditional art #belpheghor #saba #far goes the farrago #sketch #drawing #original story #original work #hell #digital art

[ashenburst]

Kindly take my quiz about which character from my WIP you might be!

Ooo you wanna take the quiz ooo you wanna get the hot murderman

#quiz #quotev #personality test #which character are you #oc #original character #sketch #zachariah vero #far goes the farrago #fgtf #drawing #art #traditional art #original story #original work

[ashenburst]

Posting my baby Mephistopheles.

He's very melodramatic, very chaotic, and yet, forever elegant. He can be yuor angle or yuor devil.

He's a character from Far Goes The Farrago. Spoiler alert, there is no way in Hell you can dislike this bastard - unless you're the protagonist of the story, oops.

// consider supporting me on Patreon? I'm working on this dream book series of mine and some support would be greatly appreciated <3

#oc #original content #original character #demon #figure #art #artist #digital art #digital media #illustration #drawing #far goes the farrago #mephisto #Mephistopheles #pose #story #original story #original work #work #wip #devil

[ashenburst]

Far Goes The Farrago, Chapter 1 - A Sound Little Betrayal

First chapter of my WIP because I have nothing else to post. *auctioneer voice* AND HERE WE HAVE A STEAMING HOT STORY ABOUT DEMONS, MURDER, EXISTENTIALISM AND FRIENDSHIP, COMING FROM A SEASONED FANFICTION WRITER! 

Consider this a psychological Fantasy, eh? The blurb should be:

It is a tale of the unknown hero or the greatest villain: he who has forgiven the devil. But long before seeing his epilogue come true, Ulrich started off as an entirely different person: a fake hero, some unfulfilled hope, tightly promised failure. His inner demons were yet to be brutalized by the outer ones. Briefly put, this is a story set in a foreign world, delving deep into supernatural activities, all of which are slowly dying and being prohibited by humans. Ulrich is an arbiter, one of those who are trained to bring out that prohibition. As many good men, he is distraught by unjust fate. To battle it and prove his good, he must resort to nefarious ways and gather a wicked company to his aid. No training could've possibly prepared him for the inhumane adventure that awaits, orchestrated by none other than the Devil himself.

Very excited to offer this chapter to you :3 more is published on Wattpad, and the best version + some additional content is on my Patreon!

We always seek greatness in others, never in ourselves. A fact so true and firm, known to Ulrich, and yet, he fled from himself.

Where to? It didn’t really matter. The goal was reverse – not to run to, but to run away.

Heaviest sentiments sought a compensation. If the mind were so busy processing them, then surely, other stimuli needed to be deafened. It was the subconscious who stilled Ulrich so; he’d been pacing, insolently small and scared in the vast crowd, and in some vacant moment of clarity, he found it, his very own hyperfixation. A critter perched on top of a stool, quaint and big. How come he hadn’t noticed it? Was it because it looked like décor – or was it because of his own disregard for… everything? He should’ve laughed.

Nevertheless, he neared. It didn’t move much, just a stare here and there, swing of the head from one side to the other. Nobody else but Ulrich seemed to pay it any attention, which provided him with some privacy, or even better, intimacy. The best kind of it at that: the one where the other party wasn’t even existent.

When meeting a future acquaintance, Ulrich knew how to behave. Do the dreaded handshake, and fortify it with a sure stare in the eye. He had no trouble doing those, despite his somewhat reserved nature. Strangely, the problem was still in him, or on him, to be exact.

Years ago, he had read, then distinctly remembered, some author’s words, lamenting about fair eyes of “unruly ice, turquoise waters hungering and withering in the cold” – and upon the reminder of his own sharp gaze, never fair, forever protruding, every reflection would be scowled at; for in there, grew a pair of icicles jabbing at the souls of the seen. He wished for a softer look, overflowing with docile colors, but alas, he could not break the ice. Perhaps others would imagine what hid beneath, as they were, easily, far less tender than Ulrich in their living.

But here? This was a perplexing community. Ignorant and invasive all the same. The overlapping presences were enough of a distress on their own.

On the other hand, the bird… the parrot? It lacked reason, therefore, of course it wouldn’t be affected. It wasn’t affected by almost anything at all, since, well, despite the commotion, it barely moved.

He stepped closer, and it didn’t react. He took yet another step, and it barely moved in its humble residence. Just a tiny, tiny, parrot step. It was nothing compared to Ulrich’s – and it placed him so near the parrot that he might as well be intruding its simplistic home.

Out of all the places on this bird to aim his interest at, he picked an unconventional one to be shot. Ulrich had the opportunity to indulge in its eyes, without noticing his own. Inside awaited a wondrous resort, ripe for his imagination to sow, his scythe that of ardent focus.

The salon and its decadence were flooded with black. Saturated crowds drowned in mute darkness. Dry luxury too suddenly dipped into those murky ponds, pleasantly distant – finally modest. With Ulrich’s anxiety at its staggering peak, the predicament was clear. It was high time the world sank.

It was a damp place, inert and peaceful. Just like all that was good, the universe could never sustain it.

In an instant, death. Ponds fluttered, wise eyes turned primitive, and Ulrich was woken up from the stare, by a stare. Beady eyes mirrored it all, for Ulrich to see: a harmless shadow of reality, where nothing could impact, nothing mattered. He was yearning to slip inside, stay inside, cocooned in reflections. It was much easier than confronting the world – and equally as impossible.

It should’ve been simple. All he had to do was close his eyes, and he’d escape. Black would overwhelm, and in it, he would find everything and anything. It was both the martyr and the cornerstone of consciousness! The provenance of dreams, the dear night’s shroud! And, and in Ulrich’s exceptional case, it was a savior, just a day old. It was black who gave him life!

Yet, this black… it was different. It noticed, it moved, but, but it stared and shivered, and – enlarged. Feathers puffed, head bobbed. Ulrich’s fascination then renamed itself: unease.

The grandiose parrot was no longer as restful. As it shook its great head, feathers in a scarce crest swayed like artificial rods, limp and long, quite – unnatural.

To make it even more terrifying, it was of morphology immense, dark like drowse, cheeks skinned red. There was a budding tongue in that twisted beak, pointed exactly at him as it opened the mouth wide –

Then screeched with a ripping pitch and opened its massive, unexpectedly massive wings.

It startled him. His heart got chased into his throat. He screeched back, and fell back, landing on something rather soft and still. As someone who had horrid experience with bumping into people, Ulrich immediately recognized his fault. He hopped away to face the victim of his fall.

And the victim, well… despite his face being largely covered with a beard, his sentiments were clear. Dour in both bearing and expression, the man had been preparing for a relentless lecture. Ulrich was in the midst of mental preparations too, ready to apologize in a plethora of sorries, but… by the looks of it, he didn’t have to. Although he barely looked at this mountain of a man, he saw, clearly, a drastic shift in expression, from utmost gloom to total glee.

And this person, this once outraged fellow, now hollered at Ulrich as if he were dearest family,

“The heart of the celebration himself! The savior of the Hartschnapps! Ernst Sondermann!”

Ulrich’s fake name resonated throughout the crowd, spoken with such vigor, such elation, it might as well come off as laughter to some faraway folk. Wonderful, how everyone took it for granted – a mere name, more of a nickname.

And it was the right one! It was not false, it was fake – and the very black that saved Ulrich also scarred his cursed pseudonym, rendered it a seething wound, something his frail soul could barely tolerate.

Now he was reminded of his misplaced fame and glory, the precursor of this entire gathering, the consequence of black. Despite the man’s happiness in tone, Ulrich perceived it as the worst scolding, and felt accordingly.

But he couldn’t show it to anyone, ruin this entire ordeal by heroically abandoning his heroism. He had to play along, and his act was poorly executed. In contrast, his shrill laugh could easily pass as a pitched sob.

What did not help was the fact he was stared at by manifold.

He said his sorry, blurted out some diminutions, and continued down the trail, somewhere off – and he knew, he delved deep into words of nonsense, and at some point, he halted, finally meeting the heavy gaze of the man. He was waiting, so, in other words, Ulrich…

Ulrich was not interrupted. He was waited for, and he was esteemed. Something otherwise appreciated, and on this instance, incredibly awkward.

“Lastly, I believe we can infer that this was a poorly woven accident,” he tried to conclude, clasping his hands together. A blink at them, then a blink back at the man – he was too uncomfortable to keep the polite stare one would expect in a conversation.

And what he got was another speech of joy and honor.

“Poorly woven yet perfect for the occasion!” This man tapped forcefully with his engraved cane, emphasizing his oncoming words. “I wouldn’t have dared to approach you by myself, mister Sondermann! Never! But fate has brought us together, and I am honored to be bestowed even with the opportunity to meet you. Indeed.”

He finished with a brisk nod and some twitch in his beard. It must’ve been a smirk, short-lived one. Ulrich had stacked some fancy words for a similar response, but was now, surprisingly, overwhelmed. The man insisted on approaching him, taking over the conversation.

All Ulrich got was a handshake and many, many words of assurance, none of them important. Some long name, he heard – why did the people of Aurun assign such dreadfully complex names? Even if Ulrich managed to remember those (a feat of its own), greater length meant more room for mistakes.

This man, he said he was… Titus Augustine Donao? Ulrich just smiled to it. It was revolting, the amount of times confusion was the cause of his smile. That was all he could do, for mister Donao took over. Suddenly, the world revolved around him, his pleasure and his reputation and his lovely newspapers. Ulrich could barely keep track of it, especially with the constant smacking of the cane against the floor, but he somehow survived. Shaking, perhaps, but he made it.

As soon as he realized the chatter was reaching its end, he felt his mood lighten, and as soon as its end came, he dashed away from the stressors, the damned rich folk, and their blatant hapless extravagance.

Looking for a proper place to hide, Ulrich retreated himself away from the lower section of the hall, almost running up the few stairs, down the pristine marble floor, to reach the bar – the spot where he would not only sit to rest, but also be left alone. No parrots to scare him, no people to condemn him with their praise.

The salon was enormous, fitting for the occasion. It took him a dangerous lot of footsteps to reach his goal. Ulrich already met the major and similarly influential people in this huge complex – he had expected them to show up. What he did not expect was a celebration of this scale, solely in his honor. There was a grand hall, in whose corner he found the parrot, and away from it, there was a bar and a secluded dining area, where, as he spotted, some fine gentlemen played cards in peace. He had no intention of joining them.

But the bar, the bar was lovely. Dim lights provided a seclusion of sorts, and as far as the line of the bar stretched, almost none sat there. Ulrich occupied the most distant stool, ordered tea. Peppermint, of course, he told the barista.

He was unnaturally overjoyed by the fact that he was alone. Nobody wanted to bother a poor duckling like him, despite being in his uniform – it couldn’t compare to the excess in aesthetic every single person showed. He didn’t stand out, and although he was embarrassed of it at first, it proved to be his salvation. He blended in with his inferiority.

He wasn’t even sure how much he wanted to be noticed by them. The wild crowd, everyone pretending to be his friend for a minute, then storming off elsewhere for a similar verbal parade. They were all the same. fake, just like him with his fame and merit.

Ulrich dropped onto the bar’s smooth, cold, so pleasantly cold surface. Brown marble. Could’ve been polished wood, but in Aurun’s fashion, it had to be marble. Cold, hard and soulless. Perfect footing for his heavy soul.

That… that mister, the last one he had met, Titus Donao, who he had fallen on… he was the last drop in Ulrich’s sullen ocean. A shameless narcissist, just like the rest of them, startling him in a startle, and then… simply, fulfilling the duty of being good.

Ulrich did not blame him. He did not blame the parrot, or anyone else. He blamed himself for allowing the fanfare to flare this long. It would be perfect, if he could just… extinguish it in peace. Make everyone forget and go home.

He could’ve done it, but he didn’t, cowardly. And he believed he deserved some escapisms, then? Despite him hiding the great truth? He deserved to dream of a better self?

No, not in the least. But that would happen! Inevitably, his career would advance, due to his “success”. He was becoming famous. He had no idea what it brought to his life, and knew it took away one thing: peace.

His tea arrived and he sipped on it. Such a lullaby for the senses.

Sadly, they picked on something… revolting. An odd gent sat by his side. Ulrich wouldn’t like to call it pessimism, but he knew this man would talk to him. Thus, he peeked, more of a precaution than curiosity, and noticed, firstly, a long face, acute and sleek in every manner. Then the clothing, plenty of browns complimenting each other to form a rather tame suit.

What attracted Ulrich’s attention the most was elsewhere. A silly hat of brown leather was slouched on this person’s head, and as if stuffed with fresh wheat, many pale strands escaped it, all unkempt, wild and independent. Even his ear was hidden underneath that mess.

Then came the side peer of yellow, a glisten like few Ulrich had encountered in his brief life. It was entrancing, but it could not last, simply because: two peers met. The discussion had to be struck.

It wasn’t something one would expect – a riveting conversation all at once, skipping the formalities and small talk, and resorting to something bigger, truthfully engaging. Somehow, fates clashed, and what Ulrich got was exactly the unexpected.

Spoken by the stranger was a mystery anyone would long for. An oddity, some romantic subtext in poetry, where the meaning had to be dug out and felt by each heart. Not in many instances in life could the heart be brought to such use, but this… this one, it necessitated wonder.

All strangers had one talent in common, that being: bizarreness. Not one person would be more qualified for a miracle than a stranger. The tool of this one was a gentle voice, and it inquired,

“It’s nice, isn’t it, this place? Doesn’t feel real.”

Neither did his statement. Ulrich took the liberty to stare. He knew he mustered one of those sorrowful faces, but he did not, by all means, feel sad – he was simply invested. Although few in number, they were the heaviest words to land on his eardrums.

“Much like a dream,” he replied with a slow nod.

A small curve appeared on the stranger’s lips – amusement, and in the very next moment a bow of the head to hide it. “If this is your dream, then your nightmares must be competing with Hell,” was how he estimated Ulrich, and he was right.

Ulrich’s brows went upwards. He was shocked, pleasantly, to find out someone could relate – not only relate, but… approach him in such a peculiar manner. Now abysmally curious, he asked, just to get him to talk, “And you would know?”

The blond did not answer for a bit. “Nobody would.” How distasteful, coming from such a captivating apparition. Ulrich was not disappointed. This event alone was, he knew, insignificant, and yet, something his memory would cradle for years.

He decided a smooth way out, a compromise, “To each his own Hell, then.” Ulrich lifted his glass both as reconciliation and a late greeting.

This man had no glass to greet back, but he managed. He acted as if he had one of air, greeted back with it and, how generously, showed a semblance of a smile. Ulrich let out the most honest laugh this eve had heard.

The stranger offered him a hand, and he accepted, albeit hesitantly. After performing the handshake above his drink, Ulrich had introduced himself – a stupid custom, as the stranger pointed out afterwards.

“Everyone knows you.” He retracted his hand from Ulrich’s formally gloved one. “But you won’t know anyone. You’ll forget us all, all of our jolly faces and names. But that’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Ulrich couldn’t disagree, but the vanity, the wisdom, the straightforward mannerism of this man! It rendered him speechless, but he knew, he wanted to talk, he needed to say something so more could be told, but…

He was left without a clue. Previous agitation did not help in the least, so, not knowing what else to do, he resorted to honesty.

“You are terribly correct, sir. I am both glad and ashamed the truth resonates within you too.”

“It resonates within everyone! But they ignore it, it’s too much for their crammed hearts,” he replied with newfound vigor. He then turned on his stool, arm spread towards the people and their vain heads, to reintroduce Ulrich to the setting.

“And it’s their souls you want to protect?”

It was no disapproval. Ulrich was surprised to find pity on his pallid face.

“It’s an arbiter’s duty,” he mumbled, “and my humble wish.” Taking a sip from his tea, he listened to the blond’s retaliation.

“So, you love them? The people?”

Ulrich set the cup down. “I don’t have to love them. I just believe that… every man deserves good –”

But he was immediately cut off with, “Don’t you hear the venom in that hall? Is that where you wanted to pour your heart out? Who you wanted to shiver with and be loved by?”

What could Ulrich say? “So long good is not betrayed, I will stand by it, and I will offer it to all. It can’t do any harm.” He looked away. “And I won’t suffer either. I understand the bad sides of man. I stray from them, should they prove… dangerous. And those people, who you claim to be… venomous?” Then he too pointed at the crowd. “Perhaps all they need is an antidote.”

The blond had a shift in expression, from aggressive focus to blandness. “Then you’re better than I thought. A shame.”

He tapped his own hat and left Ulrich. No goodbye, no wave, no glance, no nothing. The stranger remained that: a stranger. Ulrich was left with a somewhat bitter tinge on his tongue.

The person left to the area where cards were played; so be it. Ulrich looked down to his tea. The aroma tempted him to calmness.

He rubbed his hands. The tea, the slight tiredness, they all seemed like a proper invite to sleep. He certainly felt so, but on the other hand… his thoughts couldn’t settle. This interaction in particular stunned him, and with every gentle sip, he would realize that, indeed, it stunned him, yet he couldn’t make out much of it.

Mere minutes passed, and an alarming scream shook his frame. Shouts of confusion followed, stomps of footsteps and chairs scraping, and forcefully, Ulrich had his attention averted towards the ruckus

He caught glimpse of cards flying around, people gathering. In the midst of it all, a man writhing on the floor. Shadowed was his spotlight by the concerned crowd, and he stole the show with an act so blatantly desperate: shrieks and tosses and turns, as if it were a matter of life or death.

The thick fence of people allowed Ulrich not to thoroughly examine the star. It was only after the imbalance that the cause of it all was revealed. The people supported him, as he slowly rose, only to reveal –

The blond stranger, his face disfigured in pain, certainly a sight unpleasant. Huffs and violent hacks fell all around him, while his curled-up form barely held its ground. His hands, he was clutching his own hands, holding them on his chest – but why? What had happened?

Pulled by natural magnetism, Ulrich abandoned his seat, hesitant to delve into this trouble… and yet, firmly affirmed that he couldn’t leave it at that. It was too strange, too unsettling, even for his senses – let alone his mind. The stranger hadn’t yet betrayed his good will, after all.

Before he managed to, however, a demand struck him in his tracks.

“A word, if you’re available, sir.”

Ulrich whipped his head around to be met with a tall woman. Hers was a magnificent mane of hair, curly and potent, much like a dark halo. It framed a stern brown face, unforgiving and cold in her grey eyes.

He had to stop and stare. Just a moment, and he got back to his senses. There was a more severe situation going on.

“This man, have you seen –”

She spoke, her voice that of trained authority, “I have. There’s nothing you can do, unless you possess supernatural means to aid.”

Ulrich was a little startled. This lady, firm in her composure and speech, she wasn’t… quite the sort he was used to. She didn’t act around and sweeten her words – no, they remained monotone and overbearing. Swallowing, he tried to shoo his heart away from his throat.

“Then… absolutely,” Ulrich murmured and offered his hand once he had his posture straightened. She squeezed it straight away, and – what the hell?! Her grip was too firm and short-lasting, and way too painful for Ulrich’s liking. He could feel his bones rub against each other!

He stared down to his hand, taken aback by pulsating pain that remained. But the woman didn’t seem to notice.

“My name is Maria Merkator,” she introduced herself, “I am Aurun’s Minister of Police Affairs. It is an honor to meet you.”

His heart leaped. He hid the borderline injured hand behind his back, folding his both hands there. After a cough, he formed the proper voice to answer. “The honor is mine,” he replied mechanically, “I suppose I needn’t introduce myself.”

“Indeed. Your actions are an introduction of their own. It is exactly because of them that I am here. If you would allow me?”

What actions? Did she know?

“Go ahead,” he whispered through his tight throat.

She gave him a curt nod. Her face remained devoid of any emotion. “I am in desperate need of men like you. Men who can deal with demons.”

The truth was avoided! Relief washed over him, but it was not absolute. Troubles were ongoing. So, demons, and him to battle them? The worst idea ever to befall the Minister, surely! He simply wasn’t fit. He would die if he were ever to even see one.

He laughed his stress out, then coughed to buy some time. In the edge of his vision, the Minister’s blank expression was seen, and on it, lips pressed in a strict line.

And after all, out of all the talented and notable arbiters in this world, why would… why would she pick –

Exactly. He garnered some much-needed poise. “I thought arbiters come to aid when summoned? I’m certain you can acquire even better people than me.” Then he peeked back at the Minister, saw her eyes tarnished and mute. To play it off coolly, he sipped his tea a little.

“They do, but largely defective. I won’t inquire why or how, but the fact stands, and our experience here confirms it,” he heard her speak.

As if Ulrich was supposed to justify them! Nevertheless, he assumed the answers. It wasn’t a matter of humbleness, more… his own lack of talent, for he knew he was one of the defective bunch, and the rest of them, they were the same, and probably even worse.

But he faked his surprise. “Defective in what sense?”

“Unqualified. Incapable of matching a street ruffian. You, on the other hand, slayed a demon.”

A violent tinge in his heart.

“It was luck,” he blurted out, dodging the lie.

“Pardon?”

He looked once at her, and saw her brow raised upwards, so cruelly. “I had more luck than brains,” he attempted.

“Don’t give your merit to fate and its pseudonyms. It was you who did it,” she disapproved.

“Not me, no.”

“Then who?”

Ulrich clenched his jaw. He was digging his way to the grave possibility; would he want to bury himself like that? He hid his mouth behind the cup of tea, as if, hesitating to drink.

“All those who had taught me?” His inner doubt made his outer statement come through as more of a question.

“You’re too humble,” she sneered.

He clenched his jaw once again, teeth scraping against each other so hard, he forced himself a cringe. Narrowing his eyes, he muttered, “I strive to be.”

“And you’re too mild-hearted for someone who has slayed a demon, mister Sondermann. It’s so nonsensical, one might say, even poetic.”

He shivered, grossly accused. The ending, the false name, it struck him as an even worse allegation! And it was the worst allegation, for it was true!

Ulrich stared at her. Indeed, she was correct. It was poetic, an egregious exaggeration, much like plenty of modern poems. And if, if the rest of the world was drowning in hyperboles, then… maybe, just maybe –

“But that’s how things are, ma’am. I apologize if this is not the man you want to see defend your city.”

He should become part of it, and vanish, a humble word among the ludicrous metaphors. Perfect destiny for him, for he failed to adapt. He had to accept; it was just.

“Maybe it is.” She paused. “Rest assured, if you have no other business, you are invited to stay and battle Aurun’s blasphemies. You’ll have your accommodation and support of the police, should the need arise.”

“I… of course, I accept.” And he smiled with all honesty.

“Excellent. Tomorrow after lunch, come to the main police station. Another capable arbiter shall be waiting for you.”

Another one?! Perfect to contrast his idiocy! To witness his foolishness! That was exactly what he deserved! He was horribly elated!

“I am looking forward to our cooperation,” he told and stretched his smile. It hurt so much.

Did she know, could she even assume what harrowed the abysses of his vibrating chest? Sprouting from inner oblivion, came a bitter thought, correspondingly as dark: he was willing to play the role of a hero, just so these people could have one. How utterly ridiculous.

She nodded, as if to confirm his sufferings. “As am I. Farewell, and good health.”

“Likewise –”

But she did not wait. She too, just like every single person in this colossal mishap, did not care. It made him desperate. The justice of the city, too, lacked a heart, it seemed. She did not understand her wallops, she did not know, just like anyone else, how much it devastated Ulrich. Except now, for the first time, he had grown awfully anxious. His heartbeat, a race.

Sadly, the tea, it couldn’t help. What was left of it, he downed quickly – at least, as fast as its heat allowed him.

He asked the barista if there was a balcony of sorts. There was one, and it was located left from the bar, down the hallway. He knew his next goal.

Tethers bound him to the chair, weight unknown and unpleasant. He struggled to rise back to his glass feet, but rushed, hurried vastly to eliminate his presence! Only one person was enough to bring him to the brink of dread, let alone the whole crowd.

He moved, at last. Hallways were narrow. Walls, spiraled all around him, threatening to collapse. It was, perhaps, between them, that he realized something was wrong with his head, that vertigo was settling in. Must’ve been the stress; he’d always been the sensitive soul, to a fault.

He took hold of his head, holding it for a few moments, as if to clasp his consciousness. Squinting his eyes, he wondered – just how far could he make it in this state? Would fate present him with another way out?

Gazing down the hallway, he wondered, if perhaps, his future was just as linear and suffocating.

Before he could continue, then, all of a sudden, a creak. He turned around to see if he was caught red-handed in his cowardice. Yet, no one was seen. His mind truly was a mess, he concluded with a huff.

More steps onwards, and he reached the semi-glass door to the balcony. Tugging it open, he was greeted by moist air and secluded darkness.

He dashed to nature’s heavenly pianissimo, away from the salon and its counterfeit music. He had been running all evening, escaping, hiding, reversely dynamic. Finally, he was awarded for his efforts, for outside, nobody awaited. Wet patterns on the marble floor informed him before stepping that the skies had been weeping thoroughly. Still were, in fact. His nostrils, no, his entire being was refreshed by their sorrow. It was so much lighter than his own.

He trod forward, accepting the breezes with arms spread wide, and attempted to reach the edge of the rain. The downpour carried solace unto him, and he yearned for more, came closer for more. Even when the raindrops landed on him, when the pitter-patter tapped gently against his uniform, he did not stop.

It had to be a physical boundary which would stop him. Clutching, clawing at the fence, he found nothing else but the cold. It gnawed back, left him numb. How sad, that the lonely numbness gave him more life than the entirety of celebration.

Before him expanded a city, and measured in avarice – it was vast. Measured in neglect, it extended even further. He could not make out its horizons; the rain and his tired eyes ensured so.

At the sight, he was reminded of the extremes it nurtured. Buildings, renovated and over a century neglected, stood hand-in-hand, comrades despite the extremes. In poverty and fertility, they did not share. Their habitants weren’t any different. Contrasts so large, Ulrich’s perception was daunted. His idea of the city – long ruined. This evening, it served as yet another absurd plague, another mystery for his incapable attention.

He remembered incisions on the walls. Cracks in his mind slid further. The poor condition invited crevices, ill thoughts, ill recaps, to destroy what was left of the mistreated construct. He needed introspection.

Closing his eyes, he could finally tend to his mind. What he found out? He was so confused. At least that was certain of one thing, and one thing only.

It was the entanglement in his own thoughts, like the endless worms that structured his brain. The start was incomprehensible, the finish fictional, and everything between those two points, only curves and turns and whirls and twirls. A patternless weaving, akin to raw wool.

Where had his mind gone to? Why was it so detached, even from his body…?

He barely felt. Humid winds nestled in his uniform. Cold torrents escaped his fingers. He cradled the air like an old friend, who knew him better than he did, because, after all –

Ulrich did not know himself.

It was a makeshift hug, desperate consolation by the fact that there is some absolute in the universe, some truth, that the fates were definite and their Strings stretched infinitely. That, perhaps, Ulrich was a part of it for a reason, that there was a reason for this torment. That his soon to be sacrifice would matter, not because he wanted to matter – because he wanted to matter to others.

There was no one else to confirm that, to confirm anything. It was almost impossible to believe alone, and he tried, he tried so hard, but it was too difficult. And so, in his loneliness, he realized he’d been hugging himself.

His senses landed in some state of anxious languor. He had never felt anything quite like it before. It was much like a dreamscape, presented through hazy ramblings of a dying mind. Through them, a stimulus was registered, so rough, so haphazardly unpleasant.

He was not alone. Someone was intruding his breakdown. A shadow at the door.

He dropped a weightless callout. “You…”

“Me?” It was familiar. Ulrich narrowed his eyes.

“Who?”

That person, standing at the entrance of the balcony, spread their arms in a surrendering manner, it appeared. “You don’t know me.”

Ulrich tilted his head a little, acknowledgment for the sake of it. He dropped the hug – he was no longer lonely. The stranger himself had arrived.

Although his talks were interesting to listen to, Ulrich hesitated to… accept him. He was interrupted in the worst moment, the height of his vulnerability, something he just could not show. That alone caused him discomfort.

He cleared his throat, raising his voice to outpower the rain. “Yeah… listen, I am in an awful mood, and unless you have something important to say, please, please try to leave me.”

But his demand did the exact opposite. The stranger neared, and Ulrich was watching every single step of his.

“What happens to be bothering you?”

What? Did he actively seek to… care? Why was he still nearing him, would he…?

“I don’t think you’d understand even if I were to explain, so…”

He would. He actually crossed the line between the dry and the rain, only to get near Ulrich, and ask, “Are you sure?”

Ulrich’s eyes widened. “Why do you care?”

“Why, isn’t that what humans do?” His expression darkened, twitching every now and then as raindrops fell onto it. “Or at least, should do. It just happens to be rare nowadays.”

True to that statement, the world revolved, and Ulrich had found only one genuine person in the entire ordeal. The only one who wouldn’t betray his good.

“Then, how are you? I’ve seen you… fall? Something happened for sure,” he cared back.

The stranger chuckled – it was a distinct sound, more of a titter. “Just a little accident, worry not. A condition, it’s hereditary.”

Falling and screaming in agony was hereditary…? Ulrich blinked in confusion, then repeated after the stranger.

The blond confirmed with a nod, then stepped closer to Ulrich, only a meter or so away. The meaning of his expression could not be discerned, not with the rain there to disfigure it.

“But you’re the heart of this party, it would be a shame to leave you unattended. Especially since you look so malapropos. Don’t worry about me,” he convinced, almost forcefully, attempting to forge eye contact with Ulrich who shied away from it. Baffled and tired beyond measure, Ulrich finally inquired,

“What do you want?”

Victory steadied his voice. “To tell you a story. Stories holler lessons, breathe lives, heal as much as they scar. I do think one would relieve you.” There was such gentleness to his words, and yet, Ulrich was unfaltering. His smudged line of thought continued the sentence with sarcasm, as always, spontaneous: nothing would relieve him except for sheer oblivion.

He remained silent, narrow-eyed and narrow-minded. The quiet was perceived as a mute yes.

“Not too long ago, an incident has occurred in Aurun. A public figure of solid reputation is involved. Maybe you’ve heard of it…?”

Ulrich waved his head no – wrong move, for it caused him dizziness. He frowned.

“A reformative essayist, your typical educated man with a… mildly, yes, troubled mind.” A nod from the speaker to confirm the speaker’s thought. “Also an owner of an esteemed bookshop. He was the cause of the scandal, the scandal being, hiding horrendous smuggled goods in his shop. Only after the entire folly did his antics surface and make sense.”

“What kind…?”

“Loud and bold and flamboyant, quite the two-faced snake, but very active in terms of society and aiding it. In private, he was… stingy, even, and oftentimes shooed people away from him, whilst keeping problematic folk around. He had some fame, here, not much,”

The stranger showed his hand, then clenched it. “Only a handful, if we were to measure it in our imagination. But he abused all of it. Influenced so many.” He looked back to Ulrich, expectant.

“So, he was just like everyone else,” Ulrich guessed.

The blond smiled widely, the first time he revealed such a smile, so radiant and loose.

“Indeed! Indeed,” he repeated in delight. “But, my point would be this. Men like him, loud and extreme about their innovations… they’re the ones who push and tug the world. But I believe it’s you, the so-called normal folk, who keep the world on its feet.”

Now, despite his lovely conclusion, it didn’t make any sense. Did Ulrich hear that well?

“Pardon, you said, normal, me?” He blinked, as if that would clear his thoughts.

“Yes. I’m sure you’re normal.” He nodded to himself. “That you are so much less than what this party has made of you.”

Ulrich had no idea what this meant. What this story was about, and why he was supposed to be… normal? Why would he even assume that? How did it even… help? Each and every line of his mental narration was interrupted by aches and blanks. “Sir, I pray that you’ll come to understand that… I’m exhausted, and I cannot begin to understand you,” he excused himself, then leaned against the fence – almost slipping and falling, almost. Another miniature heart attack to strain his assaulted nerves.

He quickly got an apology, multiple of them, actually.

“No, no, it’s fine. If anything, I enjoyed the conversation…” He was unsure of his own statement. “I haven’t quite caught your name, mister…?”

“Elior Truco.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, mister Truco.”

Reaching out to shake Elior’s hand, Ulrich expected a crushing grip, just like the one he had fallen victim to some time ago. Surprisingly, however, Elior’s hand was barely felt in his, and Ulrich was relieved to avoid yet another unpleasantry. He let out a sigh, even offered a smile. It was returned. The time had come for them to part ways on decent terms – or so he hoped.

All of a sudden, thunder roared. Ulrich twitched, almost squealed, for his heart jumped violently, and continued throbbing against his ribcage. Wouldn’t that mark a dramatic farewell?

Hands slipping from each other, a distinct tinge slithered across Ulrich’s palm, at first merely a disarray of his perception, then actual, burning pain, digging underneath his skin.

Inevitably, he stared down to his hand, and saw unfamiliar darkness on it, darker than his glove. A pool expanding and overflowing from the edges of his palm. He stared, paralyzed due to disbelief, taking in the pulsations of… of that, there, when Elior finally spoke up,

“Is that blood?”

It was only then that the realization settled and fear rose.

Ulrich looked back to Elior, immediately pleading him to dignify him with some, if any sort of clarification, all while meekly holding his bloodied, aching hand.

And he didn’t know. He looked at his own gloved hands, frantically flipping them over, running his fingers over them. His lackluster reaction only shoved more anxiety unto Ulrich, who stared at the oozing darkness, abandoning his being and pounding his senses.

Only seconds into the buffoonery, Ulrich couldn’t handle it anymore.

He yelled, asking Elior what he had done. The storm agreed, shattering the skies with lighting and its thunderous anger.

More excuses, more blabbering. Elior offered to help, murmuring, laughing oddly, uncomfortably, looking at any place other than Ulrich. He was shaking so much, Ulrich, he had no idea what to do, what was happening to him, to Elior –

“Elior!”

At long last, the blond looked up, “So, it’s a deal?”

And finally, Ulrich screamed a croaked “yes”.

And the deal would be completed. Elior took Ulrich’s hand and raised it up, high, for the raindrops to pierce it. Ulrich’s gash was subject to the brutal drumming of the storm. His eyes screwed shut, he silently endured the first wave of pain, and then, quickly, once the reality dawned upon him, he wheezed,

“What the hell are you doing?!”

The blond wasn’t fazed. He didn’t react at all. Panic began to overwhelm, begging his body to move, to seek refuge, but despite the urgency…

He couldn’t battle against it. He tried, he strained his arm, his muscles, but… they were all powerless. They didn’t listen, they couldn’t. He was estranged in his own body, caged in palpitations of pain. And panic was all over, tormenting him for reasons unknown, escapes none.

Gathering a cold glare, he pointed all of his frustrations at Elior, and then – then all of it diluted. Elior’s golden eyes shone, hawkish, with Ulrich as his sure prey. And they too, widened, glowing harshly in the evening’s gloom, melting the eternal ice of Ulrich’s spheres.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? To ache for once? To suffer?” His was a voice tenacious and righteous, assaulting Ulrich’s ears. “To finally add some trouble to your merit! Add weight to your title! You’ve always wanted this!”

But… but Ulrich just asked for help, for… for anyone to come by, to… just be good to him… it’s what he deserved? Or he wanted?

Strength was fading. But he would, with the last of his senses, offer at least one last revolt, the final kick before succumbing. “Let me go,” he begged, afraid of himself – the kick was but a worthless twitch. How come? How come he failed?

Yet another surprise. “As you wish.” Elior complied with a smile.

He swung Ulrich’s hand with much force, and carried by the inertia, Ulrich staggered and – fell, sprawling himself across the wet marble, squeaking his way through.

Another round of pain, another distant sensation, reaching him in weak waves. He closed his eyes, once again, clenching his jaw to overcome it all. Confusion, confusion was all over, blinding his logic and tearing him apart.

He barely managed to curl up. He barely… barely found some strength to even move. Where did this weakness come from? His intuition did not wage, but rescued with the irrational, and he stared at the one possible culprit with tired, so terrifyingly tired eyes.

No longer was that man a stranger. He was an enemy, and he, Elior was heard somewhere, misplaced words falling around with the rain. Only one statement was discerned.

The offering to one final dream. “You are needed, Ulrich.”

Black saved him. The veil of oncoming darkness was imperfect. In the lulling fade of his consciousness, there was but a single lesion: the most devious smile Ulrich had ever seen.

#writing #story #original story #original work #first chapter #book #bookblr #oc #original character #books #write #far goes the farrago #original #content #original content #aspiring author #author #philosophy #literature #self publishing #classic literature #classic lit #devil #demon #fantasy #ulrich adler #mephistopheles #writer #wip #work in progress

[ashenburst]

Hello, darlings! Username ashenburst here. Aside from posting fanfics, this blog will be centered around art, literature, fandom, and some personal ramblings. Thank you for stopping by!

As an aspiring author, I also post some original content on here, so... be warned? Far Goes The Farrago is my current WIP, and it's spinning ruthlessly in my mind whenever I'm not studying; some snippets and sketches might appear here as a result. Then, as a fanfic author, I must put out a disclaimer: currently, I'm not taking any requests. This might change in the future. We'll see how my studies go. But feel free to send your musings in the ask box! Especially about Valentino and Vox! I will rant about them anytime <3

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