#inspired by henry he tries to write a poem maybe

[kianri-ah]

wilmon saint valentines fic ‼️‼️

#swedish prince wilhelm sends his crush slash best friend anonymous letters #tries to be sneaky about it too #<- failing miserably #inspired by henry he tries to write a poem maybe #on a call with erik talking about whatever and mid conversation he groans and says exasperated #“what the FUCK rhymes with stolen” #erik lives sorry he is important to me #wille also asks felice for help #(bestie agenda real) #wilhelm being dumb gay in love personified mostly #only fluff i need to see them happy 👍👍 #young royals #wilmon #wilhelm #simon #kian writes ‼️ #i should not be trusted with words

[natureartandimpressionsim]

WINTER IN PARIS:

Winter's coldness is descending in the city of love,

As the Eiffel Tower is adorned in frost.

The Seine begins to form its waves, 

They are covered by tri-colored leaves.

Gardens and parks, once filled with green

Now it is grey and tranquil.

The statues that were once filled with life,

Are now frozen in the dark.

As the outside gets colder, 

Cafés embrace warmth with mugs of warm drinks,

Covering in blankets of silk,

A taste of warmth and love, giving a cozy feel.

As the Parisian skies gets cloudier,

The streets are showered with the rain.

In Paris even in cold,

The warmth of love will never fade.

"The landscape painter must study and observe throughout his life; he should never lose the opportunity to consult nature, with always a crayon in his hand." Lecarpentier, 1817. This quotation from The Work of Art: Plein Air Painting and Artistic Identity in Nineteenth-Century France by Anthea Callen was significant and played an essential role in my project development. In the project, as earlier stated, we decided to challenge ourselves and try to impersonate either painters or poems. I developed the poem to get out of my comfort zone, and my partner drew a painting. This quote refers to the importance of a painter always observing and studying nature throughout their life. In the project, I did not have to observe nature to paint but rather to write about it, and I felt it was, as the quote described, very fundamental to study it for a long time with a pen and a notebook in my hand. While developing the project, it took me a few days, maybe weeks, to get inspiration. I would walk around the beautiful city of Paris and write a few ideas about the weather and how the weather was affecting my emotional state. If it was raining, I felt very sad and nostalgic for warmer days; when it was windy, I would observe how the trees would aggressively move and get angry myself; when it was a bit warmer, or at least I felt a bit more cozy indoors I would feel at home and happier. Additionally, I would walk around and observe nature in the city; I would sit in parks and see the absence of color in the city. This inspired me to write a poem about nature in Paris and to sound more like what I felt then. I was also inspired by the text written by Henry David Thoreau in The Journal of 1837-1861. "Nov. 12. It is much the coldest day yet, and the ground is a little frozen and resounds under my tread. All people move the brisker for the cold yet are braced and a little elated by it. They love to say, "Cold day, sir." Though the days are shorter, you get more work out of a hired man than before, for he must work to keep warm." I related to this text, and it felt very similar to what I was feeling and wanted to write; the text felt sad as it talked about being in colder weather and the days getting shorter. A painting that inspired me as I was writing the poem was Claude Monet's Ice Breaking, Grey Weather, 1880. This painting portrayed a very sad and melancholy feel; it felt very dramatic and, simultaneously, very tranquil. Monet focuses on the river in this painting and shows the connection between snow and water, which I also tried to focus on in my poem, speaking about the river's movement and the frost in the Eiffel Tower. This painting, for me, also seems very lonely, as it is a very quiet landscape with naked trees. I tried to portray what I felt about this painting in words in my poem, as winter for me, feels like this image. As I was writing the poem, It made me fall in love with Paris and its nature all over again. Nowadays, I'm not used to being outside as much or enjoying and observing nature firsthand, as we can see everything in social media or images inside our houses. Going out to get inspiration and write the poem enriched me and made me appreciate nature even more.

Claude Monet's Ice Breaking, Grey Weather, 1880

[demivampirew]

Say no to this.

Henry x Reader (wife) x Reader (the other woman)

Triggers: Angst; cheating, breakup, divorce (and crying).

A/N: This was inspired by two songs from the musical Hamilton: Say No to This and Burn, and it’s told from the perspective of the characters (Henry, Reader (Wife), Reader (the other woman)

You can find more of my writings in the Masterlist 

Having the chance to portray one of his favourite characters is an honour for which Henry will forever be thankful. Yet, he must admit that having to spend time apart from his family was not an easy task. 

He sat on the bed in the dark hotel room, only enlightened by the moonlight. On his phone screen, he saw the picture you’ve sent him earlier that day of you and your daughter playing, you dressed as a princess and the six-year-old as a dragon. “Oh, your mighty witcher, come and save me, please,” read the message under the picture. Henry missed dressing up in costumes and running around the house with his little angel, who would laugh uncontrollably every time he caught and started to tickle her.

It’s been over two months since he left for work; 60 plus days without feeling the lovely touch of your hands on his face, too much time without feeling the warmness of your body against his.

He laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling for an hour, unable to sleep when his phone announced that he had a new message.

“Are you awake? I can’t sleep,” y/n wrote. She was a friend he made on the set of the show - she worked as a personal assistant for one of the recurrent directors of the show and she was staying at the same hotel that Henry. “Yes. Can’t sleep either. Come if you want,” he replied, thinking that some company would help him to feel less lonely.

Fifteen minutes later there was a knock on the door. Henry opened the door and invited y/n to come in. Once inside, she faced him and smiled as she showed him the content of her bag: a PS and The Witcher 3 game. “I know you’re more into pc, but l don’t have a gaming pc here, so we will have to play with this, okay,” she said grinning.

“I remember you saying that you were good at this,” y/n while rolling her eyes, teasing him. “I am, but in the pc,” Henry defended himself with a playful smile.

They played the game for two hours before she suggested that it might be time for her to leave. Henry tried to disconnect the console from the tv but she told him to keep it, for now, so he could keep practising.

“Well, good night. I hope you can have a good sleep and tomorrow enjoy your free day,” y/n told him. “Same for you,” he said goodbye, but neither of them moved. They stared at each other for a long minute in silence. Henry’s hands reached for her face bringing it closer to his, culminating in a passionate kiss, while her arms embraced him.

Her naked body, covered only by the bed-sheets rested on the mattress as she slept. Henry looked at her for a moment and then walked towards the bathroom. He washed his face on the sink and then stared at the mirror, finding it hard to recognize the person that was reflected in the mirror. “I promise you that I will be forever faithful to you, my love” he once promised you, his lovely wife, and now the words echoed inside his mind, as stabs on his heart.

How could had he broken the promise he made you? Did he not loved you any more? No, that was sure of that, he loved you more than he had ever done. You no only made him happy and supported him through tough times, but you also gave him the thing that he treasured the most in the world: his daughter. But, he had to be honest with himself, for the first time in a long time and admit that things were not as they used to be. Before the birth of the little girl, you used to be inseparable. You would go with him everywhere in the world, game and laugh and made love every second you could. Now, you were parents; your lives centred on the precious angel and work and were often too tired and since the kid would like to sleep with you, often lacked intimacy.

The worst part of all: he wished that he could say that it was a one time mistake, but it became an affair that lasted for months.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You hated yourself. In the past, you’d constantly criticized “the other woman” for being malicious women who stole men from others. Now you had become one of them. Well, no completely. Sure, you were carrying an affair with a married man, but you weren’t a fool, you knew that you would never be able to “stole” anyone and he would never leave his wife for you; he never made such a promise and you knew him well enough to know that he loved his family more than anything in the world and he was being vulnerable due to the distance between his true woman and him. Were you a bad woman for being with a taken man knowing that he was in such a delicate emotional position? Maybe, but to be completely honest, so were you. Months before you met Henry, your fiancé cancelled the wedding because he had fallen in love with somebody else. You were feeling lonely and undesired and you had developed a crush on him before that first night. So, you didn’t find the strength to fight the desire and succumb to the temptation.

Every night you’ve spent together, with his strong arms embracing you as his lips caressed your body, felt amazing no matter how wrong it was. And, even if your heart ripped every time you remembered that he wasn’t truly yours - and you were reminded of that constantly, since there was no a single time in which he hadn’t unconsciously said his wife’s name as he reached climax, you couldn’t find it in you to put it a stop.

You knew that this would have a bad end. No matter the outcome, someone would get hurt. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That day, your sister offered to take care of your six-year-old so you could have some time to yourself to process things.

Desperate to get some distance and to be alone, you rented a small cabin outside the city.

The sun was coming down when you lifted a bonfire outside the place and sat in front of it with a box that you’ve carried there moments before.

Your fingers caressed every picture - of your first date, your first anniversary as girlfriend and boyfriend; vacations, birthdays and even your wedding. Every photo would get wet with your tears before you threw them into the fire. All objects that reminded of the love you once shared, ended up becoming ashes. Letters, poems, teddy bears, roses that you dried; everything. The only surviving things were the pictures you shared with your daughter, but you would make sure to send them to his mother because you didn’t want to see them any more, the pain was too great.

Finally, you took from your pocket the pictures you printed before to look at them for one last time. They were screenshots from a celebrity news website and the headline read “The Witcher star Henry Cavill is seen kissing a mystery woman”, followed by paparazzi photos of him with someone on the balcony of his hotel room. Angrily, you crashed the prints and let them burn into they became nothing.

With nothing more to do, you watched the flames, as you let your tears fall, feeling completely and utterly broken.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The production was over. After the news crashed, Henry had to continue filming, pretending that nothing happened, while some people looked at him as if he was a monster. Could he blame them for that?

When the article about his affair was published, his brother Charlie was the one who delivered the bad news - his stepdaughter had seen it and told him about it.

He didn’t know what to do. He called his wife over and over, but she never answered. All-day long he tried to communicate with his love, but every time without luck.

 Y/N tried to call him, too, but this time he was the one who ignored the call. He had nothing against her. Henry knew that she could no be blamed for his mistake, but he couldn’t talk to her right now. His wife was his priority.

Unfortunately, the only response he got from her was from her sister, two days later, letting him know that she was going to file for a divorce and she never wanted to see him or talk to him again. That she would only allow him to contact her, through her or another family member and elusively for things related to their daughter. She was going to share custody with him, but he would have to pick up and leave the girl on her sister or parent’s house.

Now, months later, he driving to his sister-in-law’s house to pick up his daughter and to leave the divorce papers that he had to sing.

There were no words to explain how much it hurt him to lose the woman he loved deeply. The only consolation was that his family continued to show him love and support as they always did. And, his daughter, unaware of the reason why her mommy and daddy decided to go separate ways, still love him enormously and would fill him with joy every minute of every day that he had her.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was obvious that there was no going to be a good end to the affair - it never does. You knew someone would get hurt, but you’d never imagined that it would be all three of you.

Terrible didn’t even begin to explain how bad you felt. Of all the three of you, you were the one who got it the “best”, since luckily the pictures only showed your hair in a bun and your back, so only a few close people knew that it was you and they were polite enough to keep the secret to avoid you getting harassed. Although, just in case, you dried your hair and got a new haircut.

Henry’s wife filed for the divorce after she found out about the affair. He let you know via text when he put an end to things and told you he could no longer see you. Even if there was no chance to get back with her, he couldn’t be with you because he loved her too much and you reminded him of the mistake he made. As he suggested, you continued working for a few more weeks there to avoid people finding out that it was you, but later quit.

That was by far the worst mistake that you’ve ever made. So much people got hurt; a girl now has two parents that can’t be in the same room, two people who loved each other who can’t be together because the ghost of you would always be present to remind them of the mistake and a person who’s affection was never truly corresponded and caused the break of a family.

Therapy has been truly beneficial in helping you heal and leaving the past in the past.

Today a new article about Henry was posted online. It consisted of pictures of him and his cute girl buying a Christmas tree and he was laughing at his daughter's funny faces.

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill one shot #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill angst #demivampirew

[starlene]

Thank God, and not only for saving her from the monster that had broken free from within her fiancé. But thank God for not making her go through with the marriage.

Or,

Emma Carew’s adventures in compulsory heterosexuality; a short story.

Emma's reasons

Thank God, was the first thought that flashed through Emma Carew’s mind when she saw her husband-to-be fall lifeless on the church floor.

Thank God, and not only for saving her from the monster that had broken free from within her fiancé.

But thank God for not making her go through with the marriage.

~

Emma was not one for grand gestures of rebellion, but some days, she felt like stepping out onto the street and screaming until she lost her voice. Some days, it was impossible to fight the feeling that the world was going insane – or maybe that she herself was losing her sanity, seeing how she seemed to be the only one that noticed.

The day before her wedding had been such a day. She had been filled with worry over Henry, because clearly, there was something wrong with him… but moreover, she had been filled with dread and anxiety and borderline panic for herself, wondering for the thousandth time if she was making the right decision.

It was not a new thought for Emma. As long as she could remember, the subject of marriage had made her feel conflicted. And now that she was really about to get married, the whole idea had felt more absurd than ever. Unthinkable, even.

Trying on her bridal veil, Emma had once again thought about the Virgin Queen giving her speech at Tilbury, about Jane Austen and Emily Brontë writing their wonderful novels, about Florence Nightingale taking care of the wounded soldiers and publishing her books and founding her nursing school.

And for the thousandth time, she had asked herself – if they had done all of that and still remained unmarried, why couldn’t she?

Emma didn’t know what it was she wanted to do with her life, exactly, instead of getting married. She only had a vague longing to do something exciting and different from what everyone she knew was doing. Once, when she was younger and feeling very inspired by the stories she had read about Miss Nightingale’s work overseas, she had told her father she wanted to train to be a nurse. He had just laughed, patted her on the cheek like he always did, and told her she needn’t ever worry about making her own living. He was there for her, and in time, her husband would be, too.

Sometimes, Emma wrote poems and sent them to magazines – using aliases, of course. Sometimes, she even got them published. It was always a huge thrill, seeing her words in print. But how much more exciting would it be, she sometimes wondered, to see them in a book? And maybe, if she was daring enough, with her own name written on the cover in bold letters?

But was Mrs. Henry Jekyll the name she wanted to see on that cover? If Henry would ever approve of his wife doing something like that in the first place, of course. Certainly, he had seemed quite tolerant of such things, but he had also changed a lot over the past couple of weeks, so one never knew…

Emma had put the veil away but remained at her mirror for quite a while, lost in thought.

~

Emma had tried to convince herself that it was only her nerves talking. Of course it was! Every bride was nervous before her wedding day. Certainly, these thoughts would pass, and she would become happy, just like everyone expected of her.

Besides, things could be worse. At least she was getting married to Henry. It felt weird to remember that some years back, she had almost made a different choice.

Simon had been a student of her father’s, his special protegé. It had always felt quite natural, almost inevitable, that Emma would end up betrothed to him. From the very first time he had visited the Carews, he had kept stealing shy looks at her. After noticing his young student’s infatuation, Sir Danvers had started gently teasing Emma about it, always remembering to add that Simon was a very promising young man and that as her father, he only wanted the best for her. Certainly, should she return his affection, they would become very happy.

And sure enough, on the night of Emma’s 21st birthday, Simon had finally proposed to her. It had almost seemed like fate. In the middle of the grand party her father had thrown her, looking to take a break from all the socializing and fake laughter, she had sneaked to the little pavilion in the garden. She had been astonished to find Simon waiting for her there. Before she knew it, he had gone down on one knee and asked her to become his wife.

What else could she have done than say yes?

They had talked for quite a while before rejoining the party; or Simon had talked, while Emma had nodded her head and tried to keep the uneasy feeling that had suddenly taken a hold of her at bay. He had promised to work very hard so he could always buy her the finest of things. He would always keep her safe and protected. He knew that they would be happy together, he was so happy already, he just knew that she would make a fantastic wife and – he had added with a bright-red blush on his cheeks and his hand squeezing hers – in time, a mother.

Simon wasn’t a bad man, that was not the reason Emma ended up tearfully breaking off the engagement merely a week after his proposal… it was just that there didn’t seem to be a place for Emma, the person she really was, in his dreams of marital bliss. The perfect wife and mother he saw in his mind’s eye was a completely separate creature from the person Emma thought herself to be. Emma was used to her father always looking for his departed wife in his daughter’s face, and of course, she loved him dearly despite that – but to spend the rest of her life with a man who also saw her as something she was not?

She could not do it.

In that respect, Henry had been different. He was a student of her father’s, too, but one Sir Danvers viewed in a rather different light. Namely, Henry seemed to drive his mentor up the wall, with his unorthodox ideas and his tendency to talk before thinking when some new subject caught his attention. Maybe that was the reason Emma decided to encourage his advances. She wanted to show her father that this time, her choice of suitor would be hers and hers alone.

Emma soon noticed that Henry seemed quite indifferent to whether his future wife would be an accomplished hostess or a perfect mother or not – and instead of blathering on about his dreams of married life, he kept talking about his scientific experiments, or the properties of a new drug he had read about, or the debates about medical ethics he had taken part in. That felt very refreshing to Emma. Maybe with Henry, instead of hosting and attending the endless parade of parties and cotillions she was so used to, she could support him in his work? Maybe, if she was patient and encouraging and caring enough, she’d end up helping him to do something that’d make the world a better place for the whole of mankind!

But, during those infuriating nights when one can’t fall asleep and is unable to put the thoughts that bother her out of her mind, Emma couldn’t stop thinking about the path that lay ahead of her, and the other paths that she was about to turn her back towards.

She did like Henry, that much was true… but did she really like him more than she liked her evenings alone, writing for hours and forgetting all about the outside world, surrounded only by peace and quiet? Did she like him more than she liked her life right now, let alone the independent life she led in her dreams?

Would it really feel better sharing every day of her life with Henry, instead of breaking off the engagement, and then letting her father know that she had stopped caring about what he thought, that she would take the money her mother had left her and train to be a nurse, or travel to the rainforests of Borneo to study botany and ride elephants, or whatever it was she dreamed of doing that week – whether he supported it or not?

Wouldn’t a husband, let alone children, just be in the way if she ever wanted to make any of her own dreams come true, instead of merely supporting Henry in fulfilling his?

~

Maybe, had Henry not started acting secretive, Emma would have made a different decision.

Maybe then, she would have sat down with him a couple of weeks before the wedding, looked him in the eye and told him that she’s simply not the marrying kind. Sadness would have filled his eyes, but, taking her hand in his for the last time, he would have thanked her for the time they had spent together. She would have expressed her heartfelt wish that he would find happiness with someone else, and they would have parted in amicable terms.

But, in a weird twist of impulses, the further away Henry had drifted from her after their engagement party, the more firmly Emma had stuck to her decision. She was not about to let him off the hook, to call off the wedding just because he was acting a little weird. For once in her life, she would stick to a plan and see it through.

While Henry had isolated himself from his fiancée, Emma had berated herself. Had she ever had any real plans for her future? Had she ever had the gumption to make any of her dreams come true? Obviously not! And obviously she was never going to make it to Borneo and ride an elephant, nor to become a heroic nurse for wounded soldiers, all that was a complete load of childish nonsense and she knew it. But, unless she caved in and gave way to her fears, at least she would be getting married.

As far as everyone around her was concerned, after she became Mrs. Something-Or-Other, her life purpose would be fulfilled. And maybe they were right!

She had made her decision, and now, she would have to grin and bear it.

Come what may.

~

Soon after the wedding day, Emma learned the full truth about Henry’s secret.

Ever since he had first locked himself in his laboratory, Emma had suspected Henry was dealing with something dangerous, perhaps even illegal. Even so, she had a hard time believing her ears when John Utterson visited her and told her what he had seen, and what he had inferred.

Emma’s heart had already broken for Simon, and now, it broke again for the poor girl Hyde had murdered. How could he have done that? How could someone so cruel and hateful have emerged from within the clever, enthusiastic, ambitious man she had known?

Soon enough, others connected the dots too. For a couple of weeks, London newspapers were rife with stories about the doctor-turned-monster, and all his victims. Emma was mentioned in the articles, too, which made her feel very uneasy – even though all the journalists took pity on her, writing about the innocent bride-to-be and the horrors that had unleashed upon her on her wedding day.

The memory of that day certainly haunted Emma. At the same time, she pitied Henry. Clearly, he had lost his mind, just like his poor father. She knew that despite all her conflicted emotions, she would miss him. The funeral day alone was agony, let alone the days afterwards.

At the same time, she felt relieved, relieved enough to feel quite guilty over it.

The situation was dismal, yet a perfect solution to her problems. A widow before she was married, her name forever connected to a criminal the whole country was talking about, people could hardly expect her to find another husband now. And if anyone ever asked, she would just tell them she was unable to forget her poor darling Henry, God rest his tortured soul – and though that wouldn’t be quite everything there was to it, there would be nothing insincere about it, either.

Emma knew time would heal her wounds, like it had dulled the sharp pain she had felt over the loss of her mother. And in time, she would figure it all out for herself, too. Lucky to have escaped with her life and grateful for each new day in a way she had never felt before, she would find out what it was she really wanted to do. She would find a way to make her own mark in the world.

Maybe one day, there would be that book, with Emma Carew written on the front cover in bold letters.

#Emma Carew #Jekyll & Hyde #Jekyll and Hyde #my stories.

[halfpintkay]

So I saw It Chapter 2 last night (and I’m going again later today because my one friend couldn’t go last night and she wants to see it) and I really liked and I swear it didn’t feel like it was as long as it is. 

I mean yeah there were so disappointments but over all it was a pretty good follow up to the first movie. 

 i might be biased but i feel like Ben was such a freaking boss in this.  Like I feel like they got him a little bit more correct in this one just by showing that even as a kid he was pretty good at building shit (even if he was still working on improvements for the clubhouse). And not to mention it seemed like he tried to be there for everyone and even tried to convince Richie to stay (which I wonder if he realized his convincing didn’t work as well as he thought). But also like him and Bev being there for Eddie after Henry attacked him pulled at my heartstrings. And of course everytime Bev was like gaga over Bill thinking he wrote the poem and what not I just felt for Ben because you could see that despite him growing up, losing the weight and being successful he still had the insecurities he had when he was 13. 

My heart literally broke for a second in the flashback scene where “Bev” was talking to him and she started insulting him. But then I realize it wasn’t actually her but still my heart went out to Ben so much there. Not to mention that poster in his locker i was sort of expecting that to come to life instead of pennywise appearing in the locker..but that scene ughh...i know what it feels like to feel like you don’t have friends and feel second best to someone, hell I still feel that way sometimes especially when my friends tend to forget i exist because they have boyfriends or just friends who they would rather hang out with..but I digress. 

There at the end where Bev was in the stall and Ben was being buried alive I was actually halfway wanting to freak out.  Although I did appreciate the reference to The Shining in that scene. But my heart melted when they started reciting Ben’s poem and Bev finally realized it was Ben who wrote it and not Bill. 

I was a bit disappointed that Audra and Tom’s scenes were so short but I understand that it’s not really about them. And tbh Tom was kind of useless in the book except to get Audra into the sewers where he just promptly dies so I do get why those two weren’t involved as much. I think that’s what the kid was added and they had that fun house bit for Bill to show his fear of letting another person die because he wasn’t there for them like he wasn’t there for Georgie. I mean how awful was that kid’s death? Ugh. 

I still freaking love Richie and Eddie. Their scenes were awesome. I especially liked in the flashback where Eddie tried to get Richie to give up the hammock and when Richie wouldn’t  he climbed on it anyway and stuck his feet in Richie’s face...like series I couldn’t get that short little scene out of my head for a bit last night. I also loved the scene where they opened the door and Pomeranian was there and I just couldn’t help but think of an idea of Eddie and Richie adopting a dog...then it turn into that demonic monster looking thing and that kind of ended that thought.  

I freaked out during the scene (flashback and present day) in Mr. Keene’s backroom (basement? whatever you call it). But I cracked up when the Leper threw up on him again and that song played. It just caught me off guard enough I couldn’t help but laugh. 

And the Paul Bunyan scene made me jump...although again when Pennywise burst into song I laughed because it was so unexpected and it kind of confused me at first...still not sure how I felt about particular part of that scene but...

Eddie’s death is so much worse than I imagined..OMG it just seem so cruel to make him suffer that long and be able to talk to Richie and them while he was dying. Bill Hader’s acting after Eddies death was so amazing . And like Ben pretty much had to drag Richie out of there  just broke my heart. 

Stan Omg I cannot stress how much I think they used Stan as a way to sort of inspire the rest of the Losers to fight. I do wish his scenes were longer in the movie and we could have gotten a bit more of Patty. But  that letter at the end was so heartbreaking.  I just ugh... I fully support any and all Stan lives AUs. 

I am so glad though that they all remembered each other at the end instead of everyone forgetting. Yeah it means they remember some very traumatic events but also they remember all the good times they had and the one thing that upset me the most about them forgetting was they forgot Stan and Eddie two which seemed like an insult to their memories. Kind of like how Ben said he’d like to remember the good stuff from their childhood. And it opens it up for them to visit each other and gather and honor Eddie and Stan. 

I loved Stephen King’s cameo though. It made me laugh and I knew right away that the whole thing about Bill being shit at writing endings was a nod to some of the critiques about Stephen King’s endings (That and I think yesterday or maybe Thursday I saw Stephen King post about someone saying he couldn’t write endings soo).  I have to admit his endings may piss me off sometimes but I don’t feel like they are all bad although some of them do fall rather short but like Chuck in Supernatural said “Endings are hard”.  

I even got to Like Adrian Mellon in the short scene he was in before he got assaulted and thrown into the canal. It broke my heart then to see how helpless his boyfriend was while watching him get beaten and thrown over. And then to watch him get eaten in front of him basically..ugh..poor guy. 

Over all I feel like it was a pretty good movie and I can’t wait to see it again. 

#ooc #it chapter two spoilers #it chapter 2 spoilers #it spoilers #spoilers

[clay-air]

IT Reddie/Stanlon/Benverly In the Flesh AU

Losers are in their early/mid-thirties.

Living: Bill, Ben, Mike

PDS sufferers: Georgie, Beverly, Stan, Richie, Eddie

Five years ago, the dead rose all around the world, and the small town of Derry, Maine, was no exception. Halfway into the zombie apocalypse, a breakthrough drug called neurotriptaline allows the risen dead to regain their senses—rebranded as Partially-Deceased Syndrome sufferers, they receive treatment and begin to be integrated back into the communities they nearly destroyed. Derry was never the most tolerant of towns, and to no one’s surprise the surviving townsfolk are incredibly hostile to the returning PDS sufferers. It is in this setting that seven Losers—each damaged in their own way by the events of (and prior to) the Rising—find each other and start to heal.

Disjointed outline and notes below the cut: I will definitely never actually write a fic for this bc I am pathologically incapable of turning my ramblings into a cohesive story with a plot and all that, so everything is up for grabs!!  If you do get inspired by my musings and write or draw something, please lmk!!!  Also feel free to comment with your own thoughts/ideas/headcanons!!!!

Warning for references to: suicide, homophobia, spousal/parental abuse, hate crimes, self-harm scars, violence

Bill Denbrough gets his baby brother Georgie (their age gap is a lot bigger in this AU) back but has to deal with the residual guilt he still feels about his death (an accident Bill maybe could have prevented). He saw Georgie after he’d risen, missing an arm and eating a dude (alternatively, Zombie!Georgie actually kills Bill’s wife Audra bc Bill hesitated over shooting him, and Bill has to deal with that while also trying to make sure Georgie doesn’t find out/remember what he did) and was the one to restrain him so he could be sent to the treatment center.

Ben Hanscom loved Beverly Marsh from afar until she went missing (killed by her abusive husband who later died during the Rising) and when she comes back to Derry from the treatment center with no one waiting for her, he decides this time he’ll actually step up and be there for her. Of course he has to actually get her to trust him first. She vaguely remembers him as a guy who was always nice to her, but it’s dangerous to assume that anyone in Derry has less-than-homicidal feelings regarding those with PDS.  Beverly is starts off nervous and flighty, but eventually adopts a very “middle finger to the whole damn town” attitude, and, despite her initial reservations, finds that the words of a certain Undead Prophet are starting to resonate with her....

Stanley Uris committed suicide before rising from the grave, and he’s trying to find a reason to stick around for his “second chance at life” that he never wanted in the first place. Can he finally move past the cloying, suffocating fear he felt every second he was alive now that he no longer has any need to “fear the Reaper”? He finds companionship in Mike Hanlon, a quiet man who defended his farm on the outskirts of town all by himself during the Rising, luring the Risen who wandered on to the property into a barn and keeping them inside once he heard about the successful neurotriptaline trials. Mike’s refusal to join the Human Volunteer Force during the Rising (he didn’t want to kill anyone, zombie or not) earned him the scorn of the already-pretty-racist townsfolk.

Richie Tozier was the victim of a homophobic hate crime, and now because of bureaucratic bullshit (reintegrated PDS sufferers need to be incident-free for a minimum of three years before they can change their address) he has to come back to the very same town that loathed him enough to kill him. Also they have another reason to hate him now! He’s trying to take it in stride (or at least outwardly appear like he’s taking it in stride) but his murderer, Henry Bowers, is basically a town hero for helping form the HVF, and he’s using his status in the town to make Richie’s already pretty miserable half-life hell. Things start turning around for him when he finds a reason to stop playing hooky and actually show up for the Give Back program: another PDS sufferer who is wound up tighter than anyone he’s ever met, is absolutely CAKED in flesh-tone makeup, and whose snapped insults in response to Richie’s trashmouth antics don’t carry the now-familiar hatred behind them that he’s become accustomed to. Also he’s cute as fuck. But damn, gay thoughts come with a lot of baggage after being gay literally got you killed.

Eddie Kaspbrak succumbed to slow poisoning by his mother, who’s Munchausen by proxy escalated with deadly effects. Unfortunately, once he’s released from the treatment center Eddie has nowhere to go but back into her open arms. She refuses to acknowledge what she did to him, and starts using his daily neurotriptaline doses as a new way of controlling him (Eddie is absolutely PETRIFIED at the thought of going rabid). Ironically, his only moments of freedom happen when he’s at work for the Give Back program (his mother’s protests that he’s too frail to do manual labor don’t really hold up under the fact that he’s kind of unkillable now?) where he meets a fellow PDS sufferer who’s an irredeemable trashmouth but who treats him more like a human being than anyone ever has, even counting before he was a literal zombie. And no, Eddie does not think he’s fucking funny. He doesn’t.

Featuring:

- Beverly supplying Eddie with DIY neurotriptaline she learned how to make from the ULA website so he can get out from under his mother’s thumb, which he accepts after an hour-long tirade about how she doesn’t know if it’s safe or even STERILE (“Eddie, honey, I don’t think we can get infections anymore” “it’s the PRINCIPLE of it, Bev!”)

- Mike showing Stan that all the bird species he saw in the woods when he was alive are still there, and that the Rising didn’t destroy everything good in the world, also introducing him to his secret library

- Bill bringing Georgie to Mike’s farm so he can see and work with the animals (and also so he isn’t in town where someone might mention Audra). Mike is somewhat disapproving of Bill’s not telling Georgie what happened, but he sympathizes, and tries to help both brothers work through their trauma. (Stan eventually convinces Mike that he should be taking care of himself too)

- Ben struggling to convey to Beverly that he genuinely wants to be her friend (and more) and help her (Bev: “Oh wait are you one of those guys who finds the whole ‘undead’ thing hot? Why don’t you go to the PDS brothel then and leave me alone?” Ben: *internal screaming*)

- Richie and Eddie building fences at 1/6th the pace of all the other pairs of Give Back program “volunteers” bc they can’t stop ribbing each other and arguing and also Richie might’ve made it his new-life’s purpose to get Eddie to smile and laugh as much as possible. “Do you even still need glasses, asshat?” “The better to see you with, my Spaghetti” “Don’t fucking call me that”

- turns out Richie and Beverly sort of hunted as a group during the Rising (a la Kieren and Amy) and now they like to get together in the Barrens, get high off sheep brains, and try not to have panic attacks about what they did while unmedicated. Bev confesses that while she hates the slow-drip of returning memories of the Rising, she hopes that one day she’ll remember being the one who killed her husband because that would mean she got her revenge in the end. Richie offers to help her jog her memory by reenacting it with him starring as her husband, but she just laughs and punches him in the arm. “Be glad I can’t feel pain anymore, Marsh, that seemed like it might’ve done some serious damage” “Beep beep, Richie”

- insert that ep 1 scene with Rick’s dad dragging the neighbor’s PDS wife into the street and shooting her, but replace with Bowers killing Adrian Mellon as Bill  watches from through the curtains across the street with Georgie’s head tucked into his chest so he can’t see

- Stan slowly coming into his own through what starts off as relatively harmless acts of rebellion against Derry but escalates to all the Losers having a blast vandalizing their own graves. “Honestly Richie, I’m surprised your epitaph wasn’t ‘blessedly silent at last’” “Woah! Stanley gets off a good one!”

- Richie visiting the Kissing Bridge where he was caught halfway carving his name + ??? by Bowers’ crew and was brutally beaten before being thrown into the river. Looking back, it was hardly a crush worth getting killed over, but this time he feels like he’s drowning in his feelings (of fucking course it would feel like drowning) and he’s terrified. Carving a shaky “E” where he never got to finish his declaration last time takes some of the weight off his heart.

- Ben finally getting Beverly to realize that he’s been in love with her since long before the Rising by telling her that he was the one who wrote the anonymous postcard she received a few months before she died, and showing her all the other poems he’d written over the years. “January embers”...

- Bill and Mike helping Eddie gather proof that this mother was responsible for his death by combing through Derry police records and autopsy reports (also hey, turns out you can still detect all those poisonous chemicals in his partially deceased body!) and using it to get him essentially emancipated and his mother arrested. Eddie moves in with Richie afterwards and being in close proximity all the time brings both their feelings to a boil.

- Georgie does eventually remember encountering Bill and Audra during the Rising. “I died, and you lied”. He runs away into the Barrens where he meets a strange PDS sufferer who wears clown makeup instead of the usual flesh-mimicking stuff...

- the creeping emergence of a ULA splinter group led by Pennywise that starts haunting at the edges of Derry and stoking the fires of the townspeople’s fear against the Risen. Eventually they kidnap Georgie to their weird sewer cult dungeon under Neibolt bc they think he’s the First Risen (lol sorry dudes, wrong side of the pond), and the Losers have to gear up and go get him back before a fucking clown EATS HIM to bring about the Second Rising.

Physical appearances:

Eddie: wears his contacts and makeup religiously until he is able to escape his mother, at which point he starts to let loose a bit (it helps that Richie says he’s still adorable, even tho Eddie would never admit to that). He has a gash in his cheek and a huge puncture wound straight through his chest, both of which he sustained during the Rising.

Richie: wears glasses even tho he doesn’t technically need to anymore. Gave up on the whole makeup thing pretty early bc it was a pain to apply, but he does sometimes wear the colored contacts when he’s out and about for the Giveback Program. He’s covered in cuts and blue/purple bruises that he sustained in Bowers’ attack, and has a big nasty stitched-up gash just above his hairline from hitting his head on a river rock.

Beverly: makeup and contacts whom? She has a pretty conspicuously hand-shaped bruise around her neck that she tends to cover with scarves tho

Stan: wears the makeup and contacts, but is much better at making them look natural than Eddie is. Matching scars on each wrist that he keeps covered all the time. A bullet hole in his side from the Rising.

Georgie: wears the makeup and contacts. Missing an arm (injury sustained during the Rising)

#it steven king #In the Flesh #reddie #stanlon #benverly #writing ideas #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #ben hanscom #beverly marsh #mike hanlon #stanley uris #bill denbrough #georgie denbrough #i wrote all this in the Notes app at 3am bc the idea possessed me like some sort of benevolent fanfic demon #not art

[caremobile]

Journal, President of North Africa and Syria --Charge D Affair (St Yv Sound, Burnham Point,) Chicago, --HMSS

Dear Val

I am parsing out, more and more the story of, my tree, i can write a time line,

whether or not, its a great suitable one for the books as of yet,

I am not so sure,

Some where along the lines, it;s like this,

My great great grandparents, were from Ocampo Sorsogon, near Goa Gubat, with roots, in Illocos Norte and ancestry, maybe near Tagudum around there 

and with these lines, 

my grandfathers sister married a Muscat, which can trace its roots from Oman and Switzerland

where my grandfather worked for Zuillig, as well as the Central Bank, he was a Swiss Legionnaire, 

let me tell you about his father, 

He worked in Textiles and studied in Japan, 

his last notable memory of him, was, when he took my grandfather to 

see the New York Yankees at Rizal Park,

he’d died when he was 11 you see,

I think Lou Gherig and Babe Ruth, were there

My grandfather, Eli was orphaned at the age 13, not long after his father died, 

his mother, Segunda passed on two years later, of..according my grandfather and mentor, “A Broken Heart” : Her heart failed her

They owned some units in a building, 

she told him

“Collect the rent!, from the tenants,:

My mother, studied at Fribourg 

with her sister, eventually working for SwissAir

iniitally she worked for PAL, upon making an announcement, in French, AirFrance tried to recruit her

Somwhere along the lines, Silvina Ocampo intertwined, when she came to the Philippines intermittenly to write about the Pearl of the Orient, and the wonderful, secret, places which she compared to the place near Salvador Brazil,

near there she always mentioned it, in the tapes, in her poem, her biographers did so too

We have the same line,

Us, Pitzarek, Cesares, Dosteyevski, Muscat,  

My mother ‘s father, Emilio D. Bejasa was born in Buan, Sorsogon where my grandmother Cordia was born, where after law school was recruited by the US State Department

while the Philippines was still commonwealth, (and now is)

his first post after having schooled by the US State Department Foreign Service School,

was to open the Hong Kong Consulate, the first one...his last post was ambassador to India, prior to that was Brazil,

Cordia died in Jaffa srael, where my mother studied French and danced, for Golda Meir, 

in service, of my past rich jewish latin and Filipino Illustrado intellectual circles, of the Hardackers, McAllisters, and Garridos, not to mention the Marquez’ Sanchez who are of North African and Palestinians Legion Writers who also inspired me to do my first 

manuscript, Becoming Neruda -- changing it later to Dialekt of Humble for dedications to my mother, in context of a long long long apology

Somewhere along the line, we intermingled, with

great writers, like Pitzarek, Cesares, Doesteyevski, all of Silvina Ocampo, linea our blood, we intermarried, Pitzarek married a Doesteyevski 

The Silvina line -- of  Argentina to Paris, along wiht Eluard  and Rene Char, Dali and Gala, and Duras, and God knows who else leading the  Surrealist Communist ... Camus et al...Absurdist Movement

somewhere, I was gifted with Georgina of Iowa Writers Circle’s soul, and blood, after I was born when 

I was trained, by Georgina Dubois,  Iowa Writers Circle and University of Chicago -dans Ryerson

not just in a class, but we have blood, an Mississippi Dubios Lousiana Blood,

we kept furthering our learning and experienes together in the bunker, our experience, and in the cafe..we left it at the bunker...

not recently also, I met the Ocampo, Pitzarek, Doesteyevski line of my paternal side and had a wonderful time at the cafe have begun writing our narrative

What is not said, as well, I worked at the Art Institute, and met Katie Sanchez of the Kennedy, who is a cousin of my step sister Erica, whose children I take as my own since the loss of their father through a bad divorce and seperation, and from my grandfather who died, her real actual father, (His daughter --nee Ocampo) with him or her rather, I have a couple of children as .....a dutiful legionnaire...

Katie, She is a Kennedy

We worked at the Art Institute together, and I am trained by Art Institute MFA School of Writers who led me to Bevington Penguin Circle, of the greatest Shakespeare Program in the World, at University of Chicago dans Ryerson 

I had a daughter, named Leaf  -- Leaf Monte Ciela (I myself was the crushed leaf once, or more than once, and so was my mother)

The last time I saw her, It was the bunker, make shift cafe, where I sang an Adelle song for her, 

a legionnaire song -- All I ask!

Ocassionally, 

I will sing it, when I am not too somber

and

by the by I was appointed English Speaking Union’s,  Executive Secretary whilst 

my Writing Seminars and Studies regarding Aids issues in Thailand and studies regarding Development Trade Regimes and in Africa

There I met, my writing circle, who gave me the Poetry Foundation

I inherited, the love of Bevington let alone Shakespeare as well as your love, including Mountbatten, becoming, later worthy of your services as a legionnaire and secret service offer to you our countrymen and the Roosevelts, especially John, my personal assignment in the Bunker

, and other great mentors, like Papadapolous, head of Greece Intelligence, the greatest Geographer in the EU

and studied, Coding and GIS under Patrick McAffie who adopted me too

who is in my linea

There I met, Melissa Lofthouse Benoist, and Agnes Malec

had children, we were in the same circles, same program, my June as a Henry,

or the other the Gala to my life as an Eluard,

later one or the other a Curie will be to my Pastuer who

But, during the war, I did see them, sparingly ..and were absent from my life, passing glances

until I met, someone,

who, was like, me as a child, as I waited in vain

in Yvonne, was from the place, where my area of focus was

in Thailand, rural area working as a missionary teacher protecting youth

by the Burma border at the Golden Triangle at St Mary’s in Chiangrai

now as an officer in the military, in the navy is taking surigical nursing, but in secret, is developing her skills, as an aspiring writer

under, yours truly Val -- Val, I am LaAmant Consul --

I was, then, on my mercy mission, as a writer, here in what was then what became a penal colony

til liberation

afterwhich, 

I became head of Aids Research, and French Studies at Rhodes Kings

and a member of the International Aids Foundation, and with Nobel and Fields

the Nobel Family

I did some remediation work for my school at Monmouth-Smith,  as Dean Father, won the Paris Arts Exhibition

just like my father won the 1972 Philippine Photography Art Competition

I married, im 2014, 

had children with my wife, when I conceived in Howe, Indiana after a weekend trip to Michiana seeing, in parituclar the Beautiful Tulip Gardens  

In memory, 

In memoriam, to all, we wrote our first Saga, Alia Crimea

I retired at St Yv Sound, with irony voted as North Africa’s President and Syria’s President, which parts of my scripts yield attends to....

The manual at the smithsonian, allows me some leverage, 

Seen, once as a Crushed Leaf, now, as a lawyer, legionnaire doctor,

sweet man sweet sweet man, til, the ax is pulled on me with theft in mind,

I am then the most dangerous Karl! 

But further to the point, I was born, with jaundice, 

needing, blood from a nun, and legionnaires, to stay alive,

and legionnaire writers, and mountain men,

I was named, Justin, after a Dillaneauve, of the line --

Sir Hillary Edmund, to get me through...life, 

that the milestones, that with my family tree, 

for example, the first sculpture i can recall my dad made

was a Christmas Tree, and I tried to replicate...

that .......my children, from Ann (Queenie), to Yv, Liberte, Leaf, Lilly, 

Hom, all those I yielded from my escapade at Howe, to Alia, and Elle

Tigre, Michelle, the children of White Cross, my children of Kings Rowe, and La Paz, my Children at Mindoro -- my memories of the songs sung, in French, 

to Ivo, Ivo Malec, and, lastly, .......How can I forgot my first born, along the way, I had triplets

Justine, Tallia, Marissa et al.. All, Her majesty,

Arc -View -Jennifer, of Audobon, How Two Roads Divurge on a Wood, we chose the one least travelled, who difficult it was -- it was longer, but we lived to see this day... 

The day that I became JOB, I read purpose driven life, 

where My children of White Cross and Kings Row, of La Paz...

You.....will bring together, gifts under the same way

Order! build, a sculpture, not of the last liberals who gave up everything, to overthrow Kampala, including the brothers convinced me to wake up, In the Reyes, Lei, Pia, Eric Reyes, Et Al.build rather a Christmas Tree first ---

Rene Justin Dove Ocampo --(Nee Roosevelt Nobel) - HMSS (President of Syria and North Africa)

[ineffablecolors]

CSJJ Bonus Day: New Tales from the New Year

First, I wanna wish you all a magical and marvelous 2017 in which dreams come true left and right - lets start it all with a joyful January! Second, gotta thank @katie-dub for this wonderful idea and the superb organization at @csjanuaryjoy! And last, the fic for my day :D

A sequel to what seemed to be most people’s favourite OS from my ‘Tis The Season series - New Tales from the Old Forest. I bring you New Tales from the New Year.

New Tales from the New Year; ~ 2, 300 words; FF.NET || AO3

She programs his number into her phone the second Henry’s door slams behind him. He got an idea on the ride back. He needed to write it down right away. So in the wake of her son’s excited babbling (wasn’t Killian the best? wasn’t he so nice? wasn’t he so funny? wasn’t he so inspiring? wasn’t he so down to earth?) Emma is free to lean against their front door, let out a breath and bang her head against the solid surface behind her.

Yes, as a matter fact, he is so nice, and funny, and inspiring, and down to earth, and gorgeous as all hell. And, yes, Emma is absolutely screwed. She knows it as she takes out the book – the one with those dangerous, tempting numbers inside. She knows it as she drops down on the couch with a disgruntled huff. She knows it as she copies every digit, checking three times that she got it right.

She knows it as she deletes the first of many texts lost into the void of the unsent.

///

His mom has her addictions (hello, bear claws, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, cocoa with cinnamon and Quentin Tarantino) but her phone is not one of them. Unless she is working a case, she never has the device glued to her hand, certainly not when they are spending some ‘quality mother-son time’.

So Henry has trouble connecting her announcement of being free from work for the rest of the year with the way she keeps glancing at her phone. It’s nothing short of glaring, really, even if the glare seems to hold little animosity and a fair share of guilt.

///

Emma doesn’t text Killian Jones after meeting him on the 21st and she doesn’t text him on the 22nd and she blanches at the very thought of calling him. Now the 23rd is slipping from her as well and she is a fucking coward but one with common sense so whatever.

It’s not like this (good lord, this isn’t even a thing, there’s no this or that or anything at all, there’s just her overprotectiveness of her son, resulting in her stalkerish ways, resulting in a ridiculous borderline-creepy crush, resulting in a proper crush fueled by one Killian Jones’s whole… person), it’s not like it could work.

The most it can be, Emma is well-aware despite having been on a strictly fairytales diet for the last week, is a messy and possibly disappointing one night stand that she cannot afford to have around the holidays. She has a son. The whole reason for her predicament, the little shit.

And Killian… Killian will hardly be sticking around, if he is not gone already.

The whole thing is ridiculous and she decides to put it out of her mind, even if she doesn’t have the heart to delete his number just yet.

So when Emma gets the delivery, she is confused at best and a whole lot of suspicious. She tears into the simple brown wrapping with her patent patience. Meaning – none.

Her gasp when she sees the cover of New Tales from the Old Forest VII is so loud she almost ruins what must be a Christmas surprise for Henry. She knows that’s what it is so why is she so bitterly disappointed when the beautiful inscription in Killian Jones’ ridiculously princess-y handwriting is indeed for her son and her son alone?

Henry will be over the moon. So Emma tells herself she is over the moon as well.

And then a thick envelope falls from the back of the heavy leather-bound book, with ‘Emma’ in that same stupid cursive, and she remembers what being over the moon really feels like.

///

Killian hasn’t done the whole ‘balls of paper lying everywhere but in the trashcan’ writer cliché in years. Bloody hell, years. He has been writing for years. He is a successful writer. He is a bloody bestselling author. It still blindsides him on occasion.

He doesn’t pay much attention to social media even if he does his best to post something every month or so. A poem. A quote. Things that speak to him and he hopes, he knows (he is slowly but surely beginning to know) speak to other as well.

But he takes special care with his fan mail. The actual mail. Not many people bother with that these days when their idols or current celeb crushes are just a tweet away. Yet more than Killian thought. He has a rather steady flow of letters, cards and small packages coming his way every month and he likes to think it is the perfect amount to remind him that people do want to read his words but not so much that he loses his head.

He has lost his head before and he has no interest in doing it again. Yet it seems that his heart is the one in danger now, something he never could have predicted, a plot twist so ingenious he has to tip off his non-existent hat to fate. It has certainly bested him.

Much like Emma Swan’s smile has bested him. And the way her eyes flitter away when she is nervous. And the way her hair gets in her way. And the way she cradles books (his books, bloody buggering hell) in her arms. And the way she looks at her son. And her son. He has rarely wanted to see what becomes of someone as much as he wants to see what becomes of Henry. Because he knows it’s going to be grand. And he wants to help it happen, he wants to watch it happen.

He is absolutely screwed. He knows it as he takes his own brand new copy of New Tales from the Old Forest VII off the shelf. He knows it as he lets his pen run with his head and, much more dangerously, with his heart as he dedicates it to the boy whose smile he can still feel tugging up the corners of his own mouth. He knows it as he takes out a stack of papers and his favourite black pen and starts writing to his mother next.

So here he is. Screwed and littering his own house. Because much as he tries, she refuses to squeeze into the tight corset and twirl at the balls under the gazes of dozens of wish-to-be suitors. Because much as he tries, he cannot pen anyone smart enough to outsmart her or bright enough to outshine her.

So with one last clumsy ball (truly, crumbling paper into a ball is not nearly as satisfying with one hand and Killian knows it’s a ridiculous thing to miss when he still has trouble with his shoelaces but he does) he sets all ideas of writing her into a royal world of pomp and glitter aside and pictures the way her green eyes flashed back to him one last time before she led her boy away.

And just like that he leaves the ballrooms and castles far behind and the masts and planks and black sails and vicious storms rise up with a roar. He feels himself nodding along as he adds the Captain before her Swan and biting his lips as he straps the sword to her belt and grinning like the fool he is when he sprays the sea salt on her cheeks.

///

Emma exercises the one virtue she has never possessed and waits. She wraps Henry’s book in the best wrapping paper she has left (and only sneaks a peak of the first page… ok, maybe the first five) and, on a whim, ties her own bulky letter with a bow and puts them both under the tree.

Dinner on Christmas Eve is a quiet but happy affair and as she looks at her son, she knows she will be fine no matter what, long as she has Henry. And yet… she finds it in herself to admit that maybe just because they are good, doesn’t mean they can’t be better. Maybe just because it’s been the two of them for years, doesn’t mean it always has to be.

She bites her lip until it almost bleeds but manages to be the adult, the responsible mother, and hands him one of her own presents to open before bed. No way is he ever falling asleep, if he sees the book. No way is she resisting opening her letter, if she gives him the book.

///

Christmas has never let him down!

Henry knows that his mom is only humouring him when she doesn’t argue with his talk about magic and destiny and True Love but he also knows that there are some things even she doesn’t know. So he humours her in turn and doesn’t try to convince her of the magic that is so obviously everywhere. But on Christmas he doesn’t hold back. And Christmas has always repaid his loyalty but this year. This year it outdid itself.

New Tales from the Old Forest VII

VII! As in the one that wouldn’t be out for another two months. As in the one no one has seen yet. As in the one he is currently holding in his hands.

The one with Killian Jones’s own handwriting inside it, calling him his favourite fan and hopefully future fellow writer and-

Christmas really outdid itself this year!

///

Emma would’ve thought she couldn’t be more grateful for the absolute joy on her son’s face when he tore through the reindeer to get to what she is sure is his new favourite possession. She would’ve thought that but then she discovers that Henry’s absolute fascination with his book also gives her a reprieve from his admirable but sometimes rather challenging perceptiveness.

All she gets is the puppy eyes and a beseeching ‘MOM’ and she waves him off, pardoning him for his desire to spend Christmas Day buried in stories she frankly can’t wait to read herself.

So maybe she has an ulterior motive as well, maybe there are other things she can’t wait to read as well. She thinks she can and has been forgiven.

She scowls at the way her fingers almost tremble as she tears the corner of the letter. She is not fancy enough to have a letter opener (this is the first personal letter she has received since the one that contained nothing but a car key) and obviously not sensible enough to keep it together while just opening a stupid envelope.

The bulk of the thing should’ve given it away, yet she is still surprised, still gasps a little just like she did when she saw the book, when she pulls out the small stack of papers. There are at least twenty pages in her hands and they are all covered from top to bottom in his beautiful script.

Emma doesn’t bother hiding in her bedroom, she is too stunned to think about keeping this from her kid, too wrapped up in trying to keep her thoughts from completely running away from her. She shuffles to the armchair, hand clutching the sheets of paper as if they might decide to slip from her fingers and make a run for it, grabs one of the blankets piled on it and takes the couple of steps to the couch, mouth still slightly agape, and plops down in the vacant corner, glancing up only to see that she could’ve started setting off fireworks and Henry still wouldn’t have looked up from his book on the other end.

She spares a thought to making herself some hot cocoa but cannot convince herself to set down the pages or risk bringing them anywhere close to the damn surface of her kitchen counter. So she just plunges in.

///

She doesn’t call him on New Year’s and she doesn’t text him.

Because it will be cliché and because he is probably celebrating and because she is too busy watching the fireworks playing over Henry’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression.

And yet. It’s only the twelfth minute of 2017 when she thinks about him for the first time this year. And she has a feeling it won’t be the last.

///

She sits down on her worn couch the 18th after having put her kid to bed and having done the dishes. After having already put three dirtbags behind bars this year. After having read New Tales from the Old Forest VII and read and re-read and re-read and re-read his short story, her short story, at least a dozen times.

She sits down and prays to every deity that might not be too hungover post-Christmas and New Year’s to hear her that she hasn’t missed her chance with what she is afraid might be one of the single most amazingly talented and even more amazingly sweet men on earth.

///

So how is your new year going so far? – Emma Swan (Henry’s mom, from the signing in NYC)

His eyes boggle and his grin is almost painful but he prides himself on the fact that the shock and elation and relief (the thought of never hearing her voice again has been slowly driving him insane for oh, about 28 days) don’t incapacitate him completely for more than a couple of minutes.

///

She re-reads her stupid, stupid, text for the 8th time in the last 2 minutes and rolls her eyes at herself for the 8th consecutive time. Maybe she should’ve also added what she was wearing back then and quoted word for word everything he’d said. Pathetic. She is so not good at this.

Suddenly it seems like it might be the best one in a good while. – Killian Jones (the guy that has been staring a hole in his phone for the last month)

Well, maybe she isn’t so bad after all.

#captain swan #cs ff #csjj #cs january joy #cs au #NTOF #xmas challenge

[the-master-cylinder]

SUMMARY An alien serial killer is sent to Earth to live among humans as a punishment for his crimes, and his body is genetically transformed to look like a human. Nevertheless, the transformation is incomplete and every few hours the alien’s body begins to revert to its original form, causing his head to explode. The situation prompts the alien to “borrow” heads from anyone who happens to be nearby. He gets it by squeezing the head off with a crab-like claw and skewering it onto his own neck. At the same time, Detectives Pierce (Chong) and Krieger (Gordon) try to figure out who is causing the killing spree, with only one clue: all the heads of the victims have been removed and are lost. The team slowly comes to the conclusion that they are facing a rather unearthly killer.

DEVELOPMENT The film was originally financed through the Kushner-Locke Company. They hadn’t had much experience in features, but it had inked a deal with Atlantic to make 10 movies with Kushner-Locke retaining ownership. The original script, by Sam Egan, proved to be too ambitious for a small company, McNaughton said. Numerous fight scenes and exploding buildings had to be scaled down to fit a $2 million budget, but Egan was willing to make the necessary changes. “The original script was monstrous in terms of effects,” McNaughton shakes his head. “The Borrower was always blasting things with this laser gun. There would have been hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of opticals. He was blowing up buildings, things were on fire, twice as many people were decapitated, and there was a huge radio telescope facility at the end which would have cost a fortune to build and blow up.  McNaughton convinced the studio to hire fellow Chicagoan Richard Fire. Seven drafts were required; the film was originally going to be produced in Chicago with the same people used in Henry, but that was only one of numerous changes made.

Fire, who spent little time on the Borrower set takes a philosophical view of the whole matter. “The movie business is an interesting sport, and recognizing that is one way not to have a bad time,” he counsels. “If you have unreasonable expectations, you’re far more likely to be frustrated and disappointed. When I was in college. I thought that you wrote whatever you wrote a movie. A poem, a novel, a play-in a burst of romantic inspiration. You wrote feverishly and all the time for a weekend or maybe two, and then you produced the work and all the writing was done.

“Now, I’m not saying that it isn’t possible to have it happen that way. But my life experience is that it doesn’t. You have to keep going back to the drawing board and reconfronting the beast…refining the work. It’s more like sculpture than anything else, where you keep having to take additional whacks at it to get it just right.”

Fire does, however, lay to rest rumors that there was extensive rewriting done while The Borrower was being shot. That’s completely false. The script was not drastically rewritten during production. There were two extra lines put into the first scene that was the extent of the rewrite. As John said to me the first time we saw the movie on cassette. “This was the movie we set out to make it’s up there. The problems on this film were purely business. Period.”

Fire wasn’t the only Henry alumnus to work on The Borrower: Jones was on board again as producer, Elena Maganini came back as editor, and the music is credited to Jones. Robert McNaughton and Ken Hale. all of whom contributed to Henry’s haunting score. Organic Theater members/Henry co-stars Tom Towles and Tracy Arnold are also back. Arnold. who played Henry’s would-be love interest Becky. is seen briefly as a nurse. Towles. Henry’s skin-crawlingly degenerate buddy Otis. plays Bob Laney. the alien’s first and most loathsome victim. “Otis was a big stretch for Tom,” claims Fire. “He’s been one of my best friends for 20 years. and he’s one of the nicest guys you could ever imagine. It sounds like a cliché. but it’s true. Tony Amendola has a small role as a doctor and Mädchen Amick briefly appears as a rock groupie. Pamela Norris cameos as a hooker.

An early effects test shot-of Tom Towles decapitated by the alien’s handcuffs, used as a garrote-proved disastrous when a makeup man had to be found in three days to replace a departing Kevin Yagher. “The test was a disaster!” McNaughton howls. “It was scheduled to be shot in 11 hours. We shot for 23 hours straight, and even that wasn’t enough time. I thought it was horrible, but Atlantic was still interested in the project.”  “The footage was awful and I was ashamed to have been a part of it,” said McNaughton. “Kushner-Locke stopped paying me because they thought Atlantic wouldn’t pick up the film based on the effects footage. Kushner-Locke took the film to Atlantic last December and they didn’t invite me, so they could say, ‘This is McNaughton’s fault!’ But Atlantic kind of thought it was okay, which it wasn’t.”

After not being paid by Kushner-Locke for five weeks, McNaughton thought the whole deal was off. He returned to Chicago, he was shocked when he got the news that Atlantic was still interested in completing THE BORROWER.

“Somehow, Atlantic got the picture away from Kushner-Locke,” McNaughton said. “We had to rewrite it and cut back on the effects. I asked Richard Fire, the man who co-wrote HENRY, to help me. But the attitude was, ‘Who the hell is Fire? We’ve got our own guy.’ It was the same old Hollywood thing. We worked on the new script for a month. Tennant hated it. He said, ‘You win, you can use your writer.’ Back in Chicago, Richard and I started working together. We made the film more character-centered. We pushed the cops chasing the alien into the background. The interesting thing is the monster taking over people. By the time we were done, we had completed seven drafts. The seventh was the one that got approved.”

From day one, McNaughton wanted to make THE BORROWER on his home turf in Chicago where he had enjoyed great success with HENRY. But even after scouting Chicago-area locations and assembling his people from HENRY, McNaughton realized the production was destined to be shot in Los Angeles because Atlantic viewed Chicago talent as inferior and less experienced than West Coast talent. They were also frightened by the infamous Chicago unions.

Tennant hired Elliott Rosenblatt as line producer. Rosenblatt poo-poohed Chicago and its locations and eventually got the production shifted back to Los Angeles, McNaughton said. From that point, Rosenblatt took an aggressive role on the set, eventually forcing the replacement of 12 key personnel, including the camera and sound crews.

“It was a disaster for me,” McNaughton said. “Rosenblatt sandbagged my DP and got somebody loyal to him. A guy named Bob New. I had seen his resume reel and originally chose not to hire him. We called the guy ‘Bob No-Can-Do,’because his pet comment was ‘we couldn’t do that. ‘He was into the fast, easy way to do things, not necessarily the right way.”

Then the big ship sank. Atlantic suddenly went belly-up. Tennant disappeared. Rosenblatt reportedly became at odds with the film’s owners. As McNaughton put it, “There were a lot of bad feelings.” Those feelings were so bad that when THE BORROWER was scheduled for postproduction work at Zenith Labs in Chicago, Rosenblatt tried to seize the work print at Atlantic and take it with him, McNaughton said. “One of the guys working with the company, R.P. Sekon, grabbed the film before he (Rosenblatt) could get it,” McNaughton said. “Otherwise, who knows what would have happened to it.”

McNaughton is still waiting to see what happens to THE BORROWER. It’s a project he decided to direct after he had rejected offers to helm New World’s WARLOCK (before that studio went under as well) and TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE 3. “I turned that down because I knew that if I made too many more blood pictures, that’s it. That will be my life,”

PRODUCTION McNaughton explains. “Originally, part of the joke was that he’s from a higher civilization, transported to Earth for his heinous crimes. It’s like, ‘If you want to act like a monkey, we’re going to put you in a zoo.’ Here, they said, ‘You want to act like a human being? Fine. We’re going to turn you into one, and drop you in Chicago.’ It’s the ultimate punishment.

“When he comes to Earth, his transformation fails,” the director continues. “His craft comes down in a forest preserve, where some dirt bag and his kid are poaching deer. They see this thing land, and when the transformation fails, he reverts to his alien form, but his head can’t. His head explodes, so he starts grabbing the heads of various human beings. He also gets chased by a couple of cops, who think they’re after a human murderer.”

One of the most appealing things about The Borrower, says McNaughton, is that all of the FX are derived from the story. “I’ve read a lot of scripts where they find some half-assed story and fill it up with gratuitous effects that aren’t organic to the narrative in any way,” he frowns. “They have what is basically a crappy story, and every so often they dump a bunch of gimmicks in there that don’t belong. They just sew them on. In The Borrower, the effects stem from the concept. Here comes this alien creature, his head goes away, and now he’s lost on Earth. He’s like a lion: He’s not really a bad guy, he’s just hungry.”

There are rather grim yet funny moments in the film. “I always go into those meetings where someone’s trying to sell the concept down the line,” he grimaces. “I hear things like, ‘It’s a cross between Terminator and Gone With the Wind!’ We tried to put humor in the script, but we weren’t really concentrating on it. It just happened that the players we got, like Tommy Towles and Antonio Vargas, were always thinking of ways to make it better. There was humor in the situations, and we were just fortunate enough to have players that hooked on to it, which brought us more than we expected.

“I hate gag humor,” the director goes on. “The humor in this story comes from the situations. It’s very humorous, very dark, and it moves very well. All of the gore comes from the fact that this creature has got to have new heads. It’s part of the story. It’s not gratuitous. There’s a metaphor to the script: He’s assuming these other people’s lives and personalities, almost like an actor.”

The story follows the title character’s attempts to fit into modern American life, assisted by such helpers and reluctant head donors as Antonio Vargas and Tom Towles. In addition to the various human victims, the Borrower even attempts (albeit unsuccessfully) an animal’s head. Along with the alien’s story, another plot involves a psychotic killer (Neil Giuntoli) who, at the film’s beginning, is captured by a detective (Rae Dawn Chong).

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

“Scully the psycho then escapes and stalks Rae Dawn,” McNaughton details. “Eventually, he breaks into her apartment late at night, where she shoots and kills him. His body is taken to the morgue at the same time they bring in the dog-headed man. The dog-headed man then grabs the female coroner’s head, but the authorities shoot the hell out of him. They figure it’s all over, but the monster now takes Scully’s head! There’s a massive shoot-out, and a big boffo finish.”

Rae Dawn Chong was not used to working on projects like The Borrower, which led to a few uncomfortable moments. “Rae Dawn and I had a few run-ins,” the director reveals. “It was her first starring role, and I believe she was nervous and tense. Also, I don’t think she’s used to working on projects whose budgets are quite so low, where the amenities are quite so thin. She worked big blocks at the beginning and end of the picture, but during the middle three weeks she didn’t work at all. We had a scrape or two during the first three weeks, but I got along with her much better the last weeks, and it all went pretty smoothly.”

SPECIAL EFFECTS Although Kevin Yagher was in charge of the makeup FX, he farmed some of the work out to Robert Kurtzman, Greg Nicotero and Howard Berger of KNB EFX Group. “The work was pretty straightforward: Kevin had the real juicy stuff, and we got the stuff that he didn’t really want to deal with,” laughs Kurtzman, relaxing in the KNB lab. “He mainly told us what he saw, and we just did it here. He didn’t come in and beat into our brains how he wanted it. He basically just said, ‘This is what I’m looking for.’ We did most of the neck appliances, based on some of Kevin’s designs for the necks, and we also did several bladder makeups. Kevin took over the rest of the stuff, a couple of dummies that had their heads severed. There are a lot of dummy head gags, with severed heads. This is a very bloody film. I can’t even guess how they’re going to rate it.”

The filmmakers say that the majority of the FX work involves prosthetic makeup, along with a great deal of squibbing. The spaceship and outer space will be done optically, while armatures will be used for some of the head-splitting. At the beginning of the film, one of the aliens is seen in its natural insectoid form, as it leaves the Borrower on Earth. “The insect head involves mechanics,” McNaughton explains. “We had radio-controlled mandibles. We used fiberglass and foam rubber to build the alien’s body.”

RELEASE/DISTRIBUTION THE BORROWER had been produced with Atlantic Pictures set as the distributor. “Then Atlantic was sold during the production,” McNaughton said. “The boss went away in the middle of the night. New people came in, but they couldn’t get the company into shape. So, everything collapsed. The completion bond people took over the film. It was a fiasco.”

  Atlantic Releasing was in a motel that used to be on Sunset. They had a pretty good-sized parking lot and about 25 or 30 employees. One day towards the end of production I had to go over there to talk about how we were going to shoot nights. I pulled into the parking lot, and it was empty. The building’s doors were swinging on their hinges. I walked in, and there was literally no one there! The computers were all packed up. They literally disappeared in the middle of the night, and took the few hundred thousand dollars that was left in our budget with them. So it was an insane experience making THE BORROWER.  – John McNaughton (Director)

  Rae Dawn Chong, appeared on THE PAT SAJAK SHOW a few months ago where she badmouthed THE BORROWER for having “the worst script” she’d ever performed. It was just an insult added to the stock piling injuries already suffered by McNaughton.

“It was a nightmare working with her,” McNaughton said. “She didn’t belong in a little $2 million movie. I mean, she wants to be Sigourney Weaver. She’s worked in big budget films before, so why did she do this picture? They asked her why she did the movie and she said because she needed the money. Why be so stupid as to go on TV and tell everyone you’re a whore?”

The Borrower (1989) Music Tracks

CAST/CREW Directed by John McNaughton Writing Credits (WGA) Mason Nage … (story)

Mason Nage … (screenplay) and Richard Fire … (screenplay)

Rae Dawn Chong – Diana Pierce Don Gordon – Charles Krieger Tom Towles – Bob Laney Antonio Fargas – Julius Neil Giuntoli – Scully Larry Pennell – Captain Scarcelli Tracy Arnold – Nurse

Makeup Department Everett Burrell … special makeup effects artist Bernd Rantscheff … makeup artist Heidi Williams … assistant makeup artist Chris Yagher … special make-up effects Kevin Yagher … special makeup effects Evan Brainard … mechanical department: Kevin Yagher Productions, Inc. Steve Galich … special effects John Lundberg … mechanical department: Kevin Yagher Productions, Inc. Tony Rupprecht … mechanical department: Kevin Yagher Productions, Inc.

CREDITS/REFERENCES/SOURCES/BIBLIOGRAPHY Fangoria#84 Fangoria#109 Cinefantastique v20n04

The Borrower (1991) Retrospective SUMMARY An alien serial killer is sent to Earth to live among humans as a punishment for his crimes, and his body is genetically transformed to look like a human.

#90sMovies

[limejuicer1862]

F WORD WARNING

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger. The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Martin Appleby

is a punk, poet, vegetarian, cider drinker and editor of Paper and Ink Literary Zine from Hastings, England. Follow on Facebook/Instagram/Twitter @paperandinkzine

The Interview 1. What inspired you  to write poetry?

Women. Quite simply. The first poem I ever wrote was as a love struck teenager about a girl I had a crush on but was too afraid to tell. Then when I started writing poetry again in my twenties it was drunken ramblings scrawled in a notebook after a break up. It wasn’t until my late twenties that, for the first time, I wrote a poem that wasn’t about a woman.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

Henry Charles Bukowski Jr. His words opened my eyes to a whole new world. Poetry was no longer just the flowery, pretentious nonsense they had tried to teach me in school. It was simple, honest, raw, brutal, beautiful and working class. It was a gateway drug that lead me to discovering an underground wonderland of beats, outlaws and outsiders.

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

It is not something I have thought about too much. I guess the older you are, the more shit you have seen, the more life experience you have to draw from, and the more equipped you are to articulate it? I don’t know, maybe you have to be a certain age before you start to appreciate poetry.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

I fucking wish I had a daily writing routine. I write when I feel like it, when I feel that I have something to say. Sometimes that may be two or three poems in a day, sometimes that may be two or three in a month.

5. What motivates you to write?

That is a very good question. I guess all writing comes down to ego doesn’t it? The feeling that whatever you have to say is so important that it needs to be written down. Documented. Recorded. For posterity or publication, it’s all just ego. I don’t have any children and don’t plan to have any, so I like the idea that my poems will live on after I’m gone. A piece of me that will survive  long after my body packs up.

6. What is your work ethic?

I run a submission based literary magazine, so I am always working on the next issue. So, if I am not writing poetry, I am at the very least reading it. I also publish the odd poetry collection, the latest one being Too Many Drinks Ago by my friend John D Robinson. I am always  working on something. It’s what keeps me sane.

7. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today?

I still love Bukowski’s writing, and whilst I don’t necessarily agree with some of the things that he wrote about – he had some problematic views which have been well documented – his writing will always stand out to me as a beacon of excellence, and continue to inspire me. As a kid I used to read things like Goosebumps and Star Wars novels , and whilst I enjoy the odd horror and sci-fi novel, I don’t think they particularly inform the stuff I write today.

8. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

I admire anyone who takes action. Anyone who doesn’t wait around for things to happen to them, but makes them happen. Anyone who has the fortitude to put their truth out into the world to be judged by total strangers.

1. Why do you write?

I like telling stories. I love the rush, the exhilaration, and the sense of accomplishment when it all comes together – when you’ve written the perfect sentence, or poem – when everything ties together in a neat little knot. Plus, how else am I supposed to tell people about all of the stupid shit I have done in my life? Start a fucking podcast or YouTube channel like very other brainless idiot these days?

2. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

One thing that I hate more than anything is people who describe themselves as “aspiring” writers/poets. It’s bullshit. Don’t aspire, be. Don’t try, do. Start typing.

1. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

I started writing a novel in 2015 which I am yet to finish the first draft of. I would like to finish it before I die, but at the moment I’d say the chance of that is 50/50. I am also working on Issue 14 of my literary magazine, Paper and Ink – the theme is missed connections and  features a fantastic line up of writers, poets and artists from all over the world and all walks of

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Martin Appleby F WORD WARNING Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.

[thegloober]

A Bread Factory, Part One: For the Sake of Gold

[Editor’s Note: This is a review of Part One of “A Bread Factory,” a matched set of films about an arts center’s effect on a small town in upstate New York, written and directed by Patrick Wang (“In the Family“). Although each part stands alone and can be enjoyed separately, they are meant to be seen together. For a review of Part Two, click here.]

Patrick Wang’s “A Bread Factory Part One: For the Sake of Gold” is half of a matched set of movies that comprises the most original filmgoing experience of the year. Part Two is subtitled “Walk with Me a While.” Each runs two hours. The halves are meant to be shown back-to-back in a theater with an intermission, but you can watch them independently and come away feeling that you’ve seen a complete work. Any way you watch it, “A Bread Factory” is a wildly ambitious yet self-effacing epic about a place and its people, written, directed and acted in the spirit of Robert Altman (“Nashville“), Richard Linklater (“Bernie“) and Edward Yang (“Yi Yi“)—muralists who paint on wide canvases, yet still treat each character as individuals worthy of their own portraits.

Advertisement

Part One introduces the fictional upstate New York town of Checkford, a place as vivid as Grover’s Corners, Deadwood or Maycomb. The central location is the eponymous arts center, headquartered in a converted bread factory. For forty years the place has been run by its founders, Dorothea (Tyne Daly) and her partner Greta (Elizabeth Henry). Dorothea is a tough, passionate administrator and stage director who doesn’t suffer fools. Greta is a soft-spoken, reflective, Finland-born actress who tries to rein her partner in when she’s about to lose her cool. 

That’s been happening more often recently. A bigger, glitzier arts facility just opened on the other side of Checkford. It serves up flamboyant and shallow work that’s steeped in 1990s conceptual art cliches, shuts the brain down instead of engaging it, and seems designed to pull in tourists and send them home with tote bags and t-shirts. Most of the work is produced or approved by a couple of gimmicky and very successful Chinese performance artists known as May Ray (Janet Hseih and George Young). 

May Ray pipe prerecorded laughter and applause through public address systems to override the crowd’s responses. They dress in outrageous costumes, including a set of retro spacesuits with tiny action figure versions of themselves dangling in front of their faceplates. They are their own logos, branding all they touch. They like to draw the audience into cutesy stunts (like “walking in another person’s shoes,” which are fashioned from hats) that momentarily thrill or amuse, then serve up banalities disguised as wisdom (like “falling is a part of walking”) so that patrons go home knowing not only that they’ve seen Real Art, but what it was supposed to mean. This is a sharp contrast to The Bread Factory, which books some out-of-towners and the occasional big name, but is mainly fueled by local work that’s steeped in a classical liberal arts tradition, and created by local artists for local audiences in a relationship that’s more reciprocal and open-ended, an exchange of traditions and values.

Advertisement

Dorothea and Greta learn that the town is taking of cutting their educational subsidy— which lets them teach Chatford children and teenagers, thus training a new generations of artists and patrons, and provides the core of their monthly nut—and give to the newcomers, who overmatch them in every area except parking. Suddenly they have to think like tacticians, brainstorming a plan to convince a majority of the city council to leave things as they are.

The new facility’s administrator, Karl (Trevor St. John), is a formidable adversary. He presents himself as a calm, bland, middle manager-type, but he’s smart and ruthless. He’s the kind of guy who’ll reply to a journalist’s carefully researched questions by asking why she’s resorting to personal attacks. Karl has shady funding connections, and seems to have already bought off half the school board. He even tries to strong-arm Dorothea into backing down from the impending board fight by threatening to report The Bread Factory to the state for hiring a felon (albeit one whose conviction was reversed) and employing children (actually volunteers who are being thoughtfully mentored by the staff). 

Dorothea and Greta’s strategizing and politicking is intercut with scenes of the couple workshopping a new production of the Greek tragedy “Hecuba,” directed by Dorothea, translated by a scholar named Elsa (Nana Victor) who shyly declines to call herself a writer, and co-starring Greta and a grand old English actor known as Sir Walter (the late, great Brian Murray, in his last performance). 

Around this core group, Wang spins a constellation of supporting players. Some have stories that intersect with (and comment upon) the main action. Others get one juicy scene or bit, then recede into the chorus. An embittered indie filmmaker named Jordan (Janeane Garofalo) loathes the boring, predictable questions of adults (“What was your budget?”), but roars to life when guest-teaching young children. One of her pupils is so inspired by Jordan’s blistering rant about the importance of passion in art that he goes home and upbraids his own mother for not cooking chicken like she means it. A school union representative named Jason (James Marsters) is secretly comparing notes with a city council member named Mavis (Nan-Lyn Nelson) who happens to be his girlfriend. Sandra, a woman with an operatic voice (played by opera singer Martina Arroyo), loves to watch plays being rehearsed. She regales strangers with stories about her late husband, who wrote appliance manuals (“He told me, ‘Sandra, more people read me than Faulkner”). 

The aforementioned journalist, Jan (Glynnis O’Connor), is also the local newspaper’s editor and only employee. She keeps the tradition of an independent Fourth Estate alive from a windowless basement office. Jan is currently mentoring a teenage intern named Max (Zachary Style), who’s in love with a local library assistant named Teresa (Jessica Pimintel), who’s also acting in “Hecuba,” a production that will eventually be reviewed by a retired Pulitzer-prizewinning critic and scholar named Jean-Marc (Philip Kerr), who’s been been getting the silent treatment from Sir Walter since he panned one of performances fifty years ago.

Advertisement

“A Bread Factory” is about a lot of things. One is the challenge of succeeding as an artist in a market economy when you have knowledge, enthusiasm, and the loyalty of a core audience, but no money or connections to speak of, and a stubborn determination to let the work speak for itself rather than constantly hyping it. The David and Goliath dynamic between the two facilities is reminiscent of the conflict between Italian restaurants in the classic American 1950s period comedy “Big Night.” One restaurant is run by a showboat who gives the people what they want: spaghetti and meatballs with red sauce, checkered tablecloths, accordion music, and sudden bursts of flame. The other restaurant specializes in Northern Italian food unfamiliar to 1950s Americans, cooked by a uncompromising chef who wants to give every diner a surprising and authentic experience, and would rather brood in his kitchen than put on a show. You can guess which place makes money.

Beyond that, “A Bread Factory” is an idealistic statement about the importance of art in everyday life. It’s about how a scene from a play or a line from a poem can cast a new light on your problems or dreams, maybe put a whole new frame around your life, your community, and the culture and nation that helped shape you. A big part of Dorothea’s frustration—brilliantly communicated by Daly, in a performance that sums up everything that makes her such a treasure—comes from having to explain any of this in the first place. She’s old enough to remember when Americans of all social classes thought of art as a birthright, as integral to life in an advanced democracy as well-funded public schools. 

A major subtext in all the scenes that involve Dorothea, Greta, Karl and May Ray is the way a capitalist economy encourages the public to think of all art as just another product, forcing independent creative artists to package and present themselves like rock-star entrepreneurs, even if they don’t have the temperament for it; and how the postwar tradition of publicly funded art and art education in America has withered in the last 30 years, to the point where many people hear the word “art” and think “decadence” or “indulgence” or “a thing that taxes shouldn’t fund.” 

Advertisement

“You must have seen rough times before,” a board member tells Dorothea. “Honestly,” she says, “I’ve never seen it worse.” Her pessimism is independently echoed by Jean-Marc, who says of the arts facility, “They once baked bread here, but now we live in an age of crumbs. But what they make of these crumbs is miraculous, and we are lucky to have them.”

This is my favorite film of the year by far—and when I say “film,” singular, I’m referring to both halves of “A Bread Factory,” because they flow together in the mind. As of this writing, I’ve seen both parts three times. With each viewing, I notice new things and am more moved by the characters, who are unique and eccentric in the way that real people are, but written and acted with the economy and directness that distinguishes characters in well-constructed plays or short stories—ones where the storytellers know what they want to say and how best to say it. 

Readers should know going in that this is not a film (or pair of films) that you can half-watch while looking at your phone. You have to give yourself over to the story, characters and atmosphere with an open mind and heart, and be a peace with the fact that the movie is going to throw you into the middle of scenes without immediately spelling out who everyone is, and what, exactly, you’re looking at. Wang takes his sweet time setting up a moment, and the punchlines in comedic scenes are as likely to be visual as verbal (as when the camera stays fixed on Jordan as she sits in a theater where her movie is about to be screened, asking the projectionist to run different parts of it to check the picture and sound; finally, the camera pans up to reveal that the projectionist is an eleven-year old boy). 

To paraphrase a friend who’s a minister as well as a film buff, this is the kind of movie where Mohammed goes to the mountain, not the other way around. But the journey is worth it. This film is miraculous, and we are lucky to have it.

Source: https://bloghyped.com/a-bread-factory-part-one-for-the-sake-of-gold/