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bailey-reaper · 3 years

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The Lord of the Manor (5)

Summary: It is said that you 'reap what you sow', apparently that saying is no different for Grim Reapers...

Content Warnings: angst, xenophobia reference / imperialist thinking + me taking artistic liberties re: the van Zieks family

Other parts: (1) | (2) | (3) | (4) |

In the distance Barok could hear voices talking, which only served to confuse him. He was inside Klint's burial chamber, no one else should be here. He opened his eyes, head pounding, and found his confusion grew all the more.

This was not his brother's crypt. It was his own room, yet he had no recollection of leaving the family cemetery or the journey home.

He felt warm and dizzy, and that feeling intensified when he tried to sit up, "...Ugh..." it was slowly dawning on him that he was feverish. Most likely due to the reckless trip he took during a fierce storm.

"My Lord, are you awake?" he heard Harvey's voice.

"... Yes," his croaked, as though his vocal chords had rusted, "... What... happened, Harvey?" no doubt the butler could elucidate him.

"The groundskeeper was tending to the cemetery after the storm and found you collapsed on the floor. He came back to the estate and informed me, I then arranged to have you brought home so that the physician could assess you. Thankfully he does not think it's anything serious, most likely fatigue."

".... I see," Barok laid back in the bed and closed his eyes, his vision was already starting to swim, "... Thank you, Harvey."

"It is my pleasure, my lord, I am glad you are safe... the physician thinks you may have a fever but that you should recover after a few days of rest. Please let me know if you need anything."

"I will..." his consciousness was already slipping; soon enough he drifted to sleep.

──────≪⊰✥⊱≫───────

His sleep was fitful; drifting in and out of consciousness for several hours while his body wracked with freezing shivers and unbearable flashes of warmth. He writhed and groaned as the fever took a firmer hold of his faculties.

"Truly you seem to be suffering, little brother..."

Barok opened his eyes and stared in disbelief at the man sitting on his bed -- Klint. He was sat there, looking over at him with face marred by concern, "... K...Klint?" he uttered, before trying to sit up only to think better of it when his head throbbed sharply.

"Mmm," his older brother nodded, "Truth be told you're hallucinating, but I suppose that's to be expected when you neglect yourself in this manner."

A wry smile tugged his lips; it seemed his own mind was set upon chastising him for his earlier impulsiveness, "... Of course... a figment of my imagination."

"Yes... you've pushed yourself too hard of late, no wonder things have gotten on top of you and now you're feverish and hallucinating."

"..." he felt a strong surge of sadness in the pit of his stomach, "My mind couldn't at least trick me into thinking you were a ghost..."

"You're too cynical for that," the mirage pointed out, "No doubt you'd have tried to cross-examine this situation and forced the truth out of yourself."

It was irksome how accurate that statement was, and how he was incapable of formulating a witty reply to it. Eventually he gave up and muttered, "... Perhaps."

"Undoubtedly," the figment said, "Now, I suppose we'd best get to the bottom of why you're having this moment of delirium..."

"Clearly because I'm feverish," he retorted dryly.

"No..." Klint shook his head, "Clearly you need to do some soul searching. You've lost your way, your feelings of hopelessness have driven you to be reckless and now you don't know what to do with yourself. Perhaps you need to take a step back and re-calibrate, little wolf."

"Nonsense..." he muttered as he draped a hand over his eyes; his forehead was burning, "I... I know precisely what I need to do..."

"Oh really? Well I assure you that clinging to the past isn't it."

".... I know that," but how could he resist? This house was full of memories; it was the last place in all the world where Klint's memory was still a tangible thing that he could hold on to. It was all he had left of him.

"Find something to live for, Barok. You have a chance to turn a new page, to step out of your brother's shadow. You don't have to be a prosecutor. You don't have to be a lawyer. You can be whatever you want."

"Whatever I want..." he mumbled to himself as a wave of tiredness washed over him; he relinquished himself to it and drifted into a deep sleep

──────≪⊰✥⊱≫───────

For several days, Barok continued to drift in and out of delirious conversations with a mimicry of his brother. Until his body recovered and he overcame the fever; there was a dull pang in his chest when it dawned on him that he could not longer hallucinate his brother's presence watching over him, but, it was a familiar grief and one he continued to hold in his core.

He decided to take the fever dreams to heart, rather than wallowing, and set about busying himself with numerous distractions; a main one being repairing the old family estate. It had been refurbished sometime during his grandfather's lifetime, but it seemed the work had been rather shoddy.

In between the renovations, he engaged in correspondence with a few individuals in London, including members of the Prosecutor's Office, and dabbled in stocks to maintain the family's wealth. His employment as a Prosecutor was hardly a king's ransom, but it had been an impressive wage and he was conscious to avoid squandering his family's assets while he languished in a malaise.

For a few years that became his routine, and it was a reasonably comfortable one. He enjoyed the Devon countryside atop Black Gale and distracted himself with a mix of physical and cerebral activities. Yet, it felt profoundly empty to him; there was an acute sense of wistfulness at his core and he knew precisely what it related to.

He had geared his entire life for a career as a lawyer, and the part of his mind that had enjoyed the intellectual rigour found his current life far too humdrum. Of course he still read the Legal Reports not long after they were handed down by the Courts, out of a 'healthy curiosity', he told himself, but reading about the law was nothing when compared to actually practising it.

The anecdotes he received from his peers in the Prosecutor's Office did little to slake that innermost wish, in fact they only stoked it more. But he resisted by reminding himself why he left in the first place.

Should he return, the Capital would once more be swept up in its 'Reaper fever'; the press would fixate on his every move, the criminal underbelly of London would sharpen its knifes and perhaps this time manage to get his eyes... Fear had no part of it, for he did not fear death, but it grew wearisome to be so fetishised by the world at large and all it did was remind him all the more that Klint was not here.

Klint was the one who had inspired such a fervent love of the law in him; his righteousness, his acumen, his talent for public speaking... every time he'd watched his brother in court he'd fallen in love with the law a little more, for it embodied the very things his brother stood for. Or, that's what he'd wanted to believe.

The truth had been a bitter pill to swallow – for, while the law had the best of intentions, it was a clunky machine that often failed to work at the moment where individuals and society at large most needed it. Loopholes and the unjust were constantly undermining it. He felt the dichotomy between reality and idealism keenly. He had often equated the Law with Justice, but sadly the two things were not synonymous.

Sometimes he wondered how Klint had coped with that knowledge, for he saw his brother as a bastion of justice and a man of integrity who would no doubt have been just as aware of the law's failings as he. How he longed to ask his brother now that he had the benefit of practical experience.

For several years he maintained his distance from London and the law; many among the aristocracy gossiped, from rumours about his death to wild theories about his having eloped to America to marry into some wealthy entrepreneurial family, but for the most part he ignored them too. The only time he deigned to mingle with the other noble families was when such was demanded of him as master of the house.

One day, however, a letter arrived from London that piqued his interest to the point he could no longer resist it.

Magnus McGilded was becoming an increasingly brazen problem for the capital. He knew the moneylender had something of a reputation, one that caused misery among the desperate and unfortunate who had fallen upon hardtimes; but it sounded as though his activities were causing more angst than ever before, not least of all because he continued to evade the Courts through underhanded means.

Of course, his friend opined, it was not possible to prove that Magnus McGilded was bribing the Jury, buying witnesses and a catalogue of other dubious evasive tactics; but nor could anyone explain why entire cases were dropped at the last minute or why the police had failed to locate key witnesses until they themselves appeared from nowhere with vital information (in McGilded's favour).

It irked him to his core as he read of the various trials that had collapsed, and for the first time in a long while he felt a strong desire to do something. To bring the rodent out of his labyrinth of deceptions and into the light of day. He knew full well it was something that he would be capable of, were he to oversee a future investigation...

His mind raced with thoughts about how to outwit the Irish Shylock at his own game...

Another thing that piqued his interest was a throwaway postscript:

[Ps. We've had word from Lord Stronghart to expect some Nipponese student in a few months time. Apparently there is some cultural exchange afoot and the young man will be studying British law. I can't say I see the necessity, but I suppose our great nation ought to be charitable to those from more impoverished places...]

Seeing that word roused ugly feelings in his core, things that he had managed to keep his distance from for some time; but the anger was never far away. The resentment, like rot, was deep in his soul and it had been left alone but not eradicated.

The near-five years he had spent in the ancestral home was a welcomed reprieve, and served to focus his mind to some degree. He had never lost his passion for the law, and now it seemed there were reasons to pull him back into the foray.

Perhaps it was high time the Reaper returned London...

─────── Fin.

#barok van zieks #klint van zieks #angst #drabble #cw: xenophobia #cw: imperialism

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juliantaylor · 3 years

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ᴊᴜʟɪᴀɴ ᴛᴀʏʟᴏʀ ; ɪɴᴛʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

is that regé-jean page on campus? oh no, that’s julian taylor. from seattle, washington & new york, new york, the 24 year old has come to study law (juris doctorate graduate program). rumor has it he is charming and alluring, but manipulative and destructive, which is why he is known as the casanova. he resides in yorks and can’t wait to graduate.

although not explained in absolute depth, please note the following triggers: mentions of child abuse & neglect, mentions of eating disorders, illicit substance abuse

wanted connections | relationships | full navigation

statistics !

full name: julian taylor

birthday: november 5th, 1996 (24 years old)

sign: scorpio

height: 5’11”

ethnicity: english and zimbabwean

nationality: british

place of birth: london, england

places lived: moved to seattle, washington when he was 13; moved to new york, new york when he was 18.

accents: british

sexual orientation: heterosexual

undergraduate degree: pre-law & political science from NYU

graduate degree (currently majoring in): law (juris doctorate program)

occupation: self-defense and boxing instructor at soulstice gym

positive traits: charming, ambitious, protective, likable, candid, spontaneous, outgoing, honest

negative traits: resentful, destructive, manipulative, possessive, guarded, blunt

pre-existing connections: arden (ex-girlfriend from high school), amber-jade (her former client from new york city)

backstory !

born in london, england to a well known lawyer and plastic surgeon…and being the old child, one would think julian had it all — but he didn’t. while a normal household was filled with love and joy, his was filled with success and wealth. and that’s all that mattered. there was no room for joy, as recognitions, honors, and awards came in for both parents like wildfire. julian was often left with a nanny, the closest thing he has to a true, loving mother. and when his nanny wasn’t around, he was alone.

he had spent most of his time watching karate kid over and over again, and mimicking the moves that were made throughout the movie…while breaking almost every piece of glass in his home during the process. because of this, and due to the recommendation of his nanny, his parents put him into his first of two sports. starting from the age of five, he found love in taekwondo — and taekwondo found love in him. he was a natural, but being in the sport that he loved cost him a price. his well being and confidence.

starting from the age of 8, his master thought it was time to start competing, and his father couldn’t have agreed more. but with this, julian quickly met the overly competitive, always on top and always winning father. and things quickly went downhill. for years, julian was pushed to his absolute limit by his father, training session after training session, practice after practice — all to be the best. because there was no room for love and joy in the taylor household, only room for wealth and success. julian was only allowed to bring home gold medals from competitions — that was what he had to do to get the love of his father, who actually would take time out of his busy schedule to come “support” him during competitions and practice. his mom was always too busy with her patients and practice to pay him any mind. and when he didn’t bring home the gold, even if it was silver, his life would be hell until the next competition. we’re talking about, hours upon hours at a time of training and conditioning, pushing julian until he was crouched over a toilet, throwing up from how overwhelmed his body was. extreme dieting, being given only sources of protein and vegetables, with the occasional whole grain and complex carbs. his father knew how to win, and he knew how to get julian there — and it was by pushing him to his absolute limit. because of this, julian doesn’t take losing well, and he will beat himself up hard just because that’s what he’s been conditioned to do.

this continued to go on for years and years, until his father and mother decided it was best to move to the states. his father’s firm and pro-bono services for those who aren’t privileged had gone international, and his mother was one of the best plastic surgeons in the world (all the ladies and men wanted her, and her only). so they brought their services to seattle, washington. julian was only 13 years old, and he was ripped away from the only mother figure he had.

julian had continued to do taekwondo up until his move to american, which is when he transitioned into boxing. and as per usual, he was a natural. and as per usual, there was no room for failure. his fathers obsession with his family being at the top always persisted, and so the unhealthy habits continued, forcefully.

you’ll thank me one day, son. when you’re out there traveling the world, receiving all those gold medals and being with the best of the best, you’ll thank me. you can make great britain and even america so proud, but only if you win.

julian quickly rose to the top, winning state, national, and even international competitions/fights. he was a force to be reckoned with. he was scouted by an olympic trainer, and began training for the 2016 olympics at the age of 16. he was making his father proud, so he thought.

he stood in seattle until his high school graduation, which is when he then moved to new york city in 2015. he was 18 years old. he mainly moved to new york to train with some of the best of the best. and after years of hard work, he found his way to the 2016 summer olympics in rio, in which he represented team usa. he was 19 years old. and he did what his father sent him to do — he won, and he won a lot. bringing home a gold medal in the heavyweight competition amongst other events, julian taylor became one of the best boxers in the world. there is no room for love and joy in the taylor household, only room for wealth and success.

as new york city was his home training spot, julian decided to go back there after the olympics was all said and done. and considering he was on top of the world, rolling in both the wealth that came from him and his father, he was able to distance himself from his parents. they still talk, but julian doesn’t allow them to control him anymore. instead, he controls and abuses himself now.

academic life !

like in his sports, julian always excelled in school. he didn’t really care much for school, but he was naturally damn good at it. because he couldn’t be anything less than great in everything. he always got perfect grades, and graduated as one of the top in his class in both high school and college.

considering that he took a million advanced placement and college courses in high school, he was ahead of the game. but still, he took about a year off from university in order to train for the olympics. he took two years off in order to enjoy his life and run wild, while also training, and didn’t decide to go back to school until he was 21. he started college in the fall of 2018. he graduated in 2020 with his undergraduate degree in pre-law and political science from NYU in just two short years, at the age of 23. during uni, he was able to balance training with school. he didn’t work a job, but instead two — school and training were his jobs. and he did them full time.

after taking yet another break, julian has decided to begin his juris doctorate, which is a three year graduate program. luckily enough for him (and arden (;), monarch has one of the best law programs in the country. however, this is only because he got into a car accident in late 2020, which resulted in him needing to get surgery on his shoulder in march of 2021. he was supposed to go to the 2020 summer olympics in tokyo this summer, but was forced to step down as he didn’t pass physical therapy and didn’t heal in time.

familial life !

while he’s obviously not close with either of his parents, he’s extremely close with his old nanny. she is basically his mother figure, and has took him in as her own family numerous times (despite her having her own children and life, she made sure that he got to feel some of the love her kids felt). after moving to the united states, he often would spend a month of his summer in england with her, and would go there for christmas every year. he still makes it a point to fly out and visit her as much as he possibly can, even during school and training.

personal life !

he’s a huge partier, and a huge ladies man. when he’s not training, he’s partying. but he doesn’t do the trashy bar/house parties, but instead he really love to spend his fathers money. you’ll catch him at some of the most beautiful, fancy, yet wild clubs around. the clubs that are typically for the rich, and nothing less. you’ll find him doing lines of coke on the bodies of strippers that he would soon take in the bathroom, car, or private room for a quick and easy fuck. you’ll find him drinking the finest of drinks, the most expensive of drinks.

he’s only ever had a total of two girlfriends, arden and another girl he met in new york that he just broke things off with. he doesn’t really take relationships seriously, and often times comes off as emotionless. there’s no room for love and joy, only wealth, success, and anger. he’ll take care of you physically and sexually, but don’t expect him to take care of you emotionally. he lives for the thrill and chase, though.

personality !

did someone say toxic men?!!!!! did someone say bad boy?!!!!!!

he’s fun, wild, spontaneous, and lord knows he knows how to have the best time…but he’s also dangerous.

he’s the one to break your best friends heart, in which you tell them to not go back and they agree with you because they know it’s wrong….just for them to go back days later.

he’s the one to get into fights with guys that even dare to look at his girl, but then be the one to steal someone else’s girl…even if he has one of his own.

he’s the one to literally curse you out if you even try to come at him sideways. a spitfire with absolutely no filter.

but!!!!! he’s very charming and knows how to talk his way around.

disclaimer: he can also be a good friend and a bit of a softie once you break down those vicious walls.

mental health !

as you probably have noticed by now, the man is extremely fucked up. he has developed the unhealthy habits his father forced upon him from a very young age, so he does suffer from some form of an eating disorder…but he has no recognized this. he’s a huge health bean (except for the liquor and drugs). catch him at the gym every day and not even bothering to look at a donut.

illicit substance use !

the man drinks, and he drinks a lot. he also smokes a lot, and does coke occasionally (and by this, we’re talking about every weekend). he has always passed his drug tests due to buying other people’s urine (major yikes). he’s used to getting away with everything now.

#monarchintro #bio #i always say i'm not gonna do a long intro #and then i do the longest intro aufhrgiuhrseigh #anyways come plot with me for my new bby!!!!

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darthspideys · 4 years

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all that glitters // 2

chapter 2 // butterflies

Warnings: objectification of men? Is that a thing? Look I pretty much just boil these guys down to their bodies and baseline personality traits sorry if that offends you

a/n: I feel like this is as good as time as any to say that i've never watched an episode of the bachelor or the bachelorette in my life. All the info for this fic came from wikipedia and or a slideshow of bachelor dates so do with that what you will :) also I don’t describe race right off the bat here with your bachelors but they are not all white so don’t picture them that way, that’s not how we do things here :)

You expect them to swarm you like wasps. Judging by the warnings from the crew, and from the poor showing the night before you expected that the moment they saw you they would swallow you up in a circle and you’d have to bend down and crawl to escape. You spend the whole day being shuffled through more interviews, photoshoots, lectures, and everything in between, until it’s finally time to do an actual rose ceremony.

Well.. almost. Before you’re able to eliminate one or two people, you have to meet them first, which you guess makes sense. Today's event is going to be a cocktail party, where you're supposed to mingle and drink with all of the guys, smile for the cameras and then savagely eliminate two of them from the competition right off the bat. You’ve been told that you only have to eliminate too, but you figure the more you kick off the sooner this will be over, and you're sure that more than one of them will do something to annoy you.

Considering their time on this show is on the line, you thought that as soon as they even thought you were coming outside to join the party, they’d swarm you for their chance to make a good first impression. But as you exit the mansion, decked out in a golden dress that doesn’t even make it to your knees, with more gold embellishments and only straps to keep it place no one even seems to bat an eye. You’re a little more offended then you want to let on, not because you want their attention, at least you don’t think you do.

Truthfully, as much as you would never admit it, being the star of the show isn’t such a bad thing. After being on the backburner in your own family, and even out in the world for so long, having the whole thing be about you is something you’re beginning to like. Something about being in control, having their fate in your hands is exciting as much as you want to push that feeling down and make it go away.

You hear the sound of an unfamiliar voice, “And here she is.”

Suddenly, all eyes are on you. All ten guys stare at you and even though you're a ways away you can feel the heat of their stare, and see the anxiousness in their bodies. You wanted them to pay attention to you, and now you have all of it. And it’s not just theirs, the cameras all turn to you, and the sound, and the lights, it shows every inch of you for the world to see. Although you know it’s not live, you can almost see the people watching from their living rooms, your mother watching from her disgustingly gaudy living room, with the moose head mounted above the wall that’s probably watching you too.

It should scare you, it should make you want to run the other way and lock yourself in your room for the next six weeks where no one can see. You should be wilting under the intense light, drying out from the heat of it, but you don’t. You smile, and you revel in it.

Lights, camera, action.

Liam comes up to your first. Everyone sees that he’s staked his claim and disperses off for the moment, to nurse their drinks and or get some more camera time for themselves. If they can’t make you love them, the audience is the next best thing.

“I’m sorry about last night,” He says, still Canadian. He rubs the back of his neck self consciously, and you make note of the camera angled right over his shoulder. Your microphone itches against your upper chest. You sip your own drink, a soda because you're going to have to be sober for this, “I just wanted to see you face to face.”

“They didn’t show you my picture or anything before you got here?” You ask him, “You didn’t even think to know what you were getting into.”

“It’s not the same as seeing someone in person,” He says, and he says it with a kind of meaning you don’t expect. He’s not what you expected, starting with the apology and ending with the clear honesty he is giving you in this moment. “The photos don’t really show how beautiful you are.”

You playfully roll your eyes, “I’m sure you say that to all the girls.” Before he can argue you continue, “Apology accepted, consider the slate clean.”

You’re gone before he can say anything else. You’re not in the mood for hollow compliments, or the kind of flirting usually reserved for the first meeting at a bar or on some app. You move on to different tables and make small talk that you loathe but you smile, maybe because your face is permanently wound into that position.

Anthony is average. He talks a lot about what he does, and it’s good work but you’re getting a hint of something else that you don’t like. The way that he talks about himself is a little too egotistical for your liking.

Lars is a lumberjack. Literally, that’s what he does for a living and he looks it. Even his suit has a flannel tie, just so everyone is aware of exactly what the package is. You like it, even though you know your mother would never approve of something like that (a fact which makes you want him more).

Enzo is from Texas. He is very proud of it, and the southern accent is something that sets him apart. However, the amount that he talks about Texas and the amount that he talks about himself is concerning. He’s cute though, definitely sitting in the middle of your mental ranking.

Liam is, well he’s been previously established.

Chris is obviously here because of good old fashion nepotism. He’s the son of the host, and clearly here to fulfill something for his parents, which is relatable but doesn’t make him any higher than a seven out of ten.

Leo and Lucas as twins. It’s very interesting, and enough to put them above the top five just because of the curiosity of it all. They are almost the same, windswept brown hair and dark brown eyes except somehow Leo has freckles, which puts him about 0.6 higher than his brother.

Ryan is white bread, delicious but boring. He’ll stay for a while, hang on just for kicks but he’ll always be the dead weight, hanging around in the background but the show will be a nice bump for his national profile and let’s be hornets he’ll be in the running to be the bachelor.

Which brings you all the way down to numbers one and two on the current husband to be ranking (if that’s even what you're gonna end up calling it, because it’s too real to stick around for the whole competition). Tom is the handsome stranger from one magical three seconds on a bustling street in New York that you’re very much longing for as you shuffle through conversation with man after man and sip your drink. He is kind of short if you’re being honest, but that’s okay, with brown eyes and dark brown hair. He’s from Britain, which you can tell before he tells you he’s from South London, darling, and staring right at the camera over your shoulder. You don’t talk about your previous meeting, and you wonder if he even remembers. You don’t know whether to hope he does or doesn’t, but you do know that you remember every second of it.

Sanjiv is the golden boy. Young, Indian American, and a favorite to win last season on the Bachelorette. Only the woman went for the bad boy at the last second, and the jury is still out on whether it’ll work. The rumor was he would be the next Bachelor, but here he is standing and smiling at you in a way that makes heat rise to your cheeks and you don’t know what his game is. That makes you nervous, that scares you, that you don’t know what his game is. After the entire afternoon, dancing in circles going from table to table and smiling your face off, you feel like you know what everyone’s game is, but not his. It scares you a bit, that you don’t know what his aim is but it’s a kind of intoxicating uncertainty. He’s the mysterious man that always gets the girl because she desperately wants to figure him out, it's the challenge, it's the chase that why he’s number one.

“I’m sure you’re wondering where my loyalties lie,” He says.

“Something like that,” You tell him, “If this was anywhere near normal I’d be asking you if you were over your ex, or do exes count here?”

“I’d say she’s my ex,” He shrugs, “And I’ve moved on, as much as I can.” He looks at you with an expression you can’t quite interpret. “Promise you won’t pick someone else over me at the last minute?”

That makes you smile, and you hope that he’s joking. “I will make no such promises, but if the situation arises I will give twenty four hours notice.”

“At the very least will you not eliminate me first?” He’s teasing you and you can tell. “It would be a little embarrassing for my image.”

“Well anything for your image, I was going to but I guess I’ll just have to pick someone else now.”

His laugh is natural, and you get those same butterflies in your stomach as you did in high school when you tried to impress your crush and you joke just landed. The little churn that comes with the possibility that the answer to does he like me? Might be yes. For a moment you forget your on tv, you forget that you're the girl everyone wants, the one in the gold dress and you’re just you. You're just a girl, standing in front of a boy that you see something in, something that you can’t quite describe or touch but you feel it. That’s truly why he’s number one. That feeling doesn’t come around a lot for you, the butterflies, usually you're anxious because of a work deadline or a family dinner but this is something else entirely.

You don’t know what his game is. But your dying to find out.

Tag list:

@anikinskywalkr

@living-life-underoos

@poesflygirl

#fun fact this was not going to go this way when I first started it #but I like it now?#me? not introducing tom holland in a tom holland fanfic #yeah thats what's happened #tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x oc #tom holland series #tom holland au #all that glitters series

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reds-self-ships · 3 years

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🔍 The Adventure of the Detection Club

Chapter 12: Opening Arguments

Table of Contents & Trigger Warnings

⚠ Chapter Specific Warnings: Contains allusions to spoilers for The Great Ace Attorney 2, as well as passing references made to blood and gore.

The next morning Central Criminal Court, Old Bailey Defendant Lobby

Ryunosuke Naruhodo quickly sorted his way through a stack of papers that made up the official court record for the case, shuffling his way through at such a speed that he looked as though he was certainly doing his best not to drop any.

Redford took a long drink from the flash of cocoa that Iris had specially prepared for him, whilst Susato kept a watch over Ryunosuke.

The door swung open with a loud crash as Sholmes barged his way into the room. “Morning, folks!” he roared.

Ryunosuke gave a yelp as he promptly dropped the pages of the court record across the floor. “Sh-Sholmes! Look at what you made me do!”

“Oh I’m terribly sorry about that Mr. Naruhodo—”

“Just help me pick these up!”

Ryunosuke fell to his knees, along with Sholmes, frantically picking them up and trying to re-organise them, all whilst Ryunosuke swore several oaths under his breath in Japanese.

“Apologies if I sound rude or anything, Susato, but is Ryunosuke always so…‘jumpy’ before a trial like this…?” Redford asked quietly.

“No…well…at least not that I’ve ever seen before…” said Susato, carefully playing with a loop of her hair.

“Me neither,” said Iris. “Normally when he’s a little anxious, his eyes dart around the room like no tomorrow. But this is definitely a new one…”

“Well it explains the way he was acting during breakfast this morning. With the way his eyes were rolling about in his skull, I thought they were going to roll out of his head or something. If I were trying to maintain eye contact with him, I think I’d’ve ended up giving up.”

The bailiff suddenly appeared from the entrance and called: “Now hearing the case of Regina V. Ninate, will all parties please report to courtroom no. 3 immediately!”

Just in time, Ryunosuke managed to get the papers together and get the court record back into its cardboard folder again.

“That’s our cue, Mr. Naruhodo,” said Susato.

“Well, I’ll be cheering you on from the dock. Good luck, you two!” said Redford with a bow.

Sholmes flicked the front rim of his hat. “And likewise, we’ll be cheering you on from the gallery!”

Iris flicked the front of her own forehead. “Good luck, everybody!”

——————————

The judge hit his gavel several times to bring the chattering of the gallery to a close, before clearing his throat and pushing his pince-nez glasses up his nose.

“Court is now in session for the trial of Redford Ninate!” he announced.

“The defence is ready, milord!” exclaimed Ryunosuke with a start.

“The prosecution is more than prepared, milord,” said Abidon, looking over the top of his half-moon glasses.

“And you,” continued the judge, “our six members of the jury, randomly chosen from citizens across the city of London, are you ready?”

The first juror, a young woman with her short and curly brown hair tied up with a red and white spotted handkerchief, rolled up a sleeve and flexed her bicep. “Ready and riveting to go!”

The second juror, a rather frail-looking old man dressed in a black suit and tall top-hat, stroked his sharp triangular chin with a bony hand. “I’m ready to commit the facts of this case to loving memory…kept in the grace of God’s right hand.”

The third juror, a familiar-looking Japanese man in a brown kimono with messy black hair and moustache, with several cats climbing over him, struck various poses. “I! AM! READY! BANZAI!”

The fourth juror, a tall man with black finely-combed hair in a widow’s peak and an aquiline nose, removed a pipe from the pocket of his dressing gown and began to smoke it. “I am ready to perceive the truth behind this case.”

The fifth juror, a man in a black tuxedo, top-hat with a purple band and a matching-coloured waistcoat stroked his moustache after he fiddled with his monocle. “I, the great Horace Velmont, will give everything that I can to this case!”

Finally, the sixth juror, a young girl with a black and white striped sweater, a mask covering the top part of her face and a black knitted cap on her head, said: “Yeah! I’m ready to go, guv’na!”

The judge nodded his head. “Excellent. Prosecutor Abidon, isn’t it?”

“Yes, milord?”

“You may begin with your opening statement.”

Ryunosuke looked around the courtroom nervously.

(It’s been a while since I’ve last been here. I just hope I’m able to get Redford off of these charges…for his sake…)

He looked over to Redford, sat in the defendant’s chair in the dock. And as he did so, Redford winked.

(Oh my heart…!)

“Mr. Naruhodo? Are you sure that you’re OK?” whispered Susato. “You’re looking at Red in the face.”

“Eh—sorry?”

“I said: ‘Are you OK? You’re looking a little red in the face’.”

“Is everything alright, defence?” asked the judge.

“Defence, you are aware that talking over the prosecution whilst it is attempting to make its opening argument is rude, arrogant and something that could lead to you being removed from this courtroom for contempt of court?” said Abidon with a glare. “I’m not sure how you Japanese like to do things, but it is the way we British people do things in this sacred court of law, and it is to be respected and heeded.”

“Sorry!” exclaimed Ryunosuke with a start. “Carry on. As you were…”

(Oh great! A smaller, jumped up, discounted-version of Lord van Zieks…that’s just what we really need right about now…)

“As I was about to say before I was so rudely interrupted…” said Abidon as he unfurled a scroll and held it in front of him. “The victim in this case was a Mr. Harris Thomas, a member of the same organisation as the defendant—known as ‘The Detection Club’, an organisation for crime writers to meet and work on their crime novels I believe.

“The victim had been expelled from the club for missed payment of membership fees, and a new member, Dexter Collins, was due to be inaugurated into the club the day before yesterday through a special ceremony. A ceremony that the defendant himself was placed in charge of organising and arranging.

“The defendant arranged ahead of time that he was to meet with the victim to formally inform him of his expulsion at the same time as began these ceremonial preparations. The prosecution, therefore, asserts that the defendant did, with malicious intent and malice of forethought, met with the victim beforehand and killed him unlawfully.

“He did so by hitting him repeatedly over the head with this—” Abidon reached under the prosecution’s bench and took out the alleged murder weapon, holding it high for the benefit of the court. “—this skull, which serves as a mascot for the club, affectionately referred to as ‘Norman’.”

“Oh my! An actual human skull? How frightening!” exclaimed the judge. “Still, how can you assert that it was the defendant who committed this horrifying crime?”

“Because, milord,” replied Abidon, “the defendant was the only one who had a key to this locked room mystery—the only door to the room is several inches thick and designed to be entirely impenetrable, as is the rest of the room. The windows are only able to open a few centimetres in width, and the entire room is located on the third floor of a building on High Window Avenue. And a cursory investigation has proven that there is no way for anybody to hide themselves within the room.”

“Very compelling evidence, I must admit.”

“HOLD IT!”

“If that is the case,” said the second juror, “I believe that we may finally be able to put this matter to rest. Dearly beloved, let us join hands together in prayer to mourn this defendant’s hopeless case. A truly, tragic death, indeed!”

With a knock of his hand against the jury bench, a fireball flew through the air and landed into the “guilty” side of the giant set of scales behind the judge, tilting them towards the right.

(Yikes! Already it’s not looking good!)

“An excellent opening argument indeed, Sir Prosecutor, but not necessarily one that would be enough to force a conviction in my opinion,” said the fourth juror, tenting his fingers together. “However, I would wish to hear more on this matter. It is only whenever we have eliminated every possible lead that we may know for certain what, exactly, has transpired.”

“I am inclined to agree with Juror #4,” said the judge with a nod.

Abidon nodded back in response.

“I acknowledge that particular fact, milord. As such, the prosecution would now like to call its first witnesses to the stand—Detective Athelney Jones of Her Majesty’s Metropolitan Police Service and Dr. Yujin Mikotoba, the police’s current acting chief coroner and medical examiner.”

#the adventure of the detection club #stories #fics #self insert #OTP: Red Dragon

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constantviewings · 3 years

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The TV Show Trials - Inside No. 9

Inside No. 9 is a British black comedy anthology series that first aired in 2014. It is written by Reese Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton. Each 30-minute episode is a self-contained story with new characters and a new setting, and all star both Pemberton and Shearsmith.

12 Days of Christine

When Christine brings Adam home from a costume party, her life begins to unravel. Her happiness slowly turns to sorrow.

It’s only fitting that this episode is the most popular as it is what introduced me to this entire series. This episode is phenomenal and I really enjoyed it, even though I knew the entire plot going into it. Shearsmith and Pemberton where really smart in placing the elements of the conclusion throughout the entire episode for you to piece together at the end.

Rating: 5

The Devil of Christmas

In a film within the episode, The Devonshires arrive at the alpine chalet for a holiday. The caretaker, Klaus, tells them about a local legend of Krampus, the Devil of Christmas. Meanwhile, the film’s director provides audio commentary.

I really like the production of this episode, with it being shot entirely on equipment from the 70s, but I have issues with the ending. The ending, and the twist, feel unceremoniously tacked onto the third act and come out of nowhere, which left me confused and unaware of how to feel.

Rating: 3

Cold Comfort

Andy takes a job at Comfort Support Line’s call center, a helpline for the lonely and desperate. Will he be able to cope with the emotional stress after he becomes the target of a stalker?

The choice of having this all shown through security cameras is fantastic, as you can watch camera-by-camera as a character does something and provides visual interest to otherwise standard framing methods. The story is also pretty good with the twist being satisfying, but it doesn’t make much sense in the context of the characters.

Rating: 3

The Riddle of the Sphinx

Nina breaks into the office of Cambridge Professor Nigel Quires, who publishes cryptic crosswords in the student newspaper as “The Sphynx”. Squires proceeds to teach Nina how to solve cryptic crosswords using the next day’s puzzle.

This is my favourite of the episodes that I watched. I’m a big fan of ‘double twists’ where a character thinks they’ve won, but they’ve actually lost everything and that happens twice in this episode.

Rating: 5

Tom and Gerri

Tom is a frustrated primary school teacher and aspiring author. One night, a homeless man named Migg returns Tom’s lost wallet, and Migg ends up living with Tom, to the frustration of Tom’s girlfriend Gerri. Tom’s life changes dramatically as a result.

This episode doesn’t stand out to me like any of the others, it’s reasonably enjoyable but didn’t leave a lasting impression.

Rating: 2

The Bill

A group of friends go out for tapas at Number Nine after a day of golfing; but tempers escalate quickly when they can’t agrees on how to settle the bill. Who will pay the ultimate price?

I’m going to be completely transparent, the bickering between the four main characters is extremely grading and I was over it ten minutes into the episode; but I’m interpreting that as fantastic writing. I also think they could have been a bit more inventive with the ‘No. 9’ element of this episode by having it take place at table nine instead of the restaurant “Number Nine”. Despite those two less than stellar elements, the final twist almost makes the thirty minutes of grading bickering worth it.

Rating: 3

La Couchette

A group of passengers in carriage nine on a train from France try to get some sleep, but the compartment quickly fills up and the possibility of sleep dwindles away. Then one of the passengers suddenly dies.

Similar to Tom and Gerri, I could take or leave this episode. It’s not that it’s particularly bad, it just isn’t particularly good or memorable. In a hypothetical situation where you can only choose five episodes of Inside No. 9, this one wouldn’t make the cut unfortunately.

Rating: 3

Once Removed

According to the Holes and Rahe Stress Scale, the three most stressful experienced in life are the death of a spouse, divorce and imprisonment. Moving house is only 32nd on the list. But anything could happen in the last ten minutes inside no 9.

I’ll be honest, most of the points for this episodes rating can be chalked up to its unique story structure where it jumps back in ten minute intervals whenever the plot catches up. Other than that, I found this episode quite standard.

Rating: 3

To Have and To Hold

When Adrian’s career as a wedding photographer starts to get in the way of his own marriage, his wife Harriet is determined to find out why.

This episode is somewhat mediocre, until the twist rears its head and then it’s all uphill from there.

Rating: 4

Bernie Clifton’s Dressing Room

It’s been 30 years since Northern double-act Len and Tommy last appeared on stage together. Then Tommy walked out on Len, and that was curtains for Cheese and Crackers. Until now – and one last gig in front of an invited audience.

This episode hits different, the entire episode (apart from maybe a minute) is just Shearsmith and Pemberton doing old, outdated skit comedy and it’s fantastic.

Rating: 4

Thinking Out Loud

Inside house no. 9, seven extremely disparate characters share their stories with a camera, their fats inevitably, inextricably, and unknowingly set for a head-on collision.

I’ll be completely honest and say that I was let down with this episode. Every time a new character was introduced I was piecing together the ways in which they could be connected to the others, only for them to all be split personalities. While I can’t comment on the accuracy of the portrayal of DID, it still felt stereotypical as a narrative device.

Rating: 3

And the Winner Is…

We join jury no. 9 of a television awards company as they decide on who is going to win the Best Actress award. But only one of the eight actresses can be chosen.

This episode was a little bit, dare I say it, uninspired? While it stars an impressive cast, it doesn’t make up for the lacklustre story. Maybe you need to know more about the industry to get it…

Rating: 2

Zanzibar

Strangely-farcical goings-on are in store for a group of unwitting guests, who have all booked adjoining rooms on the ninth floor of the Zanzibar hotel in London. This episode’s dialogue is written entirely in iambic pentameter.

On top of all taking place in a single hallway, this episode has another gimmick in that it is all performed in iambic pentameter which adds a unique charm to an otherwise unimpressive story.

Rating: 4

The Harrowing

In this horror comedy with a grim twist, a teenage girl is hired to housesit a gothic mansion, but it appears that there are scary things going on inside no 9.

I’ll give them this much, they tried something different. Did it work out? Not for me. Though Shearsmith singing Lord of the Dance flung me back into catholic school mass…

Rating: 2

Sardines

Rebecca and Jeremy hold their engagement party as Rebecca’s family mansion. The guests play a game of sardines, and as Rebecca’s friends and family are packed into a wardrobe, secrets are gradually revealed, leading to a dark and sinister discovery.

Like the 12 Days of Christine, I cheated slightly with this episode. This was the first episode I ever watched of Inside No. 9 and is the whole reason I am reviewing the show. This was my third time watching the episode, and it’s still just as good as the first two.

Rating: 5

(Bonus Episode) Dead Line

When Arthur finds an old mobile phone in his local graveyard, he makes the mistake of trying to contact the owner. But some mysteries are best left unsolved, and as Halloween draws near Arthur is plunged into a nightmare of his own making.

The plot description above isn’t exactly what the episode entails, because this is the live broadcast Halloween special from 2018 where they faked the whole thing going wrong. While it doesn’t have the same effect watching it on a laptop two years after the fact, if you can put that aside and fully immerse yourself into believing what they want you to, it’s still amazing.

Rating: 5

Did I like it? Most of the episodes, yes.

Will I continue watching? God yes, thank god it’s been renewed for two more seasons…

#The TV Show Trials #Inside No 9

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amphtaminedreams · 4 years

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A/W 2020 Fashion Month: Before Vogue Went Blank (Part 2)

Hi to anyone reading,

I was going to start this post by jumping straight into Dion Lee and part 2 in general but there's been a lot going on the past couple of days-although this blog is primarily fashion, it wouldn’t feel right to start talking about designers without acknowledging all the shit that’s been going down.

^Photo Credit to @spiltcoco on Twitter

Yesterday, police footage came out of US police murdering yet another black man in broad daylight-George Floyd. He joins Sandra Bland, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, Freddie Gray, and Alton Sterling, plus hundreds more named and god knows how many more unnamed African American citizens in the ever-growing list of victims of police brutality.

The majority of these are just people going about their daily lives, a majority of them doing absolutely nothing wrong; even those we know to have committed crimes have been unarmed and non-violent offenders. That being said, their offences are beside the point when we’ve seen the white perpetrators of mass shootings be calmly cuffed and escorted into the backs of police cars as if they were the ones selling cigarettes without permits. American police, given the amount of them that are armed, regularly become judge, jury and executioner trained for 8 weeks by an institution that originated from slave patrols. I cannot imagine how terrifying it is just to walk around as a PoC in America. I cannot imagine the collective trauma that has been suffered because of recent events on top of the intergenerational trauma that most likely exists because of centuries of oppression. I cannot imagine what it’s like to live in a country that was built to suppress you and was by law allowed to do so until very recently, those original structures still in place. I cannot imagine what it’s like to be made to feel like this is your fault. I mean, Boris Johnson is a useless, cold-hearted twat and I won’t defend him or this country for a minute (we have much blood on our own hands, and racial profiling is just as much a thing here as it is in America-I read earlier that you’re 28 times more likely to be stopped and searched in London as a non-white person compared to a white person), but I still can’t imagine him publicly advocating for the mass murder of groups he knows to be primarily made up of black people via Twitter. This whole situation is so unimaginably fucked up; anyone who still sees America as one of the world’s most developed nations needs to take a long, hard look at what is going on and reconsider that opinion.

Whilst we can’t fix everything, we can all speak up and make our voices heard, and it is our duty to do so. It’s not good enough to just “not be racist”, you have to be ANTI-racism, even if that means constantly reflecting on your own privilege and challenging your assumptions. Neutrality is complicity. Signing a petition isn’t going to change the world, but it’s a start:

https://www.change.org/p/mayor-jacob-frey-justice-for-george-floyd?recruiter=false&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=twitter&utm_campaign=psf_combo_share_initial&utm_term=psf_combo_share_abi&recruited_by_id=7ba70000-a127-11ea-87fb-d1ff0bf6ea96

As I publish this, there’s less than 50,000 signatures needed to hit the target of 6,000,000 so if you happen to see it, get signing! There are lots of other petitions online but Change.org seems to be the only major one you can sign in the UK as the other are US based and require a zip code. I never thought I’d close a paragraph by quoting Macklemore but the line “no freedom 'til we're equal, damn right I support it” is at the forefront of my mind right now. Again, neutrality is complicity. We’re never going to achieve a fair society by sitting on our asses and hoping things will improve. Let’s all do the best we can.

Sorry if that intro wasn’t what you came here for, but I just think it’s so important to talk about. I know I’ve said in the past that fashion is supposed to be an escape from everyday life but there are some times when real life needs our attention and this is one of them. Feel free to unfollow if you disagree.

Anyway, onto the fashion. If this is the first post you’re reading, welcome! There’s a part 1! But I don’t wanna be pushy so start here if you wish!

If you read part 1, welcome back!

I ended that post by practically falling at the feet of Dilara Findikoglu, and I so wanted to start this post by regaining a sense of dignity and go straight into what-the-fuck-ing at Dior, but I know breaking chronological order would really piss off those “OmG I’m SoOo OCD, tHis BuzZfeEd aRtiCle WiTh DiFfereNt SiZed TiLes ToLd Me!” which is basically me minus claiming liking things to be organised means I have OCD-no, just dermatillomania and the denial that a compulsive skin picking disorder has anything to do with OCD because the neuroses club that is my brain doesn’t have any space left. SO, I have to continue where I left off and star the post with Dion Lee, whose collections I am a big fan of.

I could ramble a bit more but I did enough of that at the beginning of part 1 and am sure I’ll do more than enough in this post anyway, so here it is, Dion Lee:

Considering we ended with the maximalism of Dilara Findikoglu, sliding back over towards the other far end of the scale with a designer that tends to pitch their tent on the borders of the minimalism camp feels correct. Dion Lee, fortunately, seems the perfect collection to open with. There aren’t many other brands who do edge in such an understated and masterful way. If you want to be ready for combat and look like you’d fit right in at Vogue at the same time, look no further. This season’s collection is full of perfectly placed cut outs and immaculate tailoring and subtle street fighter-esque details as ever, and that’s why it pains me to say it:

Not that this is enough in the way of critique to restore my dignity by any means, it’s not a patch on last season.

I don’t think there was a single bad look in that show, and at times it felt like I was weeding through them here. When the looks were good, they were GOOD but a lot I found to be disappointing. Plus I have no idea why you’d put tie-dye in an A/W collection. I appreciate that it’s an Australian brand and that our winter is their summer, but they’re presenting to the rest of the world at fashion week and anyone in Paris, Milan, London and New York is going to be freezing their tits off and looking like a twat in an orange tie-dye sundress. There wasn’t much of a dip in quality for the menswear compared to last season, but honestly womenswear left a lot to be desired. That’s what happens when your expectations are high.

I used to think that if you assume the worst, it’s impossible to feel let down. And then I saw Dior’s A/W 2020 collection. Did a full 180 on that statement.

I suppose it’s a step up from haute couture, but then at least the styling in that was simple, and it just didn’t look like anybody had tried at all; here it’s clear Maria Grazia chucked everything she could at this collection, every headscarf, every gingham print, every shallow feminist undertone, and it was still a fucking mess. At first you think some of the individual pieces are cute but have just been ruined by the styling, and then you begin to look, and realise that even those individual pieces could’ve easily been bought in a New Look Boxing Day sale.

THIS IS CHRISTIAN DIOR, SUPPOSEDLY ONE OF THE MOST LUXURIOUS BRANDS OUT THERE. WHAT IS GOING ON!?

I don’t know, I included as many looks that I didn't mind as I could, but it’s like there always has to be a crappy, unnecessary detail in there. Everything is so literal. Of course the collection based around the divine feminine has the models dressed like basic ass Greek goddesses, so of course the collection based around the modern woman and equality has women walking the runway in ties and ill-fitting shoes too. Maria Grazia, here is a box:

Think outside of it.

Next is, thankfully, Elie Saab:

No, not exactly a trailblazer of a collection, but executed with poise and elegance as always. I mean, the styling is spot on. It looks like each part of the outfit was made for another, to contribute to a whole clearly envisioned look, similar to what we saw in the Alberta Ferretti show. Elie Saab is known for its haute couture shows where all the tiny details, the sequins and the silk and the embroidery come together to make something beautiful, and this is just that on a larger scale, with less “wow”s and more quiet admiration, more wishing you were the one wearing that outfit. If you’re gonna play safe, do it this well. The night dresses are stunning of course, but not even my favourite bit of the show. It’s the casual looks, the pussy bows and the ruffles and the neck scarfs and the private girls school monochrome colour palette with the occasional pop of red or purple, a toned down version of what we saw at haute couture, any of which deserve to be worn whilst eating macarons in front of the Eiffel Tower before trip to Musee D’Orsay. It’s Poppy Moore’s school uniform grown up and made fit for a fashion magazine editor:

Somehow managing to cram an Emma Roberts early 2010s fashion moment into every post is my talent, who knew. Wild Child was really a gem.

Erdem was a mixed bag:

With a lot of the outfits, I can’t tell if I actually like the garments that much or if I just like the look as a whole. I mean, without sounding too gluten-free Callie from the Valley, I like the VIBE, but there was a lot of outfits I almost included before I had to ask myself “LAUREN, do you ACTUALLY like this or do you just like the walking-into-your-sugar-daddy’s-will-reading-to-claim-his-fortune DRAMA of it all!?”

It happened a couple of times, where once I took off my black and white, theatrical violin accompanied entrance filtered sunglasses, I realised that the actual print was ugly. A collection so cohesively ornamental and kitschy is going to lean too far into that at times, and they were a few overly-fussy moments where it seemed less nudge nudge wink wink and more like Erdem Moralıoğlu fell into his grandma’s wardrobe, stole some fabric, and called it a day. I don’t want to sound like I’m not a fan of the collection because overall it’s gorgeous, I just thought it was a bit much at times.

Continuing with the theme of clever seasonal continuity that weaved its way throughout this year’s A/W offerings, Ermanno Scervino kept the core of his summer collection and made it just that little bit darker, added some weight to everything, and this is one of the rare occasions where I like the winter incarnation a lot more. I’m not huge about either but there’s a lot of things I’d love to wear here, the coats especially.

Up next is a reliable favourite of mine:

Etro.

Was it REALLY necessary for you to include ALL those coats I hear you ask?

Alaska Thunderfuck as Gia Gunn voice: Absolutelyyyy.

When it comes to bohemian fashion, Etro is unbeaten. Everything is always exquisitely coordinated and styled. Like I usually fucking hate aztec print but I love the way it’s done here. I’ve never known a brand to make belts seem like such an integral, tasteful part of the outfit in a field where they so often seem like a last minute addition for the sake of accessorising; it pains me to say it, but Elie Saab, I’m looking at you. It’s your only fault.

Yes for bringing back embroidered jeans! Yes for all those high necks! Yes for the tapestry print! Yes for the Afghan waistcoats! Etro will keep fedoras cool forever and I love them for that; I don’t know if she ever actually wore any of their stuff but I just know Stevie Nicks was in her prime would’ve ate this shit UP and she is my style icon for the ages. Plus, I might be way off base here but a lot of the collection seems to be inspired by traditional Romani style and it’s a beautiful direction to take things, a treasure trove of layers upon layers and rich textures and opulent prints.

I can’t wait til the phase of my phase of my life where I can swan around in maxi dresses and ponchos. I just hope those maxi dresses and ponchos are Etro.

Onto another brand which hasn’t had a bad show since I started my reviews: Fendi. This season, they took their late 60s/early 70s wild child aesthetic and gave a millionaire’s high maintenance wife spin on it, and what’s not to like about that?

I mean, Fendi is a brand which is always going to excel in its F/W presentations-the rich, bohemian prints (pro-tip: if you can’t already tell, me mentioning the word bohemian in a review pretty much guarantees I like the collection), the furs, and the warm colour palette all perfectly translate into clothes suited for walks through a city going through a post-summer burnout, where it rains red and orange leaves. You can tell Silvia Fendi is in her element when she’s got texture to play with, something that comes across in the gorgeous coats Fendi consistently puts out, and this season continues that trend. Plus, there’s a lot of adorable details here-shoes that show off the decorative socks underneath, the cube shaped bags and those furry ear muffs which I hope bring about a high street muff renaissance because they’re the equivalent of slipper socks for my ears and THEY’RE ACTUALLY REALLY PRACTICAL. The only thing I’m not in love with is the mirrored glasses, and I can’t help but think how replacing them with a pair of grandad style aviators would be the icing on the cake for the collection. Maybe I just need to see Miss Robyn Rihanna Fenty wearing them and then I’ll get on board. Usually works.

Ah, GCDS. I got so excited for it after last season but this time round, it was a bit of a disappointment. There were a few outfits that semi-matched up to how cutting-edge I saw their last collection, however a lot of the pieces looked pretty low quality. I get that streetwear is in the name, but it’s supposed to be a high fashion take on that, and a lot of the looks were quite pedestrian. Stand outs are the top 2 rows and the leather motocross style jumpsuit on the far right, third row down, but the quality of these pieces wasn’t consistent across the board and I feel like I ended up having to convince myself I liked some of the others just so I had enough photos to justify including the brand. It really sucks when I look back on how ahead of the game last season’s collection was-we’re talking outfits that wouldn’t be out of place on Instagram’s Tokyofashion page and as far as I’m concerned that’s the fashion holy grail. Some of these looks, especially the menswear, could be from a Boohoo TV ad and that makes me sad.

Meanwhile, Giambattista Valli put out a collection that looked like a virtual postcard of Parisian fashion; if a St-Germain-des-Prés streetwear themed Instagram doesn’t exist already, someone should capitalise on that, stat, because if my typical vision of French feminine fashion is correct it would be full of outfits like this. I feel like this is what a fashion novice EXPECTS Chanel to look like. Trust me-these days the reality is much more disappointing.

There’s many things I'm happy to see here besides the tulle and florals and prettiness I expect of the brand. Obviously the berets and the bows and the elbow length gloves are the kind of off-duty ballerina style touches I’ve become accustomed to but there are also some nice surprises here: the military style white jacket, the unexpected snake motif on clothing that’s otherwise overly delicate, and to my delight the return of the boater hat. IDGAF, this is the summer where I’m buying myself one off Ebay and making this happen for me whether they become a “thing” or not. I shouldn’t squander having this little of a double chin; the opportunity may never present itself again.

I haven’t watched Killing Eve in a longggg time since there’s only so much of two women attempting to kill each other and then miraculously avoiding death you can watch but I’d love to see Vilanelle prancing round a city in this kinda shit slitting some necks again. I hope that doesn’t make me sound like too much of a sadist; only in a purely fictional world is this something I want to see, I assure you.

Givenchy was really, really great this season too, imo. Definitely a step up from the last RTW anyway. Aside from the drama of the exaggerated floppy brim hats and the quirky tassle detail dresses a la Schiaparelli, a lot of these outfits kinda remind me of something a Miranda Priestly/Cruella De Vil type would wear, and you know me; I’m all for that kind of intimidating, about-to-either-slap-you-or-fire-your-ass bad bitch energy. The gathered leather gloves with the androgynous subtly checkered power suits feels CORRECT and if Giambattista Valli is the bottom in this relationship, Givenchy is the top. Am I allowed to reinforce sapphic relationship stereotypes as a bi girl? Probably not. I’m sorry. Won’t do it again. Just this once. And you know I’m right really xoxo

And OMFG Gucci. Another impeccable collection for me, honestly. Once again, it’s probably my favourite of the season. How it is that Alessandro Michelle gets it SO right for me despite his vision being so bold and different every time? He has this specific brand of strange, conceptual beauty which blends past and present trends in a way so supreme it should be considered art. It’s not a term to throw around loosely but the man is a genius, and tbh I’m still not over the human head props from the 2018 F/W winter show.

In my Haute Couture week review, I talked about the Viktor and Rolf collection (which I loved, don’t get me wrong!) and said that pretty meets grunge is my fave thing ever-this is that, but much even more substantial and intelligent. The Wes Anderson-esque pieces or that late 60s/early 70s hipster aesthetic that I loved in last season’s show hasn’t been done away with either-be it the level of detail or the colour scheme, it all somehow fits together. Never did I think I’d see dresses fit for porcelain dolls through the lens of Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen seamlessly slotted in between outfits that could’ve been put together from the clothing rack of Dazed and Confused’s costume department. I want it all-opulent fur-trimmed coats, crucifix jewellery and pilgrim hats I’m sure both Edgar Allan Poe and modern goths would approve of, and the tiered skirts that wouldn’t be out of place in a Westworld saloon. The models were delightfully sad and almost creepy looking and I wouldn’t change that for the world. To say 10/10 doesn’t do it justice, so I’m gonna have to open a reviewer’s can of worms and say 100/100.

Gucci is a tough act to follow, and I’m sorry it has to fall onto the shoulders of Halpern. In the nicest possible way (as if there is any nice way of saying it), I don’t think I any expected anything but a downgrade, so if anything, my standards will be lower so...Michael Halpern, you can thank me I guess?

That was really mean, I’m sorry. It’s not a bad collection, and I definitely like it more than last season’s. It’s a slightly garish colour palette at times but an exciting one in spite of that, which when paired with the animal print dotted throughout makes this collection the perfect fit for a tropical beach party or at the very least, a semi-decent night at the Caribbean themed bar in your local town centre. The sequins and silk, a Halpern trademark, are as tastefully done as ever, and seeing them on the models, I can’t deny these are some power fits-the kind of clothes you are bound to look and feel confident in; if you wanted to play queen of the urban jungle for a night, this is what you need to be wearing.

Ah, Hermes.

Generally not one to stoke a fire inside me. In all fairness, the tailoring here is really, really nice and French biker chic, and the pieces are perfectly crafted-it’s not that I don’t like the outfits because I think that if I saw one of them individually in a natural, messier setting I’d probably be impressed. These are classy, elegant winter looks and what more could you want when you’re looking for outfit inspiration for this season? It’s just that it’s always a little too neat and uniform for me, and on the runway I like my fashion to be risky. This could almost be the sophisticated mother to a Tommy Hilfiger collection and whilst that’s something I would probably wear if I wanted to look put together, it’s not what you get excited to see at fashion week. Primary colours all together aren’t where it’s at for me either, the infamous colour scheme of the cheap plastic playhouses you’d find in the garden of every working/middle class British household back in the day. Yes, I had one. So did the after school club I was forced to attend whilst my mum was at work. Apparently the negative connotations are still too much for me (a boy I went to the after school club with did once fall off the back of one and crack his head open so maybe it’s justified).

Isabel Marant was pretty much exactly what you’d expect from Isabel Marant; if the Etro bohemian woman is one who rolls out of bed and chucks on the first thing she sees, the Isabel Marant bohemian woman is the one who claims she’s done the same thing but who actually planned it all out the night before. She designs for the gluten-free, bikram yoga Kourtney Kardashian style “hippy” who claims to be a free-spirit but would definitely not do acid with you. I was gonna say it was a collection for the Gwyneth Paltrows of the world but then I remembered Gwyneth proudly released a candle she claimed smelled like her vagina and changed my mind-she’d definitely do acid with you.

It’s definitely a cohesive transition from the summer collection; both have that seemingly laid-back, clean-cut vibe, and cater to the rich, impeccably groomed scented candle loving woman everywhere. Obviously the pieces are a tad more suited to an alpine lodge in Switzerland than a beach in Malibu this time round, but that same mild colour palette, pretty, naturalistic patterns, and generally relaxed fit persists. It’s cute enough.

J.W Anderson is a bit of an enigma.

Despite the experimental silhouettes and the kooky details that you think would very “look at me!”, the collections still seem to have a chilled, easy-going feel to them. They toy about with the strange but remain entirely sophisticated whilst doing so-I think it’s because aside from the little quirks that make the garments J.W Anderson, they’re otherwise fairly reserved and simple; even the quirks themselves mostly tend to be exaggerated, more conceptual takes on more typical stylistic motifs anyway. Anderson has a knack for producing statement pieces that don’t look like they’re trying too hard to be statement pieces, a talent he expertly deploys at Loewe as well. Whilst Maison Margiela collections are like the fashion equivalent of that Jughead “I’m weird, I’m a weirdo” speech, J.W Anderson’s refusal to conform is quiet and modest. I like it. It’s not generally my personal style but I can admire the thought behind the work, and there are still some things I’d love to try. I have a few standouts-the shoes with the hoop detailing dancing from the ankle straps, the dress on the bottom right with what appears to be art nouveau typography on, the trench coat with the cape detailing and the gossamer dress to its right are all stunning, especially that dress. If I ever want to dress as the bubble Glinda the Good Witch descends in when she meets Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I know where to go, though I don’t suppose there’s going to be an occasion that calls for that any time soon. Can I just have the dress anyway?

Kim Shui is another new designer I found through blessed Twitter screencaps-thanks guys for doing my research for me. Much appreciated.

But anyways! Like Charlotte Knowles, it’s clear she’s still establishing her aesthetic as a designer, and thus far I love it. The whimsical, throwback prints on urban silhouettes that range from the androgynous suits of city dwelling cool girls to the amped-up sex appeal of nightclub dresses is gorgeous, especially twinned with dainty headscarfs and opera gloves-all in all I think this a very cool and wearable collection and I’m looking forward to the next collection she puts out.

Next up is Lacoste, and IDK why I always include their collections to be honest, considering they’re not really known for “high fashion”. I guess it’s because my dad has collected Lacoste shirts since I was little so I kinda have a soft spot for it and feel obligated to include it every time presentation season comes around. Yes, the outfits are unbearably preppy and the colours are garish but I feel like that’s kind of the appeal? So what if some of the tracksuits look like they could’ve been pulled out of a bad mafia movie? I see the argyle jumpers, with a bit of wear and tear, as a charity shop gem my sister would come across (she has the #Y2K Depop girl knack for finding old designer pieces in the shittiest charity shops without the audacity to try and sell them at a 70% markup) that I would then steal from her wardrobe to wear myself, contrasted with a ripped mini skirt, chains and and docs. I see the POTENTIAL of a look that is very fuck you to the rich middle age tory styling we see here. It’s punk, okay?

Lanvin was STUNNING this time around. Maybe it’s because I’ve been watching Mad Men recently and it reminds me of the fashion on that-which I hope somebody won an award for at the time BTW, it is SO fucking good-but I just adore every look here. I can’t even remember if I reviewed Lanvin’s SS20 show, and so clearly if I did it wasn’t that memorable (no shade intended), however this collection is a different story. Every single one of these outfits is iconic movie moment worthy, a 60s Cher Horowitz plaid two piece equivalent that would get screencapped and replicated ad-nauseam, all the best looks of Betty Draper and Peggy Olsen and Joan Holloway and Megan Calvet brought together and refined for the modern day woman. I might even consider sacrificing my anti-royalist principles if it meant I could transport myself back in time and switch bodies with Grace Kelly so I could make this collection my princess-off-duty wardrobe and drive around Monaco in that Bella Hadid look, roof down, all the drama of the fur trim and the gloves and hair whipping about in the wind (but in this unrealistic vision I can actually see what I’m doing and I’m not choking on random strands and swearing at Mother Nature as if she is a real entity with a personal vendetta against me).

Loewe! More J.W Anderson! I’m gonna try not to repeat myself by arsekissing too much all over again and get the good points out of the way quickly! So rapid fire: elegant! Delicious colour palette! Interesting shapes! I think I’m seeing a Victorian/Edwardian influence there! Correct me if I’m wrong! I like it! The coats are strong! Remind me of the suffragettes! But lets pretend in this case these Loewe style coat wearing suffragettes are not raging classists!

AH. Apart from that, it was a bit too austere for me. I definitely preferred Anderson’s eponymous collection; there were a fair few recurring details in this show that I couldn’t get behind that I didn’t include, in particular this bib-like black panel that just kept popping up on everything. Sorry J.W Anderson. But a 50% success rate is still good! And at the end of the day, having 2 collections on Vogue Runway at once is more prestigious than the accumulative total of every accomplishment I’ll probably ever have achieved in my life by the time I’m on my deathbed so what do I know anyway? Sigh:( At least I’ll always have the honour of having the largest head by circumference of my class in year 4, right *sweats nervously*!?!?!

Louis Vuitton was definitely a downgrade on last season for me. There were for sure elements I liked-the Vera Wang-esuqe mixing of the tulle bustle skirts with the rougher, more masculine biker inspired vests and jackets was a cool choice, reminiscent of Gucci’s mixing of the lace dresses with harnesses. I enjoyed the baroque jackets and subtle nods to steampunk style too. Though we’ve already seen it a lot this season, the wet look coat with fur trim I can’t help falling in love with, and I’m immune to the potential ugliness of the muted blue monotone look purely on the basis I can picture Ripley from Alien in it. So like I said-it’s not as if I hated it. I guess when it comes down to it, the collection wasn’t bad so much as I just had higher hopes. I will say though, the staging was INCREDIBLE. As a history nerd, I never thought I’d see the day when a Henry the 8th lookalike actor was part of the backdrop of a Paris fashion week show-and I always thought there was no interesting career path for me in the subject!

And another big name I don’t tend to be so partial to, Maison Margiela. IDK, I did like last season but I wasn’t a fan of haute couture and it took me a while to warm to this. Call it deconstructed, experimental, whatever, but you know when you can’t decide what to wear and you’re in a rush so you kinda just throw all the shit you decided against into a pile? Well, my initial thought was that this season Margiela is kinda that, on the runway.

I will say, once I let go of my need to see a clear shape, a lot of the individual pieces were stunning (NOT the puffed up tabis though, I still can’t even get behind the regular ones). I guess I just wish they’d go for less is more with the styling because as it currently stands, it makes it hard to actually take the clothes in.

Ultimately, one thing you can always say about Margiela, like their clothes or not, is that it has a monopoly on being effortlessly bold.

Marc Jacobs I really liked again, though I will say it doesn’t stand out quite like the S/S collection did. That was absolutely STUNNING-I can’t remember specifically where I ranked it in my top ten but I know it was at least in the top 5. This, on the other hand, is...pretty. It’s very pretty, and very put together, so I’m not saying at all that I don’t rate it. I suppose it’s just a lot simpler than I expected it to be-I don’t have a problem with simplicity, at all, especially if it’s what a brand is known for but I feel like part of the appeal with Marc Jacobs is that it’s pretty kooky. I mean, not Thom Browne or Margiela kooky, but commercial kooky at least. I feel like the kookiness is lacking here? And that’s where this feeling is coming from? And also, the fact that Lanvin tackled the same era and did it a lot better? So there’s that, too. Plus, I adore Miley Cyrus but...why? Random celebrities waking the runway just doesn’t do it for me-it always comes across as a publicity grab, as if the designer isn’t confident enough in their collection’s ability to get people talking on its own, and I suppose in this case that says it all really.

Margaret Howell was...well, Margaret Howell. She’s known for her basics, and they’re always pretty non-offensive “regulation hottie” in the words of the icon that is Damian from Mean Girls. It’s been, what, four years? More? Since I last watched that film but I’m pretty sure watching it about twenty times between the ages of 9 and 15 tattooed it on my brain. I include her because even though they don’t get my pulse racing, I like these pieces; considering the fact that expecting straight white men to ever have style on the level of barbiedrugz (his instagram is my favourite thing ever) or Rickey Thompson is ludicrous, Margaret Howell’s menswear looks are probably are the best, realistic goal for any future partner. Because I like my men dressed like Paddington bear/a depressed Brown University English lit lecturer, okay? Or in other words, Will Graham from Hannibal.

Marine Serre had a few good moments-the looks that I liked were the ones that stayed within her lane of blending the weird with the visually appealing. There were a lot of cool things going on, and I like the utility vibe (the boot with the pouch detailing and the mask are perfect examples of this done well), but outside the fits I picked out a lot of it went over my head tbh.

Marques Almeida is a show I was looking forward to-it has such a youthful, experimental quality to its collections (it’s no surprise the designers said they were influenced by the HBO show Euphoria this year!), similar to Central Saint Martins, and you can tell the designers (Marta Marques and Paulo Almeida) are based in London too; we are talking about the birthplace of the punk fashion movement, and as a designer it’s probably almost a rite of passage that you incorporate elements of that into your work. Marques Almeida does that with a flair and consistency you can count on. Their clothes don’t have the wildest silhouettes or anything like that but the fun they have playing around with print and colour and the ease and confidence with which they settle on those combinations always comes through-the black and white coat with the yellow furs trim is one of my favourite pieces from the entirety of this season’s offerings.

I wasn’t so fond of Max Mara’s SS20 collection and I'm not gonna lie, this isn’t THAT much of a step up for me personally. It’s just one of those brands I feel obligated to include because it’s talked about quite a bit but I’m not totally sure if it’s for me. Too monotone, but I’ll give it another season! And I mean, there is a slight improvement here-this collection is a lot more laid back than the stiff, austere feel of the last, and there are some very well fitted and structured pieces. A lot of the looks kinda remind me of a 2020, fashion take on The Breakfast Club’s “Basket Case”, which is kinda cool, and just from looking at the clothes, the high price tag is palpable. Also, scruffy hair club unite! Though obviously it’s intentional here! That’ll be my excuse for the next time I turn up at work looking like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards-Max Mara made me do it.

Ending on those words of wisdom, I’m gonna bring this post to a close, because I can’t fit any more photos in! I’m desperately hoping that I can fit this all into 3 parts like I did with my last RTW review but even if I do have to make 4 posts, I still include my top 10 shows as I did before. I hope to get that post up within the next couple of weeks! After that, I’ve shot a Lana Del Rey inspired by each of her different albums and “era”s though given last week’s events I’m on the fence about whether to post it or not, especially given her silence over the last couple of days. I’m really proud of what I’ve put together and I’ll always love her art and music (I have 2 bloody tattoos, for fuck’s sake!), so I’m trying to think how I can reconcile that with those awfully worded posts and just the general lack of awareness of bigger issues that she’s displayed the last week. JFC, being a Lana stan has always been so chilled up until now. All the very valid and important takes aside, that “Lana pls delete that post and apologise, we can’t fight the barbz all your stans are depressed” tweet is the only good thing to come out of this shitshow. He got a point. Breathing feels like effort lately:( IDK, if you’re also a Lana stan and you have any opinions on the matter, feel free to DM me, because I’m feeling pretty conflicted rn.

Most importantly though, are the issues I opened this post by talking about, and I thought I’d finish by including the thread of petitions I saw on Twitter. Like I said, a lot of them aren’t available to sign in the UK but to anyone who read up until this point (thank you!) idk where you’re reading from so maybe some of them will apply to you:

https://twitter.com/yericvIt/status/1265801832930045953

Also, while we’re at it, because every tory voting twat seems to treat our country as if it’s some beacon of hope where racism is non-existent and love to tell PoC to stop moaning about their experiences, here’s a thread of black British men and women who have lost their lives to police violence:

https://twitter.com/illh0eminati/status/1266441604170223617

Thank you for reading until the end. I hope that you enjoyed the fashion part of the post but also that if you did read this far, you read the other bits too if you didn’t know what was going on already. It seems like everyone does but you forget that Twitter’s a bit of an echo chamber and that outside of it, there’s a lot of ignorance, whether intentional or not. I know Tumblr has a similar audience to Twitter so I imagine there’s loads on here about everything going on too, but ya know. I wanted to talk about it just incase.

Stay safe, keep fighting the good fight, and again, thank you for reading!<3

Lauren x

5 notes · View notes

writing-appreciation · 5 years

Text

His Legacy

Paring: Peter Parker X Stark!Reader X Platonic!Harley

Warnings: ☡ ENDGAME SPOILERS ☡, Slight language

Synopsis: The reader is concerned for Peter becoming the "new Ironman."

GIF NOT MINE: @tomhollandnet

DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN ENDGAME: FINAL WARNING!!

He was distraught. We all were. Anthony Stark's sacrifice destroyed us all in many ways.

Pepper lost the man she loved.

Morgan and I lost our father.

Rhodes lost his best friend.

But Peter. Peter lost his second father figure. And that hurt him in ways that his Uncle Ben's death didn't.

I was depressed for a couple weeks. Part of me felt that it was my fault. I helped Tony figure out how to fix the snag in the Time Heist.

--Flash Back--

"D'you want washing or drying?" He asked me as we both apprached the sink.

"Drying, definitely drying." I responded, already picking up the dish towel.

"Alright, but if you accidentally end up soaking, don't be complaining to me about it later."

And a few minutes later, he did "accidentally" spray water on me, the ceiling, and a collection of photos near us.

"Dad! Ugh, I'll get the mop." I carefully walked away.

He just smiled and looked at the photos. First observing a picture of his father. Then he pulled a different photo from behind it, taking the time to gently wipe away the water droplets on the frame. He looked hurt.

I walked back over to mess. I managed to sneakily catch a glance at what photo he had: the one of him and Peter getting his "internship."

It made me want to cry. I know he felt bad about Peter dying. It's just the way dad rolled. Everything is his fault.

"Maybe it wouldn't hurt to look into the calculations about Scott's Time Heist." I slowly suggested, now staring at the photo of Peter smiling. I missed him.

My dad constantly teased us on "being oblivious to one anothers' feelings." Feelings or not, I knew I missed him. When dad told me he hadn't made it, we both cried for an hour.

"What did I tell you about easedropping young lady?" He feigned suprise. He took a deep breath and cleared his voice of any emotion other than sarcasm.

He wrapped his left arm around me and kissed the top of my head.

" It's too bad you suck at quantum mechanics too badly to help with any of it."

I scoffed at his insult, knowing I was fully capable of keeping up. I was a Stark, it's in my blood.

So we went to work. Busting out every computation of every calculation we could think of.

"This is impossible. I told them Tiny's stupid hesit is physically impossible."

I chuckled at his codename for Scott. It helped relieve some of the tension in the room.

"Okay, so the calculus works, we can agree on that?"

He nodded.

"So we just need a workable shape to bend time around and to morph ourselves around?"

I layed my face in my hands and thought of the shapes we hadn't tested yet.

"Yes, Einstein, we do. But We've tried every geometrical postulate imaginable. I'm sorry kid, it's not hap..."

"Mobius strip." I whipped my head out of my hands and looked at him.

"FRI, can you run the calculations with the Mobius strip?" He asked, desperation clinging to his voice.

I didn't have the energy to make some snarky remark on how he took my idea. I just wanted to see if it worked

I moved to where my dad was standing, also waiting with anticipation. I felt him glance at me. He wanted this to work because he knew I needed it to work.

The moment we saw the green loop appear around the stip we both fell backwords into our seats.

"Shit." Be both said in unison, stares not breaking from the display.

"Shit!" We heard a little voice behind us.

We turned around to see Morgan happily sitting on the stairs, watching us.

Dad made some quippy remark about having important shit to do, which caused Morgan to frown/smile. He then took her up to bed, but not before getting them icepops.

I turned back to the display. The green line still surprised me. I half expected it to disappear in the time we looked away.

This was gonna work. We were going to get them back.

-------

I blamed myself for it. I should've just let it go. We were happy. We had a family. We were good.

But then I remember the billions who dusted away. It was the right thing to do. It just hurts.

But Peter's pain was significantly worse. He was hard to trust. After Ben's death, he found it hard to trust people, especially any father-figure he became close to. Understandably dad's death destroyed his limited trust capacity.

We could tell it was destroying him, Happy and I. We saw it firsthand.

Fury was pushing Peter. What with his constant calls, and even him hijacking our Summer vacation. Fury wanted the new Ironman and he was deadset on it being Peter.

It made me mad a first. Fury believed I was envious of the offer being given to Peter. But it was more concern than envy. Peter was Spiderman, not Ironman. He can't be both. And nobody could ever replace my dad

Plus people overlooked the obvious choice here: Harley Keener.

He was 16, and a new student to Midtown Tech. He was the perfect choice to carry on dad's legacy. It's not like Harley had other heroic prior commitments like Peter or I did. Plus we got along great.

My dad connected us one year when we all went down to vacation in Tennessee and met his family. I immediately gravitated to Harley. Seeing as he was only one year older than me, a sort of summer fling also sprouted between us. It ended on good terms. We kept in touch, agreed to hang out every once in a while, and had a fun tendency to provoke my dad.

But when I apprached Fury about this he struck it down before I even got to mention Harley. He insisted that Peter become the new Ironman. Which was weird.

The next step was to try to convince Peter which I felt wouldn't be too difficult. He was cracking under the pressure.

But seeing as we were currently going head to head with a giant water monster in London, I figured it'd be best to table the the discussion for a later time.

So we did. Just at a different time when Harley showed up at the rebuilt HQ (the old Stark/Avengers tower) just after we got back from vacation. It was 9:30 and we both just wanted to sleep for days.

Peter went into full defense mode the moment he saw Harley sitting in the corner. In Peter's defence, Harley did look pretty shady.

The whole squabble was resolved when I pushed past Peter and welcomed Harley with open arms.

"Hey, if it isn't my second favourite Stark!" He exclaimed as we embraced.

Though he kept it silent, I could sense Peter's jealousy.

"Hey, Keener, nice suprise, but what are you doing here?"

"Well, I thought we were going to talk to Fury today, so I just figured I would come in. I heard you guys were getting back today." He smiled.

I smiled back. It was truly nice to see him again. The last time I saw him as a few days after the Funeral when he dropped the news that he'd be attending Midtown Tech. I wasn't exactly a happy time, but it was mosty better now.

"Um, I'm sorry, but can you please explain who this dude is, (Y/n)?" Peter broke our little bubble of joy.

I noticed Peter even gave Harley a side glance of disgust and distrust. This should be interesting.

"Peter, play nice. This is one of my old friends, Harley Keener. I'm not sure you two met at the funeral, but basically he was a fellow mentee my dad sort of trained. He just moved here, and he'll be a Junior at Midtown Tech in a couple weeks." I politely explained to the disgruntled Spiderboy.

"And she wants me to be Ironlad."

Oh, this can't be good.

"Ironlad?" Peter questioned, now meeting Harley's gaze. Posture suddenly taller. Was he challenging Harley?

"Yeah, (Y/n) here called me about it a while back. I already have prints for a suit and she said she'd help me with it." He replied rather egotistically.

Peter looked hurt. He looked to me and back to Harley with definative anger. He began to walk away.

I quickly hit Harley's arm in frustration.

"What the hell, Keener? I was going to tell him gingerly!" I whisper-yelled at him as I began to follow Peter. He started to suit up.

"Peter." I called to him.

"Peter!" I called a little louder.

"Peter Parker!" I jogged up to meet his fast paced walk and pulled his arm.

He pulled away forcefully. He looked pained. His eyes were showing early signs of crying, but his actions showed anger.

"Leave me alone, (Y/n)." He proceeded to walk briskly to the edge of an open window.

I followed him to the edge.

We made brief eye contact before he jumped out.

"Spidey, don't make me do this!" I shouted in his direction.

No response.

"Alright, he forced my hand." I muttered to myself.

"FRIDAY, do me a favor and don't send my suit after me, okay?" I asked the A.I, knowing she'd be listning.

So I jumped out. Completely suitless. Pepper was going to kill me.

Either I end up on th street as a not so pretty decoration, or Peter'd save me. We'll find out soon enough.

I felt the wind swishing through my hair and my clothes puffing in weird directions around me. I saw the points on the ground becoming more clear. I was getting to close for comfort. This was it. Peter was actually going to let me die because he's mad at me. Talk about petty.

Suddenly I felt a familiar tug on the back of my shirt. He really waited until the last last second to web me up.

I braced myself for the intense g-force I'd experience while being pulled back to the sky.

Before I knew it, Peter and I stood on the roof of a building near the tower.

"Do us a favor and don't throw yourself off of any more buildings." He said not even prying his eyes off of the ground. He was about to take off again.

"Peter Parker, I will keep launching myself off of buildings until you and I talk!" I yell at him.

He looked at me like I was insane. Which, jury's out on that one. I might be.

"What." He stated, again not looking at me.

"You can't be the next Ironman." I said simply.

This caused him to look up. Again, he looked like I just told him the worst news in the world.

"Peter, you can't be the next Ironman because nobody can be the next Ironman. He's irreplaceable." My voice began to crack. I was definitely going to cry. No preventing that.

"Tony Stark was an enigma. He was the best and worst man. Did I ever tell you the reason he took on Scott's Time Heist was because he looked at a picture of you two? Peter, he wanted you to live, not to crack under the pressure of being the next Ironman. If he could see you now, he'd..."

"Hey, (N/n)," He began to interrupt. But I wasn't having any of it.

"Peter, I don't even know what he'd do, but I just know he would disapprove of you trying so desperately to be the 'new Ironman.' Damn what Fury says, all he cares about is finding replacements! He wants you because he knows he can control you. Hell, he already replaced Natasha with another former assassin. He doesn't care about our wellbeing. I just know you would've been too excited to recognize you were being used, so I thought if I brought Harley in, he'd help me show my point. Peter, trust me he's great, and..."

Peter shut me up by pulling me into a tight hug and shushing me. This caused me to let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding in.

"I get it. I miss him too. And you know he wouldn't want to be jumping off of buildings." I felt his chest vibrations. They were oddly soothing.

"Excuse you Peter, he's the one who taught me that trick." I smiled and sniffled. He wiped my tears away and just held my face.

"Uhmh."

We both jolted around to see Harley, now decked out in his Mark I Ironlad suit.

"I hate to break up this tender moment my ex and my soon to be best friend are having, but you guys SUCK at the whole secret identity thing."

"Ex? So you two have a history?" Peter asked, looking at me awkwardly.

"I was 14, I had bad judgement."

This caused an offended noise to leave Harley's mouth, but a laugh to exit Peter's.

Yep, these two were going to be good friends.

"Alright, we should probably all head home and sleep. School starts soon." I, being the mature teenager I am, suggested.

Harley took off.

Which left me and Peter on a roof.

"So..."

"So." I smirked. "You should probably get going. May's gonna be worried."

"Yeah, well sure, but do you like need a lift or..?" His question trailed off. Suddenly it clicked when my dad would tease him about being awkward with me. Does Peter Parker like me?

Instead of a response, I tapped the edge of my glasses and watched Peter watch as my suit began flying out the tower and to me.

"I'll be fine, Parker." I smiled, though it was hidden from him.

"Tell May I said hey." And I took off towards our house.

When I landed Pepper was out, waiting for me.

I tapped the edge of my helmet and the suit began to return to its nano form.

"What's this I hear about you jumping out of the tower?!" She yells at me, obviously playfully.

"What? I needed a way to get Peter's attention." I breezed past her.

"I swear you are jus like your father! You're aging me prematurely."

"How premature can it be?" I quip back sarcastically.

I hear an offended gasp followed by a chuckle.

I went up to my room, deciding I was too tired to take a shower. I just wanted to go to bed. So I proceed with my Nighttime routine and in no time was cozy in bed.

My window curtains were drawn back. As I began to close my eyes, I swear I saw the outline of the infamous red snd blue suit watching me...

I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and sent a quick text to Peter.

He almost fell from the roof he was on. But recovered quickly. He stood and waved goodbye as he swung off into the night.

PETER'S POV

I just wanted to make sure they made it home alright. I knew Mr. Stark would never let me live it down if I didn't. Besides, I knew they were beat after the vacation, so I was afraid they would mess up the directions home, or something; but part of me just wanted to see them one more time before I called it a night. So I sat on a roof parallel to their bedroom window.

I waited until they got into their bed, and was tucked under the covers. They looked ready to go to bed, but they suddenly grabbed their phone off their nightstand.

I felt my phone vibrate. I pulled it out, suspecting it was them.

'My hero, making sure I got home safely. Go get some sleep Peter, I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight x.'

I slipped when I read it. The 'x', that meant a kiss, right? Oh my God. They called me their hero. This is so much to take in.

I looked up again to see their beautiful (E/c) eyes one more time and waved them goodbye.

I jumped off of the roof and began swinging home, thinking about what adventure we'll have tomorrow. Hopefully a good one.

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

A/N: Hey, so here's a thing. I got the inspiration of the Far From Home Trailer. I'm trying to get rid of some of my lost Endgame depression, but this actually made it worse wow.

Anyway, hope you enoyed this crappily slopped together thing I wrote during school.

#marvel #marvel imagines #marvel x reader #peter parker #peter parker x reader #stark!reader #stark!daughter #harley keener #iron man #iron dad #avengers #avengers endgame #avengers endgame spoilers #avengers x reader

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verypersonalscreencaps · 5 years

Photo

'I’ve never sought fame so I’m loving it ... I hope it lasts!': As she returns in the hit BBC sitcom Mum, Lesley Manville reveals how a surprise Oscar nomination finally made her hot in Hollywood at 63

By COLE MORETON FOR EVENT MAGAZINE PUBLISHED: 22:01, 27 April 2019

'I can’t believe this late flourish that I’m having,’ says Lesley Manville, beaming with happiness. ‘It just keeps on giving!’

She’s about to star in the third and final series of the brilliant BBC comedy Mum, playing the kind and loving widow Cathy, surrounded by a family of not-always-lovable fools, and slowly falling for her old friend Michael. It’s hugely popular, for reasons Event’s TV critic Deborah Ross explains below, but that’s not all. Suddenly, to her own astonishment, at the age of 63, Manville is Hollywood hot property.

‘I don’t really share this much, except to my very close friends, because you’ve got to let off steam to somebody about how extraordinary it is,’ says Manville, hand fluttering briefly as if to fan herself. ‘And the enormity of how it has shifted things. Everything has changed.’

Scripts and offers are flooding in since she was Oscar-nominated for her role in Daniel Day-Lewis’s 2018 film, Phantom Thread. After decades of working ‘under the radar’ – as she puts it – in the theatre, on television and in Mike Leigh movies such as High Hopes, Secrets & Lies and Another Year, Manville was thrust into the brightest spotlight of all. ‘I got to go to the Oscars with my sister and my son!

‘But, oh my God, it was a mad dash. I was on stage in the West End on the Saturday, got home at midnight, only had time to wash my hair and catch two hours’ sleep, then I was on a plane in the early hours.’ The Oscars were that Sunday night. ‘I got there with an hour-and-a-half to get ready.’

She rarely gives interviews and hasn’t talked about this publicly before, but there was something else remarkable about that night – her ex-husband Gary Oldman was also up for an Oscar, for his role as Sir Winston Churchill in Darkest Hour. The Hollywood media went wild at the idea of divorcees being nominated at the same time, and there was even talk of ‘fisticuffs on the red carpet’ – particularly since he had walked out on her in 1989, when their child Alfie was only three months old.

‘I had a son to bring up,’ she says, sounding matter-of-fact rather than bitter after all these years. ‘I was 32 and I had a baby. I wanted to carry on working and I did. I must have been knackered. I was up at dawn and looked after Alfie all day. Then my sister, who was working for me, would come and do teatime and bedtime. I’d go to do Miss Julie or Top Girls. Nice light plays!’

Somehow she gave her all to those far from light works. ‘I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I never wanted to stop working. And also I didn’t want to be a slovenly mother – not bothering, just phoning in motherhood because I was working. I wanted to be the best mother, with a proper meal on the table every night, and proper things in the lunchbox. All of that. And I’ve done it. That’s my biggest achievement, I think.’

Did she feel that way because Gary had abandoned them? ‘No, I’m just like that – I’m quite a perfectionist in my life and my work.’

That’s easy to imagine. Manville is friendly and engaging but happily describes herself as ‘a control freak’ and looks very much like she’s got it together in her chic, cream baggy pants with matching boots, Breton striped top and leather jacket. She speaks with the diction and bearing of someone who has spent a lifetime on the stage. Does Alfie appreciate what she did for him? ‘Oh, yes. We’ve got a really nice relationship. We do argue, but we’re very close.’

Oldman later admitted that work and alcoholism had made him ‘anxious, neurotic and hell to live with’ – but he moved in with the much younger Uma Thurman soon after taking off to America. His fifth wife, Gisele Schmidt, attended the Oscars with him, while Manville is single and walked the red carpet with Alfie, now a cameraman. So just how awkward was this public reunion?

‘Gary and I are fine. We’re friends. We’re more than fine. People wanted to make something of it that didn’t exist. Christ almighty, we’re 60. We’ve got a 30-year-old son. Come on!’ She does understand why there was such interest. ‘I even stayed sober for one night in LA at the Oscars so that I could do a live interview on the Today programme. Something should be made of it, for the sake of our son. Very few children have been to the Oscars and seen both their parents nominated. It was nice because Gary was there with his wife – who I get on with very well – his other two sons and my son. We’re grown-ups.’

In her eagerness to demonstrate that they’ve worked out their differences, Manville even reveals that the two former partners are planning to work together again.

‘Gary’s asked me to be in a new film he’s hoping to shoot soon. So of course we’re fine. It’s a film about Eadweard Muybridge, the man who invented film.’ The Victorian photographer devised camera techniques that laid the foundations for the motion picture industry. He also shot and killed his wife’s lover, but was acquitted by a jury on the grounds of justifiable homicide. ‘It will be amazing.’

And although she did not win the Oscar for best supporting actress last year (Oldman did win best actor), Manville says she has been almost overwhelmed by offers since then. ‘You get inundated with scripts and immediately I got offered a film with Liam Neeson, Normal People, that’s virtually a two-hander. It comes out at the end of this year.’

Neeson got himself in a lot of trouble earlier this year by confessing that in the past, after the rape of a friend, he had taken to prowling the streets with a cosh, hoping ‘some black b******’ would come out of a pub looking for a fight. He was actually expressing shame at having had those feelings and drew support from Whoopi Goldberg and the England footballer John Barnes, but others called for his films to be pulled. Did that put Normal People in danger?

Manville draws in breath, pulls back her shoulders and says: ‘I’m not going to talk about it at all... except to say that Liam is one of the nicest gentlemen I’ve ever worked with. And he’s a friend.’

Is she just like Cathy in Mum, who insists on seeing the best in people? ‘Oh, I don’t compare to Cathy. I’m kind, but I’m a bit more judgmental than she is. I’m from this chippy world of acting, where people are beautifully acerbic, funny, and sarcastic and cutting. I enjoy all of that. It’s banter.’

Still, she is firmly supportive of Neeson then quickly moves on. ‘Then I got a film I haven’t shot yet, called Dali Land, about Salvador and Gala Dali. I’m going to play Gala. Last week I was filming the new series of Harlots [in which she plays the madam of a high-class 18th-century brothel], then preparing for the film Let Him Go with Kevin Costner and Diane Lane.’

Does Manville thrive on all this new attention? ‘My sister can’t believe I’m not exhausted. It is overwhelming at times, but I do sort of feel I’ve earned it. I’ve put in decades of doing what I feel were the right jobs. I’ve never sold out. I’ve never sought fame. So I’m genuinely loving it and I’m hoping it will last, but it will only last if I keep turning out the work.’

Does she wish this had all happened before? ‘No. I’ve had an amazing, steady career. And I’m grateful for that. A lot of young people who get success very quickly come under huge pressure to maintain it and that is very hard. Especially if they’re good-looking, because if you’ve built a career based on your good looks when you’re young, it’s very difficult to carry on in a real and proper vein.’ Has she come under any of Hollywood’s infamous pressure to go under the knife?

‘No. I went to a lot of meetings while we were there, and the reaction I got is: ‘Oh, you’ve done nothing to your face, isn’t that great!’ If I suddenly started doing all that, it would make nonsense of this career I’ve had for 40-plus years. I’m setting myself up as somebody who likes to play characters. This Bible-bashing mad woman with a gun that I’m playing in Let Him Go isn’t going to have gone under the knife in 1963. Just leave it alone.’

Manville grew up in Brighton, where her father was a taxi driver, and at the age of 15 she started commuting to the Italia Conti stage school in London. She declined the chance to join the steamy TV dance troupe Hot Gossip. ‘I thought, I can’t wear stockings and a suspender belt on telly with my dad watching! He wasn’t a prude – it was more that I was a bit of a prude. I was a good girl. I never broke the rules.’

Just like Cathy in Mum, then? ‘I am a good girl at heart, so there is a bit of Cathy there, but the other side of me is very driven and single-minded.’

Her father couldn’t believe it when she gave up a perfectly good, lucrative part on the soap Emmerdale Farm to concentrate on theatre. ‘My dad was like, “What are you doing? Why would you want to do plays?”’ But Manville went on to have a truly illustrious and highly acclaimed career on stage, from her early days at the Royal Court through numerous leading roles at the National Theatre, The Old Vic and with the Royal Shakespeare Company to her performance in Ibsen’s Ghosts, for which she won the Olivier in 2014. This was the pinnacle of her career at the time, and she said: ‘Ghosts is my Olympic moment.’

There was no way of knowing that the Hollywood legend Paul Thomas Anderson, director of There Will Be Blood and Magnolia, would call her out of the blue, having seen her in the Mike Leigh films he loved.

But before that happened and she got really famous, the director Richard Laxton approached Manville in 2016 about making Mum, and had some persuading to do.

‘My only experience of comedy was 25 years ago, a series called Ain’t Misbehavin’ with Peter Davison,’ says Manville. ‘It was well written, but you had to be funny. I didn’t enjoy it. I wasn’t very good.’

Laxton sent a script and a box set of Him And Her, a series also written by Mum creator Stefan Golaszewski and shot in a very similar, low-key way. The actors play the drama and not for laughs, although they certainly come. In Mum, we see the craziness of the family from Cathy’s point of view as she tries to keep going, do her best and be kind.

‘Just the slightest twinkle from Cathy, and the audience knows what it’s going to mean,’ says Manville.

Series one began just after Cathy had lost her husband Dave. Series two saw her become increasingly – but very slowly – close to old family friend Michael, before she finally declared her love. Now, at the start of the final series, they are together, but haven’t broken it to her son or anyone else yet. ‘I love the way the writer does that,’ she says. ‘We last saw them tentatively holding hands. At the start of this series she just gives him a very casual kiss on the lips, when she’s showing him the bedroom she is staying in.’

The inference is that they have made love. ‘You don’t see them having sex. You don’t see them having passionate kisses.’ Is that a relief? ‘Yes. You wouldn’t want to go there really, but I knew they were going to get together.’ The pair have such joy on their faces, as if they can’t believe their luck.

‘I think younger people – 20- and 30-year-olds – don’t think of anybody aged 60 falling in love. They don’t really imagine that all those feelings an 18-year-old in love has – all those butterflies, uncertainties and insecurities, all that joy – is the same for everyone, whatever your age. That’s an emotion and a set of feelings that we never lose. Thank God! I love Mum for showing that.’

The characters are also very understated. ‘I love the fact that Cathy and Michael are not glamorous, they’re not thinking about how they look. They’re good, kind, thoughtful people. They’re intelligent. They’re very in touch with their own feelings and emotions and reality. They have a very acute understanding of the people around them.’ The cast and crew all stayed in the same hotel and found a local pub to eat and drink. ‘Lots of times, someone would spot one of us up at the bar – say Lisa [McGrillis, who plays Kelly] – and they’d go: “That’s her from Mum!” Then they’d turn around to see where she was taking the drinks and we would all be sitting there!’

How are people with her? ‘Mum is the thing I get stopped in the street most about. They say very kind things. They love the series. When I say it’s back in May but this is the last series, they can’t bear it.’

So why is Mum finishing? ‘Stefan wants to move on to other things. But it’s got a nice finite ending and why would you do any more? Either they get together or they don’t. Either way, that’s it.’ We don’t see so-called late love like this on the television much, do we?

‘No, but I think that’s shifting very slowly. Women and men of my age want to see themselves represented. And there are those actresses who are just carrying on – not just Judi Dench and Maggie Smith, but Helen Mirren, Meryl Streep, Annette Bening.... We are fronting films. And all those female-led films like Mamma Mia!, Quartet and The Best Marigold Hotel that have been huge box- office successes have made studios think: ‘We can have a film about a 50-year-old that people want to see!’

She says ‘we’, but those women are older than her. Thanks to her sudden Indian summer, Manville is now poised to lead a new generation of female actors taking on those kinds of roles. ‘Those actors have opened up the way for us, absolutely. I’ve always felt my life was a slow burn. I’m pleased with the way it has all turned out. Delighted, really. I can’t wait to see what happens next!’

The final series 3 of ‘Mum’ begins on BBC 2 next month. Series 1 and 2 are available on iPlayer.

#Lesley Manville #Event Magazine #Mum #Mum bbc #BBC2 #aaaaahhh #new photos!#bbc mum #series 3

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docholligay · 5 years

Text

Sunrise and Moonset

Hi, did you want the 3000 word fic inspired by reading the Bastet story? No? too bad, here it is and I am very excited about it so be kind. Full OW universe is here, if you want more or need place in timeline!

It wasn’t yet nine, and you could already smell the fish, being freshly cut into fillets and readied for the lunchtime rush, rising up through the floor of the official Overwatch headquarters in London. It mingled in the air with Pharah’s dark, sweet, coffee, brewed herself in the corner of the office, Pharah having long since learned not to trust the English consideration of the beverage.

She had thought about lighting one of Mercy’s scented candles, but did not think that adding to the unique potpourri of the atmosphere would help.

Pharah had not chosen this room for any of its atmospheric charms, for it lacked them at all, the second story of an unassuming brown stone building, a funeral parlor and a dentist’s office abutting the chip shop, tucked in some corner of Hackney where they didn’t even bother to put the dumpsters to the rear of the buildings. But it was large enough for she and Tracer, acceptably close to the subway, and most importantly, did not create a major dent in their stretched budget.

And so, Pharah had a headquarters for the organization, and she and Tracer had their names on the door, and today Pharah was looking out the window at the international market across the street, the overfilled dumpsters sitting warily on the corner, smelling the cod that filled her office, the oil soon to follow, and sipped her coffee as she thought on the problem of Ana Amari.

She did not have much time for reflection, as the door to the large single room popped open with a flourish, Tracer halfway through a paragraph even as she shut the door behind her.

“Any’ow, I’m ‘ere now, aren’t I? And look!” She set down a red cup with a star on her desk, and held a white bag aloft, “Brought us a bit of breakfast!”

Pharah turned away from the window and walked back toward her desk without a word, simply setting down her coffee and pulling her hair back into a ponytail and she set herself in her reliable black office chair.

Tracer hung her coat and hat sloppily on the hook behind the door and swept over to Pharah’s desk, bringing her body onto the top in one smooth motion, nearly knocking over Pharah and Mercy’s wedding picture in the process.

“Porridge with berry compote, that’s what you like, innit?” She did not wait for an answer, but set it in front of Pharah and pulled out her own breakfast.

“What is that?” Pharah said, and Tracer seemed happy enough that she had the power of speech.

“Beans with sausage and an egg, course.” She grinned and pulled out of a spoon.

“I will never be accustomed to this country.”

Tracer looked at her with a bit of a scold. “It’s Pret, love, not ‘igh cuisine.” She licked a bean off her spoon. “Didn’t even bother getting you a coffee. A right snob, you are.”

Pharah leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling for a moment.

Tracer set down her pot of breakfast and moved quickly to Pharah’s side, opening her top drawer and pulling the small shakers of cinnamon and ginger out onto the desk.

Pharah did not respond.

“You angry or sad? Rather ‘ard to tell. Moreover,” She zipped across the room, grabbed her tea, jumped back to the front of the desk and hopped on it, “you angry with me?”

Pharah went to shake her head, but Tracer continued.

“No, no, course not. You’ve ‘eard about Ana and Jack.” Tracer shook her own head. ‘Was ‘oping I could beat you to the news, you see, and that a bit of porridge might improve your general demeanor, but I suppose you’ve ‘arnessed the power of bloody literacy and put two and two together, so you ‘ave.”

Pharah leaned forward. “We must handle this, Tracer.”

“Makes you feel better, don’t think anyone else ‘as it figured. Go on,” Tracer nudged the porridge toward her, “bit of food won’t ‘urt, love.”

Pharah opened the porridge bowl and shook the cinnamon over the top. “This is how the original Overwatch fell. Shadow missions. Unofficial teams. Unknown to governments. Hunting officials as if we were the judge, jury, and executioner. As if we are God.”

“It does seem a bit of a cock-up, yeah.” Tracer chirped happily.

“Your capacity of understatement prevails.” She stirred the porridge mindlessly, conscious of the way Tracer’s eyes flicked across her face.

Tracer spoke softly. “We wasn’t a part of it, Fareeha.”

“I do not believe Blackwatch began officially. It seemed to matter little, in the end.”

Tracer popped up off the desk and strolled over to her corner of the office, brightly colored and dotted with mementos of her family and friends and football club, and clapped her hands together, pointing back at Pharah with a wide smile, and roared in an odd sort of voice.

“I want some butts!”

Pharah stared at her, a spoonful of porridge halfway to her mouth, and cocked her head.

“‘S a Top Gun reference, love,” She crossed her arms as Pharah continued to stare, “Yank accent, and all..”

Pharah chuckled. “I think, I have never been to that part of America.” She nodded and swallowed her spoonful as Tracer balked at the insult of her acting ability, her face serious once more. “Are Ana and Jack in London now?”

Tracer sat down at her desk and put her feet up on the edge. “Far as I know. That grotty little flat in Brixton, most like, doesn’t seem as they leave it much. I’ll ring them.”

Pharah nodded wordlessly and leaned back in her chair, still looking out the window to the row of apartments on beyond the international market, each as grimy and grey as the last. The years had settled into them, and even the brightest paint slapped over the top of them seemed simply to sink into the sides, turning that off-grey. There was no mask it could wear that could hide what it was, what it would always be.

“Fareeha?” Tracer looked over at her, “Fareeha, they’ll not shut us down over the likes of them two. Just a bump, love.”

Pharah turned back to her desk and looked over at Tracer, leaning her elbows on her desk. “It is--it isn’t that.”

“What is it, then?”

Pharah sighed. “I invited my mother to our new home for dinner last fortnight. I cooked biram ruzz.”

Tracer fiddled with her cup of tea. She understood the meaning behind the sentence, just as Pharah had known she would. Pharah had reached out a hand to her mother, to try and make her a part of her life, down to cooking a dish they shared, and once again Ana had done whatever she wanted, without considering Pharah’s life for even the time it took to put her scope to her eye.

Maybe her mother would always be this way. No matter the paint.

“Right, I--” Tracer cleared her throat and took her own look out the window, through her eyes moved to the flutter of leaves from the trees down the road, to the brightness of the fresh graffiti against the grey of the stone, “I’m sorry, Fareeha.” She perked up. “You want me to do it? I’ve a mind to serve Ana ‘alf what she served me, when she was me captain. It’s no trouble at all. Be a lark for me, even.”

Pharah snorted. “No. I will reprimand Ana Amari myself.”

She said nothing of Jack Morrison, and so Tracer quietly filed that away as her responsibility.

Below, the first batch of fish hitting the oil gave a hot sizzle.

____

Pharah looked in the small mirror on the inside of the closet, and took her hair down, gathered it into a ponytail again, and let it go again.

“Wear it up.” Tracer advised, pouring herself a fresh cup of tea for the bright orange kettle she kept on a bookshelf by the desk. “Looks a bit sterner.”

Pharah turned to tell Tracer she hadn’t asked, but reconsidered and pulled it back again, securing it with the tie. She looked at herself in the mirror. She had her father’s build, tall and strong and square, and in moments, she had his smile and his laugh. It came easier than it ever had, the years of love and friendship banishing her loneliness,easing her need to prove herself.

But her eyes were all her mother’s, and when she looked into them, that same need to prove that she was the soldier her mother never wanted her to be, a better officer than Ana herself, rose again.

“Could pop down the shops, if you like. Don’t know if you’re ‘ungry or if we’d like to serve a bit of a biscuit and some cheese or summat.”

“Lena, we are giving an official reprimand, this is not tea.” She turned away from the mirror and shut the closet store, securing the latch.

“Course not,” she shrugged, “too early for tea, it is.” She jumped to her feet. “It’s me first time, alright? Doing me best, you’ve ‘ad experience going on years, you ‘ave.”

Pharah smiled and opened her mouth, when a knock came at the door, two shadows standing behind the frosted glass they’d carefully installed in the door.

Pharah straightened to her full height and adjusted the collar of her shirt. Tracer stood next to her and ran a hand through her hair, trying and quite impressively failing to have it all lay down one direction.

Pharah spoke first. “Come in.”

Ana led, a reversal of the command they’d had in earlier days, but one with which Jack seemed perfectly content, as they entered the room. It would have been easy to mistake them for any other Londoner, Ana in her long pants and loosely wrapped hijab, Jack in a dark wool sweater and a pair of large dark glasses that covered the worst of his scarring, the tendrils of white creeping from behind it, both of them in simple navies that went from simple to tactical on the military carriage of their bodies.

They stood in a loose sort of attention in front of Tracer and Pharah.

“Soldier 76 reporting.” Jack said, his voice rumbling with resignation.

Pharah’s eyes darted to Ana, who sighed and nodded. “Ana Amari, reporting.”

Pharah paced toward the window. “Please, do not embarrass us all by pretending you do not know why we are here. It is all on the news.”

“Morrison.” Tracer inclined her head, “Over to me desk, go on.”

Ana stood in the middle of the room as Jack settled into the old wood chair with the orange tweed upholstery in front of Tracer’s desk, and Tracer settled behind it and watched Pharah quietly, leg bouncing and shaking the desk, but quietly, quietly, just as she’d meant to do.

She began in Arabic. “In Egypt, it was a question of--”

“All official Overwatch business is conducted in English and this has been true even in your days.” Pharah stopped in front of the window, looking out to where a child ran behind a ball, mother nowhere to be seen, and Pharah’s eyes followed her. “One of the few rules we did not change, you might know, if you read them.”

“Official business, then.” Ana barely suppressed a laugh, “On the official record, I did not do this under Overwatch’s authority or bankroll. I would say, on the official record, that I did this under a code name, and with my identity obscured.” She gave a smile and a shrug. “This is not my first undercover mission, I would say. On the official, all English, record.”

Pharah wheeled around, spun by Ana’s mocking, and stopped in front of her, eyes blazing with fury as she stepped directly into Ana’s space.

“I am your superior officer.” Pharah’s voice rang like steel on steel, cold and bright in the air. “This is not a discussion.”

Ana nodded, and held her hands behind her back, looking out the window at the grey and greyer sky as Pharah continued, backing away.

“Bastet,” Pharah chuckled angrily, shaking her head, “You are the world’s best-known Egyptian sniper. You chose an Egyptian goddess as your code name. Are even you so arrogant?”

“Rather like calling meself Britannia, innit? ‘Oping no one would know?” Tracer smirked from her desk in the corner.

Ana huffed. “I taught you everything you know of stealth, Lena. I--”

“She is also your superior officer, and her name is Commander Oxton, so far as you are concerned.” Pharah looked down at Ana. “You are out of order.”

“I apologize.” She choked, and looked back at Tracer, “Commander Oxton.”

Pharah did not rest on her apology to Tracer, her anger hot and fueled and burning within her, the damp, cold office in London suddenly sweltering under her energy.

“Your,” she searched for the word, “Indiscretion, could come back onto us. This is how the original Overwatch was destroyed, Mother!” The thermometer was too high now, near to bursting, all of Pharah’s methods and procedures tossed aside for her bare hurt. “This is how my wife was made to stand before the United Nations! How soon before they come for us again? We are under a microscope, now, questioned at every turn! I will not have you destroy everything I have built!” She stumbled into Arabic, “hating that I have been--” She caught herself, took a breath, straightened her shirt, and continued, “You hate my success in work you told me never to pursue. But if you want to be a part of this organization, you will honor our codes.”

“Fareeha,” Ana looked at her sadly, “Fareeha, my daughter, this was never about destroying you. It could never be. I lov--”

“English.” She looked down at her desk.

“I only did this for myself,” Ana continued quietly, “To make something good of me.”

“And so, even in this, you are selfish.”

Tracer piped up from across the room. “Now I’m not certain as that’s--” Pharah glared at her and she threw her hands up and then folded them in her lap, shaking her head and quietly murmuring to hersellf. “It’s like Dad always told me, ‘Lena, love, you just have to close your mouth from time to time.”

Pharah took a pen from her desk and tossed it into a cup. “You are temporarily removed from duty, pending further investigation and the decision of Commander Oxton and I. You are dismissed, Agent Amari.”

Ana stood for a second as if she wanted to say something, but no words came until Jack quietly spoke.

“I’ll be right behind you.”

This reinforced something in Ana, and she stood straight as she chuckled at Jack. “Always behind.”

She gave a weak but serviceable salute to Tracer and turned quickly, leaving the office with a firm shut of the door, her steps quick and quiet as if she was creeping down the alleyways of Cairo. Maybe she always was.

“Right.” Tracer tapped her toes on the floor, wiggling with the tension in the room and the electricity it caused, and then picked up a paper out of her Pret bag. “Agent Morrison--”

Pharah grabbed at her coat on the hook and the scarf neatly folded on the shelf. “I am out for a walk.”

She did not wait for Tracer to respond, but stormed out the door, not the sneak attack of her mother, but forceful and strong as they echoed in the hallway.

Tracer and Jack looked at each other for a moment.

“I am here to accept you chewin’ my ass.” Jack gave a firm nod.

“You’d ‘ave it coming.” Tracer agreed.

“I would.”

Tracer jumped up and took a cookie out of the tin next to her tea kettle. “That was bloody stupid, you know that? Fareeha ‘as the right of it, can’t go about trying to reform a country in the shadows. We were there last time that ‘appened,” She walked back and forth in front of her bookshelf as she talked, “Disaster. Scandal. Other terrible things. We’re trying to do better, we are. You and Ana want to make a non-official difference, try cleaning the litter out of a car park or ‘elping someone with their bags on the underground.”

Jack sighed. “You don’t understand…”

Tracer stopped and looked down at him. “Agent Morrison, I’m not quite ‘ot as Commander Amari over Egypt, on account of you and me not ‘aving us much in the way of family ‘istory, but don’t mistake that for me wanting any sort of dialogue on this. Do this again, you’ll be stripped, you ‘ear me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I don’t like to be this way, Jack. Prefer to be Lena Oxton, cracking good time, not Commander Oxton with a stick up me bleedin arse, but you don’t leave me too many options, love.” Tracer sighed and sat on her desk. “What Fareeha said goes for you, as well. Don’t breathe in the general direction of a mission or military maneuver. Maybe don’t watch war documentaries, even. You can leave, I ought to catch Fareeha, if I can.”

Jack nodded and stood. “Commander Oxton.”

He turned to go, his hand nearly on the doorknob, when she piped up cheerfully again, Commander Oxton to Lena in a moment, as ever.

“Jack!” She grinned. “Think you owe me a cake, for me trouble.”

Jack nodded again, but gave a small smile.

He’d suggest Ana send baklava.

#hon hon hon #If you're thinking #Jack is stupid that will not work AT ALL #yes that is rather the point #the man has a real idealized thought about what family is never having one of his own sometimes #Jack and Ana: Disasters

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usstatesofsong · 5 years

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ESC 2019 Reviews - Czech Republic

Semifinal 1, #6 - Lake Malawi - “Friend of a Friend”

Things I can claim to have seen the “first” of: Portugal’s first win and hosting gig, the UK’s stage invasion, Melodifestivalen voting changes, Bulgaria and Cyprus’ highest placings ever -- and the Czech Republic’s first qualification (and first Top 10!). Of course, now we’re past these vital times in the country’s Eurovision career, and it’s time to take the Czech Republic as seriously as any other entrant in the contest. The pipe dreams are over. So do Lake Malawi dare to dream? :P

youtube

A lot of people have welcomed the entirely online approach to the Czech delegation’s selection method. It may not involve shows or spectacles, but it gets the public involved and the country has seen a boost in interest as a result. But, of course, not everyone is happy with this year’s choice. Lake Malawi, which is a lake in Africa but also the name of an indie pop band from Trinec, is Albert, Jeronym and Antonin. They have been together as a three-piece group since 2016. The song “Friend of a Friend” was a narrow victor between public and jury votes; a close second was Barbora Mochowa’s ballad “True Colors” and the unforgettable “Space Sushi” from Jakub Ondra. At least that didn’t win.

This one tickles my fancy, it really does. I’m a literal sucker for 1980’s nostalgia, from which this song borrows more than any other. There’s admittedly a British flavor to this, from the way lead singer sings, to how the band itself presents the music video. This is due to their strong connection to the London music scene, and there’s surely something to be said about this but I’m not the one to judge. Unfortunately the United Kingdom won’t be voting in their semifinal.

If I had to point out a weakness, I’m not keen on the lyrical content. The leading verse is “Can you hear it? - Someone behind a wall making the same sounds - Can you hear it? - It sounds like you and me when we’re making love” Albert… why are you listening to your neighbors having sex? Why would you write a song about this!?!?!?! Maybe that’s the solace that people found in Mochowa’s song, because apart from that I find it hard to believe people rate this so low. One of my best Eurovision friends from Italy literally ranked this his personal last place of 2019. If you’re not shrouded by electropop nostalgia you may find this song (and act) cringey.

(Well you know what’s actually cringey? MADONNA performing at Eurovision. You know, so totally Israel!)

Fortunes aside, we so soon have another favorite of mine in the running order. I don’t know how it will come across in a larger arena - indie pop songs tend to feel better in smaller venues - especially since in Amsterdam they made the funny choice of lowering the octaves for the live performance. Albert needs to find something to do with his body other than jump around like a silly goose in a yellow sweater, but that is seemingly his thing. I will say this: they feel authentic, and are treating Eurovision more like a ‘gig’ than a contest. Good on them.

So this is my one pass, Europe! This is the one I get to rank high for the sake or ranking high and personally loving everything it offers, knowing quite well it won’t reach third place. But then again, I put Ukraine 2016 in fifth...

My Rating: 8/10 Ranking: 3rd of 41

#czech republic #eurovision #lake malawi #friend of a friend #czech republic 2019 #czechia #esc #esc 2019 #eurovision 2019 #eurovision song contest

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organichobo-blog · 5 years

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Awards night

Here are the best and worst of the trip. There were plenty more I added to this long list, but I’ll leave some of them for home. Probably don’t even need to read this post, it’s more for me to trigger my thoughts and kill some time before my flight home.

Flights

Best: Qantas Perth-London. Although long, I had a free seat (unlicensed 1st class) and the service was great with the anticipation of beginning my trip.

Honorable mention: all the other flights, but the American Airlines London-NY was in the same category as the best flight.

Worst: All flights were good, so I’ll go with the worst attendants. This goes to the American Airlines NY-Pittsburgh. She was the only attendant onboard, as it was the smallest plane I was on, and she was sassy to the max! You can hear her eyes roll even with noise canceling headphones on.

ACCOMMODATION

Best Bed/Sleep: Chicago was the best bed. Quite comfortable, large and had a plethora of pillows.

Green Bay, I had the best sleep. Had a long day on the greyhounds and even tho it was single bed, I was a log! Woke up in the same position I went to bed.

Worst Bed/Sleep: both to to the 2nd London hotel, the Columbia. Probably had something to do with excitement of Arsenal and the restlessness from the final days road trip, but it wasn’t a very comfortable bed.

Best overall: Pittsburgh. Wasn’t fancy, but it was a great place to stay to get around where I needed, solid facilities and a freezer for my jeans.

Honorable mentions to the Jury’s hotels. One in Southampton and the other in Oxford. They’re very clean, but their breakfasts are top notch! I also enjoyed the Newark and Chicago hotels for the modern appeal.

Worst: 2nd London hotel, The Columbia. Had the slowest and most decrepit lift I’ve ever been in. I took the stairs every time, which meant 4 flights every time, and I beat it each time. The whole room was old and dank. Had to air it out and still couldn’t get rid of the 70s.

CITIES

Best: Pittsburgh, really enjoyed everything about it. Honorable mention to London.

Worst: Newark, no doubt. Give me a smile!

UBER

Best: Steven from the hotel to Pittsburgh hotel. Nice large pickup truck (RAM 1500, always hear advertised on penguins radio) and very nice guy. Topped off my time in Pittsburgh.

Worst: Keith from Chicago hotel to jays beef restaurant. Made me find him in the freezing cold and then started driving away from the location I was walking to. He also tried to charge my phone, but actually managed to reduce my battery and his car smelt like fresh cigarettes. Nice guy tho, but also thought I was from New Zealand.

FOOD

All foods were great. So here are the best of each meal, honorable mentions to all the others.

Breakfast: Jury’s hotel (Southampton and Oxford) Great selection and it’s a buffet. Tom’s Restaurant was a special experience too.

Lunch: Tied: Bob’s Sub and Z Best BBQ (Pittsburgh) Both had such a classic American takeout feel. Delicious too! In-n-Out was great also.

Dinner: Jay’s beef (Chicago) So filling and just like Z Best BBQ, they beat to their own drum. Meaning, they do it their way even if it’s not considered proper service. Food was also incredibly filling and yet not over the top.

GAMES

Pregame: Both NFL games (Pittsburgh and Green Bay) and EPL. Tailgating at the NFL games and both leagues have a real fun atmosphere everywhere around the stadiums. The whole town get involved.

Game: Arsenal v Liverpool. Great game to watch and the atmosphere was phenomenal.

Overall: Arsenal v Liverpool and Miami v Green Bay. Great pregame, entertaining match/atmosphere, great stadiums and good results.

Not so good: The college basketball game was an average match (skills and score) and the crowd was pretty empty, even tho they were still loud and probably more entertaining than the match.

Well that should do it! Thanks for following this hobo and allowing me to share my experiences, hope you all enjoyed it!

I’ll see you all in AUS very soon!

- the returning prodigal hobo

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the-magnus-archives-archiver · 5 years

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Burned Out

Case: 0071304

Name: Ivo Lensik Subject: His experiences during construction of a house on Hill Top Road Date: March 13th, 2007 Recorded by: Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London

I’ve worked in construction for almost twenty years now, mostly in and around the Oxford area. When my father passed away in 1996, I took over his contracting business and have been working steadily ever since.

I can do most anything I’m called on for but generally specialise in new builds, plumbing and wiring work specifically, and I’ve got something of a reputation for being available at short notice, so it’s not unusual for me to be called in part-way through a build to do some work. When I got the job working on a house down Hill Top Road in mid-November, nothing about the situation seemed strange to me. The guy they had doing the wiring had been called for jury duty and they’d lost him for a couple of weeks, so they asked me to step in. I was on another job during the day, but my fiancée Sam was at a conference in Hamburg for a while and we were saving up for the wedding, so I figured I could do it in the evenings.

Now, Hill Top Road is quite a secluded street around the Cowley area. There aren’t many student houses on it, so it’s actually quite a peaceful place, especially after all the kids living there have gone to bed. The house itself had only recently been started, as some dispute over ownership had kept the land locked for years, and when I turned up it was still mostly empty. It had two floors with a loft that was going to be another bedroom, to match the rest of the road. The doors had been fitted, although the locks had not, but the empty spaces where the windows were due to be still stood vacant, letting in the chill. That side of the road backed on to South Park with fences marking the bottom of each garden. The garden of this particular house was mostly full of building materials and debris, but I remember that standing over it all was a tree. It was very large and very dead and not to put too fine a point on it, the thing creeped me right the hell out. It seemed to cast odd shadows, which were dark and clear on even the most overcast of days.

But it wasn’t the tree that started it, though. No, that happened my third night on the job. It must have been 8 or 9 in the evening, as it had been dark for a couple of hours. I was working on the ground floor wiring when I heard a knock at the front door. At first I thought it must have been one of the other builders who had forgotten something, but then I realised that there was no lock on the door; any of the others would have known that and just come right it. I began to feel slightly uneasy, when the knock came again. Over the years I’ve had a few altercations with punks that wanted to cause trouble on my sites, so I picked up a hammer as I approached. I did my best to hold it casually, as though I’d just been using it.

I opened the door to see an unassuming man in a tan coat. He was quite young, white, maybe mid-twenties, clean-shaven with shaggy, chestnut brown hair. His coat was quite an old cut; it seemed to me he looked like something out of an old Polaroid. He said his name was Raymond Fielding and that he owned the house. As he spoke, I felt my grip on the hammer tightening although I have no idea why. I asked him if he had any ID or documents and he handed over to me what seemed, as far as I could tell, to be the deed to the house, as well as the land beneath, and did indeed list a man named Raymond Fielding as the owner. So I let him in.

I apologised for the draught and said the window panes were being put in over the next few days but until then it was going to be cold. He didn’t respond, just walked over to the empty frame of the back window and stared out into the garden. I tried to get on with my work, keeping one eye on this stranger. Nothing about the situation felt quite right, but he didn’t seem to be doing anything suspicious, just standings there, looking into the garden. So I returned my concentration to the wiring.

After a minute or two, I became conscious of a sharp, unpleasant smell. I thought maybe I had wired something up wrong, but no, it smelled like burning human hair. I looked over to where Raymond had been standing but he was gone. Where he had been there was just a patch of scorched wooden floor, still apparently smouldering and giving off that dreadful stink. I ran to get the fire extinguisher from an adjoining room. I was gone only a few seconds but when I returned the smell was gone and there was no longer any smoke or fire, just the burn mark on the wooden floor in front of that window. Touching it, I found that it was just as cold as the rest of the floor. I started to clean and found that the wood below appeared to be undamaged with just a coating of soot and ashes on top. I had a look around for this Raymond Fielding but if he was ever truly there, then he was gone now. It was only when I had finished cleaning up the mark that the true strangeness of the situation began to sink in and I started to panic.

I should probably explain my fear a bit, as it wasn’t because of ghosts or phantom smells or anything like that. You see, there is quite a significant history of schizophrenia among the men in my family. My father had it, as did my great uncle, and in both of their cases it led to suicide. I didn’t know much about my great uncle but I had seen my father’s decline first hand. It had started shortly after his divorce from my mother, although thinking about it; it was perhaps the early stages that had exacerbated the problems in their marriage. Regardless, he began to spend a lot of time locked in his study doing “his work”. I was maybe 24 or 25 at the time and still living at home. I was working with my dad, doing much the same job as I do now, and it was at this point I had to take on more and more of the actual running of the business, since my father was beginning to prioritise his “work” over his actual job. His “work” turned out to be fractals. He became obsessed with them, seemed to spend all of his time drawing them, staring at them, measuring the patterns they created. He would talk to me for hours about the maths behind them and tell me that he was on the verge of a great truth. He was going to shake mathematics to its foundations once he figured out this truth, hidden in those cascading fractal patterns.

One day I returned home to find my father staring through the blinds in terror. He claimed that someone was following him, told me that they were planning to stop his work. I asked him who it was but he shook his head violently and said I’d know him when I saw him because “all the bones are in his hands”. I tried to get him help, of course I did, but he refused to take any medication as he said it interfered with his work, and he wasn’t dangerous so I couldn’t have him committed. I knew it was only a matter of time before he hurt himself and sure enough the day came when he wouldn’t answer the knocks on his study door. I broke in to find him lying dead in a pool of blood, with deep gouges along his wrists and arms. The walls were covered in fractal drawings, every surface was piled high with them and pencil shavings littered the floor. The inquest ruled his death a suicide, although the coroner wasn’t able to identify the tool that had made the cuts on his arms or why he had such a look of fear on his face.

This is why the apparent disappearance of Raymond Fielding worried me so much. I was younger than my father had been but still had that possibility within me. This train of thought was likely why I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should have been where I was stepping and I slipped on the wet section of flooring that I had just cleaned. I fell forward, hitting my head badly. I don’t think I was unconscious for more than a few seconds but when I woke up I was bleeding from a deep cut on my temple. I tried to make it to my car but I was so dizzy just standing up that it was clear driving was out of the question. So I called for an ambulance. It arrived quickly and it took me to the John Radcliffe Hospital.

When I got there, they were very responsive and quickly determined that I had quite a severe concussion, so I was kept overnight for observation. I told my doctor everything about my encounter with Raymond Fielding. If it was early signs of any developing schizophrenia, I wanted to know as soon as possible. The doctor listened closely and said it was unlikely, as it would be surprising if I developed full hallucinations so abruptly, but that they were keeping me under observation. I noticed as I was explaining my experience, the nurse taking my blood pressure seemed to be listening intently, though she left before I could ask her why.

I stayed in that hospital for another two days. Sam wanted to cut short her trip when she heard about my concussion, but I told her that any real danger had passed and I should be fine until the end of her conference, so I was mostly on my own for that time. It was the morning before she was due to return that I saw the nurse again. I’d just had the news that the tests had all come back fine, so I was being discharged and she came in to give me a final check.

She asked me if I was sure the man who had come to the house on Hill Top Road had called himself Raymond Fielding. I told her yes, and that I’d even seen his signature on the deed to the land, but that I didn’t know any of the history of the place. She got very quiet and sat down. This nurse was an older woman, Malaysian I think and I would have guessed in her fifties, though I didn’t ask. She said her family had lived on Hill Top Road for a long time now and she knew the place I was working. In the 1960s, the house that had stood there had belonged to a man named Raymond Fielding. He was a devout churchgoer and had used it as a halfway house on behalf of the local diocese, looking after teenage runaways and young people with mental problems. The neighbourhood apparently hadn’t liked it, as its residents often got into trouble and Hill Top Road had started to get something of a reputation for it. Nobody ever said a word against Raymond himself though, who was by all accounts such a kind and gentle soul as to be almost universally beloved.

Nobody was sure exactly when Agnes moved in; some even said she was Raymond’s actual daughter, as the two of them looked something alike and she was younger than most of the other kids living there. She couldn’t have been more than eleven when she turned up and didn’t really talk, other than to tell people her name if asked. Everyone just started to notice this child with mousey brown pigtails staring at them through the windows of Raymond’s house. As far as anyone could tell that’s all she ever seemed to do – stare at people from he windows. It was unsettling but no-one had any real problem with it.

Over the next few years, the kids at the halfway house stopped causing problems in the area around Hill Top Road. It wasn’t an obvious change, but gradually the people living there were seen less and less. Raymond was still there and still seemed perfectly cheery. If anyone asked him about a resident who hadn’t been around for a while, he’d explain that they’d moved on or found a place of their own, and no-one really cared enough to follow up on his information. Soon the only people living in that old house were Agnes and Raymond. Then Raymond disappeared as well. Agnes must have been 18 or 19 by this point, and still hardly ever talked. When she was questioned about what happened to Raymond she simply said he had gone away and that the house was hers. People got a bit worried at that, and the police conducted a small investigation, but the house had been legally signed over to Agnes and there was no sign of any foul play. No sign of Raymond either, for that matter.

And so the years passed and Agnes lived on in that old house. Hardly ever seemed to leave it, just watched from the windows. Folks in Hill Top Road learned it was best not to keep pets, as they tended to vanish. Then, in 1974, Henry White goes missing. Five years old and the search turned up nothing. People have always whispered about Agnes but now the whispers got nasty. Nasty enough that when smoke is seen pouring out of the old Fielding house a week after little Henry disappeared, no-one did a thing. No-one phoned the fire brigade or tried to help. They just watched. Agnes must not have phoned for assistance either, as by the time the fire trucks arrived there was nothing left to save. Through it all, nobody saw any sign of life from within the building. No screaming, no movement, nothing but the roaring of the flames. When the fire was finally put out, they did find human remains but it wasn’t Agnes nor was it Henry White. The only body they found was that of Raymond Fielding. All that was left was a badly-charred skeleton, missing its right hand.

That was the history of the place, as the nurse told it to me. Once the rubble had been cleared away, the land had become tied up in legal complications relating to the ownership and had remained so until earlier last year. She asked me not to let anyone else know she’d been talking about it, as she didn’t want people to think she had been spreading stories. I told her I’d keep quiet and she left. I didn’t see her again and was discharged soon afterwards.

I rested at home for a couple of days but I find forced inactivity very boring and my head was feeling fine so I decided to go back to work. By all rights I should probably have avoided returning to Hill Top Road, but I found myself resenting how the house made me feel. I didn’t believe in ghosts, to be honest I’m still not sure I do, and had been assured by the doctor that I wasn’t displaying any other symptoms of schizophrenia, so there was no reason for me to feel this gnawing apprehension. I convinced myself that the only way to banish the feeling was to return and finish the job that I started. So that’s what I did, although I was careful to work only in daylight now and tried to avoid being alone.

Even so, there were occasional moments when I would find myself the only one working in a room, or when silence fell across the building. And then I would smell it again, that whiff of burnt hair, or catch a glimpse of brown pigtails disappearing around a corner. As the job drew towards a close, it became harder to avoid working there after dark, until I lost track of time completely one afternoon and looked up to see that not only had night fallen but I was the only one left in the building. Almost as soon as I realised this I began to sweat. At first I thought it was nerves or even a panic attack at finding myself alone, but it was the heat; this warmth that seemed to start in my bones and radiate out through me. I took off my hat and jacket, but I just got hotter and hotter until it felt like I was cooking from the inside. I tried to scream but I couldn’t find my breath, I couldn’t move. I was burning up.

There was a knock at the door and the feeling abruptly vanished. I was cold again, lying on the bare floor. I struggled to my feet as the knock came again. My hand shook as I opened it. By now I didn’t know what to expect. Would it be Raymond again? Agnes? Or some other thing to announce the end of my sanity. What I did not expect was a Catholic priest. He was short, and a bit portly, with close-cropped hair and deep smile lines around his mouth. He introduced himself as Father Edwin Burroughs and told me that “Annie” had asked him to pay the place a visit. I didn’t know any Annie and told him so, and he seemed slightly confused, said she worked as a nurse at the John Radcliffe Hospital. This allayed my fears enough that I let him in, and I asked him if he was some sort of exorcist. Father Burroughs smiled and told me yes, that’s exactly what he was.

So I told him my story as he went around examining the house. He nodded as I went through what happened, occasionally asking a question about what had been said or how I had felt. Finally he seemed satisfied and said he’d do what he could. He explained that exorcism was really only for demons and it wasn’t something he could do to ghosts, at least not officially – whether or not ghosts actually existed was apparently just as divisive a question within the church as outside of it – but he would go through some blessings and see if he could help. He asked me to wait outside while he worked, so I headed into the back garden and waited.

As I stood there in the cold, my eyes fell on the tree. That creepy, damn tree. I don’t know why, but at that moment I felt an intense, maddening anger at that tree. I picked up a crowbar that lay on a nearby pile of wood and, drawing my arm back, I swung it at the trunk, burying it with all my might. I felt something warm and wet spray out where I had hit it. Sap? No, it didn’t feel like sap. I turned on my torch to see blood flowing from the wounded tree. It ran down the crowbar and dripped onto the earth, running in rivulets. As it reached the roots I saw something else in my torch’s light, curling up from the base of the tree were old, black scorch marks.

At that moment I made my decision. It was easy, like destroying this tree was the only thing to do, the only path to follow. I found a long chain among the building materials in the garden and wrapped it around the still-bleeding trunk, then attached the ends to my car. It took me less than a minute to pull it down, and there was no more blood. When the tree lay on its side, uprooted and powerless, I gazed into the hole where it had sat and noticed something lying there in the dirt.

Climbing down, I retrieved what turned out to be a small wooden box, about six inches square, with an intricate pattern carved along the outside. Engraved lines covered it, warping and weaving together, making it hard to look away. I opened the box and sitting inside was a single green apple. It looked fresh, shiny, with a coat of condensation like it had just been picked on a cool spring morning. I picked it up. I wasn’t going to eat it, I’m not that stupid, but more than bleeding trees or phantom burning, this confused me. As I took it out of the box, though, it began to turn. The skin turned brown and bruised and started to shrivel in my hand. Then it split. And out came spiders. Dozens, hundreds of spiders erupting from this apple that was rotting right before my eyes. I shrieked and dropped it before any of them could touch my arm. The apple fell to the ground and burst in a cloud of dust. I backed away and waited until I was sure all the spiders had left before retrieving the box. I smashed it with a crowbar and threw the remains into a skip.

Father Burroughs returned shortly afterwards. He told me he’d done his prayers and hoped that it would be some help. If he noticed the felled tree, he didn’t ask any questions about it, instead he just handed me his business card and told me to give him a call if there were any further problems. The house didn’t feel any different, but there was no smell of burned hair, no heat or ghosts or any weirdness I could see. I worked on that house for another week, and I don’t know if it was the father’s prayers or my uprooting the tree but I didn’t encounter anything else unusual during my time there. After that, my part of the job was finished, and I haven’t been back to Hill Top Road since.

Archivist Notes:

Ah, head trauma and latent schizophrenia – the ghost’s best friends. Aside from excessive indulgence in psychoactive drugs, it seems to me that there is simply no better way to make contact with the spirit world. Still, glibness aside, the history of 105 Hill Top Road does bear investigation. And while I trust Mr. Lensik’s testimony of his own experiences about as far as I can throw a bleeding tree, there is a note in the file mentioning that Father Edwin Burroughs put down his own version of these events in Statement 0218011*. While I have yet to locate that particular file in the chaos that passed for Gertrude Robinson’s archive, the suggestion that there may be external corroboration does lend some potential credence to Mr. Lensik’s wild tale. No other workers on the building site at the time reported any disturbances like the ones reported by Mr Lensik.

Martin was unable to find the exact date the original house was built but the earliest records he could find list it as being bought by Walter Fielding in 1891. It was inherited by his son Alfred Fielding in 1923 and then by his grandson, Raymond Fielding, in 1957. There was no record of it being used as a halfway house, certainly not one connected to the local Catholic diocese although the Church of England records for the area that Sasha got access to were unfortunately incomplete. The older residents of Hill Top Road back up the account given by the nurse, Anna Kasuma, as related here.

Tim managed to organise an interview with Mrs. Kasuma but she apparently could provide no further information beyond what she told to Mr. Lensik. She did admit though to asking Father Burroughs to take a look at the house as she was worried about it and had seen him perform exorcisms before. There doesn’t seem to be any print evidence of what happened to the house; no news stories or similar regarding the fire. But one resident did provide a photograph of the house in flames.

Raymond Fielding’s obituary briefly reported his death as having been due to a house fire and lauds his work with troubled youth but gives no details about either. Agnes remains something of a mystery as we have not been able to find any definitive proof that she even existed. Except... We cannot prove any connection but Martin unearthed a report on a Agnes Montague who was found dead in her Sheffield flat on the evening of November 23rd 2006, the same day Mr. Lensik claims to have uprooted the tree. She had hanged herself. Her age is given at 26 which doesn’t match up at all. But tied by a chain to her waist was a severed human hand, a right hand. Its owner was never identified but the coroner was apparently quite perplexed, as tissue decay would seem to indicate that the hand’s original owner must have died at almost the exact same time as Agnes.

Two families have lived in the house since this statement was originally made but no further manifestations have been reported on Hill Top Road.

*reference to supposed Statement 0218011 by Father Edwin Burroughs is most likely a mistaken written of Statements 0113005 and 0113005-B by Father Edwin Burroughs which do appear coincide with this statement, as a statement 0218011 would have taken place in the 80th day of November of year X021 (i.e. 2021, 1921, 1821, etc.)

Source: Official Transcript and Podcast (MAG 8 Burned Out)

#the magnus archives #magnus archives #MAG #MAG8 #MAG 8 #BurnedOut #Burned Out #Statement #The Desolation #The Web #Spiders #The Spiral

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the-adaa · 6 years

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Gallery Chat: The Founders of Corbett vs. Dempsey on Elevating Midwestern Art, Why Collectors Should be Obsessive and Fall in Love with Art, and More

By Stephanie Strasnick

Jim Dempsey and John Corbett. Photo by joe mazza / brave lux inc.

“The thought of having a gallery didn’t occur to us until five minutes before we had a gallery,” recalls Jim Dempsey, who co-founded Chicago’s Corbett vs. Dempsey gallery 14 years ago with business partner John Corbett. The two had first met at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and developed a friendship off campus at various film and music events, connecting over their shared interest in the mediums. After collaborating on a series of screenings at Dempsey’s art-house movie theater, the pair toyed with the idea of dealing rare, historic and curious works by Chicago artists in a storefront. Their real estate search brought them to the sprawling top floor of a friend’s record store, which was too large for the small enterprise they first envisioned, but just right for an exhibition space. “If we’d have gone home and thought about it, we would have talked ourselves out of it,” remembers Dempsey. Instead, they committed to the space on the spot with a handshake, marking the beginning of a fruitful 14-year partnership.

In the early years of Corbett vs. Dempsey, the gallery’s program was deeply rooted in the history of art in the Midwest. Together they uncovered what was in many ways a forgotten generation of artists and the two became known for their exhibitions of mid-century Midwestern art. Their first show featured WPA cityscapes by Modernist painter Eve Garrison, and the second highlighted works by erstwhile Chicagoan Jimmy Wright. Though the lifelong Chicagoans haven’t lost touch with their Midwestern roots, their program has evolved to include artists from across the country (such as Joyce Pensato, Christopher Wool, and Charline von Heyl). Currently, the gallery has a solo exhibition by Josiah McElheny. “Cosmic Love,” his second show at the gallery, features all new work and offers a teaser of his installation at the upcoming Carnegie International. Corbett vs. Dempsey is also participating in Condo New York, a gallery sharing initiative developed in London in 2016. Bortolami, a fellow ADAA member, will be hosting presentations by gallery artists Rebecca Morris and Ed Flood.

Josiah McElheny, Color Time—Model One, 2014, handblown molded and polished glass, marine plywood, red oak, AC gear motor and inverter, Variac control knob, electric lighting, electric wiring, sheet glass, mirror, hardware. Courtesy the artist and Corbett vs. Dempsey, Chicago.

The Chicago-based duo talked with us about their decade-and-a-half-long collaboration, the multi-faceted history of Midwestern art, and why the key to collecting is “falling in love with things like you fall in love with a person.”

What first attracted you to visual art?

Corbett: When I was a kid, my father turned me onto painting. He took me to an art museum, sat me down in front of two very different paintings, and made a point that you may like one or the other, but they’re both worth looking at. That was really interesting to me—this idea that they could be so different, yet both so engaging. That stuck with me from then on.

How did this interest in painting manifest itself into a career in the arts?

Corbett: Well, I was really a closet visual art person all along, in terms of the things that I was doing, listening to, writing about and so on. I started teaching at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in 1988, mostly focusing on sound and music then migrated my way through the school as my interests shifted. When the chair of the Exhibition Studies program went on sabbatical, I filled in for a year and that was a bridge to curatorial for me—and then I met Jim.

Magalie Guérin, Untitled, 2017, oil on canvas on panel. Courtesy the artist and Corbett vs. Dempsey, Chicago.

How did you two first meet?

Corbett: We knew each other because we were both culture vultures. Although we were both at the School of the Art Institute at the same time, I was there teaching while in graduate school and Jim was there going to art school. We were theoretically in the same space, but we really knew each other from the music and film scenes.

What inspired you two to start a gallery together?

Corbett: Jim and I started getting interested in the history of our own city’s visual art and why we, as lifelong Chicagoans, knew so little about the art history of Chicago. We began exploring that angle through our exhibitions because at that time, there were big holes in the scholarship, and in the exhibition history. That curiosity was kind of what lured us into the business. The path to the gallery was a little different for Jim, though, so I’ll let him tell his version of the story.

Dempsey: I didn’t grow up in a family that went to museums—art was a bit of a mystery to me. But in school I became sort of a marvel at making things, I always cut the best looking pumpkin at Halloween. I wasn’t involved in the real art world until after high school, when I took a painting class at a community college. I went to art school, had a lot of studio practice for many years, and I used to run an art-house movie theatre.

Once, I was programming a series of Sun Ra films. I knew that John was an authority on the extraterrestrial musician Sun Ra and invited him to help me. We became friends through that experience and started working together on other projects after that. Then at some point, we decided that we need to kind of pair up and actually try to curate some exhibitions.

Barbara Rossi, Rose Rock, 1972, acrylic on Plexiglas in artist’s frame. Courtesy the artist and Corbett vs. Dempsey, Chicago.

John mentioned that we were very interested in the history of the Midwest, and the more we learned the weirder it got. We realized that there was a great story to tell through art—a puzzle we could put together in a logical way. When I got out of school, I started doing research and started finding out more about the work of some of my former Art Institute teachers, who were artists, and it just felt like we were really doing historical—almost anthropological—work. It was endlessly fascinating.

Tell us about your first official exhibition at Corbett vs. Dempsey.

Corbett: Our first exhibition, in 2004, was WPA cityscapes from the late 1930s to the early 1940s by an artist named Eve Garrison. She was a Chicago painter and the head of a group called No-Jury Society, which fought for exhibitions at public institutions to be selected without judges. She was a really great Realist, figurative painter and, in the 1940s, she started to shift to a very strange kind of homespun Surrealism.

When and why did you start showing more artists from outside of Chicago?

Corbett: Originally, we were digging things up that collectors hadn’t seen yet. We ended up building a small market for mid-century Chicago art and we showed about 70% Chicago artists, 30% artists from outside Chicago. In 2008 we felt that was no longer the right mix. We were showing Chicago art to Chicagoans, which had been done before. It seemed like a better idea to broaden the reach, to show historical Chicagoans to the rest of the world and give interesting contemporary non-Chicago work a Chicago venue for the first time.

Cauleen Smith, Stop, 2017, satin, poly-satin, upholstery, wool felt, silk-rayon velvet, embroidery floss, acrylic fabric paint, and sequins. Courtesy the artist and Corbett vs. Dempsey, Chicago.

What sets Chicago apart from other cities? How would you describe the Chicago aesthetic?

Dempsey: The Midwest in general can be a place where you see some great things that don’t look like anything anywhere else. If you’re going to compare Chicago to, say, New York, the market pressures are much different. Historically, artists here were freed from those pressures and could explore things that move them—they just followed their muse. They followed each other and supported one another. I think this city also benefited from the incredible collections that were here, particularly the private Surrealist collections. Surrealism made its way into the museums, and then it got into the blood of some of the artists and the students, and ended up in their work.

One of the unique features of your gallery is that it also has its own record label. How did that happen?

Corbett: I had a record label before we started the gallery and it made sense to pull the label over from where it had been operating to the gallery. We changed its name to Corbett vs. Dempsey to be consistent. We put out 10 CDs a year—ranging from experimental jazz to free, improvised music—and we present live music in our gallery space periodically.

Various CDs published by Corbett vs. Dempsey. Courtesy the artist and Corbett vs. Dempsey.

You’ve been working together for 14 years. At this point, are you typically on the same page when it comes to your program?

Dempsey: We respond to things in similar ways. When you find somebody who you jive with like that, the work can be easy. But you know, there are times when we do hash it out. We made a pact early on that we would only show work that really resonated with us and that really moved us. We wouldn’t make a show that we secretly didn’t like just for economical reasons. We can only be truthful to ourselves so we have to work with stuff we love. Now, there are things that John has championed that maybe I was not quite as keen on, but we trust each other’s instincts.

Do you have advice for aspiring dealers?

Dempsey: Don’t think more than five minutes about it, otherwise you’ll talk yourself out of it.

Corbett: I’d actually think long and hard about starting a gallery now because it’s a different world than it was 14 years ago. To start a gallery in New York or Los Angeles—just to keep the door open—is very difficult. Give it a long think—or do what Jim said and don’t think about it at all.

David Hartt, Carolina I, 2017, archival pigment print mounted to Dibond. Edition of 6 + 1 AP. Courtesy the artist and Corbett vs. Dempsey, Chicago.

Words of wisdom for budding collectors?

Corbett: I come at collecting from having collected something of a lesser monetary value—vinyl records. I’ve been a collector since I was a kid and my idea about collecting is to be obsessive about it. I get obsessive about things and want to find them and want to sometimes find unusual examples of them—rarity is key for record collectors. So, my advice? Become obsessed. The most interesting collections are the ones where you walk in and that collector knows a lot more than you do about their stuff.

Dempsey: For young collectors, it’s about falling in love with things like you fall in love with a person. Some of the most amazing experiences John and I have had are seeing well-honed, lifelong collections. They weren’t created by people who were following trends or treating their art collection like the stock market. When you see a Warhol next to a work by somebody you’ve never heard of, that means the collector loved both of those things equally, and that’s when you see somebody’s true soul, who they are, and what they want to surround themselves with.

Diane Simpson, Apron X, 2005, aluminum and leather. Courtesy the artist and Corbett vs. Dempsey, Chicago.

#Gallery Chat #ADAA Galleries #Corbett vs. Dempsey

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betweenthetimeandsound · 3 years

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Three Minutes to Eternity: My ESC 250 (#190-181)

#190: Kaliopi -- Crno i Belo (North Macedonia 2012)

“Отвори душа признај ми, Што сме сега јас и ти, Пола мое во тебе, А пола твое спие во мене,”

“Open your soul and admit to me, What we are now, you and me Half of me is in you And half of you is sleeping in me”

Kaliopi was supposed to be (North) Macedonia's first entrant in the 1996 with the song Samo Ti, but an audio-only pre-qualifying round ended up preventing her from doing so. Whereas Samo ti is a calming, R&B influenced song, Crno i belo is an alternative rock song which takes a number of twists.

Crno I Belo starts slowly, but it really picks up from the second verse onwards as it transforms into a rock song. There’s a sense of confrontation with the lyrics, which the music also tries to convey. And I don’t need to say much about Kaliopi’s vocals—a bit harsh, but awesome. And that scream is nothing but penetrating.

Personal ranking: 4th/42 Actual ranking: 13th/26 GF in Baku

#189: Måns Zelmerlöw - Heroes (Sweden 2015)

"Now go sing it like a hummingbird The greatest anthem ever heard"

I know there was a bit of flack of Sweden's most recent win, because they won primarily because of the jury (they were third in the televote). Compared to "Grand Amore", which comfortably won the televote but only gotten sixth with the juries, which was a pretty bad mismatch.

In addition, compared to the other fan-favorites of the class of 2015, Heroes is a more mainstream-sounding pop song, with influences from "Lovers from the Sun" and the highly produced Swedish-pop scene. But when I listen to it, it's very engaging and surprisingly danceable, with a great message of strength and togetherness. And the staging was quite slick and creative (with a bunch of influence on some of those from the following year)

So while Heroes is not my personal favorite of 2015, it's still a compelling and awesome pop song. Six years later, it's holds up fantastically.

Personal ranking: 7th/40 Actual ranking: 1st/27 GF in Vienna

#188: Elitsa Todorova & Stoyan Yankoulov -- Water (Bulgaria 2007)

"Море, Митра пее на реката Митре ле, ий… Митре ле"

"Lo, Mitra sings by the river Oh Mitra, eeh.. oh Mitra"

I have the strange impression that Bulgaria has a trance music scene we don't know of. From Elitsa and Stoyan's two appearances to the lyrics of Stanga being taken from a Bulgarian folk song, it's something that was not in focus in the rest of the world.

That said, Bulgaria's only qualifying song prior to 2016 is an experience to behold. While the lyrics are simply about Mitra meeting a lad riding a horse, the soundscape feels like you're in the surreal place yourself. You are in a rush against time, but you're also on a journey towards...somewhere.

Both the music and drumming really amplify the experience; seeing Elitsa and Stoyan drum together was a highlight for me. And while there are questions about Elitsa's vocals, including a point where she goes off-key, she still provides the necessary tone for this intriguing song.

Personal ranking: 4th/42 Actual ranking: 5th/24 GF in Helsinki

#187: Tose Proeski -- Life (North Macedonia 2004)

“Life is a book and you gotta read it Life is a story and you gotta tell it Life is a song and you gotta sing it You've got to know how to live it.”

For some curious reason, I prefer the English-version of this song to the Macedonian language one. Whereas this one, performed from Eurovision, focuses on the angst of existence and the importance of making the most of it, "Angel si ti" is an ode towards a lover who lines his streets with roses and even turns back time.

That's one of the things which work here that really shouldn’t. The mid-2000s sound, the lyrics, and the sheer angst of it. But for some reason, I really enjoy it. Tose (RIP) sings this really well, and it feels like a song out of a musical, in a scene where the protagonist cannot decide what they want to do with their life. It's awesome and I love this lots (and please, put this in a hypothetical Eurovision jukebox musical--there's so much plot potential!)

Personal ranking: 6th/36 Actual ranking: 14th/24 GF in Istanbul

#186: Lisa Andreas -- Stronger Every Minute (Cyprus 2004)

“My love grows stronger every minute And it won’t ever die You must believe I’ll always be there For you, all my life”

Greece and Cyprus are basically sisters in the contest--you can almost always expect them to give votes to each other considering the circumstances. However, their combined quality frequently varies, as well as results. 2004 was their best results year, though not necessarily their best in terms of songs (you'll get that later, towards the end)

At fifth place, Stronger Every Minute shared the best Cypriot entry ever with two other entries (one of which is #239, another coming soon) until 2018. This time, it comes in the form of a delicate love song, performed so tenderly and serenely by Lisa. Despite her looks making her look older than sixteen, she conveys a sense of innocence, helped by the glockenspiel and the acoustic guitar throughout.

I love how sincere she sings this “love letter”, as one blogger put it--I hope everyone can feel a love like this! A pure oasis in the flash and chaos of the 100% televote era.

Personal ranking: 5th/36 Actual ranking: =5th/24 GF (with Sweden) in Istanbul

#185: Paloma San Basilio -- La fiesta terminó (Spain 1985)

“La fiesta terminó Ya no hay más que niebla entre tú y yo ¿Para qué echar más leña arder Si el fuego se ha apagado ya?”

“The party’s over There’s only a fog between you and me Why throwing more wood to burn When the fire is already dull?"

Juan Carlos Calderon and Paloma San Basilio are really well known in their fields --the former is a noted songwriter who already wrote one of the biggest hits in Latin America, whereas the latter is a noted singer and theater actress who would win a Latin Grammy and play Evita.

Together, they have this really nice power ballad, albeit one with a bit of melancholy in it. The lyrics are the strong part of this piece, telling of a relationship that has come to an end using the party as a metaphor for it. It works very well, especially with Paloma's warm voice and the way she emotes the song through her hand gestures.

The resulting package is quite sad, yet very, very beautiful. Unfortunately, it didn't get the result it deserved (which maybe because of that backing vocalist picking at his nose...).

Personal ranking: 2nd/19 Actual ranking: 14th/19 in Gothenburg

#184: Sakis Rouvas -- Shake It (Greece 2004)

“I would trade my life for a night with you Driven by desire”

(Yes, this is already the third song from 2004 to appear in this section. haha. The first two that appeared here are fighting for my fifth, whereas the top four here is the exact same top four of that year.)

The first of the Greek Golden Era, we get Sakis Rouvas in all his glory. This was a hit when it was first released, and it at one point was the highest selling single of all-time in Greece. And as of 2021, it's still the highest-scoring Greek entry, despite them winning the following year.

While his regular discography doesn’t usually feature Greek elements, as he's better known for popularizing pop and rock influences in Greek music, I still think the bouzouki riffs do a good job here adding to this bop (the composer is Nikos Terzis--remember this name).

It's a dancefloor banger which I keep on repeat, and it seems that people across the continent have done so too! Especially those from Turkey. The performance is also quite fun, albeit with some...curious choreography (e.g. 1:42-1:46). That said, we also get some of Sakis' athleticism, thanks to him doing track when he was younger.

Personal ranking: 4th/36 Actual ranking: 3rd/24 GF in Istanbul

#183: Claude Lombard -- Quand tu Reviendras (Belgium 1968)

"Passent les semaines, se traînent les jours Et moi, j’attends ton retour En filant la laine dans mes beaux atours En bordant ma peine de doux fils d’amour"

"Weeks passing by, the days are lingering And I’m waiting for your return Spinning the wool in my beautiful finery Embroidering my pain in soft threads of love"

A couple of commenters compared to a Kate Bush song, and I think it comes down to Claude’s voice, which is very ethereal. However, Claude's voice has some depth, which, in comparison to Kate Bush's earlier work, is a bit more mature.

As for the song, it’s very folkloric but tragic, in which she yearns for the day her lover comes back. The use of strings helps in that it establishes a medieval ambience to it, but the overall feeling is still timeless. It’s almost as if one is caught into the story and wept along with her.

I especially love this because it stood out amongst the class of 1968--while most of the other songs has a happy-go-lucky vibe, Quand tu Reviendras goes in the opposite direction. Same with my runner-up.

Personal ranking: 1st/17 Actual ranking: =7th/17 (with Monaco and Yugoslavia) in London

#182: Doris Dragović - Marija Magdalena (Croatia 1999)

Maria Magdalena, gib mir deine Macht Für immer und nicht nur für eine Nacht

“Svjedok mi Bog, srca mi mog, Ova žena zna, da ti pripada sva...”

“As God is my witness, I swear by my heart, That this woman knows, she belongs to you entirely...”

(The first few lyrics were from the first Maria Magdalena from Austria, haha. Just wanted to mess with you. :) )

The second Marija Magdalena is a beloved entry in the fandom, and for good reason! It hasn’t aged since 1999, which shone amongst the relatively dull field with its mix of ethnic and dance music. Lyrically, it focuses on a love that redeems the narrator, hence the imagery related to Marija Magdalena (yay, religious imagery and redemption!). I think it works efficiently, and Doris performs well on stage with her powerful vocals and diva-like presence. Arguably, it's argued that it was the best song of 1999.

The only problem I have is with the backing vocals on the instrumental. The delegation cheated, and that’s the end of it. I’m still wondering why people would put this as their favorite of 1999 otherwise; even with the new rule about allowing them on the track. It puts me on edge on what would've happened had they won.

Beautiful song, but cheaters don't prosper in my book.

Personal ranking: 3rd/23 Actual ranking: 4th/23 in Jerusalem

#181: Evelin Samuel & Camille - Diamond of Night (Estonia 1999)

“Diamond of night, burning so bright Guide me my silvery new sign”

The last Eurovision song of the twentieth century is filled with mystical imagery, atmospheric instrumentation, and a beautiful violin solo. The whole thing reminds me of a fairytale, with a cool soundscape, though sometimes I feel like something is lacking in it (especially because it resembles some entries from the 1996 contest; I was thinking of I evighet when writing this)

The lyrics are especially pertinent for Evelin Samuel (the singer), who tried to get to Eurovision throughout the entire 1990s. She was about to go as one half of the Estonian duo from 1996, when she suddenly got a tour in Japan, which was then canceled. She managed to become a backing vocalist in 1997, and finally got her chance here. Seeing her sing "now i can say it's my time" is very touching, even if her eyes seem to be bulging out!

In the end, it's a peaceful and serene song, with hope for the new millenium. However, considering what the first song of Eurovision 2000 would be, little did one know it won't always start on the right foot...

Personal ranking: 2nd/23 Actual ranking: 6th/23 in Jerusalem

#eurovision song contest #esc 250 #esc top 250 #esc north macedonia #esc sweden #esc bulgaria #esc cyprus #esc spain #esc greece #esc belgium #esc croatia #esc estonia #vintage eurovision #three minutes to eternity

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chaos-weekly · 3 years

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“You left my party early,” Xander greeted Imogen with a playful frown. Imogen raised an eyebrow at him, but she didn’t speak yet. She was wiping down the bar in between customers. Knowing that an old trucker would take his preferred spot if Xander didn’t get there first, he sat down in front of her.

“You left,” he reminded her.

“I had work at eight in the morning on Monday, Xander.” Imogen moved to the spot next to him, wiping it down quickly.

“The usual?” She set the rag down, already moving towards making him a cosmopolitan. Xander couldn’t help but grin. Some of his friends gave him crap for his favorite beverage, so it was nice for someone to see it as a normal thing.

“Yeah,” Xander said, relaxing on the bar stool. “How do you work so much?” He’d had a crazy week on set making up for time he lost when misbehaving with Leah. Part of the terms of his apology, to convince people he was serious, was that he wouldn’t push back the scheduling any further. It was going to happen on time. And Xander didn’t regret that, it was fun and rewarding, but he also just wanted to relax. Usually, he’d hook up with Didi to blow some steam, but since the fake dating with JJ, she hadn’t come to him. Xander didn’t want to risk messing up the bet he had with Nollie, either. So that meant not initiating any escapades himself. Then there was the complication of JJ and Didi being in Minnesota while her mom was in the hospital. He couldn’t even see them for fun. Sure, Xander had other friends, but not many. Not real ones like those two. He was friendly with Nollie, sure, but now the model spent all her time with London and that crew. Considering how Leah had moved on to someone in that crew? Well, Nollie and Xander didn’t hang out without Didi anyways. It wasn’t about to change.

Imogen set the drink in front of him, jolting Xander from his thoughts. She cocked an eyebrow when he jumped. Xander smirked and took a sip of his drink, as if it had been on purpose.

“I don’t do bored very well,” Imogen answered, reminding Xander that he’d asked her a question.

“I wish I could do that.” He frowned. Bored led to trouble which led to Leah. Always bad news.

“Find your bartending, then you can.” Imogen shrugged, moving away when another customer sat down.

Xander watched her as she talked. Light filled her eyes and her easy smile. A rich laugh broke out across the bar, and he smiled into his drink. Imogen was inspiring. She’d found her passion and her favorite way to relax. For Xander, his passion was acting, but he wasn’t sure how to relax in a good way. Sex had caused too many problems, even if that wouldn’t stop him yet. Drinking often led to sex, so that was something he had to be careful with, too. A cosmo or three on a Saturday night was good, but only at this tiny trucker bar.

Seriously, these cosmopolitans were addicting. Xander couldn’t get enough. It was what drew him back each week, five weeks in a row now. The atmosphere—a little wild but relaxed and carefree—certainly helped. Even better, Imogen talked to him like he was a real person. Xander didn’t even talk to himself like that, and not JJ or Didi, either.

Was he fully honest with anyone? Did he talk with anyone? Man, now he was overthinking everything.

He finished his drink with a heavy sigh right as Imogen returned. She took his glass and started another cosmo without a word.

“You know me so well,” Xander chuckled, watching her as she worked. Fast, steady hands, always purposeful with what they did.

“That’s ‘cause I’m a lawyer,” Imogen pointed out. “It’s my job to read people.”

Xander shook his head. “No, Didi reads people. She’s usually right with her first impressions. But you, Imogen, you have a superpower.”

She smirked at him. “I’m also a bartender. It’s my job to read people.”

An easy chuckle fell from Xander’s mouth. She had a point; her two careers did overlap with both skills and one client. Or was he a patron? Xander didn’t know.

“You’ve got a heavy load today,” Imogen said, resting her hip against the inside of the bar. She was right. He felt heavy. Xander didn’t know exactly what that meant, but everything was just so heavy. His brain had slowed down, his heart wasn’t in it, and he felt hopeless. This was burn out, wasn’t it?

“Yeah,” he sighed again, running a hand through his styled to be perfectly disheveled hair. “I don’t know what’s even going wrong. I’m actually doing things right for the first time in my life.”

“What’s your escape?” Back to the first story she’d told him. His bartending. His tennis. His escape.

“Coming here helps, but I don’t think that’s what you mean.”

Imogen shook her head wryly. “No, you need something that makes you happy.”

“You should find room in your schedule to be a therapist, too,” Xander muttered, staring at his drink. He didn’t even know what made him happy anymore. As a kid, it had always been acting and playing pretend and saving the day. He’d loved reading, adventure video games, watching fantasy movies, and telling wild stories to his classmates (and he usually succeeded in convincing them, too). Xander missed his childlike passion with stories and with being someone else. Maybe he could be someone else for real some time soon. Not somebody else whose lines he’d have to memorize, either.

“I miss being a kid, you know?” Xander said, voicing his thoughts. It was easy around Imogen. They didn’t know each other, not in their real lives. Here at this trucker bar, they were bartender and regular. They were friends, sort of. She wasn’t a hotshot lawyer and he wasn’t Hollywood’s playboy. They were just Imogen and Xander.

Imogen didn’t reply, waiting for Xander to keep talking. He knew that’s what she was doing, but it worked. She really knew how to work people; no wonder she was a hotshot lawyer.

“I miss reading all the time. I can’t remember the last time I read a book. Probably in the months after high school, before I got my breakout role.” It had been in some cheesy teen romcom. Didi had starred as the spoiled brat mean girl. That’s how they’d met, and they’d been close ever since. Xander still hated that movie, but he was grateful for what it had given him.

“I read the whole Harry Potter series in a week in high school. I was such a bookworm, it was insane,” Xander continued. “I had rehearsal for plays and musical theater every day, high school and local productions. I had the occasional audition for movies and TV shows. But I read every spare second I had. I miss that.”

“Go to the library.”

Xander looked at Imogen like she was crazy. “I don’t have a library card. I don’t have time to read. I don’t know what I’d even read. I’ve already read Wheel of Time. Where do you go in high fantasy after reading all the classics plus Wheel of Time?” Which, to be fair, was quickly becoming a classic.

Imogen cracked a smile, that same glowing one she’d had earlier with another patron. “You’re a Slytherin.” There was no question nor accusation. Xander grinned back at her.

“So are you.” His smile grew with hers, and Imogen flipped her hair behind her shoulder. He was surprised she wasn’t wearing it up like she had the last few weeks.

“Loud and proud.”

“Careful, you sound like a Gryffindor,” Xander teased, a familiar twinkle he didn’t know about shining in his eyes again.

“Oh, my bad. I’m just better and I know it.” Imogen held back a laugh, but Xander couldn’t. She was funny. He liked that.

“I’ve changed my mind. You’re a Gryffindor.”

Imogen stared at him in horror. “How dare you say something like that to me!”

“I’m just going with what evidence has been presented before me, Miss Lawyer.” He shrugged, one arm resting on the bar top and his half empty drink forgotten.

“The jury will rule in my favor. Your evidence is lacking at best,” Imogen retorted. She was called away before Xander could respond, but he couldn’t get the grin off his face. He didn’t want to.

Yeah, this was the feeling he had missed. Now if only he could capture it all the time.

#chaos weekly #rising from the ashes

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