#space invaders and all the oldies

[sinistearadio]

Classics, or domesticity

@a-hazbin-spider (if you’re alright with that!)

@a-hazbin-spider

Prompt taken from here.

Classics: Muse A tends to Muse B's wounds with more care than necessary.

Domesticity: Muse A rests chin on Muse B's shoulder to read/see what they're holding. 🢘

Alastor sat comfortably within the lobby of the hotel. It wasn't often that he spent his time with the other characters of this soon-to-perish hotel, but today felt special. He slept well, had himself an even better breakfast, and what was a host if not sociable? Or at least, that's what he told himself before making himself cozy - lighting the fireplace as well - and opened up a book that he'd been meaning to read for quite some time. It was an oldie but a classic and one that Rosie procured for him as a favor. She was always so sweet to him and--

Blinking himself out of his thoughts, he feels the weight on his shoulder before he can ascertain that it's Angel Dust invading his space. A screech could potentially be heard as the touch registers completely, but the Alastor remains all smiles.

"Don't take offense to this, Angel, but I never really took you as the type to appreciate literature." Rather than turn away from the other, he turns back to his book and turns the page, a light chuckle escaping him as he adds, "Grown tired of the bar already, have you?"

#[ LIVE and ON THE AIR ] #[ alastor answers ] #;; of course! :DDD I'm always happy for threads like this! #;; sorry for taking so long but thank you for being so patient! #;; i hope this was okay! :DDD

[benefits1986]

MatchaME’s First Voyage

The more time you spend outside, the more time you’re able to look at all sides.

2023. I’ve always been a fan of foldies. The term itself speaks to me: oldie with an F. LOL. As I am on my way to spend more and more time outside Manila, my MatchaME, my matcha folding bike is an investment.  May 2, 2023. My Tito Taurus’ birthday and MatchaME’s first voyage in my ina’s sleepy town somewhere in the South. Of course, I had first fold jitters and booboos. As I unfold this beauty, I am amazed about how well made she really is. Unapologetic. Tiny but mighty. Streamlined.  Dad egged me to get either a Trek or a Bianchi gravel bike because honestly these two are really strong challengers. Bianchi is a top contender because I like cyan and I like the letter B; plus the reviews are really, really buttery. I actually interacted with sellers already but, my heart belongs to the other B, baby! (May foldie ba Bianchi? Parang ‘di bagay though so pass.) Both are not budging in terms of the value for money and most especially, the curation I am slowly building up. Not about being fancy, but, why a foldie?  I am 5 ft. 2 in. and my arms are longer compared to my legs.  I travel and want to travel more both here, there and everywhere.  I try my best to fit a bike session in each trip.  I still am not confident to go back to driving. I am a TINY HOUSE bitch forever.  I am keeping up with city life and the life outside the city.  I am on my way to spend more time around Tagaytay very soon.  I don’t like fast bikes to be honest.  I don’t like upgrading bikes.  I don’t know a lot about fixing bikes.  I have trust issues hence I don’t like getting my bike fixed.  I have “space invaders” issues, too. I feel like my bike is an extension of my being and doing, hence, I don’t want other people to lambast my bike and me, too. (Tindi ko noh? Pati bike, hindi pinatawad.)  I like chill rides that are about 50KM at the minimum.  I dress up and dress down, so a foldie does well with ANY look and vibe.  I don’t mind running errands with a bike so as long as there’s not much smoke and not much distractions on the road.  I don’t want bikes that are placed in racks.  I don’t want bikes to get in the way and my way, too.  I want a bike that I can conveniently bring with me wherever I go, if possible.  I really have a thing for biking, walking, reading, writing in places that have ambient lights and sounds.  Ergo, a foldie is me.  My Tito is one of my fallen Twin Taurus Towers. The other is my mom whose birthday is coming up very soon. Really not sure if I intended to find a significant date for MatchaME’s first voyage but a lot has been happening in between sleeping less and eating less, too. To be honest, I bike because I need to convince my system to focus on more sleep and eating better. So far, I’ve been making a progress and would need to keep at it because I’m still on the cusp of a spiral or a sparkle.  Taurus szn, you shithead. I hope that MatchaME’s voyages would enable me to make sense of your inescapable entrance and exit. It’s not easy as I am still avoiding my emotions since February of this year. LOL. However, there are many times when I allow myself to feel the cut, the shiver, the pierce, the empty, the choke, the fail, and many more forms of vulnerability to come through the fortress I have built for the past decades.  What’s curious though is that through each brushes and strokes of, with and for vulnerability, I am also finding the calm. This 2023 chaos is indeed life-altering. Maybe, just maybe, this time around, I’d be able to go beyond connecting the dots backward. May this 2023 be the pivot that I’ve been waiting for as I make sense of all shit and wins in my life.  MatchaME’s first voyage was all about testing its power and its limits, too. No gear shifted as I traversed some kind of hilly and flat roads. No fancy tricks, just hyperfocus on what I can do with what LITTLE I have. So far, she’s giving. So far, she’s making my hidden dark heart and soul vibing. LOL. So far, I think we’re a really good match that had to wait. She ain’t easy to get as I’ve been dreaming about her since 2015. And so far, the wait is worth it. Super worth it.  Some lessons I got in her first voyage are:  1 Though you can’t fear the mountain when you don’t know its steepness, truth is, when you’re on you’re way up, you need to know how to make it without the tukod  2 Just in case you come across a tukod on your way up the mountain, it’s totally fine because you are human  3 People who belittle tiny packages do not matter. Surprise them and make them go wild as you make your way to the top no matter how slow you go 4 When people look down on your foldie, smile and tell them you got this and they ought to mind their own shit poetically with pektus (tuhuran mo ng very light ng tumigil)  5 You really need to learn how to befriend the break as you go from the top to the bottom 

6 Keep your eye peeled for stories that are worthwhile, always 

7 Stop chasing the distance. Enjoy the journey. Go for a chill ride.  8 The main road is definitely a good one, but the secret streets make any ride richer and fuller with their sudden uphill and surprising downhill  9 Too much wind, sun and rain are constants. Learn how to make it through them 

10 A bike is a tool, a weapon, and a companion  11 Water and coffee and polvoron might be my go-to for pitstops 

12 Learn how to check your bike before and after you ride (lagot ako sa nanay ko sa part na ‘to because this bitch can’t even pump air or do a basic bike check. Gawin natin ‘yan this 2023.)  Thank u, universe for the long wait for MatchaME’s first voyage. Let’s keep her trips, her detours, her dead ends and her stories coming, shall we? 

[synaptichazard]

...take me to the arcade so we can live a million lives without leaving each other's side.

(Photo credit Rin on ig)

#poetry #aesthetic #gaming #arcade #purple #retro #relationships #friends #so #my love #space invaders and all the oldies #pew pew #dance off anyone? #push me into the booth and kiss me #i want to be here #poor from gaming

[impossible-rat-babies]

prompt: dancing

fallen hero / 2.5k / chargestep (nb!sidestep + m!ortega) / pre-hearbreak / cw: allusions to self harm  / mostly below the cut

It should not be this difficult, Pollux thinks, biting his lip. But of course it has to be this difficult, it’s part of being with Ortega. In his mother’s cluttered kitchen while the gritty 80’s radio plays some oldies station in the living room and the overhead fan tries it’s hardest to cut through the summer heat that’s strong enough to smell. The window above the sink is open, the small herb plants and valance billowing in the wind.

Pollux scrapes more flour into the dough with one hand because his other is decidedly needed for other things.

Like holding hands. (disgusting).

Ricardo is humming along with the radio and it’s almost infuriating with the lazy smile he’s sporting. Busying himself with the sink just as an excuse to be close. Washing dishes, he said. His mother is going to be coming in from the garden soon and needs the sink cleaned, he said. He’s just being a considerate son, he said. (Bullshit).

It’s just an excuse to invade his space--give someone a hand and they’ll take the whole arm the saying goes--leave Pollux’s skin tingling. He can’t focus, too preoccupied on the hyper-focused thought of Ortega’s hand. It keeps him faltering. Not once, not twice, not three times, but over and over again as he kneads the dough. The touch is a good one, he keeps having to remind himself. It’s just a hand. It’s just Ortega’s hand--his thumb running over large knuckles and he forgets to breathe for a moment. Calls himself stupid for it and straightens up. And that’s all there is to this: just holding hands. No danger. 

Ortega’s emitters cool against his sweaty palms and the funny little rubber conductors where his fingerprints should be.

A few months after they first met, Pollux recalls falteringly asking if Ortega still had fingerprints underneath those little rubber conductors. Ortega had given him a curious look, an arch of the brow and a hesitant laugh. Like he was joking right? Most definitely joking, that was a good one, Step. It hadn’t been a joke and he still isn’t sure if he really has fingerprints under the little conductors.

He still teases him about asking, so Pollux figures he won’t know at this rate. Fucking jerk.

“You’ll get that song stuck in my head, asshole.” Pollux groans, looking over at the man and he gives him a smirk.

Ricardo turns back and sings instead, a smile on every note and he wiggles his shoulders. Pollux groans. The singing only gets louder over his groaning until the radio is drowned out and Pollux roughly elbows Ortega in the ribs.

“Shit—ow, Pollux...!”

“The radio doesn’t need any help, jackass.”

Pollux huffs at him, returning back to the dough in front of him with both hands this time. It’s easier kneading like this even though he feels the kicked puppy eyes of *first you elbow me and now you let go of my hand? How dare you!* boring into the side of his head.

“Don’t gimme that look.” Pollux glares without heat and Ortega wiggles his brows in a decidedly much worse expression than a kicked puppy. “Or that one--you’re disgusting.” He tacks on, seriously glaring and Ortega laughs.

“You like it--don’t lie to me ‘Lux.”

“I’m going to drown you in the sink, lover boy. Now scoot.”

Pollux dusts the flour off his hands on the apron Tia Elena decided he needed, and he picks up the ball of dough to dump into the greased bowl. He gives Ortega a light shove to the side and he clicks his tongue, moving around to Pollux’s other side.

“I thought you liked that song, ‘Lux. It’s California Dreaming.”

Pollux rolls his eyes, rinsing the flour off his hands.

“I do like it, just not when you decide to sing along like it’s karaoke.”

“You like karaoke though.”

“I don’t.” Pollux lies and Ortega knows it by the pointed way he stares and Pollux rolls his eyes. 

There’s a bit of flour clinging to his sleeves and Ortega lightly teased him ages ago about needing to roll up his sleeves. He received a withering glare in return at that--and every other time since Ortega bothers him about the sleeves. His forearms are only safe from the tattoos--but there’s still the scars. The fresh scabs, the newest bandaids and newer regrets. He can’t do that; not with Tia Elena just outside. (He can stand on his toes just barely to see her still out poking around the garden--the large sun hat bobbing between the tomato plants.)

Ricardo only gives him looks about it--the ones where he almost asks, mouth faltering and breath dying on the concerned questions before Pollux beats him to the chase with a sharp reminder to ‘keep his fucking mouth shut’ and he sharply rolls his sleeves back down.

He’s been forced to learn not to touch but Elena presses. And not physically.

Her mind is so loud.

So loud with concern, it bleeds out against his shields like a whispered yell and it crawls under his skin like warm water. She wants to help, she just wants to look out for him. She likes him so she worries. A trait her son shares and it grates. Has his teeth clenching to keep his boundaries and unclenching to remind himself he’s not in danger; she’s not dangerous to him. But, it still smothers him, chokes him under the weight like her dark brown eyes when she thinks he isn’t looking. Prying eyes all still feel the same and he’s still nothing but a deer in headlights.

Leaves his ears ringing and the palms of his hands itching. She’s got ideas about him, what she thinks this is all about--where he’s come and what he’s running from.

Pollux can’t tell her. Even about the small things. Even this one little shirt sleeve thing.

She’ll only worry worse--her fears will just get worse. She would want to take care of him and he can’t do that; Ricardo already does his fumbling bumbling best to care the only way he knows how. He can’t handle having more than one person be genuine about what he’s doing.

It’s hard enough for Pollux to look at, hard enough to do. Harder still to take care of himself--he only knows one way to do that.

Ortega’s still standing there, hand leaning against the counter with an appraising brow and Pollux grimaces.

“What?”

“You remember this song?” Ortega asks with a deceptively rotten smile he’s trying his damnedest to hide and Pollux listens.

Listens for all of two seconds before he groans loudly. The Beach Boys—I just had to be the fucking Beach Boys didn’t it?

“I hate you. So much.” 

Ortega disregards his vile tone, shimmying along with the music, creeping closer with a sly grin like a snake and he’s a mouse caught dead in that gaze.

“Ricardo…”

“Pollux, carino, come on…” 

It would be easy. Easy to duck out of Ortega’s reach and tell him that he isn’t doing this. Not this level of sheer embarrassment or even worse how close he already is—close enough Pollux can smell his cologne and the slight hint of sweat from being out in the garden earlier. There’s no uniform today—just a blush pink button up shirt that goes far too well with his tanned bronze skin. The top two buttons are even left undone, sleeves rolled up and a sparkling gold chain resting against his collarbone.

He’s aware—painfully aware in all the best and worst ways Ortega brashly invades his space. Steps into his bubble, looks--oh how he looks at him with those dark brown eyes far too intense for their own good--and dares to touch him. Dares for Pollux to touch him back at times, a slick grin like this is all just a teasing game. Like sticking a finger in an electric socket. The way his neck turns, how he’s looking at him like that, dark brown eyes too intense for their own good and oh Pollux wishes the earth could swallow him up but he’s trying his absolute damndest not to dissolve into an embarrassed puddle.

Ortega’s got no right to look at him with that look.

The hand that touches his waist wouldn’t have surprised him if he had already seen it and let it happen—fuck he let it happen and he lets it happen now as Ortega puts another hand on his waist and starts rocking him back and forth too.

“R-Really?” Pollux asks, voice cracking like it started to a few months ago and Ortega hums.

“Come on, Lux—this is classic 1988 Beach Boys. The good old days.”

“Weren’t you only six years old?”

Ortega hushes him, bobbing to the beat and he insists on dragging Pollux back and forth even as he grips the rim of the sink.

“If Margaritaville comes up next I am going to stab you.” Pollux threatens, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat, white knuckled and stiff in Ortega’s hold.

“Pollux...”

“I have no idea where your mother finds these damn radio stations--”

“Pollux.”

“They’re classics, but--”

“Lux, carino--hush..”

Ortega cups under his chin and leans his head back against his chest so he’ll look at him. Pollux almost curses at him--if nothing else but to stop his throat from choking up and he hates how Ortega can feel him swallow. He can see how red his cheeks and feet the heat off his face and there’s no excuse--

Fuck. Ortega deserves to be punched.

Ortega presses a kiss to his forehead and Pollux looks past his shoulder--doesn’t meet his searching eyes.

“There’s no need to get worked up--you’re alright.” He mumbles against his skin.

“Says you, jerk face.” He still huffs and Ortega sighs, rustling a stray curl that sticks to his dark red cheeks. It’s definitely not alright--not at all and he takes a deep breath to keep his heart from rushing like a rabbit in his chest. 

“Pollux…” His voice warmed with laughter, the chuckle felt in his chest.

“Oh fuck you.” He grumbles, pulling his face out of his grip to continue washing his hands despite the continued clinging. A press of another kiss to the crown of his head and the weight as Ortega leans against him, chin in his hair.

“At least she didn’t pick jazz.” Ortega says after a long moment into his hair and Pollux groans loudly, his cheeks flushing again. That was just last week, the memories still far too fresh and he’s dead set on embarrassing him to death, isn’t he? 

Fucker.

“Oh I really would have punched you. Stole your bike and left. Good luck getting home” Pollux bites back with a bit too much force. Ortega can’t see his face to know just how serious he’s being.

“Mierda, you wouldn’t steal my poor bike would you?” Ortega bemoans and Pollux snorts bitterly. “It’s the vintage one, Pollux. I don’t even think your feet could reach the pedals.”

Oh that’s it. That was a low blow and Pollux leans his head back, a grimy angry look scrunching his brow.

“I fucking hate you, Ricardo Ortega.”

“Hey, what are you two getting into?” Tia Elena pokes her head back in, the screen door slamming shut as it’s always done. Looking between the two of them with furrowed brow, her hands are full of tomatoes and peppers from the garden, apron gathered in a makeshift basket. Ortega quickly backs out of Pollux’s space and he takes several deep breaths to calm down. 

“Nothing, Mama--honest!”

“Oh you’re a lying sack of shit--” Pollux grabs the nearby dish towel, hitting Ortega with it.

“Language!” She quickly scolds and Pollux bites his lip to keep more words at bay.

“He hit me, Mama, and you’re worried about that?” Ortega protests and Pollux pantomimes hitting him again.

“Hush both of you.” She gives them both a withering look, the only one that mother’s are good at making and Pollux huffs, tossing the towel onto his shoulder. At least she got him off her back, the Beach Boys fading off into the background.

“Sorry.” He grumbles even if he’s not that sorry at all. “Your son is a lying sack of crap though.”

“You told me you like my singing though, ‘Lux.” Ortega gives him that hurt puppy look again and Pollux can feel Tia Elena’s affectionate exasperation on the edge of her mind--the deep familiarity of this back and forth; it tastes as far back as childhood and Pollux shakes his head. She tells her son to scoot and he slides back; he doesn’t go far, just on the other side of Pollux and now he’s stuck between the two of them.

“I like it when you’re not obnoxious about it. Or dramatic.” Pollux looks up at him briefly, brushing the flour off his hands.

“How else am I supposed to sing along? I’m just having fun, ‘Lux.”

“Well maybe you can have fun singing along with the radio in the living room--you know where the radio is.” Pollux shoots back and Tia Elena scoffs, setting the tomatoes in the sink to wash them.

“He is right, Mijo.” She gives her son a pointed look. “Now quit terrorizing Pollux and get me a pot of water.” She shoos him off and Ricardo dutifully turns away. Pollux turns back to wipe away what’s left of the flour off the counter, looking over at Elena just as she gives him a knowing look.

Pollux rolls his eyes, face scrunching up and she tsks, shaking her head with a smile. 

“Here: cut little x’s in the tops of these. Just through the skin.” She picks up a cutting board and a knife, setting them both down in front of Pollux. “They’ll need blanching.”

She doesn’t say anything, her mind just a quiet tickle in a corner of his mind--like earlier when the sunlight caught the back of his neck while they meandered through the garden--as she hums. Pollux sighs out another tired deep breath, picking up the knife.

“You know,” She leans in close to say, plucking the stems off the tomatoes before she washes the dirt from off, the sink rich with the smell of cut tomato stems. “Margaritaville is a good song.” She’s trying not to laugh and Pollux groans, heaving a grumpy sigh.

“You’re just as bad as your son.” Pollux mumbles back and Elena snorts.

“Better than the Beach Boys.” She amends and Pollux can’t help but smile and shake his head, setting the tomatoes off to the side. He pauses, giving a second to roll up part of his sleeves--enough so that they don’t get wet.

Elena looks, but she stays quiet. Even her mind is soft, busy with the tomatoes; there’s no need to ask, no reason to go prying; more than him being okay, she wants him to be safe. She wants the best for him. He doesn’t deserve it, not really. Not if they both knew the truth; but…maybe for now. If Elena doesn’t ask again and Ricardo doesnt sing again--he’ll let himself feel a bit of quiet. Some security--safety.

Ortega brings the pot back over and there’s no cutting back and forth as he fills it, or when Pollux puts the tomatoes in the water with a soft thank you from Elena. And his sleeves stay rolled up past his wrists.

#fallen hero #fallen hero rebirth #chargestep #owen writes #okay to reblog #shoutout to kokomo by the beach boys and margaritaville for being. embaressment fuel #i have paratext feelings about this fic do not mind me i have that bad of brainrot #this was only supposed to be 500 words i am. sincerely sorry #anyway first fic posted in months weeeee #imagine doing writing sprints on the regular would have me. you know writing

[ramble-roo]

-Discovering small Aliens!-

This would be the discovery of the century, real live aliens! Aliens that lived on a planet just outside of our galaxy, a planet much like ours. Though it seems it's life forms are much smaller then the scientists predicted, being 4 to 6 inches tall!

The lead scientist, a non-binary person named Leako has also seen that the species that they've named Fruitlyngs seem to be Female, or non-binary. The reproductive stages haven't been observed, so it's unknown how they have young. Other observations show that they are tribal creatures, whose diet is that of a herbivore.

They have been seen practicing dances under the light of stars, it seemed like something cultural that they do. What seemed like something they would only be able to observe from afar soon became a planned trip to the planet!!

Sending three tough looking astronauts, and Leako into space to the alien planet! The trip would take at least 5 days to get their, space travel in their current time having advanced in technology to traverse in space much quicker. The time was planned, the trip would be in three days time. Three days to prepare, and three days to anxiously wait for Leako.

-Aliens unaware-

The Fruitlyngs, unable to comprehend the mechanical creature watching then deemed it harmless once their guardians, and lead guard checked it out. Not knowing that the thing was actually an alien craft sent to watch them, assumed it was some sort of metallic statue sent from the sky.

Needless to say the 'statue' actually release mini cams which had built in microphones to pick up sounds. The cams were placed around the village where th Fruitlyngs resided in, this was how Leako could watch them. They put all their time into studying the Fruitlyngs, they were all so different from humanity, but also oldy similar!

Each little Alien had their own little routine, some were planters, others builders, and then their was the head of the village. An odd kind of fruit on their tail, looked a lot like dragon fruit? They seemed to be the only one with that fruit in the village, which means they were special?

Occasionally one of the blackberry Fruitlyngs would come to the original space craft, curiously looking at it, and the sky. They seemed to be the leader of the village guard, fierce, and intelligent, for there standards. There were two others as well that would come, one would leave offerings, a strawberry Fruitlyng. The other seemed to meditate, an apple Fruitlyng.

They were simple, and their way of life was about to be disrupted when Leako, and the three astronauts came. Little did these Fruitlyngs know is that they were currently two days away.

-The Landing-

The astronauts were prepping the shuddle the landing, making sure to land a safe distance from the village they were watching. What was a gentle, and semi quiet landing for them was loud the Fruitlyng. Even with a safe distance, many hid in their little homes made from sticks, and clay.

The head of the guard left their fellow guards to protect to village while they scouted ahead, to see the foreign invaders. Much against their hide instinct, they had to be brave for their people! If that meant facing these giant aliens alone then so be it, they decided to climb a tree!!

Leako was warning Cassie, Vlad, and Benson about how the people were small so the crew would watch their step. But before he could say anything else the blackberry Fruitlyng that happened to be the head guard leaped down onto Vlad in attack mode. Though to the big astronaut it was nothing at all, Cassie tried to poke fun. "Aw, look at that! It likes you!" She continued, the three astronauts not exactly knowing the behavior like Leako.

#gt story #giant/tiny #smol bean #tiny alien #artists on tumblr #gt artist #fluff #cute #rambles #original story #aliens

[spacebookettes]

Witch

The Witch had strange objects the local people said. In her cottage. Warm metals. Smooth tools. Strange rocks. The Witch had long realised the potential of leaving these seemingly alien objects out in her cottage. The locals suspicious, but also grateful for future knowledge that helped them. Of course the old matriarchs of the small villages must be respected and kept distant. Politely shyly asked for help with some medieval problem. This Witch was especially good. She used only slight chanting and incantation; strange objects though she always seemed to have for any medieval problem.

The Witch used the intimidation of the old matriarchs in the medieval country to keep people away.

One of the locals had taken something once upon a time. The Witch held her smartphone and tracked the distance to the missing object. A foolish local was swiping the bleeping metal square with a strap. It had familiar numbers, though the local could not read letters. A line of words pinged onto the front of the metal square and a picture of a black cat, meant the thief had shockingly dropped the Witches possession. A Witches cat is not to be messed with. The local ran out of their draughty hiding place. The Witch retrieved the special object later, and the local wouldn’t go near the Witches cottage ever again.

The Witch had special knowledge that helped her in her predicament. Somehow her van had wandered into the past. She had been on her way to fix some electronic parts of the future. Though the Witch never made it to her future destination. The road had gotten bumpy. Muddy. No tarmac. The van had bounced along the suddenly old world lanes with terrified people in costume. It’s not Halloween the soon to be Witch thought. The headlights stretched out onto a stone remnant of a building. A large agricultural building was still vaguely intact and luckily uninhabited. Later the local farmer would come to learn to tolerate his new tenant in the once broken down farm buildings, long abandoned.

The Witch had walked the muddy lane, many times, looking for some sign of modern civilisation. All she’d found was an old can of cola she remembered she had thrown out of her van window when the road had become muddled. Oh how the Witch longed for a can of cola, even the cheap pretend colas. In fact the Witch dreamed of lovely E numbers; packaged nutrient lacking delights occupied the Witches longing dreams. Sometimes she’d sniff the hidden empty found can for remembrance of past artificial wonders. DEEP FRIED POTATO.

The End

By Peter Stringer

The Town

A Witch was needed. The best Witch was summoned. The Witch rode on horse back, her van concealed so not to scare anyone again. A great black steed was the Witches transportation. She thundered through the peaty green past world of her new home. Inspiring the local women who decided their lifestyle was unfairly balanced. An occasional girl thundered through the heathers of the past landscape. No one dare stop them. A medieval Amazonian culture was forming. Tribes of women would one day decide the fate of the colder green countries. Warm blooded invaders position in history contested.

But this particular town had a royal visitor in need. A royal visitor who had heard of a provincial woman; who could help her. Immortality the royal woman had wanted: an aged royal woman who had once been as strong as any man. She had kept this country secure in one of the most treacherous deceitful parts of history. She now wanted to go on into history the queen forever. The Witch gave her one piece of advice... “don’t trust the medieval medicine. You will live longer. Eat little meat a few times a week. Make vegetation your main food source, be kind to the people and they will remember you always. Try not to murder too many objectors.”

The End

By Peter Stringer

A Boy and his Witch

The boy mashed some greenery. Easier for his witch to eat. She hadn’t been able to get out of the bed recently. “It needs herbs" the witch orded, the boy took the greenery back downstairs. The witch was old, so was the boy.

The boy turned on the whale sounds; the witch made herself comfortable: she imagined they were arguing, she had no idea what whale arguments would be about and her imagination was not graphic. The witch drifted off into a contented sleep.

Her old wife recipes. The boy skipped through the mostly memorised book and found rock cakes. “not bad” the witch said, but “i had hoped for Toad in the Hole".

A parrot said something rude; the boy told it to fuck off. “that’s not how you talk to animals" the bed squawked.

“Leave the cobwebs" the witch orded as the boy lunged a broom at the corners of the ceiling. “the little darlings are welcome here. They need a home in the winter and it doesn’t hurt us to provide it.”

The boy searched the internet for a companion. A love poem he'd found in the back of the recipes. He wrote out to the letter in his dating profile.

The witch slept a lot. The boy spent more time searching for a companion. No one had answered his poem. He started deleting the profile, the poem slowly disappeared. The poem was working in his subconscious. Unbeknownst to him, he was rewriting it. Making the the strange little paragraphs to him enchanting.

Just drifting off on the couch the boy had an idea, he grabbed for the e ink paper tablet. A new adapted poem sprang from the electronic stylus. Hidden in amongst the ideas for some time... he found it, one evening, while skimming by candle light. His new herbal air plug-in squirted some exotic concoction into the room. He started reciting the poem. The candles flickered when he reached the end of the scrawled writing. A ping from his smartphone. One app he had not deleted.

The End

By Peter Stringer

The Twenty First Century Woman

The Twenty First Century Woman was lost in space. Fifty thousand years she had been sleeping in her drifting space shuttle. A great galactic light ship stumbled across her, a once in a universe chance.

The Woman was a smoker. Though no longer. No tobacco in this future. In fact Earth was no longer. And tobacco had not been saved.

The Woman struggled with the new culture. The Woman had grown up as a warrior, living in a time of great skirmish. The Woman only knew how to be violently helpful. The future was now peaceful. Great lightships searched the universe for knowledge. And the Woman’s knowledge was no longer needed. The Woman kept her armour and secretly wore it. This future people expected her to adapt to the minimalism they lived by. Her hair no longer ragged. The war grime long gone from her fingers. The Woman fought old battles in her imagination; The Woman invented new ones.

The news of this future was always peaceful. Preoccupied with science. No conflict to excite the Woman. The sports were un-robust. What had happened.

No aliens to fight with. This universe had only humans, for now.

The twentieth century Woman wished for a time machine so she could have purpose. How had humanity changed so vastly. The Woman searched the human history. There was no mention of the old skirmish, no documentation of the warrior people. The epic battles were missing. No one had any answers for her. They knew nothing of this history.

The Woman went down to her old space shuttle. Its ancient weapons still charred from discharge. She took out her shuttle, an asteroid field made for target practice. Some people on the light ship were observing the crude blasters. “old worldly exciting" The Woman flew into the asteroids, the hazardous navigation with the older technology was thrilling. Death around any next rock face. Blasting pretend rock enemies. The observers became bored of the oldy worldy distraction quickly, it’s novelty they felt held little scientific interest. So a lonely Woman was left to her war games.

To be continued.

By Peter Stringer

#witches #art #scifi #creative writing #fiction #books #timetravel #technology #medieval #history #story

[rueitae]

2018 Fic Roundup

I did this last year and it was nice to do some self reflection and make some goals for 2019. I encourage all my writer friends to do this! No tagging necessary, just tell each other to do it. <3

It’s long, so putting the rest of the fic and reflection questions under the cut.

Stats:

Fics Posted (Gen): 6

Space Birthday (9,595 words): Hunk can feel it in his bones; it’s his birthday. He wants to have a nice one... and does... after accidentally raiding a Galra outpost with Lance and Pidge.

Pilot (4,340): Shiro finds himself in a different reality post s2. Here, the mechs are called Gundams. (Shiro in the Gundam Wing universe/reality)

Code (7,321): Pidge and the others keep fond memories of Earth through oldies musical trivia. It comes in handy on a mission.

Self Insert (6,357): Lance reads a story to his niece and nephew on the eve he leaves for school at the Galaxy Garrison. The kids have Opinions on how it should go.(i totally still need to change their names to the canon ones)

Too Soon and Not Soon Enough (1,796): Keith is 13 and is supposed to go to the Galaxy Garrison next year at Shiro’s encouragement. Until the Galra invade and plans change.

Welcome to the Neighborhood (2,237): Allura gets used to being not dead and that includes meeting her cosmic neighbors.

Fics Posted (Plance): 17

Wrong Diamond (2,384): Gentlemen thief AU. “At midnight, I will steal the heart of Voltron,” the note says. Pidge has a thief to catch.

Diamond in the Rough (8,045): prequel to Wrong Diamond. How they meet!

Road Trip (4,710): Lance and Pidge are back on Earth. Zarkon has the others and the two are on the run from a bureaucratic Galaxy Garrison that doesn’t want the world to know about aliens yet. Oh, and Lotor is with them.

Exsanguination (16,255): Pidge is a vampire hunter captured by Haggar. She finds some unlikely help in the vampire’s similarly undead servant.

Power Up! (3,500): Pidge is on the cusp of finding out where Zarkon is holding her father using less than legal methods. She’s caught in the act by her lab partner (Lance, a superhero in training).

Plance on Ice (2,300): A figure skating AU! Pidge and Lance are former competitive partners having a date free time on the ice

Being Plance (3,900): Pidge and Lance pull a personality switch prank over on the rest of the team. Canon verse.

Keeping Cool (3,098): Mermaid AU! Pidge is in trouble with pirates and gets some unexpected help from the sea.

The Cake (839): Canon verse, Lance gets a cake for his birthday and assumes it’s from Hunk.

Frostbite (6,109): Pidge is a renowned super villain. Lance is a hero in training with something to prove. Lance over uses his powers one day and Pidge has some soul searching to do.

Crystal Clear (5,516): Another superhero AU. Lance is captured by his arch nemesis. They have a heart-to-heart, taunt, and flirt.

The Secrets of Beasts (2,007): AU canon verse. Years down the road, Green keeps Pidge from going on a mission with the others. It takes Kosmo to find out why.

See You Yesterday (8,132): Lance works nervously as a bartender for a 1920s mafia when all he wanted to do was leave the farming life. One night he gets a strange patron who changes his life - and his perspective of the world. Time travel AU

Shot Through the Heart (1,087): post canon AU. Lance and Pidge keep Nadia and Sylvio entertained.

Seasons of Magic (11,744): Pidge is a mage. Lance is her dragon familiar. Series of domestic-ish one shots. Not in sequential order.

Between Rocks and A Hard Place (8,144): Canon verse. Pidge and Lance are trapped due to a caved-in mine, with pirates waiting for them on the other side. And Pidge is hurt.

Cow-parent Trapped (1,099): s8 canon continuation. Pidge visits Lance at the farm and does not expect Kaltenecker to make them talk to each other.

Lotura 1

Birthday Prompt #5 (5,500): Oh gosh I never named it. Fantasy AU in which Lotor is essentially Rapunzel and Allura is Aurora with a better (depending on who you ask) birth-prophesy. Tiny hint of Shallura in this as well.

Collaborations: 3

First Encounters for the (Altean Plance AU): Pidge is an independent noblewoman and Lance is her bodyguard. Writing done with @hushman and @pidge-suggestions

To Sail, To Break, To Earn (Plance - 10,268): Lance is a pirate and Pidge is a mermaid. There’s also a curse involved. With @sp4c3-0ddity

It’s Beginning to Look a lot Like A Christmas Carol (Plance- 14,384): post s8 canon verse with @hailqiqi and @sp4c3-0ddity. Exactly as the title says. Lance is the subject of a ghostly intervention. Crack treated seriously.

Fey AU (Plance): with @vivalachocolate this was @sp4c3-0ddity ‘s prompt to Viva but I was nosy and added a chapter and I’m so glad she wasn’t mad at me for it. 😅

Ship/Character breakdown:

Ship breakdown:

I guess the 17 Plance fics speak for themselves. I did write one Lotura fic as a special birthday prompt because @ritsykitty is such a good friend.

Character breakdown:

I have a gen fic for each Paladin, but then the Plance fics outnumber those, so Lance and Pidge would be my go to.

Characters that had the main focus:

So for character POV, each Paladin has one, then within Plance, Pidge has 12 and Lance has 7. Interesting, I thought it was more even. Hunk had a POV in a Plance fic too briefly!

Specifics:

Best/worst title?

Best title: Urgh I liked a lot of them. Too Soon and Not Soon Enough probably. I like how it summarizes the story without telling you how, but by the end you know.

Worst title: Seasons of Magic aka I tried to come up with a clever title when I realized I wasn’t done with it. It’s so bland to me. I’m also basically trying to rebrand from mage/familiar AU. I don’t think it’s working 😅 (not that I care I’m trying to make it easier to reference but I’m too late)

Best/worst last line?

Best: “I love you too, Pidge,” he [Lance] says, nestling her head to his chest and not bothering to correct her. “You’re the best nemesis a hero could ask for.” - I love that line so much, from Crystal Clear. Enemies to lovers is such a good trope.

Worst: Pidge groans. At this rate her double life is definitely doomed to unravel. - for how much I love Frostbite, I really hate how lame it ends. Like I totally could have said that better or continued the scene a bit but I am LAZY.

General questions:

Looking back, did you write more fics than you thought you would this year, less than you thought, or about what you predicted?

I wrote waaaaaaay more than expected. I figured I’d write something every few months. Now I can write a 2k fic in a setting if I’m on game.

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted last year?

I was just doing gen fic last year, never would I have expected to be so taken by Plance that it became my main muse.

What’s your favorite story this year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you the happiest.

Honestly? Probably Pilot. It was one of my earliest VLD fic ideas to do a Gundam Wing crossover and to actually finish a one shot early in the year (when I was still dipping my feet into fandom again) just made me so so happy. I still smile thinking about the continuation possibilities. One of my favorite parts of Shiro’s character is that he is the ace pilot. Because of Keith’s role that sometimes gets overshadowed. I was so pleased to get to highlight that.

Okay, NOW your most popular story.

On Ao3, that would be Exsanguination. No surprise there, it was my first posted Plance fic and I continued it.

On Tumblr it’s First Encounters, the first of the Altean Plance AU based on the art and headcanons. I was just struck with a clear opening image one afternoon and wrote it all right then and there. I had no idea it would be so well received.

Story most underappreciated by the universe?

Space Birthday. It may have been a bit of a mess since it was my very first VLD fic, but it has everything I love. Hunk bonding with an ‘enemy’ over cooking, Team Punk, Plance in distress, Hunk saves the day thanks to mechanics. Also heartfelt stuff with Keith. And he’s the only Paladin besides Lance to get an actual birthday themed fic from me.

Story that could have been better?

I really hate to say Wrong Diamond, but I totally could have done much better with it. It feels skimpy. Probably why I am still writing in the AU.

Sexiest story?

Ha. That would be a tie between Crystal Clear and Exsanguination. The first I actually tried and the second completely by accident. I’m not sure it worked though.

Saddest story?

All my sad fics have a bit of crack to them. Pilot is pretty melancholy. Crystal Clear has a good Plance argument that gets heated. Road Trip in general though might take the cake. It’s full of angst amid some humor due to the premise.

Most fun?

Shot Through the Heart in terms of tone.

Story with single sweetest moment? Space Birthday

"Uh, Keith, hold up a tic."

Confused, Keith turned back around. "What?"

Hunk rubbed the back of his neck. "So uh, you know we're friends right? Like, I meant what I said we're like brothers. We're tight. I mean, we share a mind inside of a giant robot."

Keith blinked, clearly surprised. "Yeah, I kinda got that from the hug you gave me back then. It was nice," he said with a smile. "And we work well together."

"Yeah so - wait what? No, I'm supposed to be giving you the pep talk here."

"It's fine, Hunk. I'm doing important work and so are you. I already had this talk with Allura."

"Oh. Well, what I'm trying to say is that we're friends. I care a lot about you and your feelings. So if I say something that's weird or you don't like, you gotta tell me. I'm a terrible and nosy person and I'm sorry."

Keith stood silent, processing the words, and then smiling. "I've accepted the side of me that's Galra," he said simply. "It's still a little weird, but I've always had this feeling that something didn't add up." He smiled a bit. "I don't mind a question or two, but I'm still learning myself."

"Deal, no Galra questions for a while then. Just as long as you come visit more often, okay? We all miss you.

"...hug it out?"

Keith snorted and obliged into Hunk's waiting arms. "Always."

Hardest story to write?

I struggled with the ending to Exsanguination. It took forever to come to me.

Easiest/most fun story to write?

I wrote The Secrets of Beasts in one setting and I still can’t believe how easily it came out. I blame the Plance discord folks for putting everyone on a baby craze.

Did any stories shift your perceptions of the characters?

Not particularly? I write based on my existing understanding of the characters and nothing really surprised to that note.

Most overdue story?

Welcome to the Neighborhood. I wanted to write that Allura gen fic all year (as I wanted one for all the Paladins) and I hoped s8 would give me the motivation. It was not worth the cost.

Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them?

Collaborations! And participating in a zine! And signing up for events (exchanges and bangs)! I learned that it’s not that scary. People are chill and so easy to get along with. Also the task isn’t as daunting as I think of it’s an idea I love.

What are your fic writing goals for next year?

This is hard because I’m already doing above and beyond what I ever expected to be doing writing wise. I suppose it will be to finish my gen fic since I’ve been writing a lot of plance lately.

#rueitae #my writing #end of year ask #goals #everyone go do it its time consuming but relaxing #and really fun to look back on everything #tag me if you do it because I want to see everyones!

[poeticandvaguelysweet]

Prompt #235 - Collision

ANON: Owen and Maisie are involved in a car accident while driving home from school. Maisie is okay but Owen has a non life-threatening injury that requires medical attention. Maisie calls Claire from Owen's cell in a panic and Claire rushes to the hospital to be with them

ANON: "you look like an accident"

Thanks for still sending prompts in no matter the questionable content I produce and the slow rate in which I am doing it.

AO3

COLLISION

Maisie was talking, as she always did, buckled into the backseat of his truck after school. Her day had been filled with learning adventures and expeditions across the school grounds with her friends. She always had something to say or share with him, about her friends, her education, or something she had been holding in ready to tell them at the perfect time. When she was done, if there was time before reached their destination, she and Owen would sing along to the oldies station as the truck moved through the city traffic.

‘Oh, and Daddy look!’ It was like Claire and the ping of her phone. The second he heard the word, his head was turned. Over his shoulder, Owen saw the blue card in her hand, and the toothy grin pressed across her cheeks.

One second it was the two of them, his truck, the radio and her school art project. In the next, another car was occupying their space, bonnet rammed into the driver’s side door before Owen could realise what was happening. Her head hurt while her tummy flipped, their bodies moving in their seats as the car made a horrific noise. Owen grunted in the front seat, a swear searing past his lips as their quiet afternoon ritual was ruined.

Everything was still for a minute, the car silent, Owen unmoving as Maisie felt her heart hammer in her chest. She was trying to catch her breath, worried tears building in her eyes. It was the two of them, unmoving until voices registered in her ears, bodies invading their space as hands pulled the door open and hoisted Maisie out of the back seat.

‘Daddy?’ She was moving away from him, arms of a stranger around her middle as she watched the side of his face get further away. He wasn’t moving. Not making a single sound. Owen was hurt. She had distracted him in the car, made him look away from the road. ’Daddy!’ She kicked at the stranger holding her, trying to pull towards the car and away from the huddle of strangers.

The people were white noise to Maisie, their faces nothing but a blur in her eyes. The lady who sat with her on the curb of the road was sweet but uninteresting, Maisie’s eyes glued to Owen’s black truck, watching the steam bellow from the bonnet until the flash of red and blue alerted her to the ambulance. She broke free of her minder, a good samaritan just trying to get an emergency contact out of the quiet girl.

She climbed back up into the truck, seeing the passenger side door was open as Maisie perched herself on the seat only ever occupied by Claire. It felt smaller inside Owen’s big truck than what it had before, a bit crumpled like cardboard structures, never returning to their original shape. ‘Daddy?’ Her voice was quiet, eyes refusing to move from his bloodied face. She didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to see him like that but she couldn’t look away, wouldn’t. Her fingers reached out, touching the top of his hand, a small scratch sitting against his warm skin, red with blood but not as threatening as the cuts on his face. There was glass, she hadn’t noticed it earlier, shattered across his lap, a little sitting right by her knee, almost hiding under her school dress.

Owen jolted, the movement small but there nonetheless as his eyes snapped open and his gaze moved towards her. ‘Mais, what are you doing?’

‘I’m scared.’ She told him quietly, not realising the word had been twirling around in her head until the question had been asked. ‘Are you okay?’ She needed to know, insisted on not being fine herself until she knew the outcome of his wellbeing. ‘Why are you still in the car?’ She asked, someone had picked her up and removed her minutes after she felt the force of the other vehicle and the movement of Owen’s truck sliding across the asphalt in a way it shouldn’t.

‘I can’t move,' her eyes were wide, chocolate brown ready to melt in her distress. ‘It’s a precaution, just in case my spine is damaged.’ He really didn’t want to tell her that, but Owen had learnt with Maisie that it was better to be honest, give her all the facts, and allow her to make her own decisions. She nodded as Owen watched her out the corner of his eye. His young girl was trying to hold herself together. 'Can you see my phone, Mais? You need to call Claire.’ She scrambled, careful of the glass as she found the device and held it up. 'Good girl.’ He praised, smile tense as Maisie watched pain tremble across his face.

He didn’t have a passcode lock on his phone as Maisie swiped the screen and found Claire’s number like she always did when he had his hands full.

‘Hey, how was school pick-up?’ Claire answered, the sound of the DPG bullpen full of life behind her.  

‘Mama?’ Claire’s voice was a comfort, soothing Maisie as she warbled despite trying to remain calm and grown up in a scary situation. Her tears fell, sob bubbling in her throat as the lights from the ambulance illuminated her face. Claire was asking rapid-fire questions on the other end, Owen hearing the sound of her voice and flurry of words. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. A paramedic appeared by his side, asking Owen questions, causing him to divide his attention between his daughter and his injuries. ‘We had an accident,’ she stuttered, ‘Dad … Daddy’s hurt his back.’

Owen groaned, his finger tapping Maisie’s knee. ‘No, don’t … Mais, don’t tell her that.’ She gave him wide and sorry eyes, fingers of one hand pulling at her lip. ‘Put her on loudspeaker.’ The girl clicked the button, letting Claire’s voice fill the crushed cabin of the car. ‘Hey babe,’ he tried for smooth. ‘I need you to meet us at the hospital.’

‘Are you okay? Is Maisie okay? What happened?’

‘Maisie looks fine. You okay, kid?’

She nodded, hand raising to her head. ‘I think I have a little bump.’ On the other end, Claire was breathing heavy, small noises shuffling through the speaker. She was collecting her things, moving as quickly as she could. He knew, without a doubt that she would get to the hospital before they did. Nothing would get in the way of Claire Dearing and her family’s safety.

‘I’m on my way,' he heard her say with a heavy sigh. ‘Please, just be okay.’

[…]

It had been the kind of beautiful spring day that woke him slowly, sun caressing his cheeks just as gently as his wife’s fingers. It had been so easy, the way he leant in and kissed her, his hands on her skin, their morning soft and slow as her fingers buried themselves in his flesh. He never wanted to leave that bed, not when he had Claire falling apart around him, trying to be quiet in fear of their ten-year-old overhearing. The warm light was perfect, hot on her skin as it ignited her freckles, setting each one to shine as bright as the sun.

He shouldn’t have gotten out of bed that morning. He should have stayed right there, wrapped his arms around Claire and coerced her into a sick day for the whole household.

The next time he saw her for that day, she was standing, long-faced at the end of his hospital bed their ten-year-old on her hip. She looked lifeless, worried sick, the glow from that morning gone from her skin. His hospital room was grey, just as stoic as her face as he blinked his eyes in the dull light. ‘Hey,’ he croaked, unsure as to when he had fallen asleep and how long he was out for. ‘How do I look?’

Her expression was tired, shoulders sagging. Owen would have told her it was the weight of Maisie. She shouldn’t have been carrying the girl, not just for her posture but for her health and the mental wellbeing of their daughter. ‘You look like an accident.’

Owen tried to chuckle, the word coming out as a cough and a sputter. ‘Well, turns out … I was involved in one.’ Claire rounded the bed, sitting with Maisie in a hospital chair, the girl moving until she was comfortable, watching Owen with sad eyes from her mother’s shoulder.

‘Your shoulder’s dislocated. You broke two ribs and punctured your lung in the process. There was some internal bleeding. What were you thinking?’ Her tone was scolding.

He rolled his eyes or did what he thought was rolling his eyes. ‘I didn’t do it on purpose Claire, and you know it.’ She had a habit of placing the blame when she was scared, not looking at the situation clearly enough to remain calm. Claire nodded, features softening as tears burned in her eyes. ‘I got distracted. It happens.’

‘You told me that truck would keep you safe.’ The truck was big; tall, wide and masculine. She had rolled her eyes when he purchased it, calling the Chevrolet ridiculous. She knew how stupid it sounded the second it was out of her mouth. No car was a safety guarantee. ‘You scared me, okay?’ Her voice wobbled, tear slipping down her cheek as Owen rolled his hand towards the edge of the bed. She reached for it, her fingers soft against his dry hands.

‘You okay, Mais?’ With a pounding headache, he looked towards his daughter, Claire’s hand squeezing him tightly, all her stressors washing through him and disappearing. The girl nodded. It had to be a good thing that she was there, not in a bed of her own but clinging to Claire’s side quiet and scared. ‘Hey, did you know everyone has one car accident in their lifetime. Just one. We’ve had ours. It’s never going to happen again.’ He shouldn’t have made that promise. There was no telling what the future held for him or her. Owen just hoped Maisie always made the right decisions.

Her mother or the woman she had thought was her mother had died in a car accident. The small detail escaping his notice until it was too late. No wonder she was scared, quiet and still, drawn into herself for fear of losing those she loved.

‘C’mere.’ Owen beckoned, raising his other arm, the shoulder sore and slow as Maisie slipped from Claire’s lap and into his hospital bed. Her mother was quiet with her warning, telling both father and daughter to be careful with their embrace.

Owen held in his hiss, trying to breathe through the pain as Maisie tucked herself under his chin. ‘What’s going to happen with the cabin?’

Rightfully, the cabin had been the last thing on his mind. 'It'll have to wait.’ He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing tight despite the pain he felt. Owen just wanted to hold her and kiss the top of her head. He was thankful to the universe for not letting his kid get hurt. ‘What’s important is that we’re all okay.’ She nodded under his chin, Owen’s eyes on Claire as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

[…]

They had to go home without him. That was the hardest part for Claire. He was required to stay for a night or two, monitoring to ensure his injuries calmed. She knew it was for the best, but hated every second she spent away from him.

The apartment was cold without him. Empty and still it disrupted Claire's dreaming, filling her head with terrible thoughts. She couldn't close her eyes without seeing their day end differently. Owen lifeless and not breathing, his skin turning blue. With Maisie curled into her king-sized bed Claire had no option but to stare at the ceiling. She didn’t want to wake the girl who had gone to sleep reluctantly.

‘Mama?’ Maisie’s voice sounded in the darkness, streetlight flooding through the curtains. She had been with them long enough now to know the subtleties in their behaviour. With each passing day, Maisie got older and wiser, especially when it concerned her adoptive parents. She knew Claire was awake, without the use of visual aid. The sheets rustled when Claire turned towards the girl, wrapping her arms around Maisie’s middle. ‘It was my fault,’ the girl whimpered.

Claire tucked Maisie into her arms tighter. ‘What was your fault?’ She kissed the girl’s hair, sleepy and exhausted, hoping that if she anchored herself to Maisie sleep would follow.

‘The accident.’ She was awake, guilt seeping from her daughter’s body in buckets. ‘I … I had an art project for him, and I couldn’t wait until we got home.’ He turned his head, looked and went through the red light allowing the other car to t-bone them. Maisie sniffled, the sound turning into a small sob as Claire squeezed tighter. ‘What if he died?’ She whispered, sound low and hesitant.

What if.

‘You’re not going to be able to sleep, are you?’ Maisie shook her head. ‘Me either.’ She dropped another kiss to the top of Maisie's head before she got up, throwing the blankets to the side. ‘C’mon, let’s go see Dad.’ Turns out, Claire just needed the excuse to follow through with her desires.

Maisie sat on the edge of the bed, watching her mother with caution. ‘In our pyjamas?’ Claire nodded, grin wide in the dark.

‘Go get your slippers.’ It wasn’t just that Maisie fetched. She grabbed her favourite pillow from her bed, as well as the throw blanket from the end of Claire’s. Her mother had already taken a bag of home comforts to the hospital for Owen, but Maisie wanted to take a few of her own.

They walked the hospital hallways in their pyjamas, tired and unashamed, seeking out the man that solved all their problems. The night nurse stopped them, mouth poised open ready to remind them of the visiting hours. One look at their exhausted faces closed her mouth as she let them carry on to Owen’s door.

He was asleep, the room dark as Maisie shuffled in. She climbed onto his hospital bed, careful of his injuries. He grunted in his sleep, head rolling towards Maisie as Claire reached a hand into his hair, fingers sliding across his scalp. ‘Just us, go back to sleep.’ He did, with a kiss on the forehead, arm wrapping around Maisie without question.

Claire wasn’t going to risk climbing into his bed and although the hospital chairs were uncomfortable she knew it was better than tossing and turning in her empty bed. She wasn’t getting any sleep either way, but at least he was there.

Maisie had asked ‘what if’ but there was no room for that question in their lives anymore. She had nearly lost him too many times to count. It couldn’t happen again. Not even in makebelieve. She couldn’t protect him. But, she could live her life without the anticipation of his loss. It wasn’t going to happen again. Not after this scare. 

#Clawen #Jurassic World #Claire Dearing #Owen Grady #Maisie Lockwood #fallen kingdom #despite the odds

[seenashwrite]

Nash Watches & Rates Cheesy Hallmark & Lifetime Winter Movies So You Don’t Have To

(a.k.a. -  Nash Records Her Viewings Of Hallmark & Lifetime Winter Movies, which are fanfic in visual form & are gold. And yes, it’s a apparently a legit sub-genre. Best I can tell, if it’s not Christmas or Valentines, and there’s snow, then it goes. Spoilers abound.)

ETA: This adventure is now moving to @seenashblog, so my SPN peeps can rest assured they’ll not be exposed to this any longer - I have a feeling I’ll not be done purging my soul for awhile yet #bless my heart

As per last time during the Christmas round-ups, 4 and 5 stars mean the best of the lot, 3 stars means it’s not necessarily a waste of your time, 2 stars is up to your discretion, and 1 star means it is time you will never get back.

Here we go.

Winter Castle (people you've never heard of - Hallmark)

Holy shit, cliché on parade and nobody can act?! Jack-friggin'-pot. Zero chemistry amongst anyone, from family to friendship to romance?! Hot damn.

So they're all at this place for a destination wedding (a.k.a, Selfish And Life-Disrupting And Huge Expense For Guests Thing And Oh Here’s Our Registry Too, come at me brah), and everyone is staying in a hotel. HA! KIDDING! They're all in this giant faux igloo, and by "faux" I mean there are these church-esque doors in what is, I guess, a specially-flown-in iceberg on land. Google tells me it’s an actual place. 

Anyway, through the doors you'll find hallways (that have people carved into them, not creepy at all) which are lined with rooms. Suites? I never saw a bathroom door, doesn't damn matter, nobody poos in Hallmark's world. Oh, also, for lighting, we have Target pillar candles, then everything's backlit in '80s neon:

Are they shitting me?

But that's beside the point. Point is, it may be pretty to look at but in execution, it's stupid. No way people haven’t had to peace out and find a new joint to stay in because of near or actual hypothermia. Based on the warm, cozy, wood-floored, windowed, staircase-and-balcony-having rehearsal dinner area in a large building with stone wall exterior, this hotel actually has some, y'know, hotel to it. Lodge? Who cares, but I bring it up because of the standard precocious child who is there to bring everybody together whilst turning into a popsicle.

The poor kid is bundled within an inch of her life, dumb bunny-eared toboggan to puffy jacket, and is burrito'd in a sleeping bag, with a quilt on this bed that looks to be carved out of ice, as well, and I say "as well" because our leading lady is shown frequently perched on what looks to be a chair carved out of ice (fur puffy thing for ass protection) with her laptop on a table carved out of ice when she's face-timing her Not Gay Male Best Friend in a bow-tie and sweater vest back home, and - bonus! - he doubles as The One Person Of Color. Now, if memory serves, legit igloos made by actual First Nation(s) folks (meaning both Canadian and American - specifically, Alaskan - and probs any groups that found themselves in the way-way-North in the way-back-when and had to come up with this genius or, you know, die) are actually pretty damn warm once the fire gets cranking. Not to say you don't keep some fierce socks and gloves on, that's plain smart, but enclosed space with heat is enclosed space with heat - just don't lick the walls. That's good advice, igloo or otherwise. 

On that topic, via the article linked above, says one of the actresses:

"It's like an igloo," Mullen told the Standard. "The further you go into the hotel, it gets colder and colder. As you walk down the hallway into the different rooms, it's just getting into your bones." She said every time they called "Cut!," everyone would put on jackets to warm up. 

She’s incorrect - that’s not like an igloo. It’s too big, that’s why it doesn’t stay warm. I have *zero* desire to go to this place. That sounds like Dante’s Frosty The Snowman circle of hell. I digress.

I say all that to say, this movie is straight dumb because the script is basic bitch, they were leaning on the location and hard. It gets a star because they tried in the sense that they did use a unique setting, but the rest was neglected (the story and the casting). Everything else was so blaaaaaand, and the acting was so stilted and unnatural, and they cast the mother with someone who looks the exact same age as the lead gal/her sister (the bride), and then there’s this one chick character who was so pathetically desperate, and the leading man was such a pussy who wouldn't make a fucking decision, and they had our leading lady be all *sniffle* and tolerating that shit AND SHE JUST MET HIM BY THE WAY, and I just.... ugh.

1/5 stars

.

Royal Matchmaker (Bethany Joy Lenz - Hallmark)

This isn't an "official" Winter '19 jam, google tells me it's from the '18 spring movies, but everybody's bundled up, so I'm calling bullshit. It ain't half-bad, despite the fact that it's a “royal” one, who’d-a-thunk? There was one over Christmas that got a 4 (see link up top), and I never would’ve predicted it. But that was an oldie-goldie, this is now. This one has the traditional royal romance beats and, no shit, the sidekick is the same one from another "royal", the absolutely horrid "Christmas At The Palace”, from Christmas ‘18. I cannot reiterate how bad that movie was - not "My Christmas Love" bad, but bad.

All right, so - she’s a matchmaker from NYC, which is at least a new take on what's coming next - and you guessed it, a prince HAS to get married or some reason, even though it's mentioned they are under a Parliamentary system and not a monarchy, but he still has to because it's the 17th century, oh wait no it’s not. The king, who is from a random made-up locale (*sigh*) has hired her (and said partner) to find a suitable wife for his son, who’s presented as the typical eligible rich bachelor, and “presented as” is the key phrase. It’s one of the things I like about this plot, but it doesn't outweigh the bleeeccchhh.

For one, it wears me out, the making-up of countries. It’s distracting. If you’re gonna do royalty, the right move is to have the royal not be a king/prince but make it a duke/duchess jam, refer to the locale vaguely as a duchy in England or Ireland or Scotland or Sweden or Norway or whatever Americans will fall for, 'cause as a rule, Americans aren't typically hip to other countries' jams. Hell, say someone is a prince/princess, but it’s more in inherited title only - that’s what the 4 from the Christmas list did right. Nobody called him “Prince Whatever”, he wasn’t presented as this hot commodity, it was a nothing burger, we didn’t even find out that he had the title til near the end of the movie. I’ve digressed, back to this flick.

I detest the royal garb they’ve got lead dude in at the conclusion, it looks like you or I waltzed into Party City and slapped down $30 and walked back to the set. It’s ill-tailored and in too-bright colors and is, again, something utterly distracting that could've been avoided, and same with the king’s, too-small jacket to too-long length of slacks. All the women, including our main gal, are in prom dresses straight off the rack from Sears and J.C. Penney’s. This is not praise. The men are all in identical rented tuxedos with clip bow-ties. Thanks, I hate it.

I mean, and I hate that there’s a ball at the end at all, but it goes hand-in-hand with the core premise, which is that they’re on a tight schedule - ol’ Bethany has 4 weeks. They, of course, fall in love with one another, and props to casting because these two look good together and have decent chemistry, but that could be because Lenz knocks these movies out of the park - this is the third... maybe the fourth... that I’ve seen with her - she elevates everything she’s in. When I mentioned her to a friend, I was told she also elevated some shitty TV show that I never watched, so perhaps you are already familiar with her.

Anyhow, once again there’s too much filler and the ending draaaaaaags and then BOOM it’s done in the last three minutes, which is standard for these movies (both Lifetime and Hallmark), I’d say, about 95% of the time. The story was good in that the prince wasn’t a typical playboy and he kept his philanthropic side a secret because he didn’t want press invading these small villages and whatever he was helping rebuild - he genuinely likes getting his hands dirty and he actually knows how to do shit, he fixes a radiator at a community center at one point. Eh. I dunno. It had such potential in the front half, then just shit the bed in the back half, so it was half of a waste of my time. But you may dig it. It's far from the worst of Hallmark's offerings but, again, I think it's because of Lenz, she's the only thing getting it up from a 1/5.

2/5 stars

.

Oh… oh mah… what the... we interrupt the winter fare for what looks like a rando that’s snuck in and christ on a cracker, no. No. No. NO. The summary:

A woman begins an online relationship with a famous photographer, not realizing that she is actually communicating with the man’s young son.

This caught my ear because as I was sitting here writing up the last movie, it came on, and I hear this woman’s voice, her typing (so it’s her voice in her mind), then a man’s voice (as she’s reading), and I looked up when the man’s voice started switching to a kid’s (boy’s) voice back and forth every sentence or so - and then I looked at that summary, and….

NO

"Chance at Romance", it's called –> 0/5 stars, I don’t even need to watch it, what a stupid garbage fucking premise, and it’s gross, and I hope that shit kid gets punished, like as in, no computer til he's old enough to own his own home and pay for his own internet, because scumbag kid. If he has the balls to pull this catfishing shitstorm on a fucking adult and gets away with it, what the fuck will he do to manipulate girls his own age? Gross. IT’S A GROSS PREMISE YOU GREETING CARD FUCKTARDS

.

Love On Ice (Andrew Walker, who's in every fourth movie, and  the lead chick's familiar her name is Julie Berman - Hallmark)

Former pro skater, now teaching - don't worry, it's not the aforementioned “Christmas At The Palace”, despite the similar M.O. - and decides to go for one last run at regionals because the new coach in town who's teaching the next big thing is like "You used to be the next big thing, why don't you undo eight years of not training aggressively in, like, a couple weeks and compete against the girl I've been hired to make a winner, and I'll coach you both, because I have a boner for you and your shitty blonde extensions! No, that's not what he says, but that's the deal, yo. The next-big-thing's got an overbearing mother and, once his boner gets found out, here comes a new coach that used to be the former-next-big-thing's coach, and she's a horrible actress, she can't play sneaky-evil to save her life. I liked the two leads, and they did a better job than the other ice skating scenes/movies with concealing the real skater actors, but overall this was as boring as watching paint dry, I just wanted it to be over.

1/5 stars

.

The Perfect Catch (Nikki DeLoach and... shock of all shocks, no not really... our old buddy, Andrew Walker - Hallmark)

I swear, I don't know if Andrew Walker is on some mission from god, or being punished by him. I'm in the same boat, so I empathize. At least I'm not contracted. I can't speak for him, but I remain happy for DHJ, that he's escaped this purgatory, and is safe on the shore... at least, at present.

In any event, this one doesn't seem like a "Winter official", but there were jackets and no definite spring or fall standards (pastels or orange leaves), and it's airing now, so here we are. It seems to be baseball season, so I know they mean for it to be spring, but they are wearing coat-coats, not it's-still-kinda-chilly light jackets. I don't fucking care, I watched it, so I’m reporting on it.

It ticks many boxes on the Winter Fanfic Bingo card (forthcoming), specifically the ones that are carryovers from Christmas and will be carried over to all the Hallmark/Lifetime movies regardless of time of year. Because being formulaic, when playing the long game, is cheap and efficient, and in the restaurant business, or products made on a factory line, or in healthcare standards, things of that ilk, you want streamlined coupled with the trieds-and-trues. In writing? Not-so-much. It's lazy.

And speaking of restaurants, that's the first box that got ticked - our leading lady owns a restaurant and, next box, it's in danger of being lost. Other boxes include: our leading man is famous; he's the character that comes back home, leaves/might leave, then changes mine/comes back, and it's to stay!; adorable child who ideally will bring everyone together; a character's parents are dead. Blah-blah. Blah-blah-blah. Blah-blaaaaah-blah-bleh. <---- that had more variety than this flick. I mean, there's nothing wrong with this movie. It's vanilla. It's white bread. It's mashed potatoes with no salt or a touch of sour cream mixed in, no loading with shredded sharp cheese and crumbled brown sugar-and-cracked-pepper bacon and the barest touch of chives. I'm hungry, shut up.

It doesn't just get 1 star because it's not bottom barrel - everyone's competent in their acting, there's nothing outlandishly stupid about the script, it's not shellacked in Velveeta. I will say that they pull a little teensy, micro-twist with how they resolve his balancing a primo offer that in no way should he pass on career-wise fairly realistically. The very last scene is, of course, stupid and embarrassing.

2/5 stars

The next movie has palm trees, so officially not Winter. But oof.... it's got Kelly Rutherford and Cameron Mathison, both of whom are ringers. Hmmm. Yeah, I still ain’t subjecting myself to more than needed for this adventure. Oh, and they continue to play the basic-basic-BAAAAASIC-boring "Hope At Christmas" on Hallmark Movies and Mysteries", if you’re interested. It is a mystery to me as to why they continue to do so. Anyhow, there's apparently 3 or 4 more brand spanking new offerings from Hallmark for the next several weeks. 

More to come. I’ll reblog this with every new entry added to the top, so you can always just keep this post URL bookmarked if you think you missed it. Tell me if you want to be tagged. 

#Nash Watches and Rates #Cheesy Winter Movies #so you don't have to #Cheesy Movie Talk #Not SPN #though is a bit #SPN Tangentially #due to the fanfic nature #Back to our #regularly scheduled #programming shortly #Queueby Dooby Doo #Dad's on a blog post and #he hasn't been queued in a few days

[tsuede]

Change of shades

Tripunithura is a temple town much obsessed with it's past - a town in perpetual rumination. The place takes on the persona of that old lady who talks about her ancestral home's 'pathayam' full of rice reserves when she was young. The thin, pale, peripheral branches of a kshetreya legacy - the town's favourite residents. Vestiges of this aristocratic legacy are preserved in structures of brick, blood and society.

Towards the end of November is 'vrishchikotsavam,' the temple's anniversary, a week of chaos. The whole temple compound gets a golden glow at night, yellow luminance invading into the privacy of the black night sky. Camphor soot and dust, disperse the yellow light from the sodium vapour lamps propped on bamboo poles. Everything, and everyone, becomes beautiful in that light. I spend the nights near the wooden stairs of the West gate. They're relatively less crowded. It's not easy, you know, existing as the omnipresent like me. It's very distracting, and also, you don't have as much freedom. Everything becomes decided for you, you are restricted by the imagination of the dumb few who made you up - your shape, name, mobility, sexuality, where you exist, who you can see, who can see you - everything. It's hard. On the third day of utsavam I saw him in his favourite black tee and 'kaavi mundu.' His goatee is catching up since the last year I saw him. He knows I don't exist and hence doesn't bother visiting, except for these yearly visits. He's here for the 'panchavadyam' - the orchestral drum music. He stands away from the rush, in a clear patch, looking down at the sand moist with elephant pee, cross-armed, taking in the rhythmic beats of the chenda. But, today he's disturbed - too conscious of his presence. She is the reason. She's there standing by the gallery wall, with an ease which he can only dream of, and she's beautiful. Her sharp nose with a bump at 1/3rd the length, her exotic pale grey eyes, bony fingers with closely cut nails and her lilac chiffon churidar with floral patterned baggy salwaar. She waves at her sister who along with the rest of her family is watching the procession from the gallery reserved for the royal families. Privileges of your ancestors being fucked by some Aryan. Maybe it's these privileges that let her exist at ease in this crowd and maybe the lack of which makes him conscious of his presence in the same crowd. The space itself is new to his ilk. They are strangers, at least in the broader sense of the word. For her, he is just another face illuminated in yellow. But he knows her face a bit more thoroughly, maybe a bit too well, well enough to sketch it on a Monday morning from memory. He used to enjoy his bus rides back home from Palarivattom, after those wretched classes, with a curious sense of achievement. It was his reward for sitting through 8 hours of depressing lessons in cramped classrooms - his way of unwinding. One day she gets on his bus and sits a few seats ahead of him. He observed every curve on her head's silhouette. Next morning he woke up at 4 and started sketching it down so that he wouldn't forget how it looked. This was 5 years ago. He hasn't seen her since, until today. That face he sketched from memory, the only one he could - the bump on her nose, the grey in her eyes, everything was before him again. The chenda beats were muffled. He watched her as she sat down on the moist sand, cross-legged, leaning back on her hand propped on the ground. Then she closed her eyes, raised her head up and tried to read the beats. ..... Day 5, he came early. The panchavadyam wouldn't start in another 2 hours. He went to the koothupura to see the kathakali. 'Baali-vadhanam' is playing today. She is sitting at the back, in a corner. She recognizes his face from a dream she once had. The boy who painted her in the light of a kerosene lamp. Every stroke on the cotton rag canvas gave new colours to her skin. She got maroon hair, grey skin and yellow eyes. She loved how she'd changed, she wished she had maroon hair, grey skin and yellow eyes. She believed it was the light from the soot-covered glass shade of the lamp that gave her her new colours. She saw his face in the flickering glow of the 'aatavillaku,' and she felt the joy of having a chance to get the colours she never had. She relished the possibility in all its absurdity. The handheld curtain is let to fall and the music became louder, a few hurried stomps of the feet, and he looks back over his shoulder. Two beats skipped, two breaths stuck half-way, and two pairs of eyes averted. The first set of sticks fell on the chendas - panchavadyam has started. The Kathakali crowd started shrinking. She stood up, dusted her bottom and walked to the front. She introduced herself, 'Durga.' Two wide-opened eyes met the outstretched hand. 'Hey, I'm Tejus,' he shook the hand. 'You wanna sit?' She sat beside him. He's amused by Ravanan's face patterns, a bit of extra black and red, violent and threatening. This is the part where he abducts Sita to the forest confinement in Lanka. What if Sita wanted to be with Ravanan and the whole Ramayanam is a distorted version of the story - an elope rather than an abduction? The panchavadyam beats were getting intense, but neither of them felt like leaving. 'Do you draw?' Durga asked, noticing the black-bound sketchbook jutting out of his satchel. 'Yes... I like to sketch, yeah.' He was always reluctant to acknowledge his taste in art. I bet he felt noticed and exposed. 'What kinda things do you sketch?' 'I like doing portraits, illustrations, ...that kinda stuff.' 'Can you draw me?' Durga asked. A question that he's heard an umpteen times before, and yet, this time it was different; for both of them, both knew he already had. 'Yes... sometimes,' he replied with a shy nod. Tejus' phone rang, True caller tab popped up red, 'Bsnl telemarketing,' it read. 'Wow, Yumeji's theme? From "In the mood for love?" Are you a Wong Kar Wai fan too? They gushed over their love for Wong Kar Wai movies. They both thought they were the only ones to see all 10 of his features. Tejus' favourite was 'Chungking Express' and Durga's was '2046.' They talked about the omnipresent elements in his movies: the rain, mirrors, unrequited love, stop printing and catchy pop songs. When the nuances of Wong Kar Wai movies were exhausted they bitched about almost everyone who was sitting there - the GoPro techie who had brought the whole product box with him, the aunty with jasmine flowers on her head that had started to rot, the bald guy who ironically had scored most number of mosquitoes circling his head, the butt crack guy with a fluorescent 'Jockey,' the over engrossed mom whose kids they planned to murder, the sorority of princesses with matching blouses, and the oldie, who for some reason kept calling me, only interrupted by the periodic scoffs of disappointment at the mumbling two. They hardly cared anything about the grieving Ram(easily an 8) who just lost his wife to the dark evil Ravanan( a 5, at most a 6). The Kathakali performers bowed and left the makeshift stage. A few of the audience had come with bed-sheets to sleep on, which they spread over the floor and slept. Durga and Tejus left the koothambalam. It was 3 in the morning, the panchavadyam was over long back, and the temple grounds were deserted except for the footprints from the night. They decided to sit and talk for some more time before they went home. They sat at the west gate, on the black rock platforms on which people, and I, usually sit. It'll glisten ever so lightly in the moon, the oil from the lit lamps would mix with the dew and give a greasy coating to it. Durga started, 'Have you seen ''Begin Again?" Yeah? So, there's this scene in which they talk about how you can know so much about a person from their playlists.' Durga looked at Tejus intently, waiting. '...Oh, you wanna know my playlist? Okay cool, how about we play one song each from our playlists, alternatively. How's that?' 'Cool, works. You wanna start?' 'Yeah, sure.' Tejus started with 'Angela' by The Lumineers. They played Angela. I liked that song. Something about tree logging. 'Wasteland baby, by Hozier.' 'Okay,...Hero by Family of the year.' 'Coastline by Hollow Coves.' 'Cherathukal...?' ... Tinges of orange spread in the sky and suddenly there were rays of sunlight creeping in from behind the silhouette of the clock-tower. Savithri had started sweeping the stone pavements. She's a friend. We talk often about her grandkids. Pigeons stirred from under the clay-tiled roofs. Durga rubbed her eyes and took a few deep breaths of the cold morning air. She looked at Tejus sleeping on her calves, waited a moment, and then woke him up. A bit embarrassed by the drool on her salwaar he gave her an awkward smile. He lazily sat up. 'Oh, shit..! We're back in real-time.' 'Do you hear a Harpsichord playing? We can dance maybe,' She asks with an animated face of sarcasm. Tejus spurts out a laugh, 'It's funny you said that. I've always had this fantasy of having a sunrise-esque moment. You know, in some foreign city, walking around the streets - connecting with a person...Oh, and then I want the sequels too. I really love them, Jesse and Celine. They put everything good in those movies, and now, that's my scale, you know what I mean?' 'Yeah, I guess so. Yeah...But, you're gonna be disappointed my child. I don't think it ever works that way. Probably why the movie is special, right? I mean - you'll probably be perpetually disappointed in whatever you'd have - I guess...' 'Yeah...I guess. Anyways it'd be something I'd be looking for I guess.' Durga jumps down from the platform they were sitting on, 'well, this was close, right?' They shared a smile. They and I knew it was; the closest. The sand was cold - pleasant to walk on. They got a morning tea from the stall at the gate and decided to leave for their homes to sleep the day off. As they parted and Durga walked to her home, she looked down at her feet - there was a patch of grey on her skin - like a brushstroke. I watched on as the maroon at the ends of her hair glistened in the sun.

[ravensandstarsss]

nico di angelo for headcanon thing

Give me a character and I’ll tell you my headcanon for:

What they smell like: Campfire ash, because of all the nights he and Will sit by the fire together.

How they sleep (sleeping position, schedule, etc): Because of all the trauma he suffered in Tartarus and shadow traveling during Hoo Nico doesn’t sleep too well. He usually goes to bed around midnight, sleeping fitfully, then waking up sometime between five and eight.

What music they enjoy: Literally everything.  He pretends to be super hardcore but he’s been caught listening to the oldies (which gives him major nostalgia) and a lot of pop punk.

How much time they spend getting ready every morning: He literally throws on whatever he finds and goes out.

Their favorite thing to collect: Mythomagic cards

Left or right-handed: Left

Religion (if any): Agnostic

Favorite sport: He will always have a soft spot for fencing/swordplay.

Favorite touristy thing to do when traveling (museums, local food, sightseeing, etc): He loves to see the different fast food places.

Favorite kind of weather: Overcast

A weird/obscure fear they have: he has a bit of a fear of speaking his mind around strangers.  This comes mostly from being in the closet so long and being brought up in a far more intolerant time

The carnival/arcade game they always win without fail: space invaders 

#nico di angelo #solangelo #alexfain #asks for ari

[getyourgossip0-blog]

Now that's what I call a tracklist: how the compilation's 100th edition sells its history short

New Post has been published on http://getyourgossip.xyz/now-thats-what-i-call-a-tracklist-how-the-compilations-100th-edition-sells-its-history-short/

Now that's what I call a tracklist: how the compilation's 100th edition sells its history short

Released on 20 July, the 100th edition of Now That’s What I Call Music shifts from its regular programming: instead of summarising the last quarter in pop, the second disc condenses 35 years of Now into 80 minutes. It uses the biggest names – UB40, Phil Collins, Wet Wet Wet, Kylie, the Justins (Timberlake and Bieber), Coldplay – to tell its story, which rather misses the point. Now compilations are tamper-proof time capsules, where the most pleasure is found in one-hit wonders and sub-genres that were genuinely – but only briefly – popular. They are proof that history isn’t always written by the winners.

Here is how it could have looked. (Listen along below.)

The most significant sound of 1983 – for teenagers and the future of pop – was electro, represented on the first Now by the Rocksteady Crew with Hey You, which sounded like Peppermint Patty jumped ship from Peanuts while holidaying in the Bronx. Frankie Goes to Hollywood were huge in 84, and over by 85, but Propaganda (Dr Mabuse, Now 3) foreshadowed a new kind of European pop. Philip Oakey and Giorgio Moroder created a sad goodbye to the era (Together in Electric Dreams, Now 4) and British pop went into hibernation for much of the rest of the decade. US music became dominant on the dancefloor, with Prince’s success creating space for Cameo (Single Life, Now 6) and glorious one-offs such as Sly Fox’s Let’s Go All the Way (Now 7).

Not all was hopeless in mid-80s Britain. Stock, Aitken and Waterman, before they relied too heavily on pre-set buttons, gave us Mel and Kim’s weekend anthem Showing Out (Now 8), while mild experimentalism came via the Communards’ creepy So Cold the Night (Now 9), which used the bassoon as a rhythmic instrument. It wasn’t enough. Some turned to soft metal and the Brontëan passion of Heart’s Alone on Now 10, but the slick and tinny high-80s sound was dying by 1988; Johnny Hates Jazz’s puny but endearing Turn Back the Clock (Now 11) desperately attempting to stop the 90s from ever beginning.

1991’s biggest-selling singles act … the KLF perform at the 1992 Brit awards. Photograph: Richard Young/Rex Features

The rising sound of 1988 came from Chicago, and the media panic over acid house, but London played its part: the aerosol snare of Theme from S-Express (Now 12) signified an imminent DIY future for dance music. Soul II Soul (Back to Life, Now 15) instigated Paul Oakenfold’s Movement 98 and a tranche of early Ibiza-friendly 98bpm records (the Grid’s Floatation; JT & the Big Family’s Moments in Soul). By 1990, the primary colours of acid house and the frivolity of hip house resulted in Betty Boo (Where Are You Baby, Now 18) becoming a Smash Hits cover star. The major labels, iron-fisted in the 80s, had lost control of pop and in the chaos the KLF (3AM Eternal, Now 19) became 1991’s biggest selling singles act in Europe. The underground went overground – breakbeat-led hardcore (SL2’s On a Ragga Tip, Now 22) was the foundation stone of jungle, drum and bass, and genres yet to come.

Future thwarted … Tasmin Archer. Photograph: Mick Hutson/Redferns

Enough futurism – there was other stuff going on. Latin superstar Gloria Estefan was one of the biggest artists of the 90s never to have featured on a Now, but Jon Secada was her songwriter and backing singer, and the slippery, discomforting chords of his Just Another Day (Now 23) went Top 5 in 1992. A TV ad for the Soft Reggae compilation went with the bawled tagline “The softest reggae yet!” – as if L’Oréal had been trying to perfect a formula. UB40’s sound was inescapable in the early 90s, but Chaka Demus & Pliers’ Tease Me (Now 25), was soft, witty, and should be an oldies radio staple. The Brit awards saw the future in the form of Guiseley’s Tasmin Archer, (Sleeping Satellite, Now 26), named 1993’s best British breakthrough act – they were wrong.

Britpop’s year is remembered as 1995, but dance music was bigger, invigorated by happy hardcore (N-Trance’s Set You Free, Now 30), uplifting handbag house (Livin’ Joy’s Dreamer, Now 31) and whatever the Bucketheads’ joyous disco cut-up The Bomb was meant to be. Oasis aside, the most consistently successful UK act between 1993 and 1997 weren’t Pulp or Suede but Eternal (Power of a Woman, Now 32), whose run of homegrown, Topshop R&B singles – 12 Top 10 hits between 93 and 97, twice as many as Pulp, Shed Seven, Sleeper and Menswear combined – ran parallel to Britpop.

Spice Girls (Say You’ll Be There, Now 35) brought back a bubblegum sensibility in 1996 that dominated British chart pop for the rest of the nineties (All Saints’ I Know Where It’s At, Now 38; Steps’ Heartbeat, Now 41; Billie’s Honey to the Bee, Now 42). On Now 40, Aqua’s Doctor Jones – the second of three No 1s – was up against portentously titled post-Britpop items such as the Verve’s Sonnet and Legacy by Mansun.

A new golden age of R&B … Kelis. Photograph: Tim Roney/Getty Images

A new sound was needed for a new century. Still in demand in 2018 according to posters dotted around the North Circular, DJ Luck and MC Neat’s A Little Bit of Luck (Now 45) was urban, British, minimal and hard as nails, while So Solid Crew’s 21 Seconds (Now 50) was arguably the last time the media was scared by a No 1 single. British bubblegum was killed off by the more grownup, complex and beautifully baffling R&B emerging from the US at the turn of the century. Sisterhood may have suffered with the breakups of 90s R&B groups such as Jade, TLC and En Vogue, but solo singers produced a new golden age of R&B (Aaliyah’s More Than a Woman, Now 51; Ashanti’s Foolish, Now 52; Kelis’s Milkshake, Now 57). Previously a backroom songwriter, Christina Milian produced a masterpiece in Dip It Low (Now 58) – it’s a scandal of Vienna-type proportions that it was held off No 1 in 2004 by the tiresome Fuck It/F.U.R.B. (Fuck You Right Back) craze.

Almost undocumented by the music press but huge north of the Wash in the early 00s was the Blackburn-based All Around the World label, which provided donk-heavy foot fodder from acts such as N-Trance, Aquagen and Ultrabeat (Pretty Green Eyes, Now 56). Down south, 3 of a Kind were the ultimate one-hit wonder – one single, one No 1 hit in Babycakes, a last gasp of UK garage and one of its most endearing moments. Based in rural Kent, Britain’s Xenomania production team had scored their first No 1 in 2002 with Sugababes’ Round Round (Now 53) but by 2006 their main project, Girls Aloud (Biology, Now 62), had become broadsheet critical darlings. Girls Aloud were, of course, the product of the 2000s’ talent show craze. While you have to wade through a swamp of Sneddons to find anything else worthwhile, Shayne Ward’s Max Martin-produced gem No U Hang Up (Now 68) is worth a nod.

A brief flutter of excitement … Beth Ditto of Gossip. Photograph: Simone Joyner/Getty Images

Girls Aloud’s Something Kinda Ooooh and Justin Timberlake’s equally invigorating SexyBack fought drear like Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars and America by Razorlight on Now 65. The Magic Numbers (Forever Lost, Now 61) were physical and musical exceptions in a landfill indie landscape of identikit Wombats, Maccabees, Frays, Views and Hoosiers. There was a brief flutter of excitement as a bunch of exciting and excitable female-fronted guitar bands (CSS, New Young Pony Club, the Gossip) emerged in the mid ‘00s: the Gossip’s Standing in the Way of Control was on Now 66, alongside the first appearance by Calvin Harris who, along with David Guetta (Flames, Now 100), seems set to remain a Now regular until the apocalypse. Amerie’s Take Control (Now 67) provided a more imaginative way of using guitar riffs than any band in the UK could manage, though it presaged the oddly rock-heavy summer of 2008 (Sex on Fire, I Kissed a Girl, Pink’s So What).

The biggest country act of all time … Taylor Swift at BBC Radio 1’s 2012 Teen awards. Photograph: Brian Rasic/Brian Rasic/Getty Images

November 2008: in came Obama and, lo, a new lightness (Shakira’s She Wolf, Now 74), playfulness (Lady Gaga’s run of 2009 No 1s), and a sense of something regained (Alicia Keys’ Empire State of Mind, Now 75). This optimism soon bled into an over-ripe maximalism, and some of the scientifically loudest records ever made (Rihanna’s Only Girl (In the World), Now 77). Meanwhile, David Cameron’s Britain dabbled in the darker arts of loud but sombre stadium dubstep (Chase & Status’ Blind Faith, Now 78; Nero’s Guilt, Now 79). As Madonna and Britney Spears’ careers suddenly faded, a new heroine emerged from the world of country. There had been R&B/country crossovers before (Usher and Tim McGraw, Now 60) but adopting that internationalism made Taylor Swift (We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together, Now 83) the biggest country act of all time. She even had Obama on her side, with the president calling Kanye West a “jackass” after he invaded her prize acceptance at the 2009 MTV Video Music awards.

Foxes was an example of an emerging, less thrilling, 2010s British pop; her Let Go for Tonight (Now 87) was perfectly fine, but it represented a shift to a rather blank, home counties sound, as if Tim Henman had been appointed pop tsar. Sam Smith, Jess Glynne, Tom Odell, Ellie Goulding, and tousle-haired jack of all trades Ed “Hello Dave” Sheeran – this was chart pop as a career, in the way insurance or banking used to be, with a professional distance and a pre-rock attitude. At least Foxes had a proper stage name.

Stressed out … Drake. Photograph: Gabe Ginsberg/Getty Images

The charts were starting to become harder to read – in 2014, Oliver Heldens and Becky Hill’s Gecko (Overdrive) (Now 88) was the last UK No 1 to have made it on sales alone, as streaming became incorporated into the chart the following week. It was also becoming harder for outliers to break through, though Philip George’s Wish You Were Mine (Now 90) – deep house made in his bedroom – was an exception from a period when Robin S’s Show Me Love appeared to have been the most influential record ever made.

And so we enter the very recent past, the era of Trump, and some exceptionally good but also exceptionally mopey R&B. There was the new tough-but-weepy Bieber (Let Me Love You, Now 95), the Weeknd’s The Hills (Now 93) claimed “when I’m fucked up, that’s the real me”, while Drake bemoaned how “stressed out” he was as a Timmy Thomas sample played on Hotline Bling. Black British music had begun to dominate the second side of Nows (Stefflon Don’s Hurtin’ Me, Now 98; Dave’s No Words, Now 99). Indeed, the second disc of Now 99 was as exciting a sequence as Now had ever produced – Ramz, J Hus, B Young, Not3s, Mabel et al – at least until it weirdly petered out with Maroon 5, James Bay and U2.

The rather conservative “greatest hits” choices on Now 100 are therefore all the more disappointing, but no matter – the pop continuum is what counts with Now. I’m already looking forward to 35 years from today, and seeing the future of pop from the vantage point of Now 200.

Bob Stanley is a founding member of Saint Etienne and the author of Yeah Yeah Yeah: The Story of Modern Pop

[arcadegamees-blog]

Arcade games for Android?

GAME FEATURES 4 The 10 best arcade games on Android On Nov 04, 2017 5:00 pm, by Ash Mayhew tilt to live 2 Arkanoid vs Space Invaders

The amazing thing about Arkanoid vs Space Invaders is that it’s taken this long for someone to realise that Arkanoid and Space Invaders are fundamentally very similar and would make a great mash-up.

And great Arkanoid vs Space Invaders most certainly is. As you can probably deduce, the aim is to bounce a projectile back up from the bottom of the screen at rows of gradually descending aliens. There are 150 stages, 40 characters to unlock, boss battles, and an unlockable hard mode.  

best arcade games for android download

Shooty Skies Shooty Skies shares some of its DNA with Crossy Road, and the family resemblance is obvious. But everything has been cranked up to 11 and beyond in this spiritual sequel, making it an indispensible action pick.

The same cute, distinctive blocky graphics are on display, but the real joy of Shooty Skies is in the clever balancing of controls. There are three basic actions – hold to fire, swipe to dodge, and lift your finger to charge up your special weapon. That means the tensest moments are often when you’re not touching the screen at all. Genius. Get it here.

Blazing Star Nothing evokes the heady golden age of the amusement arcade like an SNK port. Blazing Star is the quintessential arcade shooter. It drops you into the cockpit of one of six different spacecraft, each with its own strengths and weaknesses, and sets you loose on an army of vicious killbots.

Blazing Star is more R-Type than DoDonPachi, so there’s a bit of room to breathe as you weave your way through several distinct environments. Plus there’s a Bluetooth co-op mode so that you can play with friends. Blazing Star costs just 99p. Get it here.

Geometry Wars 3: Dimensions Geometry Wars is the definitive arcade series for the console generation, surgically removing everything but the pure arcade essence of a shooter and serving it up in different level types like a deconstructed meal in a fancy avant garde restaurant.

And Geometry Wars 3: Dimensions is the definitive Geometry Wars experience, with over 100 levels, 15 3D grids, 12 modes, six companion drones, five super abilities, global leaderboards, and Bluetooth controller support. It’s not cheap at £6.99, but it’s well worth the investment. Get it here.

Tilt to Live 2: Redonkulous Tilt to Live was arguably the first truly great mobile arcade game made with your phone’s accelerometer in mind. It saw you tilting and rocking your device to move a ship around, like a ball on a tray, weaving between enemies and trying to destroy them by detonating bombs.

Tilt to Live 2: Redonkulous builds on the concept with boss battles, new weapons, and souped up presentation, but at heart it’s the same intuitive, addictive, and ingenious mobile arcade masterpiece. Get it here.

Radiant HD To be honest, we could have chosen any one of Hexage’s mobile arcade gems for this list, but we’ve gone for Radiant HD because, well, we felt like it. We don’t have to explain ourselves to you!

Radiant HD is, as its name suggests, the high definition version of Radiant, Hexage’s masterful, stylish tribute to arcade shooters of yore. It has over 100 levels, more than ten boss fights, and Bluetooth controller support. A bargain at just £1.69. Get it here.

Sky Force Reloaded Sky Force Reloaded is a modern take on top-down arcade shooters like 1942 and Galaga, and it has everything you could ask for in a game with that brief, including beautiful visuals, slick controls, and an inclusive difficulty curve.

But it’s so much more than a facelift. You don’t just acquire new ships, but assemble them, and after that there are hundreds of upgrades to install. You can pick up the wreckage of your friends’ ships for bonus points. There are bonus cards to find and collect, plus weekly tournaments to compete in. And, incredibly, it’s free. Get it here.

Pac-Man 256 Another game from the hitmakers who gave us Crossy Road, Pac-Man 256 is the perfect modern twist on one of the most iconic franchises in videogaming history.

It’s basically a mash-up of Crossy Road and Pac-Man, in that you play as a yellow dot-munching disc in a maze that’s always scrolling upwards. The goal is to survive for as long as you can, and there are 15 spectacular power-ups to help you in this endeavour.

Pac-Man 256 is free. Get it here.

AKA to Blue At just a month old, AKA to Blue is the youngest entry on this list. But It’s made a hell of a splash in its short time on the Google Play store, with glowing critical and user reviews. It’s not hard to see why.

AKA to Blue is a spectacular festival of destruction, screaming guitars, and white-hot light. In the tradition of the very best bullet-hell shooters, it chokes the screen with multicoloured balls of fire and streaks of lasers and challenges you to find a way through the maelstrom of ordnance, assisted by a powerful recharging bomb.

It’s not cheap at £7.49, but worth it if you want to enjoy some cutting edge arcade bedlam. Get it here.

Fruit Ninja The very definition of an ‘oldie but a goodie’, Fruit Ninja has seemingly been around for as long as touchscreen gaming, but its gratifying physics-based fruit-slashing action has never been surpassed.

In the unusual event that you’re not familiar with Fruit Ninja’s gameplay, the aim is simply to last as long as you can by slicing melons, pineapples, kiwi fruit, and other assorted fruit with your fingertip as they arc across the screen. Get it here.

[getyourgossip0-blog]

Now that's what I call a tracklist: how the compilation's 100th edition sells its history short

New Post has been published on http://getyourgossip.xyz/now-thats-what-i-call-a-tracklist-how-the-compilations-100th-edition-sells-its-history-short/

Now that's what I call a tracklist: how the compilation's 100th edition sells its history short

Released on 20 July, the 100th edition of Now That’s What I Call Music shifts from its regular programming: instead of summarising the last quarter in pop, the second disc condenses 35 years of Now into 80 minutes. It uses the biggest names – UB40, Phil Collins, Wet Wet Wet, Kylie, the Justins (Timberlake and Bieber), Coldplay – to tell its story, which rather misses the point. Now compilations are tamper-proof time capsules, where the most pleasure is found in one-hit wonders and sub-genres that were genuinely – but only briefly – popular. They are proof that history isn’t always written by the winners.

Here is how it could have looked. (Listen along below.)

The most significant sound of 1983 – for teenagers and the future of pop – was electro, represented on the first Now by the Rocksteady Crew with Hey You, which sounded like Peppermint Patty jumped ship from Peanuts while holidaying in the Bronx. Frankie Goes to Hollywood were huge in 84, and over by 85, but Propaganda (Dr Mabuse, Now 3) foreshadowed a new kind of European pop. Philip Oakey and Giorgio Moroder created a sad goodbye to the era (Together in Electric Dreams, Now 4) and British pop went into hibernation for much of the rest of the decade. US music became dominant on the dancefloor, with Prince’s success creating space for Cameo (Single Life, Now 6) and glorious one-offs such as Sly Fox’s Let’s Go All the Way (Now 7).

Not all was hopeless in mid-80s Britain. Stock, Aitken and Waterman, before they relied too heavily on pre-set buttons, gave us Mel and Kim’s weekend anthem Showing Out (Now 8), while mild experimentalism came via the Communards’ creepy So Cold the Night (Now 9), which used the bassoon as a rhythmic instrument. It wasn’t enough. Some turned to soft metal and the Brontëan passion of Heart’s Alone on Now 10, but the slick and tinny high-80s sound was dying by 1988; Johnny Hates Jazz’s puny but endearing Turn Back the Clock (Now 11) desperately attempting to stop the 90s from ever beginning.

1991’s biggest-selling singles act … the KLF perform at the 1992 Brit awards. Photograph: Richard Young/Rex Features

The rising sound of 1988 came from Chicago, and the media panic over acid house, but London played its part: the aerosol snare of Theme from S-Express (Now 12) signified an imminent DIY future for dance music. Soul II Soul (Back to Life, Now 15) instigated Paul Oakenfold’s Movement 98 and a tranche of early Ibiza-friendly 98bpm records (the Grid’s Floatation; JT & the Big Family’s Moments in Soul). By 1990, the primary colours of acid house and the frivolity of hip house resulted in Betty Boo (Where Are You Baby, Now 18) becoming a Smash Hits cover star. The major labels, iron-fisted in the 80s, had lost control of pop and in the chaos the KLF (3AM Eternal, Now 19) became 1991’s biggest selling singles act in Europe. The underground went overground – breakbeat-led hardcore (SL2’s On a Ragga Tip, Now 22) was the foundation stone of jungle, drum and bass, and genres yet to come.

Future thwarted … Tasmin Archer. Photograph: Mick Hutson/Redferns

Enough futurism – there was other stuff going on. Latin superstar Gloria Estefan was one of the biggest artists of the 90s never to have featured on a Now, but Jon Secada was her songwriter and backing singer, and the slippery, discomforting chords of his Just Another Day (Now 23) went Top 5 in 1992. A TV ad for the Soft Reggae compilation went with the bawled tagline “The softest reggae yet!” – as if L’Oréal had been trying to perfect a formula. UB40’s sound was inescapable in the early 90s, but Chaka Demus & Pliers’ Tease Me (Now 25), was soft, witty, and should be an oldies radio staple. The Brit awards saw the future in the form of Guiseley’s Tasmin Archer, (Sleeping Satellite, Now 26), named 1993’s best British breakthrough act – they were wrong.

Britpop’s year is remembered as 1995, but dance music was bigger, invigorated by happy hardcore (N-Trance’s Set You Free, Now 30), uplifting handbag house (Livin’ Joy’s Dreamer, Now 31) and whatever the Bucketheads’ joyous disco cut-up The Bomb was meant to be. Oasis aside, the most consistently successful UK act between 1993 and 1997 weren’t Pulp or Suede but Eternal (Power of a Woman, Now 32), whose run of homegrown, Topshop R&B singles – 12 Top 10 hits between 93 and 97, twice as many as Pulp, Shed Seven, Sleeper and Menswear combined – ran parallel to Britpop.

Spice Girls (Say You’ll Be There, Now 35) brought back a bubblegum sensibility in 1996 that dominated British chart pop for the rest of the nineties (All Saints’ I Know Where It’s At, Now 38; Steps’ Heartbeat, Now 41; Billie’s Honey to the Bee, Now 42). On Now 40, Aqua’s Doctor Jones – the second of three No 1s – was up against portentously titled post-Britpop items such as the Verve’s Sonnet and Legacy by Mansun.

A new golden age of R&B … Kelis. Photograph: Tim Roney/Getty Images

A new sound was needed for a new century. Still in demand in 2018 according to posters dotted around the North Circular, DJ Luck and MC Neat’s A Little Bit of Luck (Now 45) was urban, British, minimal and hard as nails, while So Solid Crew’s 21 Seconds (Now 50) was arguably the last time the media was scared by a No 1 single. British bubblegum was killed off by the more grownup, complex and beautifully baffling R&B emerging from the US at the turn of the century. Sisterhood may have suffered with the breakups of 90s R&B groups such as Jade, TLC and En Vogue, but solo singers produced a new golden age of R&B (Aaliyah’s More Than a Woman, Now 51; Ashanti’s Foolish, Now 52; Kelis’s Milkshake, Now 57). Previously a backroom songwriter, Christina Milian produced a masterpiece in Dip It Low (Now 58) – it’s a scandal of Vienna-type proportions that it was held off No 1 in 2004 by the tiresome Fuck It/F.U.R.B. (Fuck You Right Back) craze.

Almost undocumented by the music press but huge north of the Wash in the early 00s was the Blackburn-based All Around the World label, which provided donk-heavy foot fodder from acts such as N-Trance, Aquagen and Ultrabeat (Pretty Green Eyes, Now 56). Down south, 3 of a Kind were the ultimate one-hit wonder – one single, one No 1 hit in Babycakes, a last gasp of UK garage and one of its most endearing moments. Based in rural Kent, Britain’s Xenomania production team had scored their first No 1 in 2002 with Sugababes’ Round Round (Now 53) but by 2006 their main project, Girls Aloud (Biology, Now 62), had become broadsheet critical darlings. Girls Aloud were, of course, the product of the 2000s’ talent show craze. While you have to wade through a swamp of Sneddons to find anything else worthwhile, Shayne Ward’s Max Martin-produced gem No U Hang Up (Now 68) is worth a nod.

A brief flutter of excitement … Beth Ditto of Gossip. Photograph: Simone Joyner/Getty Images

Girls Aloud’s Something Kinda Ooooh and Justin Timberlake’s equally invigorating SexyBack fought drear like Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars and America by Razorlight on Now 65. The Magic Numbers (Forever Lost, Now 61) were physical and musical exceptions in a landfill indie landscape of identikit Wombats, Maccabees, Frays, Views and Hoosiers. There was a brief flutter of excitement as a bunch of exciting and excitable female-fronted guitar bands (CSS, New Young Pony Club, the Gossip) emerged in the mid ‘00s: the Gossip’s Standing in the Way of Control was on Now 66, alongside the first appearance by Calvin Harris who, along with David Guetta (Flames, Now 100), seems set to remain a Now regular until the apocalypse. Amerie’s Take Control (Now 67) provided a more imaginative way of using guitar riffs than any band in the UK could manage, though it presaged the oddly rock-heavy summer of 2008 (Sex on Fire, I Kissed a Girl, Pink’s So What).

The biggest country act of all time … Taylor Swift at BBC Radio 1’s 2012 Teen awards. Photograph: Brian Rasic/Brian Rasic/Getty Images

November 2008: in came Obama and, lo, a new lightness (Shakira’s She Wolf, Now 74), playfulness (Lady Gaga’s run of 2009 No 1s), and a sense of something regained (Alicia Keys’ Empire State of Mind, Now 75). This optimism soon bled into an over-ripe maximalism, and some of the scientifically loudest records ever made (Rihanna’s Only Girl (In the World), Now 77). Meanwhile, David Cameron’s Britain dabbled in the darker arts of loud but sombre stadium dubstep (Chase & Status’ Blind Faith, Now 78; Nero’s Guilt, Now 79). As Madonna and Britney Spears’ careers suddenly faded, a new heroine emerged from the world of country. There had been R&B/country crossovers before (Usher and Tim McGraw, Now 60) but adopting that internationalism made Taylor Swift (We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together, Now 83) the biggest country act of all time. She even had Obama on her side, with the president calling Kanye West a “jackass” after he invaded her prize acceptance at the 2009 MTV Video Music awards.

Foxes was an example of an emerging, less thrilling, 2010s British pop; her Let Go for Tonight (Now 87) was perfectly fine, but it represented a shift to a rather blank, home counties sound, as if Tim Henman had been appointed pop tsar. Sam Smith, Jess Glynne, Tom Odell, Ellie Goulding, and tousle-haired jack of all trades Ed “Hello Dave” Sheeran – this was chart pop as a career, in the way insurance or banking used to be, with a professional distance and a pre-rock attitude. At least Foxes had a proper stage name.

Stressed out … Drake. Photograph: Gabe Ginsberg/Getty Images

The charts were starting to become harder to read – in 2014, Oliver Heldens and Becky Hill’s Gecko (Overdrive) (Now 88) was the last UK No 1 to have made it on sales alone, as streaming became incorporated into the chart the following week. It was also becoming harder for outliers to break through, though Philip George’s Wish You Were Mine (Now 90) – deep house made in his bedroom – was an exception from a period when Robin S’s Show Me Love appeared to have been the most influential record ever made.

And so we enter the very recent past, the era of Trump, and some exceptionally good but also exceptionally mopey R&B. There was the new tough-but-weepy Bieber (Let Me Love You, Now 95), the Weeknd’s The Hills (Now 93) claimed “when I’m fucked up, that’s the real me”, while Drake bemoaned how “stressed out” he was as a Timmy Thomas sample played on Hotline Bling. Black British music had begun to dominate the second side of Nows (Stefflon Don’s Hurtin’ Me, Now 98; Dave’s No Words, Now 99). Indeed, the second disc of Now 99 was as exciting a sequence as Now had ever produced – Ramz, J Hus, B Young, Not3s, Mabel et al – at least until it weirdly petered out with Maroon 5, James Bay and U2.

The rather conservative “greatest hits” choices on Now 100 are therefore all the more disappointing, but no matter – the pop continuum is what counts with Now. I’m already looking forward to 35 years from today, and seeing the future of pop from the vantage point of Now 200.

Bob Stanley is a founding member of Saint Etienne and the author of Yeah Yeah Yeah: The Story of Modern Pop