#the fact that Saul is left to deal with everything alone

[faytalepsy]

Every night I‘m dancing with your ghost

Never got the chance To say a last goodbye I gotta move on But it hurts to try

How do I love How do I love again? How do I trust How do I trust again?

I stay up all night Tell myself I'm alright Baby, you're just harder to see than most I put the record on Wait 'til I hear our song Every night I'm dancing with your ghost Every night I'm dancing with your ghost

#silrah #farah dowling #saul silva #fate the winx saga #farah x saul #ftws #my art #the fact that Saul is left to deal with everything alone #in prison #Maybe feeling that Farah is gone

[djino04]

Injury 2

Author's note : Someone asked for the sequel to "Injury", here it is. I'm not particularly a fan of this chapter, but nothing better came out of my head.

POV Farah 

It's finally summer vacation and I've been alone at school since this morning. The students have of course gone home. Ben, Terra and Sam have gone back to Rose, as they do every year. And I managed to persuade Saul and Sky to go away together for a few days. I hope this little trip will give them a chance to work things out. They're both hurting from the current state of their relationship, but I know he's not yet ready to forgive his foster father. Maybe the change of scenery will do him good.

It feels strange to be alone here. In 18 years, it's rarely been like this. And besides, since my return, the students have been very clingy. And when it wasn't them, it was Saul or Ben. 

Every few minutes I look up at the door, expecting one of the fairies to knock and then I remember that they all went home. I really thought I could finally get on with the paperwork, but I was wrong. I guess I might as well go to my quarters and relax. 

I quickly put the papers away on my desk when I hear my phone ring. I frown as I see Saul's satellite phone number. He already called me 30 minutes ago to complain about Sky's behavior. Although in real life, I know he did it mostly to see how I was doing. At this distance, our connection doesn't work very well, so he needed that to reassure himself. I can't even imagine how he felt the moment I died. What I do know is that his protectiveness has increased tenfold since my return. To be perfectly honest, I don't mind so much that it's coming from him, although I will continue to grumble for the sake of it. Which I do, by the way, as I pick up the phone: 

"Saul, I'm past the age of needing a babysitter."

"Aunt Farah..."

It's not Saul on the other end of the phone but Sky, a very concerned Sky from the sound of his voice, not to mention the fact that he hasn't called me by that nickname since he became a student at Alfea. I then fear the worst but try to stay calm as I ask him: 

"Sky, what's going on? Where's Saul?"

"He's hurt. The wood stock collapsed on him. I think he has a concussion."

"Is he conscious?"

"He was when I left him. But now I don't know, I'm at the car."

A plan of action quickly begins to form in my head and I explain it to Sky: 

"Okay, join your dad Sky, keep him conscious and don't move him for now. I'll get the supplies I need and come through the portal, okay? Everything will be fine, I promise."

After assuring him again that I'll be there soon, I hang up. I could have stayed on the phone with Sky to reassure him, but it would have taken me longer to get everything ready. On top of that, I want him to focus on Saul to keep him awake. It only takes me about ten minutes to get everything I need and create a portal to the hunting cabin. It's a good thing my specialist took me there a few years ago, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to do it. 

As I walk through the portal, I immediately feel Saul's pain through our connection. I am reassured that they are not too serious and that I should be able to deal with the injuries without Ben. Despite the rain and wind, I run to what's left of the cabin. Once there, I hear Sky's voice but also Saul's as they both talk. The younger one looks up at me when he notices my presence and simply says: 

"Aunt Farah."

I see Saul trying to straighten up and I put a hand on his shoulder as soon as I'm beside him: 

"Just lie there while I check to see that you didn't do anything bad this time. You'll have to tell me how you manage to find trouble even on vacation."

He lies down again without protesting and answers me: 

"Maybe this wouldn't happen if you agreed to go on vacation with us."

I simply reply with a smile. It is true that I often let the two men go together and sometimes join them later. Sky needs to have Saul all to himself from time to time. Which happens more and more rarely now that he is a student and no longer sleeps in his foster father's apartments. And I'm sure Saul really appreciates this time alone as well. 

I use my magic to scan his body and assess the damage. I'm reassured to see that other than the concussion, he's not hurt badly. He has some bruises, a few cuts, and he's going to be stiff for several days, but it could be worse. Most importantly, we'll be able to move him safely. We are all soaked and there is no point in us adding a cold or worse to the list of problems. 

I quickly explain my findings to the two men: 

"Other than the concussion, I didn't find anything serious. We're going to be able to get into the house and out of these wet clothes. I brought a potion that should help with your head and some things for the cuts and bruises. You'll be back on your feet in no time."

Saul starts to straighten up and I can see a slight grimace of pain appear on his face before he hides it. I know he's not going to want to let me take his pain so I don't even offer. Sky gets on one side and I get on the other and we help Saul get up and then walk towards the house and to his room.

Once we arrive and Saul is sitting on the bed, I turn to Sky: 

"Sky, go change, take a hot shower if you're cold. I'll take care of Saul."

I can see that the boy hesitates for a few seconds. He glances at Saul. The latter gives him a reassuring smile: 

"I'm fine now. You did a good job, thanks. Now go get changed like Farah told you."

Obviously, this is what Sky needed to hear because he quickly exits the room. I then turn to Saul, potions in hand: 

"To us both."

I hand him a vial, which he takes with a suspicious look: 

"It's not that I don't trust you but uh, are you sure about this?"

"Just because I missed a potion once doesn't mean it'll happen every time. And anyway, it was Ben who made it so there's no risk."

Once, just once, I messed up making a healing potion like this. Andreas and Saul were sick all day and then neither of them would ever take one of my potions. What they don't know is that they've drunk several since then. The dark-haired guy looks at me for a second longer before drinking the potion straight down with a grimace. But even though it's not good, its effect is almost instantaneous. I hear him sigh with relief and feel the pain recede.

"See, there was nothing to worry about. Come on now, let's hit the shower too. I'll take care of the rest afterwards."

I don't even ask him if he's able to shower or not because I know he'll say yes anyway. He has a slight tendency to underestimate his injuries. After finding him passed out twice in the bathroom, I have learned to assess his condition from our bond. More importantly, I use it to monitor him throughout his recovery, no matter how slightly or severely injured he is. When Saul figured it out, he started blocking his part of the bond in those moments and I think that was one of the only times we really argued. If he can't be honest about his injuries, I need a way to know how he's doing. He eventually figured out that I wasn't doing this to invade his privacy and has left the link open every time since. 

I am brought out of my thoughts by Sky coming over and sitting next to me. I can see that all of this has upset him. It's not surprising, especially with everything he's been through this year, including Andreas' death. I put an arm around his shoulders and he comes to lean against me. I ask him: 

"How are you doing?"

"You know I'm not the one who got hurt?"

I smile gently at him: 

"You know, you don't have to be physically hurt to not be okay. I know the last few months have been hard on you. And what just happened may have messed you up."

He shrugs: 

"I'm not a kid anymore."

No, he's not really one anymore because of Rosalind. These kids have been through war in the last year. And Sky had to kill her biological father with his own hand to protect his adoptive father. There is a lot to be upset about, child or not. That's why I say to him: 

"You don't have to be a child to be upset about things. It's perfectly normal to be scared when you see someone you love being hurt. I was scared when you called me and then when I saw Saul lying on the floor."

He looks at me with a raised eyebrow: 

"You seemed very calm though."

"Being scared is not the same as panicking Sky. It's in the moments of fear where you have to step back and think so you don't make the wrong decision. That's what you did, you called me and Saul is fine because of you. But you know being an adult is also about dealing with problems by talking things through instead of letting your anger out. "

Our conversation is stopped by Saul stepping out of the shower, shirtless. I can quickly see that I was not mistaken, there are some bruises and cuts that deserve a balm but nothing too bad. After a good night's sleep, he'll be almost as good as new and he'll be fit enough to finally have a good conversation with Sky. That is, if he is ready.

#saul silva #sky of eraklyon #farah dowling #fic #fate: the winx saga #fate the winx saga

[imkylotrash]

Meet Me In The Hallway (3)

Pairing: Sky x reader

Summary: Stella is losing patience and when you follow Sky into the forest to find the Burned One, she lets part of your secret slip as a warning. 

Tagging: @grey-girl @intoanothermind @bitchwhytho @music-of-melody

Series Masterlist

“I thought I saw you leave Sky’s room and then I thought… That can’t be true. Y/N wouldn’t be stupid enough to do that when they know what I know.”

You really hate Stella. Slowly, you turn around to face her preparing yourself for the venomous smile she no doubt has plastered on her face. Barely anytime has gone by but you’re already getting very tired of having her threaten you.

“Silva is hurt. He needed someone to comfort him. That’s all.” You’re dog-tired wishing for a peaceful sleep but Stella has other plans.

“If Sky needs comforting, I will make sure he gets it. Not you.” It baffles you how she claims to care for him when all she does it look after her own needs. Frankly, you don’t care who gets to comfort him as long as he’s not alone. You’d give up just about anything to make sure he’s happy but Stella seems to think it’s him who should give up everything for her. 

“Are you really that selfish you’ll put your own happiness above his?” you dare ask tired of her games. 

“I’m going to give you one last chance to fix this,” she starts completely ignoring your question. 

“I have to stay away from him. I get it,” you interrupt her about to turn around and walk away when she stops you. 

“I want you to convince him to go on a date with me. He’s been too occupied sulking over you to show any interest in me. I want you to make him realise that I’m the obvious choice.” She must’ve lost her mind. For a whole minute you simply just stare at her taking her words in. She wants you to convince Sky to fall in love with her. In the middle of everything going on with Silva. Is she completely mental? 

“Did you hear me or do I need to repeat myself?” In an attempt to act unbothered, she checks her nails but you see right through her. All the insecurities and abandonment issues shine bright in the dark and you briefly pity her. Everyone has heard the rumours of her mother and the way she’s been treated, but you came from a horrible life too and you didn’t turn into a bitch. 

“I heard you.” 

“Great. You can tell him I’ll be waiting in my room.” She walks past you not even bothering to ask how Silva is doing. Despite your need for some proper sleep, you decide to head down to the greenhouse. Mr. Harvey is adding a fresh coat of the herb mix to Silva’s wounds. 

“Sky is sleeping,” you quickly say to easy Silva’s mind. He sits back down revealing the pain he’s in. 

“Can I help with anything?” you ask needing something to occupy your mind from what Stella asked of you. How can you focus on that when Silva could be dying? 

“Maybe you could cool me down again? It really helped me rest.” You oblige placing your hand on his forehead and channeling just the slightest magic into the palm of your hand. It’s an instant effect when the ice hits him. Slowly his skin returns to a normal shade rather than the hot red it was mere minutes ago. 

“Thank you,” he whispers lying down on the table again. It must be really bad if he’s so willing to show weakness. In the time you’ve known Silva, he’s never shown weakness about anything. You know it would be a different story if Sky were here though. He’d never want Sky to know just how much pain he’s in and you can’t blame him. It would crush Sky. 

“No problem. I can come back in a few hours to do it again?” You look to Mr. Harvey for signs whether that’s a good idea or not. He gives you a quick nod before continuing his work. You mean to head to your room but you spot a blonde boy who’s sneaking out the backdoor. 

“Are you kidding me?” With a sigh, you follow him outside realising that he’s heading straight for the forest. 

“Sky, where are you going?” you ask and the sound of your voice stops him dead in his tracks. 

“I’m going to find the Burned One that got Saul. I can’t just sit around and do nothing.” He’s not looking at you. Probably because he knows you’ll try to talk him out of it. 

“Please stay. Marco is out looking as we speak and I’m sure he’ll find it.” You’re desperate to keep him protected within the barrier but you’re always painfully aware of the fact that Sky is one of the most stubborn people you’ve ever met. You’re not sure you’ll be able to convince him especially now that you’re broken up. 

“I’m not waiting for someone else to save him. Saul is all I have left.” It’s a brutal reminder of what you took from him when you ended things and it tugs at your heartstrings just how badly you hurt him. 

“Then I’m coming with you.” If he’s going out there, you need to be there too. You’d never forgive yourself if something happened to him and you had the chance to stop it. 

“You’re not going with me,” he says as if he has any say at all. 

“If you’re going, I’m going. Package deal, remember?” It’s something you started saying after Riven kept commenting on the fact that you never went anywhere without each other and up until recently you never have. He doesn’t look pleased but he also doesn’t say no. He just hands you a small dagger for you to hold onto to. You grab hold of the water drops lying on the grass and freeze them before levitating them in the air. 

“I think I’m good.” He takes the dagger back without a word and proceeds to the forest. It’s a long trek but you don’t complain. You asked to be here and as much as you hate the uncomfortable silence that’s formed between the two of you, you’re glad you’re here. There’s no point in the search because it’s impossible to figure out what direction the Burned One headed but all you can do is keep a lookout and hope you get lucky. 

“Stop,” you whisper grabbing hold of his sleeve. He stops moving but you feel the shiver in his arm where your fingers grazed his skin. 

“Sorry,” you mumble letting go of him. A little further ahead, you see something move. Sky pulls out his sword and you channel your feelings ready to freeze it in place. It’s not the first time you and Sky has worked together, but it is the first time it’s been outside of training. 

“I freeze, you stab.” He nods hardly moving a muscle. You direct your power at the Burned One freezing every part of it to keep it from moving. You hold it in place feeling the fire inside of it trying to beat your ice but as you see Sky run towards it, you feel more motivated than ever to win. He stabs it right through its core and when you feel its resistance die out, you let go of control. It falls to the ground officially dead. 

“We did it,” you say out of breath. How you haven’t passed out from sleep deprivation yet is beyond you but it’s catching up to you now. 

“I’ll call Silva,” you say ignoring the need to fall asleep right here on the ground. It takes two rings before he picks up shouting about how irresponsible you are for taking off and hunting Burned Ones yourself. He doesn’t say thank you, but you know it’s hidden between the lines. 

“He’s definitely feeling better,” you say once he’s done giving both of you an earful. He demands you both return to school at once and now that you’ve killed the right one, you can oblige easily. 

“Thank you for coming with me,” Sky says on your way back.

“Of course. I know what Silva means to you.” This time the silence is comfortable almost as if nothing went wrong between the two of you. But Stella’s ultimatum is still weighing heavy on your mind. 

“Can I ask you to do something without any questions?” you ask him right before you reach the barrier. 

“What is it?” he asks but you need him to promise you before you tell him. You know he’ll never agree to it otherwise. 

“Promise me,” you say pausing just before the barrier. From here you can see the school and the students training out on the grass as if it’s just a normal day. But to them it probably is.

“I promise.” 

“I need you to take Stella on a date.” His glare might just pierce you from pure anger. 

“No questions. You promised!” He’s about to protest but stops himself. He’s a man of his word even if he hates it right now.

“Fine.” He starts walking leaving you behind. The second people spot you, they stare at you like you just arrived with the circus. 

“Is that them?”

“Do you think it’s true?” 

“Are we in danger?” Everyone is whispering and pointing fingers making you feel incredibly uncomfortable. You notice Musa not too far away and head over to her. 

“What’s going on?” Before she has a chance to tell you, a first year taps you on the shoulder. A bunch of girls are watching from afar making it obvious that the first year in front of you is here on a dare. 

“Is it true?” she asks continuously looking back at her friends. 

“Is what true?” you ask confused ignoring the sneaking suspicion you feel. 

“Is it true that you’re a changeling?” 

#sky x reader #sky blurb #sky imagine #sky gif #sky #fate the winx saga #fate the winx club #fate winx club #winx saga #winx club #fate winx #fate

[dailyaudiobible]

08/18/2021 DAB Transcript

Esther 1:1-3:15, 1 Corinthians 11:17-34, Ps 35:17-28, Proverbs 21:19-20

Today is the 18th day of August welcome to the Daily Audio Bible I’m Brian it is wonderful to be here with you today as we begin some new territory. So, we concluded…well…we read Ezra and then we read Nehemiah. We concluded Nehemiah yesterday and there’s so much in Ezra and Nehemiah for us and we explored that. So, we’re not really leaving stories from the exile, but this is a totally new complexion and it's so wonderful when we arrive at this place, the book of Esther.

Introduction to the book of Esther:

And what we’ll learn is that…well…the story of a Hebrew girl named Hadassah and she was orphaned in the exile, and her cousin, his name was Mordecai. He took her in and raised her as his own. He was of the tribe of Benjamin. And, so, Hadassah, she is in exile in Persia and so they can have a different language and different naming scheme. And, so, she takes on the name Esther, which means Morning Star or Star in the Hebrew tradition. So, what we will find is that the Persian king has a falling out with Vashti, his Queen. She embarrasses him, really humiliates him and rebels against him in a way, and as it turns out she is put away, which is what eventually allows Esther to come onto the scene. A search throughout the land for beautiful maidens that would qualify, like they would if chosen, become the Queen. And as it turns out Esther is beautiful, like stunningly beautiful, gorgeous. And just inside and out has a quiet temperament and is kindhearted and not arrogant or condescending, and she is chosen to be, you know, kind of in the final group where a lot of different women are being given lots of different beauty treatments and cared for and being taught the ways of the palace and how to be before the king and all of the customs of royalty. And Esther was taken into the harem as it were and began to go through all of this and she found favor everywhere that she went, but she kept the fact that she was Jewish a secret. She didn't say her ethnicity and that turned out to be pivotal. We’ll also meet someone named Haman who rose to great prominence, basically second in command in the kingdom. He was in Amalekite. He descended from King Agag. He becomes kind of the antagonist in the story because the Amalekites and the Hebrews have been enemies actually all…all the way back to Jacob and Esau. And it was Samuel, the Hebrew prophet that executed the king Agag the Amalekite. It was the Hebrew king Saul that had defeated Agag but had spared him and then…well…Samuel then didn't spare him. So, much later now Haman’s got this brewing, seething rage towards the Jewish people and he’s risen to prominence in Persia and so he plans the...the extermination of the Jewish people throughout the entire empire. So, this is a short book but it's pretty high in drama. And in the end it establishes a festival in the Hebrew culture that is lasting until today, the festival of Purim. And we’ll find…we’re gonna love Esther. It's a great read. It's a great story. It's a short story but it's a beautiful story. But as we overlay it with our lives there’s so much there. God against all odds is present. Circumstances don't always work out the for the worst or the way that we think that they might. Everybody has a role to play in the story because God brings people into things and assigns them to do things for such a time as this. And, so, let's…let’s dive in and enjoy Esther. We’re reading from the Good News Translation this week. Esther chapters 1 through 3 today.

Prayer:

Father, thank You for Your word. We thank You for this…this new territory, the book of Esther that we find ourselves in. Thank You for the story of a valiant beautiful woman who rescues Your people for such time as this. And we look in our own lives and look for these scenarios where we find ourselves in a situation and maybe we’re not the Queen and maybe we’re not gonna rescue an entire people group, but there are such times that we are the one that's in the right place to do Your service. Help us to recognize that even as we continue with the story of Esther moving forward tomorrow. Come Holy Spirit we pray into all that we've read we ask in the name of Jesus. Amen.

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And that's it for today. I'm Brian I love you and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Community Prayer and Praise:

Hey guys this is Lazarus calling. For those that have followed me over the years, this is it. Finally losing everything and it's OK. I'm extreme pain. I put off the surgery on my shoulder for two years and now it's beyond bearable. I was near suicidal earlier this week from the pain. On a new pain scale, it’s level 17. So, anybody wants to jump on board with that one come on. I'm just putting together a list of all the things that I have to sell with what I have left and try to figure out a way to make it to a surgery that I can't afford. So…and losing my company, losing everything. So, not sure how to deal with loss but Jesus is there. I can do anything with him. And I'm just trying to reconnect with His fire. So, for those of you who are in pain or loss or whatever, I feel for you. I am there with you. Just know that He's there and when it's dark…I've been dark…He gives you a flashlight and points you in the right direction. So, please keep the faith. I have no idea where I'm going to be, where I'm going to be living, if on the street or whatever, but I'm in his hands and I'm doing His will. So, I give it all up to Him. So, thank you for your prayers. Over the years and I pray I'm around to talk to you in the near future and with a praise report or any report. God bless you all I love you all. Thank you Brian, I’ve loved you for years brother.

This is Peggy in Texas and as a grandmother I ask you to pray for my 15-year-old grandson. He's suffering some from some type of trauma. The doctor has told us this. We do not know what it is at this point, nobody does. He has shut down, he's pulled in, he's evidently feeling very lonely…is…he's alone in many ways in this world and he is filled with anxiety. And, of course, all this leads to depression. Will you please ask our Lord to grant his parents and me…he's staying with me as…beginning in a few hours for now for several days and then his parents are taking a daughter to college. We ask for wisdom, ask for strength ask for peace in the mist of upheaval, please. Ask for direction, that…that we'll all be able to pull together, and the need will be met, that God will be honored. I am 87 and, of course, you can probably tell in my voice that I'm experiencing some anxiety and restlessness and just longing and for help. Anyway, I thank you for praying with me as I pray with you for your concerns. Oh man…heavenly Father, hear us and direct our paths and heal our hearts and our minds and our…our children for His honor in His glory. Thank you for hearing this request. Thank you for praying with me. Blessings. Bye- bye.

Hi Daily Audio Bible family this is Sheena from Saskatchewan Canada. I wanted to send a prayer out to Quiet Confidence in Virginia and just…just letting you know that there's no shame in anxiety and depression. And I get it. But I just wanted to let you know that when the enemy is telling you that you're backsliding or that you're going against your faith it's just…it's…it's not true. And you are strong, and you are loved, and I just hope that I can provide you some encouragement with that prayer. I called in a little while ago, so thank you to those who prayed for my situation with my boyfriend being wrongfully accused of a crime. We’re doing alright this week. We've…we have our next court date which unfortunately isn't till February. So, please continue to pray for us as we prepare for this preliminary hearing. Couple people I want to send shoutouts for, Lorenzo, you’re such a blessing to our DAB community. I pray that as you go back to school that God will grant you strength to continue in your faith and wisdom to do well at your new school. Holly Heart your commitment in praying for all of us is inspiring. Thank you, Lord for Holly and her faith and service to You and the rest of us. And Esther from Kissimmee, I pray the Lord continues to shine on you and to be gracious to you. Your passionate prayers for all of us lift my heart and restore my faith in the world and it makes me want to do better. Thanks DAB family. I'm hoping that I can make this a regular thing, calling in and praying. Have a great day. Love you. Bye.

Hi DAB family this is Jessica from California. Tonight, I'm calling in to say a prayer for Dave from Indiana. Actually, the prayers for his son Lucas who has been a rehab for 28 days because he has an alcohol problem, and he has a wife and two children, and he somehow maybe had a relapse. And I just want to say a prayer. So, here we go. Dear heavenly Father, we just come before You Lord. You know what it is that Lucas is trying to drown and what void he's trying to fill with the alcohol Lord. And I just pray that in his quiet Time Lord that You speak to him and You pour Your love and Your anointing oil all over his mind and his body Lord, that You heal him from the inside out from all that's troubling him, whatever it is that he's choosing to use alcohol as a vice for Lord, that You just…You remove that splinter from his heart Lord and You heal him up Lord. And I just pray this on his father's behalf and also his wife and his children's behalf Lord because this not only affects him it affects his children and his whole family. I just thank You Lord that You are going to do this for Lucas and because he is a praying father and…and that You love him and You have wonderful dreams for him and I just want to encourage you Dave that the Lord healed me from…in Jesus’ name I pray Amen…that the Lord healed me from a drug addiction. And he had to heal me from emotional things first. So, I just pray that he heals your son from any emotional problems that he has. And…and thanks for calling in and putting your faith in the Lord Dave. Have a nice day. Bye.

Hi, it's Tom here calling from the UK just calling to ask for prayer for my left eye. I have a condition called recurrent corneal erosions and basically what that means is that wake up in the middle of the night with really excruciating eye pain. It's red, it's streaming, and I've just got to use eye ointment and eye drops and eye wash and usually it just settles down but for the past two days it just hasn't and my eyes quite swollen and it's just very painful. I'm over in Ireland the moment and it's my godsons christening and I really want to make it for Sunday. It's Friday today but at the moment I'm contemplating going back to the UK to…to get treatment. On top of it I'm also a doctor myself. I'm a surgeon in training and I need my eyesight. And I just really would covet your prayers, that my eye would be healed and that this condition would go and I'm thanking Jesus already for the healing and I just…yeah…I would just really appreciate prayer for it, that this pain would go and that I would get 2020 vision and this condition would just go away completely. So, thank you once again. Take care.

[sodalitefully]

Rose Petals & Petty Rivalries [GNR AU, Slaxl] 🌹🌹

The Hollywood Rose is a florist, run by Axl Rose and Izzy Stradlin (in lieu of the actual owner, who never seems to make an appearance), with Duff McKagan behind the wheel of the delivery truck.  Axl likes working there; he likes the flowers, he likes the quiet, and he likes how things don’t ever change: business is slow but steady, customers are as predictable as ever… and the tattoo parlor next door is still a pain in his fucking ass.  Don’t even get him fucking started about how it scares off the Rose’s customers by attracting seedy thugs, or how the owner is a fucking creep that Axl may or may not have history with.

Seriously, don’t: Izzy might actually gouge his eyes out with plant clippers if he has to hear Axl’s rant one more goddamn time.  

Tracii Guns opened up the L.A. Guns tattoo parlor a few years ago, and he doesn’t plan on moving anytime soon, no matter how much animosity he gets from the flowerboy next door.  Business is going well for once; so well, in fact, that Tracii has decided it’s time to hire a second artist.

There’s just one problem with that: There’s only one tattoo artist in LA who is both up to Tracii’s standards and looking for a place to set up shop, and that person is Saul Hudson, better known as Slash, a talented, hotshot artist who also happens to have a rivalry with Tracii dating all the way back to their school days when they first upgraded from stick-and-pokes to cheap tattoo kits.

Tracii left his mark on more of LA’s reckless youth than Slash did in their teen years, but just barely and only because Slash was often distracted by anything from BMX to zookeeping.  He may have gotten a slower start to his career, but Slash’s talent as an artist is now making him a hot commodity in the tattooing community – If Tracii doesn’t grab him now, someone else will hire him soon enough, and Tracii can’t risk that kind of competition.  

So Tracii reaches out and Slash accepts the job offer, but that doesn’t mean their little rivalry has been resolved.  Tracii tells Slash that there’s not enough space in the tiny shop for both of their work stations on street level, so he assigns Slash the basement.  Slash actually really likes the space, once he gets it all cleared out and set up the way he likes (he calls it “the snakepit” in his head), but he’s not about to let Tracii get first pick of every customer who walks in the door.  Whenever he’s not with a client, Slash is hovering around upstairs, putting his art up on the walls, greeting potential customers from behind the counter, and generally doing everything he can to poach Tracii’s clients.  Tracii does not appreciate his efforts, but when he’s in the middle of an appointment there’s nothing he can do to stop him.  

So now Tracii has to deal with competition from his own employee (though by no means is their feud one-sided…) on top of his pissy neighbor who somehow manages to give Tracii an impressive amount of attitude while also blatantly ignoring him.  Of-fucking-couse things only get worse when the two meet.

Duff is new in town, fresh from Seattle, Washington, and working two jobs to pay for his shitty bug-infested studio apartment: by day, he drives the Hollywood Rose delivery van, and by night he waits tables at a steakhouse across town.  So he’s not entirely caught up on the details of Axl and Tracii’s bad blood, and comes into work one morning eager to show off his brand new tattoo.

He got it from an artist that his buddy Steven recommended.  “It’s just the place next door, Axl, have you gotten any of your tattoos done there?”  An innocent question, perfectly reasonable, and yet –

“…Oh.  You went there?”  Poor Duff did nothing to deserve the look of sour disdain that Axl is serving.

"Uh. Yeah, I got it done in the basement, seemed like a pretty neat place.  Why, what’s up?"

“Wait – in the basement?"

"Yeah, Ax, Tracii’s got a new hire,” Izzy threw in, still admiring Duff’s new ink – it was well done, he had to admit.  "I’m surprised you have’t seen him around, he’s pretty, uh, distinctive.  Big fluffy hair, likes jewelry and leather?"

“Izzy, that describes about half of Guns’ clientele."

“Nah, you’ll know him when you see him, trust me.”  Duff bobbed his head in agreement.

“Hm. What’s his name?”

“Slash.  He’s a nice guy, really talented –” Duff adds, but Axl has stopped listening, and started formulating a plan.

For the past two years, give or take, since L.A. Guns opened its doors, Axl has been making a point of going to any and all of Tracii’s competitors to get his ink done, without so mach as sparing a glance at the parlor next door (not counting the occasional glowering from behind slanted blinds, or fantasizing about ramming his car into Tracii’s trash bins in the shared parking lot).  But that day, Axl marches right into L.A. Guns, meets Tracii dead in the eye and demands an appointment as soon as possible – with Slash.

Tracii gapes at him for a second. The shock of seeing Axl in his shop fades quickly, replaced by an expression that broadcasts Are You Fucking Kidding Me loudly enough to be picked up by any radio antenna in a 30-mile range.

“You can’t be serious Axl.  Why don’t you go back to your fucking daffodils and leave me the fuck alone, hm?"

Axl arches a brow and opens his mouth to retort, but he’s cut off by a tangle of curly hair and bare limbs that swoops in, shoves Tracii back, and tips forward over the countertop until his frizzy bangs are inches from Axl’s face, all in one fluid rush that Axl can barely follow.

“He doesn’t want to talk to you, Guns, so why don’t you scurry off and give us a minute to take care of business?”  He doesn’t say it like a question, and he smirks when Tracii throws up his hands with a huff and stalks off to his station at the back of the room.  Once he and Axl are granted the illusion of privacy, the smirk transforms into a dazzling grin, propped up on his fist as he – Slash, obviously (Axl realizes what Izzy meant when he described the man as “distinctive”) – leans forward on the tall counter, offering Axl his best “sorry about my crazy boss now how can I help you?” look.

“So, you’re interested in a consultation appointment?"

Axl belatedly realizes that he’s blushing.  “Fluffy hair, likes jewelry and leather” was obviously an inadequate description; Izzy had failed to prepare Axl for Slash’s warm brown eyes, for the way the hoops in his ears peek out from his mass of soft-looking curls or the way his sleeveless shirt shows off the ink on his tanned arms... And that’s not to mention his beautifully infectious smile.

“Yeah,” Axl responds, his voice pitching up a bit against his will. “Maybe around this time tomorrow, if you’re available?"

Slash flips open a day planner and hovers his pen over tomorrow’s date. “How does tomorrow evening at 5:15 sound?"

“That would be great."

“And your name?"

“Axl Rose."

Slash pauses and glances down at Axl’s work clothes, lingering on the pin over his pocket with his first name and the shop logo.  He looks back up at Axl with a bemused expression. “Axl Rose? Who are you, the mascot?"

“Hey!"

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Slash giggles then manages to compose himself. “Axl Rose at 5:15,” he pens the appointment in slanted script.  “I didn’t mean to make fun… Did you do the arrangements in the front windows? They’re really beautiful."

“…Thank you.”  As a tattooed florist with anger issues, Axl is in no position to stereotype, but he still wasn’t expecting to hear that from Slash.  If he wasn’t blushing before, he certainly is now.

Tracii scoffs loudly behind Slash, and Axl’s pink flush is abruptly replaced by an angry, embarrassed red.  He hunches his shoulders and mutters a thank you when Slash slides him business card with the appointment time scribbled on the back, then heads for the door as confidently as he can manage.  This whole plan to piss Tracii off is going to backfire if he keeps getting flustered by the cute, overly-friendly new artist. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow!” Slash calls after him cheerfully.

Slash watches him walk out the door and back towards the Rose, then finally turns around to meet Tracii’s incredulous scowl.

"You’re not really going to do a piece for him, are you?"

"Uh, yeah, why wouldn’t I?"

"’Cause he’s a Grade-A fucking asshole who’s had it out for me and my shop ever since I moved in."

Slash laughs dismissively.  "You’re full of shit, Tracii, he seems like a real sweetheart to me."

Tracii snorts.  "Axl Rose, a fucking sweetheart?”

“You jealous, Guns?”

“Hardly,” Tracii says with a scowl. “He’s going to hate the tattoo and then use it as an excuse to give me even more shit than he already does. It’ll be unbearable around here with him bitching all the time.”

“You mean like how you’re bitching right now? You don’t know shit,” Slash declares, “because Axl is going to love his new ink and you’re not going to hear a thing from him except when he’s beating down our door to beg me for more.”

I’m afraid my ideas are getting predictable, but I couldn’t fucking resist.  Tagging @fan-with-issues for chatting w me about this au, and @insipidrhyme just because.

Shoutout to Tracii Guns for once again stepping in when I want to give a side character a hard time.  You’re a good sport, Trace.

#yikes it's been a month since i last posted #sodafics #slaxl #slash #saul hudson #axl rose #gnr #guns n roses #hollywood rose #tracii guns #la guns #l.a. guns #florist x tattoo artist au #and you thought I couldn't get more cliche #i've been staring at this for too long so i guess it's time to post

[justlightlysedated]

the keeper of the galaxy; millions of planets in the universe and you had to crash land on mine

Alex leans forward, pressing his forehead to his knees and breathes in deeply.

The stale air inside of the Airstream smells heavily of Michael and it helps calm Alex’s nerves.

He wraps his hand around the smooth silver stone that hangs from the necklace that Jim had given him as a graduation present that he’s never taken off, and it helps calm him down a little bit more.

It’s one of the only things in this world that soothes his nerves that doesn’t have anything to do with Michael.

He smooths his thumb over the stone and sighs, pressing his forehead harder to his knees before he leans back up, tucking the necklace back beneath his shirt.

Alex doesn’t look at his watch again because he really doesn’t want to know how long he’s been waiting.

He’ll wait all night if he has to.

He figures that if there is any truth to the statement that Michael and the Evans twins are related then maybe he went to tell them about his mom, or their mom.

He lies his hand against the stone and feels it warm against his chest and tries to breathe through his nerves.

He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous to have this conversation with Michael.

It is long overdue, but he’s afraid that it’s going to just make everything worse.

He feels like after everything that happened today, and after finding out that his father killed Jim, this isn’t the thing that’s going to go right.

But still, Alex also feels that if he doesn’t do this right now, he’ll lose his chance forever.

The door is opened almost too violently, making the Airstream rock alarmingly, and startling Alex to his feet and shooting adrenaline through his system.

He’s reaching for his service weapon before he remembers that he’s off duty, and even if he was on duty he’s basically discharged from active duty meaning he’s not allowed a weapon unless it’s a special occasion.

The person who walks into the Airstream like they own the place and starts rifling through Michael’s desk muttering under his breath is Noah.

Alex furrows his brow, and he knows objectively, that Noah has been around for a while given that he’s Isobel’s husband, and maybe he does this all the time and Alex has just never been here for it, but something about this whole thing feels off.

A feeling that gets stronger, when Noah raises a hand in the air, and Alex can see the blood stained on his fingers and on the sleeve of his shirt.

He would be more worried about that, but if Alex has learned one thing during his time in Project Shepherd, is that anyone can be an alien, and not all aliens are like Michael. And while he hopes that he’s wrong, he’d prefer to get a call from Michael about attacking his brother in law than being dead because he let his guard down.

Alex takes a step back getting into an easily defendable position.

The move makes enough noise that Noah finally catches on to the fact that he’s not alone.

He turns around fast and Alex is glad for just this second that he and Michael have never really gone public with their relationship, because it’s obvious that Noah hadn’t been expecting anyone, and even if he was, he wasn’t expecting Alex.

He uses the shock that briefly freezes him, and rushes forward, pushing Noah back against the desk, and running down the stairs that lead out of the Airstream.

He stumbles and slides and has to hold on to the side of the Airstream briefly so that he doesn’t fall down because it would be a bitch to get up again.

The rain starts falling and Alex curses as he hurries to his car.

He’s almost to it, and the rain is just starting to get harder, when every single muscle in his body locks and stops, freezing him to the spot.

Alex inhales sharply and tries to move and he can’t.

Fuck, he hated being right.

He’s turned around against his will, and he grits his teeth, clenching his jaw, and glares as Noah stands in front of him giving him a curious look that Alex has seen on the faces of cartoon movie villains.

“Now, I would ask what you’re doing here, but it’s obvious now that you’re the reason Michael hasn’t been getting into any bar fights recently.”

Alex bites down on his tongue and doesn’t say anything.

“Or is he really trying to change to be more appealing to the bartender?”

He says, and his eyes narrow in satisfaction when Alex can’t help but react to that.

He moves his hand and Alex takes several steps forward.

He clenches his jaw, and breathes hard, but doesn’t say anything.

“Michael has something that I need,” he says stepping closer to Alex, and Alex tries not to let the insidious fear and dread seep into him when his hand starts glowing red. “And I think I just found my leverage to get it from him.”

Before Alex can say anything, Noah presses his hand over Alex’s mouth.

Alex feels a spike of intense heat that seeps through him alarmingly, and then the whole world goes black.

**

Alex is brought back to consciousness the same way he was dragged under, fast and sudden, with a spike of heat right in the crook of his neck.

The pain is intense enough that Alex can’t help the whimper that escapes his throat, even as he tries to not make a sound.

“Stop!” Michael’s voice is low and painful and he sounds like he’s been yelling and crying.

Alex can’t help the way that he instinctively feels safe when Michael is around and how that makes him lower his guard, and when the pain intensifies, Alex cries out with it, moving his hand to wrap his fingers around Noah’s wrist to try and pull it away from his neck.

“I already told you,” Michael is yelling sounding desperate. “I. Don’t. Know.”

“I don’t believe you,” Noah says simply, letting Alex go.

Alex falls back down on the muddy ground, and he takes one second to breathe in and try to calm himself before he exhales and opens his eyes.

They’re still at the junkyard, he can see the Saul’s Auto sign out of the corner of his eye, and the metal structure where several hubcaps are swinging alarmingly with the wind and rain.

“The planet is protected by wrath,” Noah says and it sounds like something he’s heard over and over. “They made sure to put it in your hands even though you were newly born again. You might not remember what it is, but you would feel the importance of it. You would’ve never given it away or allowed it to be taken from you.”

“We were found with nothing!” Michael says and he sounds exhausted.

Alex turns his head towards him to find him standing several feet away as though he’s stuck there, hands clenched into fist, body vibrating with the tension. His eyes are glued to Alex, and he doesn’t look away when Alex’s eyes find his.

Alex swallows hard when he sees the dried blood on his neck and shirt.

Noah’s hands reach for him, and Alex sees how Michael moves forward and then stops, fingers clenching tighter into fists.

“Leave him alone!” Michael demands, and Noah laughs hauling Alex up to his feet as though he weighs nothing.

He tugs Alex against him, when Alex sways on his feet, a hot hand pressed to his neck, the pain burns through him again, but Alex is prepared for it this time, gritting his teeth against it, shutting his eyes tight and clenching his fists.

The pain intensifies, feeling like every single one of his nerve endings is on fire, and Alex is prepared to deal with a lot, but when the pain ignites down his right leg, it freaks him out, like it always does.

Alex gasps and whimpers low in his throat trying to get away.

“Noah, please,” Michael says desperately, begging. “If I had it, I would give it to you, I swear! But I don’t have it!”

“It’s small, silver, almost the size of a walnut, smooth and shiny. An attention deficit brat like you were, you would’ve never let it out of your sight.”

The whole world slows and seems to narrow down to Alex’s pulse thundering in his temples, and pounding against the silver stone hanging from his neck.

“If someone had tried to take it from you, you would’ve fought hard, even if you didn’t know what it was. You would’ve hidden it somewhere safe.”

Alex tries to remember if Jim ever told him where he’d gotten the necklace from, but he can’t recall. Everything from the Summer of 08 takes a backseat to what happened with Michael.

“You’re smart and clever, wrath. You have to know that I really don’t care. If the soldier won’t make you give up the answers, I’ll go to the bartender next. And if that doesn’t work, there are many things I have yet to do to your dear sweet, Isobel.”

Michael makes an enraged noise and the air ripples dangerously around him.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Noah says and pulls Alex closer. “You have no finesse. If you try to hurt me, you’ll end up hurting him as well.”

Alex looks at Michael trying to tell him that he doesn’t care, but Michael deflates immediately.

“I swear to you, if you k-” Michael cuts himself off and shakes his head, before he takes a step forward. “If you hurt him in anyway that is permanent, I swear, I will kill you.”

“You won’t,” Noah says sounding secure of himself. “Maybe the old you would have, but growing up on this useless planet has made you too soft.”

Michael swallows hard.

Alex feels Noah’s hand move down, and he knows, he knows that this is the end.

He can feel it.

Noah is going to kill him.

He looks at Michael, and there are so many things he wishes that he could say, so many things that he wishes that he could do.

But there is one thing that he desperately needs Michael to know.

“I shouldn’t have left you behind when I joined the Air Force,” he gasps out and sees how Michael’s face goes slack with shock at the words.

Noah snorts in what sounds like amusement.

“Touching,” he says and Alex sees how Michael builds his wall back up.

He closes his eyes as Noah’s hand presses over his heart, right on top of the silver stone.

“Trauma has a way of blocking our memories, but recreating the moment of trauma might just unblock them again. Losing someone you love might do the trick.”

“No!” Michael yells moving forward, but Alex can feel the searing heat of Noah’s palm sinking into him, the way it makes his heart beat faster and faster like a heart attack, the way it feels like his organs are melting.

He can taste blood, thick and hot in the back of his throat.

Just when Michael is about to reach them, Alex feels something icy cool, right against his chest, a bright spot of cold against the burning heat.

And then a wave of something expands from Alex’s chest and pushes outwards and both Noah and Michael go flying backwards as Alex falls to his knees.

Alex presses his hand over his chest and he feels the coolness of the smooth silver stone.

Well, it looks like when Jim told him that he gave it to him to keep it safe in his letter, he didn’t mean the piece of alien spaceship that Alex has inside of a bag tucked underneath his bed.

“Alex!” Michael’s voice is desperate and hoarse and Alex looks up to see him falling to his knees in front of him. His eyes are wide and red rimmed and bright with unshed tears and his hair is plastered to his head by the rain, and Alex realizes that it is raining, harder than before.

He’d forgotten all about it.

Alex feels a strange sense of rage sweep through him, hot and bitter before it disappears fast and sudden leaving behind confusion.

“Are you okay?” he asks breathless, hands reaching to check Alex over himself.

Alex is glad because he tilts forward in that moment, and turns his head to the side spitting up blood.

“I think I’m dying,” Alex says slowly and loses all the strength in his body, leaning heavily against Michael.

His insides feel like they’re made of mush, and he feels a stab of satisfaction and makes a face.

“Where is Noah?” he asks, but Michael isn’t listening to him.

He’s making Alex lie back down on the muddy ground, and leaning over him.

His eyes are glazed over, and he looks like he doesn’t actually know what he’s doing.

Alex feels a stab of fear that’s all him. Noah can possess people.

The fear turns to outright dread when Michael’s hands start glowing red.

“Michael,” he manages to say, a low whimper caught in his throat.

Michael’s eyes find his, and then before Alex can do anything to stop him, his hands are on either side of Alex’s neck, pressing against where he can still feel Noah’s hand burning against his skin.

Instead of heat, icy coolness matching the way the stone felt against his skin, seeps into him, rushing through him in ripples that chase away the pain.

Michael’s hands slide up to the back of his head, and he leans down pressing his forehead to Alex’s, and Alex’s eyes fall shut.

He sees flashes of things that shouldn’t be possible, endless stars flashing across his vision, a blonde woman with a bright smile taking what looks like a large colorful marble from his hands, I’ll keep it safe for now, walking away from the three bright egglike looking pods, a strange symbol that he couldn’t stop drawing everywhere, a hand in his hair pulling hand, a burning in his arm as the priest pressed the hot metal crucifix against his skin, The power of Christ compels you, moving sand to cover the dead body on the floor, and then Alex sees himself, a smile, dark lined eyes, black painted fingernails, fingers wrapped around the fret of a guitar, I go there when things get bad, a kiss, a feeling like everything is finally making sense, the bright hot flash of pain as the bones in his hand are shattered, Isobel eyes wide and scared, a car engulfed in flames, and Alex again, tears staining his cheeks, a feeling like nothing is ever going to be okay again, Don’t go, don’t go, don’t g-

Michael pulls away from him gasping, and Alex hears him throw up and turns to the side and tries to breathe.

“Fuck,” Michael breathes sounding hoarse. “That was not fun.”

“I didn’t know you could heal,” Alex says as he leans up on his elbows feeling like he could use a nap, but mostly uncomfortable now that he wasn’t distracted by the sensation of his organs shutting down with the rain still falling over them and the way his clothes was sticking to his skin.

“Neither did I,” Michael says leaning back on his heels and looking back at Alex, just as tired as Alex feels.

Alex inhales, “Listen-”

“Maybe we sho-” Michael starts and stops.

Instead of saying anything else, Alex sits up, and Michael leans back a little bit to give him space.

Alex tugs the necklace out from beneath his shirt and wraps his fingers around the stone before he lets it drop against his chest.

He hears Michael inhale sharply.

“Jim gave it to me as a graduation present,” Alex says as Michael’s gaze is caught by the stone. “In the letter he sent me before he died, he told me that he’d given me something to keep safe, and I thought he meant something else, but what if this is what Noah was looking for?”

Michael licks his lips and looks up into Alex’s eyes. “He said it was a planet. The planet. Our planet.”

Alex swallows and wraps his fingers around the stone again, lifting his hand up and cradling it in the palm of his hand so that they both could see it.

The rain water fills his palm and spills across his fingers.

“Anything is possible,” Alex says slowly.

Michael doesn’t say anything, but he reaches out carefully as though he’s afraid to touch it, and presses the pads of his fingers against the metal.

Alex feels the way it heats up against his hand and gasps.

The metal melts away into nothing revealing behind the same colorful marble that the blonde woman in the flashes of memories he’d gotten from Michael had taken from him.

It’s blue and red and purple and green and white all swirling together beautifully.

Alex feels it vibrating slightly against his skin as though it’s buzzing in anticipation, and then it stops when Michael moves his hand away.

“It’s never done that before,” Alex says a little uselessly.

Michael just rolls his eyes and Alex lifts the stone up closer to his face.

He can see the white just slightly moving like mist, like clouds.

“Holy shit,” Alex breathes.

Michael makes a noise and Alex looks at him and freezes and the look on his face.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but then a shiver racks through him reminding him that he’s still sitting out in the mud in the rain.

Alex doesn’t know what kind of face he makes, but Michael just stands up reaching out for Alex’s hand.

Alex lets Michael tug him to his feet, and lets Michael tug him back towards the Airstream.

“I’ll get you something dry to wear,” Michael says as he pushes Alex towards the small bathroom area.

Alex stops him before he gets too far. “Listen,” he says again. “I meant it what I said before with Noah.”

Michael looks at him in silence for a few minutes. “Why did you come here tonight?”

Alex swallows hard and shrugs helplessly. “I wanted to see you. I wanted to tell you that I shouldn’t have left you behind.”

He shakes his head and lets Michael go and looks away for a second before he looks back at Michael, clenching his jaw. “I could stand here and say that I didn’t want to go, but I did. After what my father did to you,” he sees the way that Michael clenches his hand.

He swallows hard and continues. “I wanted to be the kind of person who could win battles. It felt good.”

Michael’s brow is furrowed, but he hasn’t stopped listening, so Alex keeps going.

“But lately I feel like I’m not even myself, and I look in the mirror and all I see is his face.”

Michael shakes his head, his eyes going soft and bright, and Alex keeps going before he can say anything.

“I’m still fighting his battles, not mine,” he finishes swallowing hard.

Michael’s face goes slack with the surprise as he understands what Alex is trying to tell him, and Alex’s eyes dart down to his mouth, and he thinks that maybe after the day they’ve both had, they could use something that felt good instead of painful.

Alex moves forward, reaching for Michael, and Michael inhales sharply, leaning into him before Alex even touches him.

And then he’s falling forward, eyes falling shut as he reaches for Alex, and clenches his fingers tight in the fabric of his jacket.

He gasps out in pain, and Alex scrambles to hold on to him as staggers forward.

Alex feels an urgent feeling sweep through him, a manic restlessness that he knows won’t go away until he sees whoever it is that’s causing it.

“Isobel,” Michael gasps, his eyes opening wide. “I have to go.”

He scrambles backwards towards the door, and Alex reaches for him before he can get too far. “Wait, what about-?”

Michael’s eyes fall to the stone hanging from Alex’s neck, and Alex still feels the restless feeling that he knows is all Michael, but something sweet slides through him, that makes him close his eyes as Michael moves in close.

He grabs the stone once again, and Alex flutters his eyes open in time to see Michael pressing a kiss to the marble, his eyes wide and on Alex’s.

“I know it’s safe with you,” he whispers, and then leans forward, sudden, pressing a sharp hard kiss over Alex’s mouth before he pulls back, too fast for Alex to do anything about it.

“I’ll be back, just get dry and warm, and don’t go anywhere.”

Alex swallows and he wants to protest, but he knows that he won’t do any good if things get to a confrontation, not with the way he still feels spasms of pain radiating down his right leg. 

So just nods his head. “Be careful.”

Michael smiles, and Alex feels his heart thud hard in his chest. “I promise.”

He looks down at the stone, the planet one more time and shakes his head as though he can’t believe it, and then he’s gone.

Alex stays still listening to the sound of the truck as it starts up and drives away with an ugly sounding squeal of tires revving hard through mud.

Alex inhales deeply and presses his hand over the stone. It still feels as smooth as before, but warmer, more like how Michael feels.

He closes his eyes and tries to calm down, and he can feel a low baseline of rage right against the back of his head, that he knows is Noah, but he can also feel a stronger wavelength of determination and pure adrenaline that he knows is Michael.

He swallows hard and turns towards Michael’s closet.

Might as well follow directions since there was nothing else he could do but wait.

#malex fic #okay so this idea came to me yesterday and wouldn't leave me alone #that being said #if the next thing i post isn't for the witch au #someone come yell at me #because i keep getting distracted !!!! #also i haven't seen the finale since it aired so sorry if i butcher alex's speech too much lol #keeperofgalaxy

[vince-thrilligan]

'Breaking Bad' Returns: Aaron Paul and Vince Gilligan Take a TV Classic for a Spin in 'El Camino'

The Hollywood Reporter  |    by Rebecca Keegan   |   September 18, 2019

In their first interview about the new movie, star and creator reveal why they risked messing with their defining show ("Is there another story to tell?") and how they shot the hot Netflix project in near-total secrecy.

One day late in 2018, the phone of an Albuquerque, New Mexico, man named Frank Sandoval started ringing off the hook. Sandoval runs a local outfit that operates Breaking Bad-themed tours in an RV identical to the battered Fleetwood Bounder that served as a mobile meth lab for Bryan Cranston's Walter White and Aaron Paul's Jesse Pinkman on the Emmy-winning AMC show. Five years after Breaking Bad went off the air, the distinctive vehicle had — suddenly and mysteriously — reappeared in town outside a diner on a main road. "People were calling us and saying, 'Is that your RV up there?' " Sandoval says. "We'd heard rumors for years that they were shooting. But nobody we talked to ever knew anything." Sandoval asked around about the mystery RV and eventually came across a printed flyer explaining that a New Mexico tourism commercial was shooting in town. He figured that explained it.

Not quite.

In fact, Jesse and Walter's old RV was in Albuquerque that day, as were Breaking Bad creator Vince Gilligan and his cast and crew, engaged in a secret project. They were shooting El Camino: A Breaking Bad Movie, which will premiere Oct. 11 on Netflix and in theaters in 68 cities, including New York, Los Angeles, Chicago and Albuquerque, before it airs on AMC early next year. Netflix only just announced the project in August, after Gilligan had wrapped postproduction. That's because despite the Virginia-born writer's gentle Southern manner and almost pathological humility, Gilligan, 52, is a showman at heart, and he wants to lift the curtain at the last possible second. "I don't want to open my Christmas presents a week and a half before Christmas," Gilligan says, explaining his insistence on a covert production. Gilligan's producers say they had nothing to do with the tourism flyer, but they did use other means to keep the project hush-hush, including waiting until the last possible minute to share the script with crew, obscuring locations with trucks and screens and relying on a private jet to shuttle a key castmember in and out of Albuquerque without notice.

The two-hour feature film, which Gilligan wrote and directed over the past 18 months, is premiering six years after Breaking Bad ended with Walter dying and Jesse driving an El Camino to freedom from his imprisonment on an Aryan Brotherhood compound. (A trailer set to debut during the Emmys on Sept. 22 will offer a detailed peek.) The Netflix partnership fulfills a long-standing wish of Gilligan's for a Breaking Bad theatrical experience and follows the formative role the streaming company had in the series' success — Breaking Bad was the first cable show to benefit from a so-called Netflix boost.

El Camino centers on what happens to Jesse after he drives out of that compound covered in physical and psychological scars, and it features more than 10 familiar characters from the show. In deference to Gilligan's spoiler aversion, THR will name only two: fan favorites Skinny Pete (Charles Baker) and Badger (Matt L. Jones), the Beavis and Butt-Head of the greater Albuquerque meth community.

Returning to the world of Breaking Bad comes with some risk for Gilligan — during the course of its five-year run, the crime drama about a mild-mannered chemistry teacher who transforms into a ruthless drug kingpin came to exemplify a new, golden era of TV, engrossing critics and audiences with its dense, character-driven storytelling, winning 16 Emmys and delivering one of the most satisfying mic drops in the history of television with a finale that more than 10 million people watched on AMC. In the rarefied club of early Peak TV auteurs, including Mad Men's Matthew Weiner, The Wire's David Simon and The Sopranos' David Chase, Gilligan is the first to take a leap and make a film from his signature show (Chase's Sopranos movie is due next year).

There also is the danger of dwelling indefinitely in the world — however rich — that Gilligan created. Breaking Bad diehards already have the show's spinoff prequel, Better Call Saul, which just finished shooting its fifth season. "I'm hoping when the movie comes out, people won't say, 'Oh, man, this guy should've left well enough alone,' " Gilligan says in his first interview about the film. "Why did George Foreman keep coming out of retirement, you know?"

***

Gilligan works in a nondescript glass office building in Burbank with a view of a dry cleaner and a parking lot. This is the "fancy" office he reluctantly moved to before his team started making Better Call Saul — superstitious, he didn't want to vacate the derelict space deeper in the San Fernando Valley where they had made Breaking Bad, a building they shared with a private investigator, a music charity and an hoc threading business operating out of the women's bathroom. Also, for reasons no one can recall, there was a guy in the building who always wore a kilt. Gilligan, who lives on L.A.'s Westside with his longtime girlfriend, Holly Rice, chose the location because it was convenient not for him, but for his show's editor. When it came time to select offices there, he picked for himself the room that didn't have a window and housed a giant humming server.

His newer, comparatively luxurious space is decorated with Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul memorabilia — the special effects bust of Gus Fring's (Giancarlo Esposito) exploded head is next to Gilligan's desk, and bottles of Blue Ice Heisenberg vodka sit on a bookshelf. There also are model helicopters, tokens of Gilligan's other passion, aviation. At 50, he fulfilled a decades-long goal of obtaining his helicopter pilot's license. One of the locations in El Camino is a spot he used to glimpse while choppering with his flight instructor, 500 feet above the ground, en route from L.A. to Albuquerque. "When I'm flying a helicopter, I'm as happy as I ever get, which is not particularly happy, but still, as happy as I ever am," Gilligan says. "I'll never master it. It's one of those … Is that a Zen thing? When you have some sort of avocation that you're continually a beginner at. You're never going to perfect it. But in a weird way, that feels good, because you're never going to get tired of it either."

Gilligan first started ruminating on the story that would ultimately become El Camino before he finished making Breaking Bad. "I didn't really tell anybody about it, because I wasn't sure I would ever do anything with it," he says. "But I started thinking to myself, 'What happened to Jesse?' You see him driving away. And to my mind, he went off to a happy ending. But as the years progressed, I thought, 'What did that ending — let's just call it an ending, neither happy, nor sad — what did it look like?' " It was while planning events in 2018 to celebrate the 10th anniversary of the premiere of Breaking Bad that Gilligan first told his inner circle he had an idea to revisit Jesse, perhaps a five-minute short film, he mused to his longtime producer, Melissa Bernstein. "He just started letting his mind run over that," Bernstein says. "And he started to realize, 'I have a lot to say about this.' "

Gilligan, who wrote the feature films Wilder Napalm (1993) and Home Fries (1998) as well as some unproduced feature scripts, found his comfort zone as a writer in the collaborative, deadline-oriented environment of TV while on the staff of The X-Files. "I was the laziest writer in creation," Gilligan says. "I'd piddle around. It took me two years to write a first draft of a movie script in the early '90s, just because I had no one holding a gun to my head. I just didn't have that work ethic. Working in TV changed everything for me." But on El Camino, Gilligan returned to the solitary lifestyle of a feature writer. "I had been working with excellent writers now for well over a decade, and I'd forgotten what it was like to write something by myself, and it was daunting," Gilligan says. "Suddenly I'm trying to write this and thinking, 'God, I really could use a writers room about now.' " Gilligan outlined the story using note cards, his usual method, and then began on his first draft at his time-share in the Bahamas.

As a business philosophy, Gilligan is a believer in the idea that you "dance with the girl that brung ya," and at a time when many other top showrunners are managing multiple productions and seeking nine-figure deals at streamers, he has remained at Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul studio Sony Pictures Television, re-upping with the company last year in a three-year, mid-eight-figure overall pact that includes his work on El Camino. When Gilligan told executives there about his idea for a Breaking Bad movie, "We all just fell silent in the room," says SPT co-president Chris Parnell. "It was one of the moments when you think to yourself, 'Did I just hear that? Is that something he genuinely wants to do?' " Together with his agent, ICM Partners' Chris Silbermann, Gilligan quietly walked the script into just a handful of offices in Hollywood before deciding to partner with Netflix, as well as AMC. Both companies represented a crucial part in Breaking Bad's history, AMC for picking up the show after FX passed on it and Netflix for building it into the binge TV era's first true streaming/cable hybrid hit.

In 2010, Breaking Bad was at a crossroads: With the show averaging about 1.5 million viewers a season despite being a critics' darling, AMC informed Sony and Gilligan that the series could end with season three. When Sony began shopping Breaking Bad to competitors — quickly finding a taker for two more seasons at FX — AMC reversed course. Netflix, meanwhile, was aggressively licensing shows for its nascent streaming service, and content chief Ted Sarandos made a syndication deal with Sony for Breaking Bad. Originally, the arrangement was for the series to start streaming on Netflix after its fourth season finished on AMC, but, with the show's future uncertain, Sony accelerated the plan, and new fans began discovering and bingeing Breaking Bad on Netflix in time to catch some of the fourth season and all of the fifth and final season on AMC. When season five premiered in 2013, the audience had more than doubled from its previous outing. "We felt that it was a virtuous cycle, where we were introducing the show to new fans, who were then going and experiencing new episodes on AMC, and then when we would launch a new season, we would again see another wave of new folks coming," says Netflix vp original content Cindy Holland. Since news of the movie broke in August, Holland says, viewership of Breaking Bad on Netflix is up, some from rewatchers and some from newcomers to the series. "We were a natural home for the movie," Holland says. "It wasn't a really long conversation. It was a simple, 'Yes, please.' "

Netflix also brought the theatrical component, which was crucial to Gilligan. "Every time we'd put out a new season of Breaking Bad, we would have a premiere in a big movie theater," Gilligan says. "We would watch this quote-unquote television show. I mean, I guess quotations aren't needed. It is absolutely a television show. But we would have this wonderful, very limited, one-time opportunity to watch our television show on a big screen with giant stereo speakers thumping, the image filling 40 feet across. I always thought, 'This thing, it looks like a movie. It doesn't look like a show.' I really want to be able to share that with fans." As with its other theatrical releases, Netflix will exhibit the film in independent theaters for a very limited period.

The secrecy on the project extends to the budget, which all interviewed decline to disclose beyond saying that it is significantly higher than what Gilligan had ever worked with on the show, including the $6 million for an episode in the final season. Gilligan's producers Bernstein and Diane Mercer went to great lengths to keep the film under wraps during production, shrouding locations from onlookers' view, covertly ferrying key castmembers to the set and warning crewmembers to be discreet around town. "Don't be sitting on a barstool somewhere and talk about the project you're working on, because God only knows who's sitting next to you" was the mantra, Gilligan says.

The movie, which plays like a coda to the series, is thick with details that will tickle the superfan base, which is its true intended audience, Gilligan says. One that only the most devoted may pick up on is a key address at the corner of Holly and Arroz streets — a wink to Gilligan's girlfriend (arroz is rice in Spanish). "If, after 12 years, you haven't watched Breaking Bad, you're probably not going to start now," Gilligan says. "If you do, I hope that this movie would still be engaging on some level, but there's no doubt in my mind that you won't get as much enjoyment out of it. We don't slow down to explain things to a non-Breaking Bad audience. I thought early on in the writing of the script, 'Maybe there's a way to have my cake and eat it too. Maybe there's a way to explain things to the audience.' If there was a way to do that, it eluded me."

Breaking Bad was particularly cinematic television, with its wide-angle shots of the stark New Mexico landscape, expressive lighting and deliberate pacing. At one point during the series, Gilligan and his cinematographer, Michael Slovis, made an unsuccessful pitch to Sony and AMC to shoot Breaking Bad in the CinemaScope format that Sergio Leone had used to shoot Clint Eastwood's Dollars Trilogy. On El Camino, Gilligan got his wish — Better Caul Saul DP Marshall Adams shot the movie on the ARRI Alexa 65 camera used for The Revenant and in a 2.39 wide-screen format that seems designed to showcase a gunslinger's squint across the desert.

Gilligan is perfectionistic in a way that television schedules rarely have time to indulge. El Camino proceeded at an even more leisurely pace than his shows. Instead of shooting six to eight pages a day as Gilligan had on Breaking Bad, he shot one and a half to three. Most of the 50-day shoot happened in the same Albuquerque locations where Breaking Bad is set, but the larger budget meant he was able to take advantage of some picturesque out-of-state locations, too. "This is my first movie as a director, and I have to say, it made me want some more of that," says Gilligan, who has directed five episodes each of Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul and two of The X-Files. "You truly have time to get things right. It feels very decadent."

***

Returning to the character of Jesse Pinkman for El Camino was an unexpected career twist. While making Breaking Bad, Paul had grown as an actor under Cranston's tutelage and shed some fatiguing habits. "The first couple years were really torturous for me," Paul says. Often, after shooting had wrapped for the day, "I found myself in dark alleys in Albuquerque, New Mexico, at 3 in the morning, just to try to get more information, which was not a good thing. I just didn't want to mess it up, and so I stayed in that guy's skin, but I learned from Bryan it's OK to shake it off and wash up at the end of the night and just have time for yourself." When the finale aired, Paul says, "I really loved Jesse. I knew him better than anyone, but it was a big weight off of my shoulders to hang up the cleats and walk away. I thought it was goodbye, and I was OK with that." 
In early 2018, while Paul was in New York shooting The Path, Gilligan called him and shared that he had written a movie about Jesse. "I'm like everybody else on the planet — I think Vince and the rest of the writers really nailed the landing with the ending of Breaking Bad, and why mess with that?" Paul recalls thinking. "But it's Vince we're talking about. I would follow Vince into a fire. That's how much I trust the man. I would do anything that he asked me to." (Gilligan inspires a fierce loyalty, and most of his colleagues have been with him for years, starting with Mark Johnson, who discovered Gilligan while judging a screenwriting competition in 1988 and has served as a producer on Breaking Bad, Better Call Saul and El Camino.) Within months of answering Gilligan's call, Paul was back in Albuquerque's dark alleys, bearded and in scar makeup. "It was so easy for me to just jump into where Jesse's at mentally, emotionally, because I lived and breathed everything he went through and then some, and so, honestly, it felt like a part of me had gone through that as well," Paul says. "All I had to do was just memorize these words and then play them out when they yelled 'action.' "

***

Gilligan, too, grew up, in a sense, on Breaking Bad, and he has a wistfulness about how it has shaped his life over the last 11 years. "I'm about 25 to 30 years older than I was when I started," he says. "Yeah, I'm just worn out. I mean, part of what excited me about doing this was it was a movie, a closed-ended story of about two hours. If I was starting now, I'm not sure I'd have the intestinal fortitude to fight all the fights and expend all the energy."

Gilligan is not ready for retirement — not at all — but when he looks ahead to life after Better Call Saul, he sees something outside the universe of characters that have become his trademark creation. He plans to make another show after Better Call Saul ends, but what exactly that will be and where it will air, he doesn't know. "Personally, I'd love to figure out something different, which at this point would be, God, not another antihero," Gilligan says. "Is there something else I can do? Is there another story I can tell? But I've got to tell you, it's harder to write a really engaging good guy than it is a really engaging bad guy."

#el camino #breaking bad #BrBa #vince gilligan #i love himmm #i cut out some of the aaron stuff (like the mezcal business w/ cranston...and there's also a cute q&a video at the source) #hollywood reporter #aaron paul #.....his office. (why do you like to suffer vince?) it's like jimmy leaving davis&main to go back to the shitty nail salon closet #oh and marshall adams is the dp for el camino :))) i was wondering #i can't believe the guy in the kilt never came up on the podcast #el camino: a breaking bad movie

[lezliefaithwade]

David & Goliath

My grandfather, on my Mother's side, immigrated to Canada from Italy in the 1950's. For years I thought I was Italian until one day my Mother explained that her real father (who was Danish) had died when she was seven and that Ralph was actually my grandmother's “companion”. At seven I had no idea what a "companion" was, nor did I care. All that mattered was whether I would inherit his talent for cooking and gardening.  As a child, Italy seemed like a mythical land filled with beautiful palaces and amazing desserts.

When I finally had the opportunity to visit the land of my grandfather's birth, I made it a point to seek out all the places I'd heard about as a child. So, it was, that while I was in Florence, standing in front of the statue of David I was suddenly reminded of an episode in grade 9 when for three solid weeks I was bullied by a fellow student three times my size who I believed would destroy me.

In the Old Testament, the story goes that David, who is just a boy, takes down the 6'9" Goliath with nothing but a sling shot after King Saul, supposedly over 6' himself, is too afraid to challenge the giant on his own.

As I stood there examining the statue, I couldn't help wondering why Michelangelo had sculpted the boy to be so huge when Goliath was the giant?  At 17 feet, David stands three times larger than an average man. Is his size a metaphor for his bravery?

Growing up, I never considered whether I was brave or not until the summer before my thirteenth birthday when my parent's separation marked me (at least in my mind) as an oddity. I was the first one I knew of to come from a broken home, and to me, this was a truly embarrassing fact. I was ashamed of what I perceived to be a major failure on the part of my parents, and worried that everyone would think less of me because of it.  I wanted my family to be idyllic and though they were far from that, at least while we were all under the same roof, I could pretend. To save myself the embarrassment and shame of having to explain to kids I knew why I was no longer living at my old house on Belmont, and instead in an ugly apartment building across town, I opted to attend an all girl’s Catholic high school where no one knew me. For almost three months, I lied about where I lived. I pretended the apartment building I walked to every evening after school was where I babysat someone's kid. I never let on that my parents weren't together or that I was struggling with the reality that they were headed for divorce.

Catholic girl's schools, I soon discovered, harboured two types of young women. Those who longed for small classroom education among a female community of likeminded individuals, and those whose parents were forcing them to attend a school they hoped would reform them. Possibly attending Catholic school was a last resort ordered by the court. In any case, I was soon the target of gang terrorism brought about by answering questions in class – namely in English where I seemed to excel in understanding Shakespeare. Somewhere between The Merchant of Venice and Romeo and Juliet I became the object of abuse. Short and obnoxious, I was an easy target for a small but imposing group of girls who were significantly bigger and louder. The leader of this particular gang of delinquents was an overbearing, unusually tall girl named Susan Podansky. Susan had thick brown curly hair and a large set of yellow teeth that filled her face when she smiled. Not that her smiles were warm and generous. When Susan smiled, there was foreboding in the air.  She reminded me of the witch in Hansel and Gretel licking her chops as she prepared to eat everything in her wake. Her neck was thick, her hands were large and her voice was low. “Guess who’s going to die tonight?” she’d whisper in my ear as I scurried from Math class to Science. The whole time I was dissecting my frog I imagined my innards splayed across the grass beyond the school.

It occurs to me now, many years later and infinitely wiser, that there was nowhere for Susan and her gang to actually pommel me. The school was small and well supervised and the yard was too. Unless their aim was to be caught, there was no way they could beat me up and get away with it. At the time, this logic escaped me. Instead I cowered in classrooms, stayed late for extra help in things I was already excelling at, and volunteered for everything from library duty to bible study. If something needed to be scrubbed, painted, sorted or filed, I signed myself up.

There were rumours going around about Susan and her gang. They set fire to garbage cans. They stole from variety stores. One of them had a friend who’d been decapitated on the roller coaster at Crystal Beach. Each story was more shocking than the one before. What started out as careful avoidance, turned into full blown terror.

Ironically, I’d known Susan in grades 3 and 4 when I had attended Holy Family elementary. I was not Catholic, but the school was close to our house and my mother deemed it more convenient than the public school that was a good deal further away. My parents were never concerned about what rubbed off on us. During the day I learned about the Virgin Mary and the Holy Ghost and after school my mother played Rock and Roll albums and allowed me to read, Mad Magazine, and Creepy comics. Susan had been in my class back then. She was already bigger than the rest of us, but harmless. Once she even invited me to her house. I remember her mother was pleasant enough as she cooked something in the kitchen that smelled foreign and delicious.  Most of the kids at Holy Family were Irish or Italian, but Susan was Polish. To me that made her exotic. But then again, I was the daughter of Wasps attending a Catholic school. Everything was exotic to me. In the two years we shared a classroom at elementary school, we’d never clashed. In fact, in a childish act of solidarity, we both called Mrs. Flint, a substitute teacher, Mrs. Flintstone and were called to the office. We were equally contrite and that was the end of that. What prompted this new vitriol, aside from a seemingly innocent love for Shakespeare, I’ll never know. Whatever it was, her threatening demeanour was scary and all consuming.

At home, my mother couldn’t help but notice that I was at school later than usual. I’d enter the hallway out of breath, eat dinner, then retreat to bed. After a week of this she coaxed the truth out of me with cupcakes and before I knew what I’d said, she was on the warpath. This was exactly what I didn’t want. I’d been warned by Susan that if I snitched on her, she’d make my life even more miserable. I begged my mother to leave it alone, but she was determined. My mother had lived with an abusive step-father for a time before Ralph, and bullying wasn’t something she tolerated.

The next day I was called down to Sister Rita Mary’s office where two seats were arranged in front of her desk. I could see from half a mile away that large head of messy hair belonging to Susan. I timidly entered and sat down next to her. Sister Rita Mary smiled, “It’s come to my attention that there has been some nuisance between the two of you.”

Nuisance? Between the two of us? I could see where this was heading.

“It’s my belief that you just don’t know each other well enough, so my solution to this misunderstanding is to arrange for you to sit next to each other in all of your classes from now on.” Then, with a smile on her face she dismissed us from her office and closed the door.

Susan grinned, “This oughta be fun,” she announced. “Guess who’s gonna have a funeral?” And then she galumphed off to class.

Sitting beside Susan was excruciating. In math she broke my pencils. In English she poured ink on my assignment. But it was art class where she really crossed the line. I’d been working on a painting for several weeks and had almost completed my masterpiece when she and her gang “accidentally” spilled paint all over the canvas. “Oh, sorry!” she feigned, and then left me to absorb what had just happened while the teacher insisted I stay and clean up the mess.

Two other girls in my class – Vicki and Sarah shook their heads in disgust. “This can’t continue.” they stated. “That girl has to be stopped.”

“I agree,” I muttered as I crawled about the class on my knees cleaning tempra paint off the floor, “But how?”

That afternoon at lunchtime the three of us hunkered down at a table in the cafeteria to eat. No sooner had we settled when Susan came bounding over, knocked my tray off the table proclaiming me a moron and warning, “Better watch yourself tonight.”

I could feel my face flush and the bile rise in my mouth. I’d learned one thing from comic books, and that was how things were never what they seemed. The meek were often strong. The strong were often scared and bullies could be undermined. Before I knew it, Sarah was standing.

“What did you say?” she asked her.

For a moment I saw Susan blanch. She was shocked. This was unexpected. All she could manage to say was, “What?”

“You heard her, " Vicki demanded, also now standing. They looked like two Davids' to Susan's Goliath.

"What's wrong with the baby?" Susan taunted, "Needs other people to stand up for her?"

"No," I said rising to my feet, "I can stand up for myself."

She hesitated. Everyone was looking at us. Even the lunchroom nun was staring in disbelief.

“You'd better watch yourself.” Susan growled just low enough for my table to hear.

“Or what?” I asked

Susan just stared at me.

“Or what?” I repeated, “You’ll kill me? Beat me up? Hit me? Bury me? Why wait until tonight? Come on. Get it over with. Do it. Come on. You want to hit me? Hit me.” I was on a roll. Words were ammunition from my slingshot and I was on the attack. Next thing I knew, Vicki and Sarah chimed in.

“Yeah,” they echoed, “You wanna fight? Let’s fight.”  

Susan blinked. The cafeteria was eerily quiet. All eyes were on us.

“You’re not worth it,” Susan grunted, as she backed out of the lunchroom alone. And that, was the end of that.

For a moment, I felt 6' tall knowing that I had faced my biggest fear and somehow come out the better for it.

Vicki turned to me, "One Goliath down." she smiled. "Listen, I'm having a sleep-over this Friday. Ask your parents if you can come?"

This was the moment. If I could stand up to Susan, I would finally have the courage to say, "Just have to ask my Mom. My folks are separated."

I waited for the judgement that never came. Instead she simply said, "Cool. I'm adopted. Come by at 7:00."

#bullying #girl power #catholic school

[autismgavemychildvaccines]

Why I’m Ashamed to Be Christian

So, now that I am literally sick of the Measles nonsense (no, fucking literally, working 12+ hour shifts on an incident management team has got me sick and tired enough to call in tomorrow), I’ve decided to do a non PH rant, though it’ll for sure rear it’s fucking head somewhere in here. Instead, let’s tackle something real fun. Religion! Time to buckle up.  In my half fucking awake daze that I was just nudged out of, something really wild hit me. My faith, my belief in a very specific God with a specific book (though I admit that other religions, so long as their origin is not a company or a tool to oppress others on the outset, are valid/likely just as true) makes no God damned sense.  (For reference, here I will claim my most closely related sect as my own; American Evangelism [though if one were to ask in person I’d say “non-denominational”, but historically, the two are close] and will be speaking as a part of a community I used to closely belong to but now have drifted away from on some granola-crunching dumbassery that is “I am a church of one” bullshit. I’ve wanted to be other things, but ever since I left the Freemasons, fuck all else has had much appeal.) So, first things first, Garden of Eden, right? Pretty fucking cool place, some might have even called it a perfect garden, a perfect place for humans and God to interact? But here’s my hang up with it. The trees of Life and Knowledge, and the rule that Adam and Eve could eat of any fruit except those grown upon that pair. Why even fucking have them?

 When I asked that as a kid in a faith based area, they said because it was a test.

 Of what?

 “Well, of our loyalty to God and our Faith, of course”. 

Except again, what the fuck? Like, I get the idea of free-will, in fact I am a huge believer in individual free will (I’ll get to that in a sec), but here’s the stickler here. As any other creative type will tell you, we want our work to take on a life of its own. Like say I wanted to program a remarkably bright AI, and it worked, and all I wanted was for it to recognize me as its creator and to discover and enjoy what home I could make for it. You know what I wouldn’t do? I wouldn’t give an AI, even with some simulated free will, the ability to break certain rules. For example, I wouldn’t allow it unrestricted access to the internet or my personal accounts. I wouldn’t even give it the concept that such things existed, let alone put it right fucking there to be used. That would be a flaw, an imperfection in an otherwise perfect place. And yeah, there’s something to be said for giving free will with not-free consequences, sure. But two things: 1) Don’t be pissed when the thing happens that you allowed to exist in the first place and thus forced it to be a mathematical certainty now that you’re dealing with perhaps the most curious species to ever exist.  2) Don’t go blaming them for a lack of faith. If anything, it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, an act that abusers often use to get what they really want and have a thin veneer of an excuse to make happen. Now doesn’t that sound a lot like a good number of the followers of this faith, as opposed to an almighty, omnipotent, powerful being? Hmm, something to consider there, maybe.  Speaking of followers, let’s actually also take a look at some of the prophets that we as American Christians often hold so dear. Now me? I’m a Luke guy, I like Luke. Peaceful, loving gospel for the most part, and I dig it. Peace and love, baby, that’s all I want coming from stories regarding a higher power that we had to hang up like a fucking tapestry to make sure we got all that love. But do you know who I fucking hate, and who I blame the most for how the American chruch is? Paul/Saul of Tarsus. Thiiiiiiiiiiis prick. This fucking Deus Vult Vulture. Actually in many ways, he really is the archetype to the Modern Evangelical fucking anything. Actively participated in the harassing, attempted extinguishing and successful terrorizing of a marginalized group. Then after being hit back for it, literally “seeing the light” and trying to be the fucking vanguard of said group only to lead it down a path where he’s suddenly the appointed expert of anything to do with the issue. And while he does this, he helps create the most violent and bigoted thoughts in the whole of the religion, and is praised for his visions as he says they are truly from God, and can thus act oh so righteously. This right here is a fucking problem, y’all. Like, I know the whole forgiveness idea allows for some mental gymnastics on how this could even happen, but even then to make a genocidal ass-face your de-facto leader aside from Christ himself for the next 2000 years is a fucking flip that even at the 1988 Olympics, if Christians were America, Russia would give them a straight 10/10.    And yet, for many of us, that’s exactly what we’ve done. Hell, we’ve even fallen into the forced victim narrative of the synopsis of this asshole:  “Oh well, you see, I was a heathen and thus I couldn’t help myself, but then like, the God of the people I was killing talked to me and like, now I have to do this (Take on the “burden” of leading the church) as penance for what I couldn’t help myself over.” We’ve fallen for it so much, that it may as well be hard wired into our nervous system to believe anything resembling it, just as we assume if something is flat, green and on a tree, it’s a leaf.  Maybe it’s why we as a religion (and let’s face it, other Abrahamic religions as well) are so damn good at beating down the marginalized while screaming that we are the saints, we’re the sacrificiers trying to make things better. Like, let’s have some modern day fun with this bullshit, man; let’s see how we treated and in many places continue to treat women.  Of the few churches I have been to, 100% of them had one dual-sided message that made me real fuckin’ uncomfortable, fam:  Part 1) That women cannot be trusted onto themselves and thus 2) Men must take control of them and society to not allow for some unspecified “Ridiculous bullshit”.  (as a fair heads up; I do fully recognize non-binary, trans individuals, etc, but for the sake of brevity I’ll be mostly referring to M/F in the traditional sort of way, because opening up Christianity’s treatment of anything regarding gender fluidity is a Ph.D. thesis for another day)  Now, I don’t know about y’all, but I know damn well that out of all the dudes I know, and all the lasses I know, they’re a pretty mixed fuckin’ bunch. It’s almost like their gender assigned at birth doesn’t really affect how reasonable they could be as people nor how much responsibility they should have. Obviously some cultural practices skew this quite a bit in so far that women are expected to take more responsibility, younger, and for less praise, but if anything that should help destroy, not reinforce that message.  And yet, the idea persists so much in Christian circles. And not just by the men themselves, but the women, also. For the longest time of my church going days, the pastor was a woman. She wholly believed it was just and right that her husband be in charge of everything, that women should be loyal to their men in all aspects. Then again, she also (despite recruiting members primarily from college) did not believe in evolution at all, so there’s that in terms of an intellectual hurdle. But regardless, this inherent submissive attitude within the faith (and even the half-hearted and self-congratulatory “Yeah but we REALLY are the ones making the decisions because we can withhold sex if we want” is essentially that too just a smidgen more empowering), when combined with the idea that men should be wholly in-control (which is a breeding ground for toxic masculinity if there ever was) is shameful. It’s what has allowed so much bullshit in the past, including these recent abortion laws. Now, I’m going to cover abortion in another post (I might get to it tomorrow; It’s been on the burner for weeks), but it’s super pertinent here.  We, as a religion, have allowed ourselves to tell women (just as we tell/told minorities before) that they cannot be trusted with their own bodies, that they cannot be trusted when they speak, and most certainly cannot be trusted to truly hold dominion over anything. And that has allowed the most insidious, hateful, bigoted, disgusting things to happen in the name of God. A God that while I am writing this post I still believe in, but my doubts about how genuine the message has ever been is hitting home. One whose words about peace have been ignored when they could be interpreted or pointed to to support war, where the rich can profit off the poor, or to support sexism, because we as men historically have wanted to control “everything of ours”, or to take the very free will we claim to hold so dear from those who need the ability to make their own decisions the most. Words that have been used to hold down good people from making lives better. Words that in the hands of those who wanted, could be profaned and desecrated and thus allow for profane and disturbing events, both on the grand stage of the world and behind the closed doors of any house in some small town. Words which are held up with a wink and a nod so that followers feel included when they are scammed by some fucking fried chicken joint who wants to make more money to fight against equality, or to pay for another $9 million jet for some asshole who croons about how the poor should be grateful they do not have the temptations of the rich.  To other followers, do you not lament that we are this way? That we have been this way for so long? Because I fucking do.  And to those who have been discriminated or marginalized or whatever else against because of your gender or skin colour or situation or victimization or  past deeds of any sort; I’m sorry. Genuinely, truly sorry you have suffered as you have. Sorry for what people have done thinking it was somehow morally or spiritually justified, sorry that they thought they were saving you. And I can assure you that I will never try to lead you as those before me have tried to. Though if it’s all the same, I’d like to get to hear you, and walk beside you. 

[theycallmebeccawrites]

Perfectly Imperfect: Chapter 5

With Tumblr holding my original writing blog @beccaheartschrisevans captive (aka flagged as explicit), I have made a secondary writing blog and may end up closing the other all together. In the meantime, I am reposting all of my stories on my new blog.

Pairing: Chris Evans x Wren Arnold (OFC)

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: n/a

Disclaimer: This work of fiction is not to be reposted, used or translated without my permission.

Perfectly Imperfect Masterlist | Chris & Wren Masterlist

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

August 4-7, 2020

That afternoon, Wren was sitting at the island in Chris's kitchen and making lists of everything she needed to do during the next two weeks while Addy took her afternoon nap. Wren was so focused on her task that she didn't hear the front door open and close or realize she wasn't alone until she was grabbed from behind.

Screaming, she leapt from the stool, nearly falling on the floor before a pair of strong arms grabbed her and hauled her back to her feet. Breathless, she stared up into the amused eyes of Chris's younger brother.

"Damn it, Scott!" she exclaimed, pounding her fists on his chest as he laughed heartily. "I hate when you do that!"

"Sorry, I couldn't resist," he replied, letting her go. "You were so focused on your damn lists again."

"Honestly, you and your brother could use a list or two," she stated, shaking her head. Her heart thudded at the thought of Chris and it used every bit of will she had to not let her heartache show on her face. "When did you get into town, anyway?"

"Last night," Scott replied as he made his way over to the fridge. He pulled out two bottles of water and then carried them over to where she was sitting. "Mom told me you were watching Addy today so I thought, I'd -" He stopped talking as his eyes zeroed in on the words written at the top of the pad of paper. "Things to do before I move? You're moving? When?"

"Next week," Wren answered. "I got a job offer." She chewed on her lower lip as she waited for Scott to ask the next obvious question.

"Where is it?" he asked, his voice was even and steady, too much so. It was as if he knew there was another shoe about to be dropped.

"Not in Massachusetts," she told him. She couldn't look at him while he processed the information, especially since she had only ruled out one state.

"What happened?" he asked, softly. "Is it Chris? Have you told him?"

"No!" she exclaimed, looking up at him. "I haven't told him anything."

"But it is Chris, isn't it?"

Wren nodded and sniffed. The tears started to fall just as Scott got off his stool and wrapped his arms around her. He let her cry for a few minutes before he asked what had happened. With tears in her eyes, Wren relayed what Chris had said the night before about never getting married again.

"It was a sign," she muttered. "He isn't the same guy I fell in love with. Not anymore."

"But you do still love him, right?"

Wren nodded.

"Then you have to tell him," Scott stated.

Wren's jaw dropped and she shook her head in disbelief.

"You promised me you would tell him one day," he reminded her. "You promised that if I came out to my family that you would tell Chris what you felt for him."

"It doesn't matter anymore!" Wren exclaimed. "And keeping this from him is not like you hiding your true self from your family and friends!"

"We had a deal, Wren," Scott said firmly. "You have to tell him. Or I will."

Wren glared at her friend. "It won't make any difference, Scott," she insisted. "Chris's mind is made up. He doesn't want to be with anyone else."

"But you aren't 'anyone else'," Scott stated. "You're Wren! His Wren!"

"Scott, I've spent the last 24 years living in a dream world only to have it crash at my feet," Wren sighed. "I've woken up and it's time for you to do the same."

"Uncle Scottie!" Addy's voice brought their conversation to a screeching halt.

"Go fix yourself up," Scott muttered before plastering a smile on his face and greeting his niece with a hug and a raspberry on her neck.

Scott kept Addy entertained the rest of the day while Wren made her lists. The little girl thrived under her uncle's attention and was too busy telling him about her morning at daycare to notice that Wren wasn't herself.

When Chris got home, Wren made her apologies, claiming that she had plans with Heidi and couldn't stay for dinner. She felt Chris's eyes on her as she said goodbye to Addy and then gathered her stuff.

"Wren, wait," Scott called as he followed her out the front door. "Just promise me that if the opportunity arises, you'll tell him."

"I promise," Wren replied while crossing her fingers out of his sight. She gave her favorite Evans brother a hug and then walked to her car.

That evening, she and Heidi drank wine as they started packing up her bedroom. Since the guest cottage Dr. Saul had told her about was fully furnished, all of her furniture would be going to her parents’ house.

"What am I going to do without you?" Heidi asked as she put books in a box.

"Meet a nice guy, settled down and have a family?" Wren suggested.

"Will you come back for the wedding?" Heidi asked.

"Not if it's here," Wren replied, after a moment. After she had accepted the job in Albany, she had decided that she needed a clean break from everything that reminded her of Chris and that included his family, this time, and the entire state.

"You're right, that was selfish of me to even ask," Heidi sighed. "I'm going to miss you so much."

"Albany is only three hours away," Wren laughed. "You can come visit me whenever you want!"

For the next two days, Chris and Wren were like two ships in the night. He had early calls both days and barely mumbled hello to her when she arrived at the house so he could leave. She channeled the slight guilt she had for not telling him she was moving into giving Addy extra attention. It broke her heart knowing she'd have to say goodbye to the little girl, but she knew it would be better in the end to cut ties when Addy was still young.

On both nights, Wren excused herself from dinner with Chris and Addy claiming she had to go to the school for a couple hours, which wasn't a complete lie. She let Chris think it was so she could get her classroom ready for the upcoming school year, but, in reality, she was removing all of her personal effects from the classroom and packing it to move.

When Friday came around, Wren had most of her stuff packed up and ready to take a load to Albany the next day. She was in the middle of boxing up her knitting stuff when her phone rang.

Not recognizing the number, she answered it cautiously. "Hello?"

"May I speak to Wren please?" a woman asked.

"This is she," Wren replied.

"Wren, I am a nurse at Dr. Adams office and we have Chris Evans here waiting for a ride home," the woman explained.

"Is he ok?" Wren asked, panic rushing through her veins as she imagined the worse.

"He's fine," the woman assured her. "The procedure went perfectly. He just needs a ride home."

Wren got the address from the woman and then left her apartment. The word 'procedure' floated around her mind as she made the twenty minute drive. She wasn't sure what Chris had had done, but he certainly hadn't mentioned anything about not being on set today.

Arriving at the doctor's office, Wren parked and then went inside to find Chris. She was greeted by the receptionist who told her he would be right out.

It took a few minutes, but Chris finally emerged from the back of the office with a nurse by his side.

"Here is the paperwork in case you guys have any questions," the nurse said handing Wren the papers. "Vasectomies are pretty easy, but call if anything doesn't feel right."

"Th- thank you," Wren stammered as her already broken heart shattered into a million pieces. At the same time, however, it cemented the fact that she was making the best decision to move away. She wanted to be a mom and, obviously, Chris wasn't interested in having any more kids. "Does he need to be monitored at all?" she asked the nurse.

"No, he just needs to rest," the nurse assured her. "He'll be good as new in a week or so."

Wren sunk her teeth into her lower lip when the nurse winked at her. Finding her voice, she said, "Let's go." With every step she took out to the car, the more frustrated she became with him.

Chris followed her out to the car silently and got into the front passenger seat. Wren got into the driver's seat and slammed the door.

"What in the fuck did Jessa do to you?!" she exploded, unable to hold back her frustration with him. "First never getting married again and now this!"

"I don't want to talk ab-"

"I don't give a shit!" she exclaimed. "What the hell is going on, Chris?"

"She didn't want Adelaide," he said.

Wren's mouth went dry at his words. She hadn't been expecting that. "What do you mean she didn't want Addy?" she asked.

"She never wanted to be a mom," Chris revealed the horrible truth. "She divorced me knowing that I would choose Addy over her."

Wren stared at the steering wheel as her heart broke for the little girl. A part of her wanted to call Dr. Saul and say things had changed and she couldn't accept the job. Not for Chris, but for Addy.

"I can't do anything about Jessa," Chris said. "But I can protect my daughter and myself from being hurt again."

His words worked like a cold shower, sobering her to the reality of the situation. She was still in love with a man who would never give her what she truly desired: his love and babies of her own. Yes, she loved his little girl, but she couldn't put her life on hold anymore. She was nearly 40 years old. Besides, Chris had a large family that would willingly help him whenever he needed it.

"Can you take me home now?" he asked, after a moment.

Wren nodded and started the car. They drove in silence until they reached the house.

"I can't help you with Addy next week," she told him. "I'm moving this weekend."

"Where?" he asked, pausing with his hand on the door handle.

"I got a job," she replied, purposely not answering his question. "I'll be too far away to help."

"You're not going to tell me where?" he asked, turning to look at her.

"I can't," she said, her voice cracking. "Please get out of the car, Chris."

She could feel him watching her, but she kept her eyes focused on her hands. She heard him sigh before he opened the car door and got out.

Looking up, she saw him unlock his front door and push it open. He glanced back at the car and their eyes met for a moment before he disappeared into the house.

Wren pulled away from the curb and drove around the corner before she pulled over and put the car in park. A gut wrenching sob spilled from her lips as big tears broke free from her eyes.

She cried until no more tears would come and then she took a deep breath and sent Scott a text:

Ur brother is at home. He got a vasectomy this morning. I couldn't tell him. But I quit. Addy is at daycare. Someone needs to pick her up at 11:30.

Then she turned off her phone and drove home.

"Where have you -" Heidi's question died on her lips when she saw Wren's blood shot eyes. She held onto her friend as Wren told her everything that had transpired in the last hour or so.

"We'll move you tomorrow," Heidi said, smoothing Wren's hair. "You'll get through this, I promise."

Later that night, Wren turned on her phone to call her parents and saw that there were twenty texts from Scott and a handful from Chris's mom and sisters.

"A clean break," she reminded herself as she typed a simple reply to all four of them.

I love you guys. But I can't do this anymore.

Then she turned off her phone again and used Heidi's to call her parents. Wren had already told her parents she'd gotten a job in Albany, but they were both shocked at first when she told them she was moving that weekend and wouldn't be returning. She had never told her parents that she was in love with Chris, but she suspected that her mom always knew. Her parents were understanding when she told them she had to move and her dad promised to take care of moving her furniture out of the apartment. He promised her that they would come to Albany for holidays and they had ended the call with 'I love you's.

Before going to sleep, Wren booted up her computer and deleted her Facebook, Twitter and Instagram accounts. Tomorrow she would start her new life in New York and get a new phone number.

Chapter 6

Want to find me off tumblr? I'm @beccatheycallme on twitter. I also post my stories on AO3.

My tag list is always open, just let me know if you'd like to be added!

#chris evans #theycallmebecca #beccaheartschrisevans #theycallmebeccawrites #chris evans fanfic #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans fan fiction #perfectly imperfect #chris and wren #chris evans x ofc #chris evans as a dad #chris evans x original female character

[casualarsonist]

Son of Saul review

When it comes to harrowing stories from World War Two, you can take your pick really - would you like to talk about the slaughter of seventeen million people, including six million Jews, during the Holocaust, or the Japanese mass-murder and mass-rape of up to three hundred thousand Chinese civilians known as The Rape Of Nanking, or the subjugation and enslavement of entire countries such as Poland and Czechoslovakia at the hands of the German army? If these aren’t to your liking, there are plenty more to choose from, but no matter your choice, it’s beyond a doubt that the event is one of the most uniquely harrowing and well-depicted catastrophes in human history. And whilst some films have gone to lengths to portray the disturbing inhumanity of it all, few have delved into what might arguably be one of the most horrific stories of all - that of the Sonderkommando. Literally meaning ‘special unit’, Sonderkommando was typical Nazi doublespeak that applied to two separate and unrelated groups, the first a unit of the SS, and the second a work unit of Jewish men picked from the ranks of those imprisoned in concentration camps specifically for the purpose of disposal of the corpses of victims of the gas chambers. 

Yeah. 

They were forced on pain of death to work, with no warning in advance nor right to refuse the task given to them. Their first duty was usually to dispose of the corpses of their predecessors - an activity that clearly defines the Nazi’s keen mastery of creating an atmosphere of utter fear and hopelessness. This cycle of extermination was due to the fact that they held intimate knowledge of the terrible secret of the gas chambers, and thus they were kept separate from the rest of the camp and then killed when they had outlived their immediate usefulness. The Sonderkommando occupy one of the most terrible places in human history. Their stories were rarely shared outside the walls of the camps, both due to the Nazi’s effectiveness at disposing of the ‘evidence’ of their crimes, as well as the fact that survivors often wanted nothing more than to forget what they had experienced, but over time and through the thorough and relentless dissection of all aspects of the war a picture, a glimpse, of the hell they went through came to light. And here, in László Nemes’ film, Son of Saul, we are given a most personal insight into what that experience might have been. 

Hold onto your hats children, because this isn’t going to be fun. 

Son of Saul follows Saul Ausländer (Géza Röhrig), a Jewish-Hungarian prisoner and Sonderkommando in Auschwitz. The film begins amidst the action with a strict focus on Saul alone. In the background, blurred just beyond the peripheries of the camera’s eye we see the concrete walls, the incandescent bulbs in metal cages, the barking Nazi officers commanding herds of terrified and naked people into cramped rooms as they tell them that they’re just going in for a shower, before shutting heavy metal doors on them. Through it all, Saul keeps his eyes to the ground, or on the task before him. We hear the wailing, then the banging at the door, then the silence. We see the Sonderkommando collect the clothes that were left for collection under false pretences, and we see Saul scrubbing the floors of the chambers, washing blood and faeces and vomit away. We see him carting bodies out from the piles in which they fell. And we see a Nazi doctor as he coolly suffocates a child - a boy that accidentally survived the process. Without explanation, Saul offers to take the boy’s body to the prison doctor, a fellow Hungarian, who agrees not to perform an autopsy so that the boy may be given a Jewish burial. Thus begins Saul’s journey to offer one last act of respect to this boy. What instigates this compulsion, and why this child, of all things, is the one thing that compels a man dealing every day with the horror and despair of his work to risk his life is largely left hidden, and even when a reason is revealed it’s uncertain as to whether it’s true. But regardless of the reason behind his actions, the question at the heart of it all is simply this - what price does one put on retaining their own humanity? 

Röhrig’s understanding and portrayal of a man in unimaginable circumstances is an utter triumph of truth in cinema - both he and the film eschew all melodrama, offering nothing but discrete and sober emotion fighting against a world in which the only thing left to feel is despair, and as his journey progresses we are exposed to the minimalist sight of a human trying to claw his humanity back from a world that only exists to shred it away from him. Throughout the film Saul is largely impassive, but Röhrig doesn’t hide from the camera the decay of his character’s soul through his experiences, and through him we begin to learn the language of life in the camp and we see how these men hold on to (or in some cases, let go of) the little they have left in order to simply get through another day.

Through all this though, it never feels like the film is being dishonourable or disrespectful because in many ways Son of Saul is a horror film without gore, a war film without war, and a Holocaust film in which the Holocaust is barely seen. Don’t get me wrong - this film is relentless - but through much of it, Saul is one of the few agents in the camera’s focus, whilst the rest of the camp exists just outside of the frame or semi-obscured in the background. Most of what we experience of the outside world is forced on us by the incredible and devastating sound design, or hinted at in the periphery of the shot, something that would almost be more digestible if it were right there in front of us and we were able to accuse it of being exploitative. But like Saul himself, as much as one would wish to be able to shut out and ignore the things going on around him, the best one can do is divert their gaze. This method of training the audience’s focus is employed to its greatest effect in the opening scene, and allows the film to maintain a minimalist style elsewhere. We get no view of the greater goings on as we do in Schindler’s List, for example, but to be honest, had this isolated, focused, and personal story been diluted by extraneous attachments, Son of Saul wouldn’t be nearly as effective or as necessarily shattering. 

And I mean ‘necessarily’, because this is a rare and unflinching portrayal of one of the humanity’s worst moments inside of one of humanity’s worst moments - it should never, ever be forgotten that we did this to one another in the not-so-distant past. My girlfriend asked me what I was writing about, and I described the film and the details of the Sonderkommando to her. The look of disgust on her face said enough, but above everything it said ‘why would someone watch this?’, and Son of Saul is obviously not a film for everyone, but it remains one of the most important films that I have ever seen, as well as the hardest I have ever had to watch. But despite all that, it’s not gratuitous; it’s not brimming with violence or spectacle (like the utterly disingenuous Hacksaw Ridge), and it doesn’t stoop to depicting explicit suffering simply to elicit reflexive horror from the audience. Instead it depicts something worse - the true and internal degradation of a person’s connection with life through their forced participation in acts of unfathomable inhumanity. And this is harder to watch than something more blatant because rather than showing your eyes a crude recreation of a person dying, it forces its depictions upon senses that you can’t switch off - through sound, and through your imagination as you unconsciously create in your minds eye the things that are happening out of your field of view. And in this way the film shunts into into the position of the character you’re watching - someone who can’t simply close their eyes and be removed from the situation. 

This was the brutal cunning of the Nazis and the key to the true horror of their regime: in every way, their weapon of choice was terror - the complete immersion of their victims into lives of fear, and pain, and degradation, and death. And of course it does an utter disservice for me to compare, in any way, the experience of someone watching a movie to the experience of the men of the Sonderkommando, but of all the attempts to translate the unimaginable experiences of those that suffered in the concentration camps of World War Two, perhaps this film comes the closest to helping a modern audience understand. 

Son of Saul is devastating and invaluable. I’m compelled to say that it ought to be essential. As this world of ours travels further down a path towards enabling capricious leaders to make decisions that threaten entire countries and cultures and ethnicities, Son of Saul is a reminder of what we are when we stray towards the end of that road. For anyone who wishes to understand this sobering and terrifying reality, Son of Saul is more than worth watching - it is unforgettable.

Outstanding

9/10

#son of saul #laszlo nemes #geza rohrig #film #review #world war two #world war ii #world war 2 #ww2 #second world war #concentration camp #drama #history #auschwitz #sonderkommando

[ask-saul-tarvitz]

Fic: Chosen

Summary: Sent as a diplomat to negotiate a peaceful accord between Lord Fulgrim and a new group of vampires, Saul Tarvitz meets a strange supernatural Lord who seems to have retained his humanity and more than a passing interest in Saul himself. (Spoilers: They kiss.)

Note: This is a Vampire AU!Gene and Saul for @psykerscum’s birthday! I most likely will write more soon.

Lord Feurhart’s disappointment was palpable in the way only a vampire’s could be. The weight of his disapproval fell squarely on the shoulders of his men, however. Saul was merely aware of it. 

“This is no way to welcome our guest,” he said, looking rather thoughtfully down at Saul. He’d been sitting on a throne above them, nearly a flight of marble stairs separating him from the rest.

Feurhart was not like vampires Saul had seen or even hunted in the past. For one thing he was muscular and tall rather than lithe and reedy. His arms were of some metal alloy and they looked capable of ripping a lesser man in half.  Instead of long hair, he was bald with a small beauty mark on his cheek.

Like others hailing from Chemos, he wore Lord Fulgrim’s colors. In this case, a dark purple sleeveless tunic with gold trim and dark purple trousers. His boots were a pale leather dyed an almost gold sheen. The only other bit of ornamentation he had were several earrings and a cuff on his right.

So many from Chemos had been turned over the years. First they heard a song and then they wandered off somewhere. They returned several days later when night fell with a purple glowing mark on the back of their right hands. Forever changed and, to Saul’s way of thinking, forever damned though he dared not say so.

None of these vampires were willing to reveal where they had been. After his change, Lord Fulgrim had ruled that doing so was an offense punishable by torture, entombment, or even death. Slaanesh chose as they saw fit. No one was to question their judgment.

Lucius had recently joined them. Their friendship had been a fractured mess since then, and being sent out to the wilds of Rauvara had come as a relief.

“Welcome, Saul Tarvitz,” Lord Feurhart said, sounding fond. He strode down the stairs, his gaze never wavering from Saul’s face. He smiled warmly when he came to a stop in front of him. “I am glad to have you here, and very relieved to find you are quite the same as ever.”

Saul considered this, more than a little confused. He’d like to think he’d remember meeting someone like this…

“Ah, I see the trouble. Worry not, I don’t expect you to recall anything about me. I am more now than I have been.”

“We have met then?” He felt guilty suddenly although he wasn’t entirely sure why. He wasn’t used to vampires eliciting much from him save for a wary respect or healthy fear.

“Yes. You made quite an impression on me,” Feurhart cheerfully admitted. “So many of us were intrigued by you. So few of us were as brave or noble.”

“I… I’m not sure you did meet me,” Saul replied, feeling vaguely sheepish. He’d truthfully had no idea anyone felt that way about him.

Lord Feuhart chuckled and then seemed to remember that several of his men were still present. One of them – Thanos, Saul thought his name was- was glowering with considerable force. “Oh for… You’re all dismissed. Be gone, will you?”

“If you’re sure,” Thanos muttered.

“I am always sure,” Feurhart said, making a shooing gesture until they all left. “There, that’s much better,” he added with a grin. “Don’t you think?”

“Certainly,” Saul managed. It was odd to find a vampire who could behave so very friendly towards him let alone one who seemed keen on his approval. Most saw him as a meal or serf, unfit for the finer things in life including Slaanesh’s blessing.

“I trust you’re still a captain? I would hate to think anyone would be so foolish as to have you replaced.”

“I am if barely,” Saul admitted. He wasn’t sure what prompted him to. He felt no compunction to do so. For a moment he considered meeting Feurhart’s bright purple eyes, but he decided against it. Too much could go wrong, and he had no reason to trust him. “The song has never come to me. As the years pass, I become more and more obsolete.”

“You suspect that’s why you were sent here.” It ought to have been a question, but instead it was a statement. “No, not at all, dear captain. I requested you specifically.”

Saul raised an eyebrow.

With a gentle look, Feurhart set a hand on his shoulder. The metal was cool against his neck. He ought to have shied away immediately, but Saul stayed where he was, conflicted and uncertain as to why.

“You see… I am a man of few regrets, but you are one of them. We never did speak and I’ve wanted to.”

“With all that’s happened… why should that matter?”

“The prospect of eternity sheds light on how lonely life can be. And there are precious few people who can provide companionship.”

“I’m just a soldier,” Saul managed. “I’m hardly that interesting, Lord Feurhart.”

“Gene,” the vampire corrected. “I should like for you to call me Gene.”

“You shouldn’t expect too much from me, Gene. I am merely a soldier and a would-be diplomat here to speak to you on Fulgrim’s behalf.”

“Ah, Saul,” the vampire said with a sigh. “You should give yourself more credit.”

The familiarity combined with mounting confusion made him blush.

“We should speak of more important things,” Feurhart decided with a smile. “I must prove myself to be a better host than this. Let’s have a tour and dinner.”

“Should we discuss the reason why I’m here?”

“Eventually, all in good time,” Feurhart said dismissively.

“But—”

“Now, now, you’ve only just arrived and the conversation will keep. In fact, I anticipate many conversations on the subject.”

“You do?”

“Oh, certainly. I don’t know if I will agree to an alliance with Lord Fulgrim, after all. You may find yourself keeping me company for some time.”

This made part of Saul curious and the rest of him a tad nervous. He had a limited idea of where he was seeing as he’d been lead here in manacles with a sword against his back. And for all that he might be brave and noble, he was no match for a vampire of Feurhart’s ilk. “Oh.”

“No harm will come to you. Nothing untoward either. You are my guest, and there’s nothing I cherish so much as a guest.”

Saul managed a nod.  He wanted to argue against it, but he had a job to do. Lord Fulgrim would not look kindly on him if he returned without putting in the proper amount of effort. And Lord Fulgrim would know. He had no qualms about reading thoughts or forcefully manipulating his servants.

“Please don’t worry,” Feurhart said, once again placing his hand on Saul’s shoulder. “Oh, my apologies. Is this all right?”

It likely ought to have been all wrong, but Saul found he liked the grounding, solid weight of his metal hand on him. He had been a long time since he’d been touched with kindness. Chemos had once been a flourishing city comprised of a devotion to the arts and a desire to value brotherhood above all else. That hadn’t been the case in some time. Since all but losing Lucius, Saul had been alone.

“I don’t mind.”

“You’ll let me know if you do.”

“If that’s what you’d like.”

“Yes, and in all things. Feel free to speak your mind. Everyone else here certainly seems to.”

Saul managed a small smile.

“Ah, that’s better. Now. Let me show you the art gallery.”

*

It was remarkable how much Gene had collected. The range and diversity of the collection was a bit staggering, especially considering how young Feurhart was.

“You can leave Chemos, but you can’t really leave Chemos,” Gene had mused as Saul’s eyes moved from canvas to sculpture to mosaic and then to canvas once more.

“Do the others enjoy art?”

Gene chuckled warmly. “No, they tend to stick to mercenary work and maintaining our fortress.  I believe in variety in work and in hobbies, however. Monotony is terrifying.”

You’ll tire of me quickly then, Saul thought. He blinked, wondering why that even mattered to him… But it did. He realized Gene was staring at him so he mustered up a response. “I suppose it is although… I’ve always enjoyed a set routine.”

“Order is different. I can understand why you would hold to that.”

“Chaos seems to be winning regardless of what I do.”

“A healthy balance helps. I don’t want to make do with one and not the other.”

“Even though… I mean…”

“Yes, even though I’m a vampire.”

Saul nodded, looking away briefly. He still remained focused on Gene, however, which is when he noticed the back of his hand. It was bare and silver, no mark of Slaanesh to be seen. Could he be… telling the truth then?

“Is everything all right?”

“It’s just strange.”

“I’m strange, you mean.”

“No, I—”

Gene chuckled. Again it was a warm, throaty sound. “That does not offend me. It’s the truth, I am.”

“I don’t understand it,” Saul was forced to admit. “I’ve spent a great deal of my time around Lord Fulgrim. Recently my best friend became a vampire too, and… They’re not the same.”

“What are they like?”

“They’re colder. Crueler. They seem to think the world is uglier and that people are uglier too.”

“You find it difficult to endure.”

“I do.”

“You could not have saved them, you know. There was no way to spare them the song.”

“Wasn’t there?”

Gene shook his head. “There’s nothing to be done once you’re chosen.”

Saul looked at him, wishing he understood what being chosen was like. The grim set to Gene’s jaw made him wonder though if it would be worth undergoing whatever experience took place before and during the transformation.

“I do not know if this will help and I mean no disrespect to your lord, but perhaps some of that attitude was there all along,” Gene continued. “Becoming a vampire can only alter so much.”

“Do you believe that, truly?”

“I believe that, for example, were you to be chosen? You’d remain the same. You’d always be yourself because who you are is worth being.”

Saul sighed heavily, looking up and meeting Gene’s gaze. “You can’t know that.”

“I can. There is a remarkable amount of good in you. It’s why I wanted to be near you again.”

“Because you’re not capable of being good anymore?”

Gene barked out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he insisted. “I want to be near you because I’m the same. I want to do good still. I want to make things better.”

“With me?”

“Either way, but I’d prefer to do so with you. Why? Is that a possibility?”

Saul flushed pink, realizing how presumptuous he’d been. Not to mention the fact that he must have sounded like an awkward schoolboy with a crush. “Maybe,” he said quietly, half hoping Gene wouldn’t hear him.

“I live in hope then,” Gene said with a smile.

*

Dinner was held in an opulent room with a glittering chandelier and a long silver table. It was likely Gene sat at the head of it, but for their meal, he sat across from Saul. He didn’t eat, of course, merely watched Saul with a rapt sort of attention that left him confused and yet pleased.

“Is everything to your liking?” the vampire asked, pouring Saul a second glass of red wine.

“Everything is excellent.”

“I shall have to cook for you myself while you’re here,” Gene mused.

“You… Surely there’s servants who can provide meals for me.”

“That’s hardly the same, and I think you would quite enjoy my cooking.”

“I appreciated that, of course, but… Why would you go to the trouble? You don’t need to eat, after all.”

Gene looked at him unblinking for a moment or two. His purple eyes warmed with sympathy before he hope. “You’re worth the effort. I do not know who has convinced you otherwise, but I’ll change your mind. Just give me time.”

Saul repressed a shudder.

Gene raised an eyebrow and then laughed. He shook his head, reaching across the table and pressing his fingers against Saul’s hand. “By doing so many wonderful things for you that you’ll have no choice but to admit it.”

“Then… you wouldn’t…” Saul winced slightly. “Please don’t be offended but you wouldn’t try to enter my mind to change it?”

“Never,” Gene insisted, his tone suddenly fierce although it was clear he wasn’t angry at Saul.

“Do you mean that?” Saul asked, imagining Gene did. No vampire he’d encountered had ever said such a thing. He suspected most would have laughed at the notion the same way Lucius had, and then continued to do as they pleased.

“I want you to trust me, Saul,” Gene patiently explained. “I would never pry into your mind like that. It would be so very unseemly and unkind.”

“Thank you.”

Saul moved his hand out from under Gene’s only to set it on top of the vampire’s hand. He lightly squeezed a few metal fingers, hoping the sensation would carry over to Gene. By the look of delight on the vampire’s face, it must have done so.

But the look quickly faded as something seemed to occur to Feurhart. “Others have,” he stated, looking grim.

“Sorry?”

“Others have pried and dug into your mind, tampered with your thoughts.”

Saul sighed, looking down at their hands. “I serve at Lord Fulgrim’s pleasure. It is the price of not being chosen.”

“It’s barbaric, but we will speak of this later on. I’m sure you must be tired from your journey.”

Saul couldn’t disagree, and yet… “It’s quite early for you.”

Gene smiled. “You are sweet, but I will manage. Most likely I will paint and think of you. I am so happy to have you here.”

“You’re very confusing.”

“Have more wine,” Gene suggested, and they polished off the bottle before leaving the dining room.

Saul let Gene lead the way, not minding the hand resting against the small of his back. He didn’t really need the help, but he suspected Gene knew that too. It was a harmless gesture, really. Besides, Saul was distracted by thoughts of how nice it was to finally be wanted somewhere.

After a series of stairs and a winding corridor, they arrived at their destination.

Gene unlocked the door and gave Saul the slender purple key for it. “In the morning, breakfast will be brought for you and then Thanos will take you on a tour of the grounds. The gardens are lovely by day, or so I’m told.”

“I’ll see you in the evening?”

Bowing and offering up a playful smirk, Gene replied, “Nothing could prevent it.”

Saul smiled, turning the key over in his hands.

“Sleep well, and rest,” Gene suggested. “Think of me if you like.”

“I might,” Saul admitted.

Grinning, Gene turned away.

Saul watched him go before moving towards him and turning him back around. Or, rather, gripping Gene’s shoulder and hoping he’d do so.

Gene tilted his head. “Is everything all right?”

Saul nodded and then kissed him gently.

Gene returned it, careful to let Saul take the lead.

He deepened the kiss only slightly, content to take things slow. Part of him was alarmed that he’d kissed the vampire at all, but Saul wasn’t sure that what Gene was mattered. He was more interested in who Gene was.

Gene, for his part, returned the kiss gently and passionately until it ended. He pressed his lips to Saul’s neck before moving back. “Until tomorrow night then.”

Saul nodded, smiling when Gene kissed his cheek. He returned to his room slowly, opening the door and going inside swiftly. It was nice, he thought, to have something to look forward to.

*

#Warhammer fic #This has significantly helped with my NaNo word count #Gene #Gen #Saul #psykerscum

[elfnerdherder]

Where the Wicked Walk: Ch. 14

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You can read Chapter 14 on Ao3 Here

Chapter 14: Hop-Frog

           Alyss stared at the wall before her, and she counted the seconds like sandpaper.

           She had dealt in death before. Death had plagued her for far longer than any chronic pains or childhood traumas; it made her who she was. Her ease in it, slipping in and out and around the cracks of death is what made Francis Dolarhyde first recruit her to Hannibal Lecter’s following, a grouping of like-minded individuals that saw her previous works and congratulated her for it. Their hands had passed along her shoulders, awe and praise as she told her stories. The acknowledgement merely fueled her, merely made her dream of more to come.

           First her family. She’d never loved them anyway.

           Then the doctor that tried to prescribe her anti-psychotics. She would not be controlled.

           A woman that’d tried to take her ex-boyfriend, although he ended up walking in on their meeting and had to be put down, too. A shame, since his smile was so lovely it could light up her most dreadful of days, stuck working as she’d been in retail with people who honestly made her pension for killing go up a notch.

           But then Nate came along, and honestly she’s forgotten that ex-boyfriend’s name.

           “My condolences for your loss,” the interrogator said.

           Loss. Even before, when her name wasn’t Alyss, she wasn’t in the game of losing. She didn’t lose, she gained. She grew. Not anymore. She was most assuredly falling in on herself, and there could be no growth to come when everything around her was dead, dealing in shades of rotting, putrid grey.

           She bumped into him on a subway, and his eyes were the loveliest shade of tomorrow that she’d ever seen. She wondered what they looked like, now that he’d had time to begin decomposing. Ugly. Milky white. They wouldn’t be so mismatched anymore. A matching shade of death.

           “We want to help you, Kelly Brown. Maybe there’s an arrangement that we can come to, if you just answer a few of my questions.”

           When she found him the next day, a stirring in her chest that pushed, pushed, pushed, she’d been almost nervous that she was going to have to kill him to make that feeling go away. Soulmate, the general public said with the sort of sigh that made her teeth rot. You’ve found your soulmate, and isn’t that nice? It didn’t sound so nice to her. Alyss didn’t like being controlled, no matter if it was her mind or her body or a chemical reaction that made her focus on the shades of color within another person’s eyes.

           “This won’t change anything,” she promised him, clinging to his skin to make the whispers go away.

           “What if I want it to?” Nate asked her, clinging back.

           Then it turned out that Nate had a pension for killing, too.

           She didn’t feel much when she’d killed her family. Natural emotions, like frustration at their staining her favorite shirt. Fatigue after the care she took in displaying them, laying them out. Pride at her work, at the inevitability of taking care of something she probably should have dealt with years before. It was done now, though. She could say that it was done.

           “Kelly?”

           Nate’s death, though…God, she could feel it within her very cells it hurt so bad. She’d been stabbed a few times, shot on more than one occasion. One of the girls at the house had given her a cigarette burn on her left breast, and Nate had kissed away the pain of it. The scar was a lopsided heart that she liked to look at, each bit of raised tissue something pretty, something that was hers.

           She wondered if she told them that she couldn’t feel her legs, if they’d cut them off of her. Remove the dead tissue, give way to something new. She didn’t want something new, though, she wanted Nate for God’s sake. She felt his stomach give way, felt him stumble, searching. Distance was a razorblade to the skin, the gunshot wound the aftermath of a sledgehammer to the gut.

           The death a severance so complete that she was sure she was going to die.

           God, why wasn’t she dead?

           “Kelly, I do honestly want to help you, despite what you may think.”

           Her gaze lifted from the table before her, grey and matte and cold. The agent had a soulmate, that much she could see; one eye black, the other eye black with a ring of blue around it. The set of their eyes made them appear Chinese in nature, although she could be wrong. She didn’t like to assume those sort of things because it was a stereotype and it was ignorant. One of the girls at the house was Japanese, and she spent her time practicing crochet. She’d made Nate a hat once, two years before.

           “Is your soulmate alive?” Alyss asked. Her normal sort of self-control that would have made her voice sound so vividly sweet was gone. Her tone cracked on the way ‘alive’ tasted sour and rotten in her mouth. Alive, alive, alive. Why was she still alive?

           “Yes.”

           Alyss nodded in thought at that, fingertips pressed tight together as she considered them. She wondered how much force it’d take to bite them off so they’d stop hurting so much.

           “If I could…I would give them a smile like I gave Agent Bowman a smile,” she said at last, hoarsely. “Maybe the shock would be so much that you died when you felt the severance.”

           “Kelly-”

           “Are you afraid of death, FBI-Guy?”

           “I think we all are.”

           “I’m not. And neither was Nate.”

           “Was Nate your soulmate? We are trying to-”

           “I want you to tell Agent Crawford this for me,” she interrupted. He paused to listen, head tilted to catch the slightest word. “Think of it as a courtesy, nothing more or less than what he needs to hear.”

           “Alright, Kelly…I can do that.”

“Are you listening carefully?”

           “Yes.”

           She licked dry lips, smiled as wide as she could. “That which you mistake for madness is but an overacuteness of the senses. You who death follows so closely, a companion we give to you: Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.”

           Just underneath the capped tooth near her back left molar, a pill lay in wait that she bit down on, swallowing the taste of bitter, rotten almonds. It curled, burning down, down, down her throat.

           “Kelly, what are you-”

           She wasn’t listening anymore, though. She couldn’t have, even if she wanted to, the pain was so acute. A fiery agony that washed away the dull, rotting ache of Nate, baptized her skin anew just to burn it to ash. She relished in the pain, even as it killed her.

           “I need a medic! Kelly Brown took a foreign substance that…”

           One couldn’t call soulmate death a severance if you were soon to join them.

-

           Molly walked along the garden path, Wally’s sticky hand in hers.

           “Beverly and Saul gave me candy last night,” he confessed. At eleven years old, he was far too mature for his age, a fact that haunted Molly to her core. While he still clung to childhood curiosity, time and experience had given him an edge that Molly resented and blamed herself for. He was an honest person, someone that reminded him of her deceased husband with every turn of his cheek, every furrowed brow. They’d married too young, but they’d been happy.

           They were happy.

           “That was nice of them.”

           “Can we trust them?”

           She sighed, stared out towards the impossibly blue sky. Despite her abhorrence of the humidity, the bugs, and the clay that caked everything and stained it an ugly orange, she had to admit that the skies in Georgia were beautiful.

           “No, Wally, we can’t,” she said, staring at the sky. The expanse of it with no clouds to interrupt was beautiful, a never ending entity where everything seemed possible. She resented it, even as she loved it.

           “We can’t trust anyone here,” Wally muttered, kicking a rock.

           “I’m sorry.”

           “There’s a new guy here. Will Graham.” When they reached the rock once more, he kicked it with a little more gusto, sending it skittering here and there before resting just ahead of them. “I saw him. He looks sad.”

           “He is sad, honey.”

           Just in the distance with his back to them stood Will. It wasn’t apparent in his stature or the way that he held himself that he was in pain, but Molly saw the edges of him that others often missed. The way his arms bowed in as his hands were stuffed to his pockets, the way his head ducked as he concentrated on whatever he was looking at; he was in pain, and it wasn’t just whatever had happened to him in the forest.

           “Is he sad because he’s here?”

           A dangerous question. While Wally had had to grow up too fast, he didn’t always know when not to speak, let alone around those that would take his words to someone who would wield them against her like a knife. In all things she tried to be honest with him, and she did so once again now. “He’s sad because he’s having a hard time here.”

           “Can we trust him?” Wally pressed.

           Could they trust him? At the end of the walkway, they paused long enough for Wally to pick up the rock and study it at all angles. Bits of mica clung to it, facets of crystal that fell away under his insistent inspection. As if sensing her scrutiny, Will turned away from the forest’s edge and paused, and if the distance hadn’t been so great, Molly would have sworn that he was staring right into her eyes. Judgment and a stab of betrayal, that he dared to give some part of himself to someone that used it against him like a clumsily weld scalpel.

           “We can trust him, Wally, but he can’t trust us,” she said sadly.

           “That doesn’t make sense,” Wally decided, and Molly laughed.

           “Maybe someday it will, but that’s okay. Just know that if something is happening; if you’re scared, or if you need help, you can trust Will Graham. He’ll help you.”

            Even as it hurts him.

            She swung their arms with wild abandon as they turned away from Will and headed down a bend in the path. In his free hand, Wally clutched his newfound rock with a sense of victory.

-

           The autopsy room at the Atlanta HQ was almost too small for so many bodies.

           He’d had them delivered there, all the same. He needed people that could really dig into each and every aspect of the tragedy that’d occurred, compare and contrast the many lethal ways in which thirty-two innocent people were murdered for the sake of some sick statement by a man that found delight in torture and death.

           He’d found new wrinkles in his skin since taking a look at the bodies. Newfound wrinkles and a newfound purpose.

           “Agent Crawford?” someone pressed.

           Jack looked over to them, poised in the doorway, and frowned impressively. They were sharp, from their pantsuit to their perfectly adjusted cuffs, and nary a hair lay out of place.

           “My name is Clarise Starling,” she said, and she strode over to shake his hand firmly. “I head the division specializing with cult activity.”

           “Did Director Purnell send you here?” Jack asked.

           “Yes, sir. I’m heading this investigation now,” she said. She had a way of speaking that sounded like she was used to constantly having to defend herself. Her shoulders were squared for battle. Jack wondered if it was because someone had warned her about him, or if she was just used to putting up with constant bull shit.

           “That so?”

           “You work with behavioral analysis, but group mentality is something far different from tracking a singular person. You found Dr. Lecter through your knowledge, but I can use my knowledge to help you bring his entire group down. Director Purnell called me in for that reason.”

           “He may be using people to front his sadistic game, Agent Starling, but I can track him. Everything I need to find him is right here,” Jack said, nodding towards the bodies. Too many bodies.

           “From what I can tell, he’s not giving you a damn thing, sir.” She had a bit of a southern twang as she shifted her stance, irritated. “You’ll have better luck finding him through the mistakes of his followers, not through taunts he leaves behind for you.”

           “Agent Starling-”

           “My presence here isn’t a request, Agent Crawford,” she said, bowling over his words. “This here is my jurisdiction, and if you’re nice enough I’m willing to share. But just let me do my job, and I’ll let you do yours. How’s that?”

           Jack liked that about as much as he liked hearing Katy Brown’s final words before she bit down on a cyanide pill and died in an interrogation room. He stalked from the autopsy room and left Agent Starling to glean over the dead bodies, needing to breathe in some air that didn’t reek of chemicals and death.

           A companion we give to you: darkness and decay.

           He stood on the steps to the HQ, breathing in the stink of the city and the smell of burning, crackling cloves. He’d broken down on his smoking habit, having needed something to do with his hands.

           “Agent Crawford,” someone off to the side called out, but it took a moment for him to register.

           He looked over, saw who it was, and choked on the smoke. Short, curt, ugly puffs of it spewed from his mouth as he swallowed a curse and took the tobacco with it, making his lungs burn and his stomach curdle. Logic said that at a time like this, it only made sense for them to make an appearance, but that didn’t improve his mood in the least.

           “I’m not talking, Freddie,” he said warily. His distaste for her was far kinder than Will Graham’s was –during Lecter’s trials, she’d hounded him to try and get an inside scoop to what had happened. When Jack was in the hospital, trying to survive off of Jell-O and runny soup, Will had barely been able to stop her from sneaking into Jack’s room while he slept so that she could try and get a photo of his stab wound.

           The article claimed that Will had physically lifted and threw her down the steps of the hospital when he’d escorted her out, and when Jack asked about it, he wasn’t inclined to deny it. Jack made sure that the FBI paid her a visit to ensure that no charges were pressed against Will for attempting to give Jack some much needed peace and quiet.

           “Come on, Jack…you’ve seen the news, right?”

           “I don’t watch the news much. It’s a load of shit is what it is,” he replied. He took another drag from the cigarette and stared out at the air that rippled with the humidity and the heat. Even in the Fall, Georgia tried to stay hot.

           “Thirty-two dead, all by the name of Will Graham? Will Graham, one of the few survivors of ‘Hannibal the Cannibal’s reign of terror missing just after Lecter’s escape? This is good stuff, Jack,” she needled, walking closer.

           Freddie’s outfits were as loud as they were obscene. He eyed her plaid pants and polka-dotted button-up with extreme prejudice as he tried to find something kind to say. The red of her pants matched the vibrancy of her hair, accented by a heart shaped face and too big blue eyes. Matching eyes, he thought. The day Freddie Lounds gets a soulmate, I’ll eat my hat.

           “Most people think a killing spree is horrifying, not good stuff,” he said after a pregnant pause. “But I guess you’re not most people.”

           “I covered most of the Lecter trials, as well as the hunt for the Chesapeake Ripper, Jack. I’ve earned a word from you.”

           “You haven’t earned shit,” Jack said pleasantly.

           “I know you want to catch Lecter again. I bet that once you get guys like that behind bars, you want them to stay that way.”

           “Most people do.”

           “I might have heard something that could be of help to you,” she said, stepping closer. Jack had to resist taking a large step back, something that kept him out of her range of reach.

           “That so?”

           “Something that’d set you on the right path towards who got your man Zeller. I know most news places ignored that fact, but as Will Graham’s across America were being mutilated, someone got a needle in your man, too.”

           “We’ve already got him in custody, but thanks, Freddie.”

           “No, you have the witness in custody, Jack,” she replied. “You have a mentally impaired man in custody, but he didn’t attack Agent Zeller.”

           “The cameras inside of the establishment had been tampered with. He was the only one with access to do so.”

           “Don’t take it out on him because you can’t get to the real culprit, Jack,” she said softly. “I know you like throwing darts at the board with wild abandon, but I have something substantial for you.”

           He sighed and dropped the cigarette, stomping it out with the heel of his worn shoe. He hadn’t had time to polish them since Will first made notice of it.

           “If what you have to say is something good, I’ll give you something in return,” he said irritably. “But only IF.”

           She snorted and flipped her hair over her shoulder, head tilted. It reminded him of a finch, hopping closer and closer to beg for just a bite. “There’s a guy in a bar near Convington, Georgia that got too drunk last night. I happened to be there to interview someone that claimed they knew the woman that assaulted Agent Bowman, but it didn’t pan out.”

           “Those things tend not to,” Jack agreed.

           “I was about to leave when I overheard him speaking with a female companion about his luck with Agent Zeller. He’d had to wait in that bathroom for ages before you stepped out, but it was worth it.”

           That stopped Jack cold, right in the midst of lighting a new cigarette. Chain-smoking, and Bella would scold him once he was able to get on the phone to talk to her. The ache of their distance was a cold one, something much like the chill one gets when they wake in the middle of the night with no blankets on.

           “Excuse me?” he asked, dangerously quiet.

           “I got a drink and listened, Jack,” she said, and she pulled a recorder out of her purse. Naturally, it matched the ugly red pants. Fingers with nails short from constant typing and biting curled around the plastic, and she hit play with pursed lips and a furrow in her brows.

           “Maybe you shouldn’t be so loud, Clark.”

           “No one here is listening…’sides, they arrested that gas station manager –what was his name?”

           “Peter Bernardone.”

           “Peter Bernardone, yeah…yeah. They got him. We’ll head to the big house and tell the boss the good news.”

           “I already called him. He said to do a roundabout way to town, since there’s a lot of feds on the interstate.”

           “They won’t stop us, baby, we’re on the home stretch. I played my part, you played yours, and we’ll go and get a big fat hug when we get back there.”

           “Dr. Lecter isn’t exactly the hugging type.”

           “Maybe he’ll make an exception when I show him just how much I got that fucker to bleed.”

           She hit stop on the playback and stared at Jack, maintaining a long, uncomfortable stare to match the long, uncomfortable silence. The air felt too heavy in the aftermath.

           “I got his license,” she said, and she reached into her purse and withdrew a leather billfold.

           “Of all of the crazy, fucking luck,” Jack muttered.

           “Not really crazy, Jack. I got a copy of the gas station video, same as you. I saw him go into that bathroom and wait, saw you come in, saw a girl pull up to get gas, saw you go out, and that’s when the inside camera went fuzzy.

           “The outside camera, though…it shows you on the phone while that same man walked out of the gas station, got into the car with the woman, and drove away. You go inside, and that’s when you find Zeller.”

           “You think Peter Bernardone is innocent?”

           “He’s so innocent, I’m going to offer him my lawyer that I keep on speed-dial for libel cases.”

           That was something.

           “Once he knows that his wallet is missing, he’s going to move quick,” Jack muttered. He headed towards the bureau doors. As an afterthought, he turned back and snatched the billfold from her. “Thank you, Miss Lounds. Because you’ve been useful, I won’t make a case about you letting that son-of-a-bitch walk out of that bar without calling the police.”

           “Your end of the bargain, Agent Crawford,” she prompted, following close behind him.

           “My end?” he turned back, tucking the wallet into his inside jacket pocket. “Oh, you thought I’d give you something ‘off the record’?”

           “I just helped you so that you didn’t make an ass of yourself when you tried to incriminate an innocent man,” she fired back. Heeled boots clacked along the concrete as she crept even closer. “You owe me.”

           “You owe me, Miss Lounds,” Jack replied. “After your last venture with me, I’d say you piled on quite a few debts.”

           “I can really make it miserable for you in the papers if you do this, Jack,” Freddie warned, and she hitched her purse higher on her shoulder. She looked ready for a fight.

           “Look, you want some kind of scoop, how about you put that nosy business of yours to the grindstone and find me Will Graham; how’s that? You kept hunting him down six years ago, dogging his every step then. Shouldn’t be too hard for you to find him now, right?”

           He walked back into HQ, savoring the ugly shade of pink on her cheeks. As he passed security, he motioned back towards her. “She doesn’t come anywhere in here,” he ordered, and the security guards nodded in understanding.

-

           Will Graham wandered the house for the next few days in order learn its secrets.

           He wasn’t quite sure what he’d find, perusing the unnecessary amount of formal living rooms. Something, he supposed –anything. More than a week’s time in that house was making his skin stretch to odd proportions, making his muscles tense at the slightest of sounds.

           He wondered how many others felt such a kindship to Hannibal Lecter; would more Matthew’s crawl from the floorboards to try and oust him? Was another Randall Tier lurking along the forest’s edge, waiting?

           Every time he blinked, he kept focusing on his eyes. Randall Tier had matching eyes, and they stared at the stars like they could somehow find peaceful oblivion in the night.

           It was a nice home, all things considered. Will could remember times between moves where he and his father would take tours of the old homes in the south, passing hands along bronze posts and velvet ropes to keep them from ruining relics of the past. He’d always felt small in such places, the history stuffed within the very air he breathed, so much so that he felt something like a thief standing in the space. His father loved the tours, though, so he followed along. The paintings of George Washington were always a cheesy touch.

           Dr. Lecter didn’t have an abundance of Revolutionary War paintings, although he had an unhealthy obsession with Blake. Will paused before one such painting and stared, hands tucked into his pockets.

           “The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun,” Dolarhyde said behind him. His deep voice, appearing so suddenly in the silence, startled Will, and he turned around sharply.

           “I didn’t see you as an art type,” he said in lieu of nothing else.

           Dolarhyde’s eyes were dark, fixated on the painting. “…You don’t know. But you could understand.”

           “I could,” Will agreed reluctantly.

           Whatever Francis wanted to say to help Will understand was unable to break past his lips. He stared at the painting, and his jaw clenched. His mouth worked, mulling the words over, but they didn’t come, something blocking up in his throat and silencing him. Tension rippled just underneath his skin, and Will thought of the way his shoes had sunk into the carpet soaked with blood, how it’d seemed like a terrifying amount of blood to lose –how simply killing someone wouldn’t do that, that someone would have to really relish in the way blood stained everything to make someone bleed that much as they killed them.

           “…I didn’t protect you,” Dolarhyde said, and Will took a step back from him unconsciously. The intensity that he’d pinned to the painting shifted to Will, made his skin crawl. “I promised to protect you, and Matthew almost killed you.”

           “I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at Matthew,” Will assured him. He felt a genuine need to convey that fact.

           “I promised you that you’d be safe here.”

           “You’ve been lying to me from the start, Agent Dolarhyde, so you shouldn’t start feeling bad about it now,” he replied. The staring was beginning to make him sweat, the something just lurking at the edge of Francis’ gaze unsettling. Quiet he may be, calm he may be, but he wasn’t stable. Will could smell it off of him like a fever. It threatened to bleed into him, force Will to take some part of it.

           “I never lied to you,” said Francis calmly.

           “Oh?” Will barked a curt laugh.

           “I told you the truth. I would keep you safe, we would go to the house, I would make a call at the house, your friends would be safe, I do my job very well, and I wouldn’t hurt you.” He frowned, mulling everything over. “The only lie is that you were put in danger. For that, I apologize.”

           Will was pretty damn sure that a lie by omission was still a lie, but he wasn’t sure if that was a conversation to have with someone like Francis. While he speech came across as simplified, it didn’t quite fit the calm control and intelligence it’d taken for him to completely fool not only Will but Jack, too.

           “How long had you been in the FBI?” Will asked.

           “S…Seven years.” A hand lifted unconsciously to hide the scar near his mouth.

           “How did you find Dr. Lecter?”

           “…We read about him in Quantico. Learned him before he was publicly named, found his ways and habits when he was nothing more than The Chesapeake Ripper. When he was discovered by Agent Crawford, I wanted to know him. I understood him better than anyone else I’d ever seen, and I wanted to know him. I wanted him to know me, too.”

           “The FBI has strict psychological screening protocols, Agent Dolarhyde,” Will whispered.

           Francis blinked lazily at him, nary a flicker of emotion at Will’s pointed statement. “I did my job very well, Mr. Graham.”

           “You did,” Will agreed. “You made me equivocally trust every word that came from your mouth without a second thought.”

           “You can trust me,” Francis assured him. “You can’t trust Matthew Brown.”

           “So if he tries to take me on morning walks again, I should find you?”

           “Yes,” Francis affirmed. “Or, if you’re inclined, you could just kill him.”

           Will took several steps back at that, and Francis let him. His flat gaze followed Will’s trail around a small sitting area, using the couch as a barrier between them. He neither advanced nor retreated, merely watched. Merely observed.

           “…I don’t want to kill him, Agent Dolarhyde,” Will said, tasting how it sounded in the air. Honest. Real.

           “You could kill anyone in this house, Mr. Graham, and Dr. Lecter wouldn’t mind.”

           “I don’t view his opinion on killing as a base for my own interactions.”

           “Just a thought,” Francis said, and he gave a small half-smile. It tugged on his scar, gave him an altogether crooked look. “In case you’re ever inclined.”

           He walked out of the room and left Will to his thoughts, dark and wicked as they were.

           Just to the side of him, Red Dragon arced over the woman clothed in sun, ready to devour her.

A wonderful thanks to my patrons: @hanfangrahamk @matildaparacosm @starlit-catastrophe @frostyleegraham @sylarana @Frostylicker Duhaunt6, and Superlurk <3

#Where the Wicked Walk #Hannigram #Hannibal x will graham #hannibal fanfic #hannibal au #the following au #hannibal soulmate au #someone help will graham #Francis dolarhyde

[archiveofprolbems]

Thinking About Art Thinking by Luis Camnitzer

Michael Sweerts, The Drawing Class, 1656-58. Oil on canvas.

One of the problems we face when talking about art education is that we take the term “work of art” for granted. “Work” refers to labor as much as to an object, while “art” means the discipline in which this is performed, although it is also used as a laudatory adjective. In any case, this divides people in two groups: those who make the objects, and those who appreciate them. Those who make them are subject to the criteria of meritocracy and the educational system aims to distill the few that may rise to the top. The art they produce is supposed to attract as great a quantity of appreciative viewers as possible in order to sustain the market by consumption of museum tickets or direct purchase of the art works. 

This process may be schematically described as a gallery system that assists with commercializing the “work” part, and museums that aim to extoll the “art” part. In the term “work of art,” the economic value is represented in the word “work.” Museums may hold the works, but not sell them. Meanwhile, the “art” part remains essentially free or non-tradable. People may take the art part with them, at least inasmuch as they can carry perception and cognition out the door. This setup makes museums concentrate on selling the act of getting a peek. Mostly financed by philanthropic handouts, they need to prove their importance by having as many peeking visitors as possible.

The conundrum that museums face is reflected in art schools as well. Is the mission of formal art schooling than to prepare feeders into the market or to form researchers in cognition? The answer might be “both.” Curricula don’t seem to reflect any clear position on the subject. Given today’s general erosion of the humanities and the passive openness to “what’s out there,” the cognitive part of the equation is left to the student’s discretion and initiative. Angela Vettese puts this in nice positive wording: “ … art school is a school of doubt: one teaches a subject that cannot be described since art is both endless challenge and an asymptote.” 1

The above description of shifting responsibilities to the student is admittedly crude and close to a caricature. It is, however, useful in that it helps to illuminate the relatively small space occupied by perception/cognition within the institutional picture. And in its smallness, these processes are only good enough to feed into a closed system and not into society at large.

If art schools operated under an open system focused on improving communal creativity and communication rather than on a specialized market they would not filter admissions with the intention of investing only in the futures of a few. The few are those students who, in fact, will need the least amount of education to make it. They are motivated and ready for autodidactics. In an open system, schools would instead put their energy towards educating those who need it the most; those who seem to be lacking a future. And museums would not be obsessed with the amount of warm bodies passing through their ever-expanding buildings. They would, instead, pay more attention to how many minds may have been warmed during circulation.

The hygrothermograph is one of the most common devices used to measure fluctuations in temperature and humidity caused by the presence of warm bodies in museum galleries.

The more important point left, however, is not how to make art schools and museums more relevant, but rather what to do with the perceptual/cognition relationship that makes the art part of the “work of art” term important. This is actually the area that most art schools neglect, at least since the time when Walter Gropius, while director of the Bauhaus, claimed that art is something that cannot be taught. It is the part that, helped along by myth, remains a private and intimate task for which nobody else should take responsibility. True art supposedly takes form in an area that is considered unreachable. It’s located between consciousness and the unconscious and is subject to magical interpretations. Students are therefore left to figure everything out on their own. And yet, this territory is not only present in everybody but should be developed and honed in everybody. It’s something that should not be reserved for the few we are willing to bet upon and we assume will reach success. Art, it’s true, cannot be taught under the anachronistic and inefficient definition of teaching as transference of information. It is this definition that Gropius probably had in mind, and what he didn’t realize at the time is that nothing can be taught. Rather, like everything else, art can be learned under stimulating conditions that facilitate autodidacticism – the crucial ingredient in any kind of learning – and that should force us to rethink education in general. “Learn how to learn” is still a good phrase, and it is an underlying notion that covers art as well.

For all this, I’m a socialist. I believe in a socialism of creation. I’m certainly not against a redistribution of income and consumption to achieve an economically fair society. I do believe that a good society can only function if equalization is achieved through a redistribution of power. And this can only work within an environment of shared and non-competitive creativity. I have radicalized my position regarding this topic over time. I now believe that traditional approaches to the teaching of art appreciation leads students towards refined consumption rather than advancing their critical thinking and creativity. And further, I believe that traditional art schools are essentially craft schools at their most primitive level, and finishing schools when they are at their best.

In examining the tenets of traditional art education, I will first address art appreciation, which has historically been promoted by looking at art – that is, at the packaging of the object (or presentation). Sometimes this is accompanied by an anecdotal history of the piece, and with luck, also an intellectual history. More progressive approaches have dealt with looking through art, and by doing so aim to promote associations in the viewer’s minds with the hope that the exercise improves their performance in other disciplines. Personally I would prefer looking around the work of art to find out what conditions generated its existence. This means trying to identify what question the piece is trying to answer, and to then answer the question myself by any means possible. Thus, a process of problematization places the lay viewers on the same level with the artist. It essentially permits them to embark on the same research, and establishes room for creative dialogue.

On the second topic, of what I termed the crafts and finishing school, I would say that training in crafts evades the institution’s responsibility of dealing with cognition. Coupled with the traditional selection of so-called “talented” students, this confirms my view that what operates here is both an institutional and pedagogical laziness. There is a widespread reluctance to recognize that education should be a social service. I don’t mean this here as something corresponding to Relational Art, but something that literally serves society. Teaching crafts is easy. Teaching how to socially behave and circulate in the art market is easy as well. Cognition, as we already know, is not easy. Social service is not easy either.

Wheel diagram for Bauhaus coursework structured by craft, as developed by Walter Gropius, Weimar, 1922.

First we have to decide on what constitutes “service.” When in the realms of art: Is it the refinement of taste? Is it the revealing of technical tricks and their relevance in history, and, more importantly, within the narrow margins of the history of art? Or is it where cognition has to be served and needs the development of complex approaches to knowledge – of connecting what is presumed to be non-connectable – so that nothing may die submerged in conventionality and stereotypes? These questions are not limited to the preparation of producers of art. They also extend to the institutions that present the production.

The accepted level of neglect during the course of studies is not all negative in its consequences. One can say that it leaves room for discovery and autodidactic processes; that when coupled with mediocre interactions it might be better that students be left alone. But then, autodidacticism and discovery processes are pretty much the same. We should recognize that these processes work better when nourished rather than when left to happen by default or by miraculous appearances. Forcing the teaching of content in absence of a theory that helps remove wasteful hesitations during autodidactic learning is a form of perverse censorship. Critique sessions try to address this issue, but how much are critiques examined? What do they address? How deeply do they reach into that area between consciousness and the unconscious? Critiques, unfortunately, are mostly part of the finishing school of the manners type.

Art, when taken as an autonomous and isolated discipline, is difficult to define and therefore open to obscurantist interpretations. Recently Saul Ostrow offered some nice thoughts on this. Unexpectedly enough, I found them on Facebook: 

As an undertaking [art] involves unstable events, procedures, and effects devoid of syntax. Subsequently, these are significantly affected by their ordering – how they come to be organized affects how they are to be interpreted. Art, therefore, is not an object, but some thing manifested at the intersection of ideation, and its realization. This gives rise to the paradox; what is to be represented defines the form of the thing to be made, which in turn limits what might be expressed. As such the relation of form and content is conflicted. 2 

I wish somebody told me at least that when I was a student. The words above are better than “doubt” and “asymptote” even if I also recognize their truth. Today I would put Ostrow’s statement in the context of “disorienting dilemmas,” those that serve Mezirow’s transformational pedagogy. His statement is also reminiscent of something that Ortega y Gasset wrote about language that later led to the notion of languaging. Alton Becker, referring to Humberto Maturana and Francisco Varela’s theories about autopoiesis, quotes Ortega: 

In effect language is never a “fact,” for the simple reason that it is never an “accomplished fact” but is always making and unmaking itself, or, to put it in other terms, it is a permanent creation and ceaseless destruction. 3 

Though it does not deal with deeper problems of ideation, Ostrow’s statement shows one of the reasons why there might be a reluctance to address these issues in a schooling situation. At the same time, he is also providing a handle on how to do so by setting the stage for thought without interference. Intersections and conflict seem to be too intangible to quantify and systematize. They escape competency assessment grids needed academically to determine who is “better.” Art, if it should remain effective, cannot be fitted into this form of rationalization, the one that, as defined by Marcuse, furthers dominance. Yet, it’s not pedagogically difficult to create situations in which ideation is fostered, conflict can be understood, and the ungraspable becomes apparent – and, more importantly, where their effects can be administered for communication.

In fact, it’s in this zone where real cognition takes place and may become dialogical. Whenever we ignore the ensuing challenge, we reaffirm the dominating idea that art-making is reserved for a chosen few, that art is based on therapeutic self-searching, that anything an artist does is art, that whoever doesn’t understand an art product is a Philistine, and that art is an industry by and for a minute fraction of the world’s population. In fact, this is the exact opposite of a socialism of creation. We are in fact confirming the distribution of power instead of seeking an egalitarian redistribution. 

All this makes me prefer to view art not as a means of production but as a form of thinking – art thinking, in fact. It makes me see that a textbook is a monologue that transfers information, and that fiction is dialogical because it demands empathy. It’s a situation similar to “languaging,” inasmuch as it makes art – like language – a particular case: something akin to a slice to be analyzed in computerized tomography. Art thinking is much more than art: it is a meta-discipline that is there to help expand the limits of other forms of thinking. Though it’s something as autonomous as logic might be, and though it can be studied as an enclosed entity, its importance lies in what it does to the rest of the acquisition of knowledge. With a little pomposity, I like to say that science is a mere subcategory of art. Science is generally bound by logic, sequencing, and experimentation with repeatable and provable results. Mostly it presumes that there is something knowable out there that can be instrumentalized and represented. It doesn’t matter if it is in what in science is called Mode 1, being propositional, or Mode 2, being interventionist. Art is all of that, plus the opposite. It stays in both modes simultaneously. It creates itself while it allows the play with taxonomies, the making of illegal and subversive connections, the creation of alternative systems of order, the defiance of known systems, and the critical thinking and feeling of everything. More than any other means of speculation it allows us to travel back and forth seamlessly from our subjective reality to consensus and possible but unreachable wholeness. It allows a mix of the megalomaniacal delirium of unbound imagination with the humbleness of individual irrelevance. In a different context, Deleuze and Guattari define the humbleness with: “When something occurs, the self that awaited it is already dead, or the one that would await it has not yet arrived.” 4art thinking informed everything we learn and everything we do, in all the educational settings we have to stumble through during our lives.

Wheel diagrams for coursework at Ontario College of Art Toronto, as developed Roy Ascott, Ontario, 1970.

What we have now in institutionalized art education is a small group of artisans intended to serve a bigger group of onlookers. If we were to translate the art situation to literacy, it’s like training a small group of calligraphers in the hope that they will have some ideas that merit a Nobel Prize in literature. It’s then also expected that the rest of society will understand what they are doing. When dealing with literacy directly, however, we expect, that everybody (not just the calligraphers) will know how to read and write. Even if they don’t know how to correctly spell Nobel. 

What is at heart here is really how we process information. We are surrounded by a technology based on algorithms, conceptualization, pattern recognition, “fuzzy thinking,” and the absorption of errors as an integral part of systems. Technology surpassed quantity to move within the realms of quality. Meanwhile, our pedagogical systems are still operating within the realist aesthetics of the nineteenth century based on arithmetic numeracy and rational accumulations. The infinite dots that compose visual reality were then transferred one by one to a canvas. Letters today add up to words and words to sentences. In conventional everyday life, we still try to reach infinity by counting 1, 2, 3, and onward, and our respect for virtuosity is based either on endless internalized labor and mastery – like that utilized in touch-typing – or upon infinite masochist endurance. Quantity here defines quality, but we remain standing on a quantitative platform. 

Conventional wisdom expects that the more information we can process within this approach, and the more we know, the wiser we will be. We train to acquire ability and erudition to then aim to out-perform in an imaginary Olympics. In art, the conventional phrase used to express an inability to make art is still skill-based and is expressed with the phrase “I can’t even draw a straight line.” Rulers are dismissed as complex and inaccessible contraptions. All this signals either the profound failure of general pedagogy, or its success in training for an interpretation of accountability that is alien to mature, creative individuals. In other words, it is anti-social and, in terms of creation, anti-socialist. 

Some years ago on Yahoo Answers somebody named Paula did actually ask for help because she couldn’t draw a straight line. She believed that drawing is strictly a skill to render and nothing more than that. After her public complaint about her disability, Paula then tried to redeem herself and added: “I can be creative because I do write and I can crochet” and later also: “The best thing I ever drew was a raccoon.” 

Apparently there were many answers. Xandra#15’s advice, the one voted “best” by other users, appeared on the top of the web page. Xandra#15 tried to help while appearing reassuring by sharing Paula’s handicap. She wrote: “I can't draw a straight line either. But I've gotten the art award at my high school for two years in a row, and the thing I'm best at is drawing realistic things.” In reading this we already learn that straight lines are not real things. Xandra continued and recommended: “You just have to learn how to draw what's in front of you before you can draw what is in your head.” In a narrow and well-intended way, Xandra thought she was describing academic drawing. In fact, however, she was referring to the processing of information. And here her limitation was in separating inside-the-head information from outside-the-head information, and believing that this is all the information there is. She assumed that these two types of information are totally different and therefore avoided not only serious philosophical issues, but also the possibility of any meaningful communication. More then referring to drawing or to any artistic ability beyond drawing, one big difficulty she encountered was in taking things out of her head. She believes that trainable skills are more important than cognition.

School of Visual Arts advertises creativity next to the salt, pepper, and ketchup in its 2009 marketing campaign.

Both Paula and Xandra#15 are examples of people encountering obstacles that keep them away from art. Paula is trying to enter the art world not knowing that the whole problem is not how to restate what is visible, but how to imagine and grasp what is invisible, which makes the world of information much more complex. Xandra#15, on the other hand, does not realize that for the moment she is only advocating a form of trivial and empty calligraphy alien to any pursuit of knowledge. Yes, in her case it is about processing information but, ironically, she leaves the information part out of it. By doing this, any possibility of critical thinking or of establishing connections is also eliminated. Paula and Xandra#15, whoever they may be in real life, are typical examples of the students we encounter in high school. Raccoons and crochet will not get them into art schools; neither will the ability to draw straight lines. 

These are, however, the people who need us the most and that we should reach wherever they are. It’s not really because without us they won’t be able to go in or out of art school, or will be able to produce art. It goes deeper. No matter how well some day they might render faithfully what they see, the danger is that their minds may not be able to differentiate between prepackaged, indoctrinating conventions and their own potentially challenging thoughts. They may not even realize that challenging thoughts exist. Not only will they never art-think, but they also may end up voting Republican.

1 Angela Vettese, “Introduction” in “Art as a Way of Thinking,” in Art as a Thinking Process: Visual Forms of Knowledge Production, Mara Ambrozic & Angela Vettese, eds., (Berlin: Sternberg Press, 2013), 13. 2 Saul Ostrow, Facebook post, January 26, 2015, →. 3 José Ortega y Gasset, Man and People (New York: W.W. Norton and Co., 1963), 242, cited by A. L. Becker in “A Short Essay on Languaging,” in Research and Reflexivity, ed. Frederick Steier, (New York: Sage Publications, 1992), 228. 4 Gilles Deleuze, Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus (London: Continuum, 2004), 219.

e-flux journal #65 SUPERCO M MUNITY — may–august 2015 Luis Camnitzer Thinking About Art Thinking

PDF: http://supercommunity-pdf.e-flux.com/pdf/supercommunity/article_1148.pdf

Source: http://supercommunity.e-flux.com/texts/thinking-about-art-thinking/