#we need to embrace our dialects and accents

[averwonders]

It's about time people need to stop thinking of dialects and accents (especially minority and rural ones) as a judging factor or something to mock. People shouldn't have to feel ashamed, humiliated, insecure or fear of being judged for having a hint of their native dialect/accent while speaking the standard version of a language or even speaking in them completely at a new place.

#I'm tired of the mistreatment dialects and accents get #especially in the cities #like just cause a person is speaking in an accent they become backwards or illiterate? #how stupid is that #we need to embrace our dialects and accents #we need to give them the respect they deserve #this is me crying over the fact that i never learnt to speak my native dialect cause i grew up in different cities and got mixed vocab #although i can understand it cause everyone else in my family speaks it #awadhi my beloved #aver does shit post #dialects #accents #linguistics #desiblr #why are asian societies so judging ㅠㅠ #it's so sad to see dialects and accents being in the list of things that make people feel insecure #someone's accent isn't something to joke about or mock #it isn't cool to find accents entertaining to laugh at #having accents doesn't make someone an alien for you to judge

[wennybabby]

Language Discrimination Detachment: Embracing Diversity in Communication

 

How is language important in communication? And why is there still language discrimination?

 

Apparently, language is a powerful tool that could connect people, cultures, and ideas. In spite of that, language discrimination remains a current issue in today's society. In this blog, we will explore the impact of language discrimination and discuss how we can work together to promote diversity and inclusivity in communication.

 

How could we really define language discrimination?

 

And most importantly, what are the impacts of language discrimination on the humanities? 

 

So let's begin on understanding language discrimination! 

 

In understanding language discrimination, we will develop a deep sense of realistic scenarios. Since language discrimination can take many forms, from overt acts of prejudice to subtle micro-aggressions, there are a lot of reasons why some people may face discrimination; it could be based on their accent, fluency, or the language they speak at home. Such discrimination can lead to feelings of exclusion, shame, and alienation that could impact an individual's self-esteem, sense of identity, and self-worth.

 

Can you tell me what the impact of language discrimination on humanities is?

 

Well, language discrimination can have far-reaching consequences, affecting individuals in various aspects of their lives. Here are some scenarios that show the impact of language discrimination on individuals:

 

In the workplace, individuals can experience language discrimination. For example, an employee who is fluent in English but has a strong accent might be passed over for a promotion because their superiors believe their accent is not "professional" enough, even if their language skills do not affect their ability to perform their job. This could result in a sense of identity, such as individuals could question their ability and skills in work.

 

Language discrimination can also be experienced in school. In an instant,students whose first language isn't the language of instruction might be labelled as "slow" or "difficult" because they need more time to process information or express their thoughts. This can lead to lower grades, fewer opportunities, and lower self-esteem.

 

In society, individuals can also experience language discrimination. For example, in social settings, individuals might be excluded from conversations or activities because they speak a different language or dialect. Individuals might feel isolation since no one wants to engage in conversation with them.

 

We're already done with understanding language and its impact on the humanities.

Let's move forward on promoting diversity and inclusivity in communication.

To fully break down this language discrimination, we must start by promoting how to embrace diversity and inclusivity in communication. In embracing linguistic diversity, we must enrich our communities and open doors to new perspectives and experiences. Here are some ways we can promote diversity and inclusivity in communication:

 

•Celebrating linguistic diversity to acknowledge and appreciate the richness of different languages and dialects in our communities.

•Listening actively, wherein individuals take the time to listen and understand others, regardless of their language abilities or accents.

•Challenge stereotypes, it is to speak out against harmful stereotypes and misconceptions about certain languages or accents.

•Providing support to individuals such as offering resources and support to individuals facing language discrimination, whether in schools, workplaces, or social settings.

•Educate and raise awareness to society thru learning about the impact of language discrimination and share this knowledge with others to foster a more inclusive environment.

 

To wrap up these all!

It implied that language discrimination is a complex issue that requires collective effort to address. By promoting diversity and inclusivity in communication, we can create a more welcoming and equitable society for all. Let's continue to celebrate the beauty of linguistic diversity and strive to build bridges of understanding and connection through language. Together, we can break down barriers and embrace the power of communication to unite us as a global community.

I hope that no one will ever experience discrimination, let's support each other.

PS. ALL CREDITS TO THE RIGHTFUL OWNER OF THIS PHOTOS. THIS IS USED FOR ACADEMIC PURPOSES ONLY.

#breakdown language discrimination

[acadestudio10]

Audio Dubbing for Educational Content: Enhancing Learning Globally

Introduction

In today’s world, education knows no borders. Learning is not restricted to a classroom or a specific language. Instead, it has become a dynamic force that travels beyond geographical boundaries. The teachings are usually passed on in a specific language when it comes to educational content. This creates a hurdle for learners from other parts of the world curious to access educational content from another country. This is where audio dubbing comes to the rescue. 

With the help of dubbing, educational content is translated to cater to a new set of audience that speaks another language. This article will list several features and benefits that audio dubbing has to offer to the enthusiastic world of education. 

Key Features and Benefits of Audio Dubbing for Educational Content

The following pointers are a mix of features and benefits that audio dubbing services offer the educational world. 

The Language Puzzle

Think about a young student in a remote village in Laos, eager to learn about astronomy. The problem? The educational content is in English, a foreign language to this kid. This is where audio dubbing provides the solution. By transforming the English content into the soothing tones of the Lao language, the educational universe suddenly becomes accessible.

Being Multilingual

In our world, over 7,000 languages are spoken. However, the providers of educational content are limited. A professor can usually speak one or two languages. Audio dubbing turns educational content into a linguistic chameleon, adapting to the unique needs of each region and audience. By being multilingual, this is how audio dubbing services allow inclusivity among learners. 

Cultural Connection

More than words, audio dubbing is about understanding the target audience’s culture. This understanding is more necessary in the case of educational content, where local customs and traditions need to be respected. After all, learning is more than just acquiring knowledge; it is about embracing diversity.

Enhanced Engagement

Learning should be like a catchy tune that gets stuck in your head. Audio dubbing makes it possible. When students hear lessons in their mother tongue, they are more likely to groove along with the content. In such situations, the engagement of the students increases, and comprehension improves. 

More Accessibility

We have already discussed how audio dubbing services provide accessibility to students who speak a foreign language. Besides language, even those students with visual impairments can benefit from audio dubbing. Dubbing can transform text-heavy content into your chosen spoken language, making education more accessible for those who can only listen but not see.  

New Learning Style

Every student is unique. Some are visual learners, while others prefer learning through learning. Audio dubbing caters to all by offering an alternative learning path. It allows students to choose their learning adventure, whether it's reading, listening, or both!

Remote Learning Revolution

In the era of virtual classrooms and remote learning, audio dubbing provides a huge advantage to education. It ensures that students worldwide receive a consistent education, no matter where they are. It's like having a personal tutor whispering knowledge in your ear, even if you're miles away from school.

How has Dubbing Improved Learning? 

Let us dive into some real-world examples of how audio dubbing is making waves in the sea of global education.

Khan Academy’s Multilingual Approach

One of the most popular online educational platforms, Khan Academy has made its content globally accessible with the help of audio dubbing services. Their educational content has been dubbed in various languages such as Spanish, Arabic, French, etc. 

BBC Learning English

The BBC offers “BBC Learning English”, a program that provides audio dubbing for English lessons. Using many accents and dialects, they teach people English through the power of audio dubbing. Founded in 1943, this is a very old example of how audio dubbing has positively impacted learning.   

TED Talks Talks in Various Languages 

TED Talks usually come in the first place when it comes to learning. These talks allow successful people to share their stories with the world. Success stories should never be restricted to a certain audience. This is why TED has been using audio dubbing services to make its content accessible to a larger audience. 

Duolingo’s Language Courses

Famous language learning app Duolingo uses audio dubbing for its courses. Learners listen to native speakers pronouncing words and phrases, which helps them to develop better pronunciation skills. Founded in 2011, Duolingo is a prime example of how dubbing has contributed to the educational sector. 

Conclusion: A Dubbed Future

In a world where knowledge knows no bounds, audio dubbing is the key to global education. Dubbing is the bridge between languages, the key to inclusivity, and the path to a more connected world. It has made education more accessible to people from other parts of the world in their preferred language. Audio dubbing has been largely used in the past many years, and the trend is expected to continue in the future as well.

#audiodubbing #dubbing #education

[animationnut]

Of Broken Spirits and Renewed Hope

Spoilers for True Colors.

Rating: K+ Summary: Three human girls arrived in Amphibia. Only one made it back home. Note: If Google has any degree of accuracy, นางฟ้า is Thai for angel.

“Home.”

Anne felt her vocal cords vibrate in her throat, felt her tongue curve around the syllable of the word, felt her lips as they moved to accommodate her vocal cords and her tongue. But she was speaking from instinct, not intent, as her brain swam in a haze of mixed colours—green, pink and blue, and the orange glow of a blazing sword—

Anne could feel herself wavering on the edge, practically see the black abyss threatening to swallow her whole, but three harsh coughs interrupted her dark spiral.

“What’s that smell?” rasped Polly, covering her nose as she wheezed. Her gags racked her small form and Hop Pop quickly whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, using it to cover Polly’s face.

The buzzing in Anne’s ears stopped and the world exploded with sound and sensation.

Dozens of horns blared from commuters who were impatient and annoyed with traffic that should have been as familiar to them as the back of their hands. Heat seared Anne’s exposed skin as the metal of the vehicle they were lying on burned from the exposure to the Californian sun. Exhaust rose in black clouds, sour and noxious, burning Anne’s nose and making her eyes water.

There was the click of the car door opening and Anne snapped her head around. The portly man gazed blankly at her as his mind struggled to comprehend what he was witnessing. With a boggled expression, he looked between the girl wearing an armoured chest plate and the three large, anthropomorphic frogs sitting next to her.

“Hi,” chirped Anne, managing to sound upbeat and cheerful. “Sorry, dude. We’ll just be on our way.”

“Where did you come from?” he asked. Anne couldn’t identify his dialect, but his accent coupled with the maple leaf-shaped air freshener and his outfit screamed ‘tourist’. “And what the heck are those?”

Sprig opened his mouth, no doubt to introduce himself, but Anne seized the Plantars in a one-arm hold, squeezing just tightly enough for speech to be difficult. “Sorry,” she repeated, using her free hand to snag the strap of her backpack.

She slid down the hood and if it weren’t for months of walking over sticks, stones and hard, uneven ground, the hot asphalt seeping through her worn-out sock might have crumpled her. But she ignored the pain as she swung her bag over her shoulder. The weight of Frobo’s deactivated head nearly sent her sprawling, but she regained her balance and took off running.

She weaved her way through the bumper-to-bumper traffic, climbing over vans and sports cars and SUVs, ignoring the shouts and curses aimed her way by the disgruntled owners. She reached the metal barrier that separated the embankment from the freeway and she hoisted herself over it.

They tumbled down the grassy slope and Anne sprinted through the trees. The sounds of human civilization eventually quieted and Anne halted her sprint when she registered Sprig smacking at her arm.

She quickly let them go and they dropped to the ground. Anne’s knees buckled as the adrenaline drained right out of her. Her mind was a mess of thoughts and her lungs felt like they were going to collapse.

The flaming blade piercing through Marcy’s chest. The stunned expression in Marcy’s eyes, the way all colour faded from her face. The tears that spilled down her cheeks, and the final words that tumbled from her mouth as her eyes rolled back into her head.

“I’m sorry. For everything.”

Anne’s agonized scream was promptly choked by the vomit that filled her mouth.

Hop Pop was by her side in an instant, hands gripping her shoulders as she hunched over and hacked into the grass. Her throat burned and her limbs trembled, the sight of Marcy falling lifeless and the sound of Sasha’s horrified howl haunting her.

The sobs that pealed out of her came from somewhere deep inside the girl. They were filled with pure loss and devastation and it echoed amongst the towering trees. Tears poured down Anne’s face, snot leaked from her nose as she cried and her fists pounded into the grass as emotion overcame her.

“Marcy!” she wailed. “Marcy, nooooo! Maaaaarcyyyy!”

Hop Pop wound his arms securely around her neck and pulled her close. Sprig and Polly clung to her, and all of his grandchildren were in a state of grief, tears glimmering on their skin and their small bodies shaking.

Hop Pop swallowed back his own sadness. As traumatizing as it had been to see a child slain in front of his eyes, he had to be strong for his family. He stroked Anne’s hair, patted Sprig and Polly’s heads, and gave comfort not with words but his presence.

Anne cried herself hoarse. When she found she had run out of tears to shed, she weakly sat up and wiped at her face. “It’s not fair,” she said croakily. “Hop Pop, it’s not fair.”

“I know, kiddo. I’m so sorry.” Hop Pop rubbed his thumb gently over Anne’s knuckles.

“She sacrificed herself to save us,” said Sprig, squeezing his eyes shut against the swell of despair. “Her and Sasha.”

Anne gave a distraught moan, her head bowing slightly as the weight of two worlds crushed against her shoulders.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” ordered Hop Pop, and Anne reluctantly lifted her chin. “We don’t know what happened to Sasha. She’s a tough one. I’m sure she’s fine.”

“We don’t know that!” shouted Anne, her voice cracking. “Marcy should have been fine, but she isn’t! She’s dead, and Sasha might be too! This isn’t how it was supposed to go! We were supposed to come home together!”

She began to dry heave, stress and panic and grief clenching tight around her heart and making her feel sick. Hop Pop grabbed her face with both hands and stared steadily into her wet eyes. “Breathe with me. In and out.”

Anne’s first attempts resulted in strangled gasps, but eventually she gained control of her breathing. “I don’t know what to do,” she whimpered.

“We worry about that later,” said Hop Pop firmly.

“But what about Andrias? And if Sasha is still alive—”

“Anne, right now, none of us are in a state to do much of anything,” said Hop Pop calmly. “To be honest, I don’t know if we can do anything.”

Anne blinked at him before realization hit. “The music box is still in Amphibia.”

Polly was crestfallen. “Does that mean we’ll never be able to go home?”

“What about Bessie and MicroAngelo?” asked Sprig desperately. “And Ivy! I didn’t get to say goodbye to Ivy!”

“Hush,” said Hop Pop soothingly, pulling Sprig and Polly into his arms. “The townspeople will take care of our snails, and I’m sure Ivy will understand, Sprig. As for going back home, I don’t know.” He let out a heavy sigh, feeling every year of his existence weigh down his bones. “Maybe we can figure something out. But if we can’t, we have each other. Home is where we are, even if we aren’t in Wartwood.”

He swept his eyes over his grandchildren, biological and adopted, and saw the words provided little peace in the moment of intense sorrow. But he knew they would come to appreciate how fortuitous it was that they returned to Anne’s world as a family, even when the losses they suffered hung darkly over their thoughts.

Anne was staring numbly at the ground and Hop Pop tugged lightly at her elbow. She fell easily into his embrace, as if she were made of nothing but feathers, and her forehead rested against the top of his head. For a moment they just stayed there, Anne’s body radiating warmth and causing Polly and Sprig to nestle closer to her, seeking her familiar heat.

Polly was the first one to hear the musical twinkling. She blinked over at Anne’s backpack. “Anne, your bag is singing.”

Anne slowly turned to follow Polly’s gaze, and it took her several seconds to register the noise. Suddenly it was as if a live wire had touched her and jolted to action, shrieking, “My phone!”

The Plantars were jostled as she dove for her bag. She ripped Frobo’s head out and Polly said furiously, “Hey! Don’t treat him like he’s junk!”

But Anne barely heard her. She plunged her hand into her bag, the bristles of her brush and points of her bobby pins sticking her flesh. Her fingers wrapped around her phone and she yanked it out.

Her text alert, which she hadn’t heard in months, was jarring to her ears. The notification center on her phone was being flooded by dozens and dozens of texts, missed calls and voicemail alerts. They poured in so fast Anne was only able to glimpse the names attached before they were replaced by another batch of notifications.

The majority of the texts were from Sasha, Marcy and Anne’s parents. There were a couple from the local police station, which caused Anne’s stomach to grow cold with fear. She hadn’t even considered the consequences of literally disappearing off the face of the Earth.

And then her phone froze, unable to keep up with the backlog of messages coming in all at once. Frustrated, Anne stabbed at her screen with her finger, but it was no use.

Her eyes fell upon the last text to make it to her notification center. It was from her mother.

Oh, นางฟ้า, your father and I miss you so much. We pray for a sign that you and the girls are alive, and that you will return home soon.

“Oh, Mommy,” whispered Anne, her fingers digging into the rubber material of her phone case.

Hop Pop approached and set a hand against her back. “Let’s go see your parents,” he said softly.

“But I don’t even know what to say to them,” she said helplessly. “I don’t know if they’ll understand. It’s…the things I’ve been through, the things we’ve been through, they don’t happen here. Not ever.”

“Well, we’re here to help you explain things,” said Sprig earnestly.

“Yeah, I’m…I think I might need some time to prepare them for you three,” muttered Anne. “They are so gonna freak out.” She glanced back at her frozen screen, and her heart plummeted as she read the most recent message from Marcy’s father. “Oh, how do I tell them?” she said in despair. “How do I tell Sasha’s parents that I had to leave her behind? How do I tell Marcy’s parents that their daughter is…is…”

Her voice wobbled and her eyes started to sting once more. Anne wanted to cry, but she didn’t have the energy nor the water for proper tears. Hop Pop gently set her phone back in her bag, which Anne allowed without protest. He laced his fingers with hers and said, “We’ll tell them the truth, Anne. That’s all we can do. We’ll tell ‘em how brave their daughters are.”

Anne gave a sniff. She tugged her hand free from Hop Pop’s grasp so she could rub at her eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, for sure.”

She took a few minutes to gather herself, to try and clumsily sort through the heavy emotions swirling in her chest. She wanted to mourn, but there wasn’t time. She had to see her parents, had to tell them what happened.

“So, how long have you been gone?” asked Polly in a small voice, embarrassed by her earlier outburst. “Does time work the same way here?”

“Um…I don’t know.” Anne gestured to her pink backpack, where her phone was once again nestled safely inside. “It froze on me, so I can’t check the calendar or anything. And I didn’t get to see the dates on the first few rounds of texts.” She looked over to see the pollywog nuzzling Frobo’s cheek. “I’m sorry, Polly. I shouldn’t have thrown him around like that.”

“S’okay,” mumbled Polly. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m just really sad and upset right now.”

“Me too.” Anne leaned over and brought Polly into her arms, pressing a gentle kiss against her head. “I’m sorry, Polly. Maybe we can fix him.”

“Yeah,” piped up Sprig. “He just needs a new body, right? When we get home, we can go back to that weird machine place and get him a fresh one.”

Polly perked up at that. “Yeah…yeah!” she said. “If we keep his head safe, we can rebuild him!”

There was hope in her eyes. It glimmered and shone and Anne found herself hypnotized by it.

Something flickered in her heart.

“Until then, we’ll do what we can here.”

Hop Pop, Polly and Sprig looked at her in surprise. The teen’s chin was set, her mouth settled in a determined line. “Anne?” ventured her best friend. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not just going to sit here and wait,” said Anne. Her own hope ignited, and the spark soon blazed throughout her whole being. “I’m not gonna just do nothing.” She set Polly down and stood, her fists clenched by her sides. “You’re right, Hop Pop. Sasha’s fine. Marcy…Marcy made the mistake of turning her back to Andrias, but that wasn’t her fault. Sasha won’t do that. She’ll find a way to take the box from that monster and open the portal again.

“But until she figures that out, I gotta do my part. That music box came to Earth somehow. The thrift store where Marcy found it, they had a wardrobe with the Amphibia symbol engraved into the wood. And Marcy knew what the box could do, which meant she found some information about it somewhere.”

She thought about Wartwood, her home away from home. She thought about Wally, Mrs. Croaker, Archie, Bessie, MicroAngelo, Toadstool, Toadie, Loggle, Ivy, Sylvia, Felicia, Stumpy, Maddie and the rest of her friends from the humble country town. She thought about Sasha, who despite her need for control and her habit of lying to get what she wanted, came through for her friends in the end.

She thought about Marcy.

She had tricked them into leaving their parents, their lives, and trapping them in a world so beyond imagination that Anne never in a million years would have dreamed it up. She had done it because she was so scared to lose the friends she loved most, so desperate to stay with Sasha and Anne forever.

She had been inconsiderate. She had been selfish.

So had Anne. So had Sasha. Marcy didn’t deserve to die for her mistakes—none of them did. They were just three teen girls who sometimes did stupid, stupid things.

But they cared about each other—Anne believed that. Even if it was misguided, even if it was manipulative, she knew Sasha and Marcy cared about her—they sometimes just went about it in all the wrong ways.

And even though Marcy was the reason they were in this mess in the first place, and even though Sasha’s trickery was the reason Anne didn’t initially believe her about Andrias, she cared about them, too.

Right now, it didn’t matter if she wasn’t sure if she still wanted to be friends with Sasha after all she had done. It didn’t matter that she still stung over Marcy’s own manipulative scheme to take her friends away from everything they ever knew.

However complicated her emotions currently were, it didn’t mean she couldn’t still care about the two girls she’d shared her most precious memories with.

She was going to find a way to get back to Amphibia. She was going to save her friends. She was going to bring her frog family back home. She was going to save Amphibia and countless other worlds from Andrias’ tyranny.

She wouldn’t let anyone else she loved die by his hands.

“We’re not helpless!” she said fiercely. “We won’t let him make us helpless! We’re gonna stop him!”

Her pupils and irises illuminated a bright blue.

“They did it again!” exclaimed Polly.

Anne blinked and the colour of her eyes returned to normal. “What?”

“Your eyes! They did the funny light-up thing! Are you gonna turn blue again?”

Anne flexed her fingers, but she didn’t feel numb or tingly, like she had when Andrias had thrown Sprig out the window. “No, I don’t think so.” She glanced down at her hands, brow furrowed. “To be honest, I have no idea how that happened. I don’t even really remember it? I mean, I know what I did, but it felt like I wasn’t in my body while I was doing it.”

Sprig looked between Polly and Anne in confusion. “I clearly missed something when I was falling to my death.”

“Oh, it was so cool, Sprig! Anne went all glowy, and she was using blue magic, and she was flying! She nearly beat the snot out of Andrias!” said Polly excitedly.

The words reverberated through Anne’s mind; She nearly beat the snot out of Andrias.

She could beat him. She was still connected to her stone, and that fact seemed to cause Andrias great unease.

“Do you think you’d be able to use those powers again, Anne?” asked Hop Pop, following her same train of thought.

“I’ll learn,” said Anne firmly. “I’ll figure it out. Once I get control of my powers, Andrias won’t stand a chance.”

There was no question of whether or not she’d be able to gain control of her newfound abilities—she had to. It was her best bet to defeat Amphibia’s king.

Sprig tilted his head to the side. “Do you know what activated them in the first place?”

Anne regarded him, intense warmth and adoration bubbling in her stomach, and she gave a soft smile. “You. When he threw you out the window, I thought you were dead, and I was so angry.”

At a momentary loss for words, Sprig’s eyes filled with touched tears and he jumped into her arms. “Oh, Anne.”

“I love you,” said Anne passionately. She lowered to her knees and brought Hop Pop and Polly into her steel embrace. “I love all of you. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you.”

“We love you too,” said Hop Pop tenderly, lightly running his fingers through her curly hair. “That’s what we’ve got over Andrias—love for one another. Pardon the sappiness of it, but that’s what we’ll use to beat him.”

“It’s not sappy at all,” said Anne. “It’s the truth.” She gave them one more tight squeeze before setting them back down. She grabbed her backpack, swinging it over her shoulders, and she picked up Frobo’s head. “Come on. I’ve kept Mom and Dad waiting long enough. I can’t wait for you guys to meet each other.”

They headed back to the freeway, where Anne hoped one of the stuck commuters would be willing to lend her their cell phone so she could call her parents to pick them up. As they made their way up the littered slope, Anne closed her eyes briefly.

Hang on, Wartwood. I’m coming back for you. Do what you can until I get there, Sasha. I know you can do it—you never give up.

A lump swelled in her throat, and she swallowed back a sob.

We won’t let him win, Marcy. I promise we won’t. You saved us, and I’m so sorry I couldn’t return the favour.

A breeze kicked up, ruffling her thick, curly hair, and in the caress of the wind she swore she could hear a carefree giggle and a sweet summons of Anna-Banana. She let out a slow breath, and a lone tear spilled from the corner of her eye and trailed down her cheek.

I forgive you, Mar-Mar. I forgive you.

#amphibia #amphibia spoilers #true colors #amphibia fanfic #true colors fanfic #anne boonchuy #sprig plantar #hop pop plantar #polly plantar #grief #mourning #angst #hurt/comfort #byanimationnut #tw death #death

[captainscanadian]

Star Crossed | Chris Beck x Reader (Fly Away)

My Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Summary: Just when you had thought that you were ready to move on, you were reminded that your heart would always belong to a certain flight surgeon. 

Word Count: 2100+

Pairing: OMC Tudor Hartland x Reader, Chris Beck x Reader (not much of him in this part, but it’s still relevant to the series...) 

Warnings: Heartbreak, Angst (just a little). 

A/N: The concept was inspired by @baezen​‘s It’s Time (seriously, go read it!). Dedicated to my darlings @nasabeck​ and @dramadreamer14​! This one shot came to be when I found myself thirsting over another man (who shall remain nameless) and felt as though I was cheating on Seb (who will always have a special place in my heart). I DON’T DO TAGLISTS! 

Your hands were clammy as you clutched tightly onto the steering wheel, feeling the brisk New England breeze that slipped through the rolled down windows of your car, trying but failing at calming your nerves. 

A part of you wanted to turn the car around and drive back to your apartment, but you knew that you would be in for a rather stern lecture from Amy. After all, she had spent the last two hours helping you get ready for this date when she could have been doing something much more worthwhile of her time. 

Besides, she would certainly give you a piece of her mind for having wasted her time like that, along with blatantly expressing how much you had disappointed her by not making it to your date on purpose. Even she had lost faith that a certain someone would ever return from his travels in space, and she hated to see you wallowing in your own loneliness. She believed that you deserved a second chance at love, even if it meant that it wouldn’t be with her brother. 

You owed it to her for going through with it. 

Not to mention having to face your own conscience for having texted this man for a few weeks before agreeing to meet him, only to stand him up at the very last minute. You could never forgive yourself for leading him on and not even having the common decency to go on one date. 

What the hell were you supposed to do anyways? Your mind was telling you that you were ready to move on, but your heart was telling you to keep waiting for the man whom you knew was never coming back. He was too far gone, a few million miles to be exact. 

Christopher Beck was the star crossed love of your life, the one that got away; you were never meant to be. He was definitely not the right one for you, and you knew that by now. You both wanted different things in life; you wanted to be confined in a lab and fight against deadly diseases, while he wanted to fly away. 

Sometimes things end up not working out for a reason, and you had to accept that. Or so, you had convinced yourself as you arrived at the Yale Center for British Art. 

You had met Dr. Tudor Hartland at a medical conference in Boston a few months ago. While you had taken the stage to present your research, he had watched you from the front row and approached you for what was meant to be a purely academic discussion - but it had turned out to be anything but. 

The conversation had started with you butchering one of his recent articles on neuroimmunology, but it had somehow ended with him recommending what kind of artisan chilli jam from Britain could go well with the vegan cashew cheese that they were serving at the conference. While your fellow medical scientists from Yale had claimed that there were sparks flying all around the two of you during that wine and cheese event, you had begged to differ. There was no such thing, right?

Okay, maybe that was a lie. You had found his British dialect and his keen intellect rather attractive. By the time the conference had come to an end, you had exchanged numbers and promised to keep in touch - a promise that had been kept since then. 

You had agreed to meet when he would be moving to New Haven in the near future - which happened to be last week. As his sixteen year old sister, apparently a prodigy of some sort, had been pursuing a Master’s Degree at Yale’s Graduate School of Art, he had ditched his position as Head of Neurosurgery at Massachusetts General Hospital to purchase a private practice in New Haven so that he could keep an eye on her. 

If the intelligence or the accent wasn’t as attractive as it was, the protective older brother part was definitely a selling point. 

“I almost thought you would stand me up.” Tudor remarked as he walked over to greet you with a soft kiss on your cheek, his hand resting at the small of your back before he pulled you into an embrace. “But I’m glad you made it, love.”

You felt your cheeks heat up at the way he spoke, his deep voice soothing your nerves and letting you accept his arm and enter the venue. “I could have let you chase me around for another month or two, but I couldn’t resist saying no to a night at the gallery.” 

“I’m sure Eleanor really appreciates that you could come.” He admitted, referring to his younger sister who was having her work featured in tonight’s exhibit. 

You knew that his sister had most of his attention for the night, but you could not complain about it at all. You adored the kind of relationship that he had with her, which certainly made you find him much more attractive. You liked a man who had strong ties with his family.

Once the exhibition had ended, Eleanor had requested that her brother take her home for the night. The rest of the artists who had been featured that night were going out for drinks to celebrate, but since she was only sixteen years old, she couldn’t really join them. Perhaps that was the downside of being a graduate student at her age, you had no idea how you would have coped if you had been in her place when you were sixteen. 

After a whole night of chatting about what art really meant for the two of you - which came as an interesting debate as you were both medical scientists by profession, Tudor had walked you back to your car to bid you farewell for the night. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to join Eleanor and I for our little movie night?” He asked you for the umpteenth time that night. “My place is not far from here and I hate to cut our date short like this.” 

You chuckled softly and shook your head. “No, it’s fine. I had a wonderful time tonight.” You admitted, leaning against your car as you crossed your arms against your chest. “Tudor, I really don’t mind. Your sister needs you for tonight, and you are going to be in town for a while, right? I’m sure we’ll see each other some other time.” 

“So… does that mean that I have a shot at scoring a second date?” He asked you, his lips curling into a smirk. “Or are you going to have me chasing after you for six more months again?” 

“I’ll call you.” You replied, grinning widely at him. “And maybe even visit you at work during your lunch hour, bring you some clam chowder to beat the cold.” 

“Hm… I do like the idea of that.” He whispered, leaning towards you. 

“Oh do you now?” You teased, your hand making its way to run your fingers through his curly hair. 

“Kiss her, you idiot!” You heard a rather high pitched English girl exclaim, causing you to laugh softly as you looked over the man’s head to see Eleanor groaning from his car on the other side of the parking lot. 

“I’m so sorry…” He apologized, looking over at his sister and shaking his head. “She may be an artistic genius, but she’s still a teenager.” 

“No need to apologize.” You reached down to grab his jaw and gently pressed your lips against his. “She’s not wrong.” 

Tudor looked a bit surprised that you had kissed him like that, but he chuckled softly as he leaned in for another kiss. “No, she’s not.” 

You felt your cheeks heat up once again as you pulled back. You had to cut it short, even though you did not want to. Damn this man and his British charm. “I should get going. I have an 8 am lecture in the morning.” 

“Oh that’s right, Professor. I shouldn’t keep you here too long.” He grinned, cheekily. 

“Goodnight, Tudor.” 

“Goodnight, Y/N.” 

You had been smiling from ear to ear during the car ride home, blasting an old Taylor Swift song from your college days in your car and singing along as though you were still that twenty-two year old girl. You could not wait to get home and tell Amy all about your date with Dr. Hartland, and you felt giddy just thinking about everything. 

But when you got home that night, you had been greeted by the aroma of Amy’s famous one pot pasta and her startled reaction to your return. 

“Uh… I wasn’t expecting you to be coming home tonight?” She kept her eyes on the pot, which she was stirring constantly. 

“Tudor had to take his sister home, so we decided to call it a night.” You responded with a shrug of your shoulders, slipping into one of the stools by the breakfast bar. “What’s got you cooking up a storm at this time of the night?” 

“Uh… no reason.” She replied, quickly, but it was way too obvious that she was lying. 

It took you a moment to hear the sound of running water, making you raise your eyebrow at your best friend. “Wait, I didn’t know you had company tonight. You know, I could get out of your hair if you want me to. I don’t want to be a bother.” 

“Oh no, it’s… not a bother at all.” She shook her head before biting down on her bottom lip. “Y/N, I’m… I’m so sorry.” 

Just then you heard the sound of running water come to a stop, and you looked over at Amy with a rather confused look on your face. “Amy, it’s fine… really, I can go if you want me to.” 

But it was too late, as it was Chris Beck who had gotten out of the shower and made his way towards the kitchen. 

“Man, I missed your cooking so much!” He called out to his sister as he dried his hair off with a towel, stopping suddenly as he came across you once he entered the kitchen. 

Your eyes glazed over at the sound of his voice that echoed through the corridor to reach your ears, and you found yourself looking over at Amy in utter shock. 

You knew that he had been back on earth after his second mission to space and was currently preparing for his third one - this one was to Mars as part of the Ares III crew. 

But you hadn’t been made aware of his sudden return to New Haven, which you had assumed was because he wanted to see his family before he left on this incredibly time-consuming mission. 

A part of you wanted to scold Amy for not telling you that Chris was here, but the look on her face had been enough for you to know that she didn’t know beforehand either. If she did, she would have at least warned you before you had left for your date with another man. 

Chris hadn’t seen you since that dreadful day, when he had bid you farewell the way that he had before he had left Hartford for good. He wondered if you remembered his last words to you, for you had been unconscious in a hospital room, barely aware of your own surroundings let alone his presence. 

He remembered Amy telling him that you hadn’t wanted him there, yet he had showed up because he had loved you as much as he loved the stars. But you would never know. 

Unbeknownst to him though, you had loved him just as much. You knew that you loved him, which was why being in his presence had now tugged at your heartstrings. A part of you felt guilty for ever convincing yourself to move on, for all it took was just the mere reminder of his existence to bring you back to the harsh reality. You could never move on from Christopher Beck, as your heart would always belong to him. 

That was probably why you wanted to curse the stars for playing with your heart like this. For a moment, you had been the happiest you could ever be since your break up with Chris. You had felt as though you could finally have a second chance at love. You were willing to take the chance on Tudor. You really did take a chance on. 

But your heart, it was still longing for Chris. It was longing for him to eventually return to earth for good, in hopes that the two of you could someday have the happy ending you so rightfully deserved. Perhaps that was why you never called Tudor back; you just knew that it would be unfair to him if you dated him, all the while still being in love with your beloved flight surgeon. 

#aj writes #star crossed #fly away #chris beck x reader #dr chris beck x reader #chris beck imagine #chris beck fanfiction #dr chris beck #chris beck #The Martian

[talesofealdancynedom]

Feon Seabryd in fairy robes, with storm staph.

Tale 19: Meriam Craweleoth: Mage Queen of The Grand West (chapter 4.1 -  Time Stands Still: Feon 4/10) part 4. Stories of Old

Maps

none

In spring, Meriam received a letter from the Northlands. The lord of Isfisceard, caught word of Meriam and her men wandering in and out of Celticia, to speak with Helrem in Algonquia. With Francia being hostile towards all three lands, Meriam had trespassed into Celticia to avoid death. However, The Northlands of Celticia had tightened its boarders, and was sending rangers and setting up outposts; The land was strained from battles from both Algonquia and Francia. The lord requested Meriam’s presence, to deal with a specific matter, in exchange for alliance with Anglia. Meriam was eager to accept, and make another ally at Francia’s boarders; and not get punished for trespassing. The courts would not let her leave however. They had a matter of special importance for her as well. Meriam was carrying their only heir to the throne, after Eatheltwein, making her even more valuable. They had forgotten Meriam didn’t take kindly to being treated like a fragile tool. She was being a royal brood mare for them against her wishes, and they still weren’t satisfied. Meriam left with her five loyal men, a doctor, and the Celtician lord’s letter on her pillow for the king to find.

           Celticia was temperate and wet. It smelled of rain, and upon its odd rock formation and cliffs, was the hum of the soothing low pressure. The scent of the sea embraced them, as Meriam and her party approached the docks. Crossing up the north isles was the last leg of the journey. Meriam was pampered by everyone; to her appreciation and disgust. It almost tarnished the wondrous experience of the Northland kingdom. The island of Isfisceard, was radiant. It was strewn with storm wildings, rain nymphs, ridge back drakes, hydra, and more. The most intriguing and enchanting things, aside from the beaches, sea walls, ferns and sequoia, was the voices that welled up from the depths; Fish children. There are no mermaids, sirens or selkies in Anglia, but there are many in Celticia. For there are many mariners and fishers, of whom a sixth would gladly wed a questionable, thirsty, hungry, and irresistible, maidens of the sea. While Meriam’s men were bewitched by lust, Meriam was overcome with awe and wonder. As a seer, her heart was a flutter with all fey before her. Meriam, as a mage, was drawn to magic. Thus, it was more fascination than lust, that seduced her to get a closer look. Not that the Fish King’s children weren’t to Meriam’s liking as well. As they docked at their destination village, the captain said they were lucky Anglian folk don’t sing. Cheerful tunes tend to attract less lovely daughters from the deep.

           Eager for a proper sleep, Meriam went directly to the lord’s house. But he would not let her rest; he held both her hands and bowed.

“Greeting Mage Queen Meriam. I am honoured you have accepted my invitation. I can tell you are weary, but a lady as precious and fine as you, needs to be kept safe; your men will remain with me, while you retire with Lady Feon Seabryd.” The lord smiled. His accent was both chipper and confusing. Like a thick Irish dialect. Meriam stepped back; what threat would be anticipated that would require her to sleep in a lighthouse, while her trusted knights became drunk lustful decoys.

“I am here to settle my debt, and forge alliances. Tell me your bargain; I am most short these days.” Meriam snapped. Then the lord, still bowing, noticed she was with child, and looked up at her grimace. The lord shivered in fear. Her khol, drawn like a hawk’s face, emphasizing her yellow eyes.

“My apologies your majesty. Let us make haste in signing the papers. You and your men must hear why I am so desperate to protect you, and improve our lands relations.” He said, leading them into a circular hall decorated in tapestries of fish fey and knots. The greens, teal, blues and bronzes complimenting the elaborately carved wooden stools and table.

“Sit, sit.” The lord prompted. Meriam’s men looked calmer then usual; they could handle a court room, after riding dragons. Magic, and their queen’s missions to make peace, was no longer confusing or dramatic.

“Alright, were all settled down now. So, what I need from this alliance, is an army to help this town. A messenger came from the east with a warning: In one season’s time, we will have the army of the Far North at our wall. Meanwhile, Francia is stalled by our land’s rangers and fey. Algonquia is slowly advancing, and occupying Celticia; We are weak. They come to finish their take over, by coming to Isfisceard for our lands only mage; the aforementioned Lady Feon. She sing’s storms and spells, and keeps balance between us and the magic of the sea. Each kingdom has a mage these days, and killing each other’s mages seems to be a common political strategy.” The lord explained.

“You want an army to protect your nations mage?” a knight asked.

“Aye. She is a kind charmer, with four beautiful children. Isfisceard would not be the same without her. But more then her death, I fear the mages of Algonquia. For the reason they are immune to our soldiers and fey, is because their prince and princess, the nephew and niece of the king, are both mages. Edmond Monabellen: The Wolf Prince of The North. He has walked through arrows, and cut cities in half. Him and his siter can control fey in battle, and their men and women are fearless in war. He is a paladin clad in violet and gold, with the eyes of a wolf, and riding his bear familiar. His sister, Luthid Geagwulf, is a witch that works from the camps, to manipulate the battle field. Their army has yet to lose a warrior. If they come for Feon, they will kill all of Celticia’s remaining armies, and take us before Francia does.” The Lord rambled. “I hear your power over time is great Meriam Craweleoth; between you and your kingdoms cavalry, I believe prince Edmond can be stopped. The Northland’s may be in your favour against Francia, if their wolf prince is defeated.” He concluded.

Meriam absorbed the information. Helrem had said nothing about the paladin prince in the Algonquian courts. Wolf kingdom mages, who could be advocating for magic, were being used like pawns in war. This is not how magic is supposed to be used. Their king is a coward for sending his only heir into battle, and a disappointment for abusing magic. Or worse, Edmond and Luthid were skirting their natures out of familial or patriotic obligation, and were in so deep, they can not escape war, despite their better judgment. If Meriam could resolve this, everyone would win.

“I agree to your terms. We will see who is willing to come to your aid by mid harvest. Hopefully my magic will prevent us from being tardy. May I rest now? Lord of Isfisceard?” Meriam said, signing the papers.

“Yes, you may; Feon will be waiting by the beach. There is a white stone of quartz she likes to sing from. Can’t miss it.”

           Merriam approached the fogged bay, that echoed of song, along with a closer voice. Upon a random tall stone of white quarts, was a freckled woman in teal fish kingdom fairy robes, holding a wooden staff set with a large emerald. Her long hair was red as blood, and her eyes like blue pine. She sang sweetly into the water, and its flat surface sang back. Her colours were unnatural; as if changed by magic from her going dark from tragedy. She looked like she was having so much fun, that she didn’t notice Merriam watching.

“Are you Feon Seabryd? I am Queen Meriam of Anglia; your lord said I was to stay with you and your family for safety.” Meriam said.

“Aye. Wait till you meet my family-” Feon said, gazing at Meriam. She looked like a ghost dressed in her black feather and crushed velvet fairy robes. “You’re going to have a baby! That’s so exciting! I know just the way to treat you; as a mother myself!” Feon chimed. She took Meriam’s hand and gently led her to a house at the bottom of a light tower, that was carved into the sea wall of the bay.

“I hate children. I don’t want to have a baby; that could kill a woman.”

“I love my children! All four of them! They were a pain, but they are like precious jewels. I smile everyday when I see them. Speaking of children, I have a son who is also a mage, though he don’t know it yet. Lyra is his name; a charmer just like me. Possibly even a storm breaker like me too! I have many notes about mages, and magic workings. You are a seer, right? Maybe reading or copying them would be restful for you?” Feon suggested. With magic on the table, Merriam was warming up to the idea of being in a peasant’s bungalow, surrounded by wild children. The only child she ever liked was Eatheltwein; and she was not responsible for his care.

           In the cabin, Feon had her children bring her and Meriam food to study. Feon was excited to pick the brain of a seer, and Meriam was happy to finally be sitting. Feon had many books and journals in her room; it was crowded in a hurricane of organized chaos, around the two beds she shared with her husband and children. Meriam was brought back to her childhood in Francia, sharing a bed with her friend Felin.

“What type of mage are you?” Feon asked, placing a teal leather journal on the table. “For example, I am a Storm breaker; we summon and control weather when magic moves through us, from being really happy. But if we don’t have a storm staph, we will lose control and go gray dark; causing natural disasters. I got my storm staph sent to me from a warlock in Sinonia, of the Grand East, who is also a storm breaker. In fact, the lad sent me many, requesting I place them in the Fish Kingdom in the shadow veil, because The Fish Gate is down the cliff of the lighthouse…” Feon said, handing the journal to Meriam and showing off her wood and emerald staph. Meriam examined it carefully, it was wonderfully crafted. She wondered how the parcel arrived through Francia, and then recalled that they took postage seriously there; you could mail one hundred mice to a foreign land and no one would stop you. A good package, is a delivered package. Feon knocked on the table Infront of Meriam to get her attention.

“Oh sorry, you reminded me of something… I guess I’m a Memoirium de Morte; a mage who can manipulate time. I didn’t realize we had types.” Meriam laughed, melting into the reclined chair covered in plaids.

“Do share! I want to complete that teal compodium, with details about all the mages for our ancestors!”

“Why do you write texts instead of poetry? I thought you were a charmer?”

“I am. But I am also a mother and avid hobbyist. Oh, thank you Lyra” Feon said, taking the kettle and pouring tea. An older boy with ginger hair and green eyes brought it. His long-curled hair was twisted in various strands and weaved into a knot; and he seemed to almost glow with joy while he hummed.

“Ah, one of your children. The Lyra of which you mentioned…” Meriam said.

“Aye, your majesty. I hope you enjoy the tea!” Lyra bowed before dashing off. Meriam gave a cough and returned her attention to Feon.

“You hate children? Why?”

“Hate is a strong word. I prefer the phrase: ‘I am opposed to.’ As too why, maybe it’s I don’t want a dependant human to keep me away from my adventures, or worry me. Or perhaps I don’t wish to put my life at risk to appease a court of men. The reason is irrelevant, and it is no one’s business what I choose to do with my life and body.” Meriam snarled, tossing back the staph. “Give me some of your journals to copy for my records, and tell me what you want to know about my abilities; or more why I don’t just use them to resurrect people or manipulate their memories.”

“I’m sorry. Just don’t understand is all. But as for your special magic, the question in these times isn’t why you don’t use your powers, but why Anglia doesn’t make you.” Feon said.

NEXT--->

<---PREVIOUS

#art #tales of ealdan cynedom #short stories #fantasy #story 19 #meriam #nihten #feon #lyra #sirulius #edmond #luthid

[primasveraas-writing]

I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face- Finnpoe

500 Follower Celebration- 15. I've Grown Accustomed To Her Face

Whatever lies ahead- Rey, Finn, and Poe are a family now. Together, satisfied with their victories and new way of life, they look to the future.

Requested by: @dancinginlifeandpoetry

WORD COUNT: 1100

The sunlight floods through the curtains, gently penetrating the gauzy fabric. Poe cracks his eyes open, peering over the mounds of pillows and blankets separating him from Finn. His lover is still asleep, his face pressed into the pillows. Poe smiles as he takes in the scene, inhaling deeply and stretching out.

His feet hit the carpeted floor and the bed creaks. Finn doesn't stir as Poe creeps through the door connecting to the uninhabited room claimed as his. He dresses there, in the quiet of the morning. It's a beautiful day so far, with soft pink clouds rising above London. Poe hopes the sun will be enough to warm the city, that the winter cold will dissipate as March nears.

Poe is already downstairs when Finn finally rises. Rey is long since gone, off to her shop. Finn greets his partner with a pat on the shoulder, then, when the maid bringing them coffee disappears again, a long kiss left on his lips.

“Two lessons today, my dear,” Finn reminds him, and Poe sulks into his coffee cup. “Then lunch, then I should think a visit to Rey would do us well. And then-”

“-the opera,” Poe finishes, gazing at the other man. “Because you neglected date night last week.”

Finn frowns, reaching for Poe’s cup of coffee, entirely disregarding his own set before him. “I seem to remember you quite enjoying the occasion I chose to substitute for date night.”

Poe doesn’t blush, but raises his chin proudly. “You lacked even the decency to take me out to dine before you began the evening’s activities, which is quite ungentlemanly of you. It doesn’t count.”

“It counted when you were scre-” Finn silences himself abruptly as the maid reenters bearing Finn’s breakfast.

Their day presses on; Finn’s student is a young woman trying to overcome a speech impediment and Poe’s an up-and-coming heir attempting to impress his parents with learned propriety. Finn finds the time to deliver a cup of tea and a kiss to Poe between these events, then they lunch together. Finn entertains himself by tossing grapes into Poe’s mouth, much to the housekeeper’s chagrin. When they’re done, having picked a great many grapes off the floor, Finn discovers that he’s dressed in some combination of his own and Poe’s clothes, but tucks himself into Poe’s coat and sets out onto the street. 

It isn’t a terribly far walk to Rey’s flower shop, not with Poe next to him. The men take each other’s arms in an ill attempt at discretion, which is only hampered by Finn’s whispered comments to Poe. His words range from caring and affectionate to downright scandalous, and Poe’s loud guffaws draw several stares from passersby. They pay no mind to others on the street, aside from Finn identifying their regionalized dialect in a hushed tone. The journey there is largely pleasant, but stepping into the warmth of Rey’s shop is still a welcome relief.

“Good afternoon!” A voice shouts from behind a particularly large vase of lilies. Poe smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets. Rey is certainly mannered- when she deems she should be- but she’s no less loud than she was when they first met her.

“Finn!” Rey preens, emerging from behind the counter. “Poe!” She wraps her arms around them both. Poe brushes a flower petal off her shoulder, but returns the embrace gladly.

“You look busy,” Finn says, looking around the crowded shop. Every inch of space on the counters and floor is covered in floral arrangements, and Poe watches the flower girls working for Rey navigate the treacherous route through the shop, hoisting up their skits and leaping over vases.

Rey beams. “We’re going to expand, actually. Rose says she found another space for sale.”

“You’re going to put Covent Garden out of business,” Poe says wryly, but his heart swells with pride. Rey is sporting a new dress today, and Poe suspects that this is a reward for her lucrative businesses.

“No,” Rey corrects, wagging her finger at Poe. “I’m hiring them all. Getting the girls off the streets, so to say.”

“The true saint of our trio,” Finn says, and Rey sniggers.

“A woman of many virtues,” Poe agrees, slinging his arm around Rey. She leans into his side so he’s supporting all of her weight, and he winks at her. “My dear girl, would you be able to step away from your booming business for a week or two? Finn and I were hoping to take a holiday on the coast.”

“And what, you need someone to take over your speech lessons for you?” Rey shakes her head, eyes twinking. “I’d take all your customers with me when I went back.”

“I’m sure,” Finn says amenably. “However, we were hoping for your dear company instead.”

Rey raises an eyebrow, gaze darting between Poe and Finn. “There couldn’t be any special reason for the occasion, could there?”

Poe flushes, ducking his head. “Dear Finn and I were hoping to celebrate our bountiful and cherished friendship.”

“Indeed.” Rey seems to be reserving any further comment, but she pats Poe’s arm fondly. “Congratulations, then. I would be very pleased to be there, thank you very much.”

“So you shall,” Poe confirms. “We’d be delighted to have you.”

Rey flashes a smile at them both then leaves the side to help a customer. Finn catches her mutter something about “confirmed old bachelors” under her breath and gives Poe’s hand a quick squeeze when nobody is looking.

Poe buys Finn a delicate rose, and Finn purchases a bouquet of orange lilies for Poe. They sit with Rey until her shop closes, Poe making small talk with the long stream of customers flooding through the door. When the day is done, Rey is slumped and exhausted at the register and there’s a smear of dirt across her cheeks and nose.

“You’re positively filthy,” Finn says fondly, swiping at her with a handkerchief. “Your face is very dirty.”

Rey pouts, an attempt that quickly splits into a smile. “I ain’t dirty,” she says softly, her accent suddenly very pronounced. It’s rich and full, and now nearly unfamiliar out of Rey’s mouth.

“Of course not, my dear girl,” Poe says, wiping the soil off her hands. He smiles at her, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “We have a dinner reservation for three at seven.” Finn extends both his arms, and Poe flanks his right while Rey takes his left. “Shall we?”

Then, arm-in-arm, warmed by each other and good companionship, their trio steps outside and into the sun.

#FinnPoe #finnpoe fanfic #finnpoe fanfiction #finnpoe headcanons #stormpilot fanfiction #stormpilot headcanons #star wars #stormpilot imagine #stormpilot #stormpilot fanfic #Star Wars fanfic #star wars au #finnpoe au #my fair lady #500 follower celebration #au

[internaljiujitsu]

Negrito: Race In The Latino Community

I had lots of nicknames growing up. Bolita (little ball) when I was a toddler because I was round. Jun (short for Junior), because I share a name with my dad. But the monikers I heard most from my mom and extended family were Negro (black), Negrito (little black) or Negrolo (black something or other). Notice a pattern?

As the darkest person in my Puerto Rican family, that’s how my loved ones would address me. It’s a common practice in Latino cultures. Identifying someone by their color, frowned upon in politically correct, modern society, has morphed into a term of endearment among racially diverse Latinos. Or so it seems.

Despite the wide range of hues within Latino culture that would suggest an evolved view of skin color, these societies are just as racist as any dusty mid western town full of red cap wearing “Americans.”

When a black South African, Zonzibini Tunzi, beat out Ms. Puerto Rico for the ridiculous Ms. Universe crown, the supervisor for the Island’s Education Department called the winner, “La prima de Shaka Zulu.” It means Shaka Zulu’s cousin. You know, the legendary African military leader.

In case you were wondering, there is no relation.

In 1937, Dominican dictator Rafael Trujillo had forty thousand Hatitian migrants massacred to “whiten” the population of the Caribbean nation. Sixty years later, every Dominican in the world hailed the dark skinned Sammy Sosa as one of their own when he chased Babe Ruth’s legendary home run record.

And now — twenty years after that — Sammy Sosa is white.

In the eighties, my friends and family referred to African American people as “Morenos” (Dark Skinned) or “Cocolos” (a term originating with a dark skin group of people in The Dominican Republic.) We were all living in the same impoverished, dilapidated neighborhood together, but never felt the same. There was always an us against them attitude. We often felt as if we needed to fight for respect within our own neighborhood while buying into media perceptions of what it meant to be black and brown. And what we saw around us everyday did little to give us faith in ourselves or our darker brethren.

But I could blend in anywhere — while feeling comfortable nowhere. I belonged to a light skinned (except for me and my dad) Puerto Rican family growing up in a black neighborhood but I found myself relating more to white culture. While the Cosby Show was number one, I watched Family Ties. While kids were listening to Chuck D or KRS 1, I was head banging to Guns and Roses. I hated baggy clothes, preferring tight jeans and t-shirts. But I didn’t feel like I was rebelling - I just liked what I liked, and got plenty of shit for it.

To me, the Cosby show was bullshit. That’s not how it was for the black and brown people I knew. It was fantasy. Family Ties I had seen play out before my own eyes at white friends’ homes with cookie cutter lives that seemed perfect (spoiler alert: they weren’t). I wanted what they had so badly — peace of mind and enthusiasm for the future — and I wasn’t finding it where I lived.

I also hated my brother at the time (who I love to death) and wanted to be the opposite of him. He was a thug who always gave my parents headaches. He set a terrible example for his little brother while constantly asserting the fact that he was six years older and wiser. Once I stopped idolizing him, I detested everything he stood for. He has long since proven me and the old neighborhood wrong.

It took me years to become as secure as I am, but even now I get shit from people in my life. I’ve embraced my heritage and have ensured that my five year old daughter does the same. But when my parents hear my daughter speak proper Spanish without a Puerto Rican accent, they make fun of us. She’s been attending a Spanish speaking school since she was two. Her mother and I have attempted to be consistent with the dialect we use with her. That means she actually rolls her r’s and doesn’t sound like she’s gonna hock a loogie when she says “carro” or “perro.” My family thinks it’s fucking hilarious.

But it’s not just family. In a recent conversion with an old friend who had just retired from the police department, he called me an “Oreo.” Black on the outside and white on the inside. This guy is in his fifties. I chuckled when he said it, but haven’t returned his calls since.

The thing is, I know he was just fucking around. He himself is of mixed race and sounds like an Irish American with a Brooklyn accent, but looks Japanese. But there is something about police perception of dark skin people, how we are supposed to sound, that bugged me about what he said.

There’s too much chuckling that goes on. Too much nodding. A former close friend of mine, who is half Puerto Rican and married to a dark skinned Dominican woman, once complained that a guy he knew had “niggered up” his car ( because he added shiny rims, window tint and other bells and whistles). It wasn’t the first time I heard him use the word. Each time it turned my stomach. I didn’t get it — I was his friend. Both me and his wife would have been denied access to white bathrooms and water fountains. Just because we did not identify with black culture didn’t mean we wouldn’t be exposed to the same bigotry and hatred. What the fuck? It was too much for me to overlook. We haven’t spoken in years.

There was an ugly song I remember from the old neighborhood back in the day. There were two versions:

“A fight, a fight, a nigger and a white, the black don’t win, we all jump in.”

Or,

“A fight, a fight, a nigger and a white, the white don’t win, we all jump in.”

Which one you sang depended on who you were with. Which “us” against which “them?”

I remember, as a teenager, going to the Sunset Park pool in Brooklyn with a bunch of Latino boys. On the way home, there was a group of black kids walking ahead of us. The group I was with, only one of whom was my close friend, started taunting them. They hurled racial epitaphs and threats at the black kids for being in their neighborhood. I was silent and utterly confused.

As a kid, it was actually my one close white friend, Jesse, who was the least racist kid I knew. He might have been the most genuine friend I ever had. I stopped returning his calls because I didn’t trust his friendship. Not because of anything he did — My negative view of myself kept me from believing that he really wanted to be my friend. Why would he? He was from a great family that lived in a beautiful house and valued the things that mattered to me but weren’t for me.

When I hung out with Jesse’s friends, the chip on my shoulder was always ready to bash someone over the head. At a party in some kid’s basement, someone spilled a drink. The host, an Italian kid that I didn’t know, asked me to help clean it up. I told him to go fuck himself. Then he asked me, “What are you?”

The party ended when I dragged him down a staircase and started beating him down before being pulled off and barely escaping the awaiting mob. I am my brother’s brother, after all.

So even though I felt like a Martian in my own neighborhood and knew I wanted better, I didn’t think I belonged on the other side either. I was stuck in this bizarre place where the only role models I had were Roberto Clemente, Eric Estrada and Slater. I never knew anyone else successful that looked like me. At the same time it seemed everyone around me was determined to make sure I never forgot where I belonged.

When I was twelve years old, I refused to attend my zone school because it had a reputation for being the worst in the city. It wasn’t my parents that refused, it was me. I told my mom and dad I would not go to junior high unless they transferred me. What if I hadn’t done that?

As it turns out, the school I ended up going to (because my dad used a friend’s address) was in a good part of town and was the best public education I ever experienced. The work was so advanced that I went from being one of the smartest kids in class to struggling. I actually had to study — something I never had to do much of and found excruciatingly boring. At that new school, I felt like the bad boy. The outcast. The kid that didn’t quite belong and couldn’t keep up.

My grades suffered that year, and when I transferred to a another school, I wasn’t placed in the gifted program for the first time in my scholastic career. I petitioned the principal and pleaded my case, explaining the difficult circumstances of the previous year and promising that I would shine in his “7SP“ class, which got to skip the eight grade and go straight to “9SP” in the fall. Like when I refused to go to that war zone of a school, I once again stood up for my own education. I was thirteen years old.

The work that year was far easier than what I had learned at the other school. I breezed through. The kind of disparity that existed between the two public middle schools I attended is indicative of the subpar education that children of color receive within what is supposed to be one school system. Kids in bad schools aren’t exposed to the same world that their crosstown rivals are and are ill prepared for the reality that awaits — be it a college admissions exam or the job market. Those who do not take it upon themselves to find opportunities for advancement can’t rely on working parents with little time or education to advocate for them. They are left with shitty choices and no one to champion their cause.

The scourge of poverty and racism is further sullied by the structural hierarchy of “shade” in communities of color. In the Autobiography of Frederick Douglass, the trailblazing abolitionist and former slave writes of the preferential treatment lighter slaves received, even among the others in bondage. Proximity to whiteness, then and now, is proximity to power and privilege.

In the late 1700’s, Spain instituted the process of gracias al sacar. Mixed race people could purchase a decree that converted them to white. One such royal decree granted to Cuban Manuel Baez in 1760 says that it erased “the defect that you suffer from birth and leave you able and capable as if you did not have it.” Ain’t that some shit.

Alice Walker coined the term “colorism” in her book, “In Search of Our Mother’s Garden”. She describes “prejudicial or preferential treatment of same-race people based solely on color.” Research has shown that skin tone affects the outcome of job interviews, court cases and elections. This is not a secret among people of color. They grow up believing that the whiter they look, the easier they’ll have it.

How does that make a kid feel who wants so badly to get ahead in life but has the mirror, the media and the world outside his window saying he doesn’t stand a chance? As if even after you do all the work and get to the finish line, the tape will be pulled back another few feet each time you stretch to get across. The life you want will be just out of reach, no matter how long or how fast you run.

There has been a delusion among some that because we’ve had a black president, hip hope rules the world and the Rock is the world’s biggest movie star, racism doesn’t exist anymore. There are people of color in positions of power and prestige, but they are few and far between. There just hasn’t been enough time for all the seeds of opportunity that were only planted a generation or two or three ago to compete with those who have seemingly inherited an eternity of racial privilege. Just because so many people fought for and finally earned some basic human rights doesn’t mean the playing field has been leveled.

The destruction of the long standing racial hierarchy is a challenging ongoing project that the world must decide to address together. The perpetuation of negative stereotypes of black and brown people is not only meant to strike fear in every suburban household, but to reinforce in the mind of the oppressed their role in society. Centuries of subjugation have purposefully convinced young men and women of color that they are born with an inherent disadvantage. Then, once their will to fight was clear, the oppressors barked that those they once lorded over should be grateful to simply be out of their chains.

It is up to people of color, whether African American, Latino, West Indian, or any other subdivision of “black” that may exist, to burn down the old models. The carefully calculated lie that “whiteness” is more attractive, desirable or indicative of ability must be deleted from our main frame. We must believe we are just as capable, because we obviously are. We must know that we have the opportunities, even if we have to work harder for them. And we cannot fight among ourselves, to the delight of those that would sooner see us dead, in jail or all together erased from the annals of history.

With dog whistles long having been discarded in favor of bull horns, the paper thin veil has been lifted from our union. In a country already in pieces, further division because of infighting is not something people of color, no matter their shade, can afford.

#race #racism #latino #self esteem #stereotypes #mindset

[pythiian]

Santa Clarita Diet Roleplay Sentence Starters: Season 2

The following starters are all taken from Season 2 of the Netflix television show Santa Clarita Diet. Change the pronouns, names, punctuation as it suits you. Feel free to shift the spelling to convey your character’s accent and dialect. Includes phrases good for plots involving zombies, murder, and other wholesome family content.

Content warning for: foul language, sex, murder, death, cannibalism, body horror, vomiting & other bodily functions. Definitely a NSFW meme.

Why should I help you when you don’t even treat me like a human being?

She has an intensity I love, but having to find human flesh for her to eat … that’s been hard.

We’re realtors so killing people and stuffing them into freezers doesn’t come naturally.

Are you sure it has to be Serbian bile to make the serum?

I feel like I’m blowing this!

And I know you’re worried I’m gonna go out there and kill somebody, but think about all the people I haven’t killed. Literally everyone in the world except three people.

There’s no way she can get out of those chains, right? Oh what am I doing? Nobody asks that and lives.

I got upset and trashed someone’s house.

Why do they tease us with such tiny amounts of juice? Who wins this game?!

We don’t fix anyone. We just put Band-aids on people and toss them back, alone, into a cold, cripplingly indifferent society.

God, what are you into?

Our kitchen looks like the inside of a shark.

Well, I admit it — it went on a little longer than necessary. And then ten minutes after that.

I took samples of her tar-blood-goo.

Huh, look at that. Not a drop of blood on my pepper mill.

If you saw it, you would not know how to process it.

Do you want the cookies?

I helped someone. Made me feel better about myself.

I wanted to make sure you weren’t overwhelmed.

Sometimes I do feel overwhelmed.

There’s just so much happening right now. And I don’t always know the right thing to do.

We all just do the best we can.

I know, I read your Yelp review.

Just … don’t give up on me.

I lost you once. That was enough.

Don’t eat me.

So, maybe we can hang out sometime.

Okay! You’re awake!

Anyway! I didn’t want you to wake up and find me gone and worry.

You were chasing rabbits?

You know what’s cool? I’m never surprised anymore.

I feel like channeling my bloodlust is key to preventing something like last night’s oopsie.

Look at me, I’m becoming a morning person.

I just think you should keep a low profile until we know what’s going on.

Don’t come at me with that weak tea.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

We get rid of one cop and now you bring another cop into our lives?

We can’t solve all our problems with murder.

Last night I saw you swallow a man’s tongue like an oyster.

Don’t you think it’s ridiculous for us to keep lying to each other?

Before you kill me, I do have one last request.

The only reason it’s spooky down here is because you’re down here. We could put you in a garden of lollipops and it would still be spooky.

I think at best, we’re in a moral grey area.

I would love nothing more than to have a date night with you.

I also haven’t written a restaurant review for Yelp in a long time, and my followers rely on me. Elite status is a privilege and a burden.

Let’s not make everyone’s problems our problems. People get ripped to pieces all the time.

We have a hummingbird feeder and we kill people. I’m just saying, you can’t always judge a person by their aviary accessories.

Wow, look at those bookshelves.

God, I respect a man who’s unafraid to embrace the past.

Are you okay? You seem a little hostile.

We talked about this, honey. We can’t keep murdering people impulsively.

Okay remember this isn’t a cure; it just arrests your symptoms.

We had some fun, but I’m kind of a loner.

I used to be high-strung and judgy like you. You need to relax.

We’ve got a lot on our plate. I don’t wanna be opening up a finishing school for the undead.

Is he a knight that fights the undead or is he an undead knight?

He’s little, so if he tries to run, I can catch him. Then I’ll do something small but memorable to his legs so he won’t try it again.

Gonna eat this bastard tits to teeth.

Killing people is hard. I used to think that was a good thing.

You’re not gonna pretend you’re a health inspector, are you?

We have to get everything incriminating out of the house.

It’s kind of ironic. The more care you put into a murder, the harsher society judges you.

‘I’m sorry, but —’ is not an apology.

Yeah, let’s get them out of here. Then go home and read up on moral relativism.

I’m an outstanding dancer.

I promise I’ll be the coward you want me to be.

I’m a vegan, not a monster.

Weird way of saying that, but okay.

I just wanna eat danish with you. Why can’t we eat danish together?

I love the hair, by the way. You look like an attainable Jessica Rabbit.

You’re stress-eating yourself!

I don’t want to stop living just because I’m undead!

No loose ends. I learned that from you. Mostly from your mistakes.

Yes, we’re not good at murder. I happen to think that’s a positive quality.

And what I find most upsetting is that you don’t seem to have any remorse.

As the great juggler Francisco Garibaldi once said, ‘when there’s fear in your heart and knives in the air, the wise juggler focuses on but a single blade.’

Whoa, buddy, there’s a lot to unpack there.

How would you like it if I put my foot so far up your perfect little ass that you won’t find it again until you shit it out on Christmas morning?

Well, we should check inside and see if I strung up anyone’s entrails like Christmas lights. I’ve been dreaming about that lately. I think I’m excited for the holidays.

So many people play it safe, but not you.

You know who else likes hiking and nature? Well-known monster, Bigfoot.

Just because one monster does those things doesn’t mean he gets to own them.

Yeah, well, spoiler alert: this does end with his torso in our freezer.

There’s always time to respect the differences that make us great.

We’ve been friends a long time. I know something’s been going on with you lately. Why don’t you tell me what it is?

Wow, you will never work in corporate PR.

It’s just that when it comes to being clandestine, spelling dirty words in alphabet soup is kind of the edge of my comfort zone.

So before this ends, I want to know that I was here, that I existed. I need to make a mark.

I really admire your commitment and steely resolve, but I just wish you didn’t have any of it.

He’s a homicide detective and we’re homicide enthusiasts — it’s not a good match.

I believe I serve God by bringing evildoers to justice.

I’m gonna throw up.

You’re not gonna shoot me.

I will shoot you.

Okay, you shot me. It’s your training. I’m not mad,

I died and then I came back to life.

So … you’ve risen from the dead? And you’re doing God’s work by ridding the world of evildoers? Is that what you’re saying?

This makes me a little uncomfortable.

#santa clarita diet rp #santa clarita diet ask meme #santa clarita diet starters #rp ask memes #rp sentence starters #little shorter than the last

[kingofthewilderwest]

ACCENTS (An FMAB Drabble) - 1183 words

 (WHOA LOOK I AM ACTUALLY WRITING AND POSTING SOMETHING??)

A/N I probably have better things to do with my degree, but as a linguist, I can’t help but love language headcanons. For FMA, I imagine that Amestris follows some fairly typical dialectical patterns. Rural accents would develop in areas that make little contact with urban areas. There’d also be a dialectical distinction between people of lower and upper socioeconomic status. Dialects that fall outside of a “standard” urban upper middle class would have unique phonological features that give some peoples’ pronunciations negative stigma. Speakers of these “nonstandard” dialects would pronounce many words in ways that could be considered “funny” or “embarrassing” to others (or themselves). 

I do want to note here that all dialects ARE equally grammatical, all dialects are equally **CORRECT**, all dialects are valid and beautiful, and there’s NOTHING that makes one “better” than another. It’s just cultural perception. 

Still. I find intriguing, even amusing, that many main characters in FMA would have those “less than desirable” accents. Ed, Winry, Al, and Jean–coming from small Eastern towns out in the middle of nowhere–are no way in hell going to have the same accent as people from Central or Briggs. As for people like Roy Mustang… well… everything about his origin suggests he’d have some sort of stigmatized Central lower class inner city accent. Which is where the inspiration for this little drabble began…

.

.

. 

“I can tell no one’s working,” Lieutenant Hawkeye said as she stepped forward. The cluster of men before her were hunkered down and whispering, clearly hoping their quiet conversation could avoid detection from the colonel on the far side of the room. But Hawkeye, knowing what types of motivation prompted this quartet to whisper, asked them, with an expression so neutral it was actually intimidating, “What pointless topic is distracting you now?”

Breda kept a cool face. Havoc shrugged nonchalantly, but a betraying smile twitched around his cigarette. Fuery and Falman both had the conscience to wince.

It was Jean Havoc, of course, who dished out the details, not at all ashamed to be caught gossiping on pointless frivolities. “We’re talking about the colonel’s accent.”

“Or what should be his accent,” Breda amended.

Hawkeye felt her eyebrows rising.

Still wilting under the lieutenant’s stern stare, Fuery tried to justify their time debating this rather than handling time-sensitive paperwork. “You see, you see, you can usually tell where people are from by their accent.”

“The Standard Amestrian Dialect is heard in the center of the country, the northern regions, Central, and most large urban areas.” Falman, as always, was able to recite precise information from memory. “Specifically, for those in the middle and upper classes. People from the lower class who live in inner city Central have a unique dialect, while…”

“You’ve got country bumpkins in the East like me,” Havoc pointed to himself with a grin. Rather than cringing around the East’s rural hick reputation, Jean here embraced it, drawing out his drawl with more emphasis than usual.

“So what does this have to do with any of our present investigations or reports?” Hawkeye asked.

“Nothing,” several of the men admitted, while at the same time, Havoc insisted, “But what this does have to do is with the colonel. And that’s work-related.” He gave his stretched excuse with an impish wink.

“I accidentally stumbled into information about Mustang’s family from reports of one investigation downtown,” Breda said. “The crime took place in the ‘bar’ of a certain Madame Christmas. Chris Mustang, who if I’m not wrong–and I know I’m not, because I just looked her up–was the colonel’s guardian.”

“Which means, given how he would’ve been raised, he should have an inner city accent,” said Falman.

“Not the posh whatever-it-is he’s using now,” said Havoc. The second lieutenant, Hawkeye realized, was probably the most entertained by this prospect, as it would mean that he would no longer be the person in the room with the least desirable and most embarrassing accent. It would be the colonel.

Old memories drifted up from the back of Riza’s mind. She thought about the teenager who’d studied alchemy with her father. He’d indeed had an inner city accent then, before he met Maes Hughes and tried to copy his best friend’s upper middle class dialect best he could. By his early twenties, most–though not all–of his childhood speech had been changed. But Hawkeye wasn’t going to encourage her colleagues’ conversation by bringing these memories up.

“I told you, I think he’s hiding it,” said Fuery. “You’ve heard how he says ‘dog,’ right? That’s slightly off. The vowel’s weird.”

“I’d have to hear it again.”

“What about ‘coffee?’ ”

“Ohhhh. Oh yeah. I think you’re right.”

“No, you’re imagining it. He doesn’t say ‘coffee’ any different than I do.”

“He does. Just listen for it next time!”

“And if you don’t believe me on ‘coffee,’ try ‘short.’ He’s messed that one up, too.”

“You’re right, you’re right! I always thought that was just a weird quirk of his. But no. That’s totally the colonel hiding an accent.”

“You guys are making things up. You’re not any better than conspiracy theorists.”

“Don’t listen to him. We’re so right.”

“Look, we just need to pay closer attention. The evidence will be right in front of us. What’re words that he’d pronounce different? Things like… uh… ‘hot’ and ‘thought?’ It’s that ‘aw’ sound that gets changed, right?”

“Yes. That is one distinctive feature. Vowel shifts have lowered that vowel. And the ‘æ’ sound in words like ‘black’ are more likely to be diphthongized, and drawn out almost to the point a single syllable word sounds like two.”

“Falman, you know we have no idea what you just said, right?”

Intense discussion persisted.

“If any of you have to work overtime because of this,” Hawkeye said, finally turning away from the heated whispering session, “don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.”

However, instead of returning to her own tasks, the lieutenant stepped straight toward the colonel’s desk. Something about her brisk step alerted Falman, Fuery, Breda, and Havoc, and all of the men, sensing some unique internal motivation within Hawkeye, paused to watch the conversation.

“Sir, I’m heading down to the cafeteria for lunch.”

“You don’t have to tell me that, lieutenant.”

“You look rather busy,” Hawkeye observed. If she were indeed planning something, none of the eavesdroppers could yet determine it. This sounded like nothing but typical conversation between the two. “I was wondering if you’d like me to bring food up for you to eat at your desk.”

“Oh. Well, aren’t you thoughtful,” he grinned.

Coincidentally, that word ‘thoughtful’–which contained ‘thought’–was one of the words the men had just been discussing. Glances passed between the four, facial expressions wordlessly debating and disputing whether they had heard anything phonologically unusual here.

“Something like a hamburger or a hot dog?”

“Couldn’t complain to a hot dog.”

Everyone at the other side of the room froze. Both the words ‘hot’ and ‘dog’ had been on their List of Possible Mispronunciations, too. ‘Thoughtful’ on its own could have been a handy accident. But getting Mustang to say ‘hot’ and ‘dog’ one after the other seemed too well-timed to be mere chance.

“Something to drink?” Hawkeye continued.

“Coffee.”

Fuery bit back a laugh.

“Anything in it?”

“You know me. Just black.”

Gawking, Havoc slapped his hand on the desk–repeatedly–as he turned to mouth the words black coffee to Fuery and Falman.

“Alright.” Hawkeye gave a nod, but as she turned to go, commented, “I should be back soon, assuming the lines are short.”

“At this time? They should be short. By the way, thanks, lieutenant.”

She turned to leave. By this point, everyone sitting in the back of the room covered grins with hands clasped over their mouths, and half of them were also audibly sniggering. Mustang seemed completely oblivious to both their laughter and how Hawkeye had played him. Havoc was almost cackling, though, from the revelation of what had just passed. The fourth word from their list–and the fifth–and the sixth–had all been pronounced… slightly strangely.

Still maintaining a perfectly even facial expression, Hawkeye stepped past them. She didn’t turn to look anyone in the eye as she headed for the door. But all of them heard the comment she gave in a low voice.

“You should have heard him when he was sixteen.”

And with that, Lieutenant Hawkeye left the room.

#FMA drabble #FMA fanfiction #FMA #FMAB #non-dragons #fanfiction #drabble #my writing #my stuff #my fanfiction #Accents #Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood #Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood #Team Mustang #Roy Mustang #I'm always nervous posting fanfics #especially for fandoms that I haven't posted anything for yet #but ah #XD #hope ya'll enjoy XD #yeah I know isn't it angst week for FMA or something? #hehhhhh as much as I LOVE writing angst this is what I wrote instead :))) #HUMOR #maybe someday with inspiration or encouragement I can think of a part two #in which the team lets on THEY KNOW #guess we'll see

[maevefiction]

Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 11

More than a week had elapsed since my last yoga session, and I was pleasantly surprised at my lack of stiffness. My iPod sat silent in the grass next to my mat…the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks proved to be the only music I required. Especially at six in the morning. The sun had just begun to rise behind us, its warmth exacerbating the flush my workout normally provided.

Simon’s skill level was far, far above mine, and some of the poses he worked through made me stop dead in my tracks as I admired the way his body seemed to defy the very laws of physics. He volunteered to work with me whenever we had the time, and I gratefully accepted, though I fully understood that a grace such as his was something that couldn’t be taught.

We chatted while cooling down, learning that our birthdays were only a day apart, his on October 30th, mine on October 31st. He found my being a Halloween baby hilarious, and I was tickled that we shared the same astrological sign. Fellow Scorpios - no wonder he’d liked my tank top. I tried to get him to reveal his birth year, but he adamantly refused until I offered mine up first. The look of delight on his face as he screeched out ‘me too!’ was adorable, and when he high-fived me and christened me his sister from another mister I embraced him and kissed his cheek, grinning at the lovely blush it caused.

I took a seat at the patio table and opened my laptop with the intention of starting work on Tom’s website design. Simon sat next to me, both of us facing the ocean, and he began typing away on his phone. He harrumphed and gave me some wicked side eye.

My brow furrowed. “For fuck’s sake, what NOW?”

He showed me his screen, scrolling through his inbox. “Seven more since last night. You’ve made an awful lot of extra work for me, woman.” I rolled my eyes. He turned on his chair to face me. “I’m curious, though…I thought you just lectured to and consulted with PR firms, which would mean their actual clients wouldn’t know much about you at all. So, it’s kinda surprising that an artist would be willing to jump ship and leave their current rep in the dust to wind up where you are, wouldn’t you say?”

I sighed and finished editing my open layer in Photoshop before replying. “I started out working directly with clients. My first was Anne Rice. She’s is a family friend and was willing to give me a cha…”

He put a hand on my shoulder and shoved. “GET. OUT. I’m assuming this means you’re from or lived in New Orleans at some point? But it mustn’t have been for long, because you have zero accent.”

“Your assumption is correct. Born there, raised there, relocated to New York City in 1998.”

He nodded emphatically. “So you dumped the accent. Understandable.”

It was my turn for side eye. “I didn’t dump it. It just…faded.”

He snorted. “Whatever you say, Maude.”

I pinched his arm, reveling in the resulting squeal he emitted. “Faded. I’m like a chameleon with accents. Soon I’ll be picking up your dialect and sounding like a pretentious asshat, too. In which case, you have my permission to kill me.”

“You can call me anything you like as long as you solemnly swear to take me to Mardi Gras next year.”

I rolled my eyes and held up my hand, palm towards him. “Simon. Please. I don’t think you’re ready for that sort of thing. But, if you start training now, we might be able to pull it off.”

He tilted his head like an oversized puppy. “Training for what? Drinking heavily? I’ve been training for that for years.”

“No. Throwing beads into the crowd. And doing the princess wave.” I demonstrated both. “Because if we go, you must ride on a parade float. It can be arranged. I know people.” I frowned. “At least, I used to know people. Anyway, what I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted was that she was my first client, and it gave me a lot of clout. For which I am eternally grateful. I moved on after three years or so with her and began working directly with clients, most of whom were too small to have a decent PR firm behind them. I did everything, created websites, set up Facebook accounts, provided instructions on how to post, when to post, what to post, yada yada. Lots of hand holding and cajoling. Word spread, and bigger names took notice, which led to PR firms hiring me to work one-on-one with their clients for a specified duration. Most of them already had websites in place, so my focus shifted entirely to social media. In early 2010, I was invited to speak for two hours at a PR conference in San Diego…they wanted me to lecture on enhancing client reputation through social media. It was winter in New York, and they were willing to pay for my travel expenses so I thought, California? Fuck it, why not?”

Simon’s legs were crossed, his upper body leaning in towards me as he listened attentively. I had paused, and he motioned for me to continue.

“So, I spoke for two hours and they handed me a check for three thousand dollars. That was more than I normally made in an entire week and it blew my tiny little mind.  It seemed to be vastly less stressful than dealing with super huge egos and non-tech savvy artists and damn, the money. I adjusted my entire business model, and within a month I was turning down engagements because my calendar was full. PR firms were still asking me for assistance, so I set up a consulting procedure wherein I’d outline a plan for them to implement, collected my fee and was on my way. It was all so…easy.”

He laughed loudly. “And you decided to work for Prosper why?”

“Because my ‘easy’ job and the cash it generated had taken over my entire life. I was the job and the job was me. Much to my surprise, lecturing and consulting long term turned out to be a soul sucking bore…and it transformed me into a miserable drudge. I am, at heart, a creative individual and I missed doing graphic and website design, photography, and learning new things. Terribly. Working for Prosper allows me to do all that again, and then some. That’s why.”

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin with one hand. “And I’m sure it has nothing to do with the exquisite creature sleeping soundly in your bed right now.”

“No, it doesn’t. He was actually the reason why I seriously considered declining Luke’s offer.” Simon looked puzzled, but I didn’t elaborate. “So. Why did you leave such a prestigious position at the Dorchester to become a PA? Just for Luke? Or is there more to the story?”

He grinned. “Damn, turned it right around on me, didn’t you? Touché, my friend. I went to university for business management and administrative assistance, and worked in the field until 2005. Cooking had always been my passion, and I had some sort of spiritual awakening wherein I decided I absolutely needed to become a professional chef or else I would shrivel up and die. So I did. I moved from place to place, learning, working, partying my ass off, and finally landed the sous chef spot at the Dorchester in 2009. It was dandy at first, but as the years passed I felt like I’d grown stagnant, doing the same thing night after night, having little input on menu changes and so on. Like you, I was bored. I was averaging 70 hours a week in that kitchen, cut off from the world, and it hit me that all I had gotten out of it was a nicely padded bank account…and that there was no one to share it with. I’d always loved being around lots of people, and there I was seeing nothing but the same damn faces day in and day out. In 2013 I happened across Luke’s ad, reworked my resume, and the rest is history. Unlike you, though, I don’t think I would have taken the job if it wasn’t for him, because the salary was abysmal. As soon as I saw him, I knew. He was it. The one. Love at first sight. I thank my lucky stars every single day that he felt the same way.”

After wiping the tears from his eyes, he took hold of my hand. “Maude, I don’t know if he’s mentioned it or not, but Tom’s had a rough time of it lately, and I’m so, so happy that you’ve found each other.”

“Me too, Simon.” I smiled, letting go of his hand. “Now, please, for the love of all things holy, shut your cake hole so I can get some work done, okay?”

“God, you are such a bitch.”

“I am. And you’re still talking. Cease.”

We worked quietly, side by side, until Luke poked his head out the doors to inquire as to when Simon planned on getting his butt in the kitchen and making some breakfast. As he got up from his chair, he peered over my shoulder at my laptop screen. I had a basic layout set and was in the process of choosing a color combination that would contrast perfectly.

“Wow, that’s a right brilliant color palette you have there, Maude. Is that for Tom’s site?”  

I nodded. “Does it look…familiar?”

He stared. “Yes…maybe…should it?”

I opened the tab that contained the HD photo of Tom’s eye that I’d drawn all my color options from. “Tada.”

Simon poked my shoulder and called for Luke to come see. He padded out onto the lanai, looked over my shoulder, nodded, then put his hands on his hips.

“So, when are you going to use your magic to revamp the Prosper site?”

I closed my laptop and put my head in my hands, then pushed my chair back and went to wait in the kitchen, muttering to myself about peace and solitude and how I couldn’t find any even though I was in paradise.

Tom bounded our of our bedroom just as Simon was plating our pancakes and bacon, freshly showered, wearing a pair of faded, loose fitting jeans and a tight, light blue V-neck tee. I leaned back on my bar stool and around the counter to look at his feet. Scuffed, well-worn boots. When my eyes finally made their way up to his face I was greeted with a dazzling, toothy smile. I groaned.

Simon pinched his cheeks. “Lovely of you to join us, Thomas.”

Tom lowered himself elegantly onto the stool to my right, resting his hand on my spandex-clad thigh as he leaned in to kiss me.

“Good morning, Maude. How was yoga?”

“Spectacular, actually. Simon and I had a lovely chat and I even managed to get some work done in spite of it.” He laughed and began slowly sliding his hand up my leg, edging ever closer to the apex of my thighs. Simon set our plates in front of us, raising a brow as he spied what Tom was up to.

“Um, excuse me. This is a fine dining establishment, people. No foreplay is permitted.” I glanced up from my plate and saw Luke directly behind him, hand cupping Simon’s ass.

“Whatever, asshole.” I pointed at my short stack. “Do you have syrup for these?”

He pulled a pot off the stove and spooned some of its contents onto them. “Made with fresh pineapples. Especially for you.”

All eyes were on me as they waited for a reaction. I broke off a hunk of pancake with my fork and shoved it in my mouth. “Mmm, yummy. Thank you.” Luke looked at Tom, who shrugged. I took another bite of breakfast. “Yeah, nice try, losers. I happen to like pineapples. Just not on pizza.”

Tom put his arm around my waist, pulled me to him and kissed the top of my head. “I had nothing to do with this. I swear it.”

I said nothing, ripping off a piece of bacon with my teeth instead. He tapped his fork on his plate.

“So, Maude, I was thinking…maybe we could take a ride out to Talk Story today? I called to see if Alani would be in, and she is.” I spun the stool around in his direction, dumbfounded. He smiled. “I did say I’d go back to meet her, did I not?”

“Yes. Yes you did.” I grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “What an amazingly generous thing to do. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me just yet. You’re going to be the one in charge of crowd control.” He stole a strip of bacon from my plate and swallowed it down before I could even muster a protest.

“I’d rather corral a group of a hundred people than have to sit next to you while I’m trying to eat a fucking meal, bacon stealer. And everything else stealer.”

He snickered, and I wolfed down the rest of my food, rinsed my dishes, put them in the dishwasher and headed for the bedroom, finally noticing that Luke and Simon had disappeared. I wrote a giant ‘thanks for breakfast’ on the chalkboard in the kitchen and drew a smiley face to go with it, figuring we wouldn’t be seeing them again before we left.

*************************************** After my much needed shower, I wound up standing in my underwear, staring into yet another wardrobe wondering what the hell to wear. Tom looked too damn good for me to get away with shorts and a T-shirt, and my black tank dress just didn’t scream ‘please behave and listen to the nice lady’. Tom was waiting patiently for me, sitting at the desk answering emails and returning calls. I looked at his boots, then back and my limited selection of dresses. The brown chiffon galaxy print sleeveless wasn’t an exact match, but pretty damn close. I pulled it off its hanger and laid it on the bed so I could unzip the back without it winding up on the floor, chastising myself for giving in to my everything-must-coordinate OCD once again. I slipped it over my head, put my arms through the proper holes and managed to zip it up on my own, then went into the bathroom to figure out a hair strategy.

I’d just wrestled it into a braid when I overheard Tom talking in the bedroom.

“How’s Los Angeles? Elsa? Kids? Good to hear. Oh, she’s unbelievable, Chris. Here, I’ll take you in and you can meet her.” He came around the corner carrying his open laptop.

“Chris Hemsworth, Maude Gallagher.” He turned the screen toward me, and there he was, Thor, God of Thunder. In my bathroom. He held up a hand in greeting.

“Hello, Maude. Nice to meet you. See you? Skype you?” He face palmed. “I have no idea what the correct terminology is.” I heard a woman yell in the background that meet was fine and for him to bring the tablet over to her so she could see me. He got up and walked into another room, and a beautiful blonde woman came into view alongside Chris. She waved madly.

“Look at you, you’re gorgeous. A natural beauty. And that dress…I am in love with it. You must tell me where you found it.” Her accent was a delight. She grinned. “I’m Elsa, by the way. Tom has told us so much about you I feel like I know you already.”

I waved at them. “Hi there. Lovely to meet you both. I’d like to say Tom has told me so much about you, but that would be a big fat lie, so suffice to say I’m sure he will tell me so much about you when we aren’t quite so…so…shit, what’s the word I’m looking for here?”

Tom moved to stand next to me, shifting the laptop so we were both visible, smirking. “Preoccupied. The word you’re looking for is preoccupied.”

They laughed, and Chris grabbed at Elsa. “Remember when we were always preoccupied?”

She slapped his hand. “Oh yes. I do.  And that’s why now we’re preoccupied with three little ones, my darling Christopher.” I heard children crying in the background. Elsa said a quick goodbye and ran off, and Chris followed suit so he could assist.

Tom put the laptop on the counter and pulled me to him, hands on my ass as he pressed me up against his crotch and rammed his tongue in my mouth, then backed away quickly, leaving me panting. “Well, I guess we should get going.”

I shot him a scathing look. “We should. But I have to pee first.” He walked out into the bedroom. As I sat on the toilet, I weighed my options for getting even. I mentally high fived myself as I pulled my underwear off over my feet and left them on the bathroom floor.

*************************************** We parked a block down from Talk Story, and I scouted ahead and left Tom in the Jeep. My gladiator sandals clicked on the sidewalk as I half-jogged to my destination, anxious to see if Alani was at the desk. She was, and I texted him to come on down. He ran to meet me, and I stopped him from holding the door for me and letting me go in first.

“Nope, you should be the first thing she sees.” I had my phone all ready to go in order to capture the moment, planning on sending her a copy as a keepsake. He walked through, and she looked up as the bell dinged to announce that someone had entered the store and the look on her face was one I knew I’d remember forever. He approached her, hand extended, and I was right behind him.

“Hello, Alani. I’m Tom.” She remained motionless. He turned to me. “This is Maude. We were here on Monday, and she told me that you’re a fan of my work and would perhaps enjoy meeting me.” She nodded, gingerly lifting her arm up but unable to make herself grab his hand. He took the initiative, holding it to his lips and kissing it demurely. She squealed, so high pitched I thought my ears might bleed. Four other girls came running out of the stacks, took one look at him, and began jumping up and down, screaming, phones in hand. I stopped filming so I could set the boundaries before any issues arose, stepping between them and Tom.

“Hi, ladies. I’m Maude, Tom’s social media manager. Let’s go over some ground rules, okay?” They lowered their phones and nodded. “Tom wants to be able to take pictures, sign for and chat with all of you, but in order for him to be able to do so you need to make sure you don’t post anything to social media until after we leave the premises. No texting or calling, either. If a crowd turns up, we’ll have to cut things short, and where’s the fun in that?”  

A husky, bearded, bespectacled man came out from the stacks, wearing a white and green palm leaf print Hawaiian shirt and khaki hiking shorts. “Girls, what the heck is going on up here? Why all the screaming? You know people prefer quiet when they…” He stopped short when he saw Tom, his mouth dropping open, then quickly closing as he grew closer, hand proffered. I figured he was the owner, so I let him pass.

“Aloha, Mr. Hiddleston. I’m Roger Marshal, and Talk Story is my baby. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate your stopping by again…the girls were so bummed when they learned they’d missed you on Monday.”

Tom shook his hand vigorously. “Thank you for having me. Your establishment is outstanding…I’m a bit of a bibliophile, and if I had my druthers I’d be perusing the shelves here for days on end. My apologies for dashing off so quickly when I was in last, but I had a prior obligation and thought it better to come back when I had more time to spend.” He turned to me. “This is Maude Gallagher, my social media manager.”

I offered my hand and he clasped it gently with one of his, then placed the other on top. “Maude, nice to meet you. Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you both?”

“Actually, would you happen to have a room available that’s a bit more private?”

He nodded, then turned his attention to the desk. “Sure thing. Alani, why don’t you show our guests to the staff lunch room?” Her eyes lit up, and the faces of the rest of the staff fell. “Girls, you go too. I’ll cover the desk.” They thanked him in unison between excited giggles.

I tried to hang back behind Tom, but he slowed and fell into step with me and slipped his arm around me, hand on my lower back, whispering in my ear. “The way you jumped in and took charge did…things…to me, Maude.” His let his hand glide lower and lower, halting when he reached the spot where the waistband of my underwear should be. He felt around with his fingers, over my hip, diving quickly down into the crease of my left buttock then back up to my waist, gripping me just a smidge too hard.

I met his gaze, noting his narrowed eyes and the way his tongue darted out over and over to lick his lips. I smirked and whispered back. “Gosh, I’m sorry. I forgot to mention that I’m not wearing any panties. They sorta fell off back at the house and are lying on the bathroom floor, all alone and unloved.” The hand on my waist began to shake as we reached the staff room and he began breathing deeply as he attempted to keep his shit together. And round two of Friday’s Titillation Tease goes to…me.

Tom spent nearly two hours taking selfies, videos, signing anything the girls could get their hands on, and answering their seemingly unlimited supply of questions. The giant cup of tea I’d had on the ride over had finally hit my bladder, and I excused myself and went off in search of the bathrooms. There was only a one, unisex, located all the way on the other side of the store, tucked into an alcove deep in the stacks. Nice and roomy, too. I envisioned Tom fucking me up against the wall, then scolded myself for my blatant lack of restraint as I texted him precisely what I’d been thinking while I walked back to the staff room.

Roger had come back to check on them, which Tom took as an indicator that it was time to wrap things up. He was hugging each of the girls goodbye in turn as they left the room, saving Alaini for last. She rested her head on his chest, facing me, and mouthed ‘he smells like a FOREST’ while hugging him tightly. Up until that moment, I hadn’t been sure whether she recognized me or not. She stepped back and looked at both of us.

“This has been, like, the best day of my life. I can never thank you enough.” Her eyes shone with tears. “Would it be okay if I took a picture of you guys together?”

I smiled. “Of course. But I think it would be better if you were in it, too.” We posed, and Tom held out her phone to get the shot. I was entering my Prosper email address into her phone so she could send me a copy and she was putting hers in mine so I could send her the video from earlier when she cleared her throat.

She looked up shyly. “Um, I don’t mean to be rude or get in your business or anything, but I was just, you know, wondering…” She swallowed. “Are you guys, like, a couple?”

Tom grinned. “Is it that obvious?”

Her brow furrowed. “Well, you know, I saw what you posted on Twitter yesterday and I was like, hmm, and I know you guys work together and now seeing you in person…yeah. It’s pretty obvious, I guess.”

Tom took my hand. “Yes, Alani. Maude isn’t just my social media manager…she’s my girlfriend as well. And can I let you in on a little secret?” She nodded, awestruck. “When you saw us here on Monday, that was the very first time we met. So you played a rather important role in what turned out to be the best day of my life so far.”

I kissed his cheek. “Mine too, Alani.”

Alani flopped onto the nearest chair, clutching her hands to her chest. “That. Is. So. Romantic.” She leapt back up and hugged me. “We all want him for ourselves, but if he has to be with someone else, I’m really glad it’s you.”  

I patted her on the back. “Thank you. Hearing you say that means so much…honestly, I don’t have the words to express properly how it made me feel.” We let go of each other, and she made her way back to the desk.

I turned to Tom. “I need to hit the bathroom again before we head out.” He nodded and followed my lead. He didn’t mention my text, and I assumed he hadn’t read it yet. We didn’t see another soul on the way there, and the stacks outside the alcove were deserted as well. I recalled my vision of Tom fucking me against the bathroom wall and decided this was going to be my shining moment of public indecency. I opened the door, stepped in, then turned around to face him, left eyebrow raised.

“Want to join me?” I licked my lips. He barged past me into the bathroom, fingers already working to unbuckle his belt.

“I thought you’d never ask.” I locked the door, then did a 180. He held his fully engorged cock in his right hand, stroking it, catching any drips with his left. “I do believe I need to put this somewhere immediately so I don’t make a terrible mess on the floor.”

I bit my bottom lip as I tilted my head to the side. “I think I’ve got just the place for it.”

He ceased his stroking in order to back me up against the wall, growling in my ear. “Oh yes. You most certainly do.” He bent his knees as he lifted the front of my dress up to my waist, and I wrapped my leg around his, grinding my dripping pussy against him while I rubbed my clit. He groaned, and I slipped my glistening finger into his mouth. He sucked on it, and I felt the head of his cock at my entrance and his hands cupping my ass, his full weight on me, pressing me firmly against the cool tile.

He was panting. “Put your other leg around me and your arms around my neck.” I did the latter, but scoffed at the former.

“Um, there is no way in hell you’re going to be able to hold me up.”

He leaned forward to stare into my eyes, and his expression made me whimper. “Leg. Up. Now. Please.” As I complied he sheathed himself fully. I tried to bite back a ridiculously loud moan but was only partially successful. His mouth met mine, tongues dancing around each other. He pulled back.

“Maude, my apologies, but once I start moving I fear I’m going to last all of thirty seconds. If I’m fortunate.”

I clamped down on him. He began thrusting wildly, and I focused all my energy on not coming before he did. I was doing well until he started whispering in my ear using his Loki voice.

“Give in, mortal. Come for me. I know you’ve dreamed of this, me fucking into you for all I’m worth, you pinned against the wall, unable to sway those mesmerizing hips and have your way with me as you ride my cock to find your own selfish pleasure.”

He pounded into me, almost savagely, and as he felt my walls begin to flutter he put his hand over my mouth.

“Not. A. Sound.” I came, my scream trapped beneath his hand, the wet sounds of him moving in and out of me echoing eerily off the bathroom walls. “That’s it. Look at you, coming and coming all over my cock. So, so beautiful.”

He let his hand drop, and I could feel his thrusts becoming more erratic as I stared at him, his face red, jaw clenched, the veins on his neck standing out with his exertion. His head tipped back, fingers digging into the underside of my thighs, and his entire body shuddered as he orgasmed, come spurting hot inside me. I let my legs slide down one at a time, planting my feet as firmly as I possibly could despite the fact that they felt like they were made of Jell-O.  

He rested his head on my shoulder, and I rubbed his back. “I guess this means you got my text after all.” I felt him nod. “Well, if this is what not wearing underwear gets me, I’m never putting on another fucking pair ever again.”

We both laughed, quickly cleaned ourselves up, and I peeked out the door to make sure the coast was clear. Still not a soul around, and we said a final goodbye to Alani on our way out and proceeded to walk back to the Jeep. We sat for a while, neither of us feeling quite capable of driving.

He leaned over to kiss me, hand on the back of my neck, grinning as he pulled away. “I’m famished. Want to grab something to eat before we head back?”

“You already know the answer to that.” I noticed the street getting a bit congested, a small pack of women heading in our direction and what appeared to be a local news crew up the road a bit…I pulled out my phone and checked Alani’s Twitter feed. She’d posted the photo of all of us.

Here’s me just a little while ago with Tom Hiddleston and his girlfriend, Maude. He smells like a pine forest, and she’s super nice. #bestdayever, #thankyoutomandmaude

I showed it to him. “I’m thinking maybe we should stop somewhere a little further down the road. You?”

He started the Jeep, put it in first and stalled it as he tried to pull away from the curb, and then again on his second try. He smiled at me sheepishly. “Perhaps you’d better drive.”

“Gee, ya think?” We got out and switched places. I shook my head. “What a newb.”

He crossed his arms. “I am not a newb. I’m just out of practice is all.”

I patted his thigh as we got to the highway. “Right. Rusty stick skills. I remember.”

He chortled. “Yours remain top notch though, my love.”

I smiled smugly. “They do, don’t they?”

He raised his index finger. “Although, technically, you didn’t actually make use of them this go round, did you?”

“I’ll make up for it next time.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

“Well I’d fucking hope you’d hold me to it. That’s the whole point.” I saw a McDonald’s sign in the distance. “Dude, I want some French fries in the WORST way. And a chocolate milkshake. You game?’

“I most certainly am.”

“If you behave I’ll let you have my cherry.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?”

“How rude.”

“Perhaps. But true.”

“Not entirely true.”

“What do you mean, not entirely true?”

I turned off the highway and into the parking lot. The drive through line was mobbed, but the lot itself was relatively empty. “I mean that the fact that it’s a bit late for you to have my cherry is only partially correct.”

He stared at me as I engaged the parking brake, puzzled, then shook his head. “I’m not following.”

The left corner of my mouth scrunched up in mock irritation. “Really? Are you sure?” He shrugged, palms up. “Think about all we’ve…done.”

“Maude.”

“Good. Now think about what we haven’t done.” I gave him a few moments to review, watching his face closely so I’d see it dawn on him. 3…2…1…aaaannndd there it was. His jaw slackened, hips lifting almost imperceptibly. “That’s right. I’ve played around, sure, but as far as actually having a cock in my ass…nope. Which means, technically, my anal cherry is still intact.”

He covered his face with his hands, groaning, but said nothing.

I went in for the kill. “So, Thomas…tell me. Would you like my cherry?”

Shaking his head, face still hidden, he spoke in a low voice. “Maude.” He paused, remaining silent for quite some time, seemingly avoiding my question. I wondered if I’d overstepped some sort of boundary, pushing him too far.

My mind was racing, and I frowned. “Wow.  I’m really sorry, Tom.”

He uncovered his face to take my hand, gazing at me with eyes full of concern. “Whatever for?”

“Because I put you on the spot there and just assumed it’s something you’d want to participate in. I didn’t stop to think that it’s something that might not be up everyone’s alley.” I rolled my eyes. “That didn’t come out…shit…DAMN. Anyway, that was incredibly presumptuous and I apologize for letting myself get so carried away. Please don’t feel like it’s something you have to…”

He leaned in to kiss me forcefully, covering my entire mouth with his, tongue darting over my lips, then pulled away before I could fully engage. “May I answer your question now?”

I shook my head. “Tom, you don’t need…”

“I know I don’t need to, but I WANT to. My answer is, with undeniable certainty, yes. Please accept my apology for not answering straight away. I’m afraid I was too busy thinking about how deliciously tight you’re going to feel around me and then I remembered that you aren’t wearing panties and it was all I could do to stop myself from dragging you onto my lap and fucking you right here in the McDonald’s parking lot.”

His eyes met mine, nostrils flaring, pupils blown wide open. Never before had I been able to do this to a man, make him want me so desperately using nothing but words. He squeezed my hand.

“That you’d trust me with something so intimate, bequeathing me such a precious gift, wishing to share something that you’ve not yet experienced with another, is…I’m honored, humbled, awestruck…so very many things.” He smiled timidly. “I’ve never been someone’s first anything before.”

My brows shot up, but I managed to keep my mouth shut.

“Maude, there’s something I’d like to ask you, but…”

“Shoot.”

“All right. This may be terribly intrusive, and feel free to not answer it if you don’t feel comfortable doing so, but…knowing what I do about you, sexually, I’m…surprised…that you…erm, never…anyway, I suppose I’m just wondering why.”

I sighed. Good job, Maude. This is what you get for trying to be a seductress.

“Long story short, you’re only the fourth person I’ve been intimate with. The first two were before I was twenty and not even remotely interested in such a thing. By the third I was very interested, but things fell apart before it happened.” I put my arms on the steering wheel and rested my forehead on them for a moment, then raised my head and turned to him. I couldn’t quite read the expression on his face.

“Okay, I’m not sure if that look means ‘I didn’t need to hear that’ or ‘wow, only three, what a loser’.”

He shook his head. “It’s neither. Well, maybe a bit of the first one, because the idea of you being with someone else is much more unpleasant than I would have imagined, but…it was mostly surprise that such an incredibly beautiful, intelligent, hilarious woman wouldn’t have men lining up to be with her.”

“Thomas. Stop being so fucking wonderful, won’t you? Christ. There was no line, believe me. I’ve always been at least a little chubby, but after I moved to New York I put on a huge amount of weight. There are reasons for that, but that’s another story for another time. By 2003 I was tipping the scales at two hundred and forty-seven pounds. I’ve always been a confident person, and I honestly never cared what anyone else thought about the way I looked, but…you know what I’m getting at here, I think. In late 2008 I started feeling like shit, and Anne, who’d nearly died due to undiagnosed diabetes in 2003, pushed me to see a doctor. Sure enough, that was the problem. It was early, and resolvable with lifestyle modifications. So, I kicked myself in the ass, and over the next year I lost more than eighty pounds, and that was when I…a woman in her sexual prime, in the best shape of her life…met number three. God bless him…I was on a mission, making up for lost time and he could barely keep up with me. One time I actually thought he was going to need an ambulance…sheese, why I am telling you this? Yikes. Sorry. Lord knows I don’t want to hear anything like it from you.” I unbuckled my seat belt. “Let’s pretend this never happened and go get those milkshakes, m’kay?”

He grabbed my arm as I opened the door, and I turned to meet his gaze. “I…Maude…I just…you are…everything about you…” He shook his head. “I fall deeper in love with you with every passing moment.”

“Right back atcha, baby.” He laughed. “Yeah. No way I was going to try and out-eloquent you there. Waste of time and energy.”

We went inside, his arm around my shoulders, and ordered two Happy Meals when we saw the new toys were Minions. Neither of us could resist playing with them as we ate. Tom went back for a Big Mac and chicken nuggets, which I shared. He stuck his fingers in through the lid of my milkshake, deftly picking up the cherry and popping it in his mouth, a huge smile on his face.

We both used the bathroom, separately, and as we were walking back to the Jeep I heard the voice of a young boy.

“Mom, Mom! That man over there! That’s the man you’re always looking at on your computer!”

A woman replied to him. “Mason, what are you talking ab…?” And with that, I knew she’d seen Tom. I pulled at his shirt, and he looked down at me and nodded. We turned around and waved. The woman was about my age, maybe a little older, and she looked like she might die of embarrassment when she realized we’d overheard their conversation. Tom strode over, hand extended.

“Hi there. Tom Hiddleston. And you are?” She moved as if in a trance, hand out, and he grasped it gently and shook.

“I…uh…um…Sarah. I’m Sarah. And this is my son, Mason.”

Tom beamed and shook Mason’s hand as well. “Lovely to meet you both.”

Sarah reached into her purse, dug around and pulled out a Coriolanus program. She cleared her throat. “I heard that you’d be on the island and I’ve been carrying this with me, you know, just in case.”

He took it from her. “Were you in attendance?”

Mason piped up. “We flew all the way across two oceans so she could go see your show. I saw Big Ben. It was really cool.”

Sarah was bright red. “I saw it twice, actually, but didn’t have time to stay after.”

Tom pulled a sharpie out of his back pocket. “May I?”

She grinned. “Please do.” He signed his name, as well as a message. ‘Sorry to have missed you there, but better late than never. Glad to finally have met you. XO’”

As he handed it back to her he asked if she’d like a picture with him. He introduced us, and I volunteered to do the honors so Mason could squeeze in as well. I gave him my Minion to keep him occupied while I took some shots of just Sarah and Tom. He held it up to give it back to me when I handed Sarah back her phone.

“Nope, buddy, that’s yours now.” I held out my hand to Tom and he put his toy in it. “In fact, you can have Tom’s too. This way he gets to stay with his friend and won’t be lonely.” He thanked me so quietly I could barely hear him, eyes full of wonder at what to an adult was such a small gesture.

Tom hugged them both goodbye, and Sarah embraced me as well. She smiled at my surprise. “Thank you, both of you, so much.”

Tom put his arm around my waist as we walked the rest of the way back to the Jeep, placing a quick kiss on the top of my head.

“It is my personal opinion that you’re a much kinder, gentler person than you’d like everyone to believe.”

I sighed. “Yeah, yeah. And it’s all your fucking fault, too.”

#your light in the mist #chapter 11

[johnboothus]

Wine 101: Syrah

This episode of “Wine 101” is sponsored by Columbia Winery. As Washington’s original premium winery, Columbia Winery proudly carries on a long legacy of discovering and celebrating exceptional Washington wine. Our rich history, as well as the distinct terroir of the great Columbia Valley, allows us to craft wines that embody Washington’s unique spirit and curious nature. Columbia Winery offers a collection of rich and deliciously drinkable wines inspired by the diversity of Washington’s best growing regions. Created through visionary winemaking and unrelenting curiosity: Columbia Winery.

In this episode of “Wine 101,” VinePair tastings director Keith Beavers discusses all things Syrah. Though Syrah is a dominant red variety in Australia, Beavers explains that its has roots in the northern and southern Rhône regions of France.

Listeners will learn how Syrah got its unique name through a series of dialects, and why the variety has different names in different parts of the world. Beavers also explains that Syrah is now being made in our own backyard; Washington State has emerged as a competitive producer of Syrah in hopes that it will become a successful player in the global market.

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Keith Beavers: My name is Keith Beavers, and yes, I did relive my childhood fantasies watching “Cobra Kai,” Season 1. The last scene, it’s incredible.

What’s going on, wine lovers? Welcome to Episode 9 of VinePair’s “Wine 101” podcast, Season 2, of course. My name is Keith Beavers, I am the tasting director of VinePair. Hi!

What are your thoughts on Syrah? What do you know about Syrah? What are your relationships with Syrah? My relationship with this grape is insane. You guys, we got to talk about Syrah. I know it’s a thing and it’s in Australia. What is this?

Deep, dark, brutish, spicy, savory. What is it? That, wine lovers, is Syrah. I know those are a bunch of general terms.

In this season, we are going to have a whole episode on the Rhône and when we talk about the Rhône, the southern and the northern Rhône, we’re going to get real deep into that area. This is where Syrah is from.

It’s really hard to talk about Syrah and not talk about the Rhône. But we’re going to figure this out, because I want you guys to understand how wonderful this variety is and what it does to your brain when you sip it in a certain way.

Let me just clarify. I absolutely love wines made from the grape Syrah. This is the thing about Syrah: As of 2010, it was the sixth most planted variety on the planet. It’s always been that way with Syrah. I’m really bad with orchestral stuff, the first chair, the second chair, but Syrah’s is like the timpani drums. It’s all the way in the back just chilling, knowing how awesome it is, not needing all the attention that all the other varieties get. But when it’s done in a certain way and it’s in a lower yield, it commands your attention. It’s almost haunting how beautiful this variety is when it’s turned into a wine on the lower-yield side.

Syrah, for me, is like Han Solo: roguish, rough around the edges, scruffy like a nerf herder, lopsided grin. Among and around all that toughness is an absolute charm. That’s what Syrah is. It’s dark but charming.

The trick with Syrah, though, is the higher the production rate goes, the quicker you lose those characteristics. I know I’ve mentioned this already twice in this episode — low yields. When we were talking about Pinot Noir, we were talking about hectoliter per liter. At some point, if you harvest a lot of Pinot Noir, it starts to lose its subtlety. There are grapes like Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardonnay, where you can harvest a lot of it and it still retains its character. Cabernet Sauvignon will always be Cabernet Sauvignon no matter what. You can always recognize it. But with Syrah, as the production level goes up, you begin to not recognize the subtleties of the variety. What it starts giving you instead is this soft, fruit-forward red wine.

We experienced this a lot when an ocean of Shiraz from Australia came onto our market. It started with Yellowtail. Of course, we all know Yellowtail and the Syrah or Shiraz — same grape, just different names — those were not the peppery, savory Syrah versions that I just talked about. But because of the popularity of Shiraz, that style became very popular and the New World started embracing that.

Where Syrah is from, its birthplace, where it thrives the most, where it expresses itself the most, it shows something completely different. The only issue is: The amount of wine that is made from the Syrah grape in the northern Rhône, in a little place called Hermitage, which we’ll get into in another episode, it’s a small place with small production. So you’re spending a ton of money on a wine that is absolutely going to blow your mind and change your life. The good news is: Surrounding that little area called Hermitage in the northern Rhône, which we’ll get into another episode, are other areas that show Syrah on a similar level but aren’t as expensive, in a really great way to get yourself into that realm of Syrah.

It’s in the northern Rhône, where Syrah was born. And the parents of Syrah are two varieties that we don’t really talk about. They’re out there on the market but not everywhere. The mother of Syrah is a grape called Mondeuse Blanche, which is around, but not a lot. The other grape is called Dureza. Now, these two varieties are actually related to Pinot Noir, making Pinot Noir the grandparent of Syrah. There’s a separation there. Syrah happened on its own, even though it has connections to Pinot Noir. And what it became was something completely different.

Like any grape throughout history, it’s had a few names. The word Syrah comes from the multiple writings throughout the history of this variety. It was called Serine. Basically what happened is: When it was born, as it arrived and was starting to be worked within the northern region of Rhône and spread down to the southern Rhône, it got different names based on the dialects of the different areas in which the vine was grown. This comes back to the story of Syrah versus Shiraz. In Australia, they call Syrah Shiraz, and it is the Syrah grape. The thing is, when James Busby, back in the 1830s, brought a bunch of vine cuttings from Europe to Australia to begin the Australian wine industry, one of those cuttings was a Syrah vine. There’s not a lot of documentation about this, but it is mentioned and it said that this is the way it was, so I will give it to you. I said it in the Australia episode that when he grabbed that Syrah vine from the Rhône and brought it to Australia, the name of the grape at the time was Scryas. The Australian accent in New South Wales where this all began, the Scryas became Shiraz or Shiraz.

And not only did the name change but because of the climate in the sun exposures and the complete different geography of this part of Australia than in the northern Rhône, the grape itself became something different. Because the yield for Syrah is one thing. Another thing is sun exposure. The more sun it gets, the fatter it gets, the more sugar it produces, and the softer the wine is. Australia created a different style of Syrah. It was a natural progression to call it Shiraz, but it’s kind of cool how the name is different and the style is different based on the natural elements the variety there has to work with. Does that make sense? I think that made sense.

I know this is going to be a general statement, and people might get mad at me in the industry, but that defines the two styles of Syrah in general. You have that dark charm that I was talking about, and then you had that soft, fruit-forward style. And sometimes you have somewhere in between.

Let me generally talk about where these are in the world so you can go out there and try these wines and get a sense of this. Again, I’m going to mention Rhône stuff, but we’re going to get deeper into that when we get into the Rhône episode. For the dark and brooding stuff — that cool, savory stuff, obviously where it was born is the best. There’s a big granite hill called Hermitage, and that is it. That is literally the heart of Syrah. In the surrounding areas, you have a place called Saint-Joseph or St. Joseph, also gets towards those dark, charmed vibes. Then, surrounding Hermitage is a larger appellation called Crozes-Hermitage that will also give you those savory vibes. It goes from the hill of Hermitage, out a little bit. That is the heart, the beating heart of Syrah.

Now, there are some places outside of this area of the world where you still can get that sort of dark, savory charm of Syrah. The closest to that area is a very large wine-growing region in southern France called Languedoc. It’s called the Languedoc-Roussillon. There are appellations throughout that area that just do beautiful Syrah. They often blend it with Grenache and Mourvèdre, but it still gives that nice, savory vibe. There’s actually a really awesome wine-growing region down there called Pic Saint-Loup, and wow, the winds are awesome. You’re going to see them around, but they’re still not as prevalent on the market.

The place that I think is very exciting for Syrah that the United States needs to recognize is Washington State. Washington State can produce Syrah on that dark charm, savory level. The thing is: Washington state was very popular for Riesling for a long time, and then it became popular for Cabernet Sauvignon, and now, it’s really killing it with the red blends. Quietly, I’ve talked to some winemakers in Washington and they’re very excited about Syrah. We just don’t see a lot of it out on our market, and we have to go to Washington to get it. I have tasted some Syrahs from Washington State that really gives me that dark, savory vibe. It’s very cool, and I’m really hoping that more Syrah of that style comes out onto the market because I think it would be awesome for us as a wine-drinking culture.

Now, the Syrah coming out of California doesn’t often reach the savory level. It’s often more on that fruit-forward vibe, and it can be blended with Merlot. There are places in California that have small production levels of Syrah that are very meaty. You guys know what I mean. It has that peppery, rosemary thing going on as well. And it’s not really a specific place or region in California or even the United States. It’s just when you see a Syrah from the United States, outside of Washington State, if it’s a more expensive Syrah, it’s probably going to be lower production and have those savory vibes to them. I think Syrah came to California in the late 1800s, so it’s been there for a long time.

Don’t get confused if you see a wine that has the Petite Sirah. It’s different, and it’s not the original spelling of Syrah. That’s a completely different grape. It’s actually a grape called Durif. Yes, it has a relationship to Syrah, but it is not Syrah. There’s actually a bunch of grapes that were brought over to California at one point, and they were all called Durif. The DNA profiling through UC Davis found that there’s a bunch of these Durif grapes that are actually different varieties. If you see Petite Sirah, it’s a grape and it makes wine, but it’s not the Syrah grape. It doesn’t have those vibes.

One thing you will not see in California or in the United States, in general, is you will not see Syrah be called Shiraz in the United States. Somebody might do it as an ironic sort of thing, but it’s generally just Syrah.

We got an episode of South Africa coming up that I’m very excited about. In South Africa, it’s both. It’s really wild. Sometimes they call their Syrah Syrah, and sometimes they call their Syrah Shiraz. I’m not sure if they use those two terms based on style. I’ve tasted Syrah from certain areas of South Africa towards the coast, and I’ve tasted Shiraz that’s made further inland. And the Syrah that I tasted had more of a peppery vibe to it, and as I drank the Shiraz from a little more inland, it was more fruit-forward. So there might be something there. I’m not sure, but I think it’s very cool how they are like, “You know what, we’re going to decide what we want to do, you guys figure it out.” We gotta talk about South Africa because it’s a really great place, with some great wines coming out of there.

So there’s something to be said about both of these styles. The fruit-forward style is soft, juicy, and awesome. It’s great with burgers and pizza. It also takes on this new style that is very interesting that started in the northern Rhône in a place called Côte-Rôtie, where they would blend a white wine grape called Viognier into the Syrah to soften it a little bit. In Victoria, Australia, they do that as well. It is just awesome. It’s different from Côte-Rôtie. We can get into that when we talk about the Rhône. That place is crazy. The Viognier-Shiraz blends in Victoria are on that awesome level. You can actually chill those wines down for about 30 minutes, drink them cold with pizza, burgers, all the stuff. It is just awesome.

Often in the wine world or in education, when we talk about age-worthy wines — especially about red wines — we talk mostly about Cabernet Sauvignon or Bordeaux. We talk about Barolo, we talk about Burgundy. The thing is, Syrah can age 20 to 30 years, and it can just evolve and get better and better. Even after it peaks, it’s still really awesome. I actually read somewhere in the “Oxford Wine Companion” where Jancis Robinson tasted a 1961 Hermitage. I think at that point it was 30 years old, and it tasted like a Claret but had depth. Basically, what she was saying was that it was on the level of a fine Bordeaux, but with more depth. That’s cool, that’s what Syrah does.

Actually, here’s a fun, historical fact. The 18th- and 19th-century Bordeaux winemakers put Hermitage into their wine to give it more depth.

If you want to get into Syrah, I would say, wine lovers, you got some work to do. Because there are these two major expressions of Syrah, from the fruit-forward, to the savory craziness. And it can be anywhere in between. So depending on where you’re grabbing the Syrah from, it’s going to be different.

The cool thing about this is if you dig everything you’ve heard me say about Syrah, you can go out there and try to find different ones and taste the different styles. You can even indicate to the wine merchant what style of Syrah you would like. You can say “I want a savory, peppery-style Syrah, but I don’t want to buy a Hermitage.” They’ll know where to direct you. If you’re like, “I want a soft, more fruit-forward Syrah, just not an Australian Shiraz,” they’ll know how to direct you. Or “I want a nice, focused Australian Shiraz that’ll blow my mind” and they’ll know where to focus. Get into it. Syrah.

@VinePairKeith is my Insta. Rate and review this podcast wherever you get your podcasts from. It really helps get the word out there. And now, for some totally awesome credits. “Wine 101” was produced, recorded, and edited by yours truly, Keith Beavers, at the VinePair headquarters in New York City. I want to give a big ‘ol shout out to co-founders Adam Teeter and Josh Malin for creating VinePair. And I mean, a big shout-out to Danielle Grinberg, the art director of VinePair, for creating the most awesome logo for this podcast. Also, Darby Cicci for the theme song. Listen to this. And I want to thank the entire VinePair staff for helping me learn something new every day. See you next week.

The article Wine 101: Syrah appeared first on VinePair.

Via https://vinepair.com/articles/wine-101-syrah/

source https://vinology1.weebly.com/blog/wine-101-syrah

[howtostw]

Language Means a Lot

I Tried Writing a Paper about How Awesome Language is But Then I Accidentally Roasted My Mom for 5 Pages

     I didn’t realize my mother was a victim of internalized racism until I paid attention to her grammar. It wasn’t until I was on the train thinking of this paper, that I understood the distance between herself and myself when it came to our respective communities. She does not embrace Black English the way I do. She speaks it mockingly the way I imagine people who are not black do. To her, Black English was not “proper” English; it wasn’t a dialect at all.       I initially wanted to write about Cioffi’s myth nine, about those little grammar rules, persnickety and unimportant. My mother taught me young the prescriptive and nitpicky grammar of Standard English. Of course, I didn’t question it at the time. Her persnickety grammar lessons eventually led to my love for minute details, especially concerning the English language. As I grew older though, I realized that to her, she was arming me against the influence of Black English. She wanted to lay down the rules so completely that Black English would not become my default or first language. She succeeded. She taught me early on that “speaking like that” wasn’t proper in the real world and that no one would take me seriously because no one took “them” (native speakers of Black English) seriously. And she honestly believed that! Luckily for me, though, I grew up in the Bronx and was able to learn the language that allowed me to communicate with my peers. But, for the rest of my life, I’d always wonder if what I learned was Black English or a mixture of Black and Standard English, like Spanglish. Because my mother adamantly pushed for Standard English, whenever I was told by my friends that I spoke “proper,” I felt suddenly adrift— alone. Her distinction between both English dialects made it hard for me to know where I belonged.

     The issue, I believe, was that my mother did not feel accepted by the black community, and in turn, attempted to distance herself from it. To her, teaching me Standard English was the way out. Standard English was the elite or prestige language and its use would propel me towards people who would better understand me because that had worked for her. She was the victim of internalized racism, only able to see her people the way white America did. African-American Vernacular English(AAVE) was not something my mother knew about when she was raising me. Her own prejudice, shared by most of America, and the stigma surrounding AAVE stopped her from appreciating the language used by so many Black Americans throughout the country. My mother prides herself on her critical thinking and vast knowledge, but like many privileged people who feel similarly, she was limited by her own arrogance. It was not until AAVE was studied by linguists that the dialect was even noticed or taken seriously.

     Communication and understanding are vital to survival. The minor grammar rules add up. What those rules do is help make communication more effective, more universal. The rules of language make it easier to understand others. Brock Haussamen said in Guidelines on Some Questions and Answers About Grammar, “…to be able to talk about how sentences are built, about the types of words and word groups that make up sentences—that is knowing about grammar. And knowing about grammar offers a window into the human mind and into our amazingly complex mental capacity.” My mom shut part of herself off from understanding and embracing the lives of the people around her. By disregarding Black English, she cut herself off from a large part of her culture and community. And she ingrained that in me as best she could. But when I learned that the be used in Black English gives more specificity to timed actions, it made me see the dialect in a different way. What my mother didn’t know, what I’ve since learned in this class, was that Black English is very much its own dialect with its own sensical grammar rules.

     The little parts of grammar that we learn in school are important because they become part of the language we all speak to each other. Standard English could be used the way it is internationally, as a common language. Children should not be shamed for speaking any Non-standard English. Those children, even those adults who use Non-standard English, are no less capable or intelligent because of it. It has been proven—through the linguistic study of Black English—that it has its own set of grammar rules. For instance, in Wardhaugh’s Introduction to Sociolinguistics Textbook, he comments on the treatment of Black English in schools:

…black children live in a rich verbal culture in which linguistic ability is highly prized and in which many opportunities are offered for competition in verbal skill. To assume that such children cannot affirm, negate, categorize, or think logically because they perform poorly in certain extremely inhibiting testing situations is absurd. They must use language all the time in order to get by, and any fair test of linguistic ability shows them to be as skilled as any other children. p.347

The issue is not that children cannot learn the rules of standard English (there are many cases that disprove this), but rather that schools and teachers have a faulty approach. By furthering the distinction between “good” (Standard) English and “bad” (Non-standard) English, the children who do not speak the “good” English feel further ostracized. Furthermore, Wardhaugh goes on to say:

That such children need “compensatory education” for their lack of linguistic ability is a complete misinterpretation of the facts. They may need some help in adjusting to certain middle-class values about how language is used in education, but that is a different matter and is a problem for many non-black children too. Such views also assume that a major function of school-ing is to indoctrinate working-class children into middle-class ways, with language central to this process. (347)

The problem begins to be about the way English is generally taught in schools. Language is transformed into a business skill, and its beauty as a form of communication and its ties to culture is lessened. It becomes completely scientific, a skill that needs to be mastered so that it can be useful. Language becomes less about communicating ideas clearly and more about communicating ideas in a way palatable to people in power.

           As a child, my mother created a list of contractions and abbreviations I couldn’t use. She wanted me to learn the “right” way to speak and write.  She put the list on a whiteboard on our fridge. In black marker, she drew and color coded the following list:

Cannot Use

Can’t

Don’t

Ain’t

HW

Instead

Can Not

Do Not

Am not

Homework

As a child, it just seemed like another thing I had to learn, but when talking to friends and even writing and speaking in class, I used the contracted version of words. It was a hassle not to. Looking back, I appreciate the attention she paid to my grammar and vocabulary, but some of what she did was in line with the prescriptive and oppressive implementation of standard English. She did help with something else, though. From an early age, I could code-switch—very well. The standard English that my mother taught me left me with an ambiguous accent. When we moved—to New Jersey, Virginia, and California—people couldn’t place me. I do not know if that helped me or not.

      She inadvertently created in me a linguistic identity crisis. In school, whenever I spoke “proper,” people would sometimes call me “white girl.” Obviously, this hurt. I grew up in the Bronx, not often exposed to white people (outside of my teachers). Culturally, black Americans see white Americans as very different from themselves, unable to understand and bridge the gap between the two cultures. By calling me “white,” my peers effectively created a divide they believed I couldn’t bridge, even though I was one of them. What they said didn’t affect my speech (that I’m aware of); it did, however, make me more aware of the way I spoke and of how I spoke differently from the norm. I didn’t realize, at the time, that I code-switched— I didn’t even know there was a word for it— and doing it seemed to be putting on a different persona. In actuality, I was catering my language to my audience, changing as I needed to. This became a problem when I had a mixed audience. I’d opt for Standard English, and have my peers regard me curiously, wondering why I “switched-up” sometimes. I was confused, too.

     My mother’s dedication to teaching me the nuances of Standard English nurtured my curiosity, so even though I code-switched regularly, I still tried to find out why the English she taught me was so different from the language I used with other people. When I talked to her about it later in life, she told me that it wasn’t proper to speak the way black people in our neighborhood did. She joked about it, but I knew she really did feel that way and nothing I told her would change her perception of it. I was lucky enough to attend Frederick Douglass Academy in Harlem, where one of the slogans was “Agree to disagree.” After talking to my mom about language, I knew it was something we’d never agree on.

Edited by: Sheila Janeo, Jonathan S., Nedmond

Pictures by Denise Bullock(mother of author) and Author, respectively.

#the gritty

[ramajmedia]

Writer-Director Matthew Michael Carnahan Interview: Mosul

Writer Matthew Michael Carnahan is no stranger to politically charged thrillers, having made his feature writing debut with 2007's The Kingdom and following up with provocative dramas like the underrated Lions for Lambs and the claustrophobic State of Play. More recently, he wrote the surprise hit, World War Z, as well as the upcoming 21 Bridges, starring Chadwick Boseman.

For his directorial debut, Carnahan is forging new ground in familiar territory: Mosul follows an elite team of cops who find themselves drawn into a life-or-death battle with ISIS over their home, the eponymous city. In contrast to most action/war films set in the Middle East, the heroes of Mosul aren't PMC interlopers or American advisors, white faces who find themselves up against an army of brown faces. This is a story about the righteous residents of Mosul who fought to protect their homes and their families from terrorists who trade in fear and death.

Related: Film Festival 2019 Preview: 12 Biggest Movies With Oscar Chances

Produced by Avengers: Endgame directors Joe and Anthony Russo, and produced by MCU writers Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely, Mosul boasts an impressive pedigree of blockbuster talent behind the scenes. Perhaps it's this creative supergroup of proven talent that allowed Mosul to exist as it is, a foreign-language action film with a sizeable budget and large-scale action sequences with an entirely non-white cast. While promoting the film's performance at TIFF, Carnahan spoke with Screen Rant about his work on the film, from capturing the indomitable spirit of fighters protecting something as sacred as their own land, to shooting the visceral action scenes that punctuate key moments of the movie. He also discusses his attachment to the source material, a New Yorker essay by Luke Mogelson, and his continuing efforts to get a movie off the ground with his brother, acclaimed filmmaker Joe Carnahan.

Mosul debuted at the Venice and Toronto International film festivals is currently in the process of acquiring distribution.

Screen Rant: For the Screen Rant reader who might not know about it yet, can you tell us what Mosul is about, and what makes it stand out from other action/war movies set in the Middle East?

Carnahan: It's about the Nineveh SWAT team. They were a group of cops, primarily in Mosul. They were a group of local cops who were pretty goddamned elite, and they're fighting ISIS to take back their city, to take back their homes. ISIS knew who these guys were. They knew who their families were. A lot of these guys [who] flocked to ISIS when they attacked in 2014 were the same criminals these cops had been arresting before ISIS existed. They knew who these guys were. In a lot of cases, they either killed or took their families. And this unit, they would literally rise to the sound of gunfire. They were constantly moving closer to the fight, because that's where their homes were, their lives, that's where their families still are, in some cases. That's what this story is about. It was the thing that grabbed me from Luke Mogelson's New Yorker article.

Screen Rant: And was there something in particular that drew you, personally, to the story?

Carnahan: It's embarrassing to admit in one sense, because I didn't know, having grown up in an America that's been at war with Iraq in some way, shape, or form since I was a senior in high school, I didn't fathom that these guys existed. They want the very same things I want for my hometown, my family, my children, and they're sacrificing themselves for each other to get that back. I was so blown away, and so taken with the hell these guys willingly and gladly put themselves into to get the things we have and in some cases take for granted. That's what grabbed me about it, and that's what I think your readers should know, first and foremost. Local Iraqi cops banning together to fight ISIS. The other thing you should know, too, in order to get on the SWAT team, you obviously needed to know your way around a battlefield, but you also either had to have been wounded by ISIS or lost a loved one to them in order to be admitted to the SWAT team. And most of these guys, both happened to them. They were a unit of badasses doing God's work. They did the things we hope we would do if we found ourselves in that position.

Screen Rant: In a typical Hollywood movie, there would be some fictionalized CIA guys - who would probably be super white - who would be the leads, and these guys, these actual heroes, would be supporting players in their own story. It shouldn't feel like a risk, but did it feel like a risk casting relatively unknown, brown faces to star in what looks to me like a big budget action thriller?

Carnahan: If it was a risk, Joe and Anthony never let me in on it. They were totally supportive and on board, as enamored with the challenge as I was from jump street. They allowed me to just focus on making the best possible movie I could. Never once did they bring up the budget or concerns about the cast. They just wanted the best people possible for those roles. We went to all corners of the Earth to drum [up] as much talent as we could. I think, in that respect, we did an astounding job. Once you see these guys, see them on film, any worry about acting talent goes right out the window. Once you hear them speaking some version of their mother tongue, to me, that just proves the point that these guys want the same things we all want. The things that unite us in humanity are so much more numerous and meaningful than the things that divide us. To me, to watch these guys go through this hell that they go through in the movie, to hear them tell jokes and make smart-ass comments to each other in this Baghdad dialect Arabic, it just proves the point even more. It proves it in such a salient way, for me, at least, than if they were English actors who happened to look the part who were speaking with an English accent because that's used as a stand-in for all foreign languages. That, to me, would be the bigger risk. We wanted to embrace who these guys are, the language they speak. That's the central message of the movie, that we're so much more alike than we think. Let the fact that they're from this part of the world, that they're speaking a version of their language, let that accentuate the message.

Screen Rant: It reminds me a bit... Markus and McFeely produced this movie, and they wrote all the Captain America movies, and The First Avenger has that great line of dialogue, that "the first country the Nazis invaded was their own."

Carnahan: Yes.

Screen Rant: It's like, ISIS is there, and so we can look at it from a distance and go, "everyone who is over there is brown, so they must be ISIS." But there are people fighting back within that space, but we don't hear about it.

Carnahan: Absolutely. Absolutely. And to your earlier point, the traditional version of this would be about, say, some badass Navy SEALS. I expressly didn't want that. The group we used, TigerSwan, who did our security, all of our military advising, they had trained a local Iraqi police force. So I told Sean, the man from TigerSwan who ran this three-week boot camp that I put all my actors through - and it turned out to be invaluable. It's their movement. If that action is unbelievable, then nothing else in the movie is going to work - and I told Sean, I don't want these guys at the end of this to be "tip-of-the-spear badasses." I wanted them to be what they would be in real life; really good, but not totally polished. They know how to clear a room, but they're not supposed to have that Swiss watch type of movement. They're guys who had to learn how to do this on the job. The reason they look behind the door isn't because they trained endlessly, but because they remember one time when the guy in front of them didn't look behind the door and was killed by someone who was waiting there. That was the level of action I was looking for. Brutal. Fast. These scenes explode and end before you can even really grasp what has just happened. I really wanted to dial in on that and let the action be as close to what these guys actually saw in Mosul as we could possibly make it.

Screen Rant: You're well equipped to be directing this movie! And this is the first time you've been in the hands-on position of director. You've written a lot of military-themed thrillers over the years, The Kingdom being the first, I believe, but this is your directorial debut. What was it about this project that made you feel, "I need to call the shots on this one?"

Carnahan: It's going to sound like a lame answer, but that New Yorker article grabbed me in a way that few things ever have. There's an enormous blind spot that this article exposed in me, that these guys exist, and of course these guys exist! We tend to think of Iraq in a monolithic way, "That's the enemy," because that's the way it's been portrayed for so long. But these guys exist and I was amazed by them. So I couldn't risk writing this and then that being lost. That was the first thing. I just had a part of me that wanted to be the director's chair for a while, but I hadn't been able to find that one thing that felt like, "That's the one I need to do. That's the one I can't look at myself in the mirror if I don't at least try to direct this one." That was this article. That was the thing that grabbed on to me like nothing else. I felt, if I don't write and direct this thing, I'm going to regret it until the day I die. It's too big, it's too important, it's too meaningful, personally to me, to risk handing it over and then having that central thing that grabbed me get lost or downplayed in any way.

Screen Rant: This story is all about heroism and terror and fighting for something as sacred as home. When you're doing a movie based on true events, is there any kind of disconnect during the shoot? Like, when you have downtime between takes, and there are, like, dead civilian bodies littered throughout the set, is there a feeling of, "Maybe we shouldn't be having fun right now?"

Carnahan: (Laughs)

Screen Rant: Like, is there that disconnect of, "Well, we're making a movie, this is just part of it, of course we can play around between shots," or is it super solemn? What type of tone do you strike on the set, behind the scenes?

Carnahan: It was heavy stuff, for sure. At no point was anyone unaware of what we were doing. This is where I thank Philip Ivey, our production designer. He was so goddamned fantastic and critical to the tone of the movie, because you walk onto one of his sets, and it feels like the middle of a warzone. That tells everyone, this is what we're doing. This is the world we're in. It's best not to f-ck around in this world. And the times we did lighten it up matched up to the movie. There is a scene people love, who have seen the movie, where they go into a hotel room and they're watching... Luke talks about it in the article, how these guys are obsessed with this Kuwaiti soap opera. So, any time they're in a room with a television with power, they look for this Kuwaiti soap opera. And we found the soap opera, so there's a moment where they're in this hotel room and they're riffing off these characters. And they're lighting the hookah, they're smoking, listening to Run the Jewels, because they love rap music. That's another way to show people that they like the same music. Young Iraqis love the exact same music as young Americans and young Westerners. Those moments, we were able to have fun because those were the moments they were having fun. It all depended on what we were doing on the day. When the SWAT team is trying to save these two little boys who were pushing their dead mother who was under a blanket on a cart, which was a true event, it puts tears in my eyes just thinking about it, that was really tough stuff. Beautiful and horrific... There was no joking around on the set that day, if that's not too convenient of a way to answer. To me, that's everything I've heard about warfare. These moments of sheer boredom, followed by bowel-shaking terror. That's what we tried to do in the movie. It lent itself well to it. We never got too grim, because we were always on to the next scene.

Screen Rant: While I was doing my research, my due diligence and all that...

Carnahan: (Laughs)

Screen Rant: Ya know, I'm a big fan of yours, and of your brother, Joe. I noticed that you two have never officially worked together, co-created a movie. I'm still holding out hope for Nemesis.

Carnahan: Yes. Yes.

Screen Rant: Could you talk a bit about how your processes are similar or different and why you've never been a two-brother team like, for instance, the Russos?

Carnahan: We were working on White Jazz, which was a follow-up to L.A. Confidential. It was the James Ellroy book he wrote after L.A. Confidential. We were so close. George Clooney was signed on, but it fell apart. And then Nemesis, we were so close with Fox, but that fell apart, too. We'll take a long break from one another, and if the planets align in the next cycle, then maybe next time, we'll actually bring something to screen.

Screen Rant: I hope so!

Carnahan: Joe is why I'm even in this position. He has been more confident in me that I've been in myself at various points in my life. He's the only reason I started writing, and he's the only reason I find myself on the phone with you, talking about a movie of mine that's playing in Venice and Toronto. It's only because of the doors he's kicked open for me. At some point, I'll pay him back.

Screen Rant: I think both of your work is 10 out of 10, but you're both also so different. It would be a different kind of collaboration than you'd get from a team like the Russos, where maybe you feel like they're on the same wavelength.

Carnahan: Yes. Yeah, we might murder each other. We'll have a documentary crew filming it, because that might be more interesting than the movie itself, but I think there's something great we can do together, we just have to figure out what the hell it is!

More: Endgame Directors Answer The Fans' 15 Biggest Questions

source https://screenrant.com/mosul-matthew-michael-carnahan-interview/

#screenrant

[dianamathew1617-blog]

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#technology #ivr #ivr supplier #ivr solutions #ivr system #ivr services

[ysawesomenotes]

The sound of 2066 (The Sound of Britain in 2066)

A report commissioned by HSBC

Written by Dominic Watt and Brendan Gunn

-

An Introduction

HSBC is launching voice biometrics as an element of its digital banking services.

The system verifes a caller’s identity using leading-edge voiceprint technology, allowing customers access to their accounts using a simple universal ‘pass phrase’.

As time goes on, voice-activated systems of this kind will be an ever more central part of our lives. 50 years from now, in 2066, we will only rarely interact with machines by pressing buttons, and the keyboard will have become obsolete.

Almost everyone can talk faster than they can type, and talking is the most natural communication system we possess. Speech recognition tools like Siri and Cortana are already part of our everyday lives, but these are only the beginning. Over the next decades the successors to these systems will become ever more reliable and ‘smarter’, as they take advantage of the boundless potential of the internet to train themselves to anticipate users’ needs and to respond effciently to our commands.

Our current speech technologies perform well under diffcult conditions. They can cope with high levels of background noise, or when the speaker has a head cold or a sore throat. Strong regional or foreign accents don’t affect their performance because the systems are trained to compensate for the numerous ways in which our speech varies. And impressive as these tools already are, they are improving all the time. In the future, our devices will understand everything we tell them. The way we interact with machines will converge on how we talk to other people, to the point where there will be no obvious differences between the two.

Balthazar Cohen, author of the ‘Totes Ridic-tionary’, described the internet as the place ‘where language goes to die’. In reality it’s just the opposite. The web is an inexhaustible wellspring of new words and phrases. Already we see how easily internet-inspired abbreviations like ‘LOL’ (laugh(ing) out loud), ‘FOMO’ (fear of missing out), ‘FOLO�� (fear of living of?ine), and ‘brb’ (be right back) have been turned into words (LOL to rhyme with ‘doll’, ‘brb’ with ‘curb’). These aren’t just confned to the speech of the young, either, as shown recently by the jokingly vengeful use of ‘LOL’ by a Scottish judge as he passed down a prison sentence. Emojis have been embraced as part of written English, to the extent that the Oxford Dictionaries UK Word of the Year in 2015 was the ‘Face with Tears of Joy’ symbol. We will fnd ways of integrating them into our speech too. There is even the possibility that in the near future, our computers will themselves invent new words and phrases, ones which we’ll start to use ourselves because they seem especially useful or pithy.

We tend to think of computers as things that sit on our desks or that we carry around in our pockets, but they are of course already all around us: in car engines, inside our washing machines, or controlling the heating in our homes. Very soon all these systems will be connected together. The era of the ‘internet of things’ is all but upon us. Our homes, workplaces and means of transport will be ever more interconnected, with each appliance communicating with the other devices in its local network, and with the wider world via the web. In a sense, we ourselves will become elements of that network, while keeping executive control over the important decisions. Smart technologies will learn and adapt by tracking how we humans change in our preferences and our habits, and because we will give instructions using our voices they must of course keep pace with changes in our speech and language.

Languages change constantly, and they do so whether or not we want them to. New words replace old ones, grammatical rules arise and fade away, and the ways we pronounce vowels and consonants are always shifting and mutating. English has changed enormously over its 1,500-year history. Even in the last 50 years we have seen big changes in the accents and dialects of the language, including Standard English. This leads us to ask: what will English be like 50 years from now?

In this report, we make a number of predictions about how some key accents of British English might sound in half a century’s time. Some of the changes we identify have in fact already started. In other cases we’re being more speculative, but by looking at how English has changed over the last 50 years, we can identify patterns that seem to repeat. For one thing, people tend to like to make talking as easy for themselves as they can, but without making life too hard for the hearer. So they knock off sounds at the ends of words (‘tex’ for ‘text’, ‘vex’ for ‘vexed’), they simplify complicated sequences of consonants (hardly anyone says ‘syoot’ for ‘suit’ any more), and they rub the sharp corners off sounds by making them ‘softer’. For example, although we say electric with a hard /k/ on the end, we say electricity with an /s/, and electrician with a ‘sh’ sound.

Languages also change when they come into contact with one another. English has borrowed thousands of words from other languages: mainly French, Latin and Greek, but there are ‘loan words’ from dozens of other languages in the mix. For instance, we wouldn’t say we’d spilled chutney and shampoo on the veranda of the bungalow without frst having borrowed these words from Hindi.

Our speech and language patterns are absolutely central to our individual identities, and we exercise ‘consumer choice’ over which new linguistic trends we buy into, much as we do when choosing music or clothing. We adopt new ways of saying things because they’re fashionable or cool, or because we want to sound like we’re a member of a particular group of people. We use language to tell others something about ourselves in a way that costs nothing and is very immediate: uttering just a few syllables can be enough to signal where you come from, and what kind of social groups you identify with or admire. Young people often try very hard to sound different from people of their parents’ generation. Using the right sort of words and pronunciations can be an enormously powerful symbol of belonging, of being cool, of having the right sort of knowledge, of being ‘now’. However, in time what was once the height of linguistic fashion comes to seem stale, staid, and conventional, and so new trends must be followed by those who want to seem the most up-to-date and street-smart.

We must always allow for the unexpected, too: by 2066 English may have altered in ways we hadn’t seen coming. This endless cycle of innovation and renewal is what makes the study of language change so fascinating.

The Homogenisation of English?

We can think of the dialect map of the UK as a jigsaw in which the pieces were once very small. Individual districts, towns and villages had their own dialects. Over the last century or so, the jigsaw pieces have grown larger, as dialects have become more focussed on the bigger urban centres such as Newcastle or Manchester. These days it can be harder to tell where someone is from on the basis of his or her speech than it was a couple of generations ago: the dialect distinctions between Yorkshire and Lancashire, or between Merseyside and north Wales, are becoming more blurred. This is usually put down to greater mobility, with people moving sometimes quite large distances to other towns and cities to study or fnd work, or relocating from the cities into the countryside in search of a better quality of life or more affordable housing. But it isn’t the case that we’re all starting to sound alike. As we’ll see below, new varieties are taking root in different parts of the country. It’s mainly the traditional rural dialects that are becoming less distinct from one another.

We’re not all becoming more standard in our speech, either. Over the last 50 years we have also seen Standard English and Received Pronunciation (‘Queen’s English’) lose some of their status. Where once it was more or less obligatory to speak these for anyone wishing to enter the professions, the clergy, the upper ranks of the military, acting, or broadcasting, these days, non-standard accents and dialects are much more widely accepted. We’ve come to realise that speaking in such-and-such a way isn’t necessarily a sure sign of someone’s intelligence or competence. This improves opportunities for people from a wider variety of social and educational backgrounds. It’s sometimes forgotten that even the standard forms of English are always changing. Today we laugh at the way announcers spoke in TV news programmes from the 1960s because it seems so stiff and old-fashioned. It would sound odd if someone born in 1966 ? say, David Cameron ? were to speak like someone of his grandfather’s generation. We don’t expect young members of the Royal Family to speak in the same way as old ones do. The Queen’s English spoken by Prince George as he grows up is not going to be the same as the Queen’s English spoken by the Queen.

Looking more globally, Chinese and Spanish seem set to become yet more in?uential worldwide, leading to large numbers of words and phrases from these languages coming into mainstream use in English. Other major languages, such as Japanese, Portuguese, Arabic or Russian, may boost English vocabulary by donating names for new concepts.

‘Informalisation’ of English: talking to machines and listening to Americans

As we’ve seen, high technology is a very rich source of new words in English. In turn, English provides other languages with new terms they need in this area. Young people everywhere now use the English words app, troll, or hashtag rather than the equivalents in their own languages. English is the language of the latest trends in social media, and computer users know that being in command of the latest terms will allow them to participate in a globally connected world. Though the science that underlies systems such as Twitter and Facebook is advanced and hugely complex, the innovators and designers behind these brands want to keep the image of social media as relaxed and informal as possible. The terms that are used for common functions and ways users can interact (like, friend, follow, retweet, block) are therefore short, simple and memorable ones. The fact that so many innovations in computing come from California is undoubtedly linked to this relaxed and unpretentious approach.

A preference for informal, chatty and jokey language in the technological and scientifc domains is a recent phenomenon, but it’s one which makes these areas seem more accessible and less po-faced, and we are likely to see more and more of it. After all, there’s really no good reason we shouldn’t name features on the surface of Pluto and its moon Charon after characters from Star Wars, Star Trek or The Lord of the Rings, or call underground bacteria snottites because they look like nasal mucus dangling from cave roofs, or name an Antarctic research vessel Boaty McBoatface, just for the fun of it. A glance at the online Urbandictionary testifes to the endless creativity and humour of English speakers. Freeing ordinary language users up to invent and share new words and phrases like this is a mark of how much more democratic and liberated our linguistic lives have become.

With all of these factors in mind, we turn now to ask what the English of 2066 might sound like in different cities around the country.

London

It’s often said that traditional working-class London speech ? Cockney ? has more or less died out. We can now hear a hybrid accent known as ‘Estuary English’ (EE), which combines older London features with more standard-like speech forms. EE is recognisably south-eastern, but it can be very hard to locate a speaker within that region. It also seems to blur the class divide, leading to accusations that some middle-class speakers ? politicians such as Nigel Farage and celebrities like Jamie Oliver ? ‘dumb down’ their speech so as to conceal a privileged upbringing or to sound more like they are ‘one of the people’. EE has similarities to another newcomer on the UK dialect scene, ‘Multicultural London English’ (MLE). MLE incorporates pronunciations from Englishes spoken by people from ethnic minority groups, particularly from the Caribbean, West African and Asian communities. Given this mix, and the status of London as the linguistically most in?uential city in the English-speaking world, we can expect to see signifcant changes between now and the middle of the century.

For example, there are signs that /h/ is being restored. Generations of Londoners have dropped /h/ from the beginnings of words like hat, Highgate, Harrods, Hampstead Heath, or Henry Higgins. Another feature of London speech is the treatment of the two ‘th’ dental consonants, as in words like thin and this. We see either ‘TH-stopping’ (dis and dat) or ‘TH-fronting’ (fnk for ‘think’, muvver for ‘mother’). In future we’re likely to see the standard ‘th’ sounds being lost altogether. Fin and thin will no longer be distinguished even in careful speech, and bother will always rhyme with hover. This may come as a relief to foreign learners of English, who struggle with the dentals more than any other pair of sounds.

Saying dook for ‘duke’ or nooze for ‘news’ is already pretty frmly established in London, but this habit, known as ‘yod-dropping’, may continue so that even words like cute or beauty are affected, as they are in East Anglia, where they’re pronounced the same as coot and booty. Simplifying clusters of consonants like this is one way English has changed over its history. We don’t say the /k/ at the beginning of ‘knee’ or ‘knight’ any more, or the /w/ that used to occur at the beginning of ‘wrong’ (these letters are now silent, but we haven’t ever bothered to change the spelling). We’ve lost some other great consonant clusters since the earliest days of English: the word for ‘to sneeze’ in Old English, for example, had a very sneezy-sounding /fn/ sequence at the beginning.

/w/ and /r/ are already very similar for many southern English talkers (e.g. Roy Hodgson, Chris Packham, Jonathan Ross), so the two may collapse together completely, so that wed and red are no longer distinct. We may also see consonant+/r/ clusters smushing together into sounds more like ‘ch’ and ‘j’, so trees and cheese, or dress and Jess, sound more alike.

At the ends of words, /r/ was dropped centuries ago, and /l/ is likely to follow suit by turning into a vowel. So words like Paul, paw and pool could be indistinguishable, as they already are in Cockney. Lastly, the glottal stop pronunciation of /t/ ? a brief catch in the throat rather than a sound which involves the tongue tip closing against the roof of the mouth ? will be the default pronunciation. People in 2066 will be mystifed as to why Tony Blair, Ed Miliband and George Osborne were slammed so mercilessly by the press for having been caught saying voters without using a ‘proper’ /t/ in the middle.

Liverpool

The Liverpool accent is highly distinctive but it’s not an especially old one. It mixes local Lancashire features with ones imported from Ireland during the 19th century. The in?uence of Liverpool speech is wide: there are towns on the coast of north Wales in which people speak with accents which are strongly coloured by Scouse. All the same, Liverpool speech will probably start to fall into line more closely with the accents of other major northern cities. The ‘tapped’ /r/ sound in words like green and brown, or four and five, is likely to go the way of this consonant in Scottish or Yorkshire English.

One of the very distinctive things about Scouse is the way that /k/ and the other ‘stopped’ consonants /p/ and /t/ are produced. At the end of back you’ll hear a ‘ch’ sound like the one in Scottish loch or German Bach. A lot of people say they dislike this habit, but it’s actually a very natural sound change, and quite common across other languages. It’s quite possible that we’ll see more of this softening of the stop consonants not just in Liverpool but in other accents around the country.

Liverpool, like all the other northern cities, has an accent in which pairs of words like put and putt are pronounced alike. A great number of the changes we see in current English involve a levelling out of local differences, however, and it’s possible that by 2066 the northern accents will have come into line with the global norm for these vowels. At present there are many northerners who would wince at the thought of saying cup or bus anything like southerners or Americans do, so as a compromise they may start to use some intermediate ‘fudged’ vowel in these and other putt-class words instead. The very suggestion that the north and the south could converge linguistically always meets with heated argument, but it’s not so outlandish an idea ? in fact, the process has already been happening for many centuries.

Glasgow

In Glasgow, and lowland Scotland generally, English sits at one end of a language spectrum. At the far end is the Scots dialect, which is so different from most sorts of English that some call Scots a full-blown language in its own right. It seems clear, though, that the urban Scots spoken in Glasgow is on the wane. Surveys of Scottish schoolchildren show that they aren’t familiar with many of the Scots words and phrases that their parents and grandparents would use (bampot, clarty, glaikit, stooshie, and thousands of others). Some of the dialect words will remain, though it’s impossible to say which will survive. Pronunciations like gless ‘glass’, hame ‘home’, bane ‘bone’, or ft ‘foot’ may soon come to seem too old-fashioned for young people to use.

Dropping of /r/ after a vowel is already well underway among working-class Glaswegians, meaning that pairs of words like hut and hurt can now be hard to tell apart. As in London, wordfnal /l/ is also disappearing (so Paul and paw are more alike), and the ‘th’ consonants are turning into /f/ and /v/.

On the other hand, if a second independence referendum were to go in favour of Scotland’s separation from the UK, the picture could be very different in the Glasgow of 2066. Because language and identity are so closely tied together, it might be that the Scots language lobby would step their efforts up a few gears, as a way of highlighting the separateness of Scotland’s culture and heritage. Making the language of the new state seem as distinctive as possible is exactly what the Norwegians did when they split from Denmark a hundred or so years ago. One of the big unknowns when trying to map out how languages will develop in the future is the effect of political upheavals. The history of English is full of these: think of the arrival of the Vikings, or the Norman Conquest.

Newcastle

British people tend to nominate one of two accents when they’re asked which is the hardest to understand. Glaswegian is one, and Geordie is the other. There are some in the north-east of England who claim that Geordie and the dialect of Northumbria are the closest forms of English to Anglo-Saxon. Though this is an exaggeration, there are features of Geordie which hark back to when Middle English was spoken (hoose for ‘house’, neet for ‘night’, and so on).

These are becoming scarcer, though. The general pattern is for Geordie to sound more like other northern dialects. The characteristic pronunciations of ‘face’ and ‘coat’ (‘fee-uss’, ‘coo-ut’) are much less common than they were two or three generations back. These days, more generic northern-sounding vowels are preferred. Over the next 50 years we predict that they will sound close to what is found in southern England. The characteristic ‘hiccuping’ Geordie pronunciation of /p/, /t/ and /k/ in words like caper, waiter, and baker may go the same way.

Geordies used to pronounce the vowel in words like ‘nurse’ as an ‘aw’ sound, so that shirt sounded the same as short. Words like ‘talk’ were pronounced ‘taak’. These differences are the basis of the story in which a Geordie with an injured leg goes to see the doctor. The doctor bandages the Geordie’s leg and says, “Now then, do you think you can walk?” The Geordie replies, in disbelief, “Walk? Ah can hordly waak!” (= “Work? I can hardly walk!”). These pronunciations can still be heard when you’re oot and aboot in the Toon, but they now have an old-fashioned ?avour. ‘Walk’ now tends to rhyme with ‘fork’, and ‘work’ with ‘jerk’. However, there’s a change going on in which the ‘jerk’ vowel is moving forward in the mouth. It seems to be linked to the habit of pronouncing the ‘coat’ vowel as something like ‘er’. So we fnd jokey spellings like ‘turtle’ for ‘total’, ‘terst’ for ‘toast’, ‘jerk’ for ‘joke’, ‘serp on a rerp’, and ‘The Perp’ (that’s the head of the Catholic church).

Manchester

Some of the same changes that we’ll see in Newcastle are also liable to take place in Manchester. ‘Turtle’ for ‘total’ has spread westward through urban Yorkshire and already seems to have crossed the Pennines into Manchester. The iconic vowel pronunciation at the end of Manchester (something like ‘Manchest-or’) seems fairly new, but whether it will last is an open question. Not all sound changes stick. Another feature of Manchester and other parts of the north-west (though not Liverpool) is the vowel at the ends of words like happy and city. At the moment, in Manchester it’s more ‘eh’-like than ‘ee’-like. The vowel in many British accents is now frmly an ‘ee’ sound ? happ-ee, rather than happ-ih. Mancunians may in time start to use the ‘happ-ee’ option, making them sound more like Scousers in this respect.

As mentioned earlier, the Liverpudlian habit of producing /k/ as the Scottish-like ‘ch’ is a very natural thing to do, phonetically speaking. So is saying /t/ as an ‘s’-like sound, so that ‘mat’ and ‘mass’ sound very alike. It’s conceivable that Mancunians could start producing these sounds the same way. This convergence might seem improbable, what with Mancs claiming to despise Scousers and vice versa, but in reality the rivalry between the two cities isn’t necessarily a barrier to their dialects becoming more similar. There are pairs of cities around the country in which people say they loathe one another (e.g. Derby and Nottingham), but the dialects spoken in them may become so alike that they’re hard to tell apart.

Birmingham

By virtue of being the closest to London of the cities listed above, Birmingham is likely to adopt the new trends in London speech before the others do. Examples might include the following.

If we are right about the restoration of /h/ in London, we might expect this to trickle down to Birmingham, so that by 2066 it’s being used in Brum with at least some consistency. Glottal stop for /t/ will be the default pronunciation (except at the beginnings of words; tea will still need a /t/, but won’t won’t!). TH-fronting (fng for ‘thing’, bovver for ‘bother’) has a frm foothold in the Midlands already, and a /w/-like pronunciation of /r/ is also common. These forms will increase in frequency, and the other features listed for London may also come to dominate Brummie speech.

We could see the phasing out of localised features like the ‘velar nasal plus’, where an audible /?/ is produced at the end of sing and wrong, and where singer (‘sing-guh’) and fnger rhyme. This habit is common in the West Midlands and in north-western cities including Manchester and Liverpool. People in these areas often say that they think they’re using the correct, standard way of saying ‘ng’ at the ends of words and syllables. In fact, it isn’t the way Standard English speakers pronounce these words. Brummies are probably being in?uenced by the spelling here, and so believe that the ‘proper’ pronunciation involves a sequence of two sounds at the end of sing instead of just one.

As with the northern varieties described above, we may see a split between the words of the put and putt sets, bringing the vowel system more closely into alignment with southern accents.

Conclusions

Over the course of the next ffty years, our lives will be transformed by technology at least as much as they were over the past ffty years.

We may see the rate of change accelerate, with each decade bringing an ever wider range of technologies to make our social and working lives easier, safer, and more effcient. The impact of these developments on society will result in new ways of using language. We will need to coin new terms for new inventions and concepts at a rapid pace, of course, but we will also interact with one another, and with the machines that will surround us in all areas of our lives, in ways that may at frst feel unfamiliar. The era of voice-activated computer systems, which are faster, smarter and more secure than ever before, is already upon us. These will not force us into particular ways of speaking, because they are designed to be responsive to our vocal patterns. They are not judgemental about how we speak and make no distinctions between accents or dialects: to them, all languages and their subvarieties are equal, and there is no ‘correct’ or ‘incorrect’ way of speaking. We can talk to them however we please. In short, the latest generation of secure voice biometrics systems will let you be you.

Acknowledgements

We would like to thank the following people for their input: Maciej Baranowski, David Britain, Georgina Brown, Urszula Clark, John Coleman, Karen Corrigan, Volker Dellwo, Holly Dunnett, Shivonne Gates, Philip Harrison, James Hoyle, Paul Kerswill, Adrian Leemann, Kirsty Malcolm, Alan Reading, Richard Rhodes, Devyani Sharma, Jane Stuart-Smith, Kim Witten, and Jessica Wormald.

Dominic Watt, Author of the report

Senior Lecturer

Department of Language and Linguistic Science

Dominic Watt was appointed Lecturer in Forensic Speech Science in 2007, and teaches mainly on its new MSc programme in that subject.

Watt has an MA (Hons) from Edinburgh and a PhD from Newcastle, and has held teaching and research positions in phonetics, speech acoustics and audiology, phonology and sociolinguistics at universities in Germany and around the UK, including York (2000-2002) and Aberdeen, where I was Director of the Phonetics Laboratory for five years.

Brendan Gunn, Co-author of the report

Brendan Gunn holds an MA and a PhD in linguistics. He began working as a Dialogue and Dialect Coach in 1986 after leaving the University of Ulster where he was a Lecturer in Linguistics.

Robert De Niro, Brad Pitt, Edward Norton, Aidan Quinn, Cate Blanchett, Jim Sturgess, Heather Graham, Rupert Grint, Julia Roberts, Richard Gere, Natalie Portman,Daniel Day Lewis, Penelope Cruz, Saoirse Ronan, Colin Farrell and Stephen Rea are just some of the actors who have worked with world renowned dialect and dialogue coach, over the last 25 years.

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